“Yellow.”
“Where is it now?”
She takes me to the entrance hall—an empty coat hook tells the rest of the story. It was raining on Friday; bucketing down. She chose the raincoat but not an umbrella.
Emma is sitting at the kitchen table, attacking a piece of paper with colored pencils. I walk past her into the lounge, trying to create my own picture of what happened on Friday. I glimpse the ordinariness of the day, a woman doing her chores, washing a cup, wiping down the sink and then the phone rang. She answered it.
She took off her clothes. She didn’t draw the curtains. She walked naked from her house wearing only a plastic raincoat. She didn’t double lock the door. She was in a hurry. Her handbag is still on the hallway table.
The thick glass top of the coffee table is supported on two ceramic elephants with tusks raised and flattened above their heads. Kneeling beside the table, I lower my head and peer along the smooth glass surface, noticing tiny shards of broken crayon or lipstick. This is where she wrote the word “slut” across her torso.
There is something else on the glass, a series of opaque circles and truncated lines of lipstick. The circles are dried tears. She was crying. And the lines could be the edges of looping letters that departed from a page. Christine wrote something in lipstick. It can’t have been a phone number, she could have used a pen for that. More likely it was a message or a sign.
Forty-eight hours ago I watched this woman plunge to her death. Surely it had to be suicide, yet psychologically it doesn’t make sense. Everything about her actions suggested intent, yet she was a reluctant participant.
The last thing Christine Wheeler said to me was that I wouldn’t understand. She was right.
8
Sylvia Furness lives in a flat in Great Pulteney Street on the first floor of a Georgian row that has probably featured in every BBC period drama since the original Forsyte Saga. I half expect to see horse-drawn carriages outside and women parading in hats.
Sylvia Furness isn’t wearing a hat. Her short blond hair is held off her face with a headband and she’s clad in black spandex shorts, a white sports bra and a light blue T-shirt with a looping neckline. A gym membership card dangles from a bulky set of keys that must help burn calories simply by being lugged around.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Furness. Do you have a moment?”
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“It’s about Christine Wheeler.”
“I’m late for a spin class. I don’t talk to the press.”
“I’m not a journalist.”
She glances past me then and notices Darcy at the top of the stairs.
With a squeak of anguish she pushes past me, wrapping her arms around the teenager, summoning tears. Darcy gives me a look that says, I told you so.
She didn’t want to come upstairs because she knew her mother’s business partner would make a fuss.
“What sort of fuss?”
“A fuss.”
The front door is reopened and we’re ushered inside. Sylvia is still clutching Darcy’s hand. Emma follows, suddenly quiet, with a thumb wedged in her mouth.
The flat has polished wooden floors, tasteful furniture and ceilings that seem higher than the clouds outside. There are women’s touches everywhere—from the throw cushions in African prints to the dried flower arrangements.
My eyes scan the room and fall upon a birthday invitation propped beside the phone. “Alice” is invited to a pizza and pajama party. Her friend Angela is turning twelve.
Sylvia Furness is still holding Darcy’s hand, asking questions and offering sympathy. The teenager manages to slip out of her grasp and tells Emma there’s a park on the corner, behind the museum. It has swings and a slide.
“Can I take her?” asks Darcy.
“She’ll have you pushing her forever,” I warn.
“That’s OK.”
“We’ll talk when you get back,” says Sylvia, who has tossed her gym bag on the sofa. She looks at her watch—a stainless steel, sporty number. She won’t make her spin class. Instead she flops into an armchair, looking irritated. Her breasts don’t move. I wonder if they’re real. As if reading my mind she straightens her shoulders.
“Why are you so interested in Christine?”
“Darcy doesn’t think it was suicide.”
“And why does that concern you?”
“I just want to be sure.”
Her eyes are full of a gentle curiosity as I explain my involvement with Christine and how Darcy came looking for me. Sylvia props her toned legs on the coffee table, showing what miles on the treadmill can do for a woman.
“You were business partners.”
“We were more than that,” she replies. “We went to school together.”
“When did you last see Christine?”
“Friday morning. She came into the office. She had an appointment with a young couple who were planning a Christmas wedding.”
“How did she seem?”
“Fine.”
“She wasn’t concerned or worried about anything?”
“Not particularly. Chris wasn’t the type.”
“What was she like?”
“The sweetest person. A total one-off. Sometimes I used to think she was too nice.”
“In what way?”
“She was too soft for this business. People would give her a sob story and she’d give them longer to pay or offer them discounts. Chris was a hopeless romantic. She believed in fairy tales. Fairy-tale weddings. Fairy-tale marriages. It’s funny when you think her own lasted less than two years. At school she had a wedding chest. I mean, what sort of person still has a wedding chest? And she used to say that each of us has a special soul mate. Our Mr. Right.”
“You obviously don’t agree.”
Her head swivels towards me. “You’re a psychologist. Do you really believe there is only one person for each of us in this big wide world?”
