"Well, either way, I'll send them on to the address on the paper." She repeated the address, which was the official address of 'Morgan Properties', basically the address for the newsagent.
"Okay, thank you. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss."
When she put the phone down, I wondered if I should have asked how he died. I was glad that I didn't.
My curiosity, however, wasn't on hold for long. I opened my laptop and googled Darren's name. Millions of results. I searched again, adding 'Cardiff' and 'Cathedral Road'. A short article in a local paper and a few posts on YEARBOOK revealed what had happened.
Around three weeks after the events in the cellar, a neighbour of the property that Darren owned, the one that Ferrers had been renting, had telephoned the police to complain about a dreadful smell emanating from the house. When the police eventually found sufficient reason to enter, they found Darren's decaying body in the bath in the first floor bathroom. He was naked and was believed to have fallen in the tub, injuring himself and bleeding out in the process. He was a haemophiliac apparently.
I sat back in my swivel chair, rubbed my face and let out a deep sigh. So sad, I thought. Poor Darren.
I shut the door to the shop floor, closed the blinds in the back office and resumed my seat. My headache was still there and, although manageable, I wanted to ensure that it wasn't exacerbated by the terrible news.
I could not sleep as I lay my head on the desk. Thoughts of Darren and of sadness permeated my thoughts and I couldn't switch off.
Then it struck me.
The clawing at the back of my mind became a thought. I kept my eyes closed and concentrated. Yes! In the onslaught of images that had charged through me in that cellar room, I had seen Rachel attack him. The image was there, squirreled away at the back of my brain, and filed away until it was important that I see it. The vision had been so fleeting and so mixed up with others at the time, that I hadn't even processed it. Poor Darren indeed, dead in the bathtub.
Going to Darren's funeral was the right thing to do to do. I didn't ask anyone to come with me, not my mother, or Kurt. That would have felt wrong somehow. But I put on black trousers and a neat blouse under my winter coat and went on my own. I paid my respects through hymns and prayers, then quietly escaped the church before mourners were invited back to the house for platitudes and refreshments. The prospect of going to the house where Darren's body was found filled me with dread, but his parents spent most of their time abroad and there was nowhere else to host the wake. Besides, I didn't know Darren that well, and to pretend I did, among all the genuine mourners, felt like I was doing him and them a disservice.
As I left the church, in the distance, between the limousines and black-hatted women, I thought I saw Kasper. My guts churned and the fine hair on my neck stood to attention. When I looked again he was gone. Probably for the best I thought.
I quietly made my way through the lych-gate to my car, breathing in the spring air which smelled like renewal and counting the blessings of an uneventful month. For the first time in an age I felt boringly, reassuringly human. An ordinary human with an incredibly messed-up family. Like most things in life, what's normal after all? It's all relative.
A Thanks from the Author
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Thanks again for taking the time to check out my book!
Helen Treharne
Sophie Morgan (Book 2): Death in the Family Page 25