Escaping Life (14 page)

“
So
what would you like?
”
she bellowed from underneath the counter.  Her head came bobbing back up,
bright red, as the blood had rushed in as she bent over."Anything you
fancy?
”

“
OK,
I
’
ll
take a ham and cheese toasted sandwich and a good coffee.
”
 
She nodded, and after only a few minutes came back through the swinging kitchen
door with a large tray of goodies in her hands.  The sandwich was placed on top
of a doily, which in turn was placed on the most delicate of porcelain plates; 
the kind that, as children, you were never allowed to get your hands on.  The
coffee had a good
aroma
,
rich and strong, as she placed the cafetiere on the table.  It smelled so good
that he was salivating, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak to her
again.  He let her finish laying out the crockery, all as delicate as the
initial plate, and highly susceptible to breakage.  Today he would luncheon
like the Queen, that was if the Queen had a penchant for cheese and ham toasted
sandwiches.

He finished his lunch,
gently pressing his napkin against the corner of his mouth, his manners and
etiquette adjusted for the ornate place setting in front of him.  He paid his
bill and dropped his change into the counter-top dish, tipping a little more
than he knew was reasonable, and made his way towards the door.  Holding the
handle, he turned to ask a final question.

“
Oh,
before I go,
”
he tried to make it sound casual.  He had managed to get through the lunch
without revealing that he was a detective; he didn
’
t
want to spoil his cover just yet. 
“
I
’
m
looking for an address:  
‘
Cliff
Top Cottage, Sea View Lane
’
. 
Any idea where that is?
”
 
She stared with a look of distrust in her face.  He could see her thinking,
‘
W
ho is this guy from out of town?  What does he want with that cottage? 
“
I
’
m
looking for Elizabeth.
”

“
Is
she a friend of yours?
”
 
After fifteen years as a police officer, he couldn
’
t
count how many times he had seen this same look.  The look that said
‘
Y
ou don
’
t belong here, what do you want?
 
But he didn
’
t
want to announce to the village that there was a city detective hanging around. 
It could kick up a right stir
,
he thought.

“
Old
friend, that
’
s
all.  I
’
ve
arranged to meet her, just looking for where she might be.
”
 
The distrust was passing.  He could see her thoughts
swimming around. 
‘
How could it hurt to tell him?  If he says he is a friend, it must be
OK.  He knows her name after all
’
.  H
e could see there was still that
inkling of uncertainty, but he was sure that given enough time, she would point
him in the right direction, her small town friendliness too ensconced to
dispel.

“
Head
up the main road, take the second left and then the second right.  You
’
ll
find yourself on a small narrow lane.
”
 
No surprises there,
he
thought. 
“
Cliff
Top Cottage is the last on the right.  You can see it from here.
”
 
She pointed up towards
a cottage perched on top
of
the cliffs, rising up from the beach like giants,
protecting the land from the fury of the sea.  It looked an idyllic place.  He
was about to ruin that.

Stepping in through the
gate, the cliff top wind whipped up the scent of summer from the delicately
planted borders, rich with colour and swaying in unison.  It was such a different
approach to the smog filled city apartment that he lived in, and that Kate hated
so much. 
This is exactly what she keeps going
on at me about,
he thought to himself as he latched
the gate behind him.  The grey streets that led up to Jack
’
s
building were puddle-lined, even in summer, and there was a shroud of smog permanently
hanging over the adjacent river.  Here, for the first time in many months he
felt that he was breathing something clean, something healthy.  He felt the crispness
of the weathered paintwork and the brittleness of the wood as he rapped his
knuckles against the blue front door.  He could hear the footsteps advancing in
the hallway.  They sounded heavy and strong, not that of a woman.  The man who opened
the door was tall and broad, his normally coiffed hair flopping helplessly onto
his face, stuck between his eyes and his glasses.  He looked casual, like Clark
Kent, and just as likely with a quick change and slick of gel through his dark
waves to render another character from another world.  He could almost smell
the city in him.

“
C
an
I help you?
”
 
There it was; the strong sense of formality and automatic wariness of strangers
who turned up at the door.  He clearly belonged in his world and not a quaint
little fishing cottage.  This was what he was used to.  Jack was immediately
more comfortable.

