‘It’s so kind of you.’
Shona took a little piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it in front of her.
‘I wrote down how much it cost. Is that OK? Things are really difficult for me right now.’
You weren’t allowed cash in prison. Tabitha thought hard.
‘Talk to Andy,’ she said. ‘Andy Kane. I gave him some money for building supplies. He should be able to pay you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Shona bit her full underlip and Tabitha had a memory, as clear as yesterday, of standing in a queue with her outside the swimming pool in town. They must have been about twelve. She couldn’t remember why they had been there together; they hadn’t really been friends at school. But she could remember the heat of the day and she could even remember that Shona had been wearing a cropped, short-sleeved jumper whose tightness emphasised her developing breasts.
‘There are two types of skin,’ Shona had said with high seriousness. ‘Oily or dry. What’s yours.’
Twelve-year-old Tabitha put her fingers to her cheek. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m oily,’ said Shona. ‘That means I’ll have more spots but won’t get all wrinkly when I’m old.’ She leaned in and examined Tabitha’s face. ‘Dry,’ she said.
Tabitha looked at Shona’s skin now, eighteen years later. It was smooth and lustrous.
‘Tabitha?’
‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
‘I feel really bad about asking for the money back.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I was worried I’d be late. It took me longer to get here than I thought. It’s only about forty miles away but the roads are narrow and there was this huge lorry in front of me almost all the way.’
‘It’s kind of you,’ said Tabitha. She could feel her familiar impatience building up inside her.
‘I’ve got a few phone numbers,’ said Shona, and she took another piece of paper from her pocket. ‘Andy’s and Terry’s. I didn’t know who you wanted. And I got the vicar’s number as well.’
‘The vicar’s?’
‘I thought you might want it.’
‘Right.’
They stared at each other.
‘How are you?’ asked Shona eventually. ‘I mean, how are you? You must be… I mean, just, well, I couldn’t believe it.’ She stopped. Her brown eyes suddenly filled up with tears. Tabitha had the horrible feeling she was about to lean across and give her a long, perfumy hug.
‘Nor me,’ she said and sat back, out of reach.
‘Is it awful in here?’
‘It’s not great.’ She didn’t want to talk about that. She took a deep breath. ‘People know I didn’t do it, right? That this is just a dreadful mistake.’
‘Well, I know.’
‘What about other people?’
‘You know what villages are like.’
‘What are they like? I’ve only been back in this one for a few weeks.’
‘People like to gossip. Even little things can seem exciting. And this – well, nothing like this has ever happened in Okeham. My God, on the day, well, you can’t imagine!’
‘You were there?’
Shona frowned. ‘Don’t you remember? I was supposed to be at work but I got stuck because of the tree coming down. It was terrible timing – two of my mums were expecting.’ Shona was a community midwife. ‘Anyway, it’s still all anyone is talking about.’
‘So what are they saying?’
‘I don’t know, just that it’s awful. Things like that.’
‘What are they saying about me?’
A flush suffused Shona’s smooth skin. She leaned across the table slightly, made as if to put a hand on Tabitha’s arm, changed her mind.
‘Don’t think about that.’
‘Is is that bad?’
‘No! But you’ve always been your own worst enemy, haven’t you, they way you charge in. You put people’s backs up a bit.’
‘Do I?’
‘It’s just you don’t let sleeping dogs lie. I’m on your side though,’ Shona said. ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’
‘Tell people it’s a mistake. That I’ll be back soon.’
Shona nodded.
‘Because it’s mad,’ Tabitha went on. ‘I mean, why would I kill Stuart? There’s absolutely no reason. The prosecution will see that.’
‘Of course they will. Of course.’
‘I’ve got a solicitor who seems clever.’
‘That’s good,’ said Shona.
‘Yes.’
Silence filled the space between them. The woman at the table next to Tabitha was leaning towards the man opposite her and sobbing. She was pleading with him, but Tabitha couldn’t make out the words. The man merely looked bored.
‘Andy’s very upset,’ Shona said. ‘He’s practically the only one in Okeham who doesn’t like talking about it, even though he was the one who… you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You two are close,’ said Shona.
Tabitha knew what she was saying. ‘He’s just working on my house.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I don’t even know if you… you know.’
‘No.’
‘Like men.’
‘Ah.’
Shona waited a beat but Tabitha didn’t say anything else.
‘Does he ever talk about me?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tabitha cautiously. ‘But he doesn’t talk much anyway.’
Shona nodded. ‘Still waters run deep. Maybe if he visits you could mention that I’ve broken up with Paul at last.’
Tabitha couldn’t stop herself from giving a snort of disbelieving laughter: she was in prison charged with murder and Shona wanted her to act as a matchmaker.
‘I should go.’ Shona stood up. ‘I’m on call this afternoon and some of my mothers are about to pop. But I’ll come again, if you’d like me to. It must be lonely.’
Tabitha tried to smile. ‘I’ll be home before long.’
EIGHT
Tabitha sat at the little table in her cell. It was so narrow that her back was almost touching the bed. She opened the notebook. She tried to remember the last time she had written a letter on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope and posted it. Probably it had been to a grandparent to say thank you for a present she hadn’t really liked. Her mother had told her that it was important to write proper letters to grandparents. Emails didn’t count.
Now her mother was dead and her father was dead and all four grandparents were dead and she finally needed to write a letter.
For the past two years, she had been working as a copy-editor for a London publisher. It was perfect for her. She could do it from home. She could do it whenever she wanted, just so long as she met her deadlines. But she wouldn’t be able to do it in prison.
14 January
AO3573
Dear Cathy,
Maybe you’ve heard by now but I’m writing this to you from prison. It’s all a mad mistake. I won’t go into the details. I’m sure it’s going to be sorted out soon but for the moment I’m not going to be able to do any work for you.