Eleven Days

by Stav Sherez

  A Filipino woman dressed in an old-fashioned black-and-white maid’s outfit opened the door.

  ‘We’re here to see Miles and Lillian Maxted.’ Carrigan showed her his warrant card. The maid looked at him in alarm, staring down at the card then back up at the man with the black eye and Frankenstein gauze.

  ‘Maria? Is everything okay?’ A woman’s voice came from a small speaker attached to the maid’s outfit. It was the same kind of device parents use to monitor sleeping babies. The maid winced when she heard the voice, then picked up the receiver and pressed a button. ‘There’s two policeman here to see you and the mister,’ she said in a pleasant sing-song voice.

  The receiver crackled briefly with static. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better bring them up.’

  They handed the maid their jackets and followed her through a hallway that was like the atrium to some eccentric oil baron’s private museum. Statues of Greek nymphs and Roman legionnaires were mounted in niches at regular intervals. Wood-smoked Regency chairs stood stout and wary as guard dogs. The walls were heavy with painted faces, dark troubled portraits from another era, every available bit of space crammed with a confusion of art. The maid knocked once on a large wooden door, then, without a word, turned and left.

  The woman who opened the door showed no sign of surprise when she saw them. Carrigan could tell she was far too well bred for such displays. She was one of those women whose former beauty resided just below the skin, like old paintings that still sparkled underneath the patina of years and neglect. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, incurious and unrattled, as if they were delivering her weekly shopping.

  The room was overwhelming in its bounty. The Maxteds had collected so many books and artworks and knick-knacks that the space seemed diminished by them, the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows disappearing in a murk of haze and obstacle. There was no sense or order to the room: Indian dream-catchers stood next to Greek figurines, Buddhas next to sculptures made from toothbrushes. The floors were covered with ornate Persian rugs and Turkish kilims, a riot of colour and squiggle. A series of paintings dominated the room. The image was almost the same in each one, a procession of anguished heads, eyeless, wrenched in agony, contorted by silent screams, the brushwork loose and furious. There were books on the floor and books on the piano and books teetering on the curved arms of sofas.

  ‘What do we have here, then?’

  Carrigan turned to see a man sitting in a deep black leather armchair. He wore a brown polo neck and ash-grey chinos and was holding a glass of red wine in his hand. His fingernails were manicured, outshining the glass, and his eyes possessed a deep probing restlessness, sizing up the two detectives in one quick glance.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Carrigan . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Miles Maxted rose from his chair and put down his drink on a small, ornately lacquered side table. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is your daughter Emily Maxted?’ Carrigan watched the man’s eyes carefully but saw only a sharp intelligence and a wary cunning there, no sign of what lay underneath.

  ‘What has she done this time?’ Miles asked, then shook his head. ‘No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’

  Carrigan looked over at Geneva. This wasn’t turning out the way he’d planned. He took a step forward. ‘I’m afraid that a body identified as Emily’s was recovered from the scene of a fire three days ago.’ He watched as the words sank in, noting any facial tic or tell. It was always the same in these situations – at first it was as though they hadn’t heard him, quickly followed by bewilderment and then, finally, the realisation of what lay behind the words.

  ‘A fire?’ Miles Maxted tapped his fingernails against the side of his glass. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Lillian Maxted was absolutely still beside her husband, a three-inch gap separating them. She didn’t say anything but her face was pale and stretched. A grandfather clock stood sentry by the door and its insistent ticking filled the silence. Carrigan cleared his throat. ‘There was a fire at a convent in Bayswater on Thursday night. I’m afraid we’ve identified Emily as one of the . . .’

  The glass fell from Lillian’s hand and shattered on the floor. She stared down at the scattered shards and quietly began to sob.

  Miles Maxted turned towards his wife. ‘Lillian, please!’ His voice was sharp and brusque and his expression cold and weary as if he’d been through this kind of thing too many times to count. Lillian gathered herself together and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’ Carrigan took her by the arm and gently led her towards a large red velvet armchair. As he passed Miles, he brushed against him and felt the man’s taut frame beneath the silky skin of his shirt. ‘We’re used to much worse, believe me. I’m very sorry about your daughter.’

  Lillian slumped into the chair and snuffled, rubbing her eyes and smearing her make-up. ‘A convent? Are . . . are you sure?’

  Carrigan knelt down until their heads were level and nodded, then stared down at the floor. It had been polished so many times that the wood sparkled with an unnatural clarity and he could almost see his own reflection in it. ‘We have a positive DNA match.’

  Lillian looked up briefly, saw something in Carrigan’s eyes that confirmed her worst fears, and began to cry, quickly wiping the tears away with her hand. ‘I always knew it would end like this.’

  Geneva and Carrigan looked at each other as Lillian’s words tumbled into incomprehensible sobs and punctured coughs.

  ‘Mrs Maxted?’

  ‘She means Emily chose her own path,’ Miles said, his voice breaking slightly on the last syllable. ‘The path she chose was always going to end badly, Inspector. You’re only confirming what we knew and feared would happen.’

