by Roz Watkins
‘Well, either way, you’ll probably feel a lot better if you stop fretting about his opinions. He’s made it clear he’s not that interested.’
I winced. That was a bit unnecessary. I blinked and looked over at the intricate college architecture. ‘I’m not trying to impress Dad. I hardly even talk to him.’ I could feel the shake in my voice. ‘I just want to do a good job.’ I glanced at my watch. I should have been heading off to meet the detective.
‘And when you were here,’ Mum said. ‘You were always so worried you were going to fail, even though you were doing fine.’
How much time had I wasted worrying about failing? I’d never just rested in the sunshine in these stunning gardens – always in the back of my mind was the worry that I should be working, that I didn’t understand my work, that I was stupid. We’d all felt stupid. At school, we’d been the brightest in the class, but then we were thrown in with hordes of seemingly far better-educated public school kids. I’d only realised later they felt stupid too, but like wild gazelle they’d learnt not to reveal any weakness for fear of being eaten alive.
I looked at Mum. ‘Well, since we’re having this conversation, I worry about you too. Caring for Gran’s getting too much for you. I want to help more, but work’s so busy.’
‘I’m okay. I know you do as much as you can.’
‘You’ve seemed a bit anxious about something recently. Is everything okay?’
Her voice was firm. ‘I’m fine.’
I pictured Mum’s window wide open, curtains flapping. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes, it was all getting a bit much, but I’m alright again now.’
‘And did Sheila next door really go to Chester?’
She stiffened. ‘Yes, of course. Don’t you need to get to your meeting with the policeman?’
‘Yes, I’m late. Are you walking into town with me?’
She spoke quickly and didn’t look at me. ‘No, I’ll use the toilets here and walk down on my own. You always walk too fast for me anyway, despite your ankle. I may as well saunter, and have a walk along the Backs.’
‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’
‘I’m not an idiot, Meg, I can find my way.’
‘Right, I’ll call you when I’m done. Have you got your mobile with you?’
She gave me a stern look. ‘Yes. And I’ve even worked out how to switch it on.’
*
I immediately identified DI Andrew Carter in The Eagle, via my unfailing police detection sense, which was sadly shared by criminals. He introduced himself as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, his handshake warm and dry but somewhat limp.
I bought us drinks and sandwiches, and we settled ourselves in a quiet corner.
‘You want to talk about the student that fell off the roof back in ’99?’ He sat with his head hunched forward like a depressed bird of prey.
‘Yes, we’re investigating the death of one of his friends. I wondered if you thought there was any more to it than just an accident?’
I’d ended up on a wooden stool with no back. I adjusted my position and crossed my legs.
‘They’re all bloody idiots, of course,’ Carter said. ‘Supposed to be the cream of English youth.’ He tutted and took a deep swig of his pint. ‘If that’s the case, God help the rest of them.’
‘So, you get quite a few of them climbing on the roofs?’
‘Oh yes, it’s quite the thing. Some of the stupid sods have even written books about it. But there’s two types of climber. There’s the reckless idiots who go on to kill themselves in the Alps, and then there’s the cretinous drunks who grow up and become stock brokers and bankers, and make millions bankrupting the rest of us.’
‘Right. Which category was the boy who died in?’
‘Matthews? He was in the drunken category. Actually we found drugs in his system too. And I reckon—’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Cannabis and a touch of amphetamines.’ Carter sat back in his chair. ‘And I reckon those other two boys were with him on that roof. But they weren’t admitting anything.’
‘Carstairs and Hamilton?’
‘Yeah. Which one’s dead?’
‘Hamilton.’
‘That figures.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was the easily led one.’
Our sandwiches arrived. Carter picked at his. ‘What’s wrong with a bit of ham and tomato? It’s all brie on a bloody raspberry coulis these days. What the hell’s this?’
‘I asked for ham and tomato. So, you think they were on the roof with Matthews? Where did they say they were?’
‘In bed. Not together.’ Carter let out a homophobic snort. ‘Alone. No one could confirm. The toff—’
‘Carstairs?’
