The Day She Died: A Novel

by Catriona McPherson

  “What are those white flowers called?” I said.

  Gus shook his head.

  So maybe Becky did the garden. Depressed and miserable and planting flowers? It didn’t go together. Unless having her garden looking good was part of pretending she was happy. But there was a vegetable patch with rows of cabbages—or they might be sprouts or kale or even cauliflowers—and who plants cabbages if they’re down already? Or cooks them, or eats them, or makes their kids eat them? I’d say if life was getting away from you, everything to do with cabbages would be near the first thing to go.

  “Alice,” said Ruby.

  She was right. Alyssum, lobelia, and salvia. They were like the father, son, and holy ghost of my granny’s garden.

  “So the cops have been back,” Gus said after another silence. I flicked a glance at the kids. “The Fiscal’s going to review the case tomorrow. Decide whether he wants a full post-mortem. If not, should be free to have a cremation by early next week.”

  “If not?” I said.

  “What’s them things you said?” said Ruby, screwing round to look at him.

  “Nothing,” said Gus. “Just Daddy’s work.”

  I supposed you got good at hiding stuff in plain sight, with children around. Talking over their heads, making sure they missed what you didn’t want them to catch, but it still seemed wrong to me.

  “Can I get a ice-pop?” said Ruby.

  Dillon stirred himself inside the blanket. “Ice-pop,” he said, breaking out of its folds.

  “For ten pink shells,” said Gus. Ruby marched down towards the beach, toes turned out, tummy pushed out, a right wee swagger about her. Dillon pattered along at her back.

  “That’ll take them a good while,” Gus said, and we sat in silence again until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “How could there not be a post-mortem?” I said.

  “Depends whether the Fiscal thinks it’s needed,” said Gus.

  “Really?”

  “Everybody’s seen too much CSI,” Gus said. “Nobody knows how it works in Scotland.”

  “But you know?”

  “I’m going to push for the full PM, obviously,” said Gus. “If they’ll listen to me.”

  “Did the cops tell you anything?”

  “The engine was off,” he said. “She had her seatbelt on. She died of head trauma. I told them it was an accident. Again. If it was deliberate, the engine would have been on, and she’d have taken her seatbelt off, eh? That’s what I told them.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Said suicides nearly always leave their belts on. That woman one—Gail—said she’d heard of someone before, driving off a cliff and switching off the engine. Scared of burning to death if they survived the fall.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, just shook my head.

  “But I don’t want suicide on the books. On the record. I want them to keep investigating until they find someone that saw something, or find someone she spoke to, or … I’d rather have anything on the record other than that.”

  I nodded again. Pretty useless even if he was looking at me, which he wasn’t. But what was there to say? Then a thought struck me.

  “Hey Gus, did you ask the farm guys?”

  He shook his head. “We never see much of them unless they’re moving sheep in this field right here.”

  “Only I was just coming through the yard there and one of them told me I should go a different way. He asked if it was me driving through yesterday. Maybe it was Becky.”

  “She doesn’t go that way,” he said. Then he leapt to his feet, making me jump. “But she might if she didn’t want anyone else to see her! To stop her!” He turned to look at the children, squatting at the high-tide line, poking through the shells with their fingers. “Will you mind the kids? I need to go and ask at the farm if they saw her. What time she left. Maybe someone even spoke to her.”

  I could see why it had got to him. Any bit of something to explain anything was going to seem important, state he was in, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “Yeah, sure but, Gus?” I said. “They might have meant us last night, eh? We came that way.”

  He stared at me, then rubbed his face. “Yeah, we did. Yeah, I remember. You missed the turn. But … ” he shook his head. “No. If the guy said yesterday, not last night … ”

  “Worth checking,” I agreed, because he was like a catapult ready to go. “And while you’re there, ask them if there are any foreigners working on the farm. Shearers or pickers or that.”

  Because who he really did need to speak to was Mr. Panic from last night, the one that might be Becky’s boyfriend.

