Under Your Skin (24 page)

“And what about your accent, Ms. Mortimer? Your Somerset burr? Where’s your point of tension.”

“My Somerset burr?” So he knows I’m from Somerset; he’s
done some research. “I’ve learned to cover that,” I say. “I’ve
long
kicked over the traces.”

For a moment, I worry I have revealed too much. The way I drew out
long.
Intimations of guilt and anger. Points of tension. I don’t want that going in the profile. A time might come, but I don’t want to sound resentful, or angry. I look away.

A man on a bike comes into sight, swerves to avoid a puddle, cycles past.

“Anyway,” I say.

Ahead of us, along the bending path, is a solitary boathouse. We are tramping toward it when Jack says, “So, Philip coming back from Singapore anytime soon?”

Another faint alarm bell. My husband’s name is public information, but the fact that he’s in Singapore? Not many people know that. And then I think, all those hacks, the Mickeys and the Petes, they could have found out, they could have told him.

“I’ve insisted he stay out there longer,” I say lightly. “Philip’s work . . . it’s on a knife edge.” Why “knife edge?” It sounds so dramatic, which it isn’t.

“Is he always ‘Philip’?”

“He hates the name Phil. I tried at the beginning, but I was banned.”

“Ah!”

“And the first Mrs. Hayward?” I say. If he has mentioned my spouse, I can bring up his. “Where does she fit in?”

“Mrs. Hayward,” he says. “Mrs. Hayward. She was younger than me. There were cultural differences. She pretended to be something she wasn’t—” After a second or two, I realize he isn’t in the middle of a sentence, but at the end of it. “Women,” he says. I look to check he’s joking (“women?”
really
?), but he isn’t.

We are at the boathouse. I had thought perhaps there might be activities in play, people to watch, but it’s just a flat, shuttered-up
building, closed and deserted. The sun has gone down and the path ahead is empty and bleak. There’s no one in sight at all.

“Everyone’s back at the pub,” I say. Somehow I’ve got new doubts about him now. “Perhaps we should turn round.”

I look at Jack. A muscle is going in his jaw. His eyes, under their heavy brows, have darkened, as if their light has also gone behind a cloud.

“I’m not sure,” I say again, “whether we shouldn’t be turning back.”

A breeze rises, ruffling the surface of the Thames like the skin on boiled milk.

He still doesn’t say anything. I feel a quiver down my neck. What was it Perivale said? Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything. I never got round to confirming Jack was who he said he was. He could be anyone. He’s just been here, lurking, following, outside my house, knowing things about me other people don’t. All that bluff, all that chat, all that homity pie, it could be an act. He is bending down now. I don’t know what he is doing. I think about the flex of the muscles on his arm. I have an instinct to walk quickly away, to run even, back to where there are boats and people and ducks.

His back is to me now. He is searching the ground, kicking it over with his foot, and whatever he is looking for he seems to find because he bends to pick it up. He has got a stone in his hand.

I stand very still. He walks toward me and then veers off down the slipway, bends sideways, and skims the stone across the water. It bounces twice and then sinks. “Lost my knack,” he says, coming back. He’s smiling again; his eyes, under those strong eyebrows, are all crinkles again. His whole face changes when he smiles. He looks positively boyish.

I was wrong to doubt him. I am all over the place.

“I thought you might hit me with that stone!” I say, trying to sound light.

“What? Why on earth?”

“You looked so cross.”

“Sorry. It’s the thought of my ex-wife.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“We’ll turn round now, shall we? Get back to our bench and try Christa again?”

“That sounds like a plan.”

I look to see what his face is doing, and for a split second our eyes lock. I’m not sure if we are still walking or whether we have stopped. I hold my breath. I don’t know whether I am scared of him or whether I am scared of myself. Suddenly, two things happen: a moorhen darts from the bushes like an arrow released from a bow, and Jack’s phone goes. His ringtone is the slow, insistent peal of an old-fashioned office phone in 1950s New York.

He taps around his body, fumbles to find it. It’s not in his top pocket. It’s in the back of his jeans. He nearly drops it, taking it out, does one of those comedy oh-oh-oh butterfinger almost-tumbles, and answers breathless. “Jack Hayward,” he says. Then, “Yes. Thank you. I did.” He widens his eyes at me, mouths, “Christa.”

