Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  He checked his mobile again but there were no messages. He went to the missed call register but there was nothing there either, only a list of Charlie’s numerous attempts to reach him last night. It would have been easy to torture himself for having failed to hear those calls, for having taken some of Isabel’s Night Nurse on top of red wine, for having left his phone under a heap of clothes, but of course the delay had changed nothing, it was all over by then, Lizzie was dead. Far worse was the thought that he’d missed a call from Lizzie herself, a last cry for help as the smoke closed in around her, but there was nothing on the register, just as there had been nothing when he’d checked on the long car journey from London. But no amount of logic could entirely banish his fear that a missed call would materialise belatedly out of the ether. So strong was his craving for reassurance that he found himself scrolling through the list again and again.

  ‘Nothing from Lou?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Charlie may well have tracked her down by now.’

  ‘If she’s not in the wilds without a signal. Even then she doesn’t always turn her phone on.’

  ‘But the friend she’s travelling with – Chrissie, is it? Charlie was going to try and get her number.’

  Hugh frowned. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’

  Mike opened his mouth to say something only to think better of it. ‘He was going to contact her family. They live somewhere near Bath, he thought.’

  ‘I could have told him exactly where they live. It’s outside Frome. But I’m not sure Chrissie’s any better at staying in touch.’

  ‘Worth a try, though.’

  Of course it was worth a try, but Hugh fretted all the same in case Charlie should speak to Lou before he did and get it wrong, though quite what he meant by wrong he couldn’t have said.

  Glancing across, Mike said, ‘Charlie’s pretty amazing at all this technical stuff. What I call technical stuff anyway. Finding addresses and phone numbers off the Internet. That sort of thing. ’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’

  Another pause, then Mike said, ‘He did well to track you down to Belsize Park.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He got hold of Raymond, and Raymond got hold of your PA.’ Another pause as they turned into the lane to Meadowcroft and the Koenigs’ house, then Mike said delicately, ‘He’s a good lad, Charlie. But . . . well, if you don’t mind me saying . . . I think he’s struggling a bit. He’s doing his best of course, with all this computer stuff. But I think he needs to talk things through with you. Hell, I’m saying this all wrong. What I mean is—’

  But an exclamation from Hugh caused Mike to break off and follow his gaze up the lane. A tangle of colours had appeared at the entrance to Meadowcroft. As they drew nearer, Hugh made out flowers, some propped against the gateposts, others tied to the gate itself: bouquets in cellophane, bouquets with no wrapping, posies, single stems of red or white roses; perhaps a dozen offerings in all. They came to a stop and Hugh got out. He stood in front of the flowers before bending down to read the messages. People he’d heard of, others he hadn’t. Simple messages, loving messages, thoughtful messages. The familiar well-used phrases caught Hugh unawares in a rush of feeling, he read them through a sudden mist. A fine lady . . . sadly missed . . . rest in peace. Standing up he rubbed the wetness from his cheeks with the knuckle of one finger and stared at the flowers until the mist had passed.

  His phone bleeped as he got back into the car but it was a moment before he managed to pull it out of his pocket and read the message.

  Mike glanced across and said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Charlie’s found Lou. He’s spoken to her.’

  Mike squeezed his arm. ‘Thank God. Who knows, she might be able to get a flight out tonight. What a relief.’

  But any relief Hugh might have felt was outweighed by the thought of Lou’s distress. Desperate to give her what comfort he could, he called her number only to get a long silence followed by a series of beeps. He imagined her weeping and felt a pang of utter helplessness. Following hard on his sense of impotence came a flicker of frustration at not having been able to tell her the full story, to soften the blow by reassuring her that Mum hadn’t suffered, that she’d had no idea what was happening.

  In the strange new world into which Hugh had passed, the sight of so many cars in the Koenigs’ drive seemed unremarkable. There must have been six or seven. None was a police car, unless it was unmarked. But then the CID were hardly likely to allocate scarce resources to a home visit when they had Detective Constable Smith on the case, working out how to sign the matter off as soon as decently possible.

