I was back to gazing wide-eyed at the bedroom ceiling, unable to sleep once more. Not this time because I was trying to work out how I was going to tell Dean it had all been a mistake letting him move back and I wanted him out of my life for good. Now, it was trying to work out the events of the past couple of days: the red paint and smashed window at The White House; my falling – just a little bit – in lust with Henry Cavendish-Brown who, it now seemed, had turned out to be someone called Darren Singleton.Darren Singletonfor heaven’s sake? I tutted out loud to myself, watching the clock’s luminous digits flick themselves steadfastly through the minutes.
* * *
2.06a.m.
Both Dean and Joel appeared to have disappeared, despite my constantly ringing and texting the pair of them. Were they both mixed up in the goings-on down at Queen’s Gardens? I really wouldn’t put it past Dean to have got himself involved somewhere in it all. Hadn’t Henry said he spent much of his time at the golf club these days? Had he met Dean there? Dean andDarrentogether? Dean, I knew, was daft enough to go along with anyone offering to make him a quick buck. Hell, if Dean was in some way involved with this OCG – which, it was now pretty obvious, Henry was – how on earth was I going to tell Lola if her dad ended up being arrested and thrown in the nick?
And George? What the hell was George doing down atWill O’ The Wisp? He obviously knew Rob Traynor from the hockey club. I racked my brain trying to remember what time it had been when George’s black car with its distinctive numberplate had driven at speed up Henry’s drive, immediately gaining access and driving through those huge gates. About 6.30p.m.? Time for him to get to Kamran’s place for a lift to the theatre in Leeds? Possibly.
* * *
2.16a.m.
And what about Joel? Should I be informing Andy Somerville, Joel’s social worker, that he hadn’t come home? But wasn’t Joel a sixteen-year-old? Legally able to have consensual sex, to marry, leave home, have as many body piercings as he liked (no tattoos though – funny that!), drive a moped… My brain’s love of lists had me ticking off each one and I knew, if I hadn’t dropped off, I’d be on to the shipping forecast next: Viking, Dogger, German Bight… (What the hell was a German Bight? Something to do with eating frankfurters…?)
* * *
2.19a.m.
The red numbers continued to taunt me while Lola slept somewhat fitfully at my side.
And then, a noise from downstairs. I strained to hear, my pulse racing. A couple of muffled barks from Arthur down in the kitchen. Was someone already making their way up the stairs with a machete down his pants, ready to silence me about what I might know…?
Which was absolutely nothing. I was as much in the dark as the next person, and putting me in the bath and waterboarding me (my absolute worst make-you-talk nightmare) would reveal zilch.
My ears out on stalks (deary me, terror was having me think in clichés) I clutched at the duvet, listening as the footsteps made their way to my bedroom door and then past it and on to the box room. It was either Joel. Or someone after Joel.
I waited a couple of minutes and then, making sure Lola was sleeping soundly, I inched my way out of bed and went to Joel’s bedroom door.
‘Joel? Joel!’ I knocked softly on the door and Joel appeared behind it, opening it just a couple of centimetres. He’d obviously hastily wrapped a towel around his waist, and I averted my eyes. ‘Where’ve you been?’ I hissed. ‘Get some clothes on and come back downstairs. I don’t want to disturb Lola. I’ll make us some tea.’
* * *
Five minutes later, Joel was at the kitchen table in sweatpants and T-shirt while I waited, standing in the old candlewick dressing gown I’d quickly thrown over my pyjamas, for the kettle to boil.
I spooned sugar and added milk and passed the mug over to Joel. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
He said nothing, but simply examined the mug before drinking deeply from its contents. He sighed heavily.
‘Joel? If you’re supplying again, I need you to leave. Are you? Have they got you working for them again?’
Joel shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost your husband’s bike. I’ll pay for it…’
‘Down at Queen’s Gardens?’
He nodded.
‘Isawit down there,’ I snapped. ‘Joel, the police think it was Dean that was down there this evening.Washe there?’
‘The police know it was Dean’s?’ Joel’s head came up from his mug of tea. ‘Because I left his bike there? How did they know it was his?’
‘For once in his daft life, Dean did something right. The bike was registered to his name and this address.’
‘I didn’t know you could do that!’ Joel pulled a face. ‘For a pushbike?’
‘Neither did I, to be honest… But that’s not the point, is it?Youwere down there, this evening? It wasyou?’ When Joel didn’t reply, I shook my head. ‘Joel, I can’t have you here if you’re back working for this lot. You know that.’
‘I’m not… I wasn’t.’ Joel sank his head back into his tea and then, pushing it away, laid his arms and head on the table. ‘I’m so…’
