The Verdict

Chapter 11

1994 – Guildford

Julia spent the entire weekend in Guildford, alone. Genevieve had disappeared with a man, whom she briefly introduced to Julia as Edward. The elusive Alan was yet to return, and Lucy would be working in the Netherlands for the next fortnight.

Monday morning’s seven o’clock alarm came as a blessing. Julia was better suited to work than solitude.

With only one cup of coffee inside her and wearing a new suit and crisply pressed blouse, Julia headed out of the house, her desire for company overcoming her first-day nerves.

‘A word please, Julia,’ Genevieve called, as she was halfway through the front door.

Dressed in emerald silk pyjamas and with a full face of make-up, she struck an incongruous figure in the grey morning light.

‘It’s my first day, Genevieve. I don’t want to be late.’

‘I shan’t keep you a moment,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind today, but in future could you use the side door – the silver key on the fob I gave you. It takes you through the garage and into the kitchen. The hallway gets so mucky with all you young people coming in and out.’

‘You want me to use the tradesmen’s entrance?’

‘The side door,’ Genevieve said. ‘Alan and Lucy don’t mind.’

She gave a little tinkling laugh, which sounded false and forced. Was she drunk? It was eight in the morning. Julia remembered Lucy’s wry smile when she’d said, ‘She’s fond of—’ Booze, was that what she had been going to say? Audrey had accused Genevieve of being a pothead, but it seemed she was just a common or garden lush. Julia didn’t have the time to argue.

‘Fine. I’ll use the side door,’ she said.

Genevieve came out onto the step as Julia walked up the drive.

‘Do enjoy your day,’ she said brightly.

The position at Morgan Boyd Consulting had been a sideways move. Julia had more experience than her manager expected, and she handled her workload with ease. The other two graduates, Bee and Fraser, asked her advice on several points, and later invited her out for drinks at a wine bar in the town centre, where they shared a meat platter, downed a couple of bottles of wine and filled her in on the office gossip.

Fraser then started mimicking their boss Jim’s obscenity-ridden outbursts. To the office in general, ‘What did I fucking do to deserve having to work with such a bunch of fucking incompetent fucks?’ To his PA, Penelope, when she forgot his wife’s birthday, ‘I should just sack you and get some useless tart from Office Angels – at least she’d be easy on the eye.’

‘How does she put up with it?’ Julia asked.

‘Fraser reckons she’s in love with Jim,’ Bee said.

‘No way.’

‘Jim’s an ugly tosser, but who else has she got to fantasise about? Middle-aged, divorced, her kids have left home.’ Fraser counted off Penelope’s deficiencies on his fingers. ‘She probably hasn’t had it in years. It’s sad, the way she’s always angling for invitations to the pub.’

‘Maybe she’s just lonely,’ Julia said.

‘Then she should find people her own age to hang out with,’ Fraser said. ‘What would we have to talk about – knitting, Songs of Praise?’

‘You know who you really should seduce, Fraser, and do us all a favour?’ Bee said. ‘Jim’s wife. I’m sure she had her eye on you at the Christmas party. A toy boy would keep her happy, which would keep Jim happy, which would get him off our backs.’

‘Suddenly Penelope’s not such a bad prospect,’ Fraser said. ‘What about you, Julia – do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, crush?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No one.’

‘There must be somebody,’ Bee said.

Julia thought of Christian. Most likely he was wrapped in Ellie’s arms right at that very moment. She downed her wine and made her excuses.

She stumbled back to Downsview Villa at around eleven. Remembering to use the side door, and without turning on the light, she crept through the garage and into the kitchen and hall where the streetlamps provided just enough illumination to see the stairs. As she neared the top, a shard of light fell across the landing. A door opened, and a man stood silhouetted in its frame. Genevieve came out and pulled it shut behind her. The landing fell dark again. She turned and started to ascend the stairs to the attic rooms, then stopped.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s only me,’ Julia said.

‘Who?’

‘Julia, Genevieve. It’s Julia.’

She continued to the landing and switched on the light. Genevieve’s face was wet with tears.

‘What’s happened?’ Julia asked.

Genevieve moved towards her, holding her arms straight out in front, as if bracing for a fall. At the last moment she wrapped them around Julia, placed her head on Julia’s shoulder and started to sob.

‘Genevieve?’

She made no response. Julia looked to the door, from which Genevieve had come. It was only a few feet away. The occupant must be able to hear her crying. A little drunk and unsure what to do, Julia decided it best to lead Genevieve to her bedroom and sit her on the bed.

‘Has something happened, Genevieve?’

‘No. Nothing. I know people think I’m …’

Her voice was weak and fractured.

‘Think you’re …?’ Julia prompted.

