The Unheard

by Nicci French

  I finished my tea, put it on the floor, lay down on Poppy’s bed, put my muzzy head on Poppy’s pillow beside her favourite pyjamas, which were purple and decorated with pink seahorses. I thought about everything my friends had said and how with love and kindness they had rubbed out the picture I had of myself.

  Maybe Jason and I hadn’t separated. Maybe he had left me, while making me believe we were deciding together what was for the best. Hot tears filled my eyes.

  I wanted my daughter. I wanted Aidan. I wanted to go back and do everything again and do it better. I didn’t know what I wanted: I just wanted.

  A fat tear rolled down my face and into my hair, then another. I wiped my face with the sleeve of Poppy’s pyjama top.

  And as I did so, I felt a strange and nasty tingling on my skin, as if I had a high fever or was going to be violently sick. My stomach knotted. I sat up.

  Why were Poppy’s pyjamas on top of her pillow? I felt sure that earlier they’d been tucked under it. Hadn’t they? I shut my eyes for a moment and tried to remember. Memory is fickle – that’s what everyone had told me, over and over again during these last days of nightmare. A child can’t be trusted to distinguish between memory and imagination, and nor could I be trusted when I said that the woman who accosted me in an Italian restaurant was the same woman who had died falling from a tower. My memory of my life with Jason had turned out to be a tattered thing made from anxious hope and blindness. Memory is a lie, a creative act, a flimsy shield against the truth.

  But Poppy’s pyjamas? I could see them as they had been that afternoon, under the pillow. I stood up, looked around, my eyes scanning the room. My gaze froze on the Easter bonnet. Surely, surely, when I had looked at it earlier, the dried flowers I had stitched on had been facing me full on. Now they were at the back.

  The chunky green caterpillar – that had been on the top of the toy basket and now it was half under the patchwork quilt. The drawers on the chest had all been closed and now the top one was a few inches open.

  Someone had been in here. They had shut Sunny into the room, because now when I thought about it, I knew I had fed him just before I left and watched him tumble his old body through the cat flap. Someone had come in here and they had lifted up Poppy’s toys, her pillow, her Easter bonnet. I stood absolutely still, not breathing, and strained to hear a sound. Nothing, just the intermittent rumble of a car passing, the faint sigh of the breeze in the trees, the complaining creak of the water pipes.

  Very quietly, I went out of Poppy’s room and shut the door. I went into my bedroom and tried to remember exactly what it had been like when I left. I opened my wardrobe and a dress had slid off its hanger. I picked it up and put in back on the hanger: had it been like that?

  Had there been a robbery? I opened my jewellery box, though I didn’t have anything of value – no gold or diamonds. I gazed around.

  In the conservatory, everything looked as I had left it. Except a cupboard door hung ajar: one of its hinges had come loose and it had to be lifted up to shut it properly. I didn’t remember it being open. I didn’t think I would have left it like that, because I was pretty obsessive about returning to a tidy house. I hated beds not being made, cupboards and drawers left open, chairs not pushed into the table.

  I moved slowly round the flat, running my hands over surfaces. I checked the windows, the doors to the garden.

  I was sure, but what was my evidence? Just a memory of how a cat was not shut into a room, pyjamas were folded under a pillow, a cupboard door was closed, not open. And who would believe me? After all, I was the woman who had already cried wolf.

  THIRTY

  It took me over an hour and a half to get to Lewisham and find Faversham Drive, but I was still twenty minutes early. I paced the side streets, hot and itchy with nervousness and the sense of doing something underhand.

  At five minutes before four o’clock, I rang the bell at 12a and heard its chime, then footsteps. The door opened and Felicity Carey Connors stood before me, an expectant smile on her face. She was my height, my kind of age. Before she even spoke, I liked her.

  ‘Tess?’

  ‘Yes. Good to meet you.’

  ‘You too. Come in.’

  She led me up stairs and into the living room of her flat. It was light and tidy, with bare sanded floorboards, pale wooden furniture, a few paintings on the walls, and a smell of baking. There was a cello on its stand in the middle of the room and some sheets of music beside it. I felt bewildered. Perhaps this Felicity had nothing at all to do with Ben’s Fliss.

  ‘You didn’t bring your cello.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never mind. Have a seat. Do you want a cup of tea? And I’ve made some biscuits.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Oh? Then—’

  ‘The truth is, I don’t want lessons.’

  She turned her calm face to me. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. I want to talk about Ben.’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘You are married to Ben? Or were, that is.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tess. I’m Tess Moreau.’

  ‘Yes, but who are you? Why are you here?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Either explain or leave.’

  We were both still standing, the cello between us. I realised that she was angry – but also that she was the Fliss I was looking for.

  ‘I was married to Jason before he married Emily.’ I coughed unnecessarily; I couldn’t think how to tell the story so it made any sense. ‘I met Ben at their house a few weeks ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he didn’t seem in a good way.’

  ‘What business is that of yours? What right have you got to come out here to tell me that? As if I didn’t know already.’

