The Mistress: A gripping and emotional page turner with a killer twist Page 14

  ‘Where are you?’ I pulled open the car door and spilled out. The earth was soft under my rubber-soled shoes. I stood, lost, turning and looking round for him. ‘Is it you? Ralph?’

  He sighed. In the background, the sound of the waves shaking handfuls of dry bones. Was he here then? Was he really here? It was impossible.

  ‘I’m waiting. Come to me. Come to the boathouse.’

  I stuttered: ‘Are you there?’ Silence. I ached to see him, to touch him. ‘Ralph? Don’t go!’

  The line went dead. I let out a cry of frustration, then fumbled to switch on my phone’s torch and picked my way, stumbling, onto the grassy verge, over a lip of rocks and down between two buildings onto the open shingle. Away from the shelter of the row of boathouses, the wind caught me, chilling my cheeks. I blinked and struggled on to their friend’s boathouse, further along, crunching over the shifting stones.

  ‘Ralph? Is it you?’ My voice was thin and weak, snatched away at once by the breeze.

  I struggled on. Damp seeped into my shoes through the sides, the toes, chilling my feet.

  My ears raged with the sound of the waves. I hurried on, panting now, battling the shingle and the wind. The door of the boathouse stood ajar. Weak light spilled out, drawing a thin arc in the blackness. Ghostly. Otherworldly.

  I broke into a run, my arms outstretched.

  ‘Ralph?’

  I pushed through the doorway and stood there, blinking in the light, trying to focus.

  The smell of the boathouse hit me in the stomach. Petrol and the sharp chemical scent of wood varnish. It brought back instant memories of Ralph, of making love here, after we’d brought the boat back in and were finally getting warm again, sharing each other’s body heat.

  The dinghy, on its frame, sat in the shadows, pressed against the back wall. In front, a row of thick candles, each one shielded by a glass chimney, burned side by side along a narrow wooden table. I shuddered. Ralph loved candles. I stepped closer, looking around, shaking.

  I steeled myself and peered into the far corners, cluttered with picnic and beach equipment, an abandoned child’s bike, fishing tackle, all obscured by darkness which the weak candlelight couldn’t penetrate.

  I went back to the wooden table and looked over it. A bottle of wine and two glasses stood together. The bottle, Shiraz, of course, was already opened. One glass was used but drained. The other held a couple of inches of wine.

  Beside it, a note.

  Drink a toast. To us. Then come and find me. I’m waiting, my love.

  I ran my fingertips over the writing. It was Ralph’s untidy scrawl. I’d know it anywhere. My spirits lifted. A surge of hope. Could this be real? I laughed, looking at the way he’d so carefully set the scene.

  Typical Ralph. A toast, to us. That flair for the theatrical was so very him.

  I lifted my glass, wondering if he could somehow see me, and raised it to the silence.

  ‘To us, Ralph, my love. To happiness.’

  The wine was bitter on my tongue but I drank it down, then headed back to the door. I pushed it properly open and strode out into the wind.

  ‘Ralph? Are you there?’

  Behind me, the door loosened, blew shut, extinguishing the little light from the boathouse. The darkness of the beach deepened. The sea beyond, endlessly noisy, was barely visible, its undulating surface gleaming here and there with watery moonlight.

  I stumbled forward, not sure which direction to take, my breath short and sharp. The alcohol was hot in my stomach, fire running down my arms and into my fingertips. I tried to imagine Ralph’s warmth, the strength of his arms as they wrapped themselves around me, the relief of coming home to him.

  ‘Ralph?’ My voice sounded shrill with nerves. The sound of it frightened me. Where was he? Why was he playing such games?

  I was getting close to the sea now. I stopped, struggling to get my breath back, buffeted by the strengthening wind. My limbs were heavy, my feet numb. I stood there, a tiny, lone figure on the shore, dwarfed by the scale of the sea. I shivered and twisted round, narrowing my eyes against the gloom, searching for a glimpse of him.

