That first day back at her desk Leonie found it impossible to concentrate, but gradually the mundane details of taking bookings, mailing confirmations, arranging repairs and sending out brochures cleared her mind. For a whole half-hour she forgot her troubles. Through such small, welcome glimpses of returning normality she began to gain some insight into just how obsessed and disordered her mind had become.
When she arrived home that evening, there was a letter. On recognising the handwriting, she staggered as if propelled against the wall by her surge of joy. Smiling idiotically, she stroked the envelope that still bore traces of his touch. She was right: he hadn’t abandoned her! She fetched a knife from the kitchen drawer and, almost reluctant to expose the reality of its contents, carefully slit open the envelope and extricated a single sheet. Seeing the brevity of the writing, she tried in vain to check her disappointment.
She unfolded the paper and read the few lines. ‘Dear Leonie,’ he had written, ‘you will be very angry with me, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do for the best. Your loving Patrice.’ There was no address or date; the envelope bore a French stamp, but the postmark was blurred and useless. Leonie rested her hands on the counter, her arms like stone. Was this all he had to say to her?
Her emotions swung swiftly to the opposite extreme. Here finally was the proof she had so longed for that he did think of her, was aware of the pain he had inflicted, did feel for her. And her heart went out to him that he could ever imagine that she would be unforgiving: did he honestly not realise how much she loved him? At this evidence of his misapprehension, his lack of faith, she yearned to hold and comfort and reassure him. Yet, at the same time, the leaden weight of her limbs told her that after such intimacy this inadequate explanation was a devastating annihilation. It showed how little he truly cared, how worthless she must be to him. With trembling fingers, she put the sheet back into the envelope, climbed on a chair in her bedroom and slid the letter underneath some boxes on the top shelf of a cupboard.
Half a dozen times that evening, even after she had gone to bed, she put on the light and dragged over the chair to climb up and re-read the letter, hoping that, as if by magic, a longer, as yet invisible, message would appear, or some revelatory meaning be vouchsafed. Each time she handled the paper, she felt its physical association with him fade beneath her fingers. It was both a comfort and a torment; she was simultaneously gladdened by it and despairing that these were not the words she had craved to hear. By the time she set off for work in the morning, she had persuaded herself that, since he had written once, he would write again. She must trust him and be patient. She tried hard to cling to that belief over the course of the week, but gradually common sense overcame what she knew deep down to be the delusion of hope.
By Saturday, the date she had set herself as the point at which, if Patrice had not returned, she would have to accept that he was gone for good, she acknowledged that his letter had, if anything, deepened the quality of his silence. It was no longer a neutral absence. While writing it, he had considered what to say and deliberately chosen not to offer her any shred of hope. Much as she longed to forgive him, she saw now that his silence was intentional, and therefore cruel.
On Sunday, a bleak and colourless January morning, she steeled herself to drive across to his house. Although she had expected to find it just as grimly shuttered and padlocked as it had been on that other morning a month ago, it still came as a shock to read once more the brutality of his departure written on the surface of the building. A few winter leaves lay unswept on the path to the front door, and the stem of a rose that grew against the railings of the tiny front garden had snapped. They were normal winter depredations, yet, aware that she was not far off hallucinating with grief, she observed herself regarding them as omens of ruination. She did not linger, but returned alone to her apartment where, numbed almost to indifference for half an hour or so, she relinquished the last thread of conviction that Patrice would ever phone or write more fully to explain himself. She was certain now that nothing lay beyond the onslaught of his continuing silence.
All that he had not written resonated, she was convinced, with all that he had purposefully left unsaid during the months they were together. True, she had rushed to colour in the gaps herself, but he had permitted her to do so, confident that she would concoct a story for herself that would be satisfactorily wide of the mark. Then, his lacunae had been untruthful enough, but now it seemed to her as if they had joined together, ousting all emotional interests but his own and rejecting any claim she might make on his compassion. Such a withdrawal required effort, and she berated herself for failing to perceive that the strength she had admired in him had been that of the survivor, where every last shred was needed for himself; where not an ounce of pity could be wasted on another human being. Had she really loved such a man?
Leonie entered a new phase of mourning. Going about her everyday life, she walked beside the abyss that had opened at her feet. She knew it was there, and it became an act of will not to look down and risk slipping into its depths. She visited the doctor, who smiled briskly, told her she was physically fit, and booked her into the local hospital for a foetal scan.
This provided a new horizon on which to focus. If she could get through the days before her appointment, then the on-screen image of her child moving within her must surely chase away the terrors conjured up by her perception of Patrice’s emptiness. She made more effort about shopping and cooking, ensuring that she ate as healthily as possible, though the few wintry stalls in the market held little appeal; she began to compose a letter explaining to her mother the circumstances in which she was due to make her a grandmother and proposing a visit in early spring; and informed the letting agent that she wouldn’t renew her lease on this cramped apartment, asking instead to be informed of any two-bedroom apartments, especially those with small gardens attached.
