Hidden Hours Read online

  2

  the christmas party

  In these times of high security, Theodora Hannas, London Underground ticket inspector, has been trained to watch people closely. Therefore, the nervous young girl fumbling for her ticket immediately catches her eye. Theodora observes the whitened lines of the girl’s knuckles as she grips the strap slung across her shoulder. The small movements of her jaw, as though she’s involuntary clenching or grinding her teeth. She looks so frightened that Theodora is still debating whether to raise the alarm or ask if she’s okay, when the girl races off towards the platform. Immediately, Theodora is distracted by a family whose suitcase has become stuck in one of the barriers, and as she tuts across the tiles the girl is almost instantly forgotten.

  Eleanor cannot catch her breath as she hurtles down the steps of the station. A train is just leaving the platform, its engine in crescendo as it picks up speed. She’s almost at a run – as if haste will lessen the dizziness, or the fear that the police will want to talk to her before long. She needs to rehearse the story of the previous night and try to fix the details in her mind before they can blur at the edges. Only twelve hours ago she had spoken to Arabella, and while she knows she cannot go back in time, it still feels so recent, so fresh, that if she squeezes her eyes tightly shut and clicks her heels together, surely she might just make it.

  The Christmas party had been on The Atlantic, the latest project of celebrity chef Preston Harlen, an old steel barge given the five-star treatment and converted into London’s trendiest floating bar-cum-restaurant. Parker & Lane had secured the exclusive booking because of Preston’s wife, Mia, the author of a succession of mediocre children’s books about a talking dog, which had fortuitously found their way to the shelves of every Tesco and Asda in the country. Ahead of the party, Susan had come home briefly before setting off to central London in a limo. Eleanor had watched from the first floor as Susan got into the car on her own, and wondered whether her aunt had any inkling that there was enough space for one more.

  The half-hour walk to the Tube had been more painful than usual, the winter frost nipping into Eleanor’s peep-toe shoes and settling in the gaps between the waterproof lining of her long coat and her bare arms and legs. She had spent most of her first week’s earnings on a short red velvet dress that now felt too tight, while the lace edging that had looked good in the changing room kept snagging on her bag. There was no glamour on the Tube either, with the seats bristling against her and the person opposite rocking like a lunatic as they nodded in sleep. When she got to Embankment she had snuck into a back-alley bar first and had a double-vodka shot to warm her up a bit. It made the prospect of an evening trapped on a boat, trying to get to know people, a little bit easier.

  At the pier, she was wary of the doorman as she climbed onto the softly swaying vessel – she’d heard how exclusive Preston Harlen’s venues were – but the surly fellow redirected her to a hostess in a cocktail gown. One swift tick on her A4 sheet, and Eleanor was checking in her coat and heading through the small foyer towards another set of double doors that led to the main arena.

  The huge bar in the middle was shaped as a super yacht, while tables floated on the blue carpet like dainty, subservient little life rafts. To one side was a dance floor so polished that Eleanor feared for her safety in three-inch heels. It was busy already – and she had a feeling that the little cliques dotted around the place were exactly the same as those she would find at work. Keen not to stand alone, she had let herself fall into conversation with Calvin from the post room, who was eager to ply her with the free beverages and acted oblivious when she moved away from his roving hands. By the time Laura from accounts saved Eleanor from Calvin’s attempts to drag her onto the dance floor, the boat was well into its cruise along the river. Eleanor had complimented Laura’s hairstyle – an intricate winding braid that made her look like a European princess – while Laura had noticed Eleanor’s accent. It turned out Laura had visited Australia two years ago and could describe her road trip, to places Eleanor had never been, in enthusiastic and impressive detail. Once Laura had had two tequilas she admitted to looking out for Philip from the international sales department who had recently split from his girlfriend. When Philip arrived, Laura disappeared in an instant, knowing no more about Eleanor than she had when their exchange had started.

