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They will never know. But what they do know—both of them—is what utter shits they have been for not visiting. It’s been four years since Ryan’s stroke. Four years. Oh, they’ve sent cards, and Christmas presents, texted their congratulations when Ryan’s little girls were born, but it’s basically the absolute minimum. So Hannah’s denial rings hollow, and they both know it.
“Okay,” she says at last, “that’s part of it, but all I said was that he could send me an email. What harm can it do?”
“Well, the harm is this.” Will waves an arm at her, wrapped up in the armchair. “I don’t want you getting stressed out by this—stressed out by some wannabe hack’s conspiracy theories. So what if Neville never admitted his guilt. Plenty of people don’t. There doesn’t need to be some great undiscovered reason for that. And Hannah, you’re—”
He stops, and she knows why. What he wants to say is, You’re pregnant with my child, I want you to take care of yourself, but he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t want to make their baby into a stick to beat her with.
It’s the fact that he doesn’t say it that makes her capitulate.
She stands, goes over to where he’s sitting on the sofa, and putting the takeaway menus aside, she kisses him.
“I know. And I promise I’ll take care of myself. He’s only emailing—I’ll answer his questions and then make it clear that’s it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Will says. He smooths her hair back from her forehead, smiles up at her. “I love you, Hannah Jones.”
“I love you too, Will de Chastaigne. How did we get so lucky to find each other?”
“Right place at the right time?” Will says. But it’s only half-true, and Hannah knows it.
* * *
LATER, AFTER SUPPER, WHEN THEY’RE sitting curled up watching a film on Netflix, Hannah’s phone buzzes with an email, and when she looks down, her stomach lurches. She glances at Will. He’s absorbed in the film.
“Just going to the loo,” she says lightly, tucking her phone into her pocket. Will looks up.
“Want me to pause?”
“No, it’s fine. I know this scene.” It’s Amélie, and she’s seen it half a dozen times. Will nods and turns back to the screen, and she slips out of the room and into the bathroom, where she sits on the loo and reads the email.
Hi Hannah, Geraint here. Really sorry again for ambushing you at the bookshop. Listen, I would love to meet for a coffee or a phone conversation—or whatever you feel happy with. I’ve spent the last five years investigating what happened the night April Clarke-Cliveden was killed and talking to John Neville, and, as I assume you know, he was absolutely resolute from the trial onward that he had nothing to do with her death—that he went to her room to deliver a package and she was absolutely fine when he left.
I totally understand that this opens up a can of worms for you that you probably don’t want to deal with, but I feel like he gave me a task—and that his death puts a responsibility on me to complete that task. Not to prove his innocence—I’ve got an open mind on that score. But to find out the truth and tie up some of the loose ends. Because there’s certain things that don’t add up. Why wasn’t any of Neville’s DNA found on April’s body? Why didn’t anyone hear a struggle? The two boys in the room below said they heard her walking around, but nothing like anyone fighting for their life.
I would love just a few minutes of your time to ask you some questions that have always puzzled me about that evening and the sequence of events. Obviously if you don’t feel able to help with that, I understand. You don’t owe me anything. But I feel like I owe John Neville something, and more importantly, I feel that I owe April something too. Because if it’s true that John Neville didn’t kill April, someone out there got away with murder. And I want to see that person brought to justice. I hope you feel the same way.
I’m up in Edinburgh for the next week and I’d be available any time for a coffee, or for a phone call at any point if this week is not convenient. My number is below.
Warmest wishes, and thanks again for your time,
Geraint Williams
P.S. Please do say hi from me to Ryan if you speak to him!
Slowly, Hannah puts down her phone and sits, elbows on her knees, staring at the shower cubicle opposite. She knows what Will would say. He would say Leave it alone. He would tell her not to open the can of worms Geraint referred to in his email. But that’s the problem—that metaphor is a little too close to the truth, and it reveals something she has refused to admit to herself for a long time. For there are messy, wriggling, unfinished ends putrefying beneath the surface of what happened that night—things that she has refused to think about and look at for a long time. And there should not be.
She cannot just leave this. However much she should. Because if she doesn’t find out the truth, Neville’s ghost is going to haunt her forever.
Will believes that Neville’s death has freed them—but Hannah is only just starting to realize that that’s not true. In fact, if what Emily said is right, if she has made a mistake, then it’s the exact opposite. Because while Neville was alive, he could fight to clear his own name. But now that he’s dead, that responsibility has passed to others. To her.
But she’s getting ahead of herself. Maybe what Geraint has to say isn’t new evidence at all. Maybe it’s just some conspiracy theory he’s spun out of thin air. If that’s the case, the best thing she can do is put it to rest—destroying his illusions and her own fears in the process.
She picks up her phone again, and presses the reply button on his email.
Dear Geraint, I have a day off next Wednesday. If you are available at 10 a.m., I would be happy to meet at Cafeteria, just off—
She stops, thinks, then deletes the last seven words. She isn’t happy to do anything, and she doesn’t want Geraint at the cafe she goes to every weekend with Will. No. Better to choose somewhere else. Somewhere she won’t be bothered about avoiding in the future if the meeting goes sour.
able to meet at the Bonnie Bagel in the New Town for a coffee and to answer any questions you might have. I can’t promise to give you the answers that you want—everything I said at the trial was true. John Neville engaged in persistent stalkerish behaviour for months before that night, and I saw him coming away from our staircase just moments after April was killed. He never denied being in our room, and he never explained what he was doing there—porters weren’t supposed to deliver parcels, so that part of his story was shaky from the start. The bottom line is this—I believe John Neville was guilty. I hope I can set your mind to rest on that point when we meet.
