The Cruellest Game (22 page)

I needed to sort out my own thoughts. I still felt the key to all that had happened lay in finding out exactly how and why Robbie had died. And although I had little idea how to set about that,
I believed less and less that my son had killed himself.

I also needed to find out more about my husband, which was another reason why I didn’t want to speak to him. Until a few days ago it had not occurred to me that there was any more to
Robert than the man I knew and lived with. He was simply my husband, and a good, kind one, I’d thought.

That was no longer the case.

I had two telephones, my mobile and my house phone, and I had one remaining intact computer, my iPad. Our broadband system also remained intact. Surely that was all the equipment you needed
nowadays to embark on almost any investigation?

I decided that the master bedroom, spacious and virtually undamaged, would be the least unpleasant and most comfortable place to be right now, and that I should overcome my aversion to it. I
carried my iPad and mobile up there in my school bag, which also contained pens, pencils and paper. Florrie followed very quietly, probably not quite believing her luck at being allowed upstairs,
and maybe into bed with me, for the second night running.

The pillows and the duvet in the master bedroom had been slashed and tossed on the floor, their stuffing spilled out everywhere. But the Farleys had removed them and cleaned up the mess. I
carried in the bedding from the spare room I’d been using. The duvet wasn’t quite big enough but it would do.

I wondered if it was significant that only the bedding in the room that was obviously mine and Robert’s had been damaged. And I thought it probably was. But I was not going to indulge in
any more unconstructive thoughts.

I would have liked some music to help blot out all the bad stuff, and reached instinctively for the digital radio, which usually stood on the wide window ledge. It had obviously been swept to
the floor, where it still lay partially concealed by a curtain, its casing cracked in several places. It rattled as I picked it up and stood it upright again. More in hope than expectation I
switched it on. The radio stuttered a bit, then, rather to my surprise, came to life. I tuned in to Classic FM.

As the sweet sounds of a Mozart piano concerto filled the room, I sank back on the pillows, Florrie draped over my legs, iPad on my lap, and set to work.

Tom and Eddie arrived promptly at eight in the morning, just as they’d said they would, even though it was Sunday. It was undoubtedly the coldest morning of the season so
far. There had been signs of a frost early on, now being washed away by freezing rain.

‘Us ’ave ’ad our Indian summer all right, proper damned winter this be,’ said Tom by way of greeting, rubbing his big hands together.

I was already dressed and ready to leave the house. I’d checked out Robert, both as Anderson and Anderton, on the Net the previous evening, but not really got anywhere. However, I had made
some progress in other directions, and I did have a plan for my day.

My school bag was by the front door. In it were my iPad, my phone, Robbie’s retrieved camcorder, my digital radio, all my credit cards and bank information, and a few other treasured
items, like the diamond engagement ring which was just about the only thing I’d inherited from my mother.

I was taking no further chances. Even with my flash new burglar alarm system.

I told Tom and Eddie I just couldn’t bear to stay in the house any longer.

‘I need a break,’ I said, pushing my arms into my best Barbour.

‘I’m sure you do,’ agreed Tom sympathetically. ‘Look, if you want somewhere to go and someone to lend an ear, you could do worse than call in on my Ellen. Er’s ever
so good at thigee sort of thing . . .’

I cringed inside at the thought. Tea and sympathy with one of the biggest gossips in the village, albeit that she may well be a kind woman, was the last thing I wanted.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do or where I’m going to go,’ I told Tom. ‘But I think I need to be on my own for a bit.’

I handed Tom the key to the front door.

‘Shut Florrie in the kitchen and make sure you lock up and set the alarm system when you leave,’ I instructed him, adding my thought of the previous day. ‘Even if it does
appear that the horse has already bolted.’

I couldn’t help feeling uneasy, but surely if there was anyone I could still trust, it had to be Tom Farley, I thought, as I jotted down the alarm code for him and showed him how to
programme it so that Florrie wouldn’t set it off.

I’d considered taking her with me. But even Florrie seemed like too much trouble.

‘Us will, and don’t you worry about nothing, Mrs Anderson,’ said Tom, letting the sentence tail away a bit as he probably realized what a ridiculous thing it was to say to a
woman in my situation.