  Memories crowded in. Helen, her face resolute, dragging the boat out across the shingle on its wheeled stand. The two police officers, huddled together, sipping coffee and looking out to sea. Ralph, always Ralph. I shook my head. I was going mad. What was I doing, standing here in the darkness? He was dead. I knew he was. His body would have rotted by now, swollen and broken into pieces by the salt water.

  Something moved. There, further along, close to the narrow breakwater. A figure, crouching low.

  ‘Ralph!’ Could it be? I lifted my arm to wave but already the figure had disappeared from view, merging into the blackness of the rocky breakwater, a sleeping dragon with its head stretched into the waves.

  But I’d seen him. I had. I forced myself to run, stumbling and slipping, towards the breakwater – my hair, caught by the wind, flying in all directions.

  The distance seemed endless. My legs, suddenly dead weights, struggled to move. It took all the strength I could muster to keep in motion, to hold my head erect, to keep my eyes from closing.

  Ahead, the darkness shifted again.

  ‘Ralph. Is it you?’ My voice was desperate now.

  A figure, still there, silhouetted against the stones.

  Why won’t he come to me? My legs were so leaden, I could barely throw myself forward anymore. Every step was such an effort. My feet seemed disconnected from the rest of my body, thickened and numb.

  The figure stepped forward. I started to scream, my hands lifted now not to embrace him but to ward him off, to protect myself.

  Whoever it was, he wasn’t alive. A man stood before me, soaking wet, his arms limp at his sides. His ragged clothes, streaming seawater into pools at his feet, hung from his body. His saturated hair was plastered to his head, dripping tendrils of seawater across his face. His skin gleamed deathly white.

  I blinked, struggling to focus, and my vision blurred. Ralph… Could those blue lips be the same ones I’d once kissed, once parted with the tip of my tongue? The eyes, wide and staring, fixed on mine, rimmed with blood.

  I staggered, losing strength in my legs and crashed onto the stones before I could reach him. I writhed there, almost paralysed. The beach spun. The scream stuck in my throat.

  It was over. My eyes closed. Blackness.

  Part 2

  Helen

  Thirty-Seven

  I thought the teachers would assume that, this year, after all that had happened, I wouldn’t have the gall to go along. That was all the more reason I was determined to be there.

  I knew what they were like, those end-of-year Lower School socials. They thrived on gossip. And this year, I knew the gossip would be about Miss Dixon and what happened to Ralph and, indirectly, that meant it was also about me.

  Besides, it was a matter of pride. I always turned up at school events. I was an involved parent, someone who could be relied on. A volunteer reader.

  Bea, who usually hated these things, agreed to come too, just for an hour. Moral support. We’d agreed a strategy: go late, leave early.

  We met up in the car park and pushed open the door of the pub together, Bea sticking close by my side as we made our way past the bar, through the crowd of regular drinkers to the long, narrow function room at the back.

  ‘You okay?’ Bea asked, for about the hundredth time.

  I managed a smile. ‘Fine.’

  ‘One drink,’ she whispered, steeling herself. ‘And we’re done.’

  I hesitated on the threshold, reading the room. Already, it had divided into groups. I recognised several knots of year two parents who’d congregated at the far end, close to the tables where trays of cheap sandwiches, crisps and sausage rolls had been set out. I could guess the conversation. Job chit-chat. Summer holiday plans.

  The teachers, having done their duty and endured small talk with the parents, had settled together at the other end, close
r to the bar.

  I patted Bea’s arm as she headed off to join the parents, waved in by a mum she seemed to know, then I turned to join the nearest teachers. I made a point of socialising with them, when I could, for Anna’s sake. That was why I’d started volunteering in the first place. And I suppose I was feeling bloody-minded. If anyone thought I was embarrassed about being there, humiliated by the unspoken connections between Miss Dixon and my husband, I was determined to show them I was not.

  They smiled and made space for me as I picked up a glass of orange juice from the bar and joined a few of the teachers I knew.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Mrs Prior was saying. Her face was flushed. ‘She’d been acting strangely for a while, though, hadn’t she? On edge. I said so, didn’t I?’ She turned to Miss Abbott. ‘Didn’t you go and have a word with her?’

  I sighed to myself. They were talking about Miss Dixon, already. I wondered how much I could stand.

