“Tom,” I repeated, just for the indulgence of saying it. “Tom, I miss you. I miss how things were. I miss my mum being well; I miss our kids being safe, indulged children at home; I miss our home, a house attached to our past by memories in every corner. I miss being a student myself, I miss feeling ambitious, I miss planning my future. I’m living my future, living plans we made years ago. It’s lovely, Tom, we made some good choices, but making those choices feels so long ago. I didn’t know that it was making the choices that was the exciting part… .”
Tears now. Apparently a bloody, beaten client is what it takes to shake loose my general existential dread/midlife crisis.
“I love Simon. I chose him. You’d like him. What am I saying? You did like him. But it’s different getting married in middle age. It’s …” BZZZT! My phone rang, right in my ear. I answered it, and turned away from the officer, who must have noticed that I’d just been talking to a nonexistent connection.
“Laurie? You phoned?”
“Simon! Are you at Silver Street?”
“Nearly. I’m stuck in traffic on Queens Road. Felt safe to call you back since I’m not moving.”
“Come to the Catholic church. That’s where my car is. The police want to talk to me.”
“The police—?”
I didn’t let him finish asking. “It’s awful. I’ll tell you afterwards. Just please come here. Just … just be here so that when they’re done I can jump into the car with you and we’ll drive far away.”
“What about your car?” Ever practical.
“I don’t know if they’ll let me take it.”
His voice got panicked. “Did you hit someone? Sorry, traffic’s moving, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He rang off.
I kept the phone to my ear. I nodded as if I was listening to good advice. I imagined Prisha telling me to be calm, a solicitor telling me to tell the police nothing. I put on a show of careful composure for the officer, who may or may not have still been looking at me.
“Ma’am?”
The man who came up behind me was not in a uniform but was clearly one of them. He wore a suit and flashed me his warrant card: Detective Sergeant Spencer.
“Thank you,” I said into the phone. “Goodbye. No, I’ll call you back, there’s someone here …” Anything to keep the upcoming real-life conversation at bay.
DS Spencer waited pleasantly, expectantly. Eventually I pressed my thumb to the screen as if to hang up and slid the phone into my pocket.
“You’re Laurie Ambrose?” he asked, having presumably been briefed by Officer Watchy-watchy.
“Dr. Laurie Ambrose,” I corrected, which I don’t usually do, but I wanted to spell the names, give him my middle one, recite personal statistics rather than answer anything about my car and whatever happened here.
“Doctor. Thank you.” He made a note. “Dr. Ambrose, do you know Sandra Williams?”
Annalise Williams. Hannah-Claire’s cousin Sandy. It was a stretch to turn “Sandra” into “Anna,” but I’d seen stranger nicknames than that… . I could imagine her arguing that it’s a form of “Sandra,” but really she just wanted to be like Annalise. Both of them had been obsessed with her. The relationship made sense. After all, what were the odds that two unrelated clients would bring up Annalise Wood to me?
“She’s the woman who …” I waved my hand at the car.
“Exactly how did you know Ms. Williams?”
This was tricky. This was where I could use Prisha at my side. I’m not supposed to violate client confidentiality even by admitting that they were my clients at all. I settled on, “Through work.”
“And your work is … ?”
“I’m a psychologist.” Next he was going to ask if she was a colleague or a client, and if I said I couldn’t say, he would know I meant client, which is the same as just saying it. “Look, I’m uncomfortable with this. I know you need to investigate, but I need to be mindful of the obligations of my profession.” That was as good as telling him flat out, but it clarified my position for further questions.
“Ah.”
I read it all on his face: now he wondered what was wrong with her, as if asking for help is a moral failing.
“I understand that there was a funeral here today. Did you accompany Ms. Williams?”
I wanted to say yes, which would get this section of the questioning done, but that would be lying, which could come back to bite me. “No.”
“Why did you come, then? Did you know the deceased?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know her?”
“Through work.”
“I see.”
And I’d done it. I’d lowered both victims in his eyes. Hannah-Claire was possibly a victim too, if her death wasn’t an accident, and now I was attached to both of them.
“This is your car?” He gestured to it. It was no longer alone in the lot. Police cars and what I assumed was his sedate-looking sedan now kept it company.
Denial clamoured in my mind. “Yes.” I had bought that car when Blake started university. Emptying nest; fresh life.
“Do you know how Ms. Williams ended up between it and the brick wall?”
I shook my head before I found my voice. “No. Absolutely not. I was with my daughter, at Jesus. Jesus College,” I clarified. It’s normal for University people to just say “at Jesus” but I know it can sound strange to outsiders.
“I know, Doctor.”
Had I insulted him? Maybe he went to Cambridge. Maybe he went to Jesus. Maybe he knew everything, like that mysterious policeman in An Inspector Calls. Clara had studied that play in school. I was fainting.
He reached out to steady me. There was no place to sit out there, and the church was locked. We ended up in his car, with the doors open so that I felt less trapped. Well, that was the reason my side was open. His could have been open for any reason at all. Maybe his legs were too long. Maybe sitting in his car was like sitting in an airplane seat. Tom had always felt cramped in airplanes.
