Sometimes, when I’m alone in bed at night (door locked with the chair jammed under the handle), I miss Mum so much it physically hurts. The weight of her death sits heavily on my chest so that I feel suffocated by it. I understand Peter’s pain. If I thought someone had harmed my mum I would go to the ends of the earth to find out the truth. I’m not stupid – I know that my interest in Jemima’s death is also a distraction from my own grief, from my failed relationship and my boredom in a job where I mostly have an old lady for company, even though these days – since I stopped asking probing questions – we get on well. I know all this. The only thing that gets me through these depressing cold winter days is the thought of the hot climes I’ll visit in September.
One evening after I’ve put Elspeth to bed I retreat to my room and scroll through Jemima’s Instagram page. I can’t stop looking at it: the beaches she visited and the towns. Talking to Peter has made her feel even more real to me. I feel as if I know her. I wonder if we would have been friends.
I google Peter’s name and wait while it loads. There are lots of Peter Freemans but none of them is Jemima’s brother. I try Peter Freeman + firefighter but still nothing. Even though his sister had a presence on social media it seems Peter is a ghost. He has no digital footprint at all.
It’s February and I’ve been in the job for over a month when Kathryn finally corners me. It’s Wednesday, my day off, and she’s arrived bright and early for her daughterlyduties. That makes me sound scathing. Don’t get me wrong, I admire how kind and diligent Kathryn is to her mum. I’m being selfish because having her around instantly changes the atmosphere and I find that I’m on edge, as if I’m tiptoeing over a floor of broken toys not wanting to make a sound to alert her to my presence. It’s obvious she doesn’t like me and disapproves of me being here. It emanates from her every pore.
When I come downstairs I expect the house to be empty. Kathryn usually takes her mum out first thing because Elspeth is such an early riser. But she is standing in the library doorway with a book in her hand and a startled expression, as if I’ve caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She’s got what looks like a key in her hand. She slips it onto the shelf and replaces the book in front of it. She does all of this in a flash, like a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick, obviously hoping I won’t see, and I pretend not to have noticed as I go to the cupboard to get my boots. Courtney’s got today off so we’re going shopping at Cabot Circus.
‘Una, can I have a word?’ she calls, as I’m pulling on my coat, her voice echoing around the hallway. I wonder where Elspeth is. My heart sinks but I fake a smile and go over to her. She beckons me into the library and shuts the door behind me.
I rarely come into this room, even though it’s beautiful with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the two high-backed armchairs in a plush mustard velvet positioned either side of the French windows. It’s peaceful and relaxing, yet apart from the books there is no personality to this room. Nothing to say who the McKenzies really are:no ornaments from a memorable holiday or a paperweight on the little round table. Not even a candle or a diffuser, which Courtney and I had in abundance in our flat, mainly to hide the smell of mould.
‘Take a seat,’ she says, indicating one of the chairs. I do as she says, puzzled and a little anxious as to what she’ll want to talk about. She doesn’t look particularly angry. Her face is set in its normal neutral repose so it’s impossible to read what she’s thinking. She sits opposite me and leans forwards, elbows resting on her lap, like we’re the best of friends about to have a cosy gossip.
‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up …’ she takes a deep breath ‘… but Mother asked me to have a word with you about Viola.’
The mysterious Viola. My senses are on alert. ‘Okay.’
‘Mother doesn’t like to talk about her. She hurt us all badly when she ran off. As far as Mother is concerned, Viola no longer exists.’
Of course I want to ask questions. They’re inching up my throat, but I know it’s not the done thing in this house so I stay quiet and nod. I can feel heat making its way from my neck to my face.
She sits back in the chair, looking satisfied. ‘And also, while we’re here, I didn’t appreciate you bringing Peter Freeman back to the house. What was all that about?’
I explain about how he’d called around while they were out, and I took pity on him and walked him to the suspension bridge.
‘I know he doesn’t want to believe that his sister killed herself but, Una, you shouldn’t get involved. If there’s any doubt over her death then it’s a matter for the police.’
I nod again, feeling like a five-year-old being told off.
She gets up and I realize it’s now or never. ‘Um, weird question, I know, but do you happen to have Lewis the gardener’s number?’ I blush as I say it and she raises one of her finely arched brows.
‘No, but I can find it for you.’ She gives me a friendly wink and it’s like the Kathryn I know has morphed into a different person in front of my eyes. I’ve only seen her like this once before and it was the day I moved in. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t tell my mother you’re planning on dating Lewis. She’s not a fan.’
Later, when I return to the house after a day of shopping with Courtney, I run into Kathryn as I’m going to my room. I don’t know what she’s doing on my floor, perhaps she’d been waiting for me to come home, but when she sees me she presses a folded piece of paper into my palm without saying anything, then turns and walks away. I unfold the paper. It’s a mobile number that I assume belongs to Lewis. My heart beats faster and I remind myself I’m doing this for Peter. For Jemima. And not because I want to see Lewis again.
It’s a bitter evening. February is even colder than January was. Too cold for snow, my mum used to say. Ice coats the pavements, like sparkly fairy dust, glinting under the amber glow of the streetlights and crunching beneath the soles of my boots. Windscreens of parked cars are already frosting, and I pity their owners tomorrow when they’ll have to scrape the ice away. The cold weather doesn’t stop the university students, though, and the streets of Cliftonare busy as I head to the pub around the corner. I’m pleased it doesn’t feel lonely out tonight, and vow to get Lewis to walk me home. A few times over the last couple of weeks I’ve had the creepy feeling that I’m being followed. When I turn there’s never anybody behind me but, on occasion, I’ve felt breath on the nape of my neck, or eyes boring into my back. I’m sure it’s my imagination, and I’ve put it down to the unease I can’t help but feel at walking in dead women’s shoes. It’s usually only when I’m alone, although the other day when I accompanied Elspeth to the hairdresser I’m sure I felt someone behind me, walking too close for it to be natural.
I push open the pub’s door. Lewis is sitting on a stool at the bar, his feet resting on the base. He’s wearing black jeans and a thick woollen jacket, his shaggy dark hair touching the collar. He’s even better-looking than I remember.
He’d been surprised to hear from me when I called. I didn’t reveal what I wanted to see him about but when I asked if he was free this evening, and apologized for the short notice, he’d agreed.
He doesn’t look round until I’m by his shoulder. Then he must sense my presence because he glances up from his pint. ‘Great to see you,’ he says, as though we’re old friends, not people who have met just once. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
I order a small white wine. It’s still early, not yet seven thirty, so the place is still relatively quiet and we find a table in the corner. I sit opposite him, a candle flickering between us, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. It looks like we’re on a date and I wonder if I’ve given Lewis that impression.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ I begin tentatively. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure how to broach the subject of Jemima. ‘What have you been up to since leaving Elspeth’s?’
‘Oh, you know, a bit of this and that. Not many people want gardeners this time of year.’ He cups his pint and I notice his hands are calloused and strong. For a fleeting moment I imagine them on me and blush.
‘How is it, working for the old battleaxe?’ He smiles to take the sting out of his words.
‘I … She’s …’ I hesitate, not wanting to be disloyal. ‘She’s okay. I’m sorry she sacked you, though.’
He shrugs. ‘It is what it is. She never liked me.’
‘I think she prefers the company of women,’ I say, thinking of what Kathryn said earlier.
