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The nonstop ringing at the gate doesn’t help. Each time, I check via the video link to see if it’s him. But it’s always journalists, cameramen hovering behind them like flies.
The news of Ned’s death broke last night. I watched it emotionless on the news, curled up on the sofa. I listened as they confirmed that the body found the previous day on the beach at Haven Cliffs was that of Ned Hawthorpe. I waited for the reporter to say that the police weren’t looking for anyone else in connection with his death, and when he didn’t, my heart had sunk. The bulletin had, however, mentioned the allegation of sexual assault against Ned, and the fact that he had been trolled on social media and targeted in the press because of it. Most people listening would probably think suicide. But the police weren’t most people, and neither was Jethro Hawthorpe.
At midday my phone rings, a call from an unknown number. I’m in the kitchen, cleaning the already pristine cupboards. Packets of pastaand tins of food, piles of plates and bowls are scattered over the work surfaces. I stare at my phone, then pressANSWER.
“For the sake of the foundation, I will accept that my son took his own life,” Jethro Hawthorpe says.
I close my eyes. “Thank you. If you could give me the name of the attorney who drew up the postnuptial agreement, I’ll make my wishes known to him. In return, I’d like to be kept informed of the funeral arrangements. I’ll need to be there, for appearances’ sake. Once it’s over, you won’t hear from me again.”
“I hope not,” he says, and hangs up.
Within minutes, my phone rings again. There’s a number listed this time, but not one I know. I pick up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Hawthorpe,” a voice says. “It’s Paul Carr. I understand that you’ve spoken to Mr. Jethro Hawthorpe.”
“Yes,” I say, moving to the table and sitting down.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but I’m calling on the instruction of Mr. Hawthorpe to confirm that the funeral of your husband will take place on Friday.”
Four days away. My stomach plummets at the thought of having to stay in this house another four days.
“Thank you, Mr. Carr.”
“Mrs. Hawthorpe—”
“It’s not Hawthorpe,” I interrupt quickly. “It’s Lamont. But you can call me Amelie.”
“Then, Amelie, could I visit you tomorrow to discuss the postnuptial agreement you and Ned signed?”
“Yes,” I reply mechanically. “Of course. Is ten a.m. okay?”
“Perfect. And can I bring anything for you? I imagine it’s difficult for you to leave the house to go shopping.”
“Yes, there are journalists outside the gate.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“No, and I don’t intend to.”
“Good.”
I give him a small list of groceries to see me through the next few days. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” I add, when I get to the end.
“Not at all. I’ve been instructed to look after you until after the funeral. Goodbye, Amelie, I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
CHAPTER SIX
I have trouble equating the man who strides through the front door at precisely ten o’clock the next morning, a box of groceries tucked under his arm, with the hesitant and nervous man I’d seen in Ned’s study. He’d been pitiless to the journalists who’d tried to squeeze through the gate behind his car; I’d heard him via the intercom threatening them with legal action if they so much as put a toe onto the property.
“Amelie,” he says, placing his bag on the floor so that he can shake my hand. “How nice to meet you again. And please, call me Paul.”
He insists on carrying the box through to the kitchen and when I suggest we talk in the library, he says he’s perfectly happy in the kitchen, where we could perhaps have some coffee.
