‘Sure. I hope everything is all right with that bleedin’ brother of mine.’
Dorothy stepped over the threshold and Rene ushered her into the small front room. Edwin, thankfully, was still at the factory. He worked with Bobby but in a different department.
‘I’m just getting ready to go out,’ she said, tying the belt of her dressing gown tighter. ‘Meeting the girls. Sit.’
Dorothy did as she asked and watched as Rene perched on the arm of the settee and lit up another cigarette. She smoked even more than Bobby did.
‘What’s up, Dot? You’ve got a face on you like a slapped arse.’
Dorothy’s stomach somersaulted. ‘It’s Bobby.’
‘Bobby? What’s that brother of mine done?’
Dorothy slowly peeled the scarf away from her neck to reveal the angry purple bruise.
Rene’s eyes widened in horror. ‘He did that to you?’ The disbelief in her voice was clear to hear.
Dorothy nodded.
‘When? Why? What happened?’
‘He’d come home from work last night. I could see he was tired and stressed and we got into an argument – I can’t even remember what started it. It doesn’t … it doesn’t take much any more.’
Rene’s eyes bulged. She stubbed out her cigarette into a standing ashtray. ‘Are you saying this has happened before?’
‘Yes. Infrequently at first, but lately it’s more often.’
Dorothy held her breath, wondering what Rene would say. Would she believe her? She had to, surely. The evidence was right there in the bruising on her neck.
Rene closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. When she opened them she said, ‘Leave it with me, Dot. I’ll talk some sense into that thick-headed brother of mine. Don’t you worry. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to finish getting ready.’
She stood up and almost manhandled Dorothy out of her house. She didn’t say anything more about it. She waved Dorothy away as though what she’d admitted had been nothing more anodyne than what she’d had for supper.
And she knew, somewhere deep inside her, that Rene wouldn’t help. Her loyalty would always be to her brother. She’d hoped for some female solidarity. She’d hoped that the feisty, straight-talking Rene would be on her side.
But now she realized she was on her own.
52
Imogen
A few minutes after Rachel has ended the call, my phone pings with a text: Irene’s address in Corsham. I make myself a cheese sandwich –Are you watching, Josh? Are you laughing at my crap attempt to cook for myself?– and after I’ve eaten it I leave Solly snoozing in his bed and call a taxi. I really need to get myself a car. I have the intrusive, petrifying thought that Josh might sneak in while I’m out and do something. Add more cameras, hurt Solly in some way. Then I tell myself that no, Josh might be controlling and crosses boundaries, but he’d never hurt an animal. I saw the way he was with Solly when he thought I wasn’t watching; he was caring towards him, giving him an extra treat or bending down to ruffle his neck. Josh is many things, most of which stem from insecurity. But he’s not a psychopath.
The taxi drops me off in Corsham half an hour later. Irene Fuller lives in a modern house on the edge of a rabbit warren of an estate. As I step from the taxi a wave of uncertainty washes over me. How am I going tohandle this? I can’t very well ask her whether she knows that Dorothea killed her brother and if she’s hell-bent on revenge. I could say I’m writing a piece about Dorothea’s life. I decide I won’t tell her I’ve inherited Dorothea’s house. The less she knows the better. Although, if she was the one to send someone to break into Dorothea’s studio, she might already know the truth. I shake the thought out of my head. No. I’ll stick to the journalist story.
I knock twice before I hear a shuffling from behind the door and then it’s wrenched open by a tall woman with white hair clipped back from her face. She’s less old and frail than I’d been imagining. Her eyes are a bright, startling blue and she’s dressed in varying shades of creams and neutrals. From over her shoulder, I see a navy wool coat hung up over the end of the banister.
‘Yes,’ she barks. She has a lot of lines on her face, particularly around her mouth.
‘Hi, are you Irene Fuller?’
‘Yes,’ she says again in the same loud tone.
I explain that I’m a journalist writing a piece about Dorothea Roe. As I talk she narrows her eyes at me, and I experience a ripple of anxiety that she can see right through my lies.
‘Dorothea Roe?’
‘She was married to your brother, Bobby. Dorothy Bird as was.’