  “Foreigners?” he said. “The only foreigner here was Ros. If there’d been a few more, she might have stayed.” Then he strode off round the side of the cottage and I heard the car engine start. The children looked up; I waved to them.

  “I’ve got six, Jessie,” Ruby called.

  “One, two, three, ten!”

  “Cool,” I called back. “Keep looking.” I could see Ruby’s little pink bottom sticking down under the hem of her dress from the way she was crouched down, and I wanted to ask if she was warm enough, or go and get her some pants to put on, but I didn’t want to remind her of why she was bare-arsed in the first place, upset her again.

  I missed the turn, I thought to myself. He hadn’t said that. He’d sat there like a stone and then said “next left.” I stood up and walked to the far fence, saw what I hadn’t seen before—a double track coming through the gorse. Another way to the cottage. I glanced at the kids, stepped over the fence, and followed it.

  So much for poor Becky’s isolation and loneliness! Just round the rocks from the cove where the cottage sat, a sandy beach stretched for a mile or so, and the slopes of the field above it were carved into plots, and on the plots were hulking great static caravans, all painted the same sage green, each with its big end window facing the sea. The site, like the guy said.

  And it wasn’t just a site either; she couldn’t have been lonely even in the winter because in the prime spots right along the edge of the beach there was a row of bungalows and cabins, some nearly as rough as Stockman’s Cottage, some over-the-top swanky. Not all inhabited, true. Not in October. But at least three of them had cars parked in their drives, and one had a washing hung out—beach towels and wetsuits—and there was a man working on an upturned kayak in the garden.

  “Jessie? Jessie, where are you?” Ruby’s voice sounded farther away than I thought I’d come.

  “Right here,” I said, picking my way back through the gorse as fast as I could.

  “Jessieeeeeee!” she squealed. The sound of it gripped at my guts. I got the same squeal as Mummy and Daddy now.

  “Jessieeeeeeeee!” Dillon sounded like someone stretching the neck of a balloon. It meant even less from him; he was just copying.

  “I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here,” I said, crunching down onto the pebbles beside them. Ruby held up her cupped hands, showing me enough pink shells to call it ten any day. Dillon held out his two fists and I let him drop his haul into my palms.

  Two pink shells, three blue shells, a twig with a piece of seaweed wrapped round it, and what I should have known to expect. Stupid bitch. What any little boy would pick up on the beach. Right there, right on my hand, touching my skin. Useless bitch. Quite a small one, curled and soft, white-ish with just a bit of sandy colour near the tip, right there on my hand, touching my skin. Stupid, useless, evil bitch. I dropped my arms to my sides and let it fall, feeling my hand pulsing where it had touched me.

  Dillon stared at ground where his treasure had dropped, and his face screwed up and turned dark. I stood still and stared at him, did nothing. But I didn’t run. I didn’t look for a corner, didn’t curl up, didn’t squeeze my head. I just stood there trying to get my breathing back to
normal, staring at him as his eyes filled with tears and he cranked up for a good loud howl. It had just broken when Gus shouted from the garden.

  “What’s up?” he said. “Jess?”

  “Jessie,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Jessie threw Dillon’s shells away,” said Ruby in the thrilled bossy voice of every four-year-old girl. “And she burnt him.”

  Gus jumped over the rocks and landed on the beach beside us. I cringed at the sound of his feet striking the ground.

  “Jess?” he said, gently.

  “Jessie,” I told him. I was still standing straight, but I needed to wrap my arms round my body and press them in tight. “I gave Dillon his sandwich too hot last night. I had to run his hand under the tap. I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Gus brushed it off with a shake of his head, kept up his close, unpeeling stare. “You’re like a ghost,” he said. He looked at the pebbles around my feet and his eyes flared. He kicked loose grit and shells, covering it.

  “It was only a wee one,” I said. “I’m sorr—”

  “Tsst!” said Gus. He squatted and took one of Dillon’s hands in his, one of Ruby’s too.