“
Detective
Jack Fraser,
”
he said holding out his badge. 
“
I
need to talk to Elizabeth Green.
”

Graham ushered him through
the hallway.  Jack
’
s
sturdy police shoes pounded along the bare wooden floorboards as he walked
through to the kitchen, scanning the room for evidence of who lived here. 
There was nothing on the walls.  No photographs, no trinkets on the tables, no
notes pinned to the fridge.  It was a beautiful place, but it could have
belonged to anybody.  He pulled out a chair from underneath the wooden kitchen
table, sitting himself down.  He stowed the brown file onto his lap and pulled himself
under the table.  Graham passed him by, leaning out into the garden.

“
Elizabeth!
”
he called, summoning her inside with a strong wave.  Jack brushed his hands
across the surface of the wooden table.  It was perfectly smooth, but it didn
’
t
look new.  It was a good solid piece of furniture that had withstood the
foregoing years.

“
Nice,
”
he motioned to Graham, glancing at his hands, looking for evidence of involvement. 
Calluses?  Cuts?  Dirt under his fingernails? 
He
couldn
’
t
see anything. Graham didn
’
t
respond.  He couldn
’
t
see Elizabeth
’
s
face as she was walking towards the French doors, her features obscured by the
sun and in silhouette.  But as she placed her first step inside the kitchen,
her features were slowly revealed:  her soft blonde hair, smooth and shiny as
it hung on her shoulders, her swollen cheekbones and almond shaped lips.  Then,
as she took another step forward, he saw her piercing green eyes, the colour of
pine needles,
or kryptonite
,
he thought, that made her too look slightly as if she could be from another world. 
She was stunning, without, it seemed a scrap of makeup and with a small smudge
of mud on her cheek.  Her face threw him off course, audible in not only his
silence, but the small intake of breath and his inability to stop staring at
Elizabeth.  She was the double of the dead woman, whose photograph had, until
last night been taped haphazardly to his apartment floor.  His mind raced
between the living face before him and the hollow and lifeless face that had
stalked his dreams day and night since she had been discovered on Lyme beach. 
It was as if she had come alive and followed him here.  His stunned silence had
not been lost on Elizabeth.

“
You
’
ve
seen me before, haven
’
t
you?  You
’
re
a police officer.  You
’
ve
seen my face somewhere else.
”
 
Elizabeth didn
’
t
need him to say anything.  The shock on his face was clear, and he looked as if
he hadn
’
t
breathed since she walked through the door, his shoulders uptight and body
glued to his perfectly restored chair. 
“
We
look exactly the same.  We always did.
”
 
She had been waiting for this moment.  She knew it would come.  She knew
somewhere deep inside her subconscious that she was right about the letters. 
From that first Sunday morning, when she had been sitting just outside the door
where she was now standing and having read that first letter she knew it was
from her sister.  There are certain things that you don
’
t
need proof of, to know that it
’
s
real.  Like love, you simply feel it in the trivialities of life:  the gentlest
of touches; the flicker of an eye as tears form in the corners, so moved by the
connection to another person; the unquestionable knowledge that you would die before
seeing that person harmed.  These things had no proof, but when you saw them or
felt them, they were as real as the person next to you.  As real as the detective
sat in your kitchen.  She walked over to the table, past her husband, who too
now realised that his instincts had been right, and she sat down at the table
next to Jack.

“
It
’
s
the eyes, isn
’
t
it?  When we were together, I mean, years ago, we used to freak people out.
”
 
He needed to pull himself together.  He was the cop here.  He couldn
’
t
remember in any other case being so convinced without any direct evidence. 
There could have been no less doubt than if the woman lying in his mortuary
fridge had resurrected, sat up and told him her name. 
“
How
did you realise?  Somebody called me yesterday and said Rebecca had been ruled
out.
”
 
She hadn
’
t
let him answer any questions yet.  In his mind, he was trying to formulate a
plan.  His mind was firing left and right, a giant network of fork lightning
bolts desperately searching for a place to discharge.  His initial plan to come
here and question her further had been thrown out of the ball park the moment
he saw her, impossible now to continue to question if this woman was her
sister. 
“
I
’
ll
make some coffee,
”
she said.