“Dr. Ambrose?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m here, I’m fine. I’m not going to faint.”
“You can faint if you like. I just don’t want you to hit hard ground if you do.”
I managed a smile. “Thank you. No, I’m fine. I mean, I’m not fine with what happened here but I don’t know anything about it. Honestly. I knew them separately. I hadn’t expected to see … Ms. Williams here.”
He noticed my pause. I’m sure he did. But he didn’t ask.
I continued, “I hardly knew either of them. When I left the service, lots of people were still here. I know it was naughty of me, but I had an errand and so left my car …” “Naughty”? What is it about being questioned by police that makes one feel ten years old?
He closed his notebook. “And it was the only hiding place left in the lot when someone needed it. Thank you.”
I blinked quickly. “Is that it?”
“Is there anything else you think you ought to tell me?” He asked as if he already knew that there was.
I rifled through my mental files. I couldn’t tell him that they had both mentioned Annalise Wood. I couldn’t tell him that Anna—Sandy—had made me uncomfortable, that she called herself Annalise, that she was evidently the one who’d told Hannah-Claire that Hannah was Annalise Wood’s daughter. I couldn’t tell him that Hannah-Claire was deeply hopeful of her relationship with Henry Ware, but that she hardly knew him at all. Hopefully there would be family and friends to tell them that. I didn’t trust Henry Ware. I didn’t … “Yes!” I blurted, realising what I could say, what I must say. What I saw that day had nothing to do with our therapeutic relationship.
He leaned in over the gearbox.
“After the church service, I was a bit lost. I was looking for the loo. I opened the wrong door, and the husband—Henry—he was … Sorry, this is embarrassing.” I took a deep breath. “He was with Ms. Williams”—I couldn’t call her Sandy—“and they were kissing.”
“Let
me clarify: Henry Ware was behind closed doors—”
“It was more of a closet.”
“He was in a closet, at his wife’s funeral, snogging his wife’s cousin. Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes, I … Yes. At least …” I was second-guessing myself. “He was snogging a woman. She was in black, like family at a funeral wears black, and I recognised the shoes. To be honest, I recognised the shoes on the legs under my bumper as belonging to the woman from the closet before I recognised her face as Ms. Williams.”
“So perhaps it wasn’t Ms. Williams with Henry. Perhaps it was someone else in similar clothing.”
“Yes, it’s possible.”
“But you know Ms. Williams.”
“I know her, yes, but I didn’t realise that she knew Hannah-Claire, so I didn’t think she would be here and it didn’t register when I saw them. I closed the door rather quickly. And he was … his face was covering hers.”
“I see.” He was scribbling in his notebook again. “Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so.” I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“I have your contact information. I’ll be in touch. You may go.”
I suddenly didn’t want to. “What if he did see me?”
“Does he know you?”
“No.”
He went back to scribbling. I took back what I’d thought about him going to Cambridge. He wouldn’t have got far on his A-levels with a scrawl like that.
“May I take my car?”
“What? Of course. We’ve already taken photos and samples.” So that’s what was going on while I was talking to Tom.
“I only thought …”
“Her injuries were not compatible with having been driven into.”
“The crime scene tape …”
He put his notebook in his pocket with a great heaving sigh and exited the car himself as an example to me. I followed him.
I got out my keys and stood near my driver’s-side door while DS Spencer unstuck the yellow tape blocking the drive. At the same time, he held up a hand to prevent someone from driving in. Simon.
I rushed forward. “He’s for me,” I explained, but DS Spencer was unmoved.
“He can park on the street,” he said to me, while waving Simon away. As if this weren’t Cambridge on a Saturday, full to bursting with shoppers. Simon obediently backed up. He looked terrified at the crime scene tape, but relieved to see me upright, arguing with the sergeant.
I phoned Simon. He pulled into the Scott Polar Institute. He couldn’t leave his car there, but he could stop.
“Simon. I have to take my car. They’re making me, I …”
“If you don’t feel able to drive, don’t.”
“No, I’m fine, I … I’m fine. But the blood …” A smear on my bumper. Little dots on my hood.
He soothed me while he walked around the corner. He glared at DS Spencer, whose head was bent towards a woman who also looked official. Her car had joined the party. I wanted to get my car out of there, out of this threatening place.
Simon handed me his keys. “You drive my car. I’ll drive this one.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t manage much else.
“Unless you’re not safe to … ?”
“No. I can drive. I want to get home.”
“Good.” He looked at the marks on the hood. He swallowed. “Are you sure we’re supposed to … ?”
“I didn’t hit anyone. Someone was … dumped here.”
He went pale.
I explained, “She’s alive. She’s at the hospital. It wasn’t all that much blood.” I tried to sound devil-may-care and above-it-all but I think I sounded deranged.
“I’m calling Clara. She can put my car into a car park for the night. I’ll drive us home in this one. We’ll stop at a car wash on the way.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. Thank you seemed inadequate.
Spencer glared at us. I think he wanted to put the crime scene tape back up.
I opened the passenger door. Simon had walked a bit away to talk to Clara. I got into the car and closed the door. I held my phone up to my ear. “Tom,” I said. “Simon’s good. I’m fine. Everything’s going to be all right. You don’t need to worry.”