“Yes. I am sorry I did not leave a message. It is complicated.”

I smile. He’s doing that loud talking-like-a-foreigner thing English people sometimes do when they are talking to a foreigner.

“I am a friend of Ania’s employers in Putney. I am organizing a book of remembrance for the children to remember her by. They loved her very much.”

He listens for a moment.

“Yes. I know. So please, if it is okay, can I come and visit you to talk about Ania? Is that convenient? Yes?”

When he has slipped the phone back in his pocket, I say, “So we walk back to the car now?”

“Good idea.”

“And Christa. She see us tomorrow, yes? The convenience of that is suited to her?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he says affectionately.

•   •   •

Searching in my bag for my house key—never in the inner pocket, never where it should be—I am braced for the gate, for footsteps on the path. I’m on edge. The world, on the way home from Putney, seemed full of red cars. I place my bag on the ground and crouch down for a proper rummage. At last. Here they are. I need a bigger fob. I stand, scrabble for the lock, collect my bag, and I’m inside, leaning against the front door, feeling as if I’ve dodged a bullet.

A package, the size of a paperback book, is lying on the mat. It is the same kind of brown padded envelope that Marta has in her cupboard. I sit on the stairs and open it. Inside the packaging is a DVD.
I’ve Been Watching You 2: Prom Night
. No note.

The doorbell peals a second later. The noise goes right through me. My bones vibrate.

I look through the peephole.

Perivale is standing there, my keys dangling from his fingers, like dog poo in a bag. I open up. “You left these in the lock,” he says.

A pause before I take them. “Thank you. I must have . . . I would have realized in a second.”

He has terrible posture, so tall he’s hunched. He is not a man comfortable in his own skin. His eyes move toward me, but when he speaks, his jaw seems half locked. “You might not have noticed until you looked for them tomorrow. Anyone could have taken them. You were in too much of a hurry. I’ve told you to be careful.”

Did I just walk past his car without noticing? Has he been here all day?

“I was searching in my bag. I couldn’t find them.” I breathe in deeply, scanning the street for a silver Mondeo, a red Renault. “I
never can. Is that a female thing? Men tend to have them wearing holes in their back pockets.”

He taps his thigh. “Front pocket.”

“I’ll be more careful.” My voice catches.

“You all right?” Perivale asks. He actually sounds genuinely concerned.

“Look.” I pick the DVD off the floor where I hurled it. “This was waiting for me just now, inside this envelope.”

He takes them from me. “I’ll make sure the officer in charge of the case gets them fingerprinted,” he says.

“Marta, my daughter’s nanny . . . I know you’ve talked to her, but . . . she’s got the same sort of envelope in her cupboard. Quite a few of them.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he says, with a patronizing dip of his head. “I’ll fingerprint Rose, the PA down at the station while I’m about it. She’s partial to a padded envelope.”

I decide to ignore this jab. “And someone followed me this morning, in a red Renault. Was it one of yours?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Well, now you know,” I say. “Anyway, I’ll leave that with you, and if that’s all . . .” I hold the door, as if I’m about to close it on him. “I’ve learned my lesson from last week. I’m not going to speak to you without my lawyer present. So—”

He puts his hand out. “Just one thing. Quickly.”

“No, seriously.”

I mustn’t do this. I mustn’t let him draw me in.

“Off the record, nothing formal, as you’re . . . we find ourselves here. And it’s not about you, but your mother . . .”

“My mother?” The hall walls close in very slightly.

“Did a background CRB check. Mortimer, G.: Avon and Somerset Constabulary, Yeovil Brympton beat. Nothing.”

“That’s because I’ve never been in trouble with the law. There
is nothing to find, in any police constabulary, anywhere. You know that.”

“Mortimer, J., on the other hand. Quite a record.”

“Hardly,” I say. My voice sounds as if it is being squeezed out of a tight place.

“Public-offense cautions, drunk and disorderly—October two years ago and again February last year—a conviction for drunk driving.” His eyes watch me, not with mistrust, but sympathy.

“Yes,” I manage to say. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Tough growing up with a mother like that.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Nietzsche.”

“Is it?” I say, conversationally. “I thought it was Kelly Clarkson.”

