Freddie spent the next few hours reading up on domestic violence and coercive relationships. He read harrowing accounts of imprisonment, manipulation, rape, and the more he learned, the more he realised that Jenny could be a poster child for the cycle of abuse; she’d had no father and an alcoholic, neglectful mother, an abusive stepfather, and now she was all alone in the world, ripe for the picking for any abusive nut job who told her they loved her. It was textbook. How in hell could Freddie have let this happen? What kind of a person just sat back, wallowing in their own hurt feelings while their friend was suffering through… god knows what?

Feverish guilt drove away the last mists of gin, and by the morning, he knew what he had to do.

The next morning Freddie called in sick to work, and drove back to the village, full of paracetamol and vigorous, righteous anger. Now he parked near enough to David’s house so that he could spot him leaving, not close enough so he’d be spotted himself, but he had no idea if David would leave the house at all. He slouched in the passenger seat for two uncomfortable, boring hours, watching the curve of David’s drive for any activity. Cops in cop shows always hated stakeouts, and now Freddie knew why… cops on cop shows also had the foresight to bring coffee and donuts with them. Freddie had nothing but half a bottle of flat Coke and a phone full of articles about abuse.

Finally, at 2 p.m. David’s BMW nosed out from behind the conifers. Freddie ducked down to hide the ginger beacon of his hair, and managed to maintain a partial view of the BMW disappearing down towards the slip road leading to the motorway. If he was going that way, chances were he was going to the city, which would hopefully give Freddie enough time to see Jenny, talk to her, and make her see sense.

He made his way up the drive and towards the door, trepidation increasing with each step. His chest was clenched, and despite the spring warmth, the hairs on his arms stood stiff. Claudine ambled out of a flower bed and pushed her head against his legs. He picked her up, happy for the warmth, appreciating the purr. ‘What’s the news, kitten?’ he asked her, clattered the mermaid’s tail door knocker against the wood. ‘Cover me. I’m going in.’

Jenny opened the door, dressed in dungarees and an old T-shirt. Very much Old Jenny and not Sleek Stepford Jenny, which had to be a good thing.

‘Freddie! How come you’re here?’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Yes, of course I’m OK, why wouldn’t I be? Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Took a sickie. Can I come in, then?’

‘Of course.’ She sounded ever so slightly unsure, but stepped back to let him into the gloomy hallway, where he almost collided with a tremulous pillar of cardboard boxes. The top one wobbled, fell and spilled out papers, scarves, a small knitted hat.

‘We’re doing a clear-out,’ Jenny explained, kicking the scarves out of the way. ‘There’s some building work starting in a week, too.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Freddie was determined to keep his manner as normal as possible. All the articles about abusive relationships said this was essential. Let the victim take the lead in disclosure. Don’t push, but be as accepting and open as possible.

‘Yes. The plan is to knock through the larger living room, the small sitting room and the kitchen, as well as a couple of the smaller rooms upstairs. But they’ve been used for storage since the beginning of time, so, there’s a lot of work to do…’ She sounded a little bit more animated, describing all the changes, and led him past some more boxes, past the conservatory – half-demolished and covered with tarpaulin – and into the kitchen proper. ‘So, the conservatory’s going altogether, and that room will be knocked through, and made wider. And we’re going to do something about the garage. We haven’t decided what yet though.’

We we we we we. ‘God. Lots of work,’ Freddie managed.

‘Yeah. Well, it needs doing.’ She looked about vaguely. ‘But you know, once you get started, there’s no end to it. And the planning department are being, well, you know…’

‘Mmm,’ Freddie answered. He’d never, ever in his life thought he’d be having this conversation with Jenny of all people. What was next? Cushion covers? Ocado deliveries?

‘So everything’s OK?’ Freddie said carefully.

‘Well, yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’ She seemed to be slightly nervous.

With immense effort, Freddie tried to remember his research. Resist asking too many questions… allow space for her to talk about her own feelings.

‘So, what’s in the boxes?’ he managed.

‘Oh Lord, you’ve seen Hoarders, right?’ I don’t know. There’s books, there’s clothes, there’s all sorts of stuff. Catherine kept everything. So did Piers. I think David doesn’t really want to part with it all either – that’s why he’s putting it all into storage.’

‘Is he here?’ Freddie asked casually, sipping boiling tea.

