you want to keep.’
Audrey gave the door the disapproving look she’d like to have given Genevieve.
‘Finding someone new? That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Now, Julia, you don’t want to end up like your Aunt Rena.’
‘I’d love to be Aunt Rena.’
‘Julia, no!’
For Audrey, Aunt Rena was a sad example of what could befall a woman who didn’t secure a man young enough in life. In her fifties, single and childless, Rena was to be pitied. ‘I’d feel a little more sympathy for her if it wasn’t all her own fault. If she had just made an effort with any of her men, I’m sure one of them would have married her.’ The fact that Aunt Rena seemed perfectly content, had travelled the globe, published several bestselling travel memoirs, and was currently residing in Buenos Aires with a younger man called Norberto was scant consolation to Audrey. And any attempt to persuade her Rena could be happy was met with utter incredulity.
‘I just mean, I don’t want to end up with someone on the rebound,’ Julia said. ‘I need to give it some time.’
‘Not too much time,’ Audrey said.
Arguing was pointless. Audrey’s opinions were as inflexible as her spine, and Audrey Hathersley never slouched.
Julia stood back and let her mother organise her clothes, alphabetise her books and move the bed to use the available space more efficiently. Only as Audrey was leaving did Julia realise she didn’t want her to go. They had never been apart for any significant length of time. Aunt Rena told her that Audrey had suffered several miscarriages and, before Julia arrived, Audrey had believed she was unable to carry a baby to full term.
‘Even after you were born, she hovered over your cot. Convinced you were about to stop breathing,’ Rena said.
And fourteen months later, Julia’s father died. She couldn’t mourn a man she’d never known, but it must have devastated Audrey, though she never spoke about this period in her life. The wrench at their separation must have afflicted Audrey as much as Julia. But displays of emotion weren’t Audrey’s way. She considered them as vulgar as pierced ears. Julia could think of no reason for asking her to stay longer, and as she had said earlier, she was twenty-three, an adult, not in need of her mother.
‘I better go, it’s a long drive,’ Audrey said. ‘Give me a hug.’
Julia gave her a longer squeeze than usual and was engulfed by the scent of Rive Gauche. Audrey handed her fifty pounds in cash, ‘for emergencies’, then went out to the car. Julia followed her and watched as the little blue Fiesta chugged to the end of the road.
Genevieve had gone out to meet a gentleman friend and the house stood empty. Julia returned to her room, sat on the bed and looked out of the window. Audrey would be getting onto the motorway by now. In a couple of hours, she’d be hundreds of miles away.
What was she doing here? Escape to overcome heartbreak should have meant adventure – not a corporate job at a medium-sized firm in the Home Counties. She should have gone to France, lived in Paris, the Latin Quarter, had an affair with a handsome artist called Emile, who lived in a small flat above a café. They’d stay in bed till noon, making love and smoking Gauloises. Later, they’d amble downstairs to the café, share a bottle of wine with friends and talk politics and philosophy until the late evening, before falling back into bed.
Instead she was fetching an iron from the utility room to press the clothes for her new job at Morgan Boyd next week. She took the iron and ironing board to her room and allowed it to heat up as she fetched coat hangers from the wardrobe and pulled her work blouses from her case.
Her escape didn’t have to be France. She could head south to Portugal or Spain, work in a bar and send a postcard to Christian – Wish you were here?
Mechanically, she pressed the blouses, the steam having little effect on the deep creases. She could leave now. Repack and catch a train to London. Pearl would let her crash on her floor until she found a job. She stopped ironing. London was no more likely than France. It wasn’t lack of language skills stopping her. It was cowardice. Julia craved safety and certainty, a proper job with steady money. Adventure was for other people.
She hung the blouses in the wardrobe, returned the iron and board, then sat on the bed and pushed her back to the wall. The elation she’d felt at leaving home, the hope of catching up on exciting life experiences, evaporated. She no longer felt the thrill of sticking two fingers up at Christian and his new girlfriend, Ellie – See, I don’t care, I’ve got a new life. Christian and Ellie would be glad she was gone. They could carry on their perfect lives without the anxiety of running into Julia at unexpected moments, prodding their consciences, a reminder of their lies and broken promises.
It was Saturday night and Julia was alone, in a house and in a town where she knew no one. She was the only one suffering for her choice. Tears bubbled up and she couldn’t stop herself sobbing. What on earth had possessed her to come to this place? She wished she’d gone back with Audrey. She wished she’d gone home.
Better get your story straight.
The caller has been careless and left their number, a mobile. I could ring it back. Not from my phone and not from Garrick’s phone – I don’t want to provide any link between it and me. I consider the payphone on St John’s Way. It’s a bit of a walk and it’s dark and if I am being followed … Part of me doesn’t want to know who this is. Can it be the same person who’s sending the texts, and are they warning or threatening me? I shouldn’t have started drinking. I need a clear head. I try to think of a scenario in which the texts are the result of some hideous coincidence but there’s no wriggle room. Someone knows. The best thing to do is nothing, to wait and see, though that hardly constitutes a plan.
I feel so alone, even my husband would be a comfort. I remember now why I married him.
Upstairs, I go through the motions of going to bed: wash my face, clean my teeth, comb my hair. I put on Radio 4, hoping to find friendly, familiar voices to soothe me. Tonight, all voices serve as an irritant and I switch it off. I look at Garrick’s phone again. A new article has appeared. The investigation has moved on. Hayley Walsh has turned up in France with her schoolteacher. Suitably lurid headlines accompany this discovery, which is of more shock value than the corpse. Given the state the body must be in, the police can’t have believed it was a recent death. And despite knowing little about forensic science, I’m pretty sure it couldn’t have been mistaken for a fifteen-year-old girl, even on a superficial examination.
I scroll down the other search results – more mentions of Hayley – then I see it in a local Surrey paper, Speculation Growing About Body on the Downs. The first mention of a name.
The opening paragraphs tell me what I already know, and the article is padded out by an interview with the student whose soil sample resulted in the body’s discovery. Althea Gregory says she ‘couldn’t believe it’, and there’s a picture of her looking pleased with herself and her fifteen minutes of fame.
Only the latter part contains anything of interest.
Speculation is growing that the body is that of missing backpacker Brandon Wells, last seen in August 1994. Sources within the investigation have confirmed that this is a viable line of inquiry and they are currently in touch with police in his home country of New Zealand.
I scroll down to see further results. BBC South East has a clip.
The same journalist as before stands on the same spot on the Downs. Behind him, the ridge of the hill glows yellow. The shot pans down to a small copse. Yellow tape flutters