  Miss Abbott nodded. ‘She was a very private person.’ She stared into her glass of white wine. ‘I did try to ask her once, well, ask if everything was okay. I got the sense she didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Apparently, she’d been taking sleeping pills for weeks,’ Miss Fry put in. ‘You’d think she’d know to keep off alcohol. That’s what did the real damage, apparently. Mixing them.’

  ‘She was lucky to survive.’ Miss Abbott shook her head, doleful. ‘I heard it was touch and go.’

  Mrs Prior lowered her voice. ‘Jayne said they had to pump her stomach. Not nice.’

  I said, ‘How is she doing? Any news?’

  They turned to me as if they’d already forgotten I was there, putting on their public faces once more.

  ‘Out of hospital,’ Miss Abbott said. ‘That’s something. It’s early days, but they don’t think there’s any permanent damage.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘You know, physically.’

  Miss Fry said, ‘I can’t imagine she’ll be coming back to school though, will she?’

  Mrs Prior said, ‘Definitely not before the end of term. As for next year…?’ She gave an exaggerated shrug.

  Miss Abbott said to me, ‘They think she’ll need a bit of support for a while. You know. Counselling.’ She hesitated, with the air of someone searching for something more cheerful to add. ‘Jayne sent flowers from us all,’ she said at last, ‘when she was discharged from hospital.’

  Miss Fry pulled a face. ‘I suppose someone ought to go and see her.’

  They looked round at each other, doubtfully. No one, it seemed, wanted to volunteer.

  ‘I always wondered if she had, you know, a bit of a drink problem?’ said Mrs Prior. ‘I mean, we all like a drink now and then, don’t we? To unwind. But I do remember one time in particular when she came in late and said she’d overslept. Which wasn’t like her. She looked so pale and her hands were –’ she held out a hand to demonstrate trembling – ‘like this. She said it was flu. But I did wonder.’

  ‘Well, it takes all sorts,’ Miss Abbott said, more kindly.

  Mrs Prior turned to Miss Fry. ‘You said how weird she was with the police, after Mr Wilson disappeared.’

  Miss Fry gave her a warning look, reminding her not to say too much. I shifted my weight to steady myself. It was my husband she was talking about.

  Mrs Prior said quickly, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean… it’s just so awful, isn’t it? One thing after another.’ She paused, trying to read my silence. ‘You must think we’re dreadful.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lied.

  I’d heard them in action plenty of times before. Miss Fry and Mrs Prior had been giving me sidelong glances for weeks, every time I saw them in school.

  Miss Fry said, ‘Laura always was a bit of a dark horse, but it does make you think. The fact you can work alongside someone every day and have no idea what’s really going on with them.’

  Miss Abbott turned away to speak to a mother who’d crossed the room to catch her for a word.

  As soon as Miss Abbott had gone, Mrs Prior lowered her voice. ‘It can’t have been an accident. Surely. That many pills? And all that wine.’

  Miss Fry said, ‘She left her car door open, apparently. Did you hear? Jayne told me. In the car park. Windows down and everything. That tells you something about her state of mind, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean she intended to… you know, take her own life. She clearly wasn’t herself,’ I said.

  ‘Cry for help?’ Mrs Prior hesitated, her eyes on Miss Fry. ‘Maybe. But you’ve got to ask, haven’t you, if you want to be found, why drive all that way, and to a beach?’

  Miss Fry gave Mrs Prior a meaningful look and then turned brightly to me. ‘Anyway, Mrs Wilson, how are you? Anna’s such a lovely girl! And doing so well.’

  I forced myself to look her in the eye and nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m very proud of her. Ralph was too.’

  Mrs Prior took the chance to leave us, heading back towards the bar.

  Miss Fry said, in honeyed tones, ‘We’re all so sorry. About what happened.’

  ‘That’s kind.’ I nodded, considering. Knowing how much these women gossiped, a few careful words now might prove useful. ‘Anna’s loved school. She’ll really miss it next year.’

  Miss Fry pricked up her ears. ‘You’re leaving?’

