The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 6

  Discreet enquiries confirmed the parish council would be very much on board for a proper village deli. There was just one planning concern – the pedestrian access. Which was where I made my first mistake – funding not just the architect and official papers for a change-of-use application, but some preliminary work to lay a better path around the side of the cottage to create an entirely separate walkway for the little barn. At the time it had seemed only fair, given Caroline would be providing a ready-made building for the joint venture. This faith then extended, once the change of use was agreed, to paying for some of the basic equipment required: the coffee machine, the refrigeration unit, the oven.

  We used a firm in Totnes to handle the plans and legal work but Caroline later asked Nathan to run his eye over the conversion before the local builder installed the kit.

  And that’s when the whole thing turned very sour very quickly. So traumatic were the ensuing exchanges between me and Caroline that I didn’t get the full story until she left the village.

  Turns out Caroline believed her barn was permanently bound by a neighbour’s covenant restricting any extension. But Nathan, on reviewing all the papers, had discovered a loophole. The original covenant was time-limited and had lapsed; there was nothing to stop Caroline pitching to convert the barn into a two-storey home which would produce a much better return than a deli.

  Planning consent was duly won and Caroline swiftly secured a sale to a property developer happy to take on both homes as a project. With the handsome proceeds, she bought a villa in Portugal for reinvention as a ‘life coach’.

  Cockroach, more like became my favourite phrase.

  Emma laughed.

  ‘But it was hard, Emma, seriously – watching them convert the barn into a house when it was supposed to be my deli. I was furious.’

  ‘So all this equipment you paid for. You still have it, Sophie?’

  ‘Yes. The Packhams have it stored in their parents’ outbuilding. I keep meaning to put it on eBay. Or find an auction.’

  ‘Well, stop right there, because I have had the most marvellous idea. How about we resurrect the plan. You and me? But not just a deli – a bistro-cum-gallery. I was looking at Nathan’s place – the way he shows off the art on his whitewashed stone walls – and I was thinking a barn would make the most superb gallery space. And then when I heard about your deli plan, the two things started to sort of gel in my head.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, Emma. I’m completely done with all of that. Plus Mark would go mental.’

  ‘I’m not asking Mark.’

  ‘But in case you hadn’t noticed, the Priory House barn is occupied by your neighbours. It’s a house now.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean there, silly. I’ve been talking to Albert about his single-storey place along Hobbs Lane. It’s lying empty. Completely idle. Got a loo already installed and patch of land alongside ideal for parking. And it’s the perfect size. He says I can have it for a very reasonable rent but I don’t want to do a project on my own. It would be no fun.’

  All at once I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. Feel the blood shifting in my veins. I didn’t know what to say, what to think.

  ‘Look, I know this is a bit sudden. Even a bit cheeky, given it was your idea. But it would just be perfect for us, Sophie. Solve the boredom when the holidays finish. You could cook. I could do pottery demonstrations. We could rent out space for artists to display in – it would draw in the creative crowd during the shoulder seasons and tourists in high season. Be nice for the locals too.’

  ‘But artists don’t eat out. They can hardly afford to eat in, according to Heather.’

  ‘Trust me. If we pitched this right, it would be perfect. The whole creative vibe would be our USP. Off-season we could do a budget-busting lunch for artists and locals – soup and a snack. Then a broader menu during the tourist season, complete with the cream tea palaver. It would be a hoot.’

  And now my mind was whirring, a storyboard appearing as I closed my eyes again. A logo with coffee cups and easels. Paint brushes and paninis . . .

  ‘No, no. I’m done with all of that. You need to stop, Emma.’

  ‘All fifty-fifty this time. Written agreement. Nathan’s drawing up some plans and putting in an application for the parking as we speak. Parish council are on board again.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? You’re already on to all of this?’

  ‘All you need to do is say yes, Sophie. Otherwise I’ll have to find someone else, which would be a complete killer. The Hartleys were saying they were looking for a project, but I’d much rather do this with you.’

  And now I felt this even more powerful pang inside, imagining how easy Emma would find it to coax someone else to resurrect this dream. My dream. Emma, with her optimism and flair. Emma, who in contrast to Mark with his bloody cold at that disastrous dinner party had all the other guests eating out of her hands – the Hartleys especially. And though that had been the whole point of the evening – to help Emma make new friends – I found myself remembering my mood when I had that row with Mark. Was I jealous? Was that it? To see Antony and Gill hitting it off with Emma so very quickly? Emma reading their palms, while I felt boring somehow and Mark did his disappearing act.

  ‘Look, I’ve probably not been entirely fair to Nathan. Over the business with Caroline, I mean. I suppose he was just doing his job.’

  Emma smiled. ‘So, you’ll think about this?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll bring the paperwork round tonight.’

  TODAY – 5.25 P.M.

  ‘Excuse me. Please . . . You need to get back on the train.’

  I ignore the remark and stare at my phone. Only one bar now. I scramble a little further up the bank but it makes no difference.

  ‘Hello? Can you hear me, madam?’

  I am aware now of a range of different voices from the train behind me. The guard’s voice is the loudest – firm but, for now at least, calm. But I don’t turn around to face all the others. The mix of voices, passengers mumbling among themselves. The sound of more door windows being opened.

