by Rachael Blok
‘Pay attention to what they told you, Maarten. Head injuries are no joke, and I know what you and Imogen are like.’
Liv had handed him a bottle of something this morning. She had been angry he was going in after so little sleep. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get behind the wheel. You’re likely to collapse at any moment. Honestly, it’s a job, Maarten, there are other people…’ Her brow had creased in concern; her hands had been covered in glitter. The girls had woken early and been decorating the party invites. Her cheeks were dusted with it and it made him blink.
He could see two of things, if he blinked quickly.
Steps sound on the hard floor.
‘This is the doctor.’ Imogen gestures to a woman in a white coat heading down the corridor. ‘I came back last night, once the paperwork for the men was finished, to relieve Sunny.’
They stand as the doctor shakes their hands. She is short anyway, but Maarten towers over her, looking down at her pale white face, forcing her to look high up in the direction of the strip lighting, and she rubs her eyes at the glare.
‘He’s been fairly lucky, all things considered. Nothing serious, we think, to his brain. Concussion, a dislocation and a bleed into a joint, but the minor surgery has gone well, and we’re hoping he will wake up later today. Fractured cheek. There shouldn’t be any long-term consequences, hopefully.’
‘Are his family here?’ Maarten asks.
‘No. He’s got a housemate, who came in last night. He said he would call the family, but so far we haven’t heard anything.’
Maarten looks through the door. Pickles lies immobile. A lot rests on his regaining consciousness.
‘We need to interview him when he comes round. Can I leave someone here?’
‘It’s up to you. You can leave an officer sitting in the corridor, if you like? But he needs rest.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll call someone in now.’
They move to walk down the corridor, Seb falling behind, and as they turn, a beep begins to sound from Pickles’ room. It turns quickly to the squeal of an alarm.
The doctor runs into the room and nurses appear from all directions.
Maarten steps back to let them in, and he can hear the whirr of the emergency team in action, but from where he stands it’s like a cloud of confusion. His head still aches. There is shouting and someone wheels a cart past him. Flurry, dash. The room spins.
‘Oh shit,’ Imogen says, to his left.
Seb moves to her and puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry – they’ve got this.’
It’s frantic and furious. There is some shouting, and then it calms a little. The silence is powerful. More people run down the corridor. Someone pushes a bed.
‘Should we go?’ Imogen is jumpy beside him.
‘No, let’s wait. We’ll give it five minutes.’ The outcome of this could impact the case from all different directions. Threads will tangle.
The beeping slows, nurses file out and the doctor steps back out. Her face shines with sweat.
Maarten steps forward.
‘Alive. He was fitting. We will need to keep a close eye on him. It’s likely that he has an underlying condition we’re not aware of; he could have epilepsy or it could be the fever. The injuries he sustained yesterday have placed stress on his body. We’ll need to run a few tests.’ The tiredness on the doctor’s face ages her – ten years in the last five minutes.
‘I’ll have an officer here in half an hour.’ Maarten tips his head an inch in Imogen’s direction and she turns to make the call.
‘I know I shouldn’t ask,’ the doctor says, ‘but did he do it?’
*
Pushing the door open to Interview Room One, Adrika and Sunny sit opposite John Hoarde’s brother-in-law. Maarten recognises him from earlier, one of the larger ones from the attack, but not the one who hit him.
Back in the station, he wants to show his injuries to the men, give them a glimpse of what they may be prosecuted for: lend weight to his officers’ questioning. His plan is to ask for a quiet word with Adrika, and then exit, but his entrance causes a snicker.
Surprised, Maarten catches his eye. The man is wearing police issue clothing because his clothing had been covered with bloodstains, now evidence of the assault.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ The aggression stirs, the tone lazy, slow.
Maarten doesn’t speak, but holds the man’s gaze. His head is still throbbing and the night in hospital has upped his exhaustion, nerves newly stretched.
‘Really, you come in here, dressed like you’re in fucking costume, with your black suit and your red glasses. You’ve got your people talking to us in here, holding us for beating up a cunting kiddie-fiddler, a murderer!’ The man, shouting now, lunges forward. The speed is a surprise. His chair spins behind him.
