Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

I stand up. I feel heat rising to my face. ‘Fine,’ I say.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going back to Greenwich. If you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just have to ask them myself.’

‘Katie, wait –’

I get in my car and start the engine. I pull my steering wheel round and speed out of the car park, snowflakes swirling on my windscreen. Before I pull off, I see him still at the table, turning his phone over and over in front of him.

KATIE

The pavements on Maze Hill aren’t gritted. The steps up to her house shine like icy mirrors. I bang the elegant knocker, then ring the bell. Nothing. The painted shutters in the bay window are closed, the lavender on the windowsills in grey-green hibernation. There are lumps of snow nestled on the soil inside the pot.

Irritated, I lean over and bash on the glass of the spotless bay window. The sound seems to echo around the cold, quiet street. There are no cars on the drive, no one on the pavements. Fuck, I think. Rory must still be at the police station. But where is Serena?

Then I remember – her studio. I’ve never actually been there, but I’m sure Helen said it was around here somewhere. I bet she’s there. I call Helen, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. Fuck. I’ll have to go round and ask her. She’ll have the address.

As I get back to my car, my phone rings.

‘Katie? It’s Mark Carter.’

I switch the phone between my elbow and my ear so that I can rub my freezing hands together.

Carter is breathing rapidly. I hear a rustle of paper, the noise of the wind in the background – he has to lift his voice to speak over it. ‘I had a quick look. I haven’t got access to everything. I don’t have a record of the woman – not that I can get to easily,’ he says. ‘But I found the guy, all right?’ He pauses. ‘The guy’s name wasn’t Rory. It was a Daniel. Daniel Thorpe. Is that the Daniel you mentioned?’

I stare across the road. You can see the park gates from here. Children in hats and scarves, people with bags of Christmas shopping.

‘Look, between us, Katie – I’ve called homicide, spoke to the SIO. I’ve passed the information on. That’s all I can do. But listen. If you think this Thorpe could be involved, Katie – do me a favour. Don’t approach him.’

I think about Helen. About the set of house keys she pressed into my hands. The look on her face, almost as if she knew that something bad was going to happen. I turn on the ignition. Her house is only five minutes from here. Less in the car.

‘Are you listening to me, Katie? This Daniel Thorpe. I don’t want you to approach him, OK? Katie? Katie?’

I hang up, throw my phone into the passenger footwell. Then I start to drive.

HELEN

I lean against the wall, rest my forehead on the back of my hands, and rock my hips from side to side, as if to move them out of the way of the pain. But it chases me, to and fro, stronger every time. And then I feel a wetness. I try to get to the bathroom but I’m forced to crawl. There is fluid on my legs.

When I get to the bathroom I see the black-green marks. The waters should be clear. Not like this. I have read the books. I know this is a bad sign, a warning. I need to get to the hospital.

I stumble back into the spare room and pick up my phone. It’s charged up a bit now, but there is nothing from Daniel. I call Katie once, then twice, but there’s no answer from her either. In desperation, I dial 999. The pain comes again, and I put the phone on speaker while I grip the sides of the chair, try to breathe through it. It rings and rings. Come on, I think. Come on.

I’m listening so hard for the operator to pick up that I don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, the floorboards on the landing creak. I don’t hear anything at all until he is there, with me, in the room.

As soon as I see him, I’m flooded with relief.

‘Oh, Daniel, thank God,’ I say. I feel a sob rising in my chest. ‘Thank God you came. I think we need to call the police and … and I think the baby is coming.’

I’m already anticipating the familiar, woody smell of him, the smell of his pencil shavings and ink, the smell of books and clean sheets and safety. But then I see there is something strange about his face. The bags under his eyes are so deep now, he almost looks like someone else. But it’s not that. It’s something in the eyes themselves. Something I have never seen before.

‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ he says quietly.

‘What?’

And only then do I notice that he is holding something in his hands. The vase.

There is a white flash of pain as it slams against my skull. And then everything goes black.

KATIE

There’s no answer at Helen’s house. All the blinds are pulled down, the shutters closed. I call Helen’s mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. Perhaps she has turned it off so she can sleep. I suppose she could have gone into labour. I wonder if I should walk away, give her a ring later. But something makes me stop. Their car is on the drive. It’s too early for Daniel to be home. Something feels wrong. Something I can’t put my finger on.

I kneel at the door and push open the brass flap to look inside. Helen’s hospital bag is sitting by the door, neatly packed. Her maternity notes are sticking out of the top in their blue folder. I know Helen