Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

‘What the hell did she want that for?’

Charlie shrugs, brings the cigarette to his lips again.

‘Search me.’

HELEN

Last night, Daniel and I watched it on the news together. I pulled the blanket up over my knees, held on to Daniel in horror. They replayed the footage of Rachel’s tearful father, his voice shaking as he appealed for anyone, anyone who knew anything, to come forward. The more his voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes, the more the cameras snapped and flashed, as if he was setting off a crackle of electricity. Then came the photograph of Rachel – her painted face, her dark red dress. Her crooked, pirate smile. They showed a view of Rory and Daniel’s office with a police officer standing guard outside, a bit of the promo film of the wharf project. Then, startlingly, there was a clip of Daddy at Haverstock in the eighties that I’d never even seen before. I gasped when he appeared on the screen, looking just as he did in our childhood photographs, with all his hair intact, grinning away as he unveiled plans for his famous redevelopment of Tobacco Docks, shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. Then came the footage, pin-sharp by comparison, of Rory walking into the police station the other day, his face like thunder. He was wearing his smartest suit, one I’ve seen him wear a hundred times, his glamorous female lawyer trotting to keep pace with him. I could see in his eyes that he was scared. Tears had pricked my eyes then. Whatever he’s done, he’s still my big brother.

Daniel left before light this morning. I’ve never seen him so upset, so stressed. His face when the news showed footage of Haverstock. My heart is breaking for him. He has put so much into that company. I can’t help but wonder if it will ever recover. I’m only glad Daddy didn’t live long enough to see it happen.

Rory’s arrest couldn’t have come at a worse time – the client hasn’t signed off on the next phase of the new development yet, and now they are talking about holding off until ‘things are more settled’. The police have got the offices locked down – Daniel can’t even get in.

He’s been going to work in the library. He’s told me to call the second I need anything, if there’s any sign the baby is coming. He is only round the corner. I just nodded and turned the news back on. The police seem to tell the reporters more than they tell us. Rory still hasn’t been let go. It’s been nearly a whole day. What are they asking him? What is he saying?

I think about scenarios over and over. I do this all the time now. I imagine Rachel on a train somewhere, speeding north, Scotland perhaps. Or in a fast car, driving between tall fir trees, brake lights like rubies dazzling behind her, the forest opening its mouth and swallowing her up.

At night, I dream of her. I have nightmares where she is hit by cars, where she is dead in gutters, thrown out of windows, glass shattering. Sometimes, she is there even after she is dead, ghostlike, dressed in a long red cloak, the hood pulled down so that there is only darkness where her face should be. In some of the dreams, I become Rachel. I am chased by a wolf through the trees in the park, a woodcutter, an axe swinging at his waist. Or I am drowning, and then I see myself from above and I am not myself, but her. It is her pale face bobbing in the shallows of a pebble beach, her black hair splayed in the grey-green surf.

I wake late, stumble downstairs, trying in vain to shake the dreams from my aching body. As I open the post, I wonder whether she could have been in an accident by the river. She liked drinking in the Trafalgar Arms. I think about the low wall, the brown swell of the Thames. I wonder how long it would take for a body to wash up. Hours? Days? Months? An image comes to me, unbidden, of her body, face down, rising and falling, her flesh pale, her joints bloated by river water, a blanket of maggots seething underneath. I close my eyes. Stop, I think. Stop.

I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a moment to register what the letter is saying. No, I think. This can’t be right.

Within minutes, I’m on the phone to Brian, our financial adviser. My battery is low, and my only charger is upstairs. I clutch the letter in one hand, my phone in the other. I’m put on hold, given some Elvis Presley to listen to. It seems to go on forever; I’m worried the phone will go dead.

‘Helen? Sorry about the wait. How are you? How can I help?’

The sound of Brian’s voice, the normality of it, is calming, and I feel myself take a deep breath, my heart slowing slightly. I imagine him in his office on the parade, the little bowl of sweets in gold wrappers on his desk, the photograph of him skiing with his kids. The reassuring dullness of it all.

‘I know this sounds mad, but bear with me,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice light. ‘I’ve just had this letter addressed to me. It says something about the house being remortgaged. And obviously, um, we haven’t remortgaged, have we? I mean, you arranged our last mortgage and there’s still about five years to go on it till it’s all paid off. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s certainly what I thought,’ he says. ‘I certainly don’t remember us arranging to remortgage.’

‘I’m sure one of us would remember,’ I say, trying to laugh.

‘Quite,’ chuckles Brian. ‘Hang on, I’m just getting back to my desk. What does the letter say, exactly?’

I read the letter out to him.

‘And this