Colette sighed. ‘Till the end of the week. Then if you haven’t found anything, it’s an accident and you move on to something else, understood?’
‘Alright.’ She’d just have to find proof by then, that this death was not accidental. Even though everyone insisted it was.
‘And go easy on them. They are new mothers.’
Alison counted to ten. Glanced at the framed photo on Colette’s desk, her rich lawyer husband and her two polished children at the graduation of one of them. Why did having a baby make Monica Dunwood worthy of special treatment? What kind of person complained about the floors, when someone had died at their house? ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Outside, Diana was waiting, her dark hair smoothed into a bun, her make-up fresh even after working all day. ‘How did you get on?’
Alison summed it up. The first three couples hadn’t revealed much. Monica and Ed claimed to have been in the kitchen at the time of the fall, oblivious. Hazel and Cathy said they hadn’t seen it happen, only the aftermath. Aisha had claimed to be down at the barbecue with her husband, and also with Hazel, who had gone running into the house when they first heard screams. No, she hadn’t seen who was on the balcony or exactly what happened. Same thing they’d all said so far. The husband, Rahul, had not made an appearance, and Alison needed to track him down, as well as Monica’s teenage daughter, Chloe Evans. She might well know something, if she was fifteen. Diana nodded slowly as Alison finished. ‘So . . . it’s not conclusive?’
‘They’re all saying accident.’
‘And they all said the group was harmonious, no fights or anything like that?’
‘That’s one of the things that makes me think they’re lying. There must have been some tension, in a group that size, all so different.’
‘Hmm.’
Alison was irritated by the hmm. Was her partner just playing along, humouring Alison as the more senior officer, but convinced like everyone else it was an accident? ‘Look, it’s hard to explain. It’s little things you notice, after years of doing this. I don’t mean to be patronising, saying that. But . . . Hazel and Cathy, there’s tension there. They were speaking very carefully, waiting for each other. Rahul Farooq, he didn’t even show up to the interview. Monica Dunwood – well, she’s insane, you saw that. All she cares about is her bloody rockery. A woman like that’s going to cause trouble wherever she goes, and yet everyone says the group’s all peace and light, holding hands in a birthing circle? No one ever spoke a cross word to the victim? No, I don’t buy it.’ Diana was looking at her curiously. Alison caught her breath. ‘Anything from forensics? I heard the autopsy came in.’
Diana flipped open a stapled wad of paper. ‘As we thought, late thirties, excellent health, great teeth and muscle tone – oh, she’d had a child at some earlier point.’
Alison filed that away – where was the child? How old? They would need to find out.
‘Forensics, it’s going to be a while, sadly, since it’s not high priority. Various people’s DNA on the balcony, proves nothing really since they were all milling about the place all day. One thing – there were hairs caught in the victim’s bracelet.’
‘Oh? What kind?’
‘Dark. Long. Could be her own, but there’s a lot of them.’
Alison thought over the women at the party. ‘Can they cross-match them to the attendees?’
‘Yes, I’ll send a tech round to get samples from them all, but again, it’s not going to be right away.’ Still, that was good – if the victim had indeed been pushed over as Alison suspected, there was a good chance she’d struggled with her assailant, and getting hairs trapped in her bracelet made sense. ‘Any skin under her nails?’
‘Nails were cut short. So, nothing there.’
‘Shame.’ All the same, the hair was something, and Alison was glad, because so far she had no sense at all of what had taken place that day. Usually, murderers were deeply disturbed by what they’d done, and any police officer with experience would pick up on that in preliminary interviews. But in this case, she had no gut feeling for it. Each person was acting guilty in a different way.
The day of – Chloe
11.09 a.m.
She couldn’t believe this was actually happening, that her mother would do this to her. Only weeks after the birth, and Monica was throwing open their house, inviting people round to poke and pry and find out all their secrets. Women who’d just had babies. They’d know, wouldn’t they? How could they not know?
She’d gone back to bed after her earlier run-in with her mother, and had been dozing, as she had for most of the previous month, when her mother marched into her room. She didn’t knock, never had. She threw open the curtains, which were in a floral print that Chloe hated. Sunlight streamed in like an interrogation lamp. ‘I can’t believe you went back to bed. Up we get! T minus two hours!’
