What You Left Behind

by Samantha Hayes

  Lorraine nodded reluctantly.

  “Sonia and Tony Hawkeswell, the couple who own the Manor in Radcote, their son Simon was one of the dead. He was next to last.”

  Lorraine felt a chill sweep up her legs. “Oh my God, that’s awful.” Goose bumps puckered the skin on her arms. “I’m really sorry to hear that. Did he hang himself too?”

  The expression on Jo’s face reminded Lorraine that talking about death so frankly was second nature to her, but not necessarily so for everyone.

  Jo shook her head. “Yes. It was terrible. He left a note.”

  Lorraine spotted Stella coming out of the theater and raised a hand as her daughter peered around looking for them. They stood up and began a slow walk toward the water.

  “Sadly, clusters like these do happen,” Lorraine told her sister as Stella approached. “We have to learn from them, to prevent future incidents.” She was, of course, talking as a detective, but her words still rang true.

  Jo nodded. “It just seemed as if everyone local knew one of the dead, or if not, then a relative or friend who was suffering because of it. No one was immune.”

  “Immune. Interesting choice of word. Stella mentioned about suicide being contagious just now.”

  “It was like a disease,” Jo said. “It did seem contagious. Everyone worried for their kids. Freddie was sixteen at the time and I fretted myself sick about him. To be honest, the worry has never gone. You don’t forget something like that.”

  “Hi, Stell. All OK?” Lorraine said, stepping away from Jo.

  Stella hugged her mother round the waist and briefly rested her head on her shoulder. “Yes. So now you can answer my question. Is it possible to catch suicide?”

  They’d reached the water’s edge before Lorraine answered. First they’d bought some ice cream at Jo’s suggestion, and spoken about the possibility of a rowing boat ride and what they would pick up from the supermarket for supper on the way home. None of this was enough to dissuade Stella from pressing on as they stood licking their vanilla cones.

  “The short and easy answer, my love, is no, you can’t catch suicide,” Lorraine said, taking her daughter’s hand. “It’s not a disease in the contagious sense, although depression needs treating by a doctor.”

  “I’m not a kid, Mum. I know something bad happened near Aunty Jo’s house a few weeks back. A boy drove a motorbike into a tree on purpose. Freddie told me. He said it will probably spread like a disease all over again, that everyone’s talking on Facebook about it.” Stella licked the edge of her ice cream as part of it slid down the cone and onto her fingers.

  “Well, Freddie’s being silly,” Jo said. “You know how horrid big cousins can be.” She rummaged in her bag and handed Stella some tissues.

  “Freddie’s not horrid,” Stella said, wiping her mouth. “But that nasty man was. He cried and wailed and said he wasn’t a murderer.”

  “What nasty man?” Jo said. She licked her ice cream. “What are you on about, Stell?”

  “Freddie says he’s called Gil, and he lives in a little house up at the Manor. Me and Freddie … Freddie and I … we were on a walk and we met Lana and then Gil came and fed the horses and then he grabbed me and when he walked off he got all mad and strange and then that’s when he mentioned the man who died, and that he was his friend.”

  “Someone grabbed you?” Lorraine looked Stella in the eye. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  Stella let out a mini-sigh. “I’m fine. But, Mum, listen. Freddie said that the disease had come back. A boy killed himself a few weeks ago and mark his words, more kids would die. I don’t want to catch it. I want to go home.”

  Lorraine hugged her. “Sweetheart, when people take their own lives, it’s very sad and a terrible waste, but it is not a disease that you can catch. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, so I don’t want to hear any more talk about suicide or having to go home. Now, are you sure you’re OK?” She tipped Stella’s face up toward hers, and Stella nodded. “In that case, we’re going to have a lovely week with Aunty Jo. What could be better?”

  “Going on a rowing boat?” Stella said, crunching down on the side of her cone.

  LATER, JO HANDED Lorraine a glass of wine. They were at home, sitting on either side of the kitchen table, each of them incredulous at how the weather had suddenly changed. Lorraine peered out the French doors that led onto the terrace where they’d been sitting in the sun that morning. Drizzle wiggled down the glass, making the garden scene appear more autumnal than the end of July. Even the light was fading early, a swoop of thick clouds having cast a purple-gray shroud over the landscape.

