Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘It’s important that you know we are doing everything that we can to piece together what happened. I have a good team. A strong team.’ DI Sanders is also repeating herself.

  ‘So there’s no more news? No leads yet?’ He wishes that he sounded less critical but it’s hard to hide his frustration. A whole twenty-four hours. He’d expected progress and wants so badly for this to be explained, for this to have nothing to do with Canada . . .

  ‘Nothing concrete yet. We’re still working on Gemma’s phone and laptop; also going through all the footage that people have shared. I’m waiting on the forensics report on the cathedral. Who knows what we’ll find. Sometimes it can be the smallest thing that unlocks something.’ DI Sanders pauses and then takes in a long breath before turning to him.

  ‘I asked last night if either of you noticed any change in Gemma. Anything troubling her. I was wondering if you’d had time to think about that? I mean – if you had any suspicions about the pregnancy? If there had been any discussion or hints or any kind of upset over it?’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Yesterday DI Sanders’ questions were brief and practical. Gemma was only just out of surgery. They were distressed and the interview was short. Today he senses a change in the officer’s tone and there’s something in her gaze he doesn’t like.

  ‘I just mean that it must be a shock. The pregnancy. If you knew nothing at all about it.’

  ‘It is a surprise.’ He’s careful to speak slowly. ‘But nothing compared to the shock of seeing my daughter gunned down at her graduation ceremony. With respect, I don’t see the pregnancy as the key issue here. And how we feel about it is hardly the priority, Inspector.’

  ‘No. No. Of course. I understand. But if it was something you knew nothing about, it may in some way be connected. At issue. It must have been stressful for Gemma too. I have to ask these questions, I’m very sorry.’

  She doesn’t look sorry. She looks borderline cynical now. He wonders what she’s thinking, this detective inspector. Does she imagine some row? Some meltdown or confrontation with the father of his daughter’s child.

  ‘We didn’t know she was pregnant, Inspector. We told you that last night. There was no discussion with Gemma. No conflict over it. We knew nothing.’

  She holds his gaze a little longer and then turns to his wife.

  ‘I appreciate this is a difficult line of inquiry for you both. But we have to consider who may be the father of the child, in case it’s relevant to what’s happened. I understand she’d recently split from her boyfriend. Alexander?’

  ‘Yes. It came as a surprise to us – the split. They’d seemed quite happy.’ Rachel clears her throat with the fake little cough he knows so well. She does it when she says something embarrassing and is aware that people are staring at her. He wants to tell the inspector to leave his wife alone. That she is going through quite enough, thank you very much.

  ‘And they parted two or three months back, I understand. From speaking to some of Gemma’s friends?’

  ‘Yes. About that. She didn’t tell us immediately. We did have plans in place for a joint dinner to mark the graduation. The two families. We obviously cancelled all that.’ Rachel clears her throat again.

  ‘Have you spoken to Alexander?’ He’s the one now staring and DI Sanders narrows her eyes before she replies.

  ‘Yes, we have. Only briefly so far. He’s in shock too. Understandably. We’ve been careful so far over what we’ve shared with him but my reading of our initial interview is that he doesn’t know she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Right. But this won’t be made public? The pregnancy, I mean – it’s not really anyone’s business, is it?’ Ed is suddenly afraid of what will happen when the papers get hold of this. He imagines it splashed across the front page. All over the telly.

  ‘We’ll be very careful but sometimes these things do get out.’

  ‘Well, I should warn you that no one will hear it from us. And I’ll be very angry indeed if this . . . gets out.’ He holds the inspector’s gaze again and watches her nod.

  ‘It’s just we find it difficult. All the journalists.’ His wife has lowered her voice as she speaks. ‘Are they still outside the hospital? They keep messaging us on social media.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. The media interest is always difficult. I do sympathise. Have you thought again about the family-liaison officer?’

  ‘No, no. We don’t want anyone here. Not yet. Maybe when we’re home.’ Rachel’s tone is adamant; she can’t bear the thought of anyone else hanging around the hospital. Bad enough needing a police guard.