‘Alan was quite horrible. He doesn’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Is it so bad for a woman my age to enjoy the company of younger men?’

Julia’s thoughts were fuzzy. She wished she’d said no to the second bottle of wine.

‘I … err … you mean …’

‘It’s not sexual,’ Genevieve said.

‘No?’

‘It’s their vitality, their beauty, their strength.’ It sounded sexual. ‘And now Dominic isn’t here … I was an actress, you know. I was in a Polanski film. My agent said I had Hollywood potential. I gave up all ambition for Dominic. He was everything to me. I miss him every day.’

‘Dominic – your husband?’ Julia asked.

‘My son,’ Genevieve said.

Did women really value their sons for their vitality, beauty and strength? Audrey would never describe Julia’s stepbrother in that way. She’d describe him as a sweet and clever boy, a catch for some lucky girl when he got older.

‘Is Dominic coming back soon?’ Julia asked.

Genevieve frowned.

‘Is he at university?’

‘No,’ Genevieve said. ‘He’s in Switzerland.’

Genevieve’s voice had hardened, the confessional tone gone, discouraging further questions, which, in any case, Julia was too tired to ask.

‘Why don’t you give him a call, if you miss him?’ Julia said.

‘Hmm.’

Genevieve remained seated on her bed. Julia wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps she still wanted to talk about Alan.

‘The thing is …’ Julia said. ‘I mean, if you go into someone’s room at night, they might think …’

‘I’m sorry,’ Genevieve said. She stood up. ‘You have work tomorrow, and I’m keeping you awake.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Julia said.

‘I’ve been so silly.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Genevieve. Really, any time.’

Genevieve dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Goodnight then,’ she said.

Julia waited for Genevieve’s footsteps to disappear up the stairs to the attic before going to the bathroom. The landing light had been turned off, but she caught the flash of white gloss on Alan’s doorframe glinting in the streetlight, before the soft shunt of wood on wood.

She was too tired and too drunk to care if he’d overheard her conversation with Genevieve. Julia hadn’t said anything she shouldn’t.

After washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she returned to her room, slipped into bed and lay back with the blinds open, watching the night sky.

Poor Genevieve, she must have been a beauty in her youth, captivating men, not seeking them out in the dead of night, to be rebuffed and humiliated. Not dissimilar to Penelope at work. But Genevieve did not long occupy her mind as wine and exhaustion tugged at her eyelids.

Julia wasn’t concerned with the fading of youth. Middle age seemed as far away as the moon above her. A place to which other people travel but she would never venture herself.

Chapter 12

2017 – Archway, London

There’s a moment when I wake, still cosy and warm under my duvet, that I forget, and all that lies ahead of me is the Tube and a laptop screen. As I roll over to switch off the alarm, I remember the missing backpacker Brandon Wells, the texts and the phone call.

It’s him.

Better get your story straight.

A warning or a threat? Again, I can’t think of anyone who could have sent the text, who would have sent the text, nor who would have called me. My mind starts whirring – the last thing I need is Audrey coming to stay, but it’s too late to put her off now.

I’m stuck in a meeting all day with Jonathan and Ulrich, who were at university together and are old friends. The only words I speak are an introduction, my name and role in the project. Then I just sit there as they run through figures and statistics. Occasionally, Jonathan asks, ‘Isn’t that right, Julia?’ and I nod without registering the question. My phone lies still and silent. I’m starting to hate the sound of these men’s voices, their charts, deadlines, projections and the occasional aside about uni days – Wasn’t Jonathan a lad, eh?

All I can think about is Garrick’s phone. I’m continually aware of its weight in my pocket, as if it’s calling to me. Has anything new arisen? Will I leave this office to find police officers waiting for me? My fingers tingle with frustration, and still Jonathan and Ulrich go on and on about leverage, bandwidth and accountability.

Eventually, they even bore themselves and decide to dedicate the rest of the day to swapping tales of their riotous youth.

‘We’re going for a quick drink,’ Jonathan says. He looks at me, slightly nervous. ‘You don’t want to come, Julia, do you?’

I’m tempted to say yes just to annoy him. Instead, I tell him I have work to do.

The second they leave I head straight to the toilets.

As always with such torturous waits, they’re in vain – no new information has been reported from Guildford. I’m disappointed, though I should be relieved. I’m becoming over reliant on Garrick’s phone, I won’t be able to keep it for ever. And I worry about my own phone. How would a stranger interpret the anonymous texts? What assumptions would be made about their being sent to me? At some point I’ll have to dump the phones as I did Brandon’s lump of a Nokia, over twenty years ago.