Chloe blinked herself awake, like some hibernating animal. Her body hurt all over, her eyes, her head, even her toes, weirdly. ‘I can’t.’
‘Well, you have to. Just put in an appearance, smile and look nice, then you can skulk up here if that’s what you want.’
‘But . . . what am I going to wear? Nothing fits and it’s going to be boiling.’
Her mother paused, as if she hadn’t considered that. ‘Don’t you have something baggy?’
‘I don’t know.’ She pulled the duvet around her, though it was stifling in the room. Trying to hide her body, what it had become. Her mother was rooting through her wardrobe.
‘God, what a mess. Why must you dress like a devil worshipper? You’ll have to wear something of mine, though I’m not sure it’ll fit you, you’re so big now.’ Chloe registered the hit, let it sink in. Her mother was just like this. Her own body was still remarkably slim and toned, probably because all she did since marrying Ed was go to the gym and nutritionist and acupuncturist. So many people were paid to put their hands on her mother’s body, something Chloe had not voluntarily done since she was a child. She shuddered at the thought.
Monica marched out again, banging the door, her high heels rattling on the marble staircase. Chloe hated this house, it was so different to the nice red-brick one they’d lived in until recently, the one she’d shared with her mother and her dad too, who had at least acted as a buffer to her mother’s madness. There was no softness in this house, just glass and chrome and marble, huge windows letting anyone look in, which was ironic, given all they were hiding. No wonder Ed practically lived at the office, paying for this place and her mother’s gym-going personal-training lifestyle, not to mention the private school Chloe hated and was, as her mother kept telling her, failing to make the most of. She missed her old life. She missed her dad, but he was a twat now apparently, with a pregnant girlfriend in her twenties, so that was sad too. He hadn’t even contacted her in months, which made things easier in a way, because she didn’t have to lie to him, but also gave her an ache right at the bottom of her stomach and behind her eyes.
She crept along the bright white walls of the hallway, passing the baby’s room. It was all done up in an explosion of pink, something Chloe would never have chosen. She sidled in. The baby was asleep, her eyes crumpled up, her tiny fists against her head. Chloe felt oddly detached from her, barely related at all. Poor little thing. Chloe was going to be out of this place in three years, but the baby had another eighteen to get through. Was it fair, to leave her like this, at the mercy of Monica? She stretched out a hand, not sure what she was going to do.
‘Chloe!’ Monica was standing in the doorway, holding some massive flowered dress. ‘Leave her alone, I’ve just got her to sleep.’
‘I just . . .’
‘Put this on. The caterers will be here in a minute and you’re not even dressed.’
‘I . . .’
‘Everything has to be perfect today, you understand? Perfect.’
It was a word Chloe had heard often during her childhood. Keep up appearances. Don’t let the cracks show. In the years when h
er father had left, moved to Hong Kong with his job, and they’d had no money because her dad needed to pay for his new flat as well, and her mother wouldn’t get a job, they still had to pretend it was all good, keep up music lessons and dancing and drama school. She’d wanted to shout at her mother – why? Who is this all for? Anyway, then Monica had found Ed and basically dragged him to the altar and now she was back on top, since Ed was actually richer than Chloe’s dad. And now there was the baby.
Monica had called her Isabella, an old-fashioned name that Chloe would never have picked. She’d have wanted something lovely like Rain, or Summer, or cool and edgy like Trixie or Jamie. But she didn’t get a say in it. She’d known that right from the start.
Chloe went back to her room, where her mother had thrust the dress on to her unmade bed. It would make her look forty, but she put it on, and brushed her hair and rubbed some make-up over her wan face. She wondered what Sam was doing. Her mother had taken her phone away, of course, and Chloe wondered if she’d ever get it back. If he’d like to know what she was up to. If he was thinking of her at all.
Jax – eight weeks earlier
I stood on the back doorstep, shivering in my dressing gown. It was an old one, towelling, with bits of toothpaste crusted round the neck. Why didn’t I own any nice things? I was shouting, ‘Minou! Minou!’ I rattled the cat’s metal dish, which usually brought her elegantly loping from wherever she was hiding. But today, nothing.
