The Verdict. Olivia Isaac-Henry
is it?’
‘Me.’
She knew that voice.
‘Just a moment.’
She hurriedly replaced the envelope and its contents and put the shoes and bag back on top of it. Sliding the chair from under the handle, she opened the door. It was the first time she’d seen Gideon since Guildford.
‘We agreed no contact,’ she said. ‘Ever.’
‘I need to see you.’ He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘There’s a private detective—’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes. How did you find me?’
‘I had your home number from Genevieve’s address book. Your mother told me.’
Bloody Audrey.
‘What did you tell Lancaster?’ Gideon asked. His jaw was tense.
‘Nothing,’ Julia said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Why would I talk to him?’
Gideon seemed to relax. He took a moment to look around the room.
‘Why are you living in this dump?’
‘It’s cheap,’ Julia said.
‘But you’ve got … I mean …’ His brow creased in confusion. ‘What have you done with it?’
She looked away from him and didn’t answer. Just moments ago she had it in her hands.
‘You can’t leave it lying around,’ he said.
‘I can’t spend it,’ she said.
‘Guilt won’t turn back the clock. Nor will grand gestures. Alan and I invested it in the business.’
‘Alan? We weren’t to have any contact.’
‘Let’s just say he’s not coping too well. I thought if he worked for me, I could help him out.’
‘Keep an eye on him.’
‘Support him. You could work for me, if you like.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I could pay you enough to live somewhere better than this.’
He spread his arms to indicate the small room, its tiny ineffectual radiator emitting more noise than heat, the worn carpet and sagging, single bed.
‘I don’t know how you can live in that town,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know how you can just carry on. It’s getting worse. I hear him. I smell him. Don’t you?’
Fear flashed across Gideon’s face. ‘I think you’re unwell, Julia.’
‘And what about his parents? They’re looking for him. We could still go to the police, say it was an accident.’
Gideon moved so fast, Julia had no time to react. He thrust her against the wardrobe door. Her head banged onto the wood. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘But it wasn’t an accident, was it, Julia?’ he said.
She wanted to push him off but was afraid what her struggling would provoke.
‘You don’t talk about this to anyone,’ he said. His eyes drilled into her. ‘We were protecting ourselves. We were protecting you. What would have happened if Alan and I hadn’t turned up?’
‘Everything all right up there?’ someone called from the bottom of the stairs.
‘You’d better go,’ Julia said.
‘Hey, is everything all right?’
‘Thanks, Mica. Gideon’s leaving,’ Julia shouted.
Gideon let her go and glanced at the wardrobe behind her.
‘You need to be careful,’ he hissed, then turned and left.
Mica came up the stairs and put his head around the door. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Mica asked.
‘No,’ Julia said. ‘He’s no one.’
Mica nodded and left.
Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.
Dear Mr and Mrs Wells
Over the next couple of weeks in Guildford, there was no repeat of Genevieve’s coming into Julia’s room and crying on her shoulder. And if Alan received any more nocturnal visits, Julia was unaware. His tales of Genevieve’s seduction attempts rang hollow. She had no lack of attention from men her own age, several of whom used to call at the house. Genevieve would provide them tea then hurry them away. Edward, never Eddie or Ted, was the only one who came regularly and sometimes stayed the night, though no one was allowed to call him her boyfriend, and not just because he was in his fifties.
When there were none of her gentlemen to entertain, Genevieve spent much of her time with the gardener, a dumpy woman with a downturned mouth that made her look permanently disappointed as she plodded about, moving soil back and forth in an ancient wheelbarrow. Julia was surprised to learn she was Genevieve’s sister, Ruth. They were so unalike – one exotic, the other almost invisible, lumbering around, trowel in hand.
Lucy came back from the Netherlands and turned out to be far more sociable than Alan. She’d broken up with her boyfriend and would be staying after all. She and Julia started chatting in the kitchen and meeting for after-work drinks. Alan had been no friendlier and far less communicative than the first time they’d met. That Tuesday evening, as Julia was reheating the remains of her previous evening’s macaroni, he sat down and switched on the TV without saying a word, or even acknowledging her.
Moments later Genevieve burst into the kitchen.
She stopped and clasped her hands together. ‘Well, I know you’ll all be so glad. You’ve got a new housemate,’ she said.
‘We’re ecstatic,’ Alan said.
For a moment, Genevieve looked disconcerted, but her features quickly settled back into serenity.
‘He’s one of our New Zealand cousins,’ she said. ‘Or their friend’s son, or something. Anyway, Ronald – he’s my first cousin, I haven’t seen him since we were both at school – he says Brandon—’
‘Brandon?’ Alan spluttered. ‘What sort of name is Brandon?’
‘If you must know, I think it’s a beautiful name,’ Genevieve said. ‘Brave and manly.’
‘Yes, Alan, a manly name,’ Julia couldn’t resist saying.
Alan looked like he wanted to punch both of them.
‘As I was saying, Ronald tells me Brandon is lovely. He’s a carpenter. He’s had to leave his room in London in a hurry, so he’s coming here tonight. My sister’s not keen, but I told her, Ruth, family is family.’
‘He’s not family,’ Alan said.
‘Sorry?’
‘A