What to do When Someone Dies

by Nicci French

  At that moment I thought suddenly that it would be an immense relief to be arrested and charged, convicted and sent to prison. It would halt my endless, hopeless, undirected need to do something. Clearly I had done the wrong thing. I had lied to so many people. Above all – below all – I had lied to Frances. I had betrayed her trust and now she was dead. If I had stayed at home and grieved, as everybody had told me to, and in the end gone back to my work, this probably wouldn’t have happened and maybe, just maybe, Frances would still be alive. I cared about the crimes I had committed. It was possible that my lies and cowardice had stopped Frances’s murder being solved quickly. Maybe I had destroyed an essential clue. But what seemed even more painful was that Frances had thought of me as her friend, as someone she could trust, and everything she had thought she knew about me was a lie.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I deserve to be punished. I’m not going to defend myself.’

  ‘You bet you fucking deserve it,’ said Ramsay. ‘And don’t pull that pathetic act with us because it won’t work. Maybe we will charge you, and not just for behaving like an idiot either. I’ll need to talk to some people about that. We’re going to think about it. In the meantime, you’re going to supply any physical evidence you have. The clothes you were wearing would be a help.’

  ‘I’ve probably washed them.’

  ‘Why was I expecting you to say that?’ said Ramsay.

  ‘Were you wearing a jacket or a coat?’ said DI Bosworth, speaking for the first time.

  ‘A jacket,’ I said. ‘I haven’t washed that.’

  ‘And shoes?’ she continued.

  ‘Yes, and I haven’t washed them.’

  ‘When you return home,’ said Ramsay, ‘an officer will accompany you in order to collect any items that may be relevant to the investigation.’

  ‘So I’m going home?’ I said.

  ‘Until we decide differently,’ said Ramsay. ‘But before that, you’re going to give us the mother of all statements.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’ve done?’

  Ramsay shook his head. ‘You’ve only just started,’ he said.

  I sighed. ‘It’s a relief, really,’ I said, ‘that someone apart from me is doing the investigating.’

  Ramsay looked at me, then at DI Carter, then back at me. ‘That was an investigation? For fuck’s sake.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The first Christmas I had spent with Greg, we had escaped our families and gone walking in the Lake District. I knew I was in love with him – no, I knew I loved him – when he took a miniature Christmas pudding out of his backpack on the top of Great Gable and insisted we eat it. I can remember it vividly: the cool grey blustery day, the rock we perched on looking out over the empty landscape, the way the wind blew his hair into his eyes and turned his cheeks ruddy, the rich crumbs in my mouth, his warm hand in my cold one, a grateful sense of belonging – of being at home, even though we were up in the hills and far from anywhere. Despite all that had happened, the memory remained intact and robust.

  The next Christmas we had spent with Fergus and Jemma, and Fergus and I had cooked a goose; Greg had insisted on making his version of champagne cocktails, singing loudly, filling their house with his tipsy cheerfulness. Last year, we had been in this house; we had planted the small Christmas tree at the end of the garden, planning to retrieve it. I used to dread Christmas; then, with Greg, I had learned to love it. Now I dreaded it again. In ten days’ time I would wake up on my own in this house, which seemed to be on its own downward slide (the faulty heating system, which meant that most of the radiators were lifeless and at best the water was tepid, the freezer kept icing up so that little lumps of ice lay across the kitchen floor, a window was cracked and I hadn’t got round to mending it, a cupboard door was coming drunkenly off its hinges). I’m usually good at mending things – of the two of us, I’d always been the efficient, practical one – but for weeks I’d been unable to summon the energy for domestic maintenance and all of my organizing skills had been used up on Frances and Party Animals.

