Ruth had been working for Dorothea for over two years as her cleaner. Dorothea wasn’t great at being an employer – she always felt that working-class guilt every time Ruth appeared at the door armed with her cleaning products and her cloths. At first Dorothea hid in the studio – a place Ruth was told didn’t need to be cleaned – but as the weeks and months passed, they fell into a routine: Ruth would have a cup of tea with Dorothea before they both started work and soon, each time Ruth arrived, it became the favourite part of Dorothea’s day.
It wasn’t long before Dorothea spotted the tell-talesigns of domestic abuse: a bruised wrist, a mark on her cheek that she’d tried to hide with foundation, a jumpiness at sudden, loud noises. Dorothea knew she had to tread carefully. She couldn’t insist that Ruth leave – she had to gain her trust first. It took nearly two years and then, one day, Ruth cracked. It was while they were having their morning cup of tea that Ruth started to cry silent tears. Dorothea watched as they ran down Ruth’s lovely face.
‘He hits you, doesn’t he.’ She handed Ruth a tissue.
‘How did you know?’ Ruth dabbed at her tears.
She hesitated. Could she tell Ruth the truth? She’s kept it to herself for so many years. Instead she found herself saying, ‘My … father was abusive to my mother, and somebody once offered me a way of escape, a sanctuary, and I want to do the same for you and Imogen.’
‘In what way?’
‘You can both come and stay here. I have plenty of space. You’ll be safe here and you can stay as long as you like.’
It had taken Ruth several more weeks to pluck up the courage. And then, when Alec broke her collarbone and one of her ribs, putting her in hospital, she realized she had to leave him.
And now, here they were. Finally.
‘We left while he was at work,’ she said breathlessly as they followed Dorothea through the hall and into the kitchen. ‘I left him a note.’ She laughed manically. ‘A note. What a coward!’ She looked hot and flustered in herfloral maxi dress, a grey suede jacket flung over her arm. Imogen was carrying a floppy pink and white cat that looked very well loved. In some ways she looked a lot younger than fourteen but there was something knowing in her eyes, a maturity that spoke of too much seen.
‘And he has no idea you’ve come here?’
‘He might work it out, but he doesn’t know we’ve become friends. As far as he’s concerned this is just work.’
Ruth was an attractive woman with eyes so dark they looked like pools of chocolate and with the kind of skin that appeared poreless, but Dorothea could detect the tell-tale greenish tinge of an old bruise at the outer edge of her cheekbone. Dorothea had met Imogen before, but hadn’t seen her for a while. Imogen was like a mini version of her mother, although her expression was more haunted and she stooped as she stood behind Ruth, as though wanting to go unnoticed, hugging the soft toy against her chest. And then her eyes went to the cat, Casper, lolling in the chair by the window, and she darted a look at Dorothea who nodded encouragingly before she went over to pet him. When she saw Florrie, the Golden Retriever, flopped by the French doors, sunning herself, she let out a squeal of delight.
‘An animal lover,’ laughed Ruth, but there was a sadness to her tone, aware that Imogen had lost some of her innocence. She turned to Dorothea, gratitude in her eyes. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this. For opening up your beautiful home to us.’ She lowered her voice so thather daughter couldn’t hear. ‘It’s been so hard on Immy. So hard. I can’t do it to her any more, I have to protect her. I hate Alec and I love him. It’s just so complicated, this feeling.’ She clutched at her heart.
Dorothea had taken the younger woman’s hand then and squeezed it.
And Dorothea had watched both Ruth and her daughter bloom as the weeks went by. Imogen seemed to grow up and gain confidence before her very eyes. As she struck up a friendship with the lovely Harry next door, she began acting more carefree, like a fourteen-year-old girl should, her reservations and fear falling away like a cape.
In the weeks and months that Ruth stayed with her, they never talked much about Alec, not really. Although Ruth didn’t need to tell Dorothea of the fear, the walking on eggshells, the self-disgust, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, because she’d been there. She’d felt it all. And she had the same question looping around her head as Ruth: How could someone who was supposed to love you hurt you in such a way? It was unthinkable and yet it had happened, over and over and over again.
Until you had no choice but to act.
37
Imogen
As I board the train I make sure to sit in a busy carriage, Solly at my feet. I get out the biography and continue reading. I’m so engrossed that when my mobile buzzes it makes me jump.
I reach into my pocket and see DI Shirley’s name flashing up on screen. ‘Imogen. I’m just returning your call. Thank you for your info on Robert Falkner. We are looking into it. Do you know when they were married?’
I cover my mouth and turn to the window so that the other passengers can’t hear me. ‘Early 1970s. The biography also alluded to the fact he might have been abusive.’
‘Do you have a copy of this book?’
‘Yes …’ I hesitate. I don’t want her to take it from me. ‘It’s written by an author called Sidney Crane, and Harry works for Crane’s publisher. That’s how I managed to get a copy. Talking of Harry, has there been any news?’
A pause, and then, ‘We’ve released Mr Starling without charge – for the moment anyway. He convinced us it was all a misunderstanding.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He said he was checking on Dennis. That he’d seen an individual outside Dennis’s house. A smartly dressed elderly gentleman. Have you seen anyone matching that description?’
I’m about to say no when I remember the man I saw earlier when I was out walking Solly. ‘Actually, yes. He was in his seventies, grey hair. Navy-blue wool coat. I don’t know if it’s the same man that Harry saw but …’ I trail off as I notice the train is pulling into Clayton Rocks station. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid.’
She doesn’t ask where I am, which is just as well because I don’t think she’d approve of my door knocking. Not that I imagine it will lead to anything, it was all so long ago.
