I’m not sure what to say. She is right, of course. I think of all the victims of this trade that I know of, including Baby C. Despite the findings of the investigation, I will always feel in some way that I failed him. I suppress the white-hot anger rising within me. I promised myself I would make sure Mel didn’t get off scot-free. I just can’t see how I can make certain she pays the penalty for her actions without putting us all in danger. And if I do go to the police? They will no doubt want to know why I didn’t come forward earlier with my suspicions. They may even accuse me of holding up the investigation into Tyler’s death. In my defence, I can give them a sanitised version of events from my perspective. Present myself in a positive light. Play down the obsessive, and frankly weird, stalkerish aspects of my behaviour with regard to Mel. I can do naive.
Even if I can plead shock and distress from seeing the murder to explain away many of my actions, then what? I get a reprimand or even a caution? It seems a small price to pay if it leads to an interruption in the supply chain. Mel will be punished, and as a consequence, Gabe will too, though Sal would say removing him from his mother’s influence can only benefit him in the long run. For a brief moment, I experience a sense of clarity. That is, until I am reminded of Mel’s words. Do you really want a life in witness protection?
‘Fran?’
I hear Sal’s voice. It sounds as though it’s coming from the bottom of a well.
‘Are you okay? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
I realise that Sal is standing over me, looking worried.
‘I was asking what Laurie’s thoughts on the matter are, but you stared right through me. You zoned out there for a minute.’
‘Erm, yes, I’m good. Just tired. I’ve not been sleeping well. It seems to catch up with me around this time of day.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. I often snooze in the afternoon, too.’
Sal is now back in her chair and is resting her elbows on the cushion. She is looking at me expectantly.
‘Does Laurie think you should go to the police with what you have uncovered?’
‘This is where it gets convoluted. You see, I haven’t told him.’
I’m saved from having to explain further by the reappearance of Al and Buddy.
‘He’s had a good run around with his ball,’ Al says. ‘Now, if you let me out into the garden, I’d like to have a good look at this patch you are turning into a flower meadow before it gets dark.’
Sal follows me into the kitchen as I let Al out and put the kettle back on.
‘It’s too much of a burden to carry all by yourself,’ she says, rinsing the teacups under the tap in the sink. ‘You have to tell your husband. Whatever you decide is going to affect him and the rest of the family. It’s not a game, Fran. It’s gone beyond a bit of amateur sleuthing. There’s a lot at stake, and I think you know what my advice would be. Mel is despicable and a failure as a mother. I can’t fathom the hold she has over you, but ultimately the decision you make has to take account of your safety and that of your family. As far as I can see, the only way you can achieve that is if Laurie knows what is going on and can help you gain some perspective.’
Sal is looking in my direction, waiting for a response.
‘After the funeral,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘That’s when I’ll tell him. Then we can decide together on the best course of action.’
Peering through the glass in the patio doors, I see Al. In the fading afternoon light. He is pacing out the section we have identified as suitable to dig over and sow with wild flower seeds. A feeling of melancholy washes over me, and there’s a catch in my throat.
I can’t help but think I may never see the project come to fruition.
33
‘You don’t have to go, you know,’ Laurie says. ‘It’s not as though anyone will notice if you’re not there.’
It’s the day of the funeral. Laurie is Skyping me as he’s having his lunch. He holds up the sandwich he is eating for me to see. The bread is brown; granary, if I’m not mistaken. Bits of greenery and slices of cucumber and tomato are escaping from its innards.
‘Nice and healthy. Vegan cheese and organic salad. How worthy is that?’
‘Yum, looks delicious,’ I say. ‘You should be very proud of yourself for trying.’
Laurie laughs at this and leans into the screen. ‘Have you had anything? You’ve been off your food recently. Are you worrying about the funeral?’
‘I suppose I am.’ This is true, but on the scale of things, the funeral is not exactly top of the list of my concerns.