‘That’s the one. I reckon he bullied the other one into keeping shtum. The toff was cool as you like but the other one, he was shitting himself. We had a bit of fun with him, but couldn’t get anything out of him. He was more scared of the toff than he was of us. Can’t afford to really frighten the little buggers nowadays can we?’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Not when Daddy owns half of bloody Kent.’
‘What made you think they were on the roof with him?’
‘We found their fingerprints and scuff marks from their shoes. But they just said they’d been up there the night before and Matthews must have gone up again on his own. No bugger saw anything so we had no proof.’
‘So, if they were there, do you think it was anything other than an accident?’
‘Who knows? We drew a massive blank. No one knew anything.’
‘Did you test Carstairs and Hamilton for drugs?’
‘No, we had nothing on them. We couldn’t allocate a lot of resources to it, since it looked so much like an accident. Nasty though. Iron railings. Spikes. Like something out of The Omen.’
I winced. ‘Was there a motive to kill Matthews?’
‘Nothing obvious. Reckless, young, spoilt, drunken wankers with an added dose of speed? It could have been anything – a comment about a girl, a badly timed insult. Or a pure accident and they just didn’t want Mummy and Daddy to know they were stoned on a roof in the middle of the night. My gut feeling was there was a bit more to it than that, but we never found anything, so I’m not sure I can help you. I’m sorry the nicer one’s dead. He seemed like a decent enough kid. For a student tosser.’
I didn’t think there was anything more to be extracted from Carter, so I let him share a little more of his sunny world-view while we finished our lunch, and then made my way out.
I called Mum, more in hope than expectation, and she answered with her loud, panicky mobile-phone-voice. She was in a tea room on King’s Parade, and I agreed to meet her there.
I walked between the ostentatious buildings and replayed my conversation with Carter. I tried to sift through the other information about the murder, but kept getting drawn back to my conversation with Mum. Was I still trying to impress Dad, even though I hardly ever saw him and, as Mum so tactfully pointed out, he clearly wasn’t interested? And was I using murder investigations to feel better about myself?
Deep in my maudlin thoughts, I nearly walked straight past Mum’s tea room. I glanced up and saw her inside the window. She looked up from her phone and caught my eye. Was she texting? I blinked and made my way inside.
‘You were lost in thought,’ she said, and raised her head to alert the waitress.
‘Yeah, just solving crimes, you know.’ I squeezed myself onto a chair in the small gap opposite her at the table. ‘Were you texting? Have you entered the twenty-first century?’
‘Ha, ha. Maybe I have.’
The café had a French, rustic look and smelt of roasting coffee. My spirits lifted, and I noticed Mum had lost the tightness around her eyes.
‘Who were you texting?’
‘Oh, nobody you know.’
‘You haven’t got a man, have you, Mum?’ I had to admit, this seemed highly unlike
ly. Mum ignored me and tucked her phone away in her pocket.
‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ she said. ‘A little walk along the Backs and then I sat in here and read my book.’
‘Sounds appealing. I talked to a dour policeman about the death of a young man. Er, a latte please.’ The waitress took my order and was about to leave. ‘Oh, and a coffee cake. Sod it.’
‘Stop worrying about your weight,’ Mum said. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll look back and realise you weren’t fat. Did you get anywhere with your police stuff?’
‘Not really. But that wasn’t the main point. I wanted a day out with you. And I am a bit fat. I know it’s stupid, and we’re all being brainwashed by the media into being unhappy with our bodies so we’ll buy more crap we don’t need. And Hannah’s told me how she feels when idiots like me who are a little bit plump moan about how much they hate their bodies. But I’d still like to shift a few pounds. Anyway, I’m glad you’ve had a nice time.’
She smiled. ‘It’s been good. When you were here, I never seemed to have time to look around.’
‘Neither did I.’ I realised how ridiculous that sounded, given that I’d been there in term time for three years, plus the summer I’d worked as a very bad silver-service waitress for college conferences, burning delegates with hot plates and spilling soup.