He laughs, a quick burst of warmth. “Take care, now,” he says.

•   •   •

The evening is empty and long. My limbs are heavy, dull with inactivity. My head aches. I’m scared: Perivale did that. But also, low in my stomach is a damp, curdling dread, of things that should have been done and haven’t. I retreat to my bedroom. The rest of the house is too empty of Philip and Millie, too consumed with ghosts and shadows, the walls echoing with normal life.

I can’t sleep. The bed is uncomfortable and too full of
me
—my heat, my smell, my toast crumbs from earlier. I turn the pillow over, seeking freshness. I’ve closed the door to the landing, but I’m not secure. I plan my escape—open the window, throw out a bunch of pillows, and jump. Or the bathroom? The rear extension. Less far to fall.

Time passes. I think about Millie, asleep in Robin’s farmhouse. I hope she is asleep. I hope she isn’t scared. Or having a nightmare. Will she get into bed with Robin if she does? Will Robin mind? I wish she were with me, now, her limbs curled around mine. I close
my eyes, imagine her face; my fists clench. She
could
be here—the reporters have gone; I’m not working—but . . . then . . . she’s safer where she is, isn’t she? It’s dangerous here. I’m right about that.

At midnight, I switch the light back on and I try to read. I didn’t ring Terri earlier, I felt too insecure and unnerved. I should have done. If I could concentrate on work, this would be easier. I’d have a rhythm to my days, perspective, other people—Stan!—to spar with. I’d feel less trapped. How many more days until they will let me back? Two? Three? Shall I go in, see her face-to-face, and beg? What if she turns me down? That would be worse. Better to hope. Better not to know . . .

There are noises in the street. Shouts and cries. The sound of pounding steps. Shrieks. Teenagers.

If I lie here any longer, I’ll go mad. Madder than I already am. I had a missed call from Clara, but she didn’t answer when I rang back. It’s too late to speak to Millie. Philip? No.

Jack
.

His number is on the flyleaf of my book. I wrote it down when he rang all those days ago.

“I’m sorry. Had you gone to bed?”

His voice is low. “No.” He yawns. “I was working.”

“What on? Me?”

He laughs, a sleepy laugh. “A book review for the
Mail on Sunday
.” He mentions a middle-aged thriller writer, but I’m not really listening.

“I’m sorry to ring,” I say. “Feeling a bit . . . I don’t know . . . on edge. I’ve had an anonymous package from my stalker.” I try to sound casual, but my heart is thumping. “A horror DVD.
I’ve Been Watching You 2: Prom Night
.”

“
I’ve Been Watching You 2
?”

“Yes.”

“
Prom Night
?”

“It’s horrid.”

“That’s actually quite funny. The idea of trying to scare someone with a sequel. The first
I’ve Been Watching You
must have been out of stock. Imagine how annoyed they felt, trawling the aisles, trying to find a DVD that worked. Wonder what they rejected?
The Killing
? Too classy.
Night of the Living Dead?
Hmm . . . too schlocky.”

I half laugh, half sob. “They’ve never done anything so threatening before, though.”

“It’s just a silly prank. Put it out of your mind.”

“The envelope was the same kind we found in Marta’s cupboard.”

“Could be a coincidence, but tell the police.”

“I have. Perivale was here. I gave it to him.”

“Well done. Marta in the house?”

“No.”

“Probably at the post office.”

“Exactly!”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”

“I know. Night then.”

“Night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“A book review,” I say quickly. “So you
are
a journalist? You’re not lying to me?”

He is quiet. I think he might have gone. “It’s not exactly something to be proud of,” he says. “As if I’d lie about that.”

Christa lives in Roehampton, in a tall, square tower block on stilts. It’s one of five or six slabs, at a slant to the landscape, which march across it, heading for Richmond Park. You can see them on the horizon from the Isabella Plantation—Philip’s mother likes to be taken every year to see the azaleas—but I’ve never been this close.

No one has followed me, I think. I
hope
. I took a convoluted route, double-backing on myself in Earlsfield. I checked the mirror every few seconds, like you do on your driver’s test. I didn’t feel calm, or in control. If I’d seen a red Renault, I think I’d have stopped the car and screamed.