  ‘OK. Well, as I say, we’ll be careful but we do need to ask questions – about your daughter’s relationships. This is an attempted-murder inquiry. I promise we’ll be sensitive but I want to be straight with you too: I can’t give an absolute guarantee that at some point, our line of questioning won’t lead to this information being shared by the people we have to question.’

  His wife’s crying now and he reaches out to put his arms around her shoulders as she feels in her pocket for a tissue.

  ‘And nothing more’s come to mind since we spoke yesterday?’ DI Sanders is watching him closely again. She’s a strange woman. Intense. It feels as if she has some kind of laser vision. Some instinct that is both promising in terms of the investigation. And personally dangerous.

  He thinks of Canada. He thinks of the phone calls he made secretly late last night and wonders if the inspector will have his phone records examined. Damn. How the hell will he explain himself?

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  CHAPTER 4

  THE DAUGHTER – NOW

  She sleeps most of the time and is grateful for the calm. But even in sleep, she hears the sea whispering and knows that it’s waiting for her.

  Each time she wakes, she is somehow not in the real world at all but instead beside the ocean. There’s only the colour blue – the soft blue of the sky and the deeper, brighter blue of the sea. She can feel the breeze on her face and the salt in the spray with the echo of each rolling wave – yes, whispering.

  Sshhhh.

  Always she is right at the water’s edge so that she can feel the lapping of the waves. Sometimes she’s up to her ankles in the water and sometimes up to her knees but she’s always dressed and so never ventures out to swim.

  The first time all this happened, she thought she was truly awake. Now she knows this is not the case. It’s happened over and over, as if on a loop. Just a different and special kind of dreaming from which the only escape is more sleep.

  She opens her eyes right now and there it is, same scene as always. Blue sky. Blue sea . . . whispering.

  Today she just stands in the water and lets it lap around her legs. Oddly, one leg is warm and the other is very cold. She looks down but can see only seaweed, floating on the surface. Next she waits for the objects to float by. Every time in every dream, there are strange objects that float by – like clues in some game she doesn’t yet understand.

  Mostly they are things from her home and from her life – as if they are shipwrecked with her here by this beach. A bottle of perfume. The brush from her dressing table. Today there is the mortar board from the ceremony in the cathedral. She watches it, bobbing up and down in the current, just out of reach. She remembers now that she was worried this would happen – that it would fall from her head. She straightens her back and remembers walking very upright with everyone clapping. And then she saw her mother’s puzzled expression. Yes. She looked down at her dress. Is that when the mortar board fell off?

  She watches the board move closer and stretches out her hand. She wonders if she’s supposed to collect these objects? Is that it? Some kind of test? Trying to find the pieces of some puzzle. If she collects all the objects in these dreams, maybe she can go home? Is that it?

  But her feet are buried too deep in the sand and she cannot move them. She tries harder, stretching out further, but it’s no good. The mortar board floats past and she feels that she
is going to cry.

  Next the direction of the waves seems to change and the mortar board’s floating even further away. She tries to call out but still she’s mute; her voice gone. She moves her lips but there’s no sound beyond the whispering of the waves.

  Shhh. She’s listening. I know she’s listening . . .

  What was that? She turns her head. She was so very sure she heard a voice. A voice she knows . . .

  She keeps very still and listens but there’s silence now. It is too late. The mortar board drifts further and further away and she’s so very tired again.

  She closes her eyes and is somehow moving through the water and the clouds and the blue of the sky all at the same time. And now the strangest thing. She can smell her favourite perfume – all around her.

  And as she drifts or flies or floats, she suddenly feels this wetness on her forehead.

  Like the spray from the sea. But no; it isn’t spray.

  She holds her body very, very still.

  We’re here, darling girl . . .

  It feels like a kiss – this touch to her forehead.

  Yes.

  She’s crying again.

