An Unremarkable Body

by Elisa Lodato

  I had a meeting with Andy on the morning of Monday, 1 October 2012. I had to be in central London for nine thirty. It was a beautiful bright morning. The air was crisp and cold, acceding to autumn. As I walked to the tube station, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognise, and half-hoping it would be Tom, moved by the beginning of another week to try again, I answered it.

  ‘Laura? It’s Jane Marsh here. Have I caught you at a bad time?’

  ‘No,’ I said, swallowing my disappointment. ‘What can I do for you?’ I’d reached the mouth of the station entrance. Commuters flowed past me on either side, their irritation sudden and unstoppable.

  ‘I’d really like to have another quick chat with you, if I may. Can you get to Sutton police station?’

  ‘When?’ I looked at my watch; it was a quarter to nine.

  ‘Ideally this morning. Some important new information has come to light, and I’d like to discuss it with you. In person, if possible.’

  ‘OK. I have a meeting this morning. Can it wait until after that?’

  ‘I would suggest you try to reschedule your meeting. Would that be OK?’

  ‘Yes. I can do that. I’ll have to walk back and collect my car.’

  ‘OK. Just ask for me at the front desk when you get here.’

  I phoned Andy as I jogged back to my road. He didn’t pick up, but I left a voicemail that was suitably vague yet urgent.

  I made my way to Sutton and left my car in a supermarket car park across the road. Jane came down to the waiting area promptly – she wasn’t wearing a jacket and her hair was tied back in a ponytail – and invited me upstairs to what looked like a small conference room.

  ‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Cup of water?’

  ‘No, nothing. Thank you.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, pulling the chair beside me out and turning it so she was at an angle. I followed her lead and turned my chair away from the table and opposite her. We both crossed our legs. She opened her beige manila folder. ‘I think I told you on the phone that some new information has come to light.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to sound impatient.

  ‘Laura, I just want to reiterate that there’s nothing for you to worry about at this stage. I’m here to ask a few questions, and to decide whether we need to involve a different team in the investigation of your mother’s death. Is that OK?’

  I nodded my head. Speaking felt like an impossibility.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want some water?’

  I nodded again and Jane jumped up, pleased I’d finally come to my senses and accepted a beverage. She put a polystyrene cup full of cold water in front of me.

  ‘Last Friday, we interviewed a Mrs Eileen Harris of 119 Crane View Road, Surbiton. Mrs Harris has told us that on the morning of 12 February 2012, she overheard two female voices in the rear garden of 121 Crane View Road. Laura, can you confirm that this was your mother’s address?’

  ‘Yes. It was her address, but she didn’t live there.’

  Jane looked up from her paperwork. ‘Can you tell me more about that, please?’

  ‘I’ve found out, very recently, that she spent most of her time at her friend’s house.’

  ‘Her friend. And who would that be?’

  ‘Helen Saunders.’

  Jane frowned at the name and looked through some papers at the back of the folder. ‘Helen Saunders. She was at the house when you found your mother’s body? Her name is included here on the original police paperwork.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t there when I found her. I phoned her after calling the ambulance. She came straight over.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, nodding at her paperwork. ‘And now you say your mother was living at Helen’s. In what capacity were they living together?’

  ‘They were together. They were, you know, they were lovers.’

  ‘And you weren’t aware of this until recently? When exactly did you find out?’

  ‘Last month. It was probably two or three weeks ago. I went to see Helen. For other reasons. But during the course of my visit, it became clear that my mother had been living there.’

  ‘You say it became clear. What made it clear?’

  ‘I found something that belonged to her. One of her books.’

  ‘I see,’ she noted it down. ‘Anything else?’

  I thought of my mother’s abdomen and the porridge. It felt too fanciful, too self-conscious, to use the contents of my mother’s stomach in this conversation. ‘Helen was quite happy to tell me the truth. It was my mother who had been trying to hide the fact that she was gay.’

  ‘And was that something that frustrated Helen?’

  ‘I mean, yes. Possibly. I don’t know. What does this have to do with my mother’s death?’

  ‘Mrs Harris has told us she saw a grey Volkswagen Polo parked outside your mother’s house on 12 February 2012. Do you have any idea who that car might belong to?’

  ‘Helen. That’s Helen’s car. But like I said, I phoned her very soon after finding my mother. She was there for a good while. With me.’

  ‘According to Mrs Harris, her car was there much earlier in the day. For several hours.’ Jane pulled a piece of paper from the folder and placed it down on the desk, turning it round so I could read it. ‘She believes the Volkswagen Polo was outside your mother’s house from nine a.m. until around eleven thirty. It then reappeared later that afternoon, after the arrival of the ambulance. At around two forty-five.’

  Part Three

  Cause of Death

  Cause of Death

  1a. Traumatic fracture-dislocation of atlanto-occipital joint with transection of spinal cord.

  I phoned Tom as soon as I got out of the station. By the time he answered I was crying, my mouth so contorted I couldn’t form the words.

