Charlie said, ‘Oh Dad, this is Elk.’
Elk? But it went with the territory: a travesty of a name to go with a travesty of a person.
The creature made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet. There was a clumsy unravelling of limbs, a forward crouch, a grudging nod, an evasive gaze which flicked up as far as Hugh’s shirt front before dropping again as he slouched back in his seat.
Hugh’s voice trembled a little as he said, ‘Charlie, how about a walk?’
Charlie looked up, his eyes dull and red-rimmed from the long night. He murmured, ‘Okay,’ before turning to Elk. ‘Be right back.’
‘No sweat.’ Elk’s voice was rasping and high-pitched.
There was a delay while Sarah Koenig, swelling importantly to the challenge of finding outdoor clothing for Hugh, searched out her husband’s best golfing jacket, only to fret inconsolably when no walking shoes of the right size could be found. Escaping the house in his ordinary shoes, Hugh set a fast pace as they started down the drive, before slowing down abruptly. ‘I thought we could do with a bit of time on our own. All those people . . .’
Charlie gave what might have been a nod.
Still in the grip of his incoherent animosity, Hugh demanded, ‘Who’s Elk? What’s he doing here?’
Charlie murmured, ‘He’s a mate. He just dropped by.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s in NA. He’s here to support me.’
‘Support you?’ Hugh echoed doubtfully.
Charlie made no response as they turned out of the drive into the lane.
‘Sorry,’ Hugh said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry. He just doesn’t look very . . .’ Abandoning this thought, he explained, ‘I’m finding it difficult having strangers around, that’s all. I find it . . . intrusive.’
‘I was trying to keep him out of your way.’
They were heading away from Meadowcroft, following the route of a favourite Sunday afternoon walk which led up the lane, past the last house to a footpath that trailed across open fields to a copse on the brow of a hill. Charlie’s jacket, like all his clothes, was far too thin, and he was walking with his shoulders high, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes narrowed against the chill wind.
In a rush of remorse and unhappiness, Hugh looped an arm round his shoulders. ‘It’ll be better when Lou gets here. Then we can get away on our own, we can have time to . . .’ But he couldn’t imagine what time could do for them, he couldn’t imagine an end to this sadness. He said, ‘I think the flights from India come overnight, so with luck I can pick her up first thing in the morning.’ He squeezed Charlie closer against him, but the two of them weren’t in step, they butted awkwardly against each other, and in the end it was easier to let his arm drop.
‘Charlie, last night . . . I had no idea you arrived when you did. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Charlie’s face darkened. Eventually he murmured, ‘No chance.’
‘What?’
A pause. ‘Never had the chance to tell you.’
Confounded by this, Hugh nevertheless let it pass. ‘I thought the Koenigs must have called and told you to come. I’d no idea you were already on your way. What time did you get here?’
Charlie might have shrugged, it was hard to tell with his shoulders so high. ‘Twelve,’ he muttered. ‘Just after . . . I dunno exactly.’
‘And the fire?’ Hugh asked. ‘It was still burning? Or had they put it out?’
Charlie’s mouth tautened.
Touching his sleeve, Hugh drew him to a halt. ‘If you could bear to tell me.’
Charlie whispered, ‘Yeah, it was burning.’
‘And the fire brigade – they were there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You saw them bring Mum out?’
Charlie gave a short nod, his face very pale.
‘God . . . I’m so sorry. How awful for you.’
Charlie dropped his head, his thick wavy hair falling forward over his face.
‘And then? What happened then?’
‘Then . . . then they tried to – to . . .’
‘Resuscitate her?’
Charlie nodded.
Hugh’s throat constricted, it was an effort to speak. ‘Was she still alive when they brought her out?’
‘I dunno.’ Charlie’s voice rose briefly. ‘They wouldn’t let me near.’
‘And nobody told you anything?’
Charlie shook his head.
Eventually they walked on. As they passed the last house and left the shelter of the trees the wind intensified, swooping down off the open fields, and Charlie’s face took on a pinched, dogged look, his mouth pulled back against his teeth, his gaze fixed on a point a yard or two in front of his feet.
Hugh asked, ‘Was Mum expecting you?’ The silence stretched out so long that he thought Charlie hadn’t heard. ‘You’d called and told Mum you were coming?’
Another pause then a mumbled, ‘Yeah.’
They reached the kissing-gate to the footpath. Charlie went first, Hugh followed. ‘It was a last-minute thing? You just decided?’
The path ran along the edge of a ploughed field, they were forced to go single file, and Hugh suddenly wished he’d never suggested the walk, that they were sitting in the warmth of the Koenigs’ den where he could see Charlie’s face.
‘Or had something happened?’ he persisted to Charlie’s back.
This time the silence drew out for so long that Hugh cried with a flicker of exasperation, ‘Charlie!’
Stopping, Charlie half turned round. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Spain.’
‘But I wasn’t home.’
‘You were gonna be back though.’
‘But you spoke to Mum,’ Hugh asked again, needing to be absolutely sure, ‘you told her you were coming?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What time did you call her?’
Charlie had to think about it. ‘Eight?’
