Before We Met(97)

When she opened her eyes again, there was movement in the rear-view mirror. The door of the bungalow was open, and as she watched, a man with steel-grey hair came out and pulled it carefully shut again behind him. He was carrying a bucket that he took slowly over to the bay window and put on the ground. Gingerly, his back evidently giving him trouble, he bent over and fished out a sponge.

Hannah’s heart started beating faster. He was in his seventies, stooped and very thin: his shoulder blades were sharp through the material of his fawn anorak, and when the wind blew against his trousers, his legs looked skinny enough to snap. Even so, she could see the family likeness: he was the same height as Mark, and the shape of his shoulders and back, even his head, was the same. This man operated at a tenth of the pace but his movements had a precise quality that was utterly familiar to her. Looking at him was like seeing Mark fast-forwarded into the future

He wrung out the sponge and started soaping the window, his arm moving in slow, methodical arcs. The longer she watched him, the more sure Hannah was: this was Mark’s father, and Mark had lied again – he was still lying, now, when he’d sworn he’d finally told her the truth. More than that, he’d lied to her from the very beginning, from their second date in New York, before he’d even known her at all.

The old man bent to rinse the sponge and Hannah’s eyes filled with tears. If he was Mark’s father – he was, said the voice – one of his sons was a killer and the other one, the good one, told people – his own wife – that he was dead.

The decision took two seconds. Hannah swiped her cuff across her eyes, grabbed her bag and got out of the car. The wind snatched the door from her hand and as it slammed, she saw him turn. At the bottom of the short tarmac drive she stopped.

‘Mr Reilly.’

He dropped the sponge back into the bucket and pulled himself slowly up to full height, as if bracing himself. As she came round the bonnet of the Astra, he glanced up and down the street behind her. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. ‘Has something happened? Have you found him?’

The last shred of Hannah’s doubt evaporated.

‘Your colleagues were here before,’ he said. ‘Only an hour ago. We told them then: we haven’t heard from Nick.’

‘Mr Reilly, I’m not from the police. My name’s Hannah Reilly. I’m Mark’s wife.’

A look of astonishment broke over his face. His eyes widened and his lips parted as if he were about to say something but no words came out. For two or three seconds he was absolutely still but then his face changed again and his expression turned hard. ‘You’re Mark’s wife?’

‘Yes.’

He glanced past her at the street again. ‘Does he know you’re here?’

‘No.’

He considered that then gave a single nod. He looked behind him at the front door. ‘Will you come inside?’ he said.

Hannah hesitated a moment then nodded.

She watched as he took a key from his anorak pocket. His hand shook as he tried to get it in the lock and, after two failed attempts, he brought his other hand up and used both to guide it in. He stood aside, gesturing for her to go first.

A narrow hallway with a dark patterned carpet and an atmosphere pungent with the cooking of older people: some sort of meat and gravy, over-done cabbage. Lunch – it was nearly three o’clock already. On the right were two blank closed doors with cheap metal handles: the bedrooms, or a bedroom and the bathroom. Through the open door immediately to her left, she saw an armchair with a lace-edged antimacassar. A vase of pale fabric flowers sat precisely halfway along a length of windowsill. Behind her, Mr Reilly closed the front door. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll just . . .’

She went into the sitting room and a few seconds later she heard a door open at the other end of the hallway. In a cracked voice Mr Reilly said, ‘Lizzie . . .’

Sitting down was the last thing Hannah wanted to do. She needed to run, kick, punch something. Mark had told her his parents were dead, for Christ’s sake. Who did a thing like that? Who’d even think of it? She looked around, trying to distract herself by taking an inventory of the room: the peach floral three-piece suite, the outdated television on its wood-veneer stand, the careful coasters on the two side tables, the dark-wood coffee table where the Radio Times was neatly folded to the day’s date. A leather spectacle case with worn corners rested on a copy of the Eastbourne Herald. Above the ugly brick fireplace was a print of a Scottish Highland scene, the muscular stag and his wild vista an off-note amid the utter dreary domesticity of the rest of the room. From the top of the bureau in the corner, a carriage clock ticked into the silence.