A beep in my pocket – a text from Fiona. Woman seen by farmer, visiting Peter Hamilton’s house – Olivia Carstairs.
Chapter 21
We finally arrived back at Mum’s house. I was exhausted with the effort of avoiding the speed cameras on the A14, and driving had aggravated the shoulder I’d wrenched when I’d fallen down the steps.
‘Will you have a cup of tea.’ Mum was the opposite of today’s youth. Although this was strictly speaking a question, her inflection made it a command.
I hauled myself from the car and hobbled after Mum to the door. A buddleia sprawled over the lawn and scented the air with honey. There was a different smell layered underneath. A distant part of my brain knew it was a bad smell, but I didn’t immediately identify it.
Mum pushed the door open, and we walked in.
That smell again. I froze in the hallway.
Gas.
‘Mum! Get outside. You’ve got a gas leak.’
She turned to me, looking confused. ‘Did I leave the gas on? On the hob?’
‘Get outside. I’m calling for help.’
‘But your gran…’
‘Can’t you smell it, Mum? It’s really strong.’ I fumbled my phone from my pocket. ‘Don’t switch on any lights.’
She ignored me and headed for the stairs. ‘It’ll kill her, Meg. She’s so frail.’
My fingers were lumps of meat. I managed to dial Jai. He picked up and I shouted incoherently at the phone. He’d know what to do.
I raced after Mum into the hallway, the rotten cabbage smell thick in my throat, and followed her up the stairs and into Gran’s room.
I rushed to Gran’s side. She was either asleep or unconscious. We shook her and shouted but she wouldn’t wake.
‘She’s going to die.’ Tears streamed down Mum’s face. ‘I’m not ready. She can’t die now.’
I ran and opened the window. I knew gas wasn’t poisonous as such but it could kill you if it displaced too much oxygen, and Gran was so old and frail. We had to get her out.
I wedged my arm under Gran’s chest and dragged her sideways towards me. How did her tiny bird bones weigh so much? My shoulder spasmed. I had no faith I wouldn’t drop her. My arms were usually strong, thanks to exercises I did with Hannah, but my muscles were torn and bruised from my fall.
I glanced at Mum. She was at Gran’s feet. She gasped, ‘How can she be so heavy? I can’t lift her.’ Her arms looked hopelessly fragile, pulling feebly at Gran’s ankles.
I relaxed for a moment, to regain some strength. I took a deep breath, and the gas smell made me want to gag. ‘Mum, what time does your heating come on?’
She looked up and spoke slowly. ‘Any time now. I set it later than usual. I knew we’d be back late.’
Could the boiler ignite the gas? I didn’t know, and wasn’t eager to find out.
My shoulder was sending scorching pains through my body. I didn’t know how we were going to get Gran out. I felt like collapsing on the floor and crying with despair at our helplessness.
Then a tiny voice whispered that it could be okay to die like this, blown up in an explosion. It would be quick. Gran would be spared a death from cancer, and I’d be spared all my guilt and my desperation to do the right thing, even though I never seemed to know what the right thing was. Mum wouldn’t have to grow old. I was so tired. It could be a relief. It would be relaxing to be dead. Nothing more to do. Nobody to worry about. My knees felt wobbly and I had the urge to lie down.
Was this me, or the gas in my brain? I felt befuddled. Mum took a step away and sat on the chair.
We had to get out.
‘Come on, Mum. We can do this.’
I pulled Mum from the chair and put her hands on Gran’s feet. I dragged Gran off the bed, feeling the agony of her weight wrenching my injured shoulder. I wanted to scream. Mum supported her legs as much as she could, and we didn’t drop her, although her middle sank towards the floor.
Mum’s breath was rasping like sandpaper and her face was crimson. ‘I can’t… The stairs.’
‘Put her down a minute.’
We laid her as gently as we could on the floor, with more of a thud than I’d hoped for. She muttered something.