  But now I was going to put my life in order. I’d said that before, but this time I meant it. After weeks of claustrophobic murk and madness, I had to make a fresh start. I had to look ahead, not back – because what lay behind and all around me was so scary and inexplicable. So, I threw myself into clearing up the physical mess of my life. I started each day at six in the morning, when it was still pitch-black outside. I bled the radiators and felt them returning to life; I called in a heating engineer to replace the fan on the boiler; I mended the cupboard door and defrosted the freezer, hacking out months of ice; I measured the broken window and bought a new pane of glass, which I fitted with a glow of competence. I painted the walls of the kitchen white and my bedroom pale grey. I bought new bathmats.

  I threw out every jar and tin that was past its sell-by date. I stocked the fridge with healthy food, and every day I made myself proper meals (for breakfast, yoghurt, toast and marmalade or porridge made with half water half milk; for lunch a bowl of pasta with olive oil and Parmesan or a salad; for supper, fish or chicken with one glass of wine). I went to the pool every morning, and swam fifty lengths. I bought myself a new pair of jeans and a grey cardigan.

  I met Gwen and Daniel at the cinema. I went through my ledger and billed clients for outstanding payments. I made a list of the work I needed to do and wrote myself a timetable that I pinned on the noticeboard in the kitchen. I put a storage heater in my shed and spent at least eight hours of every day in there, trying to meet deadlines and make up for the broken promises of the past months. I replaced the legs on a Queen Anne sideboard, sanded and revarnished a rosewood table, put a new top on a scratched school desk that clearly had sentimental value to its owner. I even put a notice in the local paper advertising my services, and called at the nearby shops with business cards. I went late-night shopping and bought a beret and miniature dungarees for my soon-to-be godchild, and two beautiful scarves for Gwen and Mary’s Christmas presents. I rang my parents to tell them I would not be with them for the day itself, but would it be all right if I came on Boxing Day instead? I bought my mother a glass vase and my father a book on houseplants. I drew the line at sending Christmas cards, and the ones that arrived for me I put in a pile on the kitchen window-sill so that I didn’t have to read the dozens of sympathetic messages behind pictures of robins, virgins and comic turkeys.

  And I did not look at the newspaper, so that I would not have to read any stories about Frances. I did not turn on the television for the same reason.

  I did not respond to the message Johnny had left on my answering-machine, or reply to the long, angry letter he pushed through the door.

  I did not investigate the missed calls on my mobile, though I suspected they might have been from David.

  I did not go back to the counsellor, even though she had made it clear she thought it would be useful, not to say necessary.

  I did not take up Gwen or Mary or Fergus or Joe on their offer to talk about what had happened, or describe in detail how the police had behaved towards me, particularly during the second interview I had had in Stockwell – their mixture of mounting incredulity and moral disgust. I was attempting to look ahead, move ahead, and the only way I knew how to do that was to blinker myself, choosing not to see what lay at all sides and behind me.

  I did not let myself think of Frances, spread out under the desk with her sightless eyes staring up at me.

  I did not insist to anyone who crossed my path that Greg had never known Milena. I understood at last that the past was gone and beyond my comprehension.

  I did not cry.

  I rolled up my two charts very tightly, bent them in the middle and stuffed them into the bin, along with carrot peelings and tea-bags. I gave the menu card with Milena’s scrawl on it to the police, who didn’t seem very interested even when I pointed out how the ‘J’ had been changed to a ‘G’.

  Each night, I went to bed so exhausted by my frantic
activity and by all my desperate evasions that I fell asleep as if I’d been hit on the head with a brick. If I dreamed, I didn’t remember of what. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic, but I was purposeful, like a soldier going into a battle or running away from one.

  In the middle of one Thursday morning, just as I was about to go out to my shed, the phone rang. I decided to leave it, but after the ringing stopped, my mobile immediately started up. I looked at the caller’s ID before answering, in case it was someone I was trying to blank out of my consciousness.

  ‘Fergus?’