Stella rang while she was making a batch of vegetable soup to take to the office for lunch.
‘I’ve just sent you an email.’ Stella’s voice sounded strange. ‘I’ve been doing some digging. It’s not much, all I could find, and from a while back, but I’ve sent you the link.’
‘What is it?’
‘Prepare yourself. It’s unthinkable. I can’t begin to explain. Take a look and call me back.’ Stella ended the call.
Leonie turned off the stove and went to her laptop. Stella’s email was waiting to be opened. Various sickening possibilities of further betrayal paraded before her, clenching at her guts. Her hand shaky, she clicked on the emailed link. It was to the Brighton Argus. The header for the piece, a short side column in a local newspaper, contained the word ‘tragedy’ but Leonie was already reading down. She exclaimed in sorrow and with her fingertip traced the name ‘Patrick Hinde’ where it appeared on the screen. ‘Oh,’ she breathed, ‘you poor, dear man.’ She leant forwards, cradling the laptop.
PART THREE
Sussex 2005
I
The July sun was bright against Patrick’s eyes, blinding him, as he followed the fireman up the alleyway and into the yard behind his Ditchling office. He saw at once that the windows of his Renault had been smashed and that men in boots and fluorescent jackets were leaning in, kneeling over something in the back seat. He felt baffled as to what it could be. The fireman had asked him to bring his car keys, and now turned to snatch them out of his hand. Then an ambulance arrived, backing up through the narrow alley, though Patrick didn’t understand why one should be required.
The paramedics pushed him aside, heading for his car. He watched them, suddenly certain that he did know what he was about to see, though he couldn’t understand how it could be, how this could be happening. The fire crew drew back respectfully, making way for the paramedics. One of the men turned to look at Patrick with contempt, another with pity, as the paramedics lifted out Daniel’s inert body and rushed with it to the ambulance. Patrick froze. It was an incomprehensi
ble effort just to blink his eyes or turn his head. Someone, a woman in police uniform, was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. She took his arm and pulled him towards the ambulance. He didn’t want to go, but she pushed him up the steps while a paramedic leant down and grasped his arm to haul him into the vehicle before clambering out past him to go around to the driver’s door. The other paramedic was busy over something on a stretcher. Daniel was so small that all Patrick could see of him was a naked foot, the heel soft and unworn.
The horror was too much, and Patrick vomited half-digested tea into his cupped hands. The police officer, who had climbed up behind him, handed over some rough green paper towels, sat him on a flip-down seat and clipped a seat-belt around his waist as the ambulance started to move, its siren wailing.
The paramedic stood back from the stretcher, bracing one hand against the interior side of the wagon as it sped through the Sussex lanes. ‘How long was he in the car?’ he asked.
Patrick couldn’t speak. He wanted to say that surely he had dropped Daniel at the childminder? That was what he’d meant to do, had somehow imagined he had done. But he couldn’t move the necessary muscles to say the words.
‘What time did you leave him there?’
Patrick stared at him, preoccupied with the desperate attempt to recall what Christine must have said to him this morning as she took Daniel from him, but his mind was blank.
‘He is your child?’
Patrick managed to nod his head.
‘I’m very sorry,’ said the paramedic. ‘It was already too late by the time we got to him. We’re unable to revive him.’
Patrick reached out and held his son’s lifeless foot in his hand. A ragged toenail softly snagged his thumb. He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain of what he had done to begin, the torment of what he had somehow allowed to happen to his child, to Daniel, his son, his baby. He deserved the pain, welcomed it, wanted no respite from it, ever. But it didn’t come; only nauseous waves of shock, horror and dread.
At the hospital, the woman police officer remained by his side while the paramedics disappeared with the trolley onto which they had fixed the stretcher. A nurse came out from where Daniel’s body had been taken, and spoke to a colleague, but Patrick remained oblivious to the curious, wondering glances they directed at him. A serious-looking young doctor came and stood in front of him, asking if Daniel had any health problems or had been seen recently by a doctor. Patrick shook his head to all the questions.
The doctor and the police officer spoke together before leading Patrick to a small waiting room where the doctor gave him a piece of paper, explaining something or other. Patrick put it blindly in his pocket.
‘Is there anyone we should inform? Your wife, your partner?’ asked the police officer gently. Patrick nodded. ‘We have your name and address from the car registration, Mr Hinde. I just need a name. An officer will go and break the news.’
When he stared at her, still speechless, she held out her notebook and a pen. He took them from her with stiffened fingers. It was an effort to bring the letters of his wife’s name to mind, but eventually he succeeded in writing them down. The officer stood outside the door while she spoke into her phone, passing the information on to someone at the station. At the thought of Belinda, Patrick’s heart broke and he began to weep.
Half an hour later, a more senior police officer arrived, a clear-eyed, overworked man in his early forties. After a quiet word with the uniformed constable, he came to introduce himself.
