I Let You Go (28 page)

‘Perhaps.’

‘For how long?’

‘Anything up to fourteen years.’ Ray watched Jenna’s face, finally seeing the fear creeping across it.

‘Fourteen years,’ she repeated. She swallowed hard.

Ray held his breath. For a second he thought he was about to hear whatever it was that had made her drive off that night and not stop. But she turned away from him and lay on the blue plastic mattress, her eyes tightly closed.

‘I’d like to try and sleep now, please.’

Ray stood watching her for a moment, then left, the slam of the cell door echoing behind him.

‘Well done.’ Mags kissed Ray’s cheek as he came through the door. ‘I saw it on the news. You were right not to give up on that job.’

He gave a non-committal response, still unsettled by Jenna’s behaviour.

‘Is the chief pleased with the result?’

Ray followed Mags into the kitchen, where she opened a can of bitter, pouring it into a glass for him.

‘Delighted. Of course, the anniversary appeal was all her idea…’ He flashed a wry smile.

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘Not really,’ Ray said, taking a sip of his pint and setting it down with a satisfied sigh. ‘I don’t care who gets the credit for a job, so long as it’s investigated properly and we get a result at court. Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s Kate who did the hard work on this one.’

He might have imagined it, but Mags seemed to bridle slightly at the mention of Kate’s name. ‘What do you think Gray will get in court?’ she said.

‘Six or seven years, maybe? Depends who the judge is, and whether they decide to make an example of her. It’s always an emotive issue, when there’s a child involved.’

‘Six years is nothing.’ Ray knew she was thinking about Tom and Lucy.

‘Except when it’s six years too long,’ Ray said, half to himself.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s something a bit strange about it all.’

‘In what way?’

‘We thought there might be more to her story than she’s letting on. But we’ve charged her now, so that’s the end of it: I’d let Kate have all the time I could.’

Mags looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you were the one leading on this job. Was it Kate who felt there was more to it? Is that why you bailed Gray?’

Ray looked up, surprised by the harshness in Mags’ tone. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I bailed her because I could see a valid argument for taking time to establish the facts and ensure we were charging the right person.’

‘Thank you, DI Stevens, I do know how it works. I might spend my days ferrying kids around and making packed lunches, but I was once a DC, so please don’t speak to me as though I’m stupid.’

‘Sorry. Guilty as charged.’ Ray held up his hands in mock self-defence, but Mags didn’t laugh. She ran a cloth under the hot tap and began briskly wiping down the kitchen surfaces.

‘I’m surprised, that’s all. This woman runs from the scene of an accident, dumps her car and hides out in the middle of nowhere, then when she’s found a year later she admits the whole thing. It seems cut and dried, to me.’

Ray was struggling to hide his irritation. It had been a long day and all he wanted was to sit down with a beer and relax. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ he said. ‘And I trust Kate – she’s got good instincts.’ He felt himself blush, and wondered if he was defending Kate a little too much.

‘Has she?’ Mags said tightly. ‘Good for Kate.’

Ray let out a big breath. ‘Has something happened?’

Mags carried on cleaning.

‘Is it Tom?’

Mags started crying.

‘Oh God, Mags, why didn’t you say so earlier? What’s happened?’ He stood up and put his arm around her, turning her away from the sink and taking the cloth gently out of her hand.

‘I think he might be stealing.’

The fury Ray felt was so overwhelming that for a second he couldn’t speak.

‘What makes you say that?’ This was the final straw. It was one thing cutting school and stomping about the house in a hormonal temper tantrum, but
stealing
?

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Mags said. ‘I haven’t said anything to him yet…’ She caught sight of Ray’s face, and raised a warning hand. ‘And I don’t want to. Not until I know the facts.’

Ray took a deep breath. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘I was cleaning his room earlier’ – Mags closed her eyes briefly, as though even the memory of it was unbearable – ‘and I came across a box of stuff under his bed. There’s an iPod, some DVDs, a load of sweets, and a brand-new pair of trainers.’

Ray shook his head but remained silent.

