All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘Up here.’ The woman pushed past them and started up the stairs, Ellen and Abby close behind. They followed her into a light and airy first-floor flat with large sash windows and views across Hither Green and Catford. The place was cheaply but tastefully furnished. Second-hand vintage pieces chosen over Ikea.

  An original Victorian fireplace dominated one side of the room. A single, wooden-framed photo was the only decoration on the mantelpiece above it. There were two people in the photo: the woman who’d let them into the flat and a man. The woman’s arms were wrapped around his neck. They were in the countryside somewhere. Both wearing sensible, outdoor jackets and both smiling at Ellen. The man looked different in life. People always did. But there was no mistaking who he was. The same pale brown eyes and tight-cropped blonde hair.

  Ellen turned from his smiling face and back to the woman.

  ‘Can we sit down?’ she asked.

  The woman lowered herself onto a low, overstuffed armchair beside the fireplace. Ellen chose the small two-seater sofa opposite, while Abby perched on a high-backed chair by the table near the window.

  ‘Nice photo.’ Ellen pointed to the photo on the mantelpiece.

  ‘West Sussex,’ the woman said. ‘We spent two weeks there last September. Before you lot kicked us out. Is that what this is about?’

  ‘Anti-fracking?’ Ellen said. ‘No, that’s not why we’re here. It’s about Mr Burton. Kieran. You’re his girlfriend, Miss …?’

  ‘Lover,’ the woman said. ‘Kieran’s my lover. I’m his. And it’s Ms Gleeson. Freya Gleeson. Look, can you please tell me what this is about? I’m worried.’

  ‘Any reason?’ Ellen asked.

  Freya snorted. ‘Apart from you turning up unannounced, you mean? Wouldn’t you be worried?’

  ‘Kieran lives here with you,’ Ellen said. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he was here with you last night?’

  Freya groaned. ‘Please. Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘We’ll get to that in a minute,’ Ellen said. ‘Is that Mr Burton with you in the photo?’

  Freya nodded. She looked scared now and Ellen dreaded having to tell her why they were here.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ she asked.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Freya whispered. ‘We went to a party. Kieran left before me but he never came home. He wasn’t here when I got back last night and I haven’t seen him since. It’s not like him and I’ve been worried. He’s not answering his phone. Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Where was the party?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Blackheath,’ Freya said. ‘It was my mother’s birthday. She always throws these huge parties. It’s not really my scene but she insists I come along. Even though she’s usually too drunk to notice if I’m there or not.’

  ‘A man’s body was found in Blackheath early this morning,’ Ellen said. ‘We think he may be Kieran.’

  Freya shook her head. Her mouth opened and closed like she was trying to speak but had forgotten how to. She leaned forward, arms clasped around her middle, gasping for air. Abby jumped up, ran to Freya’s side and put her arms around her.

  Freya shoved her away and started crying, loud, howling sobs that Ellen tried to block out. Like her colleagues, this was the bit of her job she hated the most. She’d learned early on that the only way to deal with moments like this was to shut herself down. Literally. She pictured her brain as a number of compartments. Each one responsible for different functions: breathing, moving, thinking, feeling. The feeling compartment – bigger than the others – was the one she closed off now. It was a skill she’d developed as a young child. A little girl’s way of dealing with a trauma too impossible for a young mind to understand. Applying the same technique to her job was easy. The hard part came later. Finding the switch that got the compartment working again. Once she’d shut herself down, it was difficult to bring herself back sometimes. Difficult to open herself up once again to all the pain and the long line of dead people waiting to take up space inside her head once more.

  Gradually, Freya’s wailing diminished to a low, keening sound. Some long minutes later she wiped her face and looked up. Ellen saw raw grief and forced herself not to look away.

  ‘Where is he?’ Freya asked.

  ‘He’s been taken to the morgue,’ Ellen said. ‘The pathologist needs to examine him, see if we can find out exactly what happened. We can arrange to take you to him if you’d like. First, though, I’m afraid there’s some questions we need to ask you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Freya said. ‘Yes. What happened to him? You haven’t told me that. Did … oh God, what was it? A hit-and-run or …?’

