by Rachael Blok
Maarten watches as sweat collects on the man’s brow. His eyebrows lift and fall. Eventually, he shakes his head.
‘Was it a pupil? Just answer me that.’
‘I’m going to call my lawyer.’ He rubs his brow with the inside of his wrist, hand still holding the phone. ‘Yes, it was a pupil, but it’s not what you think. I’m not what you think!’
Maarten nods his head and turns to leave.
‘We’ll expect you at the station in an hour. If your lawyer isn’t with you, then you’ll be welcome to wait with us until he arrives.’
9
Sam indicates to an empty pew. They duck in, carrying Finn and Rosie. Jenny sits at the end, nervous, but unsure why.
‘Busy, isn’t it?’ Sam says, looking round.
The cathedral is ethereal, lit by candles and a shimmer of grief. Full and still filling, the chatter doesn’t rise above a discreet stir, a mumble. Sadness is thick.
Arranged quickly in memoriam of Leigh Hoarde, the small city has turned out to pay its respects.
Will had not been able to get home in time, and guiltily, Jenny is pleased. Sam is easier; she will not be watching. Will has been even more jumpy around her since the in-laws’ visit. Since the news.
The dark head at the end of the row in front of them is familiar. Staring, she realises who it is, and nudges Sam. ‘That’s the detective,’ Jenny says, nodding to the end of the row. She can see his DI is there too, a few rows further ahead, straight-backed, respectful.
‘The really tall one?’ Sam asks.
Jenny nods. It must be his wife with him, and two daughters. The youngest sits on his wife’s knee, and the detective is pointing something out to the eldest. Her eyes are bright, despite the mood. He loops his arm around her shoulders and she leans in to him, following the sketch of his hand as he indicates to the huge coloured windows.
As he gestures to her side of the cathedral, he catches Jenny’s eye. She’s embarrassed, caught looking at him, and she waves. He nods in response, but she’s not sure he recognises her. His daughter waves back, with an open friendliness, and points out Finn to her father. Jenny takes Finn’s hand and gives a little wave back, and the girl giggles. She doesn’t like him more, but seeing him with his daughter makes him seem at least human. His coldness the day before… she shudders. If it weren’t so stupid, she would believe she is afraid of him.
Organ music swells. The congregation stands.
Sam reaches out and takes Jenny’s hand.
‘Abide with me…’
Finn stirs, and Jenny lowers him from her shoulder to her chest, pulling him close. Fighting tears for a second, she allows them, and they overwhelm her. She cries into the folds of his stripy Babygro, breathing, trying to regain self-control.
‘The darkness deepens…’
Beside her, Sam sings and also wipes a tear. Jenny’s eyes are flooded and flowing. She fights for discretion, opening her mouth to join the singing.
‘Change and decay in all around I see;’
The breath comes, and she joins with the final verse. The singing is loud. Someone nearby is clearly trained and his deep voice booms; someone else equally enthusiastic yet off-key. She looks up at the stonework, arches and curves lift and soar.
The hymn has always been evocative, and yet she hasn’t thought of it for years. Her memories often feel as though they begin with the death of her mother: the hospital, the funeral. This song. There are only patchy snatches before that. Her mother’s green eyes close to hers if she’d fallen, and the feel of her mother’s lips on her forehead – the chocolate buttons she’d slip her after a bump. The sound of her voice, reading a bedtime story, different characters all with different voices. And yet she’s not crying for her mother, who, after all, she didn’t really know. These tears are different. They swallow her. They drown her.
‘Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies,
… morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee…’
As the final line approaches, the horizon of control approaches, is within grasp. Her grief is disproportionate; she instinctively needs to hide it. It is sad, but why is she this sad? Why this girl?
From behind her, from the aisle, where there is no one, like a fridge opening at the corner of her ear, a frosty breath makes her cling to Finn so hard he whimpers. The voice is faint, a brush against her arm, the whisper crystal: ‘Save her.’
It is a female voice. Light, like a bell. A tiny chime.