‘No, he’s at the storage place now to take a look at it. He wants to make sure they’re above ground, just in case they have, you know, rats or something. He doesn’t want anything to get gnawed at.’ She grinned, but it didn’t illuminate her face, just made her look more tired. ‘Fred what’s wrong? You didn’t skip work to talk to me about Hoarders.’

‘David called me last night.’ He watched her face stiffen, then arrange itself into bland ease.

‘Oh, OK? And…’

‘He told me not to call you. He—’

‘What was that?’ Jenny half rose.

‘I know, right?’ Freddie exclaimed, all his careful self-training gone. ‘He said I couldn’t call you ever again—’

‘No, listen,’ Her thin face, her corded neck – it all communicated incredible, sudden strain. ‘The car. Shit, he’s back. Fred, just… go upstairs. Please?’

‘Why?’ Freddie said stoutly. ‘Why aren’t you allowed to have a friend over? What’s he going to do if he sees me, hit you?’

‘It’s not that I’m not “allowed”. It’s complicated. He’ll just get upset, and I really don’t need that.’ She was pleading with him. ‘You can come back down later once he’s gone again. We’ll talk properly, and I’ll explain things, I promise, but please, Fred, for me?’ She pointed towards the stairs. ‘Take your coat with you!’ she hissed.

And Freddie did as he was told, making it to the landing and ducking into the nearest bedroom just as David put the key in the door.

It was the same room that he’d been in a few months ago, now housing more boxes, as well as the same two packing cases and the same ugly wardrobe dominating the corner by the window. Freddie edged towards that, his heart clattering in his chest, the sour taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat. All he could hear from downstairs was the muted bass of David’s voice, and the half-imagined nervous treble of Jenny’s. He braced himself for an explosion of anger, footsteps on the stairs, David marching in. A dramatic confrontation, furious argument, and a filmic denouement with Freddie rescuing Jenny, both of them running like children down the drive to safety... that would be great. But none of that happened. Instead Freddie spent the next half hour wedged between the wall and the wardrobe, miserably aware that he needed the toilet.

To make things worse, the wardrobe door wouldn’t stay shut. Every few minutes Freddie pushed it to with one finger, wincing against the creak, and every few minutes it would swing open again, the sound monstrously loud in the silent room. David was bound to hear it if he came up the stairs and, if he came into the room, he’d see Freddie immediately… If he moved that bag of papers and the hand weights a bit – pushed them further back – that might make the door stay shut. Was it worth it? As if furnishing a reply, the door groaned open again. Freddie shuffled forwards. The bag was spilling with shopping lists, phone messages… ‘Vet called re Tinker’ said one. ‘Gruyère if possible?’ said another. A birthday card opened to a pop-up wine glass with ‘It’s Wine O’clock!’ printed in cartoon bubbles. ‘T ALL LOVE C’; a decade-old copy of the Telegraph. Jenny hadn’t lied: this family really did keep everything. An old copy of the Radio Times from 1992 slipped out and a photograph fell out from its folds… a blurry woman in brown, faintly familiar looking. Freddie tried pushing the bag in further. The door still wouldn’t shut because there was something caught in the hinge; Freddie wiggled it free. A photograph of a stone-faced baby, furiously asleep in a cot, a pink bow on its bald head. On the back in blue biro was written ‘Jenny’s first Xmas ’93’. He felt time stop with a jolt.

Some people are born with the happy knack of discerning the grown adult in a baby’s face, but Freddie wasn’t. A baby was a baby as far as he was concerned, just like a cat was a cat and a dog was a dog… and anyway, Jenny didn’t have any baby pictures. Marc had destroyed them all. The only picture she had was the one that he, Freddie, had had framed for her. But the date was right… He peered at the picture, trying to make sense of it. It was her. It had to be.

If this was here, what else was here?

He put the baby photo down on the floor, and then, carefully, as silently as possible, he reached into the bag again, finding nothing of any meaning until, among the receipts and general detritus, he found a newspaper clipping. A recent one.

17th January 2017

Police are investigating after a woman’s body was discovered this morning.

Emergency services were called to the village of Marston at 7.30 a.m.

Local sources have identified the dead woman as Sally Holloway, aged 43, of Dene’s Walk, Marston.

A police spokeswoman said: ‘The woman died some time in the evening of 16th January. The death is not being treated as suspicious and formal identification has not yet been made.

A report will be prepared for Her Majesty’s coroner and the woman’s family are being supported at this difficult time.

The back of the clipping was covered with blocky capitals. A list:

16 Edi 628 9:08 HHN 502 9:23 LGG 746 9:38.

No dates.

