When we first married, Julianne and I promised ourselves that we would never go to sleep angry at each other. It happened last night. My apologies were ignored. My overtures were brushed aside. We slept back to back on the same white sheet but it could have been an icy wasteland.
We checked out of the hotel at ten; our romantic weekend cut short. On the train back to Bath Spa Julianne read magazines and I stared out the window, pondering what she said to me last night. Maybe I am miserable or looking to blame somebody for what’s happened to me. I thought I was past the five stages of grieving. Perhaps they never go away.
Even now, sitting next to her in a minicab on the journey home from the station, I keep telling myself that it was just an argument. Married couples survive them all the time. Idiosyncrasies are forgiven, routines adopted, criticisms left unsaid.
The taxi pulls up outside the cottage. Emma comes tearing down the path, wrapping her arms round my neck. I hoist her onto my hip.
‘I saw the ghost last night, Daddy.’
‘Did you. Where was he?’
‘In my room; he told me to go back to sleep.’
‘What a sensible ghost.’
Julianne is paying the taxi driver with her company credit card. Emma is still talking to me. ‘Charlie said it was a lady ghost but it wasn’t. I saw him.’
‘And you had a chat.’
‘Not a long one.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “Who are you?” and he said, “Go back to sleep”.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask his name?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘She went for a bike ride.’
‘When did she go?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t read the time.’
Julianne has paid the fare. Emma squirms out of my arms and slides down my chest. Her sneakers touch the grass and she runs to her mother.
Imogen has come outside to help us with the overnight bags. She has two messages for me. The first is from Bruno Kaufman. He wants to talk to me about Maureen and whether they should go away for a few weeks when she gets out of hospital.
The second message is from Veronica Cray. Five words: ‘Tyler is a trained locksmith.’
I call her at Trinity Road. The seesaw whine of a fax machine punctuates her answers.
‘I thought locksmiths had to be licensed.’
‘No.’
‘Who trained him?’
‘The military. He’s been working nights for a local company, T.B. Henry, and driving a silver van. We have matched the plates to a vehicle that crossed Clifton Suspension Bridge twenty minutes before Christine Wheeler climbed the fence.’
‘Does he work from an office?’
‘No.’
‘How do they contact him?’
‘A mobile phone.’
‘Can you trace it?’
‘It’s no longer transmitting. Oliver is keeping a close watch. If Tyler turns it on we’ll know.’
There’s another phone ringing in her office. She has to go. I ask if there’s anything I can do but she’s already hung up.
Julianne is upstairs unpacking. Emma is helping her by bouncing on the bed.
I call Charlie. She still has my mobile.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re home early.’
‘Yep. Where are you?’
‘With Abbie.’
Abbie is also twelve and the daughter of a local farmer who lives about mile out of Wellow along Norton Lane.
‘Hey, Dad, I got a joke,’ says Charlie.
‘Tell me when you get home.’
‘I want to tell you now.’
‘OK, hit me with it.’
‘A mother gets on a bus with her baby and the bus driver says, “That’s got to be the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” The mother is really angry but she pays the fare and sits down. Then another passenger says, “You can’t let him get away with that. You should go back and tell him off. Here, I’ll hold the monkey for you”.’
Charlie laughs like a drain. I laugh too.
‘See you soon.’
‘I’m on my way.’