  Ellen saw the dead man’s face. The surprise she imagined in his wide-open brown eyes. The dark stain of blood spread across the front of his sweatshirt.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Abby said. ‘Until the pathologist has had a chance to examine him, we can’t confirm the cause of death.’

  ‘But you must have some idea,’ Freya said. ‘I mean, you’d know if it was a heart attack or what-do-you-call-it, natural causes or …’

  ‘Freya, please,’ Ellen said. ‘We shouldn’t speculate. We need your help. Can you do that?’

  Freya nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Ellen said. ‘Can you start by telling us about yesterday evening? Talk us through it until when you left the party.’

  ‘We had dinner here.’ Freya’s voice wobbled, but apart from that she’d done a good job of getting a grip on her emotions. She was either a very tough young woman, Ellen thought, or she’d had time to prepare. Ellen wasn’t sure which.

  ‘It was lovely,’ Freya said. ‘We’ve both been … oh God, I can’t believe … we’ve been really busy. Kieran’s studies take up so much time. He works … worked … so hard. We made the effort last night to spend some time together. Both of us wanted to stay in but we had to go out. My mother. She … well, she can be a bit needy. Oh God. Has anyone spoken to her yet?’

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Ellen said. ‘Tell us what happened after dinner.’

  ‘We went to her stupid party,’ Freya said. ‘Kieran met a friend for a quick drink and he joined me there later.’

  ‘What friend?’ Ellen asked.

  Freya shrugged. ‘Someone from his uni course, I think. He was at the party by nine. My mother was drunk already, of course. She can get a bit nasty when she’s drunk and last night was no exception. She doesn’t like Kieran. Didn’t like him.’

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  ‘Where in Blackheath does she live?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Heath Lane,’ Freya said. ‘Oh God, is that where you found him?’

  She started wailing again. Ellen thought the sudden switch from control to hysteria seemed forced. She glanced at her watch. Three minutes to midday. She was due to collect her children at four o’clock. A while away yet. She considered calling Rosie and asking her to do it. Just as quickly, she changed her mind.

  She stood up.

  ‘Mind if I have a look around the flat?’ she asked.

  Freya wiped her face with the back of her sleeve and sniffed. ‘You won’t find anything.’

  ‘It helps us get an idea of who Kieran was,’ Abby said. ‘DI Kelly won’t mess anything up. And it won’t take long. Why don’t we let her get on with what she has to do? In the meantime, how about I make us both a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘You think that will help?’ Freya asked. ‘You think tea is going to make this all right? When can I see him? That’s all I want to do right now. Not sit here drinking fucking tea.’

  Ellen caught Abby’s eye and motioned for her to make the tea, regardless. Quietly, she slipped out of the sitting room into the hall. From here, Ellen could see through open doors into the other three rooms in the flat – a small, galley-style kitchen, a blue-tiled bathroom and a bedroom.

  She started in the bedroom. A small, dark room with a musty smell and a layer of dust across the window-sill and the second-han
d wooden wardrobe. The double bed was unmade, with a faded-looking matching quilt and pillow set thrown on top. One pillow indented from where someone had slept on it. The other, fluffed up and untouched.

  Ellen opened the wardrobe, flicked through the collection of jeans and shirts. It was difficult to tell which clothes belonged to Kieran and which were Freya’s. A messy pile of posters sat by the side of the bed. Ellen picked one up. An advertisement for a Greenpeace demonstration that had taken place in London three months ago. The other posters were all Greenpeace as well. Otherwise, there were no personal touches in the room.

  Beside the bed, there was a small cabinet with three drawers and another layer of dust across the top. Ellen opened each one of these. Neat piles of washed-out underwear in the top two drawers and a selection of cheap-looking tee-shirts in the bottom drawer. Nothing else.