  He was gabbling something. I couldn’t make out many words, but I got the sense. I was a godmother. Once I’d disconnected, I went and sat for a while in the kitchen. Outside, the sky had turned a dull white, as if it might snow. The house was quiet; the day ahead felt long and empty. I looked down at my hands, plaited together on the table, and told myself to stand up at once, go to my shed, get on with the work I’d planned for the day. My legs were heavy. It took an enormous effort to heave myself out of the chair.

  The phone rang again. It was Detective Chief Inspector Stuart Ramsay – he said his whole name again, as if I might have forgotten him – and he wanted to know if I would come to the station.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What’s changed? What’s happened?’ There was a deep breath at the other end, but before he could answer I interrupted him. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll come. When?’

  ‘Now? Do you want me to send a car to collect you?’

  ‘No. I’ll make my own way. I can be there in about half an hour. Is that all right?’

  Ramsay had my statement in front of him and looked tired. He did not offer me tea, barely glanced up. At last he said, ‘Is there anything you didn’t tell us in your statement?’

  I thought back to the long interviews, one in Kentish Town and the other in Stockwell. I had rambled, repeated myself, repeated the repetitions, gone round in circles and off at tangents, included irrelevant information. Had I left anything out?

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I don’t need time,’ I said. ‘I think I told you everything.’

  He shuffled the papers, frowning. ‘Tell me, please, did you ever visit the site of your husband’s accident?’

  ‘I don’t think it was an accident.’

  ‘I’m asking you a question. It’s quite simple. Were you ever there?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He looked up sharply. ‘Was I meant not to know?’

  ‘Why are you asking me now?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘Yes, I went there.’

  ‘And you didn’t see fit to tell us?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Is this yours?’

  He took a transparent bag out of his drawer and held it up: my scarf.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It has blood on it. Whose blood would that be?’

  ‘Mine!’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes. I cut myself, that’s all. Look, I went because I wanted to see where Greg had died. It was purely personal.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When did I go?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. It was a long time ago. No, I do know. It was the day before Greg’s funeral and that was on the twenty-fourth of October so it must have been the twenty-third.’

  He wrote the date down and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone you were going?’

  ‘No. It was something I had to do on my own.’

  ‘And afterwards did you tell anyone you’d been there?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Like I said, it was personal.’

  ‘But you have close friends – friends in whom you confide?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it must have been an emotional experience.’

  ‘It was cold and wet,’ I said, remembering slithering down the bank.

  ‘So isn’t it a bit odd that you didn’t tell anyone something like that?’

  ‘It’s not odd. The next day was the funeral, and I had lots of other things to think about.’

  ‘I see. So there’s no one to verify your story?’

  ‘It’s not a story, it’s the truth. And no, there’s no one to verify it, though I don’t see why it needs verifying. Why is it so important?’

  But even as I said the words, I realized why he thought it was so important. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I stared at him and he looked back at me implacably.

  ‘It’s just funny you never mentioned it,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Gwen. ‘What are they playing at?’

  I tried to hush her but she wouldn’t be hushed. I had arrived at what Fergus had called the baby-boasting party with a miniature pair of dungarees and a beret. When I’d bought them, they had seemed impossibly small, like doll’s clothes, but when I peered into the cot I realized they were much too big.

  ‘She’ll grow into them,’ I said. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘She’s called Ruby,’ said Jemma.

  ‘Oh, great,’ I said. ‘That’s a lovely name.’

  ‘Admittedly Ruby sounds like someone who should be dancing on a New Orleans riverboat,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Jemma, picking Ruby up and telling her she wasn’t going to let that horrible man say such horrible things about her. She was talking in a tone I’d never heard used by an adult. It was clearly something I’d have to get used to over the coming years. Jemma insisted that I hold Ruby. She told Ruby I was her godmother and that we ought to get to know each other straight away. Sensibly enough, Ruby was fast asleep as Jemma showed me her miniature fingernails and her equally miniature toenails. Then she woke up and Jemma retrieved her, coaxed her and contentedly fed her.

