by Roz Watkins
‘He’s split with his girlfriend,’ I said, ‘and maybe he actually wants to see me.’
‘There’ll be more to it, you mark my words. He’s barely acknowledged your existence for the last fifteen years.’
‘I suppose so. But I think he’s genuinely worried about you. About your … trip.’
‘I doubt that. What did he say?’
‘He’s worried about your safety. Are you definitely going?’
‘I am, love, yes.’
‘To the murder capital of the world?’
‘If it was a civilised country with decent laws, there’d be no need for us now, would there? But I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say. I checked the foreign office website and it’s okay.’
‘Seriously?’
‘It’s mainly gang-related crime, and I won’t be getting involved with that now, will I?’
‘Nothing would surprise me.’
‘You do know in El Salvador a teenage girl was sentenced to thirty years in prison after she had a stillborn baby?’
‘I’ve read about a few cases.’
‘She was still at school. She’d been raped. Hadn’t realised she was pregnant and gave birth in a toilet. The baby died and the court ruled that failing to seek ante-natal care amounted to murder. Thirty years in prison.’
I put my mug down with a thud. ‘I looked into it. It makes me want to rip people’s throats out.’
‘She’s not the only one. Another woman was given a thirty-year sentence after she had a late miscarriage, because they claimed she’d induced it. Honestly, Meg, the poor woman wanted that baby. All her relatives testified that she was devastated to lose it. How do they think you induce a miscarriage anyway? If only it were that easy. Now she’s locked up for the rest of her life. You can’t even have an abortion if you’re raped, or if your life’s at risk or if the baby’s going to die anyway. Even if a child is raped. Can you imagine? A right-wing Catholic group are trying to take the sentences up to fifty years.’
‘I suppose when you only rape choir boys you don’t have to worry about pregnancy.’
Mum shook her head and tutted, but she couldn’t argue with the sentiment.
‘I get it, Mum,’ I said. ‘I understand you wanting to help.’
‘It will be only this once on the actual abortion ship. We’re getting set up with drones that can deliver pills. It’ll be easier for the women. I want to do it, Meg. It’s got to be better than just getting furious and feeling helpless, surely?’
‘I wish I could go with you.’
‘You do good things here.’
‘Not everyone thinks so at the moment, but yes. I’m proud of you, Mum. As far as I’m concerned, you should go for it.’
‘Thank you. I have the time now. And I’m good at dealing with bureaucracy and legal matters.’
‘And if all else fails, you know how to kill people.’
‘Not funny, Meg. What I was going to say was that, thanks to your gran, I have a bit of money.’
I smiled. ‘Gran would be proud of you too. I know she would.’
I had to support her. How could I not? But all the same I was worried about her going to El Salvador. I’d already lost Gran. I wasn’t sure I’d cope if anything happened to Mum.
‘I’ll be careful,’ she said. ‘The teams of women know what they’re doing out there. But what’s the point of life if you can’t do what you believe in?’
39
Dad had made supper and was in a perky mood when I got home, bouncing around the kitchen muttering about salad dressing. I collapsed onto a chair and he poured me wine, while Hamlet stalked over the countertop throwing me an occasional I-know-you’re-too-knackered-to-get-me-off-here look.
‘Dad, I’m sorry we haven’t had more chance to chat,’ I said. ‘This case—’
‘Are you making progress?’ He sat at the kitchen table and looked at me, waiting for my answer. He’d never asked me questions after Carrie got ill. He’d told me his views, expressed opinions on my life choices, explained why string theory was all wrong, but he’d never sat down, looked at me, asked me questions, and listened properly to the answers. Him doing it now felt like he’d grabbed my inner seven-year-old by the arm and dragged her back to that bright, shiny time before everything went to crap. The time when he’d say, How far away do you think the sun is, Meg? What happens if you go into a black hole? And when he’d wait for the answers with a proud smile twitching the edges of his mouth.
‘It looks like my instincts might have been wrong,’ I said, expecting his eyes to wander, the food to need checking.
