The Therapist by B.A. Paris

Nineteen

When morning comes, I know I can’t do it. I can’t go to Maria’s. I don’t want to have to pretend that everything is alright between me and Leo and I don’t want to have to face Tamsin. What if she tells everyone I’ve been upsetting Lorna?

‘I’m going to Harlestone for the weekend,’ I tell Leo. ‘I’ll be back Sunday evening.’

He looks at me, surprised. ‘Right, OK. Are you staying with Debbie?’

‘Yes. I need to get away from The Circle for a while.’

‘What about supper at Maria’s?’

‘You can go by yourself, if you like,’ I say, knowing that he won’t.

I phone Debbie.

‘Are you busy this weekend?’

‘Why, are you coming down? Oh God, I’m so happy, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you! Is Leo coming? Do you want to stay here? There’s plenty of room!’

I laugh, immediately feeling better. Debbie lives on her own in a large four-bedroomed farmhouse. She’s never married but has had several men in her life, although she’s now happily single.

‘No, I’m coming on my own and yes, I’d love to stay with you.’

‘Even better! Not that I don’t love Leo, but it means we can really chat and you can tell me all about living in London.’

She makes it sound as if it’s the other side of the world. But like me, Debbie was born and bred in Harlestone. She’s never even been to London, preferring to stay with her horses, running her riding school.

‘Is it alright if I arrive today?’

‘Of course. Are you driving down?

‘Yes, I’ll aim to arrive around lunchtime.’

‘Great!’

I phone Maria and am relieved when my call goes through to her voicemail. I leave a message, apologising profusely, telling her I need a break and have decided to go away for a couple of days. She texts back ten minutes later, saying that she understands, which puts my mind at rest.

Being back in Harlestone is bitter-sweet. As I drive through the village, the brightly coloured hollyhocks standing tall and proud like sentinels against heat-soaked walls and the huge domes of white hydrangeas peeping their heads over garden fences makes me realise how much I’ve missed it. So much has changed in the month I’ve been away. The field of yellow rape that I loved to walk through on my way to the village store has since been ploughed, and I wonder who was the first to tread a new path through the heavy clods of earth.

Debbie, back from a ride on her fearsome horse Lucifer, senses my low mood. While she cleans her riding boots over a sheet of newspaper, I tell her about Leo and how he hadn’t told me the truth about the house he bought.

‘I can’t understand it,’ Debbie says, her forehead creased in bewilderment. ‘What a thing to keep from you. No wonder you don’t particularly want to go back. Even I’d feel uneasy living in a house where someone has been murdered and I’ve got a strong stomach.’ Her boots clean, she goes to the sink to wash her hands.

‘And now I’ve started putting people’s backs up by trying to find out more about the murder,’ I say.

Debbie turns, water dripping from her elbows. ‘Why?’ she asks, reaching for a chequered towel.

‘Because they don’t like me asking questions.’

‘No, I meant – why do you want to know more about the murder?’

‘Because it isn’t as straightforward as people make out. There are rumours that there was a miscarriage of justice, that it wasn’t her husband who killed her.’

‘Have the police re-opened the investigation, then?’ she asks, checking her reflection in the pine-framed mirror that hangs on the wall. Usually wild and unruly, her auburn hair has been flattened by her riding hat, and she remedies this, using her fingers as combs.

‘I don’t think it was ever closed,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘But why are you getting involved? Sorry, Alice, but I can kind of understand that people don’t want to talk about it. You should leave it alone, let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

I look away. ‘She was called Nina.’

‘Oh Alice.’ She comes over and sits beside me, puts an arm round my shoulder, and gives me a hug. ‘You need to let go.’

I lower my head, ashamed. Debbie was there to witness my obsession with a mutual friend’s daughter here in Harlestone, born long before my sister died, who happened to be called Nina. Although I was always fond of her, I became a little obsessed after my sister’s death, buying her expensive presents and generally doting on her until her mum gently told me that I needed to stop, because it was too much. Stupidly, I had felt hurt and it had ended up spoiling our friendship.

‘I’m trying,’ I say quietly.

‘But even if there was a miscarriage of justice,’ Debbie points out, ‘it’s not your place to go around asking questions, especially on the basis of a rumour.’

‘It’s not just a rumour. I had a visit from a private investigator. He’s looking into the case for Nina’s sister-in-law, who is convinced that her brother was innocent.’

‘Well, of course she is.’

‘But my neighbour told me that Nina admitted to her that she was having an affair with someone. So why couldn’t it have been him who killed her?’

‘Didn’t the police investigate him?’

‘I don’t know.’ I hesitate. ‘The private investigator asked me to keep my eyes and ears open, let him know if I heard anything.’

Debbie’s mouth drops open. ‘He asked you to spy on your neighbours?’

‘I refused,’ I say quickly.

‘I hope so. If you decide to stay in The Circle, and want to be accepted – to belong – you need to keep your head down. And really, you should be focusing on you and Leo, not on the murder of someone you didn’t even know,’ she adds gently.

We spend the rest of the weekend catching up with friends from the village, our plans for a long walk scuppered by a blast of rain and cold air that comes in from the east. It matches my mood as I drive back to London on Sunday afternoon but as I get nearer, I give myself a mental shake. Being in Harlestone, away from The Circle, has allowed me to get some perspective. If Leo and I are to get over what he did, I need to make the first move.

I park the car on the drive and go into the house. I thought Leo might have come to the door when he heard me arrive but he’s nowhere in sight. I find him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a glass of wine in his hand, his phone open on one of his news apps.

I clear my throat. ‘Hello.’

He looks up. ‘Hi. Did you have a nice time with Debbie?’

‘Yes, thanks. What about you, did you have a good weekend?’

‘Yes, great.’ He raises his hands above his head, stretching, then links them behind his neck. ‘I played tennis with Paul and then I spent the rest of the time watching stuff on Netflix.’

He looks carefree and relaxed, and a wave of jealousy hits. I swallow it down.

‘Shall I make dinner?’ I ask.

‘I’ve been snacking all day so I’m not hungry. But go ahead if you want something.’

He goes back to the news, oblivious of my eyes on him, oblivious to the frustration building inside me. I’d been about to ask if I could have a glass of wine with him but suddenly, I’m furious. How dare he sit there as if he doesn’t have a care in the world when he screwed up so badly?

‘I’m going to my study,’ I say.

‘Don’t you want a glass of wine?’

‘No thanks.’

‘OK.’

He returns to his screen, seemingly unconcerned. I watch him dispassionately for a moment.

‘You can stay in Birmingham this week,’ I say.

His head jerks up. I’ve got his attention now. ‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t need to come home each evening, you can stay in Birmingham.’

‘But – where are you going?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘What, you’re going to stay here by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

He stares at me like he doesn’t know me. ‘What about Thursday? Do I come home?’

‘I’ll let you know on Wednesday.’

In my study, I go over everything I’ve learned about Nina’s murder. Lorna and Edward heard Nina and Oliver arguing; the next day, Nina admitted to Lorna that she had been having an affair. That evening, according to Lorna, Oliver had come home at 9 p.m. and had gone straight into the house. Twenty minutes later, Nina was dead. That evening, according to Oliver, he had arrived at the house at 9 p.m., had gone to sit in the square for a while and only then had gone into the house. And had found Nina dead. Which was it? Lorna was adamant about what she’d seen. So why had Oliver said he’d gone to sit in the square when he so obviously hadn’t? Had he panicked and said the first thing that had come into his head? Or had he planned it out beforehand, hoping that nobody would be able to say that he hadn’t been in the square, because nobody would be watching from their window at that time of night?