  As Eleanor searched for someone else to talk to, she caught sight of her boss. Nathan was wearing the suit she’d seen him in earlier at work, charcoal grey with a silver tie, and he was leaning forward, explaining something to his companion, his face serious, his hand occasionally banging on the table, punctuating his argument. As Eleanor watched, Arabella slipped onto the seat next to him, and whispered in his ear. He had carried on talking without acknowledging his wife, who waited, and waited, and then got up and left them to it.

  Around Eleanor, everyone was talking, laughing, dancing, drinking, buoyed by their deeper camaraderie. She could feel herself slowly sinking away from them, invisible, despite every inch of her straining to fit in. She ate every canapé that was offered just to give her something to do, until she began to feel nauseous. The bartender cast her sympathetic glances, his pity palpable. She itched to move somewhere less humiliating, but the corner booths were all occupied and she couldn’t bring herself to intrude. She had held out such hopes that this would be the night she got to know people – everyone was always so busy at work. She kept telling herself someone would talk to her eventually, but after a while she went out onto the deck and gazed alone at the sights of London, until she saw they were arriving back at the pier. Once it had docked, Eleanor went inside again and tried to join in the revelry. After a few short-lived pleasantries, she’d noticed Calvin hip-wiggling his way towards her again and had taken off to the restrooms, to sit in the toilet cubicle, head in her hands, feeling the gentle drop and lift of the boat, trying to decide whether to go back into the party, or stay put. She’d thought that perhaps Susan would take pity on her for the return leg, but since her first drink she hadn’t been able to spot her aunt in the crowd.

  Raucous groups of tipsy women came and went, while she sat there, undecided about what to do next. Eventually, boredom propelled her out to wash her hands in the marble basin. She was marvelling at the pink orchids and decadent assortment of hand creams and perfumes set out for use, when a cubicle door opened behind her and Arabella emerged, wiping her nose across the back of her hand.

  Their eyes caught in the mirror. ‘What a shit party, hey,’ Arabella said, coming over to the sink. ‘Which idiot booked a boat?’

  Eleanor took in Arabella’s shimmering silver dress, a similar shape to her own but obviously a superior cut and fabric. She watched Arabella’s slim hands under the running water, their jerky movements highlighting the glinting stone on Arabella’s ring finger, an exquisite sapphire nestled within a circle of smaller diamonds. The platinum band shone beneath her beautifully manicured French-tipped nails, and Eleanor quickly withdrew her own hands and turned away to dry them.

  Should she leave or try to talk to Arabella? She wasn’t sure, but when she glanced back Arabella was watching her. She frowned. ‘Hang on, you’re my husband’s new PA, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Arabella moved forward. ‘And how are you finding it, working for the wonderful Nathan Lane?’ she shouted over the noise as she took her turn at the hand-dryer.

  Eleanor paused, unsure how best to respond. The truth? She’d already decided that Nathan Lane was an obnoxious idiot – that he had only one way of speaking and that was to issue commands, whether to her or anyone else on their floor. That while honing his managerial talents he seemed to have forgotten how to be a civilised human being. He was nice looking, sure, with little wavy kinks in his golden hair, and those pale, piercing eyes, but Eleanor suspected the majority of his charisma came from an arrogance and belief that, should he so choose, he had the absolute right to be the centre of attention in any room he walked into.

  Howeve
r, the reality was that his wife was asking the question. And even though Arabella didn’t sound best pleased with her spouse right now, Eleanor couldn’t afford to be careless and lose her job in the next five seconds. So, she had shrugged noncommittally. ‘Fine.’

  Arabella gave a loud, humourless cackle as she turned back to the mirror to preen her hair. ‘Now, we both know that’s not true. I should imagine it’s about as horrid as being married to him.’

  When Arabella looked up and saw Eleanor’s mortified expression she laughed again – a gentler, sadder laugh. It was then that Eleanor noticed how glassy her eyes were.

  ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. Come and have a drink with me, you look like you need cheering up. Let’s see if we can liven this party up a little.’

  Arabella had grabbed her hand without waiting for an answer, leading Eleanor out as though they were best friends. She ordered them double shots at the bar, pushing one at Eleanor and gesturing for her to down it. Eleanor watched as Arabella picked up her own glass and tipped the liquid down her throat, shaking her head and crying, ‘Whoa, that’s better,’ then immediately ordering cocktails.