He put this next to the baby photo.

‘Precious Memories!’ was still nestled in the corner of the wardrobe. There’d been another newspaper clipping in there too, hadn’t there? Something about fly-tipping, but he’d only looked at one side of it.

From downstairs he heard the French windows open, heard David in the garden, talking loudly about a patio, about garden furniture. The soft burr of Jenny’s voice told him that she was there, too. If they were both outside, they weren’t likely to hear any rustling of papers from the upstairs bedroom. Freddie thought quickly. Here was his chance – maybe his only chance – to properly look through David’s strange set of mementos and get real, genuine evidence that he could present to Jenny and save her. Already, with the baby picture and the newspaper clipping, David was looking distinctly stalkerish.

With one shaking finger, Freddie pressed the ‘Precious Memories!’ rusted release catch, opened the lid and began scanning the random, unconnected pieces of trash that now seemed a lot less random. There was some sinister underpinning to these carefully curated items. Something that made them precious. The dirty chiffon scarf. A series of train tickets that had been carefully laminated. One, a return ticket, was surrounded with doodled hearts. There was a pink Post-it note with Jenny’s handwriting on it – he could tell it was hers because she’d never wrote the @ symbol properly; she just wrote a normal ‘a’ and circled it. It seemed to be a list of train times. A photograph of a patch of ground and, in the far corner, was a little cross with the words TINKER written on it. Some pinkish gravel in a sandwich bag was sellotaped to a piece of cardboard. And, yes, here was the newspaper clipping he’d seen before – Freddie noticed how yellowed it was – the print had smeared and the folds were cracking. David handled this a lot. David thought this was important enough to keep hidden and keep going back to. Freddie turned it over and read.

1st March 2009 – Body of Man Identified.

Police have identified a man who was found dead in the canal two weeks ago as missing person Marc Doyle.

Officers were called to Carrington Street in the city centre two weeks ago after a body was found in the water. Following specialist forensic tests required to identify the deceased, officers have been able to confirm the man as 38-year-old Marc Doyle of St Ann’s.

The death is being treated as suspicious and a file will be prepared for the coroner ahead of an inquest which will take place in due course.

Marc? What in hell was David doing with a cutting about Jenny’s sort-of ex-stepfather?

With shaking hands Freddie got out his phone, and took some careful pictures of the clipping, the strange numbers and letters, the train tickets. On the other side of the Post-it note was written:

You mustn’t think bad of me because I’m writing quickly I am not writing quickly because I am not a nervous man. I like writing and I am not afraid of you because inside me lives god and my nerves are calming down a lot and I feel myself improving and how are you? It’s important you’re well and happy? I feel myself getting more well, and happier, and that means.

He didn’t recognise the handwriting. David’s?

He looked at the ‘TINKER’ photo again; there was something familiar about this nondescript patch of earth… he’d seen it before… Yes! That same cross was at the end of the garden, near to the scars the fire had left on the lawn. What did it mean? Why have a photograph of your cat’s grave?

‘Here?’ David’s voice sounded from the garden, just below the window. It made Freddie jump. ‘A full bed or a rockery?’

‘Maybe a bit further that way?’ Jenny said.

‘At the end, you mean?’ David asked doubtfully. ‘Isn’t that a bit too far from where the patio will be?’ His voice was moving away, while Jenny’s was still close, and a fraction too loud.

‘Well, if we extend further, we could move all the plants away from the front door?’ It was a strangely emphasised phrase.

‘D’you mean the patio door?’ David seemed to be coming back towards her.

‘Yes, sorry I meant that. Not the front door.’ Again, that emphasis. She was signalling to Freddie that he should leave now, safely, from the front, as David was being kept busy at the back. Clever girl!

And so Freddie crawled to the bedroom door and put one cautious foot on the top step, paused, and trotted halfway down before he was stopped dead by a voice.

‘What is it?’ Catherine called from her room. ‘David?’

Freddie remained rigid on the stairs, one toe on the next step, hand clutching the bannister.

‘David? Come and talk to me David!’ Freddie held his breath. ‘Holes. Holes! What about Tinker? Tell me. Tell me and I won’t tell.’

Still Freddie didn’t move, barely breathed. The silence grew monstrous, pregnant. From the kitchen, he heard Jenny call to David in the garden: ‘Look, I have some pictures on my phone – stay there and I’ll get it!’ And a moment later she was at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing wildly towards the open front door. Freddie pointed towards Catherine’s room, and she pulled the door to, all the while waving him down the stairs.