“It’s a nice thought.”
“No, it’s not! How boring.” She laughs. “If that’s true, my soul mate had better have a six pack and a six-figure salary.”
“What about your husband?”
“He’s a lump of lard, but he knows how to make money.” She runs her hands along her legs. “Why is it that married men let themselves go while their wives spend hours trying to look beautiful?”
“You don’t know?”
She laughs. “Maybe that’s a discussion for another day.”
Sylvia stands and goes to the bedroom. “Do you mind if I get changed?”
“Not at all.”
She leaves the door open and shucks off her T-shirt and bra. There are muscles on her back like flat stones beneath her skin. Her black spandex shorts slide down her legs, but I can’t see what replaces them; the bed and the angle defeat me.
Dressed in cream slacks and a cashmere sweater, she returns to the lounge, tossing her tiny shorts and bra on her gym bag.
“What were we talking about?”
“Marriage. You said Christine was a believer.”
“Head cheerleader. She cried at every wedding we planned. Complete strangers were tying the knot and her pockets were full of soggy tissues.”
“Is that why she set up Blissful?”
“It was her baby.”
“How was business?”
Sylvia smiles wryly.
“Like I said, Chris was a soft touch. People asked for dream weddings—with all the bells and whistles—then they refused to pay or delayed sending the check. Christine wasn’t tough enough.”
“There were money problems?”
She stretches her arms above her head. “Rain. Cancelations. Legal action. It wasn’t a good season. We have to turn over fifty thousand pounds a month to break even. The average cost of a wedding is fifteen thousand. The big ones are few and far between.”
“How much were you losing?”
“Chris took out a second mortgage when we set up. Now we have an overdraft of twenty thousand
and debts of more than two hundred thousand.”
Sylvia rattles off the numbers without emotion.
“You mentioned legal action.”
“A wedding in the spring was a disaster. Dodgy mayonnaise on the seafood buffet. Food poisoning. The father of the bride is a lawyer and a complete wanker. Christine offered to tear up the bill but he wants us to pay compensation.”
“You must have insurance.”
“The insurance underwriter is trying to find a loophole. We may have to go to court.”
She takes a plastic bottle of water from her gym bag and drinks, wiping her lips with her thumb and forefinger.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very concerned.”
Lowering the bottle, her eyes lock on mine.
“Chris put up most of the money. My exposure was minimal and my husband is very understanding.”
“Indulgent.”
“You could say that.”
The money problems and legal action could explain what happened on Friday. Perhaps the person on the phone to Christine Wheeler was owed money. Either that or she lost hope and couldn’t see a way out.
“Was Christine the sort of person who would commit suicide?” I ask.
Sylvia shrugs. “You know how they say the ones who talk about committing suicide are less likely to do it—well, Chris never talked about it. She was the most positive, upbeat, optimistic person I’ve ever met. I mean that. And she loved Darcy like there was no tomorrow. So the answer is no—I have no idea why she did it. I guess she cracked.”
“What’s going to happen to the business now?”
Again she glances at her watch. “As of an hour ago it belongs to the receivers.”
“You’re wrapping it up.”
“What else can I do?”
She tucks her legs to the side in that casual effortless way all women can. I see no signs of regret or disappointment. Hard-bodied Sylvia Furness is as tough on the inside as she is on the outside.
Darcy and Emma meet me downstairs. I lift Emma onto my hip. “Where are we going?” asks Darcy.
“To see the police.”
“You believe me.”
“I believe you.”
9
Detective Inspector Veronica Cray emerges from a barn wearing baggy jeans tucked into Wellingtons and a man’s shirt with button-up pockets that sit almost horizontally upon her breasts.
“You caught me shoveling shit,” she says, leaning into the heavy door, which swings inwards on rusty hinges. She drops a plank into the bracket. I hear horses shifting in their stalls. Smell them.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“So you wanted that drink after all,” she says, wiping her hands on her hips. “Perfect day for it. My day off.”
She spies Darcy in the passenger seat of my car and Emma playing with the steering wheel.
“You brought the family.”
“The little girl is mine.”
“And the other one?”
“Is Christine Wheeler’s daughter.”
The DI has spun to face me.
“You went looking for the daughter?”
“She found me.”
Suspicion has replaced some of her warmth and affability.
“What in glory’s name are you doing, Professor?”
“Christine Wheeler didn’t commit suicide.”
“With all due respect, I think we both should leave that to the coroner.”
“You saw her—she was terrified.”
“Of dying?”
“Of falling.”
“She was perched on the edge of a bridge, for God’s sake.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
I glance at Darcy who looks tired and apprehensive. She should be back at school or being looked after by her family. Does she have any family?
The detective sucks in a breath. Her entire chest expands and then she sighs. She strides towards the car and crouches next to the open driver’s door, addressing Emma.
“Are you a fairy?”
Emma shakes her head.
“A princess?”