Sunny throws himself between the two men. Maarten holds his position.
‘Help in here!’ shouts Sunny.
Officers run through the door and wrestle the man backwards, holding him by his arms and cuffing him, locking his hands behind his back.
‘I pay your effing wages! And you’re wasting my time! Go and catch the fucking killer, you fucking foreign ponce!’
A glob of spit lands at Maarten’s feet. With one last look, he leaves.
Back at his desk, Imogen comes running up. He can hear her footsteps outside the office. She knocks quickly before entering. She carries a coffee.
‘Sir! Are you OK? I just heard.’
Placing the coffee down before him, she sits opposite. ‘You know you shouldn’t even be in today. Shall I phone Liv? I can drop you back now, or if you’d prefer I can ask if she wants to come and get you. I don’t think you should drive…’
‘Oh, it’s fine. Don’t fuss.’ He opens the packet of pills, and knocks two back with the coffee. ‘I would imagine we’ve found our charge for incitement, if nothing else.’
Imogen sits back and scratches the back of her hand. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘One possible, actually. We took a statement from one of the inhabitants of Lake Lane. Their alibi didn’t check out. The statement came in half an hour ago. He said he was away golfing, but no one at the club remembers seeing him. We can’t pin him down, and the car passed right outside his house: one of the last sightings of Leigh.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, we did some background checks and his place of work, a creative agency in London, they have taken groups of Y9, Leigh’s year group, for a morning in industry. We haven’t got an obvious link between Leigh and him directly, but…’
Maarten sits up. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Connor Whitehouse.’
23
Jenny is waiting for Sam on the corner, when her phone rings.
‘Dad? What a surprise! Are you having a good time?’
‘Jenny, pet, I’ve just read about the girl, about the drowning. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I know I was upset the other day but I’m—’
‘Jenny, of course you are upset! God, love… I wanted to talk to you a few months ago…’
Again the static, the white noise. ‘Dad? It’s a rubbish line.’
‘I know – we’re in port at the moment. I thought it might be a bit easier than at sea, but…’ Static.
‘Look, Dad, you’re back in a few days. I’ll come and get you from the airport. I’m fine.’
‘I could come home early?’
‘Why do that?’ Jenny shakes her head, even though he cannot see. ‘Enjoy it. I’ll see you soon.’
‘OK… but call me if you feel upset. The drowning… Jenny…’
There is nothing else. The line dies.
She pockets the phone as Sam arrives, and Jenny throws off the question that is somewhere in her throat, caught, scratchy.
‘We could go down to the lake?’ Sam says.
‘The lake?’
‘I’ve been meaning to leave some
flowers. I didn’t get a chance yesterday, but the girls from baby-group have been down and I think Tessa would really appreciate it, you know, seeing that everyone has made a gesture, an effort to mark… to remember… Leigh.’
It makes sense. But it also feels like morbid curiosity. It’s a graveyard now, and Jenny has never enjoyed wandering around graveyards. The thought of crowds, jostling, being eager…
They walk, and the snow holds off.
‘It feels a bit… is it not too soon? Shouldn’t we give it some space?’ says Jenny.
‘It’s like nothing has ever happened there now – no police, no body; there’s nothing to actually see.’
Sam is right. There won’t be anything left there. Anything to see. And still, and yet… Jenny can feel her heartbeat speed, prepare for fight or flight.
Her feet follow Sam down the path; she pauses at the florist, stares at flowers.
‘Here, do you want to write a message?’ Sam passes Jenny the pen, and clutching it, fumbling, feeling sick, Jenny writes beneath Sam’s round letters: ‘So sorry, love Jenny and Finn Brennan.’ The writing is uneven, and she wants to rip the card into pieces and toss them in the air.
‘You OK, Jen?’ Sam pauses as she tucks the envelope into the band of the flowers.
‘It’s just…’
Sam puts the flowers under the buggy seat and hugs her. Jenny can barely feel it: their coats and all their wrappings surround her like a moat.
‘OK, love, if you really don’t want to go, we won’t.’