‘You’ll catch cold, babe,’ said Aaron, coming into the kitchen in his weekend clothes of jeans and a hoody. I wished he would wear something else, anything to make him look more grown-up, but didn’t want to turn into a nagging older woman. I had been awake most of the night, worrying about what I’d learned from Chris. Mark Jarvis was out. He could be anywhere. Was it him, sending the messages? I would have to contact him to find out, and I couldn’t have stood that, even if I’d known how. I’d searched for the anonymous Facebook account in the middle of the night, but hadn’t been able to find it again. It was as if I’d imagined it.
‘The bloody cat’s gone.’
‘Oh?’ Aaron, who’d never grown up with pets, was suspicious of Minou, and it ran both ways. She wasn’t above landing on his shoulders from a high bookcase and sinking her claws in. ‘Cats do that though, don’t they?’
‘I guess. She never has before.’
‘I’m sure she’ll turn up. Come on, babe, we’ll be late.’
I groaned at the thought of the antenatal group. I supposed it was useful, and would come in handy once the baby arrived, but I couldn’t help but feel judged by that group of mums-to-be, who all seemed to know more than me, and most of all by slim, blue-eyed Nina.
That day we were learning about breastfeeding – what to eat, or rather, what not to eat, a tediously long list. I saw that Anita had turned up to the session, though she wouldn’t need to know any of this, and Jeremy hadn’t, perhaps thinking it wasn’t worth his time. Anita said he was ‘at a conference’, being the kind of woman who’d feel she had to make excuses. No Ryan again, either, and I was beginning to think we’d never meet him. Kelly held her head high, chin jutting, making no excuses for him, and I admired her for that. She had brought some cupcakes today from Lidl, and I felt my heart breaking for her, so young, trying to swim in this sea that held sharks like Monica, who I noticed pointedly turning her nose up at them.
Nina was giving us a long, long list of things we weren’t allowed to do. Drink, of course. Smoke, take drugs. She gave me a hard stare at that, I felt, or perhaps I was just being paranoid. Certainly, I’d indulged in the odd pill or spliff at times, but not since meeting Aaron and of course, not since getting pregnant. Besides, I had my mother on my case, monitoring sugar and caffeine levels. Nina went on. ‘Coffee, even too much tea, seafood, soft cheese, cured meats like chorizo, nuts such as peanuts . . . and not too much sugar, of course.’ She seemed to glance at the trestle table where the cupcakes were, and Kelly bit her lip.
I didn’t know what made me speak up. Some rebellious streak, or the fact that I was reminded a bit too much of Mum. ‘I actually read the guidelines had been relaxed a bit. Like you could have a glass of wine sometimes if you wanted. Don’t they do that in France?’
You would have thought I’d dropped a bomb into the room. Everyone stared at me, Cathy and Hazel with horror, even Kelly with confusion, Monica with barely concealed judgement. I saw Aisha’s eyebrows twitch – of course, she probably didn’t drink anyway. Nina’s eyes were wide, unblinking. ‘It’s up to you, Jax. Most people feel that if there’s even a slight chance of harm to the baby, then it’s not worth the risk for a glass of wine now and then.’
Oh God. Cowed, I lowered my gaze. ‘No, no, I’m not drinking myself, of course. I just . . . I read something.’
Anita spoke up then, perhaps to save me, and I was grateful. ‘I had a question, actually, Nina, about diet. Jeremy and I are vegan, and I won’t have my own milk to feed the baby when she comes. Is it safe for babies to follow a vegan diet?’
Nina was about to answer, when Monica cut in with a loud sigh. ‘Honestly, when did we all become so picky? There’s people starving, and we fuss over gluten and nuts and dairy and everything. It wouldn’t be right to feed a child on tofu and beansprouts!’
Anita opened her mouth, then shut it again. Ed chipped in, ‘Nothing wrong with a good steak, gives you energy.’
