What was crystal clear to me was that she chose me to father her child. It was remarkable. Thrilling. I examined the idea from every angle to see if I could be wrong, but it made sense.
Rob probably was a better partner for her, perhaps a little easier, funnier, but it was me who she chose for the most important job of all. It was the ultimate compliment.
Why didn’t she tell me? I don’t know. In the moment after I choked the life from her body, I thought that I should have asked her. But it was too late.
Never mind. My life is about focusing on the positives now. About self-care and care for my daughter. I reflect on how perfect it seems now, that in the moments after Edie and I conceived Imogen, I first thought of killing Rob.
I believe my murderous impulse was a premonition of sorts. A hint as to what was to come in my life. It took me over seventeen years to interpret it. But better late than never.
I take a deep breath and feel strength return to my body, and with it, resolve that I’m on the right path. Imogen will be happy to join me on it, when I prove my paternity to her.
I feel very calm. The breathing is hypnotic. In. Out. I look at Edie’s house and it looks back at me, squat and tidy, and it reassuresme. My little darling is safe in there and doubtless sleepy by now, possibly already in the Land of Nod. That’s good.
I won’t be too long.
I just have to deal with my wife. I’ve heard from her. She’s on her way back.
Emily clutches the driver’s phone. They’re sitting in A&E just outside of Newcastle. The pain in her ankle was so bad by the time they reached the city that she begged him to stop and wait while she got it seen to and got some painkillers.
The driver has Paul’s number and he’s kindly lent her his phone so she can keep trying to reach him. Every so often, the driver receives a text message from his wife, and the phone pings, which shoots a lightning bolt of hope through Emily. Until she reads it.
Emily has been assessed by a nurse and had an X-ray of her ankle. Now, she’s waiting for them to fit a surgical boot. Then they can go.
She’s jealous of the driver’s messages from his wife. They’re asking what he wants for dinner. Emily longs for the domestic mundanity, the normality.
When they’re done at A&E, they pull into traffic. The sat nav estimates four hours and six minutes to get home. If Paul doesn’t call, she doesn’t know how she’s going to survive it.
“I need you to put your foot down, mate,” she tells the driver. He nods. She tries not to weep.
She considers whether she should phone the police and report Paul missing. Is it too soon? Will they take her seriously?
Minutes later, she feels the effect of the painkillers and her eyelids droop.
As the driver accelerates onto the M1, heading south, she can’t stop herself falling asleep.
Jayne exhales. Of course, the police aren’t here to tell her Mark is dead. They’re here for William Elliott. She finds him in a small office at the back of the farmhouse.
He’s holding a photograph of his parents, on their wedding day. They look splendid in sixties fashion.
“They never fell out of love,” he says. “If I can have a marriage like theirs, I’ll be a lucky man.”
She feels a lump in her throat.
“I’m so sorry.”
“He shot himself,” William says. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
Times like this she feels as if she’s back in the military, the mistress of sparse phrases, well used precisely because they contain the minimum of emotion. She wants to collapse on his shoulder, to draw him in tight, to say I know how much pain you’re feeling. But she can’t. She’s not built that way. He probably would not want her to fuss over him like that.
“Your colleagues are here,” she says.
He follows her outside. Toby is loading their bags into the rental car. Ruth is already sitting in the back.
“We might have further questions for you,” William says. “I don’t know.”
“Your mum has my details.”