  Hugh phoned Charlie and asked him to meet him outside. As Mike went into the house Charlie emerged, squinting into the thin sun, shoulders hunched against the cold. He was in his usual outfit of shapeless T-shirt and baggy low-slung jeans so long in the leg that the bottoms were dirty and frayed where they had caught under the heels of his trainers.

  ‘How was Lou?’ Hugh asked. ‘How did she take it?’

  Charlie thrust his hands into his pockets and shook his head a little as if he found it too difficult to talk about.

  ‘She wasn’t alone, was she? She had Chrissie with her?’

  ‘Yeah, Chrissie was there. Yeah . . .’

  ‘Thank God for that. Thank God. But all the same . . . all the same . . . Poor Lou. Poor sweetheart. Where is she? Is she miles from anywhere?’

  ‘She’s in Calcutta.’

  ‘That’s something at least. She’ll be able to get a flight. But I need to tell her to use the emergency credit card,’ Hugh added fretfully as he battled another rush of helplessness. ‘To get the first flight no matter how much it costs. But how did you break the news, Charlie? What did you tell her?’

  Charlie frowned at his feet. ‘I just . . . said . . . there’d been a fire.’

  ‘Yes?’ Hugh urged him on.

  Charlie lifted his shoulders still higher. ‘And that Mum was overcome by smoke . . .’ His voice was fading. ‘And the firemen got her out . . . and tried to – to . . .’ He couldn’t find the word.

  ‘Revive her?’

  Charlie gave a faint nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you say she was asleep when the fire started? That she knew nothing about it?’

  Charlie’s downcast gaze shifted a little to one side, his mouth tightened.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Charlie – you did fine. Fine.’ Hugh reached out and gripped his arm. ‘But I couldn’t bear it if Lou thought Mum suffered when she didn’t.’ He pulled out his phone and chased through the options looking for the redial function. ‘Because she didn’t, I know she didn’t.’ In his haste he found himself in a menu he didn’t recognise. ‘She’s left her phone on, has she? She hasn’t switched it off? Because I couldn’t get through just now. I got some stupid beeps. Poor Lou, she must be—’

  ‘Her phone’s not working,’ Charlie said. ‘You need to call Chrissie.’

  ‘What?’

  Charlie drew his phone out of his pocket and handed it across. ‘Just press the green button twice.’

  ‘Chrissie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hugh pressed the button twice and put the phone to his ear. When the number began to ring he turned to signal his relief to Charlie but he was already walking away.

  When he finally went into the house he found Mike waiting in the hall with a sturdy dark-haired woman in a crisp white blouse and black trouser suit. She introduced herself as the family liaison officer. Judging by her manner, her level gaze, the way she offered her condolences simply, without embarrassment or false emotion, he guessed she’d undertaken this task many times before.

  Her name was Pat Edgecomb, and she led Hugh into a room he hadn’t seen before, partly a study equipped with a desk and computer, partly an entertainments room with a wide-screen TV and a baby snooker table. The Koenigs probably called it the den.

  ‘The Koenigs have given this room over to you for as long as you need i
t,’ said Pat, ‘so you and Charlie can have some space to yourselves, see people when you feel like it, get away when you want to be by yourselves.’

  Hugh said, ‘We won’t be staying that long.’

  Pat nodded understandingly. ‘Until you move on, then. Perhaps I should explain my role?’ she continued. ‘Basically I’m here to do as little or as much as you’d like me to. If you want information, help of any sort, if you’d like me to contact any person or organisation on your behalf, or if you’d just like me to wait while you decide whether I can be of any use, then that’s fine with me.’

  ‘Thanks, but I haven’t begun to work out what needs to be done yet.’

  ‘Well, if you’d like any suggestions, just say the word.’

  ‘Food first,’ said Mike from the door, clasping his hands together like an attentive waiter. ‘What’s it to be, Hugh? Bacon? Eggs? Toast? Coffee?’