‘I was asking about food,’ Laurie says. ‘You had better make sure you have something before you go. Fainting at funerals is never a good look.’
‘True,’ I say. ‘But Jenny called earlier, bearing home-made chicken soup, so I’m sorted for lunch.’
We sign off, and I put Jenny’s Denby pottery bowl in the microwave. While the soup is heating, it gives off a delicious aroma, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation. Jenny had called earlier this morning. She was in a hurry and had thrust the bowl into my hands along with a piece of wrapped sausage for Buddy.
‘I’m not stopping. Off to a meeting. Just to let you know I will be thinking of you today.’ Heading for her car, which she left out on the road with the engine running, she turned and waved.‘And wrap up warmly. It’s going to get cold enough for snow later. You don’t want to catch a chill. It’s very open at the crematorium.’
The soup tastes as good as it smells. I am glad of something hot and nourishing. I’ve been living off tea and toast and the odd biscuit, only cooking something more substantial on the days Laurie is home. Even then, my portions have grown smaller over the weeks. To Laurie’s dismay, I tend to pick at my food, consuming only a few mouthfuls at a time.
I rarely look in the mirror nowadays. When I do catch a glimpse of myself, I’m shocked to see how gaunt my features are. The bathroom scales reveal I have lost over half a stone. I know I needed to lose a few pounds, but that’s too much too quickly to be healthy. I can’t help but think the hollow-cheeked face staring back at me looks like a ghost.
I seem to recall that Mel requested that bright colours should be worn for the ceremony, and I rifle through my wardrobe to try to find something suitable that still fits. Eventually, I decide on a silky pink blouse, which I tuck into a stretchy wool skirt. My duck-egg blue military coat, bought a few years ago for a work colleague’s winter wedding, hangs loosely from my shoulders. I pull on ankle boots with a low heel over a pair of thick tights and survey the effect in the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door.
The look is surprisingly cheerful, and I wonder if it’s really appropriate for a funeral. I decide I haven’t time to choose an alternative; it will have to do. Remembering Jenny’s advice about the weather, I think about adding a scarf for warmth. I dismiss the idea, but not before once again cursing my stupidity at mislaying my birthday present. Idiot, I say, grimacing at the wan figure in the mirror. You really do need to get your act together.
The car park at the crematorium is full when I arrive. I manage to squeeze my little car into a tricky space flanked by two enormous four-by-fours. I can just about get the door open, swearing under my breath as I twist myself into an awkward position in order to get out without injury.
A coach pulls up at the side of the road and unloads its passengers. A sign in the side window reads Derby Education Centre. They are mostly teenagers, a mixture of boys and girls. They look about Tyler’s age, and I assume they are his college classmates. They are flighty and argumentative at first, the boys shoving each other, the girls checking their hair and make-up in the mirrored surfaces of their phones. A middle-aged man, balding with wisps of sandy hair, comes down the coach steps, and they gather around him in a flock, their voices hushed. They listen attentively as he runs through a few basic guidelines; then they turn off their phones as instructed.
‘Sir,’ one of the lads addresses the man, who
is obviously their teacher, ‘what if we need the toilet when we are – you know – inside?’
‘Good thinking. A sensible question from you for a change, Dylan.’
The boy flushes and smirks. Some of the girls put their hands over their mouths in an attempt to suppress giggles.
‘Right, you lot. Pay attention.’ He waits, holding himself still as all teachers do, until he has their full focus. ‘I’ve spoken to you already about behaviour. I know you won’t let me down, so no need to go over that again. I’m going to show you where the toilets are. Make sure you go before the ceremony starts. Then we have to queue up outside before we go inside, so make sure you’ve got a coat or jacket. It’s starting to freeze already.’
There’s a murmur of assent, and in small groups they follow the teacher along the path that leads to the main entrance. I walk behind, and for the most part, the group is quiet and respectful. It must be daunting for many of them. If they have attended a funeral before, it’s unlikely to be one for someone of their own age group.