  On the journey home from Stratford, Stella had blurted out that it was an omen, that the rain coming so suddenly meant something sinister was going to happen. “You wait,” she’d said in a demonic voice.

  Lorraine had reassured her, but had made a mental note to discuss it with Adam on the phone later. They needed to be more vigilant about keeping work discussions, however masked in code they thought they were, out of family time. Not that there had been much of that recently. Their professional lives were often entwined—Adam was also a detective inspector with the West Midlands Police—though their caseloads had diverged over the last couple of months. Lorraine was actually grateful for this, given what had happened last time they’d worked as a team. Adam had been the senior investigating officer and Lorraine didn’t mind, but occasionally she’d have liked to be considered before him. Together they had over forty years’ worth of experience, so when it was called upon it usually meant a major investigation was under way—murder, more often than not.

  “Freddie’s just a big kid when he hangs out with Stella,” Lorraine said with a smile, sipping her wine. She could hear the movie Stella had put on in the other room. Finding Nemo was one of her favorites from years ago. “He adores her.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not watching it anymore,” Jo replied. “He lasted all of two minutes. He’ll be up in his room now on his computer. He can’t go more than an hour without it.”

  Lorraine understood. Stella loved nothing more than a session chatting with her mates online. Grace, on the other hand, preferred her life to take place in the real world. If she wasn’t allowed to be the center of attention with her group of friends, or to play for her sports teams, or to go to lots of parties, she thought she would literally waste away.

  “You sound annoyed about that,” Lorraine said.

  Jo drained her glass of wine. “He just seems so …” She hesitated. “Look, this isn’t easy to say. It’s awful, in fact, but …” She looked toward the door. There was no one there. “I think Freddie has been cutting himself.” She drew a line across her forearm with her index finger. “He just seems so lonely and aloof all the time. That’s why I encouraged him to go and see the horses with Stella earlier. I wanted him to bump into Lana, actually. He seems to really like her.”

  “Wait a minute, back up there. Cutting himself? Freddie? Jesus Christ.” Lorraine took a deep breath. She couldn’t imagine how she’d feel if she thought either of her daughters was doing that.

  “There was a razor blade in his room. I discovered it when I was changing his sheets. I found blood on one of his school shirts too.” Jo drank more wine. “I thought I saw some faint scabs on his arm but he wouldn’t show me. He got embarrassed and wore long sleeves for ages. That was a couple of months ago now. I don’t think he’s done it since and I haven’t noticed scars, thank God.”

  Lorraine was shaking her head. “Jo, you should have called me. This is shocking. Has he spoken to anyone about it? Been to see his family doctor? It’s not something that should be ignored.”

  Jo closed her eyes. “I’m so scared for him, Lorraine. I think he might be seriously depressed.” She paused. “It’s just that no one dares breathe a word around here about this sort of thing, not after what happened a few weeks ago. It was bad enough eighteen months ago. Even the newspapers were reluctant to report it in case it started something off a
gain. Admitting that my own son could need help—it’s really scary.”

  Lorraine reached out and put her hand on Jo’s. “Look, it was probably just a horrible accident rather than suicide. As for Freddie, he’s a different matter entirely. He’s your son, and he’s been through a lot recently with you and Malc. Sadly, kids hurting themselves isn’t that uncommon. He needs to see someone, Jo. A doctor. And soon.”

  Jo’s sigh was a slow river of exasperation. It followed her as she stood up, went to the fridge, and pulled out the half-full bottle of wine, and trailed her back to the table, where she topped up their glasses. It only stopped flowing when she sat down.

  Lorraine stared at the bottle as she set it between them. Within seconds it was coated in a layer of condensation. Beads of water dotted the cold glass.

  “The lad who killed himself recently was called Dean Watts,” Jo said slowly. “He was only nineteen years old. He stole a motorbike and drove it headlong into a tree. The police said there were no tire marks on the road to indicate he braked. The stories going round afterward were awful. The only good thing is that it was instant.”