Another shake.
“Then you must be an angel. I’m pleased to meet you. I don’t meet many angels in my line of work.”
“Are you a man or a woman?” asks Emma.
The DI laughs.
“I’m all woman, honey. One hundred percent.”
She glances at Darcy. “I’m very sorry about your mother. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Believe me,” she says softly.
“Normally, I’m a true believer in most things but maybe you got to convince me of this. Let’s get you somewhere warmer.”
I have to duck my head as I go through the door. DI Cray kicks off her Wellingtons. Rectangles of mud fall from between the treads.
She turns away from me and begins making her way along the hall.
“I’m going to take a shower, Professor. You put these girls in front of the fire. I got six different sorts of hot chocolate and I’m in the mood to share.”
Darcy and Emma haven’t said a word since leaving the car. Veronica Cray can render someone speechless. She’s unavoidable. Immovable. Like a rocky outcrop in a force-ten gale.
I can hear the shower running. I put a kettle on the Aga stove and search through the pantry. Darcy has found a cartoon for Emma to watch on TV. I haven’t fed her anything since breakfast except for biscuits and a banana.
I notice a calendar pinned to a corkboard. It is dotted with scribbled reminders of feed suppliers, farriers and horse sales. There are bills to be paid and reminder notes. Wandering into the dining room, I look for signs of a partner. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and more on the fridge of a young dark-haired man, a son perhaps.
I don’t normally, knowingly search so openly for clues about a person but Veronica Cray fascinates me. It’s as though she’s fought a lifelong battle to be accepted for who she is. And now she’s comfortable with her body, her sexuality and her life.
The bathroom door opens and she emerges, wrapped in a huge towel knotted between her breasts. She has to step around me. We both move the same way and back again. I apologize and flatten myself against the wall.
“Don’t worry, Professor, I’m inflatable. Normally I’m size ten.”
She laughs. I’m the only person embarrassed.
The bedroom door closes. Ten minutes later she emerges in the kitchen wearing a pressed shirt and trousers. Her spiky hair is beaded with water.
“You breed horses.”
“I save old showjumpers from the knacker’s yard.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Find them homes.”
“My daughter Charlie wants a horse.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
“I can get her one.”
The girls are drinking chocolate. DI Cray offers me something stronger, but I’m not supposed to drink anymore because it affects my medication. I settle instead for coffee.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” she says, concerned rather than angry. “That poor girl’s mother is dead and you’re dragging her around the countryside on some fool’s errand.”
“She found me. She ran away from school.”
“And you should have sent her straight back there.”
“What if she’s right?”
“She’s not.”
“I’ve been to Christine Wheeler’s house. I’ve talked to her business partner.”
“And?”
“She was having money problems, but nothing else suggests a woman on the verge of a breakdown.”
“Suicide is an impulsive act.”
“Yes, but people still choose a method that suits them, normally something they perceive as being quick and painless.”
“What’s your point?”
“They don’t jump off a bridge if they’re afraid of heights.”
“But we both saw her jump.”
/>
“Yes.”
“So your argument doesn’t make sense. Nobody pushed her. You were nearest. Did you see anyone? Or you think she was murdered by remote control. Hypnotism? Mind control?”
“She didn’t want to jump. She was resigned to it. She took off her clothes and put on a raincoat. She walked out of the house without deadlocking the door. She didn’t leave a suicide note. She didn’t tidy up her affairs or give away her possessions. None of her behavior was typical of a woman contemplating suicide. A woman who is scared of heights doesn’t choose to jump off a bridge. She doesn’t do it naked. She doesn’t scrawl insults on her skin. Women of her age are body conscious. They wear clothes that flatter. They care about their appearance.”
“You’re making excuses, Professor. The lady jumped.”
“She was talking to someone on the phone. They could have said something to her.”
“Perhaps they gave her bad news: a death in the family or a bad diagnosis. For all you know she had an argument with a boyfriend who dumped her.”
“She didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Did the daughter tell you that?”
“Why hasn’t the person on the phone come forward? If a woman threatens to jump off a bridge, surely you call the police or an ambulance.”
“He’s probably married and doesn’t want to get involved.”
I’m not convincing her. I have a theory and no solid evidence to support it. Theories achieve the permanence of facts by persisting and acquiring an incremental significance. So do fallacies. It doesn’t make them true.
Veronica Cray is staring at my left arm which has begun to twitch, sending a shudder through my shoulder. I hold it still.
“What makes you think Mrs. Wheeler was afraid of heights?”
“Darcy told me.”
“And you believe her—a teenage girl who’s in shock; who’s grieving; who can’t understand how the most important person in her life could abandon her…”
“Did the police search her car?”
“It was recovered.”
That’s not the same thing. She knows it.
“Where is the car now?” I ask.
“In the police lockup.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
She doesn’t know where I’m going with this, but whatever happens I’m creating more work for the police. I’m questioning the official investigation.
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