I try not to think of Tyler. I don’t want to be overcome by sadness and start snivelling before I even get inside the crematorium. Instead, I stay at the back of the group, keeping just enough distance to enable me to hear the odd scatological comment or snippet of conversation.
‘He was pretty fit, was Tyler.’
A couple of the girls are lagging back from the rest of the group. They are deep in conversation. One has a curtain of ash-blonde hair. When she turns her head sideways, it swings across her face, concealing her features. Hearing Tyler’s name gets my attention.
‘Yeah,’ the other girl says. ‘He was hot in bed, too. That’s what Lara said, anyway.’ They snigger, their heads close together, oblivious to my presence.
I slow my pace and allow a young couple holding hands to pass me and move into the space I have created.
I’m taken aback hearing the girls talk about Tyler in that way. Having had teenagers myself, I’m not generally shocked by teen talk, but it feels wrong, disrespectful even, to speak about him in those terms today.
I resist the temptation to remonstrate with them. Instead I slow down to allow others on the path to go past me. On reflection, I realise how foolish it is to get indignant about what I overheard. Young people can be thoughtless and say silly and inappropriate things. It won’t have been malicious. After all, Tyler was a young, red-blooded male. Chances are, he had been sexually active for a few years before his death. A memory surfaces of a girl at the shrine in the car park being hugged by Mel. Was that his girlfriend? If so, she must be the Lara they were referring to.
I knew it was going to be a big funeral. Young people’s generally are. The line of mourners, many shivering with cold in their lightweight clothing, extends as far as the access road and beyond, halting the progress of cars and those coming out of a previous funeral held in the smaller chapel around the corner.
An attendant opens the double doors, and the crowd surges forward in an unseemly manner, eager to get inside where it’s warm. I am one of the last to get a seat. Those coming in behind me are directed to line up along the sides. I notice DI Holmes and DS Georgiou are among those standing at the back.
The air soon becomes muggy, heavy with the scent of lilies. They are part of the floral arrangements positioned on metal stands close to the lectern. The sickly smell causes the familiar buzz at the base of my skull, which signals a headache. I close my eyes, squeezing the lids tightly together to ease the building pressure. A cluster of dots seems to move like a swarm of gnats. When I try to open my eyes, the dots fuse into a solid black mass. Then there’s nothing.
34
I come to as I’m being hauled to my feet. Someone is at my side, holding onto my arm, and I can hear the sound of a voice. It’s slowed down, like an old record, and seems to be coming from the far end of a tunnel.
‘Fran. Hey, Fran. You fainted. Come with me and get some air.’
I am propelled out of the chapel, through the foyer and out of the main doors, where an icy blast hits my face, causing me to gasp out loud. Slowly it dawns on me. The person holding onto my arm is Tash.
‘I was coming from toilet, and I see you slide to floor like dying swan. Very dramatic.’
Tash can’t have got the message about the dress code, because she is wearing a long, grey, shapeless shift. Her concession to colour is a pair of cherry red, 10-Eye Doc Martens boots and a necklace comprising coloured discs that resemble giant Smarties.
She’s such a character. I hope with all my heart she manages to carry this baby to full term. She and Alex will be devastated if she miscarries again.
‘Oh no, how embarrassing, Tash,’ I say. ‘Laurie joked about this happening. I’m never going to live it down.’ As my head clears, mortification begins to set in.
Just then, the automatic doors open with a swish, and the attendant appears. ‘Are you feeling better?’ he says. ‘I can arrange for a first aider to come and see you if you are still unwell.’
‘I’m fine. I just fainted. I feel so embarrassed. It’s the lilies. For some reason, they always make me feel woozy.’
The attendant looks relieved, no doubt pleased he won’t have to deal with a medical emergency.
‘The cortège is about to arrive,’ he says. ‘But you can sit in the waiting room if you wish. There is a screen and audio, so you can follow the service from there if you don’t want to go back into the chapel. There’s even a spare order of service.’
