Page 38 of The Tapes
‘A woman’s place, and all that. Seemed to think I should be cooking for him, waiting on him, clearing up after him. That sort of thing. I never saw him after that. Your dad said he agreed with me but he already felt alienated. He didn’t say anything to your brother and just let me deal with it. I think that was probably the final straw for us, really. If Bruce couldn’t stick up for me, what was the point of it all?’
It’s something that feels both surprising and not. Entirely in keeping with my experience of Peter, of course. I’ve often wondered if he’s a nob in general, or only when it comes to women. It’s almost heartening that it isn’t only me he has a problem with. An equal-opportunity nob.
The sandwich is untouched but I should probably go. I came hoping for some sort of exoneration, or explanation of a timing coincidence. Instead, I have more questions than answers.
There’s no ill-will towards Harriet, not really. She’s welcome to come to the funeral but, at the same time, I don’t think I want to be around her.
The lie is ready and perhaps I should be worried at how easily it comes. ‘I found a jewellery box in Dad’s things,’ I say. ‘There are flowers engraved on the side but I don’t think it’s Mum’s. I wondered if it might be yours?’
There’s a moment in which I think Harriet’s about to say that itishers. That she’s been searching for it all these years. That I’ll have to admit that Dad took it. Except she shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever owned one,’ she says. ‘Let alone lost one. I wasn’t particularly precious about that sort of thing.’ She holds up her left hand, showing a single ring on her index finger. ‘This is the only jewellery I ever wear. I never saw the point – but thank you for thinking of me. I hope you find the owner.’
So that’s it. No link between Harriet and the Earring Killer, assuming she’s telling the truth.
She reaches for her sandwich as I stare out towards the pitches and the mower once more, trying to think of the politest way to leave.
As if on cue, my bag buzzes, so I retrieve my phone. There’s a text from Dina and I assume she’s just found out that I quit. She’ll be asking what happened, and I’ll have to decide whether I want to feed the gossip mill.
Except her text isn’t about that at all.
Have you heard about Owen?
My first thought is that he has my tape. I’m halfway through a reply, asking what’s happened, when Dina’s name appears on screen. I answer the call but barely manage to say ‘hello’ before her tearful voice cuts me off.
‘He’s dead,’ she says.
EIGHTEEN
Police tape stretches across the gateposts of Owen’s house. Neighbours are milling on the pavements and between the parked cars, pointing and talking – which isn’t a surprise when a pair of police cars are blocking the street.
That’s the thing when something terrible happens in a small town. People do put down their phones; they do gather and talk. Everyone wants reassurance together that only other people can bring.
Dina is sitting on a wall across the road from Owen’s place. She looks up as I approach and practically hurls herself at me. This is not the brash, confident woman from the office. ‘I didn’t know who else to call,’ she says. ‘I was supposed to be on a job with him today but he didn’t show up. He wasn’t answering texts, or calls – which is really unlike him.’
She stops and fishes for a tissue to blow her nose. When she can’t find one, she stands and heads to the work van that’s parked a little further along the street. When she returns, her eyes are dry. We sit and watch as an officer diagonally across the street sits on a wall and stretches blue net covers over his shoes. He then ducks underneath the police tape, heading towards the house.
‘Owen lives in the downstairs flat,’ Dina says. ‘I’ve picked him up a few times. I thought I’d come by to see why he wasn’t answering his phone but, by the time I got here, the police had already blocked the road. One of the neighbours said they’d found a body and I was talking to the officer, telling him my friend lives in the flat. That’s when they said…’
She tails off and I take her hand. She squeezes back, blinking away more tears. I know why she called. Mark is the macho face of the company and he’s designed it in his own image. Dina has to be tough on the surface, or he’d walk all over her. But this is the real her – and I bet Owen was well aware of it as well.
‘I was only with him yesterday,’ Dina says, as she releases my hand.
‘Does anyone know what happened?’
A shake of the head. ‘Someone said carbon monoxide but I think they were guessing.’
We watch as a uniformed police officer tries to shoo away a young woman who’s either taking photographs, or filming. There’s a stand-off as he tries to block her view while she argues that she pays his wages. I’m consumed by my own selfishness – because Owen has my tape. I have some of it as a voice note on my phone but nowhere near all of it. I wonder if it’s in his flat, or his work bag. His car, maybe his work locker? How can I find out? How can I get it back?
None of which I can ask, of course, because a young man we know has died.
‘I wonder if his mum knows,’ Dina says, largely talking to herself. ‘Would they have told her yet?’
The officer who recently entered the flat re-emerges and removes the booties. He checks something on his phone and then talks to the man who’d previously been arguing with the young woman. She’s gone but the man turns in a semicircle,before pointing toward Dina. We both stand as the first officer approaches, a slim, grim smile on his face.
‘Are you Dina?’ he asks, talking to me.
‘That’s me,’ Dina says and he shifts his gaze towards her.
‘Are you the one who worked with him?’