  I gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s a big decision. But yes, I feel we should. I’m still exploring options. It’s just… we’ve both got too many memories here. I’m sure you understand.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, we’d certainly miss Anna. And you, Mrs Wilson. But of course, whatever you think is best.’ She peered across to the bar where Mrs Prior was chatting to some young male teachers. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to dash across to join her and share the news.

  She looked down at my almost empty glass. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I gave her a tight smile. ‘But I think I’ve had enough.’

  Bea had been right. We shouldn’t have come, not this year. It was too much.

  I went to find Bea to tell her I was leaving and say a quick goodbye.

  Thirty-Eight

  I was just opening my car door to leave when a rasping male voice called, ‘How are you, Mrs Wilson?’

  I jumped and turned. The man in the next car had wound down his window and was looking directly at me. He was sitting in the passenger seat, a book open in his hands, as if he’d been killing time, waiting for someone. His car was a battered old saloon, scraped along the side.

  ‘Sorry, do I know you?’ I peered at him more closely.

  Someone from school, perhaps? A janitor?

  His bent elbow rested on the car window. A bulge of muscle along his upper arms and chest filled the contours of the tattered fleece he was wearing. His body looked well cared for, younger than his face which was lean but weathered.

  He smiled, a playful smile as if to say, of course you know me, why do you ask?

  I blinked. His eyes bored into mine. They were a muddy mixture of grey, blue and green and gleamed like a cat’s in the low light. I hesitated. I had a sudden urge to climb into my car and drive away at speed, to escape him while I could, but something – uncertainty perhaps – held me back.

  ‘Were you at the drinks?’

  He considered this. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  I pursed my lips. ‘Are you a parent?’

  He inclined his head. ‘I am, but not here.’ He sighed as if the effort of establishing his credentials was wearisome to him. ‘You went in with Mrs Higgins. Clara’s mother. You had an orange juice. You talked to the teachers for a while, not for long. Listened, I should say.’ He paused, watching me. ‘Your mind was elsewhere, wasn’t it, Mrs Wilson?’

  I considered him. ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Mr…?’

  He stuck a meaty hand out of the window towards me. ‘Ridge. Mike Ridge.’ His grip was crushing. ‘It’s my job, Mrs Wilson. Knowing about people.’

  Panic fluttered in my stomach. It struck me that he had been sittin
g there, just waiting for someone. Waiting for me.

  He opened his door and climbed out. He was shorter than I expected, but solidly built. Powerful.

  ‘I wondered if we could have a little chat. In your car, if you like?’ he said, calmly.

  I hesitated. We were right outside the pub. The car park was busy with people, coming and going. Soon, the crowd from the school drinks would start drifting out too. I could scream for help if I needed to.

  My fingers tightened around my car keys. ‘What exactly do you do, Mr Ridge?’

  He was already walking around my car to the passenger side and climbing in. I got in too and sat behind the steering wheel, doing my best to twist to face him. His bulk dominated the space. He smelled of body wash and fried food. He leaned in close, coffee on his breath.

  ‘I’m an investigator, Mrs W.’

  I tried not to react. My insides contracted. I thought about Ralph. The sight of him, lying there, still and silent, at the bottom of the cellar steps. The look of horror on that woman’s face. I took a deep breath and fumbled with my car keys, ducking my head to fit them in the ignition, playing for time.

  When I’d straightened up again, I said, ‘Are you with the police?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not anymore. I’m private now. Case-by-case basis. You know, gun for hire.’

  My eyes flicked at once to the fleece, imagining a weapon concealed there. I looked quickly away.

  ‘So, Mr Ridge, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m interested in what happened to your husband.’ His eyes burned into mine, as if he were trying to read my mind. ‘Terrible, losing a loved one like that. Not knowing what happened to him.’

  I nodded. My mouth was dry. He knew. I didn’t know how nor how much but, somehow, he knew. I wrenched my eyes from his and sat stiffly, staring forward through the windscreen. A young couple was getting out of the car parked just in front of mine, talking and laughing.

  We sat in silence for a while. I struggled to breathe normally, to swallow. The young couple locked the car and set off towards the pub, hand in hand.