  This feels just like a kiss.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Matthew checks his diary on his phone. Blank. Good. He moves from his desk through the door that connects to the adjoining flat and turns on the coffee machine. He sighs as he watches the light flashing red, knowing it will be a while before it signals the correct temperature.

  Once upon a time he was more patient; he would tell anyone who would listen that good coffee was always worth waiting for. Now? As a parent and the owner of a growing business, his life’s unrecognisable. A see-saw of different worries. He either has too much work or not enough. When business is hectic, he worries about balancing it with family life. When work’s slow, he worries about paying the bills. The upshot is he worries more and sleeps less.

  And he’s not so good at waiting . . .

  He glances around the small kitchen and thinks back to the time he lived in this flat right alongside his office. That different version of Matthew before he met Sally. Before the gift and the puzzle that is their lovely Amelie.

  He slumps on to the stool at the breakfast bar, willing the light on the machine to hurry up. At last there’s a little buzz as the colour blinks from red to green. He presses the button for a double espresso as his phone rings – the display confirming DI Melanie Sanders. Again.

  ‘Hello Mel? How’s it going?’ He’s surprised to hear from her so soon. It’s Friday – two days since the horror of the cathedral – and she’s already phoned several times, on each occasion sounding more and more stretched. It’s unlike her.

  ‘Listen. I know I shouldn’t ask but do you have time to meet at our café, Matt?’ Her tone’s uncertain and her voice is quieter than usual. He can’t read it.

  ‘Yeah – sure. Not much on here today actually. An hour?’

  ‘Perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘You OK, Mel?’ He’s surprised she even has time to meet him.

  There’s a pause. ‘No. Not really. The politics on this one are off the scale, Matt. We’ve got the media crawling all over us. I’m wondering whether I’m up to this.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’re up to this.’

  ‘Everyone wants a decision on whether the final graduation ceremony should go ahead next week. I mean, we’ve ruled out terrorism, but it’s an odd case. So public. I’m not sure I can make the call yet. We’ll have the CSI team on site a while.’ She’s talking too fast. ‘Don’t they realise I have to put the inquiry above everything else? Above the politics. Above the economic worries—’

  ‘Right. Take a deep breath, Mel. Save it for the café. One step at a time. We’ll talk it all through.’ He pauses. ‘Order carrot cake. A huge slice. You need sugar.’

  At last she laughs. ‘Thank you, Matt. I appreciate this.’

  ‘No problem. See you in an hour.’

  He hangs up and sips at the coffee before quickly dialling home. Sal texted earlier to say their daughter was playing up again.

  ‘Hi there, honey. How’s Amelie?’

  ‘Complete nightmare.’ Sal’s whispering. ‘She still won’t go to nursery. I’ve tried absolutely everything.’

  ‘Tummy-ache routine again?’ Matthew’s frowning. They let Amelie stay off an extra day after all the drama but he’d expected it to blow over by now. Day three.

  ‘No. Hang on, Matt. I need to move . . .’ There’s the click of a door at Sally’s end. ‘Sorry. I don’t want her listening in. She says she’s worried the bad man will come to the nursery with his gun.’ Sally pauses again. ‘She says she feels safer at home.’

  ‘Jeez.’ Matthew stands and checks his watch. He should go home but is now torn. He needs to leave straight away for the café if he’s not to hold Mel up. Or rather let her down. ‘Right. Well, we need to talk this through some more this evening; maybe I underestimated.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair, taking in a long, slow breath. ‘I’d hoped she’d just forget it at her age. Maybe we should take advice. Get someone professional to talk to her.’

  ‘Like a psychiatrist? Oh goodness. You really think so? You don’t think we just need to give it some time?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Look. Do you want me to come home now?’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘Sort of. But—’

  ‘No, then. It won’t change today. I’ve written off nursery for today.’

  ‘OK, so let’s try reassuring her together again when I get home later and see how the weekend goes. But let’s take some advice too. What about the school? Maybe we could talk to her teacher?’ Amelie’s nursery is attached to the primary school she’ll be attending soon. It’s a brilliant place. Long waiting list.

