The Question: A bestselling psychological thriller full of shocking twists

Andrew picked up the phone in dread. For the last few years he’d always hated answering it, knowing he would find it difficult to hear what the person on the other end was saying and, even worse, knowing he might well be completely unable to identify them even if he could hear them. What appeared to be the entire collapse of his memory system, at least as far as names and faces went, caused him much embarrassment and annoyance, and at times like this, when Catherine was out of the house and he had no option but to pick up the receiver, he felt very hard done by.

‘Hello? Winstead 354?’

‘Andrew? Andrew, it’s me.’

Now that was familiar. He felt a huge sense of relief wash over him as he recognised the voice of his sister, and the fact it took him a split second to remember her name seemed amusing rather than serious.

‘Nellie. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Well I – no, I’m fine.’

There was a small pause, and Andrew panicked slightly at the thought that something was expected of him. He went quickly over the conversation he’d had with Catherine that morning before she left. Was there any message he was supposed to do, have done, give to somebody? It wasn’t Nellie’s birthday or anything was it? It wasn’t his own birthday, surely? He smiled to himself. No, his internal address book and mug shot files might be completely out of sync but he did at least know that his birthday was a good few months away. But it was odd, Nellie ringing up like this out of the blue. The occasional call she made to them was more likely to be at a weekend than in the middle of a Monday afternoon.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course. How’s Catherine?’

‘She’s fine. She’s off shopping in the village. Stocking up after yesterday. We had one of our parish dos. She put on the most marvellous spread.’

‘Oh, right.’

There was another silence and Andrew shifted his weight off the more arthritic of his hips and cleared his throat. The small hall clock made the odd grating noise that it did before chiming, echoing in the polished quietness of the cottage hallway, and he turned to look at it.

‘She should be back soon,’ he went on. ‘She’s been gone about three-quarters of an hour. How’s John?’

Well, yes, thought Eleanor, of course he’s going to ask that. It’s only normal. The huge significance this simple question has for me is irrelevant to him.

She opened her mouth to give him some sort of noncommittal reply, then stopped, struck by the thought that if she were to answer with any sort of truth at all she would have to say she had absolutely no idea. How was John? Was he happy? Guilty? Miserably wretched and bored with his life of compromise; at having to come back to his worn old wife every weekend after the joys of Ruth’s firm young flesh? Or did he revel smugly in his cleverness at having deceived her, enjoying the rest and comfort of a well-ordered Surrey home after the rigours of his London life? She couldn’t stop a short grunt of disgust spilling out of her mouth at her own stupidity.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, Andrew. He’s fine, thanks. I thought I might pop down and see you both for a few days – are you a full house at the moment?’

Why did I say that? she thought. She had had no idea she was going to ask before it had slipped quickly out, but even as she waited for him to answer she found the thought of an escape route rather comforting.

‘No, no, just us. Yes, of course, Nellie, come any time you like. Just you, or could John manage a few days?’

‘No, just me. Not immediately, I don’t think, but maybe in a week or so. I’ll give you a ring. There are a few things I need to ask you.’

This last sentence filled Andrew with foreboding. Even as a practising vicar he had hated to be confronted by other people’s problems, much preferring the ceremonial and administrative side of his job to the shepherding and nurturing of the flock that was an inescapable part of it, and since retirement he had been even more uneasy at having to discuss anything of any personal depth. For a man who had spent all his working life representing or at least acting as an officer for the Church, his reluctance to discuss matters of the spirit or of emotional depth was a tiresome handicap, but one which he had managed to overcome by hiding behind the comforting rituals of the job. He had coped quite happily with his parishioners’ divorces, bereavements, illnesses and deaths by not only using the designated paragraphs from Prayer Book or Bible, but by trotting out the well-used formulaic words of comfort that he had copied from older and wiser colleagues during his training. But if anyone ever looked him in the eye and attempted a direct conversation with him about what he really believed in himself, or tried to tell him, really tell him, about their passion, agony or a dark night of the soul, he would dip his head in embarrassment and change the subject.

