by Abi Silver
The final item of post was a laminated, double-sided flyer for a cruise: ‘Aegean Odyssey’, it was called, and the sea in the picture was the blue of Vermeer, the ultramarine he loved to spread around so generously. She held the card up to her face, allowing it to touch her cheek. One small tear squeezed out of the corner of her right eye.
She pulled a magnet from the fridge in the shape of a Cornish pasty, from their holiday of sorts last summer – seven nights in Bude. It had rained for five of the days; the kids hadn’t minded but she had sat in the car, propped up with a flask of coffee, watching them cavorting in the spray, calculating whether there was enough radiator space in the cottage to dry everything off later. She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on holidays past: Barbados, The Maldives, Dubai. It was simply too painful.
She stuck the photo in the middle of the fridge and sighed before extracting a pile of green, dog-eared exercise books from her bag. She had an hour to spare before her own boys emerged from their beds, demanding breakfast, and another half hour before the school run.
Then she had promised her mother to be at the hospital by twelve, which she could manage if her colleague covered her afternoon lessons. God, she hoped Barbara wouldn’t make too many demands, as she wanted to get back to school in time for pick-up. She would make sure she took in some fresh food tomorrow, and the boys could visit too. That would be a daughterly thing to offer. But there was no way Barbara was convalescing at her house. There wasn’t the space, and Tracy wouldn’t survive twelve hours of her mother’s reflections on life and on what she should be doing to ‘lose that spare tyre.’ That had been the topic Barbara had helpfully canvassed with her at least three times over Christmas lunch.
Tracy focused again on the book in front of her, and her eyes glazed over. How many days were left till the end of the school term? But glancing across at the new addition to the fridge display, at least now she could dream.
Halfway through marking the third book, her mobile phone rang.
5
Chief Inspector Dawson was leaning against the glass wall of the interview room in Hampstead police station when Constance arrived, and he greeted her with a tired smile and a perfunctory shake of her hand.
‘You’re a long way from home?’ he said.
‘Not so far. And you called me. But what are you doing here?’
‘The Chief here had to take some leave. I’m told it’s not terminal but I don’t like to ask. And I fancied a change – see how the other half lives, you know. NW3 postcode is a nice addition to my portfolio. I’m here for six months probably. See how it goes. It’s an older station though, over one hundred years. The lads swear it’s haunted.’
Constance peered through the glass. The man she could see was sitting alone, his hands resting on his thighs and his head bowed. He was in his early thirties, hair receding at the temples, with a neat beard, and he was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt.
‘This is your guy. We’ve only got a few questions for him but he demanded a lawyer.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Cleaner at St Mark’s Hospital. We found a body there a few hours ago…well, I should say, outside there. A woman, Barbara Hennessy, seventies, injuries consistent with a fall from a height, probably from her ward on the eleventh floor. No idea if she fell or jumped or was pushed, provisional time of death between seven and midnight last night, so we’re talking first to everyone who was in the ward then, and that includes this guy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ahmad Qabbani.’
‘English?’
‘No. From Syria.’
Constance’s lips parted slowly but no sound came out. She examined Ahmad again through the glass.
‘He’s not a suspect?’
‘No. Not at the moment. We asked him and a few others to come here to help us with enquiries, to see if we could begin to work out timings better. He’s the only one who requested a lawyer. D’you think he has something to hide?’
Constance frowned.
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘Maybe that’s how they do things in Syria.’
Dawson guffawed.
‘Come on. You think you get a lawyer at a Syrian police station? Not sure if he’ll talk to you though, you being a woman.’
Constance bit her lip.
‘We were going to send him home,’ Dawson continued, ‘when he started the lawyer nonsense, but you have to be thorough these days. We’re even going to question the doctors. ‘Course we couldn’t get them to come here. Something about sick patients…but I’m heading over there this afternoon to interview Dr Wolf, Mrs Hennessy’s doctor, at the hospital. To get the full picture.’
‘Was she very ill?’
‘Who, Mrs Hennessy? No. She only went in to have her bunions done. Had the operation yesterday. She was going home today.’
‘She might have fallen?’
‘Might have. And the most likely place, given the location of the body, was from a fire escape right at the end of the corridor, if she was able to get herself down there. Or silly old bat might have got it into her head that she fancied a night out in Camden Town and didn’t want to take the lift. But we’re keeping an open mind.’
* * *
‘Mr Qabbani?’
‘Yes.’ Ahmad’s voice was imbued with concern.
‘I’m Constance Lamb. I’m a solicitor, a lawyer. You asked for me.’ She stretched out her hand and he eyed her suspiciously before taking it, his long, elegant fingers curling and uncurling themselves gently around the palm of her hand.
‘I have waited more than an hour and I need to return to my work now please,’ he replied, his fluid English augmented with a heavily accented ‘k’ sound which split the sentence unevenly.