  “Listen, kids,” he said. “This is very important. Jessie … ”

  “No,” I moaned. “It’s not them, it’s me.”

  “ … is allergic to feathers. Feathers are very bad for Jessie.”

  “Like peanuts,” said Ruby. “Like Kieran.”

  “Much, much worse than peanuts,” Gus said. “Dilbert? No feathers. Got it?”

  Of course he hadn’t got it. The poor kid. He was sniffling, still staring at the ground.

  “Now say sorry to Jessie,” Gus said.

  “No!” Louder this time. “He’s wee and I’m big. It’s me who should—I should—If I can’t—it’s crazy anyway. Dillon?” I dropped down beside him. Closer to it. Right down where it was hiding under the scuffed-up sand. But I made myself think Dillon, Dillon, Dillon. He’s two. I have to. I took his hand, the one that might have held it tight for ages, but I made myself not think that either.

  “Dillon,” I said. “I’m sorry, honey. Look, there’s one of your blue shells. And there’s your stick with the seaweed.”

  “Pink sells,” said Dillon, with a catch in his throat.

  “Beautiful pink shells,” I said. “I love them.”

  “Take them up to the house then,” said Gus. “Ice-pops all round.” Ruby and Dillon looked from him to me and then at each other, and then they took off. I sank back onto my heels. Useless bitch, useless bitch, stupid evil useless bitch.

  “What are you saying?” Gus said.

  “Nothing.” At least not out loud. At least, I didn’t mean to. Useless bitch was just another little trick, like the head squeeze. And it was helping. I was talking myself down again. I had made Dillon cry. But I hadn’t hurt him, and I hadn’t run away. He’d get an ice-pop and forget all about it.

  “D’you find anything out?” I asked Gus, and that worked too. He forgot all about me.

  “She left about three o’clock,” he said. “Through the yard. Nobody saw her, but a couple of them heard the car. And one of the shepherds saw it on the track.”

  “So Dillon wasn’t on his own that long, really,” I said. “Especially not if he was sleeping.” That was the kind of thing Caroline with the couch used to say. So reasonable, so understanding, never judgmental. It meant there was nothing to brace against, and half an hour with her left you spinning. But Gus was fine with it. He only nodded.

  “That’s good to know, right enough,” he said. “But taking the quiet way out, avoiding running into people … it definitely looks like suicide.”

  “I suppose,” I agreed. “But it’s the note that does it.”

  “I’ve thought of something to tell them about the note,” Gus said. “Listen to this: she ran away.”

  “Without her purse?”

  “Just listen. No, not running away like that. She snapped and drove off. But then she cooled down, came to her senses, and she was coming back again; only while she was turning the car, it went off the road.”

  “Snapped,” I echoed. He nodded. “Because she was scared maybe.”

  “Scared, depressed, desperate—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “I mean really scared.”

  “Why the hell would I tell them that,” he said evenly. “They’d end up thinking it was me that scared her.”

  “I was thinking about the foreign guy,” I said. “He scared me. And if he doesn’t work on the farm, why’s he hanging around? He might know something.”

  “It’s a caravan site, Jessie. There’s always folk hanging around. Did he actually talk to you?”

  “Gus, he did more than that. I tried to tell you last night. He came to the door when you were out. In a hell of a state. Looking for Becky.”

  And again he had turned to stone.

  “Gus?”

  “Someone came to the door?”

  “Yeah, but only because he knew you were out. He must have been watching the place. So here’s what I’m thinking.” He had sort of jolted halfway through what I had said. It was hard to make sense of what floored him and what he could take in his stride. “I’m thinking he was the guy. He’s Becky’s boyfr—well, he’s the guy, right? And so he must know something. And he might easily have frightened her into running away.”

  “No,” he said. He put his hands up to either side of his head, and I could tell he was pressing hard from the way his hands were shaking, like he wanted to burst his own skull open to stop his brain from having to let it in. I knew all about that, knew better than to stop him too. “No,” he said again. “She didn’t run away with another man, and she didn’t run away and kill herself. It didn’t happen. I don’t care who he is, and I don’t want you to talk about him.”