Instead he carried on looking intently at me, a neat furrow between his brows. ‘Why so?’
Hamlet gave Dad’s vegetarian chilli a final contemptuous sneer before hurling himself off the counter and landing with a solid thud. I stood and found him a tin of cat food priced as if it included gold flakes and caviar, spooned some out, and sat back down at the table. Dad was still looking at me, waiting for an answer. He hadn’t seized the opportunity to start telling me stuff.
I took a breath. ‘The evidence leads to someone, but he’s disappeared. So now there’s a man-hunt going on. And …’ I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d liked Daniel. ‘Oh, never mind, I got it all wrong, and it’s stressful. Let’s change the subject. I’m sorry I’ve not been around. I haven’t asked you anything about your life. How are things in the world of theoretical physics?’ Or rather, Let’s get back to our familiar pattern.
‘Mad as ever,’ Dad said. ‘It’s hard to keep abreast once you’re retired, but it looks like time doesn’t go forward after all – everything sort of co-exists, so the future can influence the past.’
I took a swig of wine. ‘Right. That could come in handy.’
‘It’s unlikely to affect your day-to-day life.’
‘Shame. And how’s the poker going these days?’
He shifted on his chair. I caught a fleeting expression on his face that sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Not too bad. Yes, fun. How about you though? You say it’s stressful. Do you want to tell me about it?’
I hesitated. This was so unlike Dad I was almost joining the What does he want? camp. And should I ask more about the poker? His response had definitely been a bit odd. But he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. ‘You know that joke about the engineer, the physicist and the mathematician who see a black sheep in Scotland?’ Even though Dad was giving every impression of wanting to listen, I couldn’t stop myself introducing the problem in Dad-terms. Giving him the opportunity to be just a bit clever, right from the start.
‘Yes. The engineer says, Oh, the sheep in Scotland are black; the physicist says, No, some of the sheep in Scotland are black; and the mathematician rolls his eyes and says, No, in Scotland, there is at least one sheep, at least one side of which appears to be black when viewed from here, at least some of the time.’
‘That’s the one. Well, I feel like the mathematician.’
‘How so?’
‘There’s an explanation that fits the facts. And everyone’s assuming it’s true. Assuming the sheep is black. But what if it’s just one side of the sheep? Or only when viewed from this angle?’
Because if the sheep wasn’t black, we could be assuming Violet was dead when in fact she was alive and desperate for our help.
‘Do you want to talk about it? I’m the soul of discretion. I don’t talk to other humans, and I find quantum physics more comprehensible than social media, so I think you’re safe.’
‘I can’t, Dad, but I do appreciate you being willing to listen. Really I do.’
‘Okay, maybe you can’t tell me about it,’ Dad said. ‘But you’ve got a good brain. If it’s telling you to dig deeper, there’ll be a valid reason why.’
40
Meg – Present day
Friday
My eyes popped open. I was tangled in the covers, sweating with the humidity of the night. The rain still hadn’t come.
A noise had woke
n me. I looked at the clock: 3.14 a.m.
I pushed the covers aside and climbed out of bed. Walked over to the window and peered out. The night was a deep black, the moon hidden behind clouds. But I sensed movement in the garden below.
I pulled on knickers and jeans under my nightshirt and crept down to the kitchen. The light was on. My pulse quickened. I was sure it hadn’t been on when I’d looked out of the bedroom window, or I’d have been able to see more of the garden.
There was no sign of Hamlet, which sent a thrumming unease into my veins. I checked the cardboard box which was his current preferred sleeping place, vastly favoured over his expensive bed, but there was no sign of him.
The back door was slightly open – not ajar, but not completely closed. I thought I heard voices coming from the garden.
I grabbed my friction lock baton from my harness, crept to the far side of the kitchen, and peered out of the window.
Someone was standing in the garden, the light from the kitchen highlighting their edges.
Dad?
What was he doing? I was about to push open the door and go to him, but I stopped. His body was rigid and stone-still. And someone else was there.