‘I’m sorry. I came as quickly as I could but I live some distance away. This won’t take long now I’m here. The police just want to ask a few questions. They’re trying to piece together what happened. Then you can go. Can I check some personal details first? Your full name is Ahmad Qabbani and your address is 33 Braham Terrace, London W3?’
‘That is correct.’
Constance pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it to him.
‘This is my card, with my details, phone number, email. Just in case, well, just in case you need me afterwards. And the police will take your fingerprints and a sample of saliva after you’ve answered their questions.’
‘Am I being arrested?’
‘No. Nothing like that. It’s just routine. An elderly lady, a Mrs Hennessy, was found dead this morning, outside the hospital.’
Ahmad sat in silence.
‘Did you know Mrs Hennessy had died?’
‘Yes. I heard about it. That’s why I’m here.’
When Ahmad made no sign of interest in her offering or in providing any further response, Constance placed her card down on the table in front of him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket without reading it.
‘Did you know Mrs Hennessy?’
‘Yes. I cleaned in her room.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday in the morning.’ Ahmad was gazing somewhere over Constance’s left shoulder.
‘What time was that?’
He hesitated then continued, ‘Maybe around eleven o’clock. I am not sure.’
‘And when did you leave the hospital?’
‘I finish at eight o’clock.’
‘Did anyone see you leave?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you know why Mrs Hennessy was in hospital?’
A flicker of hesitation. ‘I’m just the cleaner,’ he said, his eyes finally settling on hers, but only fleetingly. They were black and probing, keen and searching. Constance cleared her throat.
‘Did you see her walking after her operation?’
‘I only saw Mrs Hennessy in the morning. Then I clean the rest of the hospital. Can you see if we can do the questions with the police now? I don’t want to lose more pay.’
‘You’ve lost your pay?’
‘If I’m not working I don’t get paid,’ he replied simply, his eyes wandering off again.
‘They’ll be in soon. Why did you ask for a lawyer?’ Constance watched Ahmad intently. He moistened his lips twice before answering.
‘I have read stories, in the newspapers, about what happens sometimes to people in police stations,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t let Inspector Dawson hear you say that,’ Constance said. ‘He would be very offended.’ She attempted a smile. ‘How long have you been in England?’
‘Three years.’
‘Your English is very good.’
‘Like I was saying, I read the newspapers.’
‘And your family?’
Ahmad closed his mouth. Constance was not sure if he was preparing himself to stonewall her question but then the door opened and Inspector Dawson entered.
6
‘Hi Shadya, are you there?
‘Ah. You are. I thought you might have been sleeping. I haven’t slept a wink all night. No. Really I wasn’t.
‘When Baba came in this morning I was only pretending to be asleep. He had that “hard day at work” serious look on his face.
‘No. I was going to ask him but he got home so late and I was already in bed. And then, this morning, like I said, he had the serious look.
‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Baba. What shall we do today when I get back from school? Let’s go outside and play elastics.
‘Oh you sound just like Mama. She’s always saying that.
‘That the street “isn’t safe”. She says there are bigger children who will hurt me but I’m not scared. And anyway, I’d be with you.
‘No. I don’t tell her about you.
‘You know why?
‘She’s been OK, I think. Taking her tablets. Not crying too much although I made her cry last night.
‘I didn’t mean to.
‘She prepared kebab but she made so much. I said to her “Mama. You forget it’s just me. I can’t eat all this.” That’s when she cried.
‘No I wasn’t being mean. I just couldn’t eat it all.
‘Yes. But honestly, why do I always have to say things differently? Why can’t I just say what I think? Grown-ups are so weird, pretending they’re the ones who do everything and understand everything. We do too. Especially you and me together.
‘What’s that? OK. We still have time before breakfast. Let’s play Aladdin. I’ll be Princess Jasmine and you can be Aladdin. OK, OK. I’ll be Aladdin and you can be Princess Jasmine, just this once. But I’ll be the Genie too.
‘Shadya. If you had three wishes, three real wishes and they were going to come true, what would you wish for? I know already what mine would be.’
7
‘Hey, you’re up? I can still cook you some eggs if you like?’
Constance dropped her keys back into her handbag and swung it over the back of the chair. It was only just after eleven; she had been out longer than expected but the day was still young.
Mike was sitting at the table in his pyjama trousers, finishing off some toast, thick rolls of butter floating like rafts on the bread. He rose, without speaking to Constance, and slid the remains into the bin, before depositing his plate in the sink. Then, still mute, he marched towards the bathroom.
‘Mike, what’s up?’ Constance didn’t want to apologise. She had hurried back and, from what she could ascertain of Mike’s usual daily routine, he was hardly ever out of bed before 10:30 during the week in any event.
Mike stalled outside the bathroom, his fingers strumming the door frame. He didn’t turn around.