  She’d been there. She’d left her at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Laura? Is that you? What’s going on?’

  Several hours. Two voices.

  ‘Laura, answer me. Is everything OK?’

  I always knew that girl would come to no good. My grandmother had been talking about Helen. Not my mother.

  ‘Please. Please. I need you.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Sutton. Police station. Please.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Stay where you are.’

  I walked back to the car park, fearful that a passing police officer would see me crying outside and try to take me back inside. The sun had warmed the inside of my car so that it felt hot and unbearably stuffy. I thought of Helen’s car parked on the driveway and felt the bile rise up in my throat. I managed to jump out before vomiting. A woman with two small children in a trolley full of shopping returned to the car parked beside mine as I stood there, bent over the mess I’d made.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I nodded my head but didn’t look up.

  ‘Here,’ she said, holding a wet wipe out to me. I grabbed it from her hand and managed to mumble thanks as she set about opening the boot of her car.

  ‘Something you ate?’ she shouted.

  ‘Yes.’ I stood up and smoothed my hair away from my face. ‘Can I have another one of those, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ She pulled another one from her bag. ‘I think you need to get yourself home and into bed. You look very pale. Is there somebody you can phone?’

  ‘Yes. Someone’s coming. A friend.’

  ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, looking at her two children. The older one was staring at the puddle of vomit I’d produced. ‘I’ll be fine. But thank you.’ She loaded the shopping into the boot as I leant against the side of my car, my head bent low. She then began the task of strapping her two children into their car seats. As she got in herself, she looked over at me, saying, ‘Hope you feel better soon. Take care,’ and reversed slowly out of the space.

  I went into the supermarket and bought a bottle of sparkling wa
ter. I sat on a low wall near my car and gulped at the fresh air. Tom rang thirty minutes later.

  ‘Where are you? I’m outside the police station.’

  ‘I’m in the car park across the road.’

  ‘OK. Coming.’

  He joined me on the wall for over an hour. I told him everything. About Helen and my mother. The book. The porridge.

  ‘Is it possible she dropped your mum off and then drove home herself? Before the accident?’

  ‘Of course it’s possible. But why would she lie? Why did she tell me my mother got the bus if not to cover up the fact that she was there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know what to say. What happens now?’

  ‘They’re going to pass it to the homicide team. Her death is now officially suspicious.’

  ‘Because of what you’ve told them? About Helen and your mum’s relationship?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be OK.’

  He nodded and walked with me to my car. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked, pointing to the vomit on the driver’s side.

  ‘It was all a bit of a shock. I’m OK now though.’

  He took my hand and pulled me round to the passenger side. ‘Get in,’ he said, opening the door and prising the car key from my hand. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  We said very little on the journey back to Balham. I fell asleep somewhere around Mitcham and woke up just as he was parking the car. He opened the front door and herded me upstairs to my flat. Once inside, he opened my bedroom door and gently pushed me across the threshold. ‘Get some rest. I’ll be in the living room.’

  I was woken an hour later not by the sound of my phone ringing but his voice answering it. A few seconds later he knocked on the door of my bedroom and came in. He handed me the phone and mouthed the word police at me. It was Jane.

  ‘Laura, just a quick call. I thought you should know that the homicide team have asked me to let you know that they’ll be handling the case from now on.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And you’ll probably be assigned a family liaison officer at some point, who will keep you informed.’

  ‘What about Helen?’

  ‘It’s no longer my call, but at a guess it’s very likely she’ll be brought in for questioning in the next forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I know this must be very difficult for you, and it’s still early days, but whatever you do, please do not speak to Helen about any of this until they have. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  Part Four

  Conclusions

  Post-mortem examination confirms this woman died as a result of a severed spinal cord. Injuries sustained were consistent with a fall down the stairs.

  On 12 February 2012, my mother woke early, as usual. She believed absolutely in the majesty of the morning. That it went unnoticed by the somnolent masses was even more reason to get up and watch the day present itself. She got out of bed quietly and walked down the hallway to the small bathroom at the back of the house, where she washed and dressed.

  She went downstairs to the kitchen and set about making a cup of tea. She filled the kettle and switched it on, then opened the cupboard above it to the cracking sound of cold water forced to boil. My mother moved contentedly in the tidy and co-operative kitchen, extracting her favourite cup – made out of bone china with brown flowers on a green background – from the shelf. I’d bought it for her around five years ago in a department store, the flowers still bright and vivid despite near-continuous spells in the dishwasher.

  She poured porridge oats into a bowl and then used the sachet to measure the milk that followed. She placed the bowl in the microwave, closed the door and set her final meal in motion. She leant up against the work surface and looked out the window at the small and untidy garden as she sipped her tea. She watched the day grow in confidence and reach out to touch everyone and everything. The microwave pinged to announce her porridge was too hot to eat and then, minutes later, Helen appeared at the doorway. She was still sleepy, her hair tousled.

  ‘What time do you have to be there?’ she asked, feeling the side of the kettle and helping herself to a cup from the cupboard above my mother’s head.