  I am looking instead for a road. A path. Anything which will tell me where I am and if there is some other, quicker way back to Ben. But there is nothing. Just grass and banks and cows . . .

  And then suddenly the commotion from the train changes gear.

  ‘Right. That’s enough. You two . . . back on the train. I mean it. We can’t have more people leaving the train . . .’

  I turn now to find that two other passengers have climbed off the train on to the bank. A middle-aged man with grey hair. Quite striking. Tall. Kind face. Also a woman alongside him, younger, with her hair in a high ponytail.

  ‘Seriously. I am going to have to call this in. It will delay us all even further.’ The guard’s voice is now much louder and increasingly alarmed.

  ‘Please, madam. It’s not safe. You have to get back on the train . . .’

  He is looking directly at me, eyes wide and a mobile phone in his hand.

  ‘We could be delayed for hours. I can’t be stuck here. I have to get home.’

  ‘We’ve been told ten minutes tops now.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say that over the intercom? Why did you just leave us all sitting there, not knowing anything?’

  ‘We were waiting for confirmation.’

  ‘Rubbish. What about that train the other week where the passengers were left for hours with no air con, no toilets. No intercom. Nothing. We can’t just sit back and let you lock us on a train and treat us like this, you know . . .’ I am enjoying the rant; I am enjoying putting all my anger and frustration into this new place.

  By now there are scores of faces at the line of windows watching me. The man with the grey hair is watching too, but his face shows less disapproval.

  I am aware of my hands beginning to shake and so I clench my fists to stop this. I also feel a tiny bit giddy and so move my feet wider apart to steady myself, not wanting th
e guard to see.

  ‘We have rules, madam. Protocols. We have only been delayed fifteen minutes so far . . .’

  ‘Only!’ The disapproval is shouted from someone out of sight – on the train behind the guard. I can’t see who but I am grateful for the support.

  The guard turns and uses his arms to signal calm before glancing back to the couple on the bank and then me.

  ‘Look. Final warning. I need all three of you to get back on the train. Please. Otherwise I am going to have to escalate this. Call for assistance. The police. An ambulance . . .’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘You are causing a serious incident here, madam. Putting yourself and others in danger. We absolutely can’t allow this. Please. This is your final warning. Get back on the train . . .’

  Suddenly I feel the panic rising in me. Ambulance? What does he mean – ambulance? It’s not an ambulance I need, it’s a hire car or a helicopter.

  Now the man with the grey hair draws a little closer to me.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell? You look very pale. Unsteady. I’m a doctor. I’m happy to help if I can.’

  He glances at the guard. The guard’s face changes.

  I don’t like the way they are looking at me.

  ‘I’m not disturbed.’ I lean forward as I say this. ‘Is that what you think? That I’m disturbed? Some headcase?’

  ‘No. Of course not . . .’

  I wonder for a moment if I look disturbed.

  Suddenly I see the scene through different eyes and I am starting to panic a little at the guard’s reference to an ambulance. Could they cart me off? Would that be allowed?

  Further down the train I see so many faces staring at me through the line of windows and then among them, finally – his face. It is as if time freezes for a moment, then the window is opening and he is calling my name. I am both shocked and relieved, confused and overwhelmed by this myriad of emotions all in the same moment.

  The next thing, Mark is off the train, hurrying along the bank to stand near me.

  ‘This is my wife. Oh my God . . . Sophie.’ His eyes are locked on mine but I raise my hand to stop him.

  ‘Your wife?’ The guard is clearly as confused as everyone else. ‘You weren’t travelling together . . . ?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was on the same train . . . She doesn’t have her usual phone.’

  I am staring as Mark says this, trying very hard not to cry.

  ‘We’ve been called home for an emergency.’ Mark is looking at the guard.

  ‘I have to get back to Ben, Mark.’

  ‘I know. I know that, love . . .’

  Mark turns again to the guard. ‘Our child has been in an accident back in Devon. He’s having an operation. We’ve only just been phoned by the police and we don’t know exactly what’s happened.’

  ‘Oh goodness. I am so, so sorry.’

  The doctor’s face changes also as he locks eyes with me. ‘You must feel very shocked. Very frustrated . . .’

  I am really fighting tears now. For some reason I don’t want this kindness because it makes things feel worse.

  ‘We need to get back to Devon. My wife has had a very bad time lately. A lot of shocks actually, even before this . . .’

  Mark is using a very gentle tone, like the doctor, and I am willing him to stop now. Maybe he is trying to prevent them calling this in officially, but I don’t want him to say any more.

  I don’t want him to tell . . . them . . . any more.

  Bad enough that they know about Ben.

  I don’t want them to know what happened back in the summer. That other shock.

  I close my eyes and for a moment I see it all again. The colour red. The blood all over my hands . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  BEFORE

  That first and terrible shock came from nowhere. Like an explosion.

  Bang.

  The impact so brutal, and so very physical too, like running around the corner, smiling in the sunshine, before smashing right into a wall.

  One day we were talking about the deli plan on the beach; one day my life was normal and so much happier and busier and more fun thanks to Emma . . . and then?

