A log shifted in the burner and the creaking sound of fire brought her back to herself. She put her mug of cold tea on the table.
Less than a week, that was all. The documentary would be screened on Thursday night. A day or two of newspaper headlines. And then the Hilltop House murders would slip back into the shadows and she could breathe again. Edward and Honor need never find out.
A jingle of metal, as familiar as home, followed by the click of a key turning in the front door broke apart the silence. Catherine leaped from her chair but forced herself to walk, not run, down the hallway.
A mulberry-coloured coat. Shiny blonde hair. The thump of a school bag against polished wood. Tiny puddles of melting snowflakes.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where have you been?’ Catherine spoke with a quiet control, but there was steel in her words.
Honor’s laugh was louder than usual. ‘At school. Where else?’ She turned her back on her mother, hanging her damp coat on the hook. ‘I mean, I was a bit late, but who can blame me when it’s double maths?’ She laughed again and unwound her scarf. ‘They’ve sent us home. Mr Lexden says the snow’s getting too bad and it’s a health and safety issue.’
A fork in the road.
Catherine could confront her daughter. Explain about the phone call from the school office and unleash the full force of her temper. Or she could let it go for now. Savour the peace. Give Honor the benefit of the doubt while maintaining a watchful eye over her.
‘Can I have a cup of tea, Mum? I’m freezing.’
And just like that, the moment passed. Catherine surprised herself by letting it.
Later, when Catherine was preparing dinner, she sent Honor into the garden to break the ice on the bird bath. As she peeled potatoes, her gaze landed on her daughter’s phone. She had always impressed upon Honor the price of ownership was allowing Catherine to check it at any time.
She washed her hands and dried them on a tea towel. The phone felt warm and she wondered what secrets it held. Before she could find out, Honor was opening the back door into the kitchen, smelling of cold, her cheeks pink. Catherine slid the phone back onto the worktop. Benefit of the doubt.
‘It’s still snowing and I slipped on the steps,’ said Honor, rubbing her hip. A crust of ice decorated her gloves and the back of her coat.
‘Give them to me,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll pop them in the airing cupboard to dry.’ She was rewarded with a smile and a fierce hug. She hugged her daughter back, breathing in the smell of her apple shampoo, enjoying their closeness, and decided she’d been too suspicious. Punctuality had never been Honor’s strong point. She’d been late to school, that was all.
As she stood on the upstairs landing, she heard Honor go into the sitting room and switch on the television. She pictured her daughter curled on the sofa, a blanket across her knees.
The sky was darkening, light bleeding from the day. Out of the window, she watched a street lamp come on, a waterfall of snow captured in its muted colours. The rich smell of casserole filled the house and Christmas was on its way. Catherine was struck by a pang of contentment, despite the morning’s events.
She laid her daughter’s gloves across the boiler and found a hanger for her coat. She slipped a hand into its pocket, seeking out other damp belongings that might need drying. Her fingers closed around a scrap of paper.
She scanned it. Closed her eyes. Read it again.
A bus ticket to Halstead, a town about nine miles away. Bought at 8.47 a.m. that morning. A child’s return.
Thank you for your message. I didn’t expect you to reply so quickly (or at all) but I’m so glad you did. You asked what prompted me to get in touch. Your name, I think. It’s been such a long time since I’ve heard it – so pretty, but unusual, wouldn’t you say? – and it reminded me of another time in my life. A dark and painful time, if I’m being honest.
Chinese food and puppies! What’s not to love? How wonderful to learn your favourite Shakespeare play is Much Ado About Nothing. Excellent taste – it’s one of my favourites too. Full of secrets and hoaxes, the ultimate sleight of hand. Do you think everyone has secrets? I do. There’s a delicious thrill in holding close a scrap of knowledge that no one else shares, a power to it. I’d forgotten about it until now but when we were younger, we had a secret code, a method of communicating that only we knew about.
Never underestimate the importance of holding back a little something for yourself. The currency of secrets is more valuable than anything else, even money.
5
It takes eight minutes to get from Aunt Peg’s flat to Canary Wharf on the Docklands Light Railway, but longer in the snow.
By the time I get back to the office, I’m so late I walk the long way around and slip in past the digital team instead of the news desk. Erdman, the new foreign correspondent, raises a hand and calls out a greeting, but I frown at him, and he lets it drop. Too late, though. Colin has spotted me. He strides across the newsroom floor, twirling a biro like he’s Billy the Kid.
‘Brinley Booth, where the fuck have you been? That wasn’t a lunch break, it was a piss-take.’ He points the biro at me and pretends to shoot.
‘I was meeting a contact.’ I nod towards the large windows overlooking the Isle of Dogs, which frame the falling snow. ‘It took longer than I thought.’ The lie comes easily but I don’t feel bad. Colin is an obnoxious bully.
‘Well, I hope you got a bloody good story.’
‘Of course.’ I smile, full of sweetness and deceit and Aunt Peg’s egg and chips. ‘I just need to make a few calls.’ And then, the clincher. ‘You’ll love it, Colin. It’s a biggie. Fingers crossed I can stand it up.’
He grunts, pacified for now. I’ll need to come up with something decent, though. It’s been a while since I’ve had an exclusive worthy of the front page and Colin won’t let this drop. He’s got the memory of an elephant.
‘Get back to work, then,’ he says, making a shooing gesture. ‘And give Lawrie a hand when you’ve finished, will you?’
Lawrie is on the telephone when I slide into my seat, but he raises an eyebrow at me and fakes a yawn, so I know it’s not important.
Someone has stuck a Post-it note to my computer screen. A scribbled name and number. I don’t know who it is. It’s either a) a complaint b) a story so dull it will never see the light of day, or c) an elderly reader who just wants to chat. The best tip-offs from the public usually come through the news desk, handed out, like sweets, to favoured reporters. I remove my notepad from my bag and place it on the desk.
Lawrie puts down the receiver and tugs at his fringe. ‘That’s five minutes of my life I’m never going to get back.’
‘Waste of time?’
He doesn’t answer, distracted by the ping of an incoming email. ‘Is everything OK?’ I pose the question, not because I don’t know the answer, but because I can see it isn’t, I like Lawrie and Colin has told me to help.
‘The editor wants to splash on the Hilltop House murders tomorrow’ – my breath catches in my throat at the mention of this spectre from my childhood – ‘and I need a top line.’
A top line. Stupid phrase, isn’t it? But it’s exactly what it says on the tin. The killer angle. The exclusive. The opening sentence of the story that will persuade readers to buy our newspaper above all others, especially our tabloid rivals.