  Carrigan stared at the man, trying to figure out if it was the shock that was making him like this or if he was like this all the time. ‘Mr Maxted, we’ve just informed you that your daughter is dead. I think . . .’

  ‘You think everyone reacts in the same way?’

  ‘They usually do.’

  ‘But some people don’t, right? Some people don’t behave like everyone else?’

  ‘Yes, and that tells me quite a lot about them,’ Carrigan replied. He took out his notebook and pen and flipped the pages till he found a blank one. ‘You don’t mind if I make some notes, do you? My memory’s not what it used to be.’

  Miles Maxted shrugged.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Emily?’ Carrigan asked, his mouth tight, the breath locked in his chest.

  ‘We haven’t seen her in nearly two years,’ Lillian said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Carrigan replied.

  Miles settled himself down in the armchair and poured a large measure of Scotch, his hands unsteady, the whisky splashing on his sleeve, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

  Carrigan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The last thing he could afford to do was lose control in front of a grieving parent, but there were questions that had to be asked and leads that needed to be pursued. ‘You said you knew she would end up like this – could you please explain what you meant by that?’

  Miles took a long messy gulp of his drink. ‘I’m afraid Emily was lost to us a long time ago, Inspector. The people she hung around with, the lowlifes and bottom feeders, those crazy ideas of her, it was bound to end up like this. It was only a matter of when.’

  Carrigan leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. ‘It would be helpful if you could tell us a little more about who you mean when you say lowlifes.’

  ‘Why are you asking these questions if she died in a fire?’ Maxted searched Carrigan’s eyes and then he understood. ‘This fire was intentional, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything, Mr Maxted, but yes, we do believe the fire was intentional. We have no idea what Emily was doing at the conven
t or why anyone would want to set fire to it, and we were hoping to find out a little bit more about her.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Lillian was sitting up, she’d wiped her eyes dry of tears and make-up and there was a seriousness and purpose to her expression that had not been there before. It was clear to see that, even though this was probably the worst news she’d ever received, she was no stranger to suffering and that sudden shocking awareness of how thin life really is.

  ‘It can’t be her. Don’t you see, Miles? It can’t be her.’ She began to laugh, her eyes crinkling with light. ‘Thank God!’ She grabbed Carrigan’s wrists, encircling them with her palms.

  ‘I’m afraid that . . .’

  ‘But it can’t be!’ Lillian stared at Carrigan, her eyes and face each telling a different story. ‘She wouldn’t have set foot in a convent. That’s not Emily. You’re mistaken.’

  Carrigan was about to correct her when Miles interrupted. ‘Lillian is quite right. We didn’t bring Emily up to believe in that nonsense and for all her failings and faults, religion, I’m glad to say, was not one of them.’ His face was calm and composed as if he were working out a crossword rather than talking about his daughter’s death but when Carrigan glanced down he could see the man’s hand worrying the arm of the chair. The area under his fingers had scuffed and frayed over the years and Miles kept picking at it as if it were a scab too itchy to resist.

  ‘That’s what puzzles us too . . .’ Carrigan began to say, then stopped, as he heard a door closing upstairs followed by the sharp percussive patter of a pair of high heels against a wooden floor. He looked up and he saw her and he blinked.

  She was descending the staircase slowly, her eyes roaming the room below, alighting on the unexpected faces of the detectives and the muted expressions of her parents. She had sunset blonde hair, dark sparkly eyes and a small nervous mouth. Her long flowing dress covered her feet and made it seem as if she were floating above the ground. She hesitated halfway down then continued, each step taking a fraction longer than the one before, and it was clear from her expression that she knew there was nothing good waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  20

  ‘Donna! Go upstairs now!’

  The snap of Miles Maxted’s voice broke the spell. The woman stopped halfway down the stairs, torn between obeying her father and her curiosity regarding the two visitors. ‘Donna!’ Miles Maxted’s tone was sharp and firm, his eyes turning small.

  ‘What’s . . . what’s happening?’ Donna looked at her parents, at the detectives, at her parents again. ‘Mum? Is everything all right?’

  Lillian Maxted didn’t reply. She was sitting slouched in her armchair, silent sobs racking her body, her fingers tangled around a loose knot of hair.

  ‘Dad? What’s going on?’

  Carrigan looked over and saw that Miles was enjoying the confusion and surprise on his and Geneva’s faces. ‘Detective Carrigan, this is my daughter Donna.’ He pursed his lips and seemed to be studying them as he spoke. ‘Emily and Donna are twins, as you may have surmised.’

  ‘Emily? . . . Is . . . is Emily okay?’ Donna came to a stop next to Carrigan and he could feel the heat of her body in the space between them. She looked up at him and he saw the moment it clicked in her eyes and it was an awful thing to witness. ‘Please. Someone tell me what’s going on?’ She looked over at her mother but Lillian Maxted’s blank stare and slumped posture only confirmed Donna’s worst fears.

  ‘I’m afraid we found your sister’s body at the site of a fire.’