  To begin with, Eleanor could feel eyes on them from all sides of the room, but Arabella’s determination to enjoy herself was infectious, and soon Eleanor forgot anyone might be watching. She laughed along as Arabella mocked various people on the dance floor, and when the cocktails were delivered, she saw Arabella sprinkle a little something into both glasses. ‘This will make things sizzle,’ Arabella had said with a wink, downing her cocktail as though it were another shot.

  It’s at this point the memories become hazy. As Eleanor comes back to the present, a sudden rush of air blows her long hair away from her face as a tube train approaches. That mojito last night had been one drink too far, tipping Eleanor into the next few swirling, disorientated hours. All she can recall beyond Arabella pulling her over to dance are blurred faces spinning in strobe lighting. It feels more like a series of hallucinations than true memories. But in those flashing images she is sure she remembers Arabella leaving her and walking over to Nathan. Eleanor’s body had still been shimmying to the frenetic beat as Arabella lifted a hand, in plain sight of everyone, and slapped Nathan hard across the face.

  3

  the train home

  Superintendent Louise Thornton picks up the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve heard from the Coroner’s Delegate,’ Detective Inspector Priya Prashad tells her. ‘The first indications are that Arabella was alive when she hit the water, and there are also signs of a struggle. We’re calling in the Murder Investigation Team.’

  Thornton finishes the call and sits back in her chair. She’s glad Priya Prashad is such an experienced detective, because this one is going to be big.

  The train Eleanor catches is half-empty. The somnolent shake of the carriage would usually encourage her mind to drift, but today it’s too much like floating towards oblivion and she keeps jolting back to high alert. She can’t stop thinking of Arabella.

  I wasn’t singled out, Eleanor keeps telling herself. Our meeting in the bathroom was pure chance. One thing led to another.

  But it is not that simple. Eleanor had woken this morning half-dressed, her singlet and underwear wet, every muscle throbbing; her vision blurry. She had vomited twice in her small en suite and recoiled at the vision of herself in the mirror – the blanched face and straggly long, dark hair – before she noticed that the soles of her feet were black with grime, and the pristine white bed sheets were smeared with dirt. She had taken two strong painkillers and laid down again for half an hour, running through all the excuses she could find to stay in bed. She had tried to recall the previous evening and found that a lot of it was missing. Eleanor had never tried recreational drugs beyond marijuana. She didn’t even know what she’d taken, and that scared her. She desperately hoped she hadn’t made a total fool of herself. She had not been at work for long; she still needed to make a good impression.

  She had struggled up, but collapsed again with trembling legs, heart racing, her mouth dry. It was no good. She had opened her small handbag to find her phone and call in sick, and that was when she had found the polished sapphire and diamond ring snuggled innocently between her lipstick and mascara.

  It had taken her a few moments to realise it was the ring she had seen on Arabella’s finger the previous night.

  And she still has no idea how it had come to be in her possession.

  It had, however, been the catalyst she needed to drag herself into work. She had brought it with her, intending to give it back, convinced there must have been a mix-up, one that Arabella would be able to explain. Perhaps Eleanor had tried it on, and forgotten to return it. But now what should she do? What will happen if Eleanor confesses she has a valuable piece of a dead woman’s jewellery in her bag? How is she going to decide whether to admit it, or hide it, or lose it?

  The receptionists had mentioned something about a bridge, and Eleanor can picture it so clearly it’s as though she were there. She pulls her pad from her bag and starts to sketch the scene: the long bridge, a small figure straddling the railings, clinging on, her dress whipping around her as though desperate to pull her back from fate, her hair lifted like kite tails in the breeze. She becomes aware of her neighbour peering over her shoulder and snaps the pad closed, pushes it deep into her bag. She hopes that’s the end of it, but he nods at her empty lap. ‘You’re good.’ She gives him a tight smile and twists away, setting her back to him.