  Lorraine allowed herself a small nod, a slow arc of understanding. She’d seen hundreds of deaths over the years and couldn’t possibly count them all, let alone recall details of every investigation. While she wouldn’t say that she was hardened to it exactly, hearing about an anonymous person losing their life—through their own will or accident or even murder—didn’t have the same impact on her as it did on someone like her sister.

  She recalled the first time she saw a dead body as a probationer. It was a sight she’d never forget. But the feelings of sickness, revulsion, and horror that had reared up inside her had certainly been diluted by twenty years in the force. It had been a road traffic accident, and the pale corpse of the young woman driving, her face still perfectly made-up after an evening on the town, had reminded her so much of her little sister, Jo. The only noticeable damage on the girl was a thin red line across her neck where it had snapped. She remembered, too, how while sipping sweet tea back at the police station later she’d vowed she’d give it all up, hand in her notice the next morning, say she wasn’t cut out for the job. Somehow, she’d never got round to it.

  “It is really tragic,” Lorraine said, knowing how strong the community was in Radcote. “But if you saw the figures nationwide, you’d realize it’s not unusual.” She sipped her wine before continuing. “About five, maybe six thousand people a year kill themselves in the UK, Jo. Having a suicide in your neighborhood is shocking, but on its own, as an isolated case, it doesn’t resonate with what happened eighteen months ago. This area isn’t immune to regular statistics just because it had more than its fair share a year and a half ago.”

  Lorraine had been going to add that it was just plain crazy, unbelievable, unprecedented that six kids from the locality had killed themselves within two weeks. It was the kind of thing that happened in hopeless and depressed areas of the country, not in an affluent, well-to-do pocket of rural Warwickshire where clay pigeon shooting and Boden were the norm. But she decided against it.

  Instead, she put her hand back on her sister’s, noticing the lines of worry on her face. “But none of that means Freddie’s going to kill himself, OK?”

  4

  “I’m going to Wellesbury this morning, would you like to come?” Jo asked.

  Lorraine was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Freddie hadn’t emerged from his bedroom yet, and Stella was lazing in the garden with her book. The day was a pleasant one, but the pattern for the last week or so had been rainy, sometimes thundery, afternoons.

  “I’d love to,” she replied, sipping her drink. Jo always made it strong. “Errands to run?”

  “Kind of,” Jo said. “I promised Sonia Hawkeswell I’d pick up some leaflets from the homeless shelter in town. I said I’d hand them out.”

  Lorraine nodded slowly. She didn’t recall such a place, but she hadn’t been there in a while. As a young kid, Wellesbury was always an exciting source of candy and toys for her and Jo, as well as trips to the market or the library with their mother. When she was a teenager, she saw it for what it was—a rather boring Midlands town with nowhere cool to hang out. But on the few occasions she’d visited as an adult she had found it charming, with its stone shop fronts, interesting boutiques, and cobbled pedestrian areas.

  “Sonia volunteers at the shelter,” Jo continued. “Actually, she virtually lives there. She works really hard. They’re having a fund-raising event, so I said I’d help promote it.”

  “That’s very commendable,” Lorraine said. “Of course I’ll come.” She was keen to meet Sonia Hawkeswell, to see if she could find out a bit more about the man who’d upset Stella yesterday.

  NEW HOPE HOMELESS Shelter was housed in an old church hall on the south side of town, only a short drive from Radcote. Lorraine stared up at it as they got out of the car, squinting at the austere building as it sparked a memory. They’d parked opposite, outside a fish-and-chips shop, which was just opening up; on the other side of the road was a dog-grooming business. The rest of the properties were small terraced houses.

  “God, I remember this place,” she said with a grin, eyeing the new sign above the door. “We did Girl Guides here for a while, didn’t we?”

  She linked her arm through her sister’s, giving her a squeeze.

  “We did indeed,” Jo said. “Until they kicked us out.”

  “That was your fault,” Lorraine said with a laugh.