“Who were you talking to?” Simon asked as he slid in under the wheel.
“Just leaving a message. Prisha. Confidentiality things.”
He thought he understood. He thought this was just about Hannah-Claire having been a client.
He started the car.
He didn’t know I was sad. He didn’t know I missed Tom. No, that’s not true. He knew. He had to. Missing Tom and loving Simon weren’t opposite things. That Simon understood that was one of the things I loved about him.
As we pulled out of the church car park, the woman who’d been talking to Spencer waved to Simon and he rolled down the window.
“Dr. Ambrose, I’m Detective Inspector Frohmann. DS Spencer tells me that we have your information. I just wanted to let you know that I’m looking forward to speaking with you again once we’ve had a chance to interview the family.”
I nodded. Simon started us rolling forward but the DI put her hand on his window.
“And you are?” she asked him.
“Simon Towey-Jones,” he told her. “Laurie’s husband.”
“Mr. Towey-Jones,” she said, writing it down, while she still leaned in so we couldn’t drive away. “Or is it ‘Doctor’?”
“No, just one doctor in the family.”
“Just one DI in mine,” she answered, winking as she pulled back.
“Drive,” I said, my throat dry.
“Thank you, Dr. Ambrose!” she called after us, waving.
“She winked,” I said, not meaning to.
“I don’t think she did.”
“It was awful.”
“She’s a police detective.”
“She has eyes.”
Simon paid attention to the road.
“Simon, I don’t care if a woman winks at you. I do care if police officers investigating serious crimes crack jokes. A woman was beaten and left for dead here. Hannah-Claire may have been murdered.”
“Maybe that’s how she copes. Like you. You don’t let your clients get to you. You can’t.”
I didn’t tell him that I apparently did let my clients get to me.
Then I remembered: “Oh, Clara will need your keys!”
“Clara has her own keys to my car. She used it over the summer, remember?” He smoothly joined the roundabout.
That’s right; we’re a family now. I’d almost forgotten.
Chapter 12
Anna Williams
I WANTED TO OPEN my eyes, but it hurt to try it, and the sliver of light that got in hurt too.
I squeezed my eyes instead. Sparks burst in my vision. I lolled my head. I was on a pillow. I was on a bed.
Someone leaned over me and I flinched, which hurt more. A hand dabbed at the top of my cheek, and the pressure felt like fireworks inside my face.
“She’s awake,” said a woman’s voice.
I sensed people gathering around the bed. I forced my eyes open; the right one opened wider than the left. They were two nurses and a doctor. I tried to ask questions, but my mouth only breathed, without sound.
One of them felt the pulse in my wrist, then pressed a stethoscope just above my left breast. I was wearing black, I noticed. I’d been to a funeral.
Hannah-Claire’s funeral.
I pushed to sit up and four hands pressed me gently back down.
A fifth hand, the doctor hand, pressed down on the bed as he leaned over me. I tilted towards him a little. He said things I couldn’t quite turn into meaning, but the voice itself was comforting. I let people take care of me.
I WOKE UP again.
This time was abrupt, and absolute. Sounds at full volume all at once: chatter, ticking, footsteps … even scraping, sliding, grinding. It was all magnified.
I could sense light even thr
ough my closed eyes. It was too bright already. I lifted my hand towards my face to shield myself, and the pain in my shoulder made me gasp sharply. No one rushed to me. No one was fascinated by my wakefulness this time. The sleeve of my blouse felt like it was cutting into my arm when I bent at the elbow so I dropped my arm back to the bed, sliding against the rounded metal rail that was keeping me from rolling out. I tried to roll in the other direction, to sit myself up, but bending at the middle made me gasp again.
Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. I made croaking noises. A nurse noticed.
“What … happened?” I pushed out of my throat.
A POLICE DETECTIVE told me.
He said that I had been discovered in the church car park after the funeral, badly hurt.
A doctor explained my injuries: I had been beaten in the face, shoulder, and abdomen. I had been unconscious.
I was helped to the toilet by a nurse. I was swollen around one eye. My whole left side was a dark bruise, multi-coloured the way that oil stains are, all swirly. My right shoulder was useless.
This all took time, possibly hours. Maybe days or years; maybe I was old now. The medicine made me slow.
The detective asked me questions. He had ginger hair. He told me his name but I couldn’t hold on to things like that. He wanted to know who had hurt me. He wanted to know who to phone for me. He probably asked those things separately, but they came at me as if they were on two sheets of tracing paper, one on top of the other.
I tried to think of people I wanted. I’d already told Blake not to see me any more. The policeman asked if I wanted my mother and I sort of yelped and that hurt, like punching my stomach from the inside.
He didn’t even ask if I wanted my father. It’s as if he knew that was ridiculous.
I could have wanted to see my sister. She was here for the funeral, from her normal home now up north. We’re a small family. We have to make a show even for cousins. Hannah was just a cousin. She hadn’t even grown up in England. She came from Canada after her parents died, and suddenly we were supposed to be family, a real family with her at the middle of it, all grieving and needing attention.
Look for Her Page 14