  I tried to explain, stumbling through the story, telling her about Poppy’s drawing, Poppy’s nightmares, the mutilated doll, the death, the fact that it was a murder, my gathering dread. She stood with her hand on the neck of the cello and listened to the end.

  ‘And you think poor Ben might somehow be involved in all of this?’

  She spoke with a kind of contempt and I felt my whole body flush hot. ‘I just need to make sure it’s safe for Poppy to be with him,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m not showing you the door.’

  I tried to smile, but my mouth was the wrong shape, stiff and square.

  ‘Oh God, let’s have some tea in the kitchen,’ she said.

  The kitchen was small, with a little table against one wall and two chairs. Felicity gestured to one and I sat and watched her while she made a pot of tea and took some biscuits from the wire cooling rack.

  ‘Oat and ginger.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When we met he wasn’t like he is now.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Look.’ She pointed at a photo on the wall and there they both were, in a different world. I barely recognised him: he had a tender face and short hair and a smile. Only the eyes were the same.

  ‘He gets depressed,’ she said. ‘I mean, really depressed. You’re probably thinking it cruel of me to chuck him out.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not thinking that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t take his pills. Then he started drinking too much. He lost his job. Everything went downhill. I thought I could stick it out, but the truth is, I couldn’t. I kept giving him ultimatums, but it was like sliding into a nightmare. In the end, I just couldn’t take it anymore.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t,’ I said. I’d seen Ben and could imagine how awful it must have been.

  ‘At least he has Emily.’

  ‘So you think he couldn’t do…’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I’ve never seen him violent. Only sad and kind of…’ She searched for the word. ‘Vacant. Like he’s taken leave of himself. He’s just a poor sap who can’t cope with life. And I let him down, which was probably the last stra
w. I don’t feel good about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She picked up a biscuit and dipped it into her tea. ‘I feel very bad about him; I can hardly bear to think of it. But I wouldn’t have him back, not the way he is. I wasn’t any help to him. He was like a drowning man who was pulling me under with him. And I quite like living on my own. It’s simpler, anyway.’

  As I left, a few rich notes from the cello floated into the street. Poor Ben.

  THIRTY-ONE

  When I rang her on Monday morning, Kelly Jordan was as unimpressed as I had expected her to be.

  ‘Were there signs of forced entry?’

  ‘Not that I could see.’

  ‘And you say that nothing was stolen.’

  ‘You know that feeling where you can’t put your finger on it, but you know someone has been in your room?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Things had been moved around, like someone was looking for something.’ There was a pause. ‘I know this all sounds vague, but I thought I should tell you. I know that your heart must sink every time you hear my voice.’

  She didn’t contradict me. ‘Normally I’d tell you to report it so that you’d get a case number, but to be frank I’m not sure what there is to report. Or, to put it more baldly, there is nothing.’

  ‘I just thought I should tell you anything that’s relevant.’

  ‘Relevant?’

  ‘Yes. To the case.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of it.’

  I doubted whether she was making an actual note.

  ‘There’s something else I should mention,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m on the bus. I’m going to the inquest. Maybe I’ll see you there?’

  When Jordan responded there was a new note of incredulity in her voice. ‘You mean the Skye Nolan inquest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, you won’t see me there. Why on earth are you going?’

  ‘I was hoping to learn something about the case.’

  ‘There won’t be anything to learn. It’ll just be a formality. More to the point, you shouldn’t be going.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re obsessed.’

  ‘That’s what you call it. I call it—’

  ‘I don’t care what you call it. I am seriously advising you to stop your wild goose chase. For our sake; for your sake. Also, these are people who’ve lost someone in the most terrible way.’

  ‘I’ll be sensitive,’ I said.

  I ended the call. I wasn’t sure the exchange had improved my situation.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The coroner’s court was on the side of an abandoned-looking building on the edge of St Pancras churchyard. The only sign of the proceedings was a little typed schedule pasted up on the window next to the door. The inquest was due to start in less than five minutes. I pushed at the door, but it was locked. I pressed a button and heard an unintelligible voice.

  ‘I’m here for the inquest,’ I said, and the door clicked open.

  As I stepped in, I was met by a large man in a grey suit.

  ‘Are you friend or family?’ he asked.

  ‘Friend.’

  The man gestured towards an open door behind him. I walked inside. I had expected some kind of municipal office, but this was more like a chapel with a gabled roof, six chandeliers and old oak pews arranged at the back and two more rows on one side. There was a sombre dignity to it, as if I was attending a wedding or a funeral. At the front was a raised dais, like in a courtroom, with a large video display and a computer screen and whiteboard, all facing forwards.

  The room was almost empty and I sat in the back row, a few feet away from a young man in a dark suit who was looking at his phone. Perhaps he was a journalist. Two people were seated in the front row on the right-hand side. I could only see them from the back. A woman with purple hair, a bright scarf round her thin shoulders, sitting very straight. Her companion turned his head to see who had come in. He was younger, mid-thirties, with tortoiseshell glasses, a neat beard and one earring. He was wearing a tie, but didn’t look comfortable in it. He looked like someone going to church or to an interview.

  Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, were seated in the same row on the other end. The man was whispering something in the woman’s ear.

  The burly man who had admitted me came into the room from a door at the side and faced the front.

  ‘All rise,’ he said.

  There was a shuffling of feet and all of us stood. A door in the far wall opened and a woman emerged. She was dressed in a severe grey suit and carried a bundle of files under her arm. She stood in front of the long desk and bowed slightly. I reflexively bowed back along with the rest of the – what? Audience? Congregation? Even though I knew the public had the right to be there, I felt like an intruder.

  The woman sat down and laid the files on the desktop and there was a little rustle as everyone else sat down too. There were so few people. It seemed inadequate. But this wasn’t a memorial service after all.

  The woman gave a preparatory cough.

  ‘Good morning. My name is Charlotte Singer. I’m the deputy coroner for this district.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked around the few seated people. She settled on the man and woman at the front.

  ‘Are you the family?’

  ‘This is Skye’s mother,’ said the man. ‘I’m an old friend.’

  Singer inclined her head slightly.

  ‘I’d like to offer my sincere condolences. It must have been terrible for you. I’ll try to make this as painless as I can. You may know that the purpose of a coroner’s inquest is simply to answer four questions: the identity of the deceased, where they died, when they died and how they died.’ She was addressing the mother directly. I couldn’t see her face, but her head was bent forward and she seemed to be trembling. The man put his hand on her back.

  ‘I hope it’s been explained to you that today’s proceedings are a formality. I’ve been informed that, following the autopsy, this is now a murder investigation. As a result I shall be opening and immediately adjourning the proceedings.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Singer looked up. The man sitting next to Skye Nolan’s mother had spoken.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Singer. ‘Mr…?’

  ‘Beccles. Charlie Beccles,’ said the man. ‘I’m Skye’s friend. I wondered if we were allowed to make a statement.’

  Singer began to fidget with the files in front of her, arranging them into a neat pile.

  ‘There will certainly be opportunities for that, in due course.’

  ‘When is due course?’ said Beccles.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of my hands.’

  ‘Days? Weeks? Months?’

  ‘Months,’ said Singer. ‘But it all depends on what happens with the investigation and criminal proceedings. The one thing I need to say today is that I can’t order the body to be released.’ She looked at the police officers. ‘Have you anything you need to ask?’

  But the officers were there for the following case so the coroner gathered her files, nodded a farewell in the direction of Skye Nolan’s mother. We were ordered to rise once more and Singer stood up, bowed to us and left.

  I sat for a few moments, uncertain of what to do. Was that it? But the mother was here and a friend. That was an opportunity that might never come again. I waited for them to make their way towards the exit and then I stood up. For the first time, I was able to see the mother’s face and suddenly I had a sense, like a physical blow, of what it must be like to lose a child. The cheekbones were prominent, the skin almost grey, the large, dark eyes seemed to be staring at nothing. She looked like her daughter, small-boned and pale-skinned, except her hair was dyed a pale purple. She was not nearly as old as I’d expected; in her mid-forties, I guessed. She must have been a young mother, and of course Skye had been young when she was murdered. She was wearing a long, paisley
-patterned skirt, Doc Marten boots, a faded indigo-blue shirt, a bright scarf, large rings on her hands and a clatter of bangles round her sharp wrists – as if she was about to go on a protest march or on a picnic with friends.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said to her. ‘This was a terrible thing. I don’t know what to say except I’m so, so sorry.’

  The woman barely reacted. Her face turned slowly towards me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She sounded numb; I wondered if she were on medication.

  The man looked at me suspiciously. He was quite short, but broad-shouldered. There were tiny streaks of grey in his neat beard.

  ‘Did you know Skye?’ he asked.

  I realised that I hadn’t thought of what I was going to say in response to this obvious question. I mustn’t lie to them. I mustn’t do anything to damage this woman who had suffered more than anyone should ever suffer.

  ‘Only a bit,’ I said. ‘It’s difficult to explain. But I wanted to come here because I hoped I could talk to you about her. I completely understand if you don’t want that at the moment.’

  ‘I like to talk about her,’ said the mother. She had a light, silvery voice. ‘It’s the only thing I want to talk about. You know, they wouldn’t let me see her body. That’s terrible, don’t you think?’

  I could imagine why the police hadn’t let her see her daughter’s body and the thought of it was indeed terrible.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Peggy. And this is Charlie.’

  ‘Hello.’

  I held out my hand and shook both of theirs in turn: Charlie’s strong and warm; Peggy’s chilly and thin as a bunch of twigs.

  ‘Charlie’s been a very good friend. I’d always hoped that he and Skye would get married. But it didn’t happen. Skye didn’t have many proper friends. But Charlie, you were a proper friend.’

  I’d worried that Skye’s mother wouldn’t want to talk about her daughter, but she was desperate. It seemed she would talk to anyone, even a stranger.

  ‘Can we go somewhere? Perhaps I could buy you a cup of tea,’ I suggested.