  It was like he’d forgotten there was anything else apart from getting the story straight and not hurting the kids. Like he’d completely forgotten the quite important bit of what actually happened. Then I caught myself. Right. Like, who’s never done that? When you know damn well what happened but you just can’t let it be true? As if to show me I was right, he let his hands drop and then he let his face fall, mouth open, eyes half-closed.

  “Oh Christ,” he said. “What’s the point? A note, leaving her purse, depression, leaving the baby. No way it’s ever going down as anything except suicide, is there?”

  “They don’t know she left the baby,” I reminded him. “But no.” I put out a hand and squeezed his arm. “I’ll tell the cops I think it was an accident,” I said. “If they ask me.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He was smoothing the pebbles and shells with the toe of his boot. My heart picked up a pace thinking what he might uncover, and I looked away.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said. His face did that thing, the sudden cloud, or as if a membrane had come down over it, like a veil. “Why didn’t you tell me to go out the right way this morning?”

  The cloud thickened. His face looked carved from wood. “I’m sorry the farm guys gave you grief,” he said. “They’re kind of bolshy.”

  “I’m not … You’ve misund—I’m not giving you a hard time,” I said. “I’m really just asking. You didn’t tell me I’d missed my turn last night and you didn’t tell me to go a different way this morning. Seems weird, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t want to criticise you,” he said. “When you were being so good to us all.”

  “Criticise,” I repeated. Trying to see it from wherever he was looking.

  “Aye, tell you you’d missed the turn.”

  “Why the hell would I think that was criticising?”

  He said nothing.

  “Gus?”

  “Becky did,” he said at last, “and you shouldn’t speak ill … ”

  “Gus,” I said. “Listen. I know old habits d
ie hard, but you don’t need to walk on your eyelashes round me.”

  He kept his head down. “I know,” he said. “It’s just a habit. I could tell right away it was different with you.” Then he looked up, and the blaze in his eyes was enough to make my breath catch.

  I thought the same thing again as I had before. If he was just a guy and we were just here on a beach. Then I got hold of myself. You need to turn the key in that lock and throw it away, Jessie, I told myself. You can watch and see where it lands, but you need to throw it a good bit off and leave it there.

  He stood and went inside the cottage. I followed him. In the kitchen Ruby had dragged a chair to the door of the fridge to reach the freezer bit on the top. Gus sank down onto it.

  “You don’t really think it might have been an accident, do you?” he said. “You think it’s cut and dried, same as the cops will.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I think there’s something … off. I wonder if she told her friend anything that would help. What was her name?”

  “Ros,” said Gus. “Something off like what?”

  I shrugged.

  “Cos I’d give anything to not have the kids think she left them,” Gus said. I smiled at him. What I was thinking was if he was on Columbo, at least you’d know he hadn’t killed her. Killers on Columbo are always tying themselves in knots to make everyone think it’s anything but murder. And getting angry with Columbo, and not looking upset enough. Think they’d learn.

  He was certainly upset. He looked worse than I’d seen him yet.

  “So,” I said. “What sort of sculpture do you do? Where’s your studio?”

  And he grinned like a kid that’s been given a puppy. Pure delight. Not the least wee bit like the guy I’d been looking at five seconds ago, never mind someone whose wife had died yesterday.

  “Once the kids are in bed for their nap,” he said. “After their dinner. The monitor reaches fine to the workshop.”

  It looked like I was invited for lunch then. Good thing Dot mucked her shift up. I was free to stay.

  And I wanted to too. Because something really was off. And I like things making sense, me. As well as that, though, life was bigger here. Louder, brighter colours. Jesus Christ, I had had one of them in my hand touching my skin, and any other day I would be in my bed, stupid bitching it, squeezing my skull, waiting for it to fade away. Here, it wasn’t even the biggest thing that had happened, not compared with Ruby’s morning at school and Dillon crying and Gus’s sadness and what the cops might say.