  The bathroom didn’t offer anything, either. Cheap men’s cleanser and moisturiser in the bathroom cabinet but no corresponding products for a woman. Ellen didn’t think she was particularly vain, but sharing her partner’s beauty products? That was a new one. Even if she had no money, she was pretty sure her bathroom cabinet would have female beauty products for sharing with a partner, not the other way around. Maybe Kieran was a bully who insisted his needs came first. Or Freya was a doormat who put his needs before her own? Ellen filed both thoughts away for later.

  The galley kitchen was tiny. An old-looking oven and washing machine, a microwave oven. No dishwasher but no dirty plates in the sink and everything tidied away neatly. An unopened bottle of red wine from Aldi stood on the MDF worktop.

  On her way back to the sitting room, the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

  Whoever the caller was, they were determined to be let in. The bell rang repeatedly as Ellen ran to answer it. She noticed an empty coat-stand in the corner of the hall. Kieran Burton had been wearing a jacket when they found him. Ellen wondered if they’d shared that, as well.

  Downstairs, she opened the door to a scrawny woman with skin that had spent too long under a sunbed and sticks of straw hair that protruded from her skull in random directions. When she spoke, the stink of stale booze nearly floored Ellen.

  ‘Where is she?’ the woman asked. ‘What have you done with my daughter?’

  The mother. First impressions – she was nothing like Freya. Ellen supposed last night’s party might go some way to explaining the boozy breath and the dishevelled appearance. Although something about the woman made her suspect this was more than a one-off.

  ‘Freya’s mother?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘DI Kelly,’ Ellen said. ‘Lewisham CID. Freya’s okay. So please don’t worry about her. But I’m afraid I have got some bad news. You’d better come inside.’

  Four

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry. It just won’t go in. Freya, darling, what on earth happened?’

  Freya shrugged and edged her way along the sofa, away from her mother.

  Charlotte looked at Abby. ‘I don’t know what I’m meant to do,’ she said.

  Ellen thought of her adopted parents, remembering what a strength they had been in the days and weeks and months after Vinny died. She doubted Freya would get anything like that from her own mother.

  A strand of bleached blonde hair had fallen across Charlotte’s face. The hand she used to brush it back was shaking. Shock or hangover or some combination of both.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Freya said.

  ‘How did it …?’ Charlotte directed the question at Abby. She appeared to be doing her best to ignore Ellen. It was a reaction Ellen was used to. She knew she could come across as intimidating. Abby, on the other hand, exuded a warmth that made people – victims and suspects – instinctively trust her.

  ‘We can’t confirm that yet.’

  Abby gave Charlotte her best sympathetic smile. Ellen didn’t know how she managed it. Charlotte Gleeson was pathetic. All she’d done since she’d got here was cry and say how terrible it was and what were they going to do in the face of such a tragedy. Not once had she asked her daughter how any of this was affecting her, or how she was feeling.

  Ellen remembered what Freya had said about her mother: she can get a bit nasty when she’s drunk and last night was no exception.

  ‘He was at your party last night?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Was he? I don’t … I’m not sure, actually.’ Charlotte frowned and looked at Freya as if she might have the answer.

  ‘He didn’t stay long,’ Freya said. She looked at Ellen. ‘Like I told you, it wasn’t exactly his scene.’

  Ellen looked at Charlotte. ‘Did you have some sort of argument with Kieran? Is that why he left?’

  Charlotte put a hand over her mouth and shook her head. ‘Oh no. Definitely not.’ She attempted a laugh but it sounded more like a sob. ‘Freya, darling, why would she say something like that?’

  ‘You were drunk.’ The expression on Freya’s face made up for the lack of emotion in her voice. Disgust mingled with hatred. Something that ran far deeper than whatever had happened between Charlotte and Kieran at the party last night.

  ‘It was my birthday,’ Charlotte said. ‘Surely you don’t begrudge me that?’

  Freya looked like she begrudged it very much indeed but instead of saying that, she turned to Ellen.

  ‘Can I see him?’