I got in the car, switched on the engine and took a deep breath.

It was certainly true that I needed to get away from Highrise for a bit. But I was also on a mission. I had 192.commed Sue Shaw’s family and found them quite easily. Because Conor Shaw was
one of my pupils, I’d already known they lived in Okehampton, but not their address. Sue’s father had introduced himself as Michael Shaw. And he’d popped up on the Net in Manor
Road. Other occupants Susannah J. Shaw, Conor H. Shaw and Susan P. Shaw. Quite obviously the family I wanted.

There was a company director’s report too. It seemed that Michael Shaw was in the business of manufacturing garden sheds and summerhouses.

I’d decided I was going to confront him and his daughter. There was something they weren’t telling me, I was sure of it. And I was determined to give it my best shot to find out.

I drove to Okehampton slowly through horizontal freezing rain. None the less, I arrived in the moorland market town well before nine, and even in my state of manic distress mixed with fervent
impatience I realized it would probably be counterproductive to knock on anyone’s front door uninvited at that hour on a Sunday morning.

A rumble in my tummy reminded me that it was probably the best part of twenty-four hours again since I’d eaten anything worth mentioning, so I found a cafe and ordered scrambled eggs,
bacon, toast and coffee. Once more I was surprised by how good food tasted even though I had so little desire for it. Bacon and eggs anyway.

I dawdled over my breakfast, and by the time my satnav had found 14 Manor Road the rain had stopped and it was just gone ten.

I didn’t allow myself to hesitate. I parked, marched up the short garden path to a neat semi-detached house, and rang the doorbell. Sue Shaw answered the door. She wasn’t yet
dressed. She wore a pink dressing gown over matching pyjamas and slippers pretending to be toy rabbits. Her fair hair, hanging lank and unwashed, framed a pasty yet still pretty little face. She
looked shocked to see me.

‘Dad’s not here. He and Mum went early to take Gran her shopping. I can’t let you in, he wouldn’t like it . . .’ she stumbled, spots of colour rising in her cheeks,
just as at Robbie’s funeral.

‘Of course you can,’ I said, sweeping past her in what I assumed to be the general direction of the living room. ‘I’m your boyfriend’s mum, after all.’

I was aware of her shutting the front door and following in my footsteps. I hadn’t left her much choice.

A boy’s voice called from upstairs. Almost certainly Conor Shaw.

‘Who’s that, Sue?’

‘Mind your own,’ she responded.

I rounded on her at once, aware that being able to confront her alone, at first anyway, could well work to my advantage. She looked vulnerable. She clearly was vulnerable. And I didn’t
care. I was going to take full advantage.

‘You obviously wanted to tell me something more when you came up to me at the funeral,’ I began. ‘What was it?’

She shook her head and mumbled something.

‘Sorry?’ I queried sharply.

She repeated herself just a little more clearly.

‘Nothing.’

‘I don’t believe you, Sue. You really wanted to tell me something, then thought better of it. Tell me now. You know you want to. Is it something you think I should know about?
Something about Robbie?’

Sue looked as if she might burst into tears.

‘N-no,’ she stumbled. ‘Well, yes. Sort of.’

‘So tell me. You’ll feel better. You know you will.’

‘I can’t. Dad said I mustn’t. He said I’ll ruin . . .’

Sue paused. I waited.

‘He just said I mustn’t tell anyone, that’s all,’ Sue continued.

Neither of us had sat down. We stood facing each other in the centre of a small square room, its very modern black-leather sofas and chairs lining cream walls scattered with reproduction oil
paintings in big gilt frames.

The girl’s lips were trembling. She didn’t look well. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Suddenly a bloody great light bulb exploded in front of me.

‘You wanted to tell me you were pregnant, didn’t you?’ I almost shouted the words. She recoiled from me, and started to cry.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, aware that it was anything but, making my voice as near to reassuring as I could manage. ‘It’s all right. That’s it, though,
isn’t it? You wanted to tell me you were expecting a child and that Robbie was the father, didn’t you?’

She just carried on crying, her shoulders heaving.

‘Didn’t you?’ I repeated, still trying desperately to sound reassuring.

Sue Shaw nodded. ‘Y-yes,’ she said.

