by Roz Watkins
That did sound like me. I kept my voice even. ‘Look, I don’t want to argue. Let’s not talk about it. It’s not worth falling out over.’
‘Okay. I know you don’t like that group. But they’re only trying to stand up for vulnerable people and unborn babies who have no voice.’ Hannah swallowed. ‘Nowadays most people would abort a baby like me with Spina Bifida.’
God, I didn’t have the energy today. I shifted on my pillows. ‘I’m not sure that’s true, or a good way of looking at it. You’re—’
‘They showed us pictures of babies at the age they can still kill them.’
‘They’re bloody manipulating you, Hannah, can’t you see it? Did they show photos of babies screaming after their twentieth operation too?’
Hannah shifted her chair back an inch.
I reached for her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I just wish they wouldn’t show that stuff.’
‘They’re trying to make things better.’
I pulled my hand away. I couldn’t understand why Hannah had been sucked in by them, but I didn’t want to repeat the argument.
‘Just forget it,’ Hannah said. ‘You’re right. I did have lots of operations on my spine but I can’t remember. My baby photos would have been more at home in The Lancet than in a family album.’
‘Oh Hannah, I didn’t mean you. Of course I don’t think you should have been aborted.’ I looked over at Hannah, so lovely and full of life. I’d never admitted to her that being paralysed was one of my worst fears; that it woke me sweating in the night, tangled in sheets and gasping for breath; that I probably would abort a baby like her if I ever had to make that terrible choice.
Hannah looked up and I followed her eyes. Jai, striding towards us.
His voice sounded like he was being lightly strangled. ‘Meg, what happened? They say you bashed your head.’
‘I’m okay. It’s no big deal.’
‘I was leaving anyway,’ Hannah kissed me, somewhat frostily, and did a kind of wheelchair handbrake-turn before gliding away.
Jai sat on the chair by my bedside. ‘Seriously, are you alright?’
‘I’m fine. How’s it going with the Hamilton case?’
‘Oh, there’s a suicide note. Richard’s wrapping it up. You don’t need to be involved.’
I sat up, with some difficulty. My brain chugged. I’d forgotten. Just before I fell. The call from Kate Webster. ‘An email,’ I said hesitantly.
‘Yes, an email. All fairly clear cut.’
No, it wasn’t. I was sure it wasn’t clear cut. ‘What did the email say?’
‘It was the usual stuff. Sorry, sorry, you’re better off without me and all that.’
‘How do we know someone hadn’t hacked his account? It just doesn’t have the feel of a suicide to me.’
‘He’d been behaving strangely, acting depressed, saying he was cursed. Richard’s happy with suicide.’
‘Come on, Jai.’ I could feel my brain clarifying. ‘One, have you ever tried to get cyanide? You can’t pick it up from Asda. Two, cyanide’s not a nice way to die—’
‘I thought they put it in those pills for spies.’
‘It’s quick, not nice. And C—’
‘You were doing one, two, three, not A, B, C.’
‘Give me a break. I’ve had a head injury. Three, have you seen where he lives? He could have just chucked himself off that cliff any time. Why bother with cyanide-infused cake?’
‘Trying to make it look unclear so it’s an open verdict and the wife gets the life insurance?’
‘Why the email then?’
‘You make a persuasive case for a woman recently bashed on the head, but it’s Richard you need to convince, not me. And he’s not expecting you in till Monday.’
I sank back on my pillows. What I hadn’t said to Jai was – four, Mark Hamilton is a nice man with lots of dogs and cats, and he had an argument with his brother who is now dead, and I cannot let him think his brother committed suicide if it’s not true. No one should have to go through that.
‘I’ll go in tomorrow,’ I said. ‘And persuade Richard.’
‘Be careful, alright?’ He reached out and touched my arm. I instinctively pulled away and Jai withdrew his hand as if he’d touched a hot stove. I wanted to say sorry, I didn’t mean to pull away, but the moment was gone.