I wonder what happened to it. For how long are phone records kept? Has the Nokia been smashed to pieces or is it fifty feet deep in some Kentish landfill? Does it hold a trace of me, a hair, a fragment of fingernail?

My phone rings. Another false alarm.

‘Hi, hon,’ Pearl says. ‘You didn’t reply to my text. Are you coming round tonight?’

‘Audrey’s coming to stay.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

‘Rudi won’t mind?’

‘’Course not. Come for dinner. We need to catch up with all your shit.’

Pearl thinks my shit is the end of my marriage. She’s been in the States for the past three months. She wanted me to go over there and stay with her when she heard about my separation, but I had to be nearby in case Sam needed me. Which he hasn’t.

‘I won’t be able to get there until eight.’

‘You work too hard – and the girls will be in bed by then.’

‘I can’t get out of it,’ I say, ‘but I need to see you.’

‘I’ll keep a plate of something warm.’

Audrey’s small blue case is in the lounge when I get home. It’s the one she’s had for as long as I can remember. Her efficient packing means that she could easily be staying one night or one month.

She comes in from the kitchen and hugs me. I catch the scent of Rive Gauche. It doesn’t matter how much she irritates me, the waft of perfume and the hug always gives me a moment of inner calm. A memory from childhood, when a mother’s love and home-baked biscuits could shoo away the world’s ills.

‘I’ll take your bag up to the bedroom,’ I say.

‘I really can take the sofa, you know,’ she says.

‘Don’t be silly.’

I put the bag down next to the bed and check Garrick’s phone. Nothing new.

When I come down, Audrey’s poking around in the lounge then follows me into the kitchen.

‘This flat’s much nicer than I thought it would be. I remember that awful place you rented in Archway before,’ she says, looking out of the window. ‘This has a fantastic view. It’s not very big, but you don’t need much space and I suppose it’s only temporary.’

‘Tea?’ I say. ‘How was the exhibition?’

‘Oh, very good, very interesting,’ she says distractedly.

I knew she’d hate it. The trip isn’t about broadening her tastes in art. She’s down here to see me. The first visit since my separation.

‘We’ve got pasta for dinner. Is that OK?’

‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘I suppose this is what they call a bachelor pad – spinster pad doesn’t have the same ring, does it?’

‘No.’

‘Though technically, you’re not a spinster.’

‘Divorcee pad doesn’t sound any better.’

‘You’re not divorced. There’s still time to make it up. Sam might be close to adulthood, but he still needs his mother. This flat’s nice but wouldn’t you rather be home?’

‘It’s not an option.’

The kettle boils. I pour a little into the mug for Audrey’s tea and the rest into a pan for the linguine.

‘Have you spoken to Sam yet?’ she asks.

I see his face twisted in disgust. You’re a whore. I hate you.

‘I think he needs more time, Mum.’

‘Patching things up with your husband would be a good start.’

‘I’ve told you, that’s not going to happen.’

I filch the tea bag from Audrey’s mug, put the milk in and hand it to her. Her nose wrinkles a fraction.

‘I don’t have a teapot, Mum,’ I say.

She says nothing, takes the tea, rests it on her lap and tips her head to one side. I know what’s coming.

‘I still don’t know what you were thinking, Julia?’

‘Don’t start,’ I say.

I plunge the linguine into the water and start slicing some tomatoes.

‘If you said you’re sorry – that it was a mistake …’

‘I’m not sorry. It wasn’t worth it because it’s made Sam hate me. I told you, my marriage was over years ago.’

‘And what about him – this Hugh person – did you think about him and his wife? How do you think she felt?’

In truth it wasn’t until Hugh’s wife confronted me in the lobby at work – What sort of woman was I? Did I really think I could break up their marriage, fifteen years and three children? – that I remember crying similar tears years ago over Christian, when he betrayed me. Her face showed anger, but also fear that her husband would leave. I’d forgotten that some women love their husbands. That not all marriages are a slow tussle of one person imposing their will on another, seeing how much the other can bear. This woman loved Hugh. Only then did I feel ashamed.

‘You could start over, afresh. I’m sure he’d take you back. Say that you were feeling neglected, you wanted to make sure you’re still desirable,’ Audrey says. ‘All women feel like that at your age. We just don’t …’

She raises her eyes to the ceiling and searches for the words. I decide to help.

‘Just don’t shag your son’s rugby coach,’ I say.

‘Have affairs,’ she says firmly. ‘You think you’re being very modern, don’t you, Julia? When ninety-nine per cent of your marital problems are down to your attitude. If your husband was neglectful, it’s because you made it clear you don’t need him. You’re so masculine.’

‘Remind me to shave my beard off.’

‘And sarcastic.’