I found that my breath was coming in short sharp gasps. I hadn’t expected this in a million years. Maybe I should have done, but I hadn’t. After all, Robbie had been a quiet studious
boy, though what I thought that had to do with teenage sex drives I had no idea. He’d also been a sensible boy. Surely he would have taken precautions? Obviously not.

I made soothing noises in the general direction of sobbing Sue Shaw, standing trembling before me in her girly nightwear and silly slippers, so young, so pretty, so distraught, and so
bewildered.

I encouraged her to sit with me on the sofa, and put my arm around her. After a bit she quietened.

‘Did you love him, my Robbie?’ I asked softly.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, her blue eyes very wide.

‘And did he – do you think he loved you?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said again.

‘Did he know? Did Robbie know you were carrying his child?’

She nodded through the last of her waning tears.

‘I told him that morning, the day he died . . .’

She sniffed hugely, and I was afraid the tears were going to start flowing again before they had even properly stopped.

‘It’s all right,’ I repeated, wishing I could think of something better to say.

‘Did . . . did you see him that day then?’ I asked, wondering if the enormity of the question would hit her. It didn’t seem to.

‘No. I phoned him, right after I did the test. He was shocked, of course. I mean, we’d only done it about three times altogether, and only once without . . .’

She stopped. Colouring up again. Embarrassed by her own words. After all, I was Robbie’s mum.

‘Please tell me,’ I coaxed. ‘I want to know everything, everything you can tell me. It could be very important.’

She shrugged.

‘We only ever did it once without proper precautions, the first time,’ she went on. ‘We hadn’t meant to, you see. We hadn’t meant to do it. Swimming was cancelled
suddenly because there was something wrong with the pool. We went off for a walk over the fields. It was September. The weather was so warm then, do you remember?’

There was a faraway note in her voice. She looked directly at me.

‘I remember,’ I said.

She nodded.

Without actually having said so, she left me in little doubt that she had been a virgin when she and Robbie first made love, in the open air it seemed, and I rather surprised myself with my next
question.

‘Was it, was it what you expected, what you wanted?’ I asked. ‘Was it special?’

‘Oh yes, it was special.’ Briefly her face lit up, then clouded over again, as if remembering what had then transpired.

‘So when you told Robbie, what happened?’ I pressed. ‘I mean, did he have any idea before your test? You obviously did.’

‘I did, but he didn’t,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to tell him, or anyone, anything until I knew for sure. I got one of those test kits from the chemist, you know,
and that was it. There wasn’t any doubt.’

‘So what did he say?’

‘I don’t know really. Sounds silly, but I don’t properly remember. He didn’t say a lot, I don’t think, he just sounded shocked, and, well, I was, too . .
.’

‘Didn’t you arrange to meet? Surely you would have wanted to meet, to talk it all through properly?’

She nodded again. ‘We did want to, of course we did,’ she said. ‘But, well, Dad overheard my call, you see, and once he’d heard enough he just marched into my room,
grabbed my phone and switched it off. I was at home studying for the mocks, like Robbie. I didn’t realize Dad was in the house. He’d come back from work because he’d forgotten
something. I think he listened in deliberately. I knew he’d been suspicious; he’d kept asking me what was wrong with me. When he realized he went ballistic. He has such a temper on him,
I thought he was going to hit me. He didn’t, though. He just said that was it. I was going to do what he said and what he wanted. And I was never to have anything to do with Robbie
again.’ She paused.

‘But Robbie didn’t know any of that presumably?’

She shook her head.

‘No. I’m sure he would have tried to call me back, but I didn’t even have my phone. Dad took it from me.’

She turned away from me a bit as if she didn’t want me to see her face.

‘I keep thinking it must have been my fault that he . . . that he did what he did,’ she said. ‘Could learning I was pregnant really have upset him that much? Could
it?’

‘No, no, I don’t believe it could,’ I told her honestly. ‘There had to be something more.’

‘I wanted to speak to him, honestly, to talk about what we were going to do; us, not my dad. I so wanted to see Robbie,’ she continued, almost as if not having heard what I’d
said. ‘But Dad grounded me. I had no phone, no money, no nothing, and he told me if I stepped foot outside the front door, he’d throw me out for good . . .’