Dad’s voice was audible through the slightly open door, sounding husky and anxious. ‘Put him down now.’
I looked to the far end of the garden, where the light from the kitchen barely reached.
A man. Standing in the shadows. Wearing a black balaclava. Holding something.
A flash of white from the thing he was holding. I gasped.
Hamlet. He was holding Hamlet.
I twitched with the urge to run into the garden, but stopped myself. These people had knives and had killed pets. It would only take a second for the bastard to slit Hamlet’s throat right in front of us and escape into the shadows. At the moment he was hesitating.
Clutching the baton, I ran into the hallway, unlocked the front door, and dashed out. There was a path which went around the side of the house, and brought you into the garden from the rear. If I could get down there, I’d be behind the man.
I gasped. I’d trodden on a stone. Luckily the path down the side of the house was paved. I slowed as I got nearer to the gate into the garden.
I could hear low voices. Dad and the man talking.
‘Get me a hundred quid and maybe I won’t kill the stupid cat.’
Then Dad’s voice. ‘Come on, you know you won’t get away with this.’ Why wasn’t he just getting some money?
‘I mean it,’ the man said. ‘I know it’s the detective’s cat. The one that’s protecting Violet’s murderer.’
‘Hold on,’ Dad said. ‘She’s not protecting anyone. You’ve got it wrong.’
My grip tightened on the baton. I crept forward. The wooden gate was open. The man had his back to me.
Dad looked in my direction. His eyes widened and his mouth opened a fraction. I frowned at him and put my finger to my lips. He looked away, back to Hamlet, who was struggling in the man’s arms.
I raised the baton, stepped forward and brought it smashing down on the man’s head.
He screamed, dropped Hamlet, and flung an arm at my face. I ducked and grabbed at him, managing to get his hand. I could feel a bit of skin, and I scratched my fingers on it as hard as I could as he slithered from my grasp. He spun round and ran across the garden before barging through the hedge and disappearing.
Hamlet crashed through his flap into the kitchen. My breathing was coming fast, my heart pounding. Dad was standing in his dressing gown, looking at me in stunned silence. I walked across the lawn to him. ‘Let’s get inside.’
I followed Dad into the kitchen, closed the door firmly behind us, and swivelled Hamlet’s flap to ‘closed’.
Dad lowered himself onto one of the chairs. ‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘In the garden.’
I picked up the kettle and took it to the sink, hands shaking. The tap was too tight. I couldn’t work it with one hand. I put the kettle in the sink and realised I was crying. I turned to Dad. ‘Oh my God, they had Hamlet. Why didn’t I keep him in? I’m so stupid.’
I put the kettle down, and swooped over and grabbed Hamlet, holding him tight. For once, he tolerated it, although he wasn’t purring. I buried my head in his fluffy fur and tried not to sob.
Hamlet finally decided enough was enough and grappled his way out of my grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.
‘Careful now,’ Dad said. ‘You wouldn’t want him injuring himself.’
I laughed. ‘Oh God. No, he’s not the most graceful.’
I turned back to the kettle and managed to fill it and stick it on its base. The image flashed into my mind. The man holding Hamlet. Hamlet who was so innocent and trusting. Who’d most likely gone up to the guy for a stroke. My voice was cold. ‘I’d fucking kill him,’ I said. ‘Seriously. I would not rest until he was dead.’
‘Sit down a minute,’ Dad said. ‘Hamlet’s fine.’
‘What if they’re killing other people’s cats?’
‘They won’t do that. It would alienate too many people. Sit down. There’s nothing you can do now. Have a cup of tea.’
I found my case, dug out an evidence bag and carefully scraped under my fingernails.
‘Do you think you got his DNA?’ Dad asked.
I nodded. ‘Just hope he’s on the database.’