The room stands around her, and Jenny feels as though she is pinpointed, the axis on which the city rotates. The bustle: organ music, grief, singing, candles… They move round her. The spot on which she stands is still like stone. Darkness begins to press. She daren’t turn. Daren’t breathe – even the movement of an eyelid feels as though the balance of this world might collapse. ‘Save her.’
And then the breath vanishes. The fridge door closes. The darkness recedes. She knows, without looking, without listening, that whatever had been there has now gone.
The chorus swells to the finish. The hymn is still playing and Jenny, crying no more, still dare not open her mouth. Beside her Sam sings:
‘In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.’
10
‘I’ll try not to be late,’ Maarten says, kissing Liv and the girls.
They stand at the top of the park, down from the great wooden doors of the cathedral that preside over the sloping hill. The shadows of the nights are long. Snow falls softly, but only visible in the yellow circle around the old iron street lamp that lights the path leading down to the lake.
‘Bye, Papa!’ Sanne throws her arms around his neck.
Nic is more subdued. Maarten kneels, looking at her from her level.
‘You OK, schatje?’
She nods, but doesn’t speak. He glances up at Liv, a bright blue beanie hat failing to contain her curls, and she shakes her head.
‘Why don’t we go home for a hot chocolate and a Christmas film? I’ll make popcorn.’ She scoops up Sanne in one arm and takes Nic’s hand in the other. ‘Shall we keep some for Papa, or eat it all?’
The girls laugh, and Maarten wishes he could follow them, as they turn to walk towards the car. The outline of the three of them blends into the crowd of the city as the cathedral empties. He owes it to Leigh Hoarde to go back and try to unpick this mess.
People cluster and throng. St Albans is a grieving huddle. They deserve his full attention.
‘Want a lift, Maarten?’
He turns; Imogen and Seb stand behind him, layered with hats and scarves.
‘We’re heading out for a late birthday drink after the interview, so Seb is driving me to the station to wait.’ Imogen shivers as she speaks, hooking her scarf up her face with her nose.
‘Even one drink is better than nothing. Even tonight. Especially tonight,’ says Seb.
Maarten nods, and they head down the dark, curved path, weaving through the graveyard amongst the crowds, finding their way back to town.
‘Think he was in there?’ Imogen asks, stepping alongside Maarten as they walk out of the scope of the lights of the cathedral doors.
‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t,’ Maarten says. ‘I’d put money on him watching, creeping. Either that or he’s fled – far away.’
‘No Pickles,’ Imogen says.
‘I looked too.’ Maarten watches the backs of the throng of people as they enter the cobbled street that leads up towards the centre of the market square. ‘But he wouldn’t show his face, not after this evening. He’s not got the swagger.’
Seb pulls out a key, and the lights flash on the car that is parked at the edge of the sweeping curve of the cathedral road.
Maarten ducks his head to get into the passenger seat.
‘I think—’ Imogen begins, but there is a shout from further up the street.
‘What’s that?’ Maarten climbs out, and sees the throng up ahead on the narrow street collect to a mass. A congregation. He strides up
past the tiny shops, where windows wink and blink their Christmas lights.
‘Why were they there then, if it wasn’t one of your staff, Craven?’ The shout from the crowd is loud, and Maarten can see the headmaster, not physically flattened, but surrounded, pinned by the crowd. He stands up against a gift shop, and a white porcelain reindeer head peers out of the display window, watching.
‘God, it’s a mob,’ Seb mutters.
‘Do you know? Do you know if it was someone from your school?’ someone shouts, and there are mutters floating down the street, to where Maarten stands: ‘He must know…’, ‘… someone capable of that working there…’, ‘… doing their checks properly?’
Imogen walks into the crowd. ‘Police, move aside please. DI Deacon. I’m not sure what is going on here, but it’s time to get going.’
Some glance around, and see Imogen and Maarten. A few fall back immediately, and a small path opens to where Craven stands. Seb moves aside to let Maarten walk ahead, and he skirts round the back of the crowd, behind where Imogen stands; he searches the mob.