One sensible reason, one reason that when spoken aloud doesn’t sound like badly written melodrama, but Jenny can think of nothing. So she nods, and says, ‘Yes, it’s fine. It’s a good idea. And you’re right. There won’t be anything to see, I’m just being silly.’
They step into the cobbled alleyway that divides the cathedral from the city. The twisty, uneven stones muffle sounds from the street, the musty smell familiar. Natural light dims a little as the path becomes narrow, snaking the edge of the cathedral and the walled gardens, and they burst out into the light at the top of the park. Trees, white and dressed; children sledging and wobbly snowmen. The white world is bright. The sun bounces, dazzles on the ice. Tiny icicles hang in clusters from branches. The air is bracing. Jenny breathes in and holds it, expelling it slowly, beginning to believe her own words: she really is just being silly.
‘How are things with Will?’ Sam asks.
‘Well, he’s back to work now the trains are running again,’ she says. Will. Back in the office, and she’s relieved. The distance of his commute, some days apart, will ease the tone of the cottage. She has not wanted to pierce his good mood, glued together since their appointment at the hospital, but she can’t sustain a cheery smile for much longer. It had been fine for the evening. But now her face aches, the corners held aloft in an uncomfortable upwards turn.
Neither Will nor her brain seem to be functioning as they used to. She is aware that she doesn’t want to give in to frustration and tiredness when he is around. She doesn’t want to cry, to seem incapable… He has never doubted her before; she doesn’t understand these new rules.
‘He’s worried I’m going slowly mad. I had roughly two hours’ sleep last night and Will slept the sleep of the dead. He rises and looks smart and capable, and leaves me grasping a mug of tea in one hand and a crying baby in the other.’
‘What is it with our husbands? They have toilet breaks, lunch breaks, grown-up meetings. You know I didn’t have a conversation with an adult the whole of yesterday? The snow was so bad, I just stayed in. Even my bloody mother had gone out when I called her.’
The edge of the lake comes into view. It’s bright, like a sheet of mirror. Hard.
‘Tessa will be touched,’ Sam says, seeing her face.
Jenny steps forward, ducking under a low tree branch. The icicles are sharp, and one falls as she bumps against the branch, plunging to the ground and disappearing under the snow.
Looking down, as the path winds to the right, Sam gasps, and Jenny can see the edge of a crowd. There is no noise, just a quiet group. They flank the corner of the lake, near a crop of trees and the hut where children bird-watch during the summer. The ground is bare, and the snow has been walked away. The edge of the lake is lined with bunches of flowers, rows and rows of coloured petals, bright, wrapped in cellophane. Some in pots, some in vases. There are also single flowers: red, white roses with long stems, heads facing towards the lake, thorny stalks stark on the dirt. Petals have fallen and carpet the area. Cards and drawings colour the trees, flapping and clapping open and shut in the breeze.
Stilled, Jenny and Sam stand, heads tilted down silently. A prayer of sorts. A confrontation.
Jenny looks out, across the lake. It’s not big; the other side is clearly visible, and if someone shouted from one end to the other you could probably still hear them. A city lake, a park lake. Not a graveyard. It’s hard to imagine it in darkness, in all this sunlight with all these people. It’s hard to imagine being alone, and being afraid. The sun catches the lake and it flashes, carbon sparks, diamonds. A figure moves on the far side. Darting backwards from the water, moving behind the trees. Indistinct. Disappearing beyond the threshold.
She is five again. ‘Jenny! Jenny!’ Her head whips round – ‘Mum?’ she says, before she can swallow it.
‘Jenny?’ Sam looks at her, confused.
‘Sorry.’ Jenny’s face burns hot with embarrassment. ‘I feel…’ Her eyes follow the movement into the trees. ‘I feel as though something is waiting to happen,’ she says. Or that she is waiting to remember what has happened – but she can’t say this, and she can’t shake the sensation. The cold cools her cheeks.
‘What?’ Sam asks.