Hazel weighed in. ‘I researched this for my dissertation. Actually animal protein from meat is really important in brain development. I agree, it’s cruel to deprive a child of that.’
Cathy, it seemed, did not agree. ‘I don’t think it needs to be animal protein, as long as it’s protein.’ Hazel frowned at her. Aisha looked troubled. Rahul, as always, said nothing, his eyes flicking down to the phone he held under the chair in what he probably thought was a subtle manner, but which wasn’t.
Aaron coughed, and since he rarely spoke, everyone stopped and listened. ‘There was this kid in a home I lived in – four or so. Only ate chips and beans since he was weaned, so kind of vegan I guess. Anyway, his bones and teeth hadn’t grown – he looked like a little baby still. So.’ He sat back, embarrassed.
Nina chimed in now. ‘Very interesting discussion, everyone. Aaron is right that a vegan diet in very young babies, if not carefully planned, can lead to malnutrition and loss of bone density. Anita, if this woman is entrusting you with her child, I would think you’d want to take care of it as best you can.’
There was a short, tense silence. Had she really just said that?
‘I can give her milk, of course, that’s fine. We don’t – we wouldn’t impose it on her.’ Anita looked miserable, and I tried to catch her eye as a fellow Bad-Mother-To-Be, but she was staring at the floor. ‘I just . . . wondered.’
‘Well, you have your answer. It’s not fair to the child, in my view.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘Now,’ said Nina, producing a sheaf of papers from her mirrored bag. ‘For this week, I have some homework for you.’
God. This was more like school every day. I was thirty-eight, I didn’t feel anyone should compel me to do homework. But Aaron was taking notes, anxious that if he failed somehow, they’d take the baby away, or put a mark on a file somewhere that said we were bad parents. For all I knew that could be true – maybe Nina was keeping tabs on us all. As we shuffled out that day, I saw that Anita was crying, and I was fairly sure she felt the same as I did. Judged, and found wanting.
I read the homework for antenatal class three times before it sank in, sitting at the kitchen table. Was she serious? How deeply offensive was this, especially given where we lived, which wasn’t exactly 2.4 children suburban England? Draw your family tree to three generations on both sides, so that your baby will have an idea of its heritage. ‘We don’t have to do it,’ I said hurriedly, as a slow frown spread over Aaron’s face. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter, or else Nina wouldn’t say to do it.’ His face had g
rown tight. How could he help it? There was my side of the family, my mother and father, my kind Auntie Julie, who lived in Wales, her husband, my cousins, and there was my weird Uncle Alistair, Mum’s brother, who lived in Singapore and wasn’t to be spoken of in company. Maybe not the most illustrious bunch, but I knew who they were, I knew their names and what had become of them. I knew the names of my grandparents and great-grandparents, and Granny Culville was even still alive in a beautiful house in Surrey I might inherit one day, not that I wished her gone. Aaron knew nothing. He didn’t even know what race his father was.
‘We know something now,’ I said, touching his hand on the table. ‘We can put Georgina Partington-Smith.’ Our attempts to google her had led to nothing, so we were still left with a blank.
‘Not much, is it.’ His face twisted. ‘Just a name. Doesn’t tell us anything. I don’t want this baby to be like me, Jax. Not knowing anything. Not knowing who they are.’
‘But they will know,’ I said soothingly. ‘They’ll know me, and you . . .’
‘And what good will that do them?’ he snapped. ‘Some mongrel dad, a foster kid, a no one from nowhere.’ He slammed his fist down on the table, making the sheet of homework paper jump.
Silence, in which I registered my own shock. Aaron had snapped at me. He’d been violent. ‘Babe . . .’
‘It’s easy for you. You had a dad, you’ve got a mum, and all you do is complain about her.’
‘Because, you know how she is. She’s . . . difficult.’ I bent with difficulty to pick the paper up off the floor.
‘At least you have her. Not to mention the ponies and tennis lessons and private school.’ I didn’t recognise this tone he was using, so sneering. ‘What did I have? Fucking fags put out on my arms. Sleeping in the garden. Kicked out at seventeen with ten quid a week.’
‘I know. I know, baby, it wasn’t fair.’
The Push Page 9