  Suddenly it was all smashed; broken like a glass, smooth and glinting one second, then slipping through the fingers to lie threatening on the floor with angry, jagged edges. Just a blink – and suddenly there was this policewoman in my kitchen staring at me. Wanting me to go over it again.

  But the thing is I didn’t want to. Not again.

  I closed my eyes and could see it. Red. And I didn’t want to feel this tightening in my chest; this strange, out-of-body sensation as if I were not quite there at all, in the room, in the scene, in this story.

  DI Melanie Sanders was clearing her throat and I opened my eyes to catch her glancing across to the window seat. She was waiting but still I said nothing.

  Instead I was thinking, So is this what real shock feels like? Hovering just outside your own body? Watching it, not living it.

  ‘I really am very sorry to trouble you again so soon, Mrs Edwards, but there were a couple of things I just wanted to go over.’

  Next she asked a series of questions and I realised what she actually wanted was for me to go over every single detail from the very beginning. And so finally this was what I did. I drifted slowly back into the room, into the present, and I told the whole wretched story all over again.

  How we had woken, all of us, ridiculously early because of the flags. Six a.m. blinking on the dressing table clock and Ben standing by our bed. ‘There’s a man outside my window, Mummy, with a ladder.’

  I turned to the kitchen window and could picture the very moment of opening the curtains upstairs.

  Turned out to be Alan – parish council chair. Some of the fair bunting had come down in the night. I remembered waving in my dressing gown, yawning and worrying that he had no one holding the bottom of the ladder; then deciding to get going early myself. So that by nine I was marching around the village, ticking boxes on my little black-and-white chequered clipboard, relieved that the weather, though a touch breezy for the tents, was at least dry.

  I was happy. I was calm. I made them write that down in the first statement. I was fine.

  I told DI Sanders again that the fair starts every year at 2 p.m. and my only concern had been the piano demolition competition – a hazard-assessment nightmare. Our insurers had been unhappy about it and so I made everyone set the safety barriers further back, but apart from that one niggle, everything else was fine.

  ‘So was it your idea for Miss Carter to be the fortune teller?’ DI Sanders had taken out a notebook from her bag and was flipping through the pages. It was not the small, tidy police notebook you see in films, but a larger pad – the kind normally used by reporters.

  ‘Yes. Look – I told your colleagues all of this last night. Though I don’t understand all this interest in the stupid fortune teller’s tent. For Christ’s sake, it was a village fair. A bit of fun. A joke to raise money for the church.’

  ‘So it wasn’t Miss Carter’s proposal? You’re quite sure about that?’

  Give me strength . . . What is the matter with these people?

  ‘Absolutely not. In fact she took quite a bit of persuading. Look, Emma is new to the village and she was doing me a really big favour. She didn’t want to do it at all so I really don’t understand these questions.’

  I looked the policewoman in the eye. ‘It was just a silly thing. A bit of fun.’

  If anything, I was understating Emma’s reluctance. At first she’d point-blank refused, arguing that it would be embarrassing. That a bit of fun with palms and tea leaves among friends was one thing, but charging money?

  She had only caved in when I turned the tables. Oh, for heaven’s sake, lighten up, Emma. No one will take it seriously. It’s for the church roof.

  ‘And there was just one other thing.’ DI Sanders was staring at her notepad again, but this time self-consciously, like an actor
feigning hesitancy. I looked at the clock, wondering how long Mark would be, wishing now that I had not let him fetch the papers.

  ‘It’s just, going over the statements my colleagues and I took yesterday . . .’

  I glanced at the playroom door. It was pushed to but had not quite clicked shut, and though I could hear the television up quite loud I was suddenly anxious about Ben hearing. I walked over to close it – holding the brass doorknob, conscious suddenly of its coldness. I found myself thinking of that other sensation, closing my eyes to it but unable to shake it off. The warmth of it on my hands. The smell of it. The thickness of it. Wanting so much to pull my hand away but knowing that I could not. Must not.

  ‘It’s just. Well, it must have been the most terrible thing for you, Mrs Edwards. Awful. But one of the things which I didn’t understand’ – the police officer paused – ‘from the statements, it doesn’t appear that you called out. Shouted for help, I mean.’

  I let go of the doorknob and wiped my hands down my jeans over and over.

  ‘You have children, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’ She looked confused. Uncomfortable. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I didn’t call out, because my son was on the doorstep.’ Still I was smoothing my hands down the sides of my legs. ‘I had asked him to wait there a moment. He’s a good boy. He normally does what I ask. But if I had shouted, he would have run in. He’s four years old.’

  DI Sanders twitched her head, glancing between my fidgeting and her notebook. ‘Yes. Well, of course. I see. That’s not explained properly in your statement.’ She was running again through the notes in her book, tracing a pen down one page then the next. ‘You did what you could. I’m not suggesting . . .’ Her tone defensive but not unkind. ‘Well – I think that’s just about it.’

  At last there was the sound of Mark’s key in the door. We both glanced to the hall, and when he appeared in the room, his expression moved quickly from puzzlement to irritation.

  ‘I was just going over a couple of things with Mrs Edwards.’