‘I know he hasn’t got any money,’ Mags said, ‘because he’s still paying us back for that broken window, and I can’t think how else he would have got it all, unless he stole it.’

‘Terrific,’ Ray said. ‘He’s going to end up getting nicked. That’s going to look good, isn’t it? The DI’s son in custody for shoplifting.’

Mags looked at him with dismay. ‘Is that all you can think about? Your son has spent the last eighteen months being utterly miserable. Your previously happy, settled, clever son is now bunking off school and stealing, and your first thought is “How will it affect my career prospects?”’ She stopped, mid-flow, and held up her hands as though warding him off. ‘I can’t talk to you about this now.’

She turned and walked towards the door, then spun to face Ray. ‘Leave Tom to me. You’ll only make matters worse. Besides, you’ve clearly got more important things to worry about.’

There was the sound of running feet on the stairs, followed by the slam of the bedroom door. Ray knew there was no point following her – she was clearly in no mood for a discussion. His career hadn’t been his
first
consideration, it was just
a
consideration. And since he was the only one bringing any money into the family, it was a bit rich of Mags to dismiss it out of hand like that. As for Tom, he would let her deal with it if that was what she wanted. Besides, if he were honest, he didn’t know where to start.

The house in Beaufort Crescent was much bigger than the old one. They wouldn’t give me a mortgage for the full amount, so I took out a loan and hoped I would be able to pay it off. The repayments were going to be a stretch, but it was worth it. The house had a long garden for your studio, and I saw your eyes shine when we marked out where it could go.

‘It’s perfect,’ you said. ‘I’ll have everything I need, right here.’

I took some time off work and began building the studio the week we moved in, and you couldn’t do enough for me in return. You brought mugs of steaming tea down to the end of the garden, and called me in for bowls of soup with home-made bread. I didn’t want it to stop, and almost without thinking I began to slow down. Instead of being out in the garden by nine each morning, I started work at ten. I stopped longer for lunch, and in the afternoon I sat in the wooden shell of the studio and let the time tick by until you called me in.

‘You can’t work in this light, honey,’ you’d say. ‘And look, your hands are freezing! Come in and let me warm you up.’ You would kiss me and tell me how excited you were about having your own space to work; that you had never been looked after so well; that you loved me.

I went back to work and promised to fit out the interior at the weekend. But when I came home that first day you had dragged an old desk inside and spread out your glazes and tools. Your new kiln sat in the corner, and your wheel squatted in the centre of the room. You were sitting on a small stool, intent on the clay spinning between your hands. I watched you through the window as the pot took shape with the barest of touches. I hoped you might sense my presence, but you didn’t look up and I opened the door.

‘Isn’t this fantastic?’

Still you didn’t look at me.

‘I love being out here.’ You took your foot off the pedal and the wheel slowed and finally stopped. ‘I’ll go and change out of this shirt, then put supper on.’ You kissed me lightly on the cheek, holding your hands carefully out of the way of my clothes.

I stood in the studio for a while, looking at the walls I had envisaged covered with shelves; at the corner where I had planned to build you a special desk. I took a step forward and pushed my foot briefly on to the pedal of your wheel. The wheel jerked round, barely a full revolution, and without your guiding hands the pot lurched to one side and sank in on itself.

After that it felt as though I went days without seeing you. You rigged up a heater so you could spend longer in your studio, and even at weekends I would find you pulling on clay-spattered clothes to head down there at first light. I did build your shelves, but I never made the desk I had planned, and the sight of your junk-shop table always irritated me.

We had been in the house for a year or so, I suppose, when I had to go to Paris with work. Doug had a lead on a potential new client, and we planned to make enough of an impression for them to place a big software order. Business was slow, and dividends smaller and less frequent than I had been promised. I had taken out a credit card so I could carry on taking you out for dinner, and buying you flowers, but the repayments were getting harder and harder to make. The Paris client would have got us back on an even keel.

‘Can I come?’ you asked. It must have been the only time I ever saw you show interest in my business. ‘I love Paris.’

I had seen the way Doug leered when I once took Marie to an office party, and the way she behaved in return. I was not about to repeat that mistake.