  “It was not!” Jo said indignantly, but then fell quiet as they approached the steps of the church hall. She drew to a halt. “Look, before we go in, you should know something.”

  “Oh?”

  Lorraine put up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Jo appeared serious all of a sudden.

  “Sonia has devoted her life to this place since … well, since she lost Simon. It’s not only her time she gives, but money too. And by that, I don’t just mean all the fund-raising work she does. She’s donated a load of personal cash recently.”

  “That’s very kind of her,” Lorraine responded, wondering how anyone could possibly cope after losing a child in the way she had.

  “But it’s way more than a financial investment,” Jo continued, her voice low. She glanced at the door. “Sonia’s suffered no end, and she’s become very emotionally attached to all the lads who stay here. She told me once she sees a bit of Simon in each and every one of them. It’s really sad, like she’s trying to bring him back.” Jo paused, looking uncomfortable. “By working here, it’s as if she wants to … to make it up to him somehow. As if she blames herself. She can’t seem to let go.”

  Lorraine nodded her understanding. “Grief affects everyone differently.”

  They went inside the small entrance porch. Empty wooden crates were stacked neatly to one side as if they’d recently held bulk amounts of food—potatoes, bags of carrots, loaves of bread—and were waiting to be collected. The black-and-white checkerboard floor looked as if it had been recently mopped, and a lavender scent hung in the air. There was a noticeboard attached to the wall with a colorful handmade banner saying, “Welcome to New Hope.”

  “This won’t take long,” Jo said as they went in. “Sonia puts me to shame with all her volunteer work. It’s the least I can do.” She clutched at her cotton skirt, bringing the hem up to reveal her tanned knees in a way that reminded Lorraine of her as a little girl. For a second, her eyes sparkled.

  They went into the main room of the building, which was nothing like how Lorraine remembered it from their Girl Guide days. Gone was the dusty wooden floor, for a start. Stripped and polished boards now gave a light and airy feel to the place, especially with the sun streaming in through the tall arched windows, and all the walls were freshly painted in white. It was the complete opposite to the inner-city equivalent Lorraine had occasionally visited in Birmingham. Somehow they exuded a kind of fake hope rather than the real thing, as in this place.
>
  They walked between several rows of beds, each one made up with a plump pillow and clean sleeping bag. A small table between each bed separated the bunks, and Lorraine noticed that there were little vases of flowers or china ornaments on some. She raised her eyebrows, impressed with the attention to detail.

  “It’s nice,” she whispered to Jo as they headed to the rear of the hall.

  Jo answered with an I-told-you-so look.

  There was a smaller area at the back reserved for a couple of settees and a television. A low table with books and magazines sat on top of a rug that looked as if it had come from an antiques shop.

  “Hello, Sonia, it’s me,” Jo called out toward another room beyond. Her voice echoed around them, getting lost in the vaulted ceiling.

  The place seemed deserted, even though the front door had been unlocked. For a moment Lorraine wondered if all the homeless people of Wellesbury and the surrounding area had been miraculously re-homed. The reality was, as she later learned, they got sent out for the day and weren’t allowed back in until six p.m.

  Jo’s voice rang out again amid the avenues of sunlight that sloped through the Methodist chapel’s tall windows.

  “Odd. She said she’d be here.”

  Then they heard a noise coming from the other room, and soon after that a figure emerged through the doorway. “Sorry, sorry,” the woman said in a flustered voice. “I was lost in what I was doing.” She offered a small smile.

  “Sonia, this is Lorraine, my sister,” Jo said, and Lorraine was struck by the note of pride in her voice.

  Lorraine approached the woman and shook hands. She was extremely thin, her skin tinged gray and almost see-through, as if she’d not eaten in months. The pale blue jeans she was wearing would have once fitted snugly, likewise the white T-shirt that hung loosely from her slight frame. The jade-green silk scarf looped around her neck lent a small splash of color to an otherwise washed-out appearance. Lorraine could tell she’d once been a beauty, perhaps not so long ago, but that recently taking care of herself had not been a priority. There was a tangible air of sadness about her, an aura of grief that was gradually consuming her.