‘Was it someone at the school? We heard you were there today!’ The shout is loud, as eyes swivel. Maarten wonders for a second if they need to call for backup, but it’s only seven p.m., no one is drunk here.
‘Anyone can walk into that school… sign your name Mickey Mouse and you’re in!’ Another shout. ‘Must be someone at your school!’
‘Yeah, falls at your feet, doesn’t it, Craven?’
Maarten tenses but, scanning, is reassured; it’s a mild-mannered group: a grieving crowd rather than an angry mob. And he doesn’t blame them. The death of a child can stir up the sleepiest of towns.
‘It’s time to head home, or on to your destination. This is not the time or the place.’ Maarten uses his full height to look down upon them, and more scatter, stand back.
‘What about the family – have you checked them?’ Another shout, but this is met with some dissent: ‘Leave them alone!’, ‘What they’re going through…’
And Maarten can feel a return of the rising tension.
‘Well, if it wasn’t them, why weren’t they keeping a better eye on her?’
There’s a flash from the side, and Maarten closes his eyes against the light. As he opens them he sees what looks to be a cluster of press gathering, and he sees Seb step forward so that his back is up against the cameras, shielding Maarten and Imogen. Here for the vigil, Maarten thinks, like sharks.
‘She was only fourteen!’ Another shout, but the press have thrown the group, and more have scattered; the sting has left the throng; some heads dip, and they begin moving slowly up the winding lane, towards the centre of the tiny city.
Imogen takes out her badge and flashes it at a few of the aggressors, walking towards them. Maarten sees Seb raise his hand in front of another camera, as it points towards them.
Slowly, it ebbs away. They are left with a handful of people, who look shaken, and duck their heads.
‘Thank you,’ Craven says, approaching Maarten, and Imogen joins them. He is flustered, and his hands shake.
‘No problem. Do call us if you are bothered again.’
‘This isn’t going to blow over, is it?’
Maarten shakes his head. Shadows from the street lamps fall across the narrow lane, and the snow comes once more, as Craven tucks his hands deep into his coat pockets, hunching, turning away.
It will get ugly soon.
The sound of a car engine hums behind them, and Seb, who must have ducked out early, calls out from the driver’s window. ‘Come on, I’ve got the heat on. I’ll buy you both a drink when you’ve finished tonight. Doubles.’
11
‘Hello, can you hear me?’
The image, of a family, unresponsive, waiting to begin, appears before Maarten. The room is bright with the Australian sun, and their faces are rosy-brown, like builders’ tea, Maarten thinks. The boy’s face – and he only looks about twelve, younger than his years – in contrast, has a pallor beneath the glow; starling scared; mock-turtle sad. There are no tears on his face, but they wait in his eyes, like a drop at the end of a tap waiting to splash.
The mother, composed for battle, is devoid of expression. She has a notepad before her and her shoulders sit high, tense.
‘Hello, can you hear me?’ He tries again.
The screen goes black then lights again, and the image opens to full screen, with sound booming. ‘Hello? Hello? Is it on?’
The father comes into view and sits down next to his son, and the mother leans forward. Engages.
‘DCI Jansen?’
‘Hello, yes. It’s good of you to organise the time. I realise this must be difficult for you. Arjun, for you in particular.’
The boy nods, and the tears begin to fall. His father puts his arm around his shoulders; the mother winces.
‘I won’t keep you long, but I know that you’ve heard about Leigh and I just wanted to ask you if you had any information that might help us. I have a couple of questions, and I’ll just jump straight in – try not to keep you.’
They nod again. Maarten begins. ‘Firstly, can I just ask about Leigh? Is there anyone she has mentioned recently, who you think it is worth telling us about? Anyone who she was scared of, or excited about meeting? Anything unusual?’
The boy, Arjun, looks to his mother before answering, and she nods, encouraging.
His voice, high and newly breaking, trembles. ‘No, she didn’t mention anyone. Not really.’
‘What do you mean, not really?’ Maarten asks. He stops himself leaning forward, looking interested.