‘Gran,’ I shouted. ‘Are you awake? You need to wake up.’ I wanted to slap her, shake her, force her into life.
Her blue lips moved and her eyes flipped open.
‘Grab one side each,’ I said. ‘Maybe she can help us.’
We each took one frail arm and heaved her up on to her feet. She managed to take some of her weight herself, and we shuffled her towards the stairs.
Like a strange and ungainly beast, we lumped down, stair by stair, panting and grunting and swearing.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and dragged ourselves along the hallway to the front door.
I tripped on the step and fell, pulling Mum and Gran down on top of me. I realised I was crying. ‘Get up,’ I mumbled. ‘Get out.’
But we were all tangled together, a mess of limbs. I pictured the boiler preparing to fire up.
I was seized with anger that this was happening. On top of everything else we had to cope with. It gave me a burst of strength and I hauled myself to my feet, dragging the others with me. The three of us hobbled onto the lawn.
‘Come on.’ My breathing was so fast I could hardly speak. ‘Get away from the house.’
I filled my lungs with the buddleia-scented air, and collapsed onto the cold grass.
Chapter 22
I dreamed I was dragging myself away from an unknown terror, pulling something heavy and unspecified behind me, my limbs like lead and my heart hammering. I woke early, my brain full of disbelief about the day before.
I reached for the phone and called Mum from my bed. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I called the hospital and your Gran’s going to be alright. They’re just keeping her in for a day or two, to be on the safe side. What about you?’
‘Don’t you have a headache? I feel like someone’s taken my brain out, diced it like steak, and put it back with all the bits in the wrong places and the knife still in there with it.’
She hesitated. ‘Oh no, love, I feel okay.’
‘Are they sure the house is safe? Why don’t you come here?’
‘It’s fine. They fixed it all last night. They’re adamant it’s safe now. Some connector thingy on the boiler had come loose.’
‘Hadn’t you serviced it, Mum?’
‘Well, I did. A while ago.’
‘Jesus, Mum, you’ve got to look after yourself better. I can’t be worrying about you all the time. It’s driving me nuts.’
‘I know. I know. It’s just hard work with your gran. And your father used to sort out boilers and those sorts of manly things…’
‘This sexism could kill you, Mum.’
*
I couldn’t think clearly with this knife in my brain. Couldn’t work out whether to raise my worry level about Mum from Standard to Red Alert. If there had been an intruder in her house the other day, they could have tampered with the boiler. But the boiler man had just blamed a loose connection. I realised I was being ridiculous. Gas leaks happened, especially if you expected your ex-husband to sort out boiler servicing despite him living in Scotland and you never seeing him or so much as mentioning his name. I vowed to keep a closer eye on matters relating to household safety.
I heaved myself out of bed and climbed down the perilous staircase in my nightshirt to make tea. It was freezing, and the kitchen windows rattled in the breeze. The cat flap clattered and Hamlet shot through with a mouse, but I was so tired I couldn’t even be bothered to argue with him about it. I’d see a small pile of glistening giblets later, with any luck before I trod in it.
The milk was on the turn but I stuck it in my tea anyway, grabbed my laptop and carefully climbed the stairs to go back to bed.
At about half past ten, a knock on the front door snapped me out of my thoughts. Shit. I wasn’t dressed. But Hamlet’s food came by mail order and I was nearly out of it. I pulled on jeans, stuck a fleece over my nightshirt and almost fell down the stairs.
I flung open the door and my heart sank. I was seriously not in the mood for this. Two young women with the round, self-satisfied faces of the born again, one clutching a pile of magazines adorned with rainbows and happy people. I registered the magazines as familiar but couldn’t immediately think why.
‘You’re wasting your time here,’ I said. ‘I’m irredeemably atheist. Going to burn in hell for sure.’
I knew that wouldn’t cut much ice. I’d once worked with a Jehovah’s Witness and she’d confessed they got credit for the amount of time they spent trying to convert people, regardless of the hopelessness of the venture. She’d tried to open my eyes to the light of Jesus every morning for five years.