  Donna Maxted shook her head. She blinked. Shook her head again. Looked at her parents. Her skin was drawn tight over her cheekbones and seemed as fragile as the most delicate china. She walked over towards Lillian, her gait unsteady, catching her heels against each other, a stagger-stumble that almost made her lose her balance. She took her mother’s hands and held them as she searched Carrigan’s face for an answer or a joke or a mistake. ‘What happened? How did she . . .’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Carrigan replied. He knew that at this stage distraction and facts were all that kept the bridge from collapsing. That was yet to come, when the family was alone, when the sirens and phone calls stopped, when they were left with only the night and the unassailable weight of memory and space. ‘We need to ask you a few questions, but it’s okay if we do this later, I know this must be . . .’

  Donna met his eyes. ‘You said she was killed in a fire but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.’ And then she stopped as it dawned on her. ‘You mean it wasn't an accident?’

  Carrigan nodded. ‘I can’t imagine what’s going through your head at this moment, I can’t even begin to imagine. There’s a family liaison officer who’ll be here soon and help you with anything practical you need.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who may have had cause to harm Emily?’ Geneva’s voice was sharp and clipped, cutting Carrigan off. Donna shook her head but Miles snorted, a harsh expulsion of air in the silent room.

  ‘Miles, really!’ Lillian had recovered herself and shot her husband a look dense with broken promises and bedroom history.

  ‘Oh come on, Lillian, you’ve been living in this fantasy world, thinking that one day Emily will come to her senses, that she’ll knock on the door and be the daughter we always wanted. But that was never going to happen and, Christ, now it never will.’ Miles looked down at his feet. ‘You asked me if anyone would harm her, Inspector. Well, I believe you’ve got your work cut out for you. The people she hung around with, the things she got up to . . . so many times I explained to her the damage she was doing to herself and to this family but she just went harder and faster down the road she’d chosen and there was nothing I or her mother could do about it.’ His fingers picked at the chair with increased vigour, his lips almost disappearing. Donna’s phone started beeping. She ignored it and eventually it stopped.

  ‘Have you any idea what Emily would have been doing in a convent?’ Geneva asked.

  There was a look of confusion on Donna’s face, quickly followed by a faint glimmer of something which almost resembled hope. ‘Emily in a convent? She hated religion, always did. Are you absolutely sure it was her?’

  ‘We have witnesses who saw her visiting the convent regularly over the last year.’ The phone started ringing again.

  ‘For God’s sake, turn that bloody thing off,’ Miles snarled at his daughter.

  ‘Actually, it’s mine,’ Geneva said, getting up and answering it as she shuffled off to a corner of the room.

  ‘When did you last speak to your sister?’ Carrigan could see Donna falling apart by the second, a drawing in of body and spirit that was painful to watch.

  When she answered her voice was choked and stumbled, air and tears and the broken-off bits of words all mixing together. ‘Not for a long time. Maybe eighteen months, maybe more.’ She stared down at her hands and Carrigan knew what was going through her head at that very moment – how easy it was to pick up a phone, how hard to go back and make up for the things you never did.

  ‘Was there any particular reason that you or your parents hadn’t spoken to her for so long?’

  Donna looked over at her father. He returned her stare and though the meaning of his expression was hard to read, its tone left nothing to be deciphered.

  ‘We haven’t spoken since Dad cut her out . . .’

  ‘Donna! That’s enough.’ Miles turned towards his one remaining daughter, his mouth small and pursed.

  ‘We’re going to find out anyway, so it’s best you tell us in your own words.’

  Miles’s top lip curled slightly as he appraised Carrigan. ‘I cut her out of my will, okay? Satisfied?’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  Miles’s mouth got even tighter. ‘No, you cannot. Some things are private.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but the more information we have, even if seemingly irrelevant, the quicker we’ll find out who did this to your daughter and punish them.’ Car
rigan used the penultimate word carefully, watching the man’s eyes flicker as he said it.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Miles’s nostrils flared and he gripped the edges of his chair. ‘What I did or didn’t do is none of your business and if you have any more questions I suggest you contact my solicitor.’ Miles Maxted stared up at Carrigan, his eyes simmering and bright. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

  The maid appeared out of nowhere, silent and grey, and if she knew what had happened then she didn’t show it at all. She took them through the long corridor and just as they were turning into the hallway, Carrigan heard loud, uncontrolled sobbing coming from the main room and he was glad when they were finally out of earshot.

  Donna met them in the foyer. She handed them their jackets and apologised for her parents. She managed to appear calm and lucid and even a little charming but as soon as she walked away they both saw the grief and pain sag her body again as she headed back to the living room.

  *

  They’d driven back in silence, not much left to say to each other. Carrigan had always felt like this after delivering a notification of death, slumped and slightly soiled, the herald of slammed doors, unspoken guilt and painful longing. He parked the car in his usual spot and was putting the keys back in his jacket pocket when he felt something rustling inside. He pulled out the wrinkled piece of paper, assuming it was a stray bit of litter, a chocolate wrapper he’d neglected to chuck, and was just about to bin it when he noticed the handwriting.