‘I’ll be working non-stop; it won’t be any fun for you. Let’s go together when I’m not so busy. Besides, you’ve got your vases to finish.’

You had spent what seemed like weeks trudging round the city’s gift shops and galleries with samples of your work, and all you had to show for it were two shops, each wanting a dozen or so pots and vases to sell on a commission basis. You were as pleased as if you had won the lottery, spending far more effort on each vase than on anything you had done before.

‘The longer you spend, the less you’re earning for your time,’ I had reminded you, but it seemed my business experience was wasted on you, and you continued to spend hours painting and glazing.

I called you when I landed in Paris and felt a sudden pang of homesickness when I heard your voice. Doug took the client out for dinner, but I pleaded a migraine and remained in my room, where I picked at a room-service steak and wished I had brought you after all. The immaculately made bed seemed vast and unappealing, and at eleven o’clock I went down to the hotel bar. I ordered a whisky and stayed at the bar, ordering another before I had finished the first. I sent you a text message but you didn’t answer: I supposed you were in your studio, oblivious to my calls.

There was a woman at a table near to where I sat at the bar. She was dressed for business in a grey pinstriped suit with black high heels, and an open briefcase lay on the chair beside her. She was going through paperwork, and when she looked up and caught my eye she gave a rueful smile. I smiled back.

‘You’re English,’ she said.

‘Is it that obvious?’

She laughed. ‘When you travel as much as I do, you learn to spot the signs.’ She picked up the papers she was working on and dropped them into her briefcase, closing it with a thud. ‘That’s quite enough for one day.’

She didn’t make any move to leave.

‘May I join you?’ I asked.

‘I’d be delighted.’

I hadn’t planned it, but it was exactly what I needed. I didn’t ask her name until the morning, when she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

‘Emma,’ she said. She didn’t ask mine and I wondered how often she did this, in anonymous hotel rooms in anonymous cities.

When she had gone, I called you and let you tell me about your day; about how pleased the gift-shop owner had been with the vases, and how you couldn’t wait to see me. You told me you missed me, and that you hated us being apart, and I felt the reassurance seep into me and make me safe again.

‘I love you,’ I said. I knew you needed to hear it: that it wasn’t enough for you to see everything I did for you; the way I looked after you. You gave a tiny sigh.

‘I love you too.’

Doug had obviously worked hard on the client over dinner, and from the jokes at our morning meeting it was clear they had gone on to a strip club. By midday we’d clinched the deal, and Doug was on the phone to the bank to reassure them we were solvent once more.

I had the hotel receptionist call me a taxi. ‘Where will I find the best jewellery shops?’ I asked.

He gave a knowing smile that irritated me. ‘A little something for a lady, sir?’

I ignored him. ‘The best place?’

His smile became a little more fixed. ‘Faubourg Saint-Honoré, monsieur.’ He remained solicitous as I waited for the taxi to arrive, but his presuming air cost him a tip, and it took me the full cab ride to shake off my annoyance.

I walked the length of Faubourg Saint-Honoré before settling on a small jeweller’s unimaginatively called ‘Michel’, where black trays were studded with sparkling diamonds. I wanted to take my time choosing, but staff in discreet suits hovered around, offering assistance and suggestions, and I found it impossible to concentrate. In the end I chose the biggest: a ring you couldn’t possibly refuse. A square-set white diamond on a simple platinum ring. I handed over my credit card and told myself you were worth it.

I flew home the following morning, the small leather box burning a hole in my coat pocket. I had it in mind to take you out for dinner, but as I opened the front door you ran to me and squeezed me so tight that I couldn’t wait another moment.

‘Marry me.’

You laughed, but you must have caught the sincerity in my eyes, because you stopped and put your hand to your mouth.

‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I can’t be apart from you.’

You didn’t say anything, and I faltered. This hadn’t been part of my plan. I had expected you to fling your arms around me, kiss me, to cry, perhaps, but above all: to say yes. I scrabbled for the jewellery box and thrust it into your hand. ‘I mean it, Jennifer. I want you to be mine, always. Say you will, please say you will.’