‘Is it because you had to make your own breakfast? We’ve still got the whole day,’ she said, shuffling her feet out of her shoes. When he remained motionless she sashayed up to him, slid her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his back, basking in the warmth of his body. Mike removed her hands, albeit gently, continued inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. She heard him switch on the shower.
Constance retreated to the table.
Mike wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t fair that he was cross when she had no choice about her work. Did he really think she enjoyed trekking half way across London to a police station instead of enjoying a rare lie in? And she was always there for him, at endless rehearsals and ‘after parties’ with producers and actors who never remembered her name, helping him learn his lines, standing in for various other characters and props. If Mike had only evaluated things logically, as she did, he might have viewed things the same way. Granted he would still have been cross, but he would have recognised he had no right to be cross. And slowly, slowly he would have come around.
But Mike wasn’t like that. He enjoyed the theatricality of it all; inhabiting the skin of the wronged partner, the abandoned, lonely homemaker, the down-on-his-luck actor waiting for his big break.
For a second she thought about Ahmad Qabbani, his reticence, the way he had shrunk in his seat when Dawson arrived, had answered Dawson’s questions in clipped and hushed tones and, at one point, had steadied his right leg with his hand when it began to tremble. How she had concealed herself nearby and watched him leave the police station; first his lurch out onto the street, then his stagger to a shop doorway where he had crouched shivering for some minutes before standing up stiffly and heading down the hill towards the hospital.
Suddenly Mike reappeared, the patter of the shower his cue, inscrutable, his head tipped to one side, his hand outstretched, and he wasn’t wearing his pyjamas or his towel.
‘Would mademoiselle care for some brunch?’ he asked in an exaggerated French accent.
‘You are an unreasonable pig, do you know that?’ Constance replied.
‘Yes, but totally irresistible all the same.’
Constance unbuttoned her shirt as she went to take his hand.
8
Tracy Jones was upset. Since Dawson had called her, first thing that morning, to tell her that her mother was dead, she hadn’t known what to think or feel. His words were still ricocheting around her skull, and the two paracetamol she had taken had not made any dent in the wall of pain which traversed her forehead. She hadn’t called Pete, her husband – he had left early to visit a potential development site in the Midlands with his brother – and she had not been able to face telling the boys. So, she had dropped them off at school, pretending everything was fine and then emailed in a message that she had a migraine and would not be coming to work. She had hoped to have some time alone. But now her brother, Joe, had arrived without warning.
Tracy took refuge in the kitchen on the pretext of making some coffee. She filled the kettle and switched it on, pressing the palms of her hands onto the cool worktop to calm her nerves. She could hear Joe whistling to himself in the lounge, a trait he had had since childhood, and usually reserved for the most stressful of moments.
‘I brought some biscuits anyway,’ she mumbled, re-entering the room with two mugs and a packet of chocolate digestives, her voice quivering as Joe scowled from his vantage point by the window. ‘Joe, come and sit down. I know you’re upset…’
‘Too right I’m upset. Mum isn’t even in the ground and they’re asking all these questions. At ten o’clock they arrived at the showroom, put all the customers off.’
Tracy’s hands trembled as she balanced the biscuits on the arm of the sofa and sat down herself. She should have known that Joe wasn’t just here to commiserate.
‘Who’s asking questions?’
‘The police. They think I don’t know what they’re after. They came around pretending they were sorry; “bereavement counsel
ling”, they called it. But then they started asking all this stuff. Have they been here yet?’
‘No. Someone’s coming this evening, I think.’
‘Well, be prepared for the third degree, I’m warning you.’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘First they asked about when I last visited. And how Mum was before? All that kind of thing.’
‘Well that should have been easy enough for you to answer. It’s months since you saw her and you wouldn’t have had a clue how she was.’
Tracy took a sip from her coffee. She really wanted a biscuit but forced herself to focus on Joe.
‘Then they asked all this other stuff: who were Mum’s friends? Did she have enemies? Even, did she have debts? I mean, she was in hospital, wasn’t she? She was ill. And then she died.’
‘She wasn’t ill. She had had her feet done, and she didn’t exactly die in her bed. They think someone pushed her out of a window. That was what the policeman told me.’ Tracy’s lip started to wobble and tears began to course down her cheeks.
Joe headed towards her, but stopped short and leaned against the back of the sofa.
‘They don’t know that, do they?’
‘What? You think she just fell out? One minute she was propped up in her hospital bed watching Britain’s Got Talent, the next she decided to see if she could fly?’ Tracy wiped away her tears.
‘I don’t know, do I? Last time I saw her she was being, well, a bit irrational.’
‘Irrational. I can’t believe you’re saying that. Of course she was irrational. The whole world knew that. Miles worked that one out after eighteen months; that’s why he never hung around very long. But if the police are asking about “enemies”, they must think someone pushed her. Why’s that got you so wound up? Don’t you want to find out what happened to her?’
‘Would it change anything?’ Joe said. ‘She’d still be dead. And I doubt she would be doing much investigating if either of us had pegged it.’