  Hugh had lost track of time but breakfast seemed as good a meal as any. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Whatever, it is!’

  Pat sat in an oversized leather chair whose cushion gave a soft hiss under her weight, while Hugh chose the matching sofa opposite a window that offered the full version of the view the jammed curtains in the room above had denied him that morning: the skeletal branches of the tall beech amid an army of oak and ash, and Meadowcroft two gardens away.

  ‘First of all, what would you like me to call you?’ Pat said. ‘Mr Gwynne or Hugh?’

  ‘Whatever.’ It seemed to be his word of the moment.

  ‘Hugh, then. Shall I just run through who’s here?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘There’s a loss assessor from your home insurance company, a Mr Preston. He’d like a quick word with you before he goes, if that’s at all possible. Then there’s Angela Parfitt, who was, I believe, your wife’s supervisor at the Citizens Advice.’

  Was, past tense. This was to be Lizzie’s story from now on.

  ‘And your business partner Mr Wheatcroft.’

  Hugh thought Ray had gone to the office hours ago. Perhaps he’d been there and come back.

  ‘Oh, and a young friend of Charlie’s who arrived ten minutes ago. I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Joel?’

  ‘If you mean the Koenigs’ son, he’s here, yes. But this is someone else.’

  Hugh dragged a hand down his face. His mind was too full of his conversation with Lou to concentrate on all this. Having called to comfort her, he’d found that she was the one comforting him. She realised Mum would have known nothing about the fire, she’d reassured him straight away; she knew smoke killed people in their sleep. What worried her was that he might be blaming himself for not having been there. You’re not, are you, Dad? Because you mustn’t blame yourself, you really mustn’t. Because if you’d been home you’d have been asleep as well, then Charlie and I would have lost both of you, and then what would we have done? But if wise, prescient Lou had assuaged one guilt, she had unwittingly unleashed another: that if he’d been home last night then the match-lighting vandal would never have got into the house in the first place, not without the most almighty struggle; that if he’d been home there would never have been a fire at all.

  He tried to order his thoughts. ‘There’s my wife’s family to contact,’ he told Pat. ‘Her mother. Her half-sister. They’re both away, I think. Or they were till recently. Her mother was somewhere in Scotland. And Becky – I’m not sure.’

  Pat picked up a piece of paper from the low table in front of them and handed it over to him. ‘Charlie and I managed to find contact details.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was an Edinburgh address and number for Lizzie’s mother, and a hotel in Marrakesh for Becky.

  ‘The Koenigs say you’re more than welcome to use their phone.’

  There was a knock, the door swung open and at first no one came in, then Mike appeared, concentrating hard on carrying a laden tray. ‘Scrambled egg, toast, bacon, coffee.’ He placed the tray carefully on the low table.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mike waved him towards the food. ‘Don’t want it to get cold.’

  ‘Thanks, but I should make some calls first.’

  ‘Better on a full stomach,’ said Mike, straightening up and revealing his own substantial waistline.

  Pat nodded her agreement, and suddenly it was easier to give in, to let himself be led in small matters like food and delayed phone calls, and reserve his energies for the bigger decisions.

  He took a token mouthful of egg and toast and was surprised to find he could get it down. ‘We’ve just come back from seeing your colleagues in CID,’ he told Pat.

  ‘DC Smith told me.’

  ‘He tell you why we went?’

  ‘Very approximately. I understand you had a break-in two weeks ago, then a prowler.’

  ‘And my wife didn’t smoke.’

  She gave a slow nod, the sort that acknowledges the information but enquires no further.

  ‘They think that’s how the fire started,’ Hugh said, ‘with a cigarette down the side of the sofa. That or a candle.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But your DC Smith didn’t seem too interested.’

  ‘You gave him all the details?’

  ‘At some length.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll carry out a proper investigation.’

  ‘Difficult to prove arson.’

  Pat gave a concerned smile, like a doctor humouring a valued patient, and Hugh realised it was pointless to say more. Her job, like DC Smith’s, was to discharge her duty in accordance with the training manual, then sign him off.