  I went into the kitchen, where Gwen was making tea. Mary had brought a cake and was getting out plates and cups, keeping a watchful eye on Robin, who was fast asleep in his car seat in the corner. He used to look tiny, but now, compared to Ruby, he was big, on a different scale. I was still feeling a bit awkward with Gwen, having stolen her identity and everything, but I made an effort to tell her about things, the way I always used to. That was when she erupted in disbelief, and just as she did so, Joe came through and joined us. It was like the meeting of a secret society.

  ‘I’m just escaping from Babyland,’ he said. ‘Not that she isn’t beautiful. She’s very sweet, isn’t she?’

  We all agreed that she was.

  ‘Obviously every parent is convinced that their own baby is the most beautiful in the world,’ said Joe. ‘I can remember saying something of the kind when Becky was born.’ He picked up a slice of cake before Mary could stop him. He took a bite as he continued talking, crumbs spilling from his mouth. ‘The difference is that when I said it I was right.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mary, and I could see she was about to launch into a Robin-is-best speech.

  ‘To return to what we were saying,’ interrupted Gwen, hastily, ‘Ellie has to do something to stop the police messing her about.’

  ‘What are they up to now?’ asked Joe, raising his eyebrows at me and grinning. I could tell he was trying to make me feel better about the mess I’d caused, turning it into a kind of joke that we could laugh at.

  So, of course, Gwen had to explain to all and sundry about my latest encounter with the police. I was a bit ashamed to be the centre of attention again. They’d had to be sympathetic to me as a widow, listen to my rants about Greg and his innocence, then deal with my activities as some kind of fraudster. And always it had been me, me, me at the centre of things, with everyone else in a supporting role, their concerns pushed aside.

&nb
sp; ‘You should have asked us to come with you,’ said Mary. ‘I can’t bear to think you went on your own. It must have been grim.’

  ‘You’d done enough already, all of you. Besides, it was something I needed to do alone.’

  ‘What’s outrageous,’ said Joe, ‘is that visiting the scene of your husband’s death is something they should find suspicious. Of course you had to go. It would be stranger if you hadn’t.’

  ‘Do you think they were really suspicious?’ asked Gwen. ‘Of what, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I get the impression that they’re extremely irritated by me,’ I said, and then cast a glance at Gwen. ‘As you probably are. Or, at least, you should be.’

  There was a joint, rustling murmur that of course they weren’t and how none of it mattered.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Gwen, ‘have you thought that you may need some advice? I mean, legal advice.’

  ‘Legal advice?’ Fergus had come into the room with a plate of biscuits. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gwen, slowly and carefully, ‘if they were talking to Ellie about when she went to the scene, and asking if anybody was with her to corroborate what she was saying…’ She turned to me. ‘It feels awful even to say it but you’re the one, after all, who’s been claiming that Greg’s death was not what they assumed, was inexplicable. So it looks as if they might be thinking that…’But she stopped, unable to say it out loud.

  ‘That I had something to do with it,’ I finished for her. ‘Yes. That I was taking revenge on my husband and his presumed lover… So, are you going to ask if I’ve got an alibi?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Mary, in a shocked tone.

  ‘Of course it’ll never come to that,’ I said. ‘But I sort of do.’ I tried to recall the day in accurate detail. The terrible news had been such a blow that it was as if it had eliminated everything that went before. But I could remember. ‘I’d had a good day, funny as it may seem. I’d been working on a rather beautiful Georgian chair. It had taken longer than I’d expected so in the end I had to jump in a cab and take it down to the company who had hired me to do it for them. It was a solicitors’ office just off Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I remember the time because I was in a rush to get there before they closed. It must have been just a couple of minutes before six. When I handed it over, I had to sign a receipt for them, showing I’d delivered it. I wrote the date and the time on it. So I couldn’t have been in East London tampering with my husband’s car, if that’s what was required. There we are. Too much information.’