  Ellen wanted to say no. You can’t see him yet. Not until you tell me more about your mother and why you hate her so much and what she said that made your boyfriend leave the party early last night. But that would have to wait. Before she could get answers to any of those questions, she needed a formal ID that would confirm what she already knew. That the dead man was definitely Kieran Burton.

  * * *

  The tall, stern detective drove them across in a dark green Audi. The car was a surprise. Charlotte would have expected a Ford or a Vauxhall or something equally tasteless. She felt sick and would have sat in the front, but Freya got in there first. Clambering in beside the police woman without even checking if that was okay with everyone else. Not that Charlotte could really blame her. Poor Freya was probably still in shock. Charlotte certainly was.

  The morgue was a red-brick Victorian building at the back of Lewisham Hospital. The detective pulled into a parking bay and got out without saying a word. Which was awkward really because it didn’t give Charlotte a chance to ask what she was meant to do.

  Beside her, the pretty one unstrapped her seatbelt and put her hand on Freya’s shoulder.

  ‘Ready?’

  Freya twisted her head around and looked at Charlotte. ‘Are you coming too?’

  Oh God. Charlotte wanted to say no. She couldn’t do it. Not like this. She licked her lips as she thought of a way out. There was a pub across the road. She’d spotted it on the way in. How bad would it look if she suggested they go there first? Just for one. She wasn’t mental and she knew how important it was that they did this. But surely it would be easier with a bit of Dutch courage to help them along the way?

  Freya shook her head and Charlotte recognised the familiar look of disgust in her daughter’s eyes. Almost as if Freya knew what Charlotte was thinking. Which was stupid, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. Her daughter always made her feel like this: stupid and pointless and nothing more than an irritation.

  ‘What about Nick?’ Charlotte managed. ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’

  ‘Fine,’ Freya said. ‘Don’t bother. I’d rather go in without you anyway.’

  She opened her door and got out, the car shaking and swaying from the heavy movements.

  ‘If you can’t face it,’ the pretty detective said, ‘that’s not a problem. I’ll go with her, make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘No.’ Charlotte got out before she could change her mind. Freya was right to be angry. This was the one time her daughter actually needed her. The one time she could do something that wouldn’t make Freya
angry or upset or any of the other things Charlotte made her feel, none of them good or positive or the sorts of emotions a mother should inspire in her daughter.

  She leaned against the side of the car to stop herself swaying from the wave of nausea that ran through her body.

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  Freya was ahead of her, walking through the swinging glass doors behind the other detective. Charlotte tried to remember the woman’s name as she hurried after them. Irish name. Kelly. Erin Kelly? Something like that. It didn’t matter. All that mattered right now was getting herself through the glass doors and staying strong for Freya. It wasn’t a lot to ask. She forced herself inside, into the cool, dark hallway. You can do this, she told herself. You can do this and you will do this and afterwards, when it’s all over, Freya will see what you’ve done for her and she will be grateful for it. And that was something to hold onto.

  If she’d known how bad it was going to be, she would have stayed outside. Nothing in the world could have prepared her. There was the smell, for starters. A pervasive, chemical stench that invaded her insides, growing stronger and more repulsive with every breath she breathed in and every step she took deeper and deeper into the heart of this terrible place.

  The room where the bodies were kept burned under the white glare of strip-lighting that hurt Charlotte’s eyes and made it impossible to focus on what was happening. Rows and rows of silver drawers. A body inside each one. She knew this because the man in the white medical jacket pulled one open and drew the drawer out to reveal the body they’d come to look at.

  She saw a toe first. Sticking out from the pale green sheet. A single toe that could belong to anyone, but it was Kieran’s toe. She knew it was Kieran because the man had pulled the body out completely now and it was there, lying in front of her.

  His eyes were closed and he looked like a dead man and nothing like someone she’d ever known. But it was him. She knew the moment she saw him. Her head filled up with images and memories and smells and she remembered his hands on her body and his breath warm on her face and the way it had been with them, fast and desperate and wrong. So bloody wrong, and she’d hated him for it and hated herself more.