Chapter 13
My eyes flipped open. It was brutally dark – no trace of dawn. Something was pressing on my chest. I opened my mouth to scream, and felt something soft touch my face. I smelt fishy breath. I reached and flipped on the bedside light. Hamlet. He looked into my eyes, purred and kneaded my face. I released my breath.
I’d been released late the night before into the caring arms of my Mum. The medical people had confirmed I wasn’t bleeding from my brain or anywhere more vital, but had told me to come back if I experienced any of a long list of symptoms. They’d allowed me out on the basis that Mum stayed with me overnight and checked I was still breathing and at least normally coherent in the morning.
For a few minutes I lay staring at the ceiling, trying to absorb Hamlet’s feline calm. What would have happened if the dog hadn’t turned up at the top of those steps? Had someone been coming for me? Was it something to do with the Hamilton case?
I slid out from under the duvet and eased myself into a sitting position. I reached for the bedside table and grabbed my painkillers, feeling my brain bounce within my skull when I moved. I gulped down two of the super-strength pills the hospital had doled out.
I crept down my sloping floorboards to dig out clean clothes, feeling like I was on the high seas. The lack of right angles in my crumbling, ancient house didn’t help. Bending over was the worst – my sense of balance was gone and my brain was clearly a little too big for my skull.
Mum was asleep in the spare room, but I could do without her fretting and forcing gallons of tea down me. Besides, it was stupidly-early o’clock, so I left her to it and tottered downstairs and into the kitchen. Hamlet followed me and bumbled around while I made tea, then followed me through to the living room at the front of the house. The heating hadn’t come on yet and it was bone-numblingly cold, but by the time I’d sunk onto the sofa, I was too exhausted to get up again and do anything about it. Besides, Hamlet had parked himself on me and it was a life rule of mine not to move when catted.
A lump of plaster was coming away from the wall in the damp corner. I sighed, reached for the remote and stuck the TV on with the sound down low, praying for a programme that didn’t involve educationally challenged people from Essex copulating on a remote island.
I reached into my bag and fished out the magazine Grace had given me what seemed like weeks ago. Her disturbing but gorgeous jewellery would be a good distraction.
‘Ugh.’ I dropped the magazine. It wasn’t about her jewellery – it was a religious thing, the lead article, ‘How to be a Godly Business Woman’. I kicked it aside and closed my eyes. The pavement rushed towards me. My insides felt untethered as if I was in a lift going down too fast. The memory of the flashback shimmered like a distant threat.
I forced myself to think about the Hamilton case. Pressed my fingers to my temples and started mentally sifting through the evidence. I took a deep breath and realised I was feeling better.
My gut told me it wasn’t suicide. Of course I could never admit that to Richard – he’d accuse me of being illogical. I’d argue it was my subconscious pulling together all the threads and seasoning them with years of experience. I could point him to numerous articles in New Scientist about the supremacy of intuition when there were lots of factors to consider, but if I did, he’d throw something at me. Probably a cactus. Cacti were his thing.
I searched my memory for the word Fiona had mentioned from the paper in Kate Webster’s fire. Tithonus. Why would Peter have scrawled that name on a piece of paper which his wife seemed so keen for me not to see? I reached for my laptop, prised open the lid, and googled it. This was what I needed – to focus on work.
/> I took a slug of tea and scrutinised the search results. According to the Greek myth, Tithonus was a Trojan, who was kidnapped by Eos (clearly a proto-feminist, reversing traditional gender roles) to be her lover. Eos asked the Gods to make Tithonus immortal. But she only asked for immortality and not eternal youth, so poor Tithonus got older and older but never died. I read that, Tithonus indeed lived forever… but when loathsome old age pressed full upon him, and he could not move nor lift his limbs… she laid him in a room and put to the shining doors. There he babbles endlessly, and no more has strength at all, such as once he had in his supple limbs. In some accounts, he eventually turned into a cicada, eternally living, but begging for death to overcome him.
I shuddered, put the laptop down and manoeuvred Hamlet onto my knee. I leant and breathed in his subtle, nutty cat smell. What a terrible story. Poor Tithonus, shut away, suffering behind closed doors so nobody had to witness his torment. It was kind of what Mum had admitted wanting to do with Gran. It sickened me, but I knew it was in me too – the desire to shut away anything too painful to confront.