‘You’re feminine, Mum, always let Robert rule the roost. How did that work out for you? Is he still changing secretaries every few years?’

She ignores my dig.

‘What I’m saying is, all marriages go through rough patches. Often much more serious than yours. You can both get through this.’

‘Neither of us want to get through this. We’ve not been happy for years, and anyway he’s found someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Plain Jane.’

‘Well you’re definitely in with a chance of getting him back. You’ve still got your looks. My genes, no need to thank me. Though a little make-up wouldn’t go amiss. You should be making more effort now you’re separated, not less.’

I smile. ‘Jane’s not really plain,’ I say. ‘I just call her that because she’s so boring. I think they were seeing each other before.’

‘Maybe you should try being a little more boring. It’s all very well being a career girl—’

‘No one’s used that expression since 1979. In the same way that no one says “lady doctor”.’

‘So what am I supposed to call female doctors?’

‘Doctors?’

‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Julia? I don’t know why you always have to be so hard on me.’

‘Not as hard as you are on me. Sam’s going to grow up hardly knowing who you are, the amount you work. Is it any wonder your husband’s had enough? I’m not taking your side in all this.’

‘They’re called home truths,’ she says. ‘And I may be hard on you but at least I don’t sneer.’

‘I—’

Audrey raises a hand.

‘Don’t deny it. Poor Mum, the little woman at home in the kitchen who gets into a tizzy if her husband’s dinner’s not warm enough and worries that her windows aren’t as clean as next door’s.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say.

‘And it’s not just the words I use or being a housewife. It’s everything. Oh, she reads Joanna Trollope and Maeve Binchy, while you’re reading something with no plot that’s won a prize, thinking it makes you clever.’

‘I like those books.’

‘Well I like Maeve Binchy and Joanna Trollope. There’s nothing wrong with them.’

‘I never said there was.’

‘No, but I see you smirking every time I pick one up. It’s the same with television or even the curtains. If I was clever and educated, I’d like better television and have better curtains. Well, where’s your cleverness got you? Halfway to a divorce and relying on a handout from your stepfather to put a roof over your head. And you look down at me for not being independent.’

‘Touché.’

‘And why haven’t you got any money after all your years working?’

‘Sam has to stay in the house, and I have to help pay for it and Sam’s upkeep.’

‘No savings?’

‘Sam’s starting university soon.’

‘He can’t cost that much. I know you’re at fault …’

‘Yeah, we covered that.’

‘But you should be able to live decently. What would you have done if I hadn’t been able to lend you the money for the deposit?’

‘You did, and I’m doing OK.’

I go to the stove. The pasta’s turned to mush. I hold up the soggy mess. Audrey shakes her head. Another example of my domestic ineptitude.

Audrey looks out of the window. It’s clear tonight and the lights of the City outline its buildings against the inky sky.

‘I suppose when Sam does leave home, you’ll get your share of the house,’ she says.

‘Hmm,’ I say.

After dinner we go to the lounge and watch Audrey’s favourite television programme. It’s about an English couple renovating a French château. There’s about a hundred episodes. After the first advert break I sneak off to the bathroom and check the phone. Nothing new pops up.

I come back to the lounge and slip the phone down the side of the sofa. After three episodes of the château programme Audrey says, ‘I’ll go up and read. It’s been a long day. I’m leaving early tomorrow. I’ll ring you when I get back.’

‘I’ll be at Pearl’s tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Friday then, when you’re free.’

I kiss her goodnight. When she’s gone, I retrieve the bottle of vino cheapo lurking at the back of the fridge and pour myself a glass.

I’m a third of the way down when the buzzer goes.

It must be for the previous occupants – no one ever calls for me. I decide to leave it. It buzzes again.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Rex and Sol have gone.’

‘Is that Ms Winter, Julia Winter?’ a male voice says.

‘Who’s this?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Warren and I’m with Detective Constable Akande of Surrey Police.’

The intercom crackles.

‘What’s this about?’ I ask.

‘Perhaps we could come up and speak to you?’

‘It’s getting late,’ I say.

‘It is rather urgent, Ms Winter.’ Another voice, female – this must be Akande.

‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ I ask again, though I know what they’re going to say.

‘We’re here to talk to you about Brandon Wells.’

Chapter 13

1994 – Guildford

Julia didn’t get to meet Alan until Wednesday at breakfast. She had a spoonful of Fruit ’n Fibre in her mouth when he sauntered into the kitchen, still in the process of doing up his tie. He was much as his silhouette had suggested, of average height and a little too thin. He must have been older than he looked because, in grey trousers and a white shirt, he had the appearance of an overgrown schoolboy.

‘Hi,’ he said and was out of the door before Julia could respond.