Now there was something in the way Eleanor had spoken that made him think that something very emotional indeed was about to come his way, and he curled his toes at the thought of having to face it.

After lunch the office always tended to quieten down a little, and John found a moment to pop over to see Ruth across the corridor.

‘Oh hello, Mr Hamilton,’ she smiled at him, ‘how was the lunch?’

‘Good, thank you, Ruth, very good. That’s all well on course and the client seems very happy. The last house should be finished next week. Thanks for all your help on that as usual – and the food was excellent, too. We should use that place again.’

‘Yes, right, I’ll make a note of it. Did you want me for some letters now?’

‘No, don’t worry, we’ll leave it for now. Come and do them about four, would you?’

‘Of course, Mr Hamilton.’

Just as John turned to leave he remembered what he had come to ask her.

‘Did you manage to get that spot of shopping done for me, Ruth?’

‘Yes, of course I did. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Much better, in fact. Much better.’

She gave him a little encouraging smile and he nodded back at her.

‘Jolly good. Thanks again. See you at four.’

He walked back to his own office and shut the door behind him, feeling more settled than he had during the morning, now that things seemed to be getting sorted out. Ruth had become indispensable during the five years she had worked for him. She was pleasant-looking, too. What was it she was wearing today? He knew he wasn’t too good at women’s clothes, but he tried to picture her attractive body as he had seen it seated at the desk not a minute before. Pale blue. That was it, wasn’t it? A pale blue jumper of some sort; pleasingly tight. Her pretty red hair fastened up in one of those slide things. Very nice. He smiled a little to himself and shook his head. He gave a little sigh as he smoothed his straight greying hair back with both hands and then sat heavily into the leather swivel armchair behind the desk, hitching up both knees of his trousers automatically as he lowered himself into it, regretting the Stilton and biscuits he had unwisely indulged in after the chicken, but congratulating himself on having stuck to mineral water. He shook his head a little and smiled to himself as he thought, not for the first time, how lunches had changed since before he had become chairman. In those days they had taken place in the office dining room and lasted two or three hours; good, rich food – three courses minimum – always accompanied by plenty of claret, a Sauternes perhaps with the pudding, and port with the cigars. A certain sleepy fullness hung over everybody who had taken part for the rest of the afternoon – certainly there was not much work accomplished, or if it was it had always been a wise precaution to look over it carefully the next morning. On taking over on his father’s retirement, John had moved quickly to curtail such enjoyable excess, and, just as he saw his friends in the City doing, he cut his own and all the staff’s lunch breaks to a maximum of one hour when taken as part of the normal office routine, or an hour and a half when entertaining clients. The in-house catering had had to go: pleasant though it was to be cooked for by a regular small team who knew one’s every taste in food and drink, it was an extravagant indulgence that the company could do without.

The plans for the development of fifteen four- to six-bedroomed detached houses on the estate just outside Manchester were still spread out across the desk, and he pulled them over towards him, swivelling the large photostatted sheet round to face him. He was particularly proud of this project: the houses were going to look elegant and well-proportioned, with just enough garden round each one to give a feeling of privacy, in spite of his having insisted on squeezing in one more than the originally scheduled fourteen. He had listened to his architects’ arguments about angles of building height, diagonals of wall relative to ground span, proportion of garden size to number of rooms, but he was convinced the illusion of space given by the carefully planned hedges, arches and strategically placed walls would make up for the small amount of land he took from each plot. His speech to the planning officer had been masterful, even if he did say so himself.

It wouldn’t be long now before they finished the final plastering, and the interest from local estate agents had been extremely encouraging. He particularly wanted a quick turnround for these, and reached for the phone to check on the progress of the show house, and to remind himself of the date of its opening.