‘Mr Hinde, I’m Detective Inspector Cutler.’ He looked down into Patrick’s face, which was soaked with tears. ‘My condolences for your loss. I’m very sorry to have to intrude on your grief, but I’m sure you’ll understand that we need to ask you a few questions, to establish what happened today.’
‘I forgot him.’
Cutler held up a hand. ‘I must caution you that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Patrick felt the first inkling of potential relief: he was to be punished! The future was to be taken out of his hands, and he would now be arrested and tried and locked up. He smiled to signify that he understood.
‘It would be easier if you came to the station.’ Cutler paused uneasily. ‘It’s your choice. You’re not under arrest, but your wife is on her way here. In the circumstances, it might be better if you came with us now? There’s nothing more to be done here.’
‘Can I see Daniel?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I can’t leave him here alone.’
The detective looked weary of this world. ‘I do understand, Mr Hinde. But until we establish what happened, I’m afraid it’s not possible for you to have any further physical contact with your son. Arrangements can probably be made for you to spend time with him later.’
Patrick nodded and got to his feet. He half-expected, hoped almost, to be handcuffed and led out of A&E in ignominy and shame, but Cutler shepherded him towards the exit with the woman officer following mutely behind. Patrick would never retain any memory of her name and, once they reached the station, never saw her again.
He baulked when he saw the waiting car, but it was clear he had no choice but to get in. He cowered on the back seat beside Cutler, fighting an intolerable, panic-inducing claustrophobia. He had heard the locks click automatically and knew he could not escape by throwing himself out. No one spoke, and he simply endured, with a rock-like, vegetable endurance, until the brief journey ended.
DI Cutler and a younger colleague interviewed him formally in a small, windowless room painted in calming, institutional pastels. Like all the officers who dealt with him, they remained professionally sympathetic and scrupulously polite, keeping any private feelings well hidden.
‘Who found Daniel?’ Patrick wanted to know.
‘Someone’s dog ran in there. The owner called 999.’
Ordinary stuff. Someone walking their dog. Like him checking unpaid accounts, eating an apple, listening to Meghan and his other patients. Ordinary daily activities. All those hours and he never gave a thought to Daniel. Was that correct? It wasn’t that Daniel had somehow ceased to exist, it was that he had never thought of Daniel as being in the car. How could he have driven away from his front door with his child strapped in his chair on the back seat and then simply forgotten that he was there? Daniel had probably fallen asleep, but even so, it wasn’t possible. Yet that, inconceivably, is what he had, lethally, done.
‘Mr Hinde?’ Cutler’s firm voice brought him back to the present, and he struggled to concentrate.
‘You confirmed to Dr Prasad that, so far as you’re aware, Daniel had no underlying health problems.’
‘Nothing.’
‘There were messages left on your office phone. Why hadn’t you listened to them?’
‘I was busy.’ A terrible cry ripped from him at the banal reality of being too busy to prevent his son baking to death yards away from where he had sat drinking tea. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘Daniel, I’m so sorry.’
Cutler waited, pushing across a standard-issue box of tissues, as Patrick forced himself to be calm and helpful. ‘Two messages were from Christine Dawson, Daniel’s child-minder. You were supposed to drop him at her house on your way to your office. What happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Patrick was genuinely bewildered. ‘I thought I had. I wish I understood, but I don’t.’
‘Did anything unusual happen as you left home this morning?’
‘No. My parents were staying, but that’s all.’ Patrick’s mind went back to a conversation with his father about the best route to the M23, and stuck there on a seemingly endless loop.
‘Or on the way?’
‘No, nothing. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember driving. I never do. It’s routine. The same journey every time.’
‘Mrs Dawson says Daniel
didn’t go to her on a Monday.’
‘No. My wife has him at home on a Monday.’
‘Did you mistake the day? Assume it was Monday today?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know, I can’t explain. I have no explanation.’
‘Okay. Go back, talk us through your morning routine.’
Patrick, forlorn, stared at him absently.
‘Bath or shower?’ the detective continued. ‘Wet or dry shave? What did you have for breakfast?’
‘I see. Let me think. Belinda got Daniel up, got him changed, while I had a shower and dressed. I took him downstairs, gave him his juice and fingers of toast.’ Patrick fought back the animal cry that rose at the physical memory of wiping his son’s sticky fingers, his skin, his hair, kissing the top of his head. He made himself answer the inspector’s question. ‘I had coffee, muesli, a piece of toast. Then we got in the car.’
‘Nothing else?’
Patrick shook his head, trying to clear the fog in his head.
‘What did you chat to your wife about over breakfast? Maybe you made arrangements for later? You said your parents were there.’
Patrick stared at him uncomprehendingly. Cutler asked again: ‘Your parents were staying?’
‘Yes. They were. But I don’t remember. The best way to get to the M23.’
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