  ‘This is my fault, isn’t it?’ Sal sounds close to tears now. ‘For saying those things in front of her. For mentioning the gun, for saying I thought you were going to be shot . . .’

  ‘Sal, you have to stop that, love. This is no one’s fault but the bastard who shot that poor girl in the cathedral. Amelie will get past this with our help. We’ll make her feel safe again, Sal. Kids are resilient. We just need to give her a bit of time.’

  He waits, sipping again at the coffee. The truth? He’s feeling now that this is his fault for charging off in the opposite direction; for heading to the cathedral into danger instead of protecting his family.

  Sally lets out a long sigh. ‘You’re right, Matt. OK. I’ll try to distract her today and play it down. We’ll talk to her again later. Yes?’

  ‘Course. Together. Look – I’ve just got a meeting and then I’ll be home early. Promise. Love you.’

  ‘You too.’

  In the car, he finds the faux-jolly banter of a music quiz irritating. He keeps thinking of Amelie bursting into tears when he caught up with them in the car park after the cathedral. He flicks from radio station to radio station. Some are running updates on a hurricane that has hit an island he’s never heard of. Meltona. Everyone stranded. He searches for a local news bulletin and at last there’s an update on the shooting. It repeats that police are still trawling through the huge array of photos and video footage of the graduation ceremony. There’s a sound clip in which you can hear someone in the background shouting, ‘She’s been shot. Oh no. She’s been shot.’ Then screaming. He snaps off the radio, his heart rate increasing again.

  He’s picturing once more the small oak door by the laburnum tree. The faces of all the terrified students in that anteroom, unsure whether to make a run for it.

  Ice cream. Ice cream. You wait for the password . . .

  By the time he reaches the café, he feels inexplicably tired even though it’s barely 11.30 a.m. Mel’s already seated in their favourite alcove.

  ‘Hi Matt. I’ve ordered coffee and carrot cake for both of us.’

  ‘Good. You look as if you need both.’ He takes in the dark circle
s beneath her eyes. ‘So the pressure’s really on then?’

  ‘Understatement.’ She checks her watch. ‘The suits upstairs and the press office want updates every five bloody minutes.’

  ‘And you so love politics.’ He’s trying to make her smile but it doesn’t work so he changes gear. ‘OK. So do you have a big enough team?’

  ‘Well there we do have a surprise. They’re throwing resources at it like you wouldn’t believe. Most unusual. I’m told I’m to do whatever needs to be done, mostly because of the national media crawling all over us. Universities up and down the country are watching like hawks. Everyone wants to know what to do. If this is a one-off. Or some weird new MO.’

  ‘And what are counterterrorism saying?’

  ‘All clear. No terror link and no intel so they’re backing right off. First twenty-four hours, there was talk of cancelling every graduation across the country until there was a proper steer. PM in the loop. Now it’s all suddenly changed. I was briefed first thing. They’ve found absolutely nothing. There’s been some big meeting and the new focus is to reassure the public this is not terrorism. My job to make everyone feel safe.’

  Matthew at last understands Mel’s demeanour. ‘So all back on your shoulders?’

  She just stares at him by way of response as the waitress arrives. They both lean back as the server places down their coffees, apologising as froth spills into one of the saucers.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Matthew grabs a paper napkin from a stainless-steel carousel in the centre of the table to mop up the spill; the waitress smiles, saying the cake will be just a couple of minutes. He watches the woman return to the counter.

  ‘So my immediate problem, quite apart from finding the bastard, is calling what to do about this final graduation.’ Mel stirs the cocoa into the coffee. ‘The university wants to know what to announce. They’ve cancelled the two ceremonies which were supposed to be this week, but we expect to release the cathedral from forensics early next week so they want to know if they should go ahead with next Friday’s ceremony which is the last of the year. My call apparently.’