‘Ruth, get me Martin, would you? Did Mrs Hamilton show him the colour schemes this morning? I didn’t see her go – did she manage to get together with him, do you know?’

‘I don’t think she did, Mr Hamilton. I didn’t see her go either, I’m afraid. Do you want me to try and get hold of her?’

‘No, don’t worry. Just put me through to Martin, would you?’

He wondered idly why Eleanor had gone without saying goodbye – hadn’t she asked for a cup of tea or something? Usually she would bring her drink into his office and fill him in on her latest ideas for design, but maybe she’d had somewhere to go on to today. The large variety of charity work, church organising and general local do-gooding that she was involved in meant he was never quite sure what she was talking about when she discussed anything relevant to their life in Surrey. Perhaps she’d had something to go back to this afternoon – but then it was odd that she’d bothered to come up to town at all. She certainly wouldn’t have driven in just to meet Martin and show him her samples; there must have been something up in town for her to do. He knew it was no good his thinking back over their conversation this morning; she had said something about her plans, but as usual he hadn’t really been listening. During such conversations he generally managed to reply often and noncommittally enough to convince her that he was interested and aware, but all he could remember from this morning was a vaguely uncomfortable feeling that she had brought up the old whirly ceiling business again, and that he had half known she had unwittingly hit the nail on the head in that particular instance. The Devon houses weren’t going to be one of his better schemes: they would sell because there was a desperate shortage of houses in that area of this particular type and price bracket, but they were overpriced and ugly, and the sooner they were finished, sold and forgotten, the happier he would be.

He gave up waiting for Martin to come to the phone, and instead pressed the speed dial button on the telephone that was programmed for the Surrey number, ready to leave a warm and thoughtfully interested conjugal message on the machine to greet Eleanor when she returned, but was surprised to hear her voice answer in reality, rather than via the rather strained message that she had recorded on the answering tape.

‘Hello?’

John thought she sounded quieter than normal, almost hesitant. Eleanor’s middle-class tones usually had a quality of stridency about them that cut across the most crowded of rooms; this softly spoken one-worded question was almost inaudible.

‘Eleanor? It’s me. Are you OK? You haven’t got a migraine or anything, have you?’

‘No, why should I have a migraine? I thought you were Andrew ringing back.’

‘Because you came into the office and then just disappeared. I thought you must have an appointment in town, so I was surprised to find you answering the – Andrew? Andrew, brother Andrew? Why should he be ringing?’

‘Because I rang him.’

‘Oh I see.’

There was no doubt about it; there was something very peculiar in her tone. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it. After thirty years he prided himself on judging her moods and state of health very finely; knowing exactly when to leave her alone and when to indulge in the comforting husband scenario he knew he was so good at. But this one was a bit of a puzzle.

‘Why were you ringing Andrew?’

‘I just felt like it.’

‘You felt like it? You haven’t felt like ringing your brother for as long as I can remember. Had to, yes; felt you ought to, plenty of times, but not wanted to off your own bat. Not that I can think of. Is he all right?’

‘Yes, he’s fine.’

There was another pause, and John found himself getting irritated by this mysterious laconic exchange.

‘OK, I’ll leave you to it, then. Are you coming up tomorrow?’

Yes, thought Eleanor, no doubt I am. No doubt I am.

‘No, I’ll be here all day.’

‘Right. I’ll ring you this evening, anyway. ’Bye, darling.’

‘’Bye.’ The tiniest of pauses. ‘Darling.’