  ‘I told Laura two o’clock, but I want to head off soon, buy some food and sort the garden out,’ she said, looking at Helen.

  ‘Why don’t I drive you?’

  ‘I was going to get the bus.’

  ‘But you’ve just said, you’ve got to go to the shops. I’ll drive you so you won’t have to carry the bags.’

  ‘We’ve talked about this. Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll leave before Laura arrives. She doesn’t have to see me. What else do I have to do this morning?’

  My mother put her cup down and opened the microwave. She extracted her porridge and stirred it in response to Helen’s question. She closed her eyes as Helen went upstairs to get dressed.

  They left Twickenham at around eight thirty and drove the seven miles to Surbiton. Helen parked her car on the driveway outside my mother’s house and together they went inside. Waitrose wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours, so Helen made more tea while my mother went upstairs to dust the bedroom she used to share with my father. Against the far wall was a bookcase containing her favourite novels. They were all there: Jude the Obscure, Anna Karenina, The Mill on the Floss. As she wiped the dust that had fallen since her last visit, she ran her index finger along the spines and remembered the many hours she’d spent as a girl, a woman and then as a mother, hosted by men and women long dead who cared nothing for her little life, in a world full of its own desperate glory. She pressed her finger to the creased spine of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and, watching her nail bed turn white under the pressure, she longed to fall back in. To recapture the ecstasy of escape. That was all she had ever wanted: to escape from a world her mother had compelled her to join and then, finding her reluctant, had prodded her in the back until she started walking.

  ‘I think there’s something you need to see. Downstairs.’

  My mother, irritated by the interruption, didn’t turn round. She’d been thinking of the first time she’d read Tess of the D’Urbervilles. How Hardy, in describing the rape of Tess – however broad the brushstrokes – had held up an artist’s impression of what my father had done to her.

  ‘Kathy?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a damp patch in the kitchen. I think you’d better come and see it.’

  It was about six or seven inches in diameter. Yellowed and dry by the time they craned their necks up at it.

  ‘This is the problem. You’re not here to keep an eye on things, and the house is falling apart.’

  ‘The problem is a leaking roof. And it can be fixed.’

  At around 11.15 a.m., Eileen Harris heard two female voices in the garden. My mother had taken a pair of secateurs to the bushes that had grown across the French doors at the back of the house. They began to argue quietly.

  ‘Who’s going to let a roofer in to fix it?’

  ‘I will. I’ll arrange a time and then make sure I’m here. It’s really not so difficult.’

  ‘Laura’s a woman of the world. She’ll understand.’

  My mother’s voice was quiet and anxious as she snipped. ‘This has nothing to do with Laura.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not discussing this with you. Out here.’ My mother walked back inside and put the secateurs on the dining table. Helen followed, closing the French doors behind her and locking them. She put the key down on the table.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get a book.’

  My mother walked quickly up the stairs. Helen stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at my mother’s thighs and swinging skirt.

  She put her own foot on the bottom step
and looked down at her shoes: one on the wooden floorboards of the hallway and the other on the carpeted stair. She felt beaten by my mother’s persistent unwillingness to come out. She walked up the stairs and onto the first-floor landing just as my mother emerged from her bedroom with the copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles: a Penguin English Library edition with the shadow of Stonehenge on the front cover. She was smiling.

  ‘They make you so happy, Kath. Why don’t we pack up more of them? I’d like to have them at home. Our home.’

  ‘Laura will know something’s not right if my books are gone.’

  Helen folded her arms across her chest and stared at the book in my mother’s right hand. She’d been here before.

  ‘The book. The bloody garden. Now a leaking roof. Kathy, do you want to be with me or not?’

  ‘Why is it always so black and white with you?’

  ‘Because I’m tired of the grey! You said you’d do it when Christopher left home. Then it was when Laura buys her own place. What next? Shall we wait until Laura has a baby? Perhaps we should let that child reach adulthood before we come clean. I tell you what, Kathy, let’s just have it written on our gravestones. Then at least we’ll have been honest with everyone.’

  ‘I moved in, didn’t I?’

  ‘Quietly. Secretively. I’d hardly call this,’ she pointed at the book in my mother’s hand, ‘living out in the open. Would you?’

  ‘Helen. It’s a book. That’s all.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit about the book. Read it at my house if you must. Pretend you still live here. Say you’re Lord Bloody Lucan for all I care. You’re still hiding. You’ve always hidden behind me and here we are, in our fifties, and you’re still doing it! And I’ve had enough,’ she said and, by way of illustration, tried to pull the book from my mother’s hand.

  But my mother wouldn’t let go. She pulled it back and stared at Helen, surprised. They had engaged in something. A horrible game that required them to participate. Helen grabbed for it again, combative and competitive as my mother’s determined tug pulled the book and her body back towards the stairs. Helen wasn’t going to be defeated. Not this time. So she allowed my mother to pull at the book, but still she held on. ‘What are you doing?’ my mother asked, horrified by Helen’s grip. ‘Let go!’