I made us each a tea, dished out some food for Hamlet who I figured deserved it even though he was getting fat, and plonked myself down at the table. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I can do now, but I will get that bastard. Thank God you heard him and Hamlet’s okay.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping well since I split from Pauline. Silver linings.’ He looked into his tea. ‘Meg, I know I haven’t been the best father to you. After Carrie died, it was … difficult with your mother. I know I’m not very good at talking about things.’
‘It’s okay.’ I swallowed. ‘I didn’t talk about things either. I should have told you and Mum what I said to Carrie that morning, instead of carrying it around inside me for twenty-five years.’ I remembered an exercise a therapist had made me do, where I’d imagined going back in time and telling my younger self that it wasn’t her fault. That Carrie had decided to kill herself, that she was actually saving herself from a huge amount of pain and anguish. That nothing a ten-year-old had said would have made any difference. It had helped, but not enough. ‘I guess I’ll always feel guilty,’ I said. ‘But it’s manageable these days.’
Dad cleared his throat. ‘It wasn’t your fault she killed herself. You do know that, don’t you?’
The shift in his tone triggered alarm bells. I knew there was more to this. ‘Did something else happen that day that I don’t know about?’ I said. ‘You need to tell me.’
Dad’s eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly. ‘No, of course not. But it was our fault so much more than yours. She told us she wanted to die and we didn’t listen. We were selfish. We didn’t want to lose a single day with her. We’re the ones who should feel guilty for making her go through that.’ He touched his eye. ‘For making her do it all on her own.’
He’d finally said that to me. After all these years. ‘We should help that charity,’ I said. ‘I can give you some of Gran’s money. Why do I need to own a house anyway?’
41
Meg – Present day
Friday
I was pursuing Hamlet through a busy city centre, people jostling and pushing me, Hamlet getting further and further away, me shouting in desperation.
I snapped my eyes open and waited for my breathing to slow, my heart to stop jumping in my chest.
It was still early but I got straight out of bed, slipped on my dressing gown, and padded downstairs to reassure myself that Hamlet was okay.
Dad was already in the kitchen, doing the crossword in a three-day-old copy of The Times. I smiled at him. ‘Where’s Hammy?’
‘Oh, I let him out. He was bashing his head against his flap. I thought h
e needed a pee.’
‘You let him out? Bloody hell, Dad, people are trying to kill him! He’s got a litter tray.’
‘They won’t try anything in the daytime, Meg.’
A spark of anger. ‘Why didn’t you just give that bloke a hundred quid anyway, Dad?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, I heard.’ I grabbed a box of dry food – stuff Hamlet loved but didn’t often get because of his kidneys and the size of his belly. I opened the door and shook it.
I pictured the cheque I’d written the night before. Made out to my dad, because he needed to confirm the exact details. The cheque I’d written after our heart-to-heart about Carrie, when I was flushed with thinking he was a good person after all. A creeping sense of unease was rising inside me.
‘You can’t give in to people like that,’ Dad said. ‘If I’d agreed a hundred, he’d have asked for two hundred.’
I shook the box more frantically.
A little black-and-white face popped out of a shrub at the bottom of the garden. I released my breath. ‘Oh, he’s here.’
Hamlet trotted over, undercarriage swaying, and shot into the kitchen.
I poured him some of his crack-cocaine-based snacks, shut the cat flap and shoved a chair against it. ‘He’s going to Hannah’s. He knows he can’t go out when he’s there. And I’m off to work. I’ll see you later.’
Hamlet was in his basket on the passenger seat next to me, face pressed up against the grille of his cat carrier, clawing plaintively at it, wailing like he was being tortured. I had to stop at the lights on the A6 and a concerned passer-by peered into the car, obviously thinking I was molesting a small child. I smiled nervously at her and pulled away. I was heading for Hannah’s, having exchanged a few texts and confirmed she could have him.
The phone rang. Mum. I pressed to accept. ‘Meg, love, you haven’t given your father any money, have you?’
I blinked a couple of times. ‘Hi, Mum, nice to hear from you.’ I slowed the car, a sense of foreboding gnawing at my stomach.