Chapter Four

Eleanor went up to London for the next three days running. She managed to cancel or postpone most of her local meetings and social arrangements without causing too many problems, getting back to the country each day in time to fulfil at least some of the prearranged appointments. She surprised herself by being calmly efficient in her lying; smoothly explaining that John had had a change of schedule in one of his developments, and that her interior design work had been brought forward. She had no worries that her subterfuge would be found out – her life in Surrey was so separate from John’s in London that the two rarely intertwined at all. She was quite well aware that John understood almost nothing of the time she spent apart from him during the week; she knew even as she chatted to him on a Sunday evening or Monday morning of her plans for the week ahead that he neither understood nor cared about the people and places she was describing. It had never worried her; she had found it rather sweet the way he bothered to grunt or reply occasionally in roughly the right places so as to keep her happy, and the monologues – which in effect was what they were – were delivered as much to herself as to her bored husband. Now, however, she found herself thinking quite differently about his lack of interest in her life, although it was proving very useful when it came to her surreptitious excursions up to town.

She divided her time between watching the outside of the office and that of the flat, happy to sit calmly in the car for hours at a time; parking it carefully so that the likelihood of it being identified was kept to a minimum. She still occasionally thought she might be imagining that there was any problem at all, but as she churned over it, time and time again, she knew more definitely all the time that she was right. The possibility that Ruth had happened to be at the same block of flats as John’s purely by chance, coupled with the knowledge of the tie and the way she had clearly lied about not having seen him over her holiday added up to only one conclusion. Eleanor didn’t know quite what she was waiting for. She just knew that if she gave it long enough, something or somebody would reveal a further clue, give her a little more evidence, a little more knowledge. Two questions dominated her thoughts as she tried to penetrate the superficial smattering of facts and find the truth. She couldn’t leave it alone. It was like an itchy patch of skin she kept fiddling with and picking at; worrying at the inflamed place until it would break open to reveal the ugly sore underneath. How long had the affair been going on? And did John think he loved Ruth, or was it a short-lived sexual encounter that had already begun to fizzle out? Either way, Eleanor wasn’t at all sure how she would react when she finally made her move; if indeed she ever did make a move at all. She had considered more than once doing nothing, returning to Surrey and pretending nothing had changed, that she had never heard Ruth mention the yellow tie, and never seen her in Nottingham Place.

But she knew that wasn’t possible. Never again would she be able to look John in the eye, never again hear him tell her of his evenings in town or his nights in the flat without being aware of the possibility that he was lying.

On the Thursday she made sure she got back in good time to the country, unsure as to whether John might be returning that evening, and wanting to see that everything was looking as normal as possible for his homecoming, and that she herself was calmly ready to tackle the awkwardness of having to face him for what was in effect the first time since the weekend. Their Spanish cleaning woman, Carla, given the extra time allowed by three days completely alone in the house without the coming and going of Eleanor, had tidied and polished more than usual, and Eleanor spent some time rearranging things, opening up windows and scattering signs of life about to make the house feel more as if it had been inhabited as normal during the past three days.

She didn’t know whether to feel angry, relieved or disappointed when John’s call came at six o’clock. It wasn’t as if it were anything new, of course, and many times over the years she had been rather pleased to have another night on her own in front of the television when she had been expecting to cook for John and spend the evening with him. But this time she found herself listening wryly to his call and realising that she had no way of knowing now whether what he said to her contained a word of truth.

‘So I’ll stay up till tomorrow darling, and leave a little early in the afternoon. Are we still on for the drink with Amanda, or didn’t you fix it?’

‘No, I haven’t called her. Any problem today? Any particular reason why you’re not coming back tonight?’ Is Ruth feeling a bit randy? Hasn’t she had enough this week? Eleanor mentally interpreted the conversation on both sides as it continued.

‘No, not really. Just a bit more on than I thought, that’s all.’ It’s not her. It’s him. He wants to spend another night next to her: to play with her firm, high breasts, to kiss her unlined, smooth face.

‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, about fourish as usual. Have a good evening.’ I hope she gives you a heart attack as she f—as you make love.

‘Yes, OK. Thanks, darling. Have a good evening yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He’s thanking God he’s got one more night away from me, you tired old bag.