Hamlet, with blatant disregard for my emotional needs, climbed off my knee and wandered through to the kitchen in the hope of a snack. I followed him through, dished out something exotic and organic for him, and made more tea for myself.
I leant against the sink and stared out into my garden. Took in the cracked patio splattered with puddles, the lawn tangled with weeds, the sprawling hedges, the wisteria that scaled the back wall of the house and leant over as if it was trying to escape into next door’s better-cared-for environment. I noticed the little organised patch I’d created two weekends ago. Dug nicely and planted with three robust, un-killable shrubs. They were looking good.
The sun emerged from behind a slab of cloud, all bright and surprising, beaming through the dust and cobwebs on the kitchen windows and casting shadows on the black-and-white tiled floor.
I spun round, wincing at the pain in my head and hip. Nobody was after me. And I would not let the flashbacks return. I was fine. I’d carry on working and forget all this ever happened. I left Mum an appreciative note and set off for work.
*
I hobbled down the corridor and into Richard’s room. My ankle had flared up in sympathy with my head, and I must have cut a pretty sad picture.
Richard was at his desk, poring over something which he hastily shoved in a drawer. He was shielded by piles of documents, all neatly stacked and aligned in rows in front of him. Each pile was topped with a tiny cactus in a pot, like a prickly paperweight. It was very strange, but we’d got used to it. He looked up at me, but his shoulders stayed low, giving him the appearance of a giant turtle. He invited me to sit opposite him in a psychologically disadvantageous lower chair.
‘Yes. Meg. I wasn’t expecting you in. And seeing you now, you’d better get off home.’
‘I’m fine. I just want to look into the Hamilton case a bit more. Can you give me some time to—’
‘I’m taking you off that one. Craig can help Jai wrap it up.’
‘No, please, just give me a few days. I don’t think—’
‘You’ve had a head injury. I can’t risk it.’
The chair was trying to engulf me. I hoped my predecessor wasn’t in there. I clawed myself up a couple of inches. ‘Why would he commit suicide in such an odd way? It makes no sense.’
‘We know the man was unstable. He’d decided he was cursed, chose to commit suicide in the haunted cave. He even wrote a note. Suicidal people do odd things.’
Did Richard’s clear-up rate need enhancing or something? ‘What if someone hacked into his account?’
‘You’ve had a knock on the head.’ He picked up a cactus and pointed it at me. A tiny red flower sprouted from the top. ‘You’re not fit to be at work.’
I straightened my back and tried to look healthy, not sure if the cactus-pointing was supposed to mean something. ‘Do we know he sent the email? Anyone could have logged into his account.’
‘It’s not your problem. You’re off the case. If there are any loose ends, Jai and Craig will follow them up.’
I noticed a framed photograph on Richard’s desk. A blonde woman. Young. Hopefully his daughter, although she was more attractive than you’d expect for someone with Richard’s genes. It occurred to me I knew nothing about his private life.
‘No.’ I made my voice forceful. Not the voice of someone who’d recently bounced down steps on her head. ‘I’m really okay. Let me carry on.’
Richard coughed. ‘I know you’ve had some personal issues in the past…’ He gave me a helpless look.
I wanted to scream. I’d left the Manchester force to get away from all this.
‘I’m fine,’ I snapped. ‘I had some time off. It happens. I’m fully recovered.’
‘Well, I don’t want to be responsible…’
I wondered if he’d be like this if I was a man. ‘Yes, I had some personal issues. And now I’m better. It has nothing to do with anything.’
Richard glanced at the photograph of the girl. ‘But if it’s not suicide…’
‘So, you’re not totally convinced it was suicide.’
He gave me a look so full of exasperation I’d only previously seen the like pass between relatives. I sensed he was weakening.
The phone rang. Richard glanced at it and twitched. Looked at me. Looked back at the phone. ‘I’d better get this.’ He snatched it to his ear.