‘And she was all right when you spoke to her? There was nothing the matter?’
‘She seemed fine.’
‘Did she say what she was doing?’
‘No.’
Hugh looked away towards the brow of the hill where crows were circling over a stand of trees, and was gripped by a sense of loss so profound that for an instant it felt unsurvivable, as if his heart and all his vital organs had seized simultaneously. He sucked in a long breath and felt the wind drag the tears from his eyes. ‘If only I’d come home last night,’ he cried. ‘If only—’
‘Dad, no—’
‘But it’s true. If I’d been here none of this would have happened. None of it.’
‘Dad . . .’
Charlie took a step towards him but Hugh was beyond consolation. Shaking his head, he turned away and tramped back along the path.
SIX
He lodged his complaint on the fifth day, acutely aware that he should have taken Mike’s advice and done it sooner. He had been too ready to listen to DC Smith’s assurances that the matter was being taken seriously, that further investigations were in hand, and – the latest excuse – that they were waiting for the fire investigation report. When it finally dawned on him that nothing was happening, he felt a cold anger, as much at his own credulity as at Smith’s inactivity.
He made the call at nine thirty, reckoning it would be the best time to get hold of Smith’s superior, a Detective Inspector Steadman, only to be put through to a duty detective who sounded even younger and less experienced than Smith. Selecting his most authoritative tone, Hugh announced that he wanted to make a serious complaint but wasn’t prepared to go into detail until and unless he could speak to a senior officer. He was asked to hold. After what seemed a long time but was probably less than a minute he found himself talking to a detective sergeant named Reynolds.
‘Nothing personal, Detective Sergeant,’ said Hugh, ‘but I’m not prepared to discuss my complaint with anyone under the level of detective inspector.’
‘Very well,
sir. But if I could just log the particulars—’
‘Who’s your superior?’
‘I can assure you that all complaints are taken extremely seriously, Mr Gwynne. But they have to be logged—’
‘Who’s your superior?’ Hugh repeated.
A slight pause, during which Hugh could imagine Reynolds tightening his lips. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Steadman.’
‘Well, it’s him I need to see.’
‘I’m not sure he’s available.’
‘In that case I’ll come in and wait till he is available.’
‘I’ll just check.’ The line seemed to go dead, then Reynolds was back saying, ‘Would twelve noon suit you, Mr Gwynne?’
‘To see DI Steadman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Twelve will be fine.’
It was an object lesson, Hugh decided, one he wouldn’t need to be taught again. With these guys you had to push, and push hard. What was it the criminal lawyers said? When the cops weren’t massaging the crime statistics they were out for an easy life, the path of least resistance towards the pension and the villa on the Costa del Sol. Well, he thought, here’s some resistance, and plenty more to come.
‘Dad?’ It was Lou, standing in the doorway.
‘Morning, my love,’ he declared, going to embrace her. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Not too bad.’ She pulled away and scanned his face. ‘Everything okay?’ Something in her expression told him she’d overheard if not the content then the tone of his phone call.
‘Just trying to get the police moving, that’s all.’
‘What is it they’re meant to be doing?’
‘Oh, just formalities, paperwork.’ He hugged her again. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Anything I can do?’
He shook his head.
‘Well . . . don’t let them get to you.’
‘No.’
She gave the ghost of a smile, and he felt a surge of love and gratitude for this miraculous child. Small, slim and fine-boned, with flawless white skin, broad cheekbones, sweeping eyebrows, and a sweetly curved mouth, she seemed to his partial gaze to be possessed of a commanding beauty. When she had first arrived from the orphanage in China he had secretly wondered if he would ever get accustomed to the alien features, the wide spacing of her eyes, the cruelly winged lids over the inner corners, the jet-black hair which stood up from her head in resolute spikes, but as the years went by he had come to appreciate that her eyes were a perfect almond shape, set just the right distance apart, and that her hair, descending in a heavy curtain, had the lustre of raven’s wings. Serious-minded and hard-working, with a serene intelligence and even temperament, she had never given him and Lizzie a moment’s worry.
‘Did you manage to find some breakfast?’ she asked.
‘Plenty, thanks. Oh . . . apart from the butter.’
It was their first morning in their rented house, which was called Oakhill. Lou had helped choose it, advising against a house on the far side of the village, pointing out that it would be more convenient to be in the next lane to Meadowcroft. The interior of Oakhill was painted an unrelenting white and furnished in what the estate agent proudly described as neutrals. The effect was soulless, like a hotel, an impression exaggerated by the absence of family clutter and the host of flowers from well-wishers which Lou had placed in a variety of vases and jugs around the main rooms. The kitchen was polished steel and pale wood, the fridge a giant double-fronted machine which dispensed two kinds of ice and had compartments and drawers for almost everything. Lou delved into one of them now.
‘Here’s the butter,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave some out, shall I? By the bread.’ She put the kettle on and regarded him solemnly. ‘How’s the cough?’
‘Okay.’ Immediately after the fire his cold had mysteriously disappeared, only to return a couple of days later in the form of a wheezy chest and persistent cough.
‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Sort of.’ The doctor had prescribed something to help him sleep but it wore off after a couple of hours and if he took a second dose he woke feeling drowsy and confused. Convinced that at least some of his sleeplessness stemmed from the claustrophobic atmosphere at the Koenigs’, he had pressed the estate agent to let them move into Oakhill yesterday, although it was a Sunday and not officially a moving day, but the change had made no difference, he’d still woken at three and spent long restless hours in dull misery punctuated by jolting bouts of intense, almost physical pain.
‘Why don’t you grab some sleep after lunch?’ Lou suggested. ‘They say half an hour’s all you need.’
He said he’d give it a try, though they both knew he wouldn’t get round to it.
‘Or a walk? Exercise is meant to be the best.’
‘Good idea.’ But this too seemed unlikely; the darkness came early nowadays and he had no heart for the country walks he’d taken with Lizzie.
Lou made herself some herbal tea and took it to the breakfast table. ‘So what’s the plan for today, Dad?’
‘A whole lot of calls. And people to see in town.’
‘Don’t forget we’ve got to go clothes shopping sometime.’
Apart from one suit, he was living in borrowed clothes. He said, ‘Tomorrow?’
They had a tacit understanding that it was necessary to keep busy, that this was the best way to get through the day. While Hugh tackled the formalities, Lou had organised the move to Oakhill and the purchase of towels, linen and food. Also, to Hugh’s relief, she had taken on the task of returning the calls from relatives and friends, and shepherding the steady trickle of visitors. While Hugh was touched by the people who called briefly with a few faltering words, he became restless and taciturn with those who stayed too long and talked too much, and relied on Lou to step in and rescue him. Charlie, meanwhile, kept busy in his own way, spending long hours on the computer, listening to New Age music, going religiously to his NA meetings.
When Hugh left for the city he told Lou he was going to see the police about security at Meadowcroft while it was empty. While this wasn’t the truth, it was close enough for him to persuade himself he wasn’t actually lying.
Hugh’s grievance with the police had provided a welcome focus for his wider anger. He arrived at the police station in combative mood, ready to do battle at the first obstacle. But there was no delay this time, no request to join the sullen malcontents in the waiting room, no suggestion that DI Steadman wasn’t going to be available. Less than a minute after he’d announced himself to the reception officer, a stocky man with a ruined face appeared at the pass-door and introduced himself as DS Reynolds. Hugh followed him down the passage into the same interview room where he had seen Smith.
‘DI Steadman’s on his way?’ Hugh asked immediately.
‘He’ll be along shortly.’
‘I’m not prepared to discuss this without him.’
‘I still have to take some details, Mr Gwynne,’ Reynolds replied pleasantly. ‘DI Steadman will be at least ten minutes. If we could go through a few questions while we’re waiting then I won’t have to trouble you later.’
In his febrile overwrought state Hugh wondered if he was being fed a line, but something about Reynolds, an air of stolid reliability, made him decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Reynolds gestured him to a chair and sat down opposite. Opening his folder, he took out a writing pad and unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket. ‘Now, Mr Gwynne, your complaint is that the incident has not been properly investigated. Is that correct?’
‘My complaint is that my wife’s death has not been properly investigated.’
Reynolds wrote this down, before arranging his features into an expression of sympathy. ‘My condolences on your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And in what way do you consider the investigation to have been inadequate?’ Reynolds asked.
‘Well, that’s what I’ve come to discuss with DI Steadman.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Gwynne. But this is for the record. If you wouldn’t mind.’
Suppressing a sigh of forbearance Hugh said at machine-gun speed, ‘Firstly, no proper forensic examination has been made of the source of the fire, no search for matches or accelerants or whatever else was used to start it. Secondly, you have made absolutely no enquiries among the neighbours or the village as to whether they saw anything suspicious on the night of the fire. Thirdly, there was a break-in at my house some time ago, then a prowler two nights before the fire, yet you haven’t even begun to look into the possibility that these events might be linked. Fourthly, you’ve made no attempt to list or profile possible suspects.’ He flipped a hand. ‘I could go on, but I imagine that’s enough for starters.’
Reynolds’ notes were suspiciously short.
‘How does this work?’ Hugh demanded. ‘Do you read this stuff back to me?’
‘I can do, yes.’
‘Well, since this is an official complaint I assume you want to get it right.’ If this implied a threat of more action to come, then that was fine with Hugh.
‘I’ll read it through to you at the end, no problem,’ Reynolds said in tone of reassurance. ‘If we could just go over a couple of points?’ Sliding some papers out of his folder, he began to leaf through them.
Guessing they were Smith’s notes, Hugh said pointedly, ‘Your man kept telling me investigations were in hand but he could never say exactly what was being done.’
Reynolds read a little further. ‘Saturday . . .’ He went back a page. ‘No, Friday, DC Smith asked the fire investigators to review the evidence.’
‘Yes? And what did they say?’
‘Basically they’ve confirmed their original findings. As in there being no indication of arson.’
‘But they haven’t been back to the house. They haven’t sifted through the debris.’
‘They’re satisfied that there was no indication of arson,’ Reynolds repeated, studying the report again.
Unforgotten Page 16