As soon as she had put down the receiver, she knew she would go up to the flat again the next day. It felt like her last chance; once he had come back and spent all weekend at home she knew she would weaken into either saying something too soon and give him the chance to cover up the truth, or she would do nothing and let the suspicions fade away into a permanent, grumbling misery. The flat seemed like the best bet for a final throw: at the office they were used to his wife appearing with no notice; they would be too practised at their deceit. The flat she virtually never visited except when with John after an evening out together. If Ruth was seeing him there with any kind of regularity there was a good chance of her being caught.

No – of course! she suddenly thought. How could she have been so stupid? It wasn’t during the day that she would catch them – it was now, this evening, at night. He had rung with his excuse – bastard – and now knew his wife was safely at home as usual. Now was the time they’d be together, and now was the time she’d catch them.

She threw a jacket over her brown long-sleeved dress, picked up her bag and quickly locked up the house, catching the dog’s reproachful glance as she walked out through the kitchen.

‘Oh Christ, I haven’t fed you, have I, George? Never mind, I’ll do it when I get back. Be a good boy.’

She installed herself in her usual discreet parking place from where she could clearly see the front entrance to the flats, and waited. After ten minutes she began to feel impatient, and looked at her watch. Seven forty-five, she muttered quietly to herself. On a hardworking day he’ll stay at the office until seven thirty or eight, and reach the flat about eight fifteen. Give it another ten minutes or so.

But then a sudden quiver of something like frightened excitement ran down the inside of her belly as a thought struck her. Or does he? Has he been getting back to the flat far earlier than I’ve ever known? Has he been ringing me after he’s eaten, or made love, or lain in the bath with her, or whatever they like to do together when they first get there after work? Telling me he’s just got back, when they’ve been relaxing there for an hour or so with their drinks and their self-satisfied, smirking, knowing looks into each other’s eyes?

Anger ripped through her body and jolted her muscles into sudden, intense action. She almost leapt out of the car, slammed the door shut and ran over the road towards the building, not bothering, for the first time in her life, to lock the car, and intent on only one thing. To find them. Together. Now.

Too impatient to wait for the lift, she half ran, half walked up the stairs to the third floor, getting out of breath by the time she reached the second-floor landing, but refusing to let herself stop and rest until she had reached the flat and discovered what she felt sure was the lovers in their lair. She went straight for the door and inserted the key without hesitation, still fired by the furious indignation that had possessed her since she had left the car.

But once more the flat was empty.

This time she didn’t bother to look around or to search. She felt completely out of her depth, outwitted by a pair of conspirators, who, even now, she felt were watching her somehow, and laughing at her. Almost tearful in her frustration, and reluctant to return to the loneliness of the car, she began once more to walk slowly down the stairs, anxious to put off the decision of what to do next or where to go, and trying in some small way to recapture the relative serenity she had found the last time she had walked slowly back down from the flat in the warm, dark silence of the stairwell.

The door of the first-floor flat was ajar once more as she passed it, but this time there was no sound of a television, and the quietness surrounding her was deep and total and made her feel uneasy. She found herself missing the cheerful sound of the audience laughter that had reassured her those three days before. Once again, her footsteps creaked on the old floorboards of the landing, and she could hear her breath still escaping in little pants after the effort of the climb up.

As she started to go down the final flight of stairs she heard the sound of the door behind her being pulled further open. Almost as if she could feel it through the back of her neck, Eleanor sensed something extraordinary was about to take place. It seemed as if she knew exactly what she was going to hear just a split second before it happened, and it was almost calmly that she paused on the stair to listen, as the quiet, hesitant voice spoke gently into the twilight of the landing.

‘Ruth, dear, is that you? Is that you, Ruth?’

Eleanor turned round quickly just in time to catch a glimpse of the same grey-haired woman she had seen before. She thought she saw a flash of something like anxiety in the hooded eyes behind their gold-framed glasses as they looked into hers for a fraction of a second, but as Eleanor moved back up onto the landing and towards the door, it was closed quickly and firmly against her.