Jenny shakes her head. ‘Oh, nothing. But don’t you feel as though we’re waiting? For whoever did this to be caught and put away? It’s like…’ She stumbles for the words. ‘It’s like the trees have shadows that live; the noises at night in the house, I keep jumping…’
Sam puts her hand on Jenny’s arm.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Jenny says, feeling ridiculous. ‘Let’s lay the flowers.’
They step forward and kneel.
As Jenny leans in, touching the earth with her gloved hand, she feels a jolt, a stab. She doesn’t move. Her heart beats quickly. Her mouth dry, she daren’t turn to look at Sam. She can’t have anyone else look at her as Will does, as if she is mad. She needs an ally.
Her mother: she had been almost six when her mother had died. She doesn’t remember much. And yet she’s back there. There is a woman in a hospital bed – holding her hand. The image is so still, like a photo – she’s not sure if it’s a real memory, or a memory she’s put together from the story her dad has told, over and over again. There are machines, with tubes – she doubts her dad would have embellished those. This memory, this fragment has been flashing up since Finn, since the birth, there are fresh details seeping in: a soft touch, the smell of milk, and the voice shouting – ‘Jenny! Jenny!’ – she still can’t place it. It’s as though giving birth has opened a door. But she’s not sure to where it leads.
In a moment, the tremor passes, and the earth returns to its solid, cold mass.
‘God, there’s Tessa,’ Sam says. Her voice is quiet.
Looking up, Jenny sees the crowd part, and a murmur begins.
They stand quickly, stumbling on the slippery ground, and Jenny reaches for the buggy behind her, anxious and guilty. Her child is here, with her. She wants to hold him close, to ward off the grief she sees on Tessa’s face. But she doesn’t want to parade him. Taunting.
Tessa has two women with her. One looks very like her, and links her arm. Tessa leans against her, yet seems oblivious to her presence. She looks at the crowd as though she doesn’t quite understand why they are there; doesn’t acknowledge them. Her eyes are on the flowers, the rows of heads, colourful and bright. And on the lake. Her eyes stretch to the lake.
Kneeling, she begins reading
the messages that are attached to the bouquets. She moves from one to the next. The paper in her fingers curls, as though her hands are wet. Jenny can see a tissue clutched in there.
It’s uncomfortable to stand here, but they can’t leave. No one can leave. Someone steps forward, and bends, saying quietly how sorry they are, what a waste, what a tragedy. Tessa nods, and places her hand on the woman’s arm.
Rosie wakes and screams. Sam winces and lifts her out of the buggy, pulling her close and walking backwards to a bench. Like a baby’s cry in a funeral, it’s too loud, a bold shout of life against the hush of death. Tessa looks round.
Very briefly, in her sweep of gaze, she catches Jenny’s eye. Jenny can feel that she has started to cry and, hating herself for it, for making this woman’s sadness her own, for taking it away from her, she tries to smile.
The hollowness of Tessa’s face, the loss – so evident, etched so deeply – takes Jenny’s breath away. It echoes inside her: a child’s cry, the first word, riding a fat dog across a garden, birthday cake, crying at a popped balloon, sandcastles, chicken pox, tiny kisses, a fallen tooth…
It’s lost; out of reach. Pain so clear, so present. Loss. That whisper again. ‘Save her.’
‘Leigh,’ Jenny whispers. ‘Oh, Leigh.’
Tessa’s eyes have not left her face. Tilting forward, she reaches out towards Jenny.
Moving, just an inch or two, Jenny is still crying. Her arms reach forwards and Tessa, still holding her gaze, takes a step towards her, surprise writ on her face.
Tessa gasps, a small scream puffs out and disappears quickly, like breath. ‘Leigh!’ And then she falls, crumpling to the earth like discarded wrapping paper.
24
The heavy wheels of the car spin on the small, twisty lane.
‘Shit, sorry,’ says Imogen, as the car slides back a foot, moving down the slope and bumping into the stone wall. ‘I should have let Seb drive us – he offered. My arm went on the handbrake.’
‘It’s fine. I’m not even allowed to drive on these pills. Klere! We’re a wounded circus act this morning.’ Maarten climbs out and stretches, slamming the door and setting off on foot. ‘Leave it here.’