Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

this conversation. Not while the trial is still going on. But she has sought me out. And I might not get another chance.

I take a deep breath. ‘We could pay you. But we shouldn’t really discuss that now.’

As I finish my sentence, the speakers in the corner of the toilets blast into life. The clerk’s voice is calling us back into court. The girl takes a deep breath.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘You’ve got my card. If you want to, when it’s all finished, call me. It’s my mobile on there – you can call me any time, day or night. I won’t mind. And we can discuss the idea of an article and I can answer any questions you have. No obligations. OK?’ I pause. ‘If you don’t want to go through with it, that’s absolutely fine. Even if you decide to go with another paper, I can try and help, give you advice on all that, if you want.’

Hugh’s voice is still screaming. What the fuck are you saying, Wheeler? You might as well give her the number of the fucking Guardian! I silence him. Concentrate on the girl. She is still holding my card.

‘But if you did want to go ahead, that’s how it would work with me. We’d do it together. You’d be in charge. And if it would make you feel better, you could bring someone. A friend. Or the detective could be there with you. DCI Carter. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

She looks up at me. I have guessed correctly; he has been kind to her, won her trust. At the mention of his name, she has softened. I take a deep breath, try to ignore DCI Carter’s voice in my ear now, asking me what the hell I’m doing, getting him involved in a media interview.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘I might.’

34 WEEKS

HELEN

The builders have gone for the weekend. Daniel, home early again, is in a good mood, humming as he mixes a Seedlip and tonic for me. I’m determined that this time we will have a nice evening.

I had been looking forward to celebrating our anniversary this year, before the baby comes. In truth, I think we need it. We’ve been snapping at each other more than normal – about the building work, about the antenatal classes, about money. We need time, I have decided. Proper time, just the two of us.

I told him I had booked us a fancy restaurant in town, one I knew he would like. But he insisted we should stay at home. Secretly, my heart sank. I wanted us to get out of the house, have a change of scene, make it feel special. But I didn’t want to fall out over it, so I agreed.

Daniel has insisted he will cook dinner himself. He is not a natural cook, but he is methodical, rules-based. He follows recipes exactly, and his dishes usually turn out well. I saw him earlier searching for how long you should cook lamb shoulder for. He will want to ensure mine is well done enough. He is protective of me and the baby with things like that, which is sweet. And there are signs he is making an effort. He has cleaned the grime from the table, laid out place mats and lit candles. Rolled the dust sheets off the floor, so the room looks more normal.

‘Let me do it,’ he says, when I try to help. He pulls me away from the table, takes the cutlery from my hands, plants a kiss in my hair. ‘The meat will be a while. Why don’t you try out your new bath?’

The new bathroom is the first thing that has made the building work seem at all worthwhile. It smells of cool tiles and fresh paint. I can hardly wait to fill the deep, roll-top bath, slip under the warm water and soak, looking out over the garden. Earlier, I arranged all my new things on the new driftwood shelves. I made them put some in at the last minute, after I saw Serena’s. Surely Daniel won’t notice a few little shelves that are the same as hers.

I run the water, go to fetch my book from where I left it, on the chair in the bay window. And that’s when I see her.

The first thing I wonder is why on earth is she tapping at the window? She looks even more waiflike than usual, her eyes red-rimmed. Her belly sticks out like there is something wrong with it. As if she is a starvation victim, instead of a pregnant woman. I wonder how long she has been standing there, looking into our front room at us.

‘Who’s that?’ Daniel shouts from the kitchen.

‘I think it’s Rachel.’ This is a stupid thing to say. I can see perfectly well that it is Rachel.

‘Rachel? What, your new friend Rachel? What’s she doing here at this hour?’

‘I don’t know.’

It’s only then I notice her neck. Three red welts in straight lines, like huge burns, the size and shape of fingers. Her eyes are bloodshot. She is biting at the skin around her thumbnail, twitchy and fearful.

‘Get rid of her, will you? It’s our anniversary.’ He is craning his neck, now, trying to see through from the kitchen, one hand on a saucepan.

‘I know,’ I say, waving at Rachel through the glass. ‘I’ll just see what she wants.’

When I open the door, it looks worse. For once, she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me.

‘Rachel? Oh my goodness! What happened to your neck?’

Rachel opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again. Then she bolts into the house, pushing past me quickly, as if she is afraid of who might be following her.

Her anxiety is infectious. I glance right and left up and down the road, wondering if she has been followed by her assailant – whoever he is. But there is no one, just a couple of people with drinks outside the pub on the