I can’t stop thinking about what Annette told me yesterday. That’s two of their friends group who have now been murdered. I think of Rosemary. Is there a more suspicious reason why she’s gone away?
‘You look tired,’ says Josh the next morning at breakfast. ‘You fidgeted all night. Are you okay?’
I watch as he puts a bowl of food down for Solly and ruffles his fur affectionately. He has taken over Solly’s morning feeds and it warms me that Josh has bonded with the dog, despite not really wanting one.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, sipping my coffee.
‘Are you worrying about Dorothea?’ He turns to face me, leaning against the worktop, one leg bent flamingo style.
‘No,’ I lie, but he doesn’t look convinced.
His expression softens. ‘I know things have been a bit … tough between us lately,’ he says to my surprise. Josh doesn’t usually like to admit when things are wrong. ‘It’s been an adjustment living here and especially in the shadow of the arson and everything, but … I do love you, you know. I know we haven’t really talked much about marriage but I was thinking …’
The coffee curdles in my stomach. A few years ago I’d have been elated at this, but not now.
The realization hits me like a punch.
I don’t want to marry Josh.
He walks over to me and kisses me. I tense. He notices because when he pulls away I see confusion, and maybe fear, in his eyes. ‘I better go,’ he says. ‘I’ll be late for work. I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes, see you later,’ I reply woodenly.
When he’s gone I breathe a sigh of relief.
As I’m getting changed my phone rings. ‘Is this Imogen?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Esme. You spoke to my granddaughter, Scarlett, last week.’
Excitement bursts through me. ‘Yes, that’s right. I was asking about Dorothea Roe.’ I sit on the edge of my bed.
‘Dorothy Falkner as she was then,’ Esme corrects me. ‘She lived next door to me in the mid-1970s. Her and her husband, Bobby.’
Finally, someone who knew Bobby.
I hurriedly explain that Dorothea left me her house and now I’m trying to find out exactly how she died. ‘I was just wondering what you remember. About Dorothea – Dorothy – and her husband.’
‘I was already married with a second baby on the way when they moved in, so it must have been around 1975. She was probably five or so years younger than me,’ she says loudly and without a pause, and I get the impression Esme doesn’t have many conversations andis relishing this one, ‘and Dorothy was friendly to me, but her husband was standoffish. Very handsome. But kept himself to himself. Yet the things I heard from the other side of that wall …’
I hold my breath.
‘He was a wrong ’un, that husband of hers. I’d hear him shouting at her late into the night. Accusing her of this and that. As soon as they wed, he made her give up her job and I could see how bored she was, drifting around the house all day. We would chat when we bumped into each other and she told me she had dreams of doing something creative and that she missed working at the factory. She admitted to me once that marriage wasn’t what she thought it would be. Their rows got worse and she started standing up to him and, well, it was a bad business, but he hit her. She tried to hide it from me but I saw the signs.’
So it was true. Hewasabusive.
I think again of the Zippo lighter. Not Rosemary’s then, but definitely Bobby’s. It’s not surprising Dorothea had been so intent on portraying domestic abuse in her sculptures. In her art. Why else would she set up an art therapy centre for traumatized women? Why else would she have bonded so strongly with Annette, Maisie and Rosemary? All women who had suffered some form of domestic violence. Why else would she have helped me and my mum?
‘Do you remember Bobby leaving?’ I ask Esme.
‘Pardon, my love? You need to speak up. The line’s bad.’
‘Did Bobby leave her?’ I shout.
‘She came to me and admitted that they’d had a huge row one night and he’d walked out.’
‘Did he ever come back to the house?’