  He managed two more mouthfuls of scrambled egg before his stomach began to rebel. The coffee was good though, and he managed a whole cup.

  Having fulfilled his duty as breakfast waiter, Mike stood up and lifted his arms wide before letting them fall to his sides. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘God, yes – you must get on your way, Mike.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘See me out?’

  On the doorstep Mike said lightly, ‘Why don’t you and Charlie take some time out together? I don’t know, go for a walk or something. All this’ – he flipped a hand in the direction of the kitchen and the murmur of muted conversation – ‘the paperwork, the formalities, it can all wait. Charlie needs to know there was nothing he could have done.’

  ‘Of course there was nothing he could have done.’

  ‘But he needs to hear it from you.’

  Hugh took a steadying breath. ‘You’re right . . . I’ll talk to him as soon as I’ve spoken to Lizzie’s family.’

  ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes. Yes . . . he’s always been fragile.’

  ‘Well, anyone would be in the circumstances. Seeing his mother . . .’

  ‘Thanks, Mike – for everything.’

  ‘Hell, Hugh . . . I just wish . . .’ His face contorted in sympathy.

  ‘I know. Drive safely.’

  Mike pulled him into a rough bear hug then stepped outside and paused to delve into his pockets for keys.

  ‘I would never have let him see her,’ Hugh commented. ‘I would never have put him through that.’

  Mike stared at him in puzzlement. ‘I didn’t mean at the mortuary. I meant at the house, seeing her at the house.’

  They exchanged a look of complete misunderstanding, then Mike’s round face paled a little. ‘He saw them bring her out. He saw them trying to resuscitate her. Christ, Hugh, I thought you knew.’

  For a moment no one realised he was there. The kitchen was long with dark wooden fittings and a look of permanent twilight relieved by a sprinkling of down-lighters. Ray was leaning against the central counter frowning at his watch as he listened to a man in a grey suit clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest. Behind them, at the near end of a long rectangular table, Sarah Koenig was sitting with her back to him, next to Angela Parfitt from the Citizens Advice and, opposite her, a weeping grey-haired woman
with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. At the far end was Charlie with the lanky figure of Joel Koenig opposite, and between them a hunched, shaven-headed young man Hugh hadn’t seen before.

  Ray spotted him and straightened up. ‘Hugh! How are you doing? You manage to eat something?’

  At this, the other conversations petered out and everyone looked round. Hugh realised with a momentary sense of disorientation that the weeping woman was their cleaning lady Mrs Bishop.

  The man in the grey suit was from the loss adjusters. Hugh shook his hand then, with a gesture of apology, moved rapidly on, only to find Sarah Koenig looming up in front of him, wanting to know if he’d like more toast or coffee. He paused long enough to decline with excessive politeness, then Mrs Bishop’s tear-streaked face was staring up at him, her dry birdlike hand clutching his, drawing him down onto the chair beside her while she repeated over and over again that she couldn’t believe it, she simply couldn’t believe it. Finally, counting off the minutes, he accepted Angela Parfitt’s condolences on behalf of herself and her colleagues at the Citizens Advice and promised he would contact her if there was anything she or the staff could do.

  At long last he reached Charlie’s side, to find his gaze drawn to the shaven-headed youth slumped on the other side of the table. It might have been the two scabs high on his scalp where the razor had nicked the skin, it might have been the grubby night-time pallor and unhealthy sprinkling of spots, it was certainly the evasive downcast gaze that refused to acknowledge Hugh’s arrival by so much as a glance, but Hugh took a violent objection to his presence. Not only was a casual stranger deeply unwelcome at this most private of times, but in that instant his drooping air of failure and self-absorption seemed to epitomise the whole rotten culture that had led Charlie into drugs. With another lurch of resentment it came to Hugh that he was a fully paid-up addict waiting to lead Charlie back into temptation. Why else would he be here? Why else couldn’t he look Hugh in the eye?