The Doll's House - [72]

‘Is that really necessary?’ Ceri replied, her superior rank surfacing as she fixed them with a beady eye.

‘Yes’ was the blunt apologetic reply. ‘We’d prefer it if you came willingly but if we have to arrest you -’

‘Ok, ok.’

Now that it had come to this, there was no point in dragging it out. Picking up her bag, she nodded to Tim – and was surprised to find tears pricking her eyes. When she had started this thing, she had been so sure that it would achieve the desired result, that she would drive Helen Grace from Southampton Central and be the top dog once more. Successful, untouchable, victorious. She paused on the threshold to smile a sheepish goodbye to Tim and in that moment she knew – her defeat was total. She had reached the end of the road.

117

He worked the machine furiously, his anger with himself – with the world – unconcealed from all around. People came in and out as usual, but where he would normally exchange pleasantries with them, today he served them in silence, his glowering expression enough to repel any casual conversation.

A sudden sharp pain made him look down. Distracted, he had taken his eye off the machine and the blade had sliced his thumb right open.

‘Fuck.’

He spat the word out, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Blood oozed from the deep cut. Flicking the machine off, he hurried out back, swathing his injured finger in rounds of paper towelling. The blood seeped through the pale green towelling, but it looked more black than brown.

Why was he such a failure? Such a waste of space? Was he forever to be on this journey, searching, searching, searching – but finding only misery and crushing desolation. How could he have got it so wrong? He could see now that she wasn’t Summer. He had just been trying to convince himself, hoping against hope that her coldness and rough manner was some reserved anger at their long separation. But it had actually been because she was a nasty, worthless slut. Why had he lavished so much care, attention and – yes – love on her, when all she wanted to do was throw it back in his face and return to her peevish little step-family, who thought she was nothing but trouble. He knew enough about her to know that she spurned and ridiculed those who tried to help – why hadn’t he seen the signs. Why had he exposed himself in this way?

The blood was still oozing from his cut. There was no way he could do any more work today, so he might as well shut up shop. It was far too early to close and there would no doubt be a few shoppers confused by his unusual absence. His first instinct was to say ‘Stuff them’ but caution – his watchword – reasserted itself once more. So, having turned off the till, he started writing out a note blaming ‘Staff sickness’ for the temporary closure of the shop. It was hard going – he wasn’t used to writing with his left hand – and he was still writing when the ringing bell alerted him to the arrival of a customer.

‘We’re closed,’ he barked without looking up.

‘The sign said you were open and this won’t take a minute.’

Her voice was soft and gentle. But he didn’t look up, concentrating even harder on his note.

‘Please could you squeeze me in?’

Sighing, he put down his pen. No point creating questions, when it was so easy to serve her and send her on her way. Looking up, he held out his hand.

‘Oh, you’re bleeding. Are you ok?’

Her voice matched her features, which were delicate and pretty. Her accent was local but subtle and she had a kindness in her expression that instantly put you at your ease.

‘Can I help at all?’

Still he couldn’t speak. It seemed impossible and yet it was true. As if the cosmos was listening. This lovely kind girl who was offering the hand of friendship had walked right into his shop, right into his life. Like he always imagined she would. He let her examine his wound, but as she did so, he never took his gaze off her, transfixed by her delicate nose, her long, black hair and those piercing blue eyes.

118

Alastair and Gemma Lansley stood stock still, barely able to breathe. Helen watched them closely. She could tell that, like Daniel Briers, they had found news of their daughter’s death hard to credit. But they had done the right thing and flown over from Windhoek to be confronted by the grim reality of Isobel’s murder. She lay on the mortuary slab in front of them, her body discreetly covered, but her pale, thin face unveiled. Her opaque eyes stared up at her parents, giving them none of the love they craved. She had been dead for over a year.

Helen was surprised to see that while Alastair’s eyes were already brimful of tears, Gemma’s eyes were dry, as if they hadn’t yet taken in what they were seeing. Usually it was the other way around, the husband desperately trying to be strong for his wife. But that was not the case here. Helen had already established in their preliminary chats that Alastair was very close to his daughter – his only daughter. When he and his wife had retired abroad, Alastair had hoped that Isobel would eventually join them – a life in the sun – but she had cleaved close to Southampton and her studies. Alastair had picked up a note of cynicism, even weariness in her recent tweets and texts that perhaps tokened a change in attitude to her surroundings and this had raised his hopes of a reunion. But these had turned out to be somebody else’s fabrication – a revelation that was too big, too horrific for this elderly couple to process.