‘Who’s there?’ Catherine asked nervously as he passed her door.

‘Just me,’ Jenny told her, and mouthed: ‘Go!’ at Freddie.

‘Who?’ Catherine was just behind her door now. Her voice was strong; it rang with authority. ‘I have a right to know!’

Jenny made a telephone gesture with one hand and waved at the front door with the other. Her eyes pleaded with him to go, just go.

‘How could you do that to Tinker?’ Catherine shouted.

Freddie ran then, down the drive.

Back in the car, he allowed himself a few minutes of stillness, of calm, enough time to let the sweat that had run down his sides dry stickily, and his breathing to return to normal. As he turned the engine on he got a text from Jenny.

I will explain EVERYTHING, promise but don’t call or text. Have to take Catherine to hospital for tests in the morning, so might get a chance to call you then? OK?

Safely back home Freddie studied the photo of the scribbled numbers and letters. But when he googled ‘LGG’ all the results were for some kind of probiotic drink. And also… airports? LGG could be Liège Airport in Belgium. HHN turned out to be Frankfurt Hahn. EDI was Edinburgh. Why did David have all these written down? Could the numbers correspond to flight times? They had to. He looked up flight statistics, and let out a little yell of triumph. He was right!

An hour later, he’d narrowed the flight times down to scheduled arrivals to their regional international airport. The only number that didn’t fit was ‘16’.

A date?

He typed ‘16’ and the name of the city. Nothing. ‘16 David Crane’. Nothing; 16 and the name of the county, nothing. As a last resort he tried the name of the village, and up popped a familiar local news article. Sal’s death. 16th January. The same news report that David had clipped and kept safe in ‘Precious Memories!’

Freddie flopped back onto the sofa cushions. The cursor blinked insistently next to Sal’s name, and Freddie looked at that, looked at the date, looked at the flight times, struggling to get his fingers under what this might mean. David had flight times from the evening of Sal’s death. Well, David had been coming back from dropping Ryan off at the airport on that night. That was how he’d been able to see Jen walking through the village; that was how he’d been able to provide the police with her alibi. On the surface, it made sense, but why have the details of three separate flights written down? David hadn’t given a ride to three people taking three separate flights from the same airport at the same time, had he?

Freddie fingered his phone nervously. No message from Jenny. He couldn’t call her because it might put her in danger; she’d more or less told him that. David might be monitoring her Facebook page, her emails, everything… scratch that, he must be. Controlling communication was the number-one weapon of choice for abusive partners. There was nothing Freddie could do, but worry, and wait until she was able to call him, confide in him. If she ever did. God, this was awful. This was everything the Controlling Relationship websites had warned him would happen. And people like David always had a history of this sort of thing. They don’t start being psychotic at the grand old age of – well, how old was David anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty-four? Even though he’d appeared out of nowhere: the perfect son, the doting boyfriend, he must have a past, and a dark one too? A person doesn’t end up in a psychiatric unit for years because they were a bit insecure. David must have done this sort of thing before.

What about Ryan Needham?

Freddie opened Facebook, went to David’s profile – the picture was now a sepia-tinted one of him and Jenny – and found Ryan, resplendent in snowboarding gear, in his friends list.

OK. Deep breath. This isn’t about you. Do it for Jenny.

Hi Ryan. It’s Freddie Lees-Hill. Turns out we have a friend in common, David Crane? Small world!

He didn’t get a reply. He hadn’t really expected one. Small world? Who said small world anyway?

To kill some time before, and if, Ryan messaged him back, Freddie did some research on Marc Doyle, and found the same newspaper item that David had already clipped out of the paper. Another search resulted in a grainy photo of a rough-looking man standing in front of a pub, wearing a baseball cap. It was part of a death notification in the Post, and it didn’t say anything about how he’d died, just that ‘he was taken from us too soon’.

Freddie closed his eyes. Marc Doyle taken from us too soon; Sally Holloway found dead. I am not afraid of you because inside me lives god. Tinker. Holes! How could you do that to Tinker?

When he tried to sleep, his tired brain pawed at Tinker. It meant something to David. Tinker meant enough to David that he still kept up her grave… Lots of people were sentimental about dead pets, but who takes a photo of the grave and keeps it hidden in a wardrobe? Tinker was important. It meant something to Catherine too: How could you do that to Tinker?

What had David done to Tinker?