He hands me a booklet. The picture on the front is of Tyler sitting astride his motorbike.
‘That’s really kind,’ I say. ‘But if it’s all right with you, I’d prefer it if I can slip back in and stand by the door.’
Once I assure Tash I have recovered, she makes her way back to her seat next to Alex. There isn’t a great deal of room to stand; people are jammed in like sardines. A woman in a tweed coat, clutching a set of rosary beads, moves sideways, allowing me to squeeze in next to her. My whispered thank you goes unacknowledged. Her head is down, lips moving in incantation.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
The attendant comes to the door and asks that everyone stand. He presses a button on a small remote control device he is holding, and music reverberates through the speakers.
According to the booklet, the song is called ‘Brother’ and is by a band that I have never heard of. The words are sweet and appropriate, chosen, I assume, by Gabe.
Walking ahead of the coffin, the celebrant, a slim, dark-haired woman in her fifties wearing a bright shade of purple, makes her way to the lectern. There is a pause, and the sound of coughing and shuffling can be heard as the congregation waits expectantly for the family to appear. The song ends, and the pause lengthens. Something is not right.
What’s not right is that an argument is developing in the foyer. From my vantage point by the chapel door, I can hear raised voices, including Mel’s, which is shrill and tearful. Not wanting to draw attention to myself again, I do a sideways shimmy so that I can look out and see what is going on. My view of Mel is blocked by the figures of a man and woman with their backs to me. I can just make out Gabe at his mother’s side. He is pulling at her arm. She shakes him off, and her voice rises to a shriek.
‘Why did you have to bring that tart? Today of all days!’
The man she is addressing is attempting to be conciliatory. ‘We’ve been over this, Mel,’ he says. ‘And Amber is my wife. She is here to support me.’
The woman, attached to his arm like a limpet, is aptly named. Her hair, long and glossy, is the colour of burnished copper.
‘Leave it, Joel,’ she says dismissively. ‘It’s not worth it.’
This comment seems to incense Mel further. She is prevented from lunging forward by Gabe and the funeral director, who grabs her other arm, dropping his top hat in the process.
It’s verging on chaos and descending into farce. I can feel my face start to burn w
ith anger at their lack of respect. Although it’s not my place to intervene, I can’t help myself. Without stopping to weigh up the consequences of my actions, I take a step forward.
‘Just stop this nonsense now, all of you,’ I say, indignation lending power to my voice. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to air your differences. Today is for Tyler, and the least you can do is be civil to each other. Now get yourselves together and go into that chapel. You need to do the right thing for that boy. You won’t ever get the opportunity again.’
Joel and Amber spin around to face me. Fearing I have spoken out of turn, I’m half expecting to be told to mind my own business. To my surprise, they look relieved. Mel, too, has stopped struggling and has shaken off both the funeral director and Gabe. Her face, though pinched and tear-stained, is still immaculately made up. Her outfit, a cobalt-blue tailored trouser suit, makes her look like a fashion model. The effect is striking, but I have to suppress a gasp when I see what is elegantly draped around her neck. There is no mistaking the pattern and colour. She is wearing my scarf.
Recognising that it’s me who has spoken, Mel walks towards me. Instinctively I take a step back, unsure of what she might do. I needn’t have worried.
‘Fran, this is so awful. I can’t face going in there. Not looking like this.’ She waves a manicured hand in the direction of her face. ‘I must look a complete mess.’
‘You don’t,’ I say, resisting the urge to snatch my precious scarf and run. ‘That waterproof make-up is worth every penny.’
She manages a ghost of a smile, then reaches for my arm.
‘Will you come in with me?’
I can hardly refuse, given the circumstances. Retrieving my scarf will have to wait.
The funeral director and chapel attendant, hovering anxiously throughout, spring into action when I nod in their direction. As the music starts up once again, Gabe and I steer Mel towards the front pew, Joel and Amber following close behind.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 18
