The Doll's House - [71]

Helen was clearly anxious to be away, so Jake wasn’t surprised when she cut to the chase, demanding to know the full extent of his surveillance. Jake decided to hide nothing from her – a full and frank confession was the very least she deserved – but as the details tumbled out, the depth of his feeling for her became painfully clear to them both. He hadn’t meant to get so involved with her – but he had – and now Helen wouldn’t look him in the eye as a result.

‘Jake, I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me -’

‘Please don’t do this, Helen.’

Jake could see where this was going and wanted to stop Helen before she could articulate her decision.

‘You have helped me more than you know,’ Helen continued, unabashed. ‘More than I deserved. But we both know this has to end now.’

‘Of course. We can go back to how we were, strictly professio-’

‘I mean “we” have to end,’ Helen interrupted. ‘We’ve crossed a line that should never have been crossed.’

‘Why shouldn’t we cross it?’ Jake retorted, his swelling anger finally overcoming his sense of shame.

‘Because I don’t want to. And it’s not fair on you to pretend otherwise.’

‘That’s bullshit. I know you, Helen. You’re no different to anyone else, but you persist in pushing everyone away.’

Helen looked at him as if he were mad, but he had seen her vulnerability, her need for comfort and love – so surely she was the mad one?

‘I’m sorry, Jake, but I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to hurt you – that was never my intention – but I won’t be coming here any more.’

‘Then you’ll be on your own for ever,’ he spat back. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but he did nevertheless. ‘Because of your pride, because of your fear, you’ll be lonely for the rest of your days.’

As he spoke, he wrenched the front door open. Her very presence seemed to mock him now and he just wanted her out of sight. And as she departed, walking out of his life for ever, he couldn’t resist one final shot.

‘Good luck, Helen. You’re going to need it.’

115

Charlie pushed the front door shut behind her and leaned against it. She had been feeling peculiar all day – at sixes and sevens – and now she just felt exhausted. Had she been stupid tackling Lloyd directly? She didn’t know him at all well and who was to say he wouldn’t have reacted angrily, even violently, to her accusations? She was glad she hadn’t thought too deeply about it or she probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. And that would have been wrong – she had played an unwitting part in the ambush on Helen and she had been determined to put that right. She didn’t want cowardice or caution to stop her. Not that Steve would have seen it like that, if anything had happened.

All she wanted to do was collapse on the sofa, but oddly her legs wouldn’t move. Her batteries were dead, as her father would say, and she remained where she was, propping up the front door. Something definitely wasn’t right. She felt more than peculiar now, she felt uncomfortable. The baby had been less active today, which had at first worried her, then intrigued her as she had felt the occasional cramp. Was this Braxton Hicks or something more meaningful? She wasn’t one to jump the gun but today did feel different.

She looked down and was surprised to see her leggings stained dark. Placing her hand on her thighs, she found that her legs were wet. She investigated further and there was no doubt about it. Her waters had broken. The time had come.

The baby that she’d craved for so long was finally on her way.

116

She had never anticipated failure. Never seen it in her mind’s eye. So when it finally happened, she wasn’t quite sure how to behave.

The ring on the doorbell was insistent, but Ceri Harwood had nevertheless ignored it at first. Tim was there, driven home by guilt or uncertainty for another of their ‘chats’, and though she didn’t hold out much hope that this was anything more than window dressing, she didn’t want a postie or duster salesman interrupting them during such a raw conversation.

But the ringing then became repeated knocking on the door. It was obvious they were in because the upper windows were open and the sitting room light on, so it seemed fruitless to hide. Ceri armed herself with a dismissive turn of phrase, but as she opened the door, words failed her. She could tell exactly who they were by their bad suits and their sombre expressions, but it still came as a bit of a shock when they said:

‘Anti-Corruption. Can we come in?’

Ceri Harwood. Head girl. Top of her class at Hendon. The youngest female DCI in the Met. Now staring at failure and, worse than that, possible ruin.

‘Tim, we’d better take a rain check on this. There are a few procedural things that need to be sorted out.’

But he could tell she was lying. Had she gone pale? She felt like she had. Or perhaps she was just a bad actress – failing to cloak the anxiety that gripped her now?

‘Can we do this here?’ she asked, as her husband watched on, making no attempt to leave.

‘Better if we do this down the station,’ came the sober reply.