‘Where’ve you been?’
I jump. Rufus is sitting on the stairs in his pyjamas.
‘I’m sorry, love. I heard something – from next door. I just wanted to go and investigate. You heard Marielle. She asked me to keep an eye on the place.’
His face darkens. ‘You should have told me. It could have been dangerous if there’d been a burglar or something.’
He’s right. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Can you tell me next time?’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer as he strops up the stairs. I feel a tug of guilt. I follow him and watch as he climbs into bed.
‘I’m really sorry, Ruf. I heard a baby crying.’ I perch on the edge of his bed. I’m tempted to tell him that I let myself in with the spare key but stop myself. ‘It was nothing. Anyway. My mistake.’ I bend down and kiss the top of his head. He smells of my fruity shampoo.
‘Fine,’ he says, turning his back to me. I squeeze his shoulder and leave the room.
‘And you didn’t have a chance to look around their house?’ Jo asks the next day. We’re sitting outside a little café on the lower slopes of Park Street, not far from Jo’s chambers. She texted me early this morning, asking if I’d meet her in her lunch hour and apologizing for taking so long to get back to me. The sky is bleached and shimmery. The area is busy with students and shoppers, all making the most of the heatwave. At one point I’m sure I see Kit on the other side of the street, his guitar case on his back, but he melts into the crowd.
‘No,’ I say, as I cut into my breaded chicken breast. ‘I was freaked out after finding the fake baby. It was so creepy, Jo. So lifelike. More so than any toy doll I’ve ever seen. It was only the eyes that gave it away. But also … I dunno … it’s kind of sad.’
‘How so?’
My heart feels heavy. ‘Like, why does she have it?’
Jo takes a mouthful of avocado and chews it silently.
‘Sometimes it can be … after a loss.’
Jo swallows. ‘You think she once lost a baby? Do you think she lied about having a son, then? And a grandson?’
‘I really don’t know. She could have a son but have lost another baby. Or maybe she’s lonely. She wants something to love …’
‘Then she should get a pet.’
‘Jo!’
‘I know, and I’m sorry for her if she did lose a baby, but she’s nearly seventy, isn’t she?’
‘You’d never get over losing a baby.’
Jo’s voice softens. ‘I love how big your heart is, Lena, but you could be jumping to conclusions. You don’t know that’s the case. What about the conversation you overheard? The stuff with the missing sister of one of your clients. And what about the man’s voice on your tape? The garden gate being left wide open. Someone was in your garden. Oh, which reminds me, Paul says he’ll pop over on Saturday to install the camera, if that’s okay? I’m sorry we haven’t done it before. He was away at the beginning of the week and we’ve both been manic at work.’
I wave away her apology. ‘It’s fine. I don’t think anyone’s been back in the garden. The gate has remained locked.’ I put down my knife and fork. ‘I know this sounds weird, and it’s not like I’ve got much to go on, but I have this gut feeling I can’t quite shake that maybe Marielle is a little scared of Henry. Intimidated by him, perhaps.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just little things. Like when I saw them arguing in the front garden. She seemed rattled. And she’s always friendly and he’s, well, colder in a lot of ways. Like he’ll wave and say hello, but it doesn’t seem as authentic. Like I’m a nuisance.’ I sigh. ‘It’s hard to explain. And when I was in their house I saw something else.’ I bend down to reach into my bag for my phone and scroll to my latest photos. ‘Look at these.’ I slide my mobile across the table.
Jo puts down her knife and fork and pushes her reading glasses onto her nose, then picks up my phone. She frowns. ‘What is this?’
‘This is the wall in their downstairs room. I’ve taken a few – the first is of the whole wall and the next two are close-ups of a few different articles.’
‘It’s a bit blurry.’
‘It was dark in there and I had to use the flash, but … Can you see what it is? Most of the wall is covered with newspaper clippings. Look at the headlines. There’s one about an adoption racket.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Yes … I remember this, or a story like it, in Romania in the 1980s.’ She looks up from the phone. ‘Why would they have it?’
‘I don’t know. And then there was one about a drugs lord, although I didn’t manage to take a photo of that. It’s really odd. Really random.’
