Josh has never hit me. He’s never hit me. He’s never hit me. He’s not my father. I don’t need to feel afraid to go home. I repeat this to myself as I step off the train and onto the platform. I almost expect to see Josh, rigid with anger, waiting to make sure I’m not lying about being alone, but he’s not around – that I can see anyway. I check my Find My app and see that Josh is at work in Filton. And then I look again. I’m mistaken. He’s in Filton, yes, but not at work. He’s in our old flat.
I can’t get rid of this anxious, twitchy feeling all the way home in the taxi. When I get in, Solly greets meeagerly and I make a fuss of him and then change into Dorothea’s old hiking boots and take him for a walk across the fields. I trudge over the uneven ground and then stand looking over the views of Bath in the distance. I inhale deeply, trying to breathe the stress away, to rid myself of this nerve-jangly feeling. The sky has darkened as I head back and thunder rolls overhead. I’m on high alert for any sounds of motorbikes, or footsteps, thinking how lonely this little area on the outskirts of a city centre can be with its winding lanes and narrow passageways, hills and woods.
It starts to rain as I pass Dennis’s house and I decide to pop in to check on him. I turn into his gate, pulling the hood of my rain mac up over my hair. His old Skoda is in the driveway but he could be taking Cady for a walk. I head around to the side of his house, where the entrance is, and then freeze. I can just make out the back of someone peeking around the corner from the side return to his garden. He is crouched low, and a big waxed coat like the sort fishermen wear is pulled up, obscuring his head. Is this the same guy who attacked Dennis before? Is he lying in wait, hoping to pounce as soon as Dennis leaves his house?
Solly pulls at the lead and I get out my mobile and find Dennis’s number. I quickly punch out a text.MAN OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE. DON’T COME OUT. CALL POLICE.
I continue to back away, inwardly praying that Solly doesn’t bark or alert the person crouching in front of usthat we are here. Solly, thankfully, backs away with me. I hope Dennis is calling the police but he might not see my text. I back out the driveway, almost bumping into the Skoda. And that’s when I notice the motorbike almost hidden by the hedge. Fear seizes me. I need to do something. I call DI Shirley straight away.
‘Imogen? Are you okay?’
I explain the situation as quickly and quietly as I can.
‘Don’t put yourself in danger. I’m sending a car,’ she says before hanging up.
I don’t know what to do now. I don’t want to leave Dennis but at the same time I don’t want to put myself in danger.
Coward.
The thought pops into my head with the force of a bully’s taunt. If I’d been less of a coward my mum might still be alive. I should have kicked up a stink when she told me we were leaving Dorothea’s house and going back home. To him. I should have done more.
We stand there, Solly and me, on the edge of Dennis’s driveway. Where are the police? From my viewpoint I can still make out the figure, no longer crouching but now standing to reveal his full height. He is tall, and broad. I watch in dismay as he rounds the corner and disappears from view into Dennis’s back garden.
I begin to pace nervously. And then, thankfully, a police car turns up and two uniformed officers step out.
‘He’s over there,’ I cry, pointing wildly in the direction of the back garden.
Without saying anything they rush off around the side of the house and I wait, hoping that the man hasn’t broken in or tried to attack Dennis. Is this really all linked to Dorothea? The whole thing doesn’t make sense.
And then I see the man in the fisherman’s waterproof being led around the side of the house, flanked by the officers. It’s not until they get closer that I see the man’s face. He looks up at me with surprise and I gasp.
It’s Harry.
34
‘I told you, didn’t I? I said not to trust him,’ says Josh later that evening. It was the first thing I told him when he got home from work, and his whole demeanour instantly went from hostile to interested. At least I managed to ward off an argument, although I don’t admit how gutted I am. Harry had been so important to me all those years ago, a safe haven. Kind, thoughtful, sensitive. But what is he up to? Again I think about the brief conversation we had when I bumped into him on Saturday and how he’d said he wanted to talk to me about Dorothea.
We’re sitting on one of the faded pink velvet sofas. We’ve lit the fire and Solly is lying at our feet and the room is warm and soporific. For such a huge room with high ceilings, the effect of Dorothea’s furniture and the marble fireplace is cosy.
Josh appears in high spirits, happy, no doubt, that Harry is no longer a contender for my affections, what with him being a possible killer.
‘It would have been easy for him to attack Dorothea, living next door to her,’ he says. I don’t want to think that the boy I was once crazy about could drive a motorbikeat me and kill an old lady. ‘He’s been lurking around here too … I’ve seen him with my own eyes,’ continues Josh gleefully.
‘Wait …’ I sit up. ‘What do you mean, you saw Harry with your own eyes? When?’
‘On the cameras, of course. I look through the footage every day. We need to keep ourselves safe, Ims. And Harry is always hovering. Once I saw him in the lane, just waiting outside his house, and then, as soon as you came home, he pounced. And then the other day I saw him trying to get in through the side gate. He obviously didn’t realize we have a code now. Everything is secure,’ he continues proudly, like he’d installed it all himself. ‘Nobody can get in. We’re totally safe now.You’retotally safe.’
‘So you think Harry wanted to hurt me but because you’ve set the place up like Fort Knox he had to go for Dennis instead?’
‘I …’ His eyes flicker to mine and his expression darkens. ‘Why do I feel like you’re getting at me?’ His eyes narrow. ‘Oh, I see, you don’t want to think that he could be behind all this? I saw you. I saw the two of you in the lane. You all giggly, loving the attention.’
My stomach tightens. ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
He stands up, towering over me, and for the first time in our relationship I feel threatened by his physicality.
‘You don’t need me now, is that it? You don’t need my money because you have all this,’ he throws his arms out. ‘You are a woman of means.’
He makes me sound like a Jane Austen heroine and in no way is it a compliment.
