‘Are you OK, Carla? You’re not, are you?’ He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Josh is dead,’ I whisper. Ash’s sapphire eyes widen. ‘They’ve found his body in Lower Buryknoll Wood.’
‘How appropriate,’ he remarks wryly. ‘How did he die? How did you find out?’
‘Joanne told me.’ I lean towards Ash and lower my voice. I don’t want the people on the tables around us to overhear. ‘Looks like he was killed.’
‘Murdered, you mean?’ Ash says this too loudly, but no one so much as glances in our direction.
I nod.
‘Shit. How? When?’
I shrug. I can’t seem to get any more words out.
‘I’ll ring Roly.’ Ash looks around. The café is full now, not to mention noisy. ‘I’ll just pop outside.’
He gets to his feet and extracts his mobile from an inside pocket. He heads for the door, scrolling through his phone. Ash met Ian – Roly – at university. They were both at Birmingham. They hit it off straightaway, although they’re poles apart. Ash is tall, burly and blond; Ian is short, skinny and dark-haired. Ash was born and brought up locally and has the North Devon burr to prove it; Ian grew up in Northern Ireland and speaks with a lilting brogue. Ash is athletic; Ian smokes his way through at least one pack a day. I could go on, but you get the picture. Anyway, Ian was Ash’s best man at our wedding, which is where Jo met him. Ian, I mean. They got engaged a year later and married a year after that.
I watch my ex-husband through the café window, as he paces up and down in front of it, talking animatedly into his mobile and raking his hair with the fingers of his free hand. It’s a nervous gesture and the familiarity of it tugs at one of my heartstrings. Olly has also picked up this mannerism, though Ash’s hair bounces back into place, whereas Olly’s remains sticking up.
When Ash comes back in, he’s pale. He sits down and locks his eyes onto mine.
‘So?’
‘Roly wasn’t at all pleased that Jo has been bringing you up to speed. Josh’s parents haven’t even formally identified the body yet. They’re doing that later today. It’s a murder inquiry. Roly’s home patch. He’s the senior investigating officer.’
I know my ex-husband. I’ve known him for years. I can read his expressions and body language like a book. I know what he’s thinking and feeling, as much from what he leaves unsaid as from what he says. And right now, I can tell he’s stalling. ‘Go on.’
He inhales a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘Josh was stabbed.’
I gasp. ‘Oh God. How awful.’
I’m not sorry Josh is dead and, I admit, several times over the past few months I’ve wanted to kill him and his parents myself, one after the other – throttle them with my bare hands or blast all three of them into the afterlife with a shotgun. But this is shocking. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose one of your children, and it must be even worse to lose a child in such a violent way. It’s not something I would wish on anyone, no matter what they or their offspring had done.
‘What else did Ian say?’
Ash breaks eye contact.
‘Ash?’
‘His body had started to … decompose, according to Roly. Tests will confirm it, but the police believe his body has been there for a few days.’
Ash’s words escort me inside the forensic tent my imagination conjured up yesterday and I look down on the face of a dead teenager, barely recognizable as Joshua Knoll, his lips black, his face swollen. I blink rapidly to expel the grotesque image from my mind.
‘Carla?’
Ash’s voice jolts me back to the café. ‘Sorry, Ash. What did you say?’
‘Do you want me to take you home? What can I do? Will you try to eat something?’
I’m nauseous, and right now I can’t imagine ever feeling hungry again. My mouth is dry, though, and I’m thirsty. ‘I’d like some tea, please.’
Ash signals to the waitress, who bounces over to us. When her smile inverts to a frown, I realize that, without meaning to, I’m scowling at her. When she comes back with my tea, she fixes me with narrow eyes, smirking, and I wonder if she’s spat in my cup.
It’s one of those metal teapots with a spout that seems to have been deliberately designed to drip all over the place. Ash pours. He knows I don’t put sugar or milk in my tea or coffee, but he opens a sachet of sugar, empties it into the cup and stirs it with a wooden stick. He gets up and fetches a handful of those cheap, unabsorbent paper napkins, then attempts to mop up the tea he has spilt.
‘Shall I call Dandr— sorry, I mean Dan.’ He pulls an apologetic face. ‘Shall I call Dan for you?’