‘Well, nothing. It’s just… well, she took a few calls, on her phone. And…’ He cries, leaning forward and his shoulders shake. The mother looks to the father and tilts her head, juts her chin to the left, indicating to the screen. Maarten watches it from across the world, and feels impatient. He hasn’t got long. This woman is not going to let him have much more time with her son like this.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, my son…’ The father’s voice is reluctant, pushed on by his wife.
‘This really won’t take long at all,’ Maarten says, leaning forward now, trying to look into the eyes of the boy, to hold his attention.
‘Who was it on her phone, did you see?’
Arjun shakes his head. ‘No, and when I did look…’ he looks embarrassed, ‘I did look once at her phone, when she had left the room. I thought maybe it was Max Davies from year twelve who was calling – but there was no name. It was just a number. And it wasn’t…’
He looks nervous now, Maarten thinks. The glance to his mother – this is something he wonders if he should have already said, or should not be saying.
‘Well, it wasn’t her usual phone. Her normal one has a green cover, with stickers, but this was an old one. A Nokia or something – I don’t really know the make. It only has a small screen.’
‘She had two phones?’ Maarten asks.
‘I asked her where she got it. She was really casual, like it didn’t matter, but she said someone gave it to her. I thought it probably wasn’t Max Davies then, because if he was going to ask her out, he’d just do it. He wouldn’t think I would stop him. And I wouldn’t of, couldn’t of. But I did think it was really crazy, that someone would give her a phone to just make calls to her.’
‘Arjun, who do you think it might have been? Who do you think might have given her the phone?’
This time, when he cries, his shoulders pulse, brittle. Only a fledgling. And the mother looks directly at Maarten, placing her hand on her son’s. ‘It’s enough, DCI Jansen. That’s enough. He’s only fourteen.’ The strength in her face is melting. She too looks as though she may cry. Maarten moves quickly.
‘Arjun, do you have any idea?’ he pushes. He only has a few seconds.
‘It was something a grown-up would choose. No one else would buy a crap phone like that – it wouldn’t be a good present. I wondered if it was Mr Pickles. He was always nice to her, and always ni
cer to the girls than the boys. I wish I had said something. Mum, I’m so sorry.’
Maarten watches the mother, her arms scooping up her son, say, ‘Turn it off.’
‘Thank you, Mr and Mrs Asante. Thank you, Arjun.’ And he hopes they heard his thanks as the screen goes dark. The strength of the Antipodean sun vanishing like a light switch turning off. Black.
12
‘… and this murder.’ Erin takes a swig of wine. ‘Fuck, I can’t get my head round it.’
The dressed wooden table, the wine, light from the dimmed lamps and candles; the hiss of the cooking pot every now and again gently answering scrapes from chairs as they settle in and settle down.
‘How did we get so wet, only coming from next door!’ Erin had said, her blonde hair dancing out of its grips.
Friends for only the two months since moving in. ‘We’re so lucky!’ they’d exclaimed, discovering people roughly their age, as neighbours, able to socialise without arranging babysitters. Will had met Erin before at work – different firms, but same job.
‘Tell us about the interview, Will. I haven’t had the details. Did they tape it, and get you a lawyer in? Bet it was funny being on the other side for a change,’ Connor says. He grins. ‘Were there doughnuts on the table?’
‘He’s not a bloody suspect, Connor!’ Erin waves her hand. ‘Anyway, he might not want to talk about it, and they might have asked him not to.’
‘Oh God, Erin, you deal with mergers and acquisitions; I bet you’ve never set foot in a police station. You’re not the kind of lawyer I want to hear about. Come on, Will, tell us what it’s like at the dirty end.’
Will shakes his head. ‘Nothing to tell, really. I told them what I’d seen. They wrote it down, I read it and signed it. That’s it. You didn’t see anything?’
‘We were away,’ Erin says, topping up her glass. ‘I was at a spa thing and Connor was playing boozy golf with some friends. I couldn’t believe it when I got back. Connor was being interviewed by the police on our doorstep. I thought he’d been done for drink-driving. Again.’