I sensed an opportunity. ‘So, okay, thanks. I’ll carry on with the Hamilton case then.’ I jumped up as best I could and limped out of his office, leaving Richard sitting with his mouth open.
I hurried down the corridor, my brain still feeling foggy and sore. The brutal lights stabbed at my eyes and there was a shimmering in my vision, like the beginnings of a migraine.
Craig slithered out of a doorway and stood in my path. ‘So, are you off home then?’
‘No, Craig, I’m carrying on investigating the Hamilton case.’
‘You’re off that. Me and Jai are tying it up. It’s suicide.’
The shimmering expanded. Craig’s face was distorted like something in a hall of mirrors. ‘No. Richard said I could carry on.’ Well, sort of.
Craig’s breathing was audible. ‘No. That’s wrong.’ He was like a pug that thought it was a Rottweiler.
I looked into his pale eyes. ‘Check with Richard if you must.’
‘What did you do? Offer to shag him?’
My hands curled tight and hard. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Craig. Leave me alone.’
‘Oooh, touchy!’ He took a step back. ‘That’s the problem with you women, isn’t it? You get all upset about nothing.’
I was sick of representing the whole of womankind. Why couldn’t I just cock up on my own account, like a man could? ‘I’m not upset,’ I said. ‘You’re the one with a vein throbbing in your neck.’
He shot me a look of pure venom. ‘Real cops don’t have time off with “stress”.’ He put air quotes around the word, and said it in a ridiculous, high-pitched voice.
‘Get out of my way, Craig. Real cops don’t act like arseholes either.’ I pushed past him, shoving him harder than I’d intended against the wall.
‘Just because your sister—’
I spun round and lunged at him. Imagined smashing my fist into his smug face. But I held back and kept my voice low. ‘If you mention my sister ever again…’
There must have been something about the level of my anger that cut through even Craig’s obliviousness. The blood drained from his face. He turned and walked quickly away.
I stormed to my office and threw myself into my chair. I was so furious I felt pins and needles in my veins, almost as if my blood was fizzing. It frightened me how much I’d wanted to punch Craig.
I rubbed my eyes and realised the migraine was disappearing, fading into a few tiny shreds of light in my peripheral vision. I shoved Craig’s puggy face from my mind and focussed on my breathing for a couple of minutes, prepar
ing myself to get back up to speed with the case.
I logged in and looked for the ‘suicide note’.
Chapter 14
I stared at the screen, scrutinising every word of the email.
Dearest Kate,
It’s getting worse. It’s survival of the fittest and I’m not fit. I should have shared more with you and I’m sorry. I won’t destroy your happiness and dreams. I know that I am spoiling your life. Please say sorry to Mark and Beth.
All my love,
Peter
I printed a copy and went to find Jai. He was perched sideways on his chair, squinting at his computer screen.
‘We’re back on,’ I said.
He looked up, and winced. ‘You don’t look so good.’
I waved his concerns away. ‘I never look that great, to be honest.’
‘Yeah. Not sure about that. Your face isn’t normally actually green.’ He pulled up a chair beside him. ‘So what do you reckon about the suicide note?’
‘I think it’s dodgy.’
‘Me too. And something interesting’s come up.’
I shuffled closer to his overflowing desk. ‘Tell all.’
‘You know the task force have been searching the area around the cave house. Well, they found something odd.’ Jai tapped on his keyboard and brought up a photograph of a fallen tree in some woods. He zoomed in. ‘This tree’s about fifty feet from the cave house. It looks from the footwear marks as if he stopped here.’ Jai pointed at the screen.
‘By an old tree?’ I leant closer. ‘Is it hollow?’
‘Yes. Well spotted. And can you see there’s a metal casket inside the hollow bit?’
‘A casket? What are we in, The Merchant of Venice?’
‘Don’t try and impress me with your literary references. Call it a metal box if you prefer.’
‘No, no, casket’s good. Did anyone else go to it?’
‘It looks like some medium-to-large boots, probably wellies, go near it.’ Jai walked his fingers across the desk as if illustrating the path of the boots. ‘Not huge, but probably men’s.’