  She clutches her bag. She doesn’t want to dwell on the contents, and what they might mean, but how can she think of anything else? She daren’t look around in case she catches someone’s eye, because in that moment of connection, when their eyes lock, it is as though she cannot shutter the window to her soul, and they might peer in and see everything she most wants to hide. She has long felt her sins reproach her. Is this the moment when fate comes full circle, and the consequences for her childhood crimes are finally meted out?

  She leans over, elbows on her knees as she massages her temples, trying to think. What happened last night? Why are there so many gaps? Why can she picture Arabella so clearly now, when before she’d heard the receptionists speaking about it she’d had no recollection at all?

  It’s not a memory, it’s just your imagination, she tells herself. But the scene is too vivid, too distinct, for her to be sure.

  Her body aches and her head throbs. Why had she let Arabella put something in her drink? She has never wanted to try drugs – she has seen the damage they do. And besides, she’s too scared of the hallucinations, of who she might summon into being. She is unnerved by last night’s haziness, the glimpsed snatches of euphoria amid blank hours that cannot be reclaimed, and this deplorable comedown.

  As her thoughts unravel, she shudders. The drugs. The ring. She doesn’t know what has happened, but it feels like she’s being set up. But why? She looks around wildly as though she might be being followed, but everyone on the train has turned away from her – eyes closed, noses in books, mouths humming along softly to unheard tunes piped straight into ears. Nevertheless, the scene seems surreal, like she might get up and find they are all made of wax. She stares at the passenger opposite until the woman senses the intrusion and looks up.

  Eleanor quickly turns away in relief. Her face is burning. Get a grip, she tells herself. Think this through.

  It’s hard to stop the panic closing in. With no paper bag nearby she has to breathe into her cupped fingers as she tries to think. She runs through the people who might help her. Her mother? She’s too far away, and the old wounds are always there, just beneath the surface. She tries to think of other names – but the blankness is terrifying.

  ‘The next station is Notting Hill Gate.’

  The voice jolts Eleanor back to her surroundings. She’s nearly back to Uncle Ian. He’ll be at home now, working. They might not have had time to form a close bond, but they are still family. Surely he will help her.

&nb
sp; The question is, can she trust him? Can she trust anyone?

  Can she trust herself?

  The train slows. Rush hour is over and the crowds have thinned, but there are still a few people standing, edging closer to her seat as they sense she’s about to move. She sees it: the attempts at courtesy covering the edge of competition. She desperately wants to believe the best of people, but it’s hard when she knows that humans are rivals for anything – even five minutes on a germ-ridden seat.

  She chooses the person she wants to win – a woman with a sparkly bag who smiled at her a few stops ago when they caught one another’s eye. She gets up and blocks the suited man on her other side so the woman can slip into her seat. The loser turns away, carries on reading his newspaper as though he was never in the running. She’d wanted a reaction. She wants someone else to feel as desperate as she does. Perhaps she should ask him if he’s ever watched a woman’s body fall from a height, spinning into black water, in the middle of the night.

  4

  ian

  Carlos Lucias, mortuary attendant at Hammersmith & Fulham, slowly and reverently pulls open the long drawer that holds Arabella Lane’s naked body. An ashen-faced Dickon Blythe waits behind a glass panel, with a policewoman at his shoulder. It has been three hours since Arabella was formally identified by her husband, but her father had insisted on seeing her too. In other circumstances Carlos might have given him a moment alone, but he cannot do that with a suspicious death. He has to make sure he follows the police request to keep the red markings on one wrist hidden under the pristine white sheet.

  It is nearly four weeks since Eleanor moved in to Harborne Grove, and she is a keen observer of the lives that surround her. Her cousins, who until a few weeks ago were just names appended to cards in strange handwriting, are now the most vibrant points of her day, whirling in and out of her life. She suspects that seven-year-old Savannah, as delightful as she is right now, is most in danger of becoming a clone of her mother, bossy and wilful and sharp as a tack. Naeve, however, is six years older and a visionary. Her room is peppered with drawings that remind Eleanor of the worlds of Shaun Tan, even though the after-school classes she takes are the same ones as her sister: hockey and piano and Latin – Latin!