by Paula Daly
There’s a light tap on the bedroom door. ‘I do wish you’d eat something, Natty,’ says Sean.
I don’t face him. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m not hungry.’
‘Have you taken your medication?’ he asks.
Again, without looking, I nod. ‘You should go,’ I tell him.
‘I’ll stay.’
Now I do turn around. ‘Sean. Go.’
He bows his head a fraction as if to say, As you wish, and I hear the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs as he descends.
I have a minor inhalation injury – it’s not bad, could have been so much worse – but it is possible that smoke, particularly exposure to burning PVC, may trigger a susceptibility to asthma. So I’m on a course of anti-inflammatories in an attempt to prevent a long-term health issue.
Sean keeps ‘popping’ in to check on me. He has the look of a whipped dog.
He’s so bloody guilty about everything you’d think it was he who had given my dad the chair. Of course, my friend from the nursing home has taken it upon herself to be the real villain in all of this. She is beside herself with remorse. She knew the chair didn’t conform to health and safety regulations – that’s why it was in the garage, ready to be thrown out.
I’ve tried telling her it’s unlikely my dad would have escaped, regardless, but she’s pretty much gone to pieces over it. And, to be frank, I’m too exhausted with my own grief to talk her out of it. The best I can do is tell her: ‘You are not to blame,’ and leave it up to her whether to believe me or not.
It’s the funeral on Tuesday. I’m told it’s normal to feel as though you can’t face it. Told it will be cathartic, that I will get through it, that it’s something that has to be done. Still, I don’t want to. Because I don’t want to feel better. I want to stay like this. I loved my dad fiercely, and I don’t want to feel better about his death.
I’ve not seen Jackie.
That’s wrong, I know. She’ll be suffering, too, and I know I should see her, try to offer some comfort. That would be the right thing to do. But I can’t.
She came to visit me in the hospital, but I sent her away. I don’t want to see how my dad’s death has affected her. She came into his life late. I’ve had him for ever. Why should she claim any kind of pity for herself?
And I’d rather not be told by well-meaning fools that I need to be strong for my children. I want to say Fuck you! to the world and be left alone. That’s what I want.
I hear tyres crunching in the driveway and, ordinarily, I would stand, walk across to the window which looks out over the front of the house, to see who it is. Not today. I’m in my dressing gown and, though there are arrangements to be made regarding the funeral, I am not moving from this room.
The undertaker rang yesterday. Sean dealt with it. He came in asking about coffin style and did I have any preference as to his clothes?
‘The undertaker’s clothes?’ I asked.
‘Your dad’s,’ said Sean softly.
I’d stared at him, my mouth gaping. ‘He’s charred,’ I said. ‘My dad’s burnt to death, and he wants to know what outfit to dress him in? Has he lost his mind? Get someone else, Sean. That man’s clearly an idiot. I don’t want him near my dad, you hear me?’
Sean scurried away, telling me he’d resolve the situation, and I was so angry I threw my cup at him. It missed. And I now have a hole in the plasterwork and an arc of tea splashes which I haven’t the energy to clean off.
Today I will tell Sean not to come here any more. I’m sick of him tiptoeing around me, walking on eggshells lest I launch at him. He’s the only person I allow myself to shout at, so he would be better off not being here. I don’t understand why he feels the need to be around anyway. ‘You made your choice when you left me,’ I told him yesterday evening. ‘I don’t even know why you keep turning up.’
‘Because right now, Natty, you need support. And even though we’re not together, I can’t go abandoning you after sixteen years of marriage,’ he explained.
‘Abandoning me? You’ve already abandoned me. You’re just trying to ease your conscience. Go home to Eve. Go home to that bitch . . . she can teach you something about abandonment . . . She’s the fucking expert . . .’ And I stopped myself before I went any further.
I had made a promise to Sharon, after all. And, as mad as I was about losing my dad, it didn’t change that fact.
I hear sounds from the hallway downstairs. An unfamiliar male voice, followed by a woman clearing her throat noisily.
Sean appears. ‘Natty, there are some people here to see you.’
‘Tell them I’m asleep.’
‘I really think you should—’
‘Tell whoever it is I’ve taken a shitload of tranquillizers and you can’t wake me up. Tell them that.’
‘I can’t,’ he says.
‘Sean,’ I say, glaring at him, ‘if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t have answered the door anyway, so what difference does it make?’
‘It’s the police, Natty. You have to talk to them.’
The anger is rising within me as I hear the sound of feet on the stairs.
How dare the police come around after what’s happened. Have they no compassion? Surely, anything to do with the incident between Eve and me can wait until after the funeral?
‘Mrs Wainwright, okay if we come in?’
It’s DC Aspinall. I scowl and shoot her a look as if to say: Do I have a choice?
Behind her, in the doorway, is a short, portly guy with a moustache. He’s balding on top and is wearing a Columbo-style mac that’s seen better days. He takes one look at the oyster-coloured shagpile carpet and bends down to untie his shoelaces.
‘Sorry for your loss,’ says DC Aspinall quietly.
I nod by way of acknowledgment.
‘This is my colleague, DS Ron Quigley,’ she says, gesturing behind her.
And I raise my eyebrows. ‘Two detectives?’ I say. ‘Must be serious.’
‘We usually work together,’ she explains. ‘In pairs.’ She pauses as she turns to check on her colleague. ‘DS Quigley was away on leave recently, that’s why you’ve not yet had the opportunity to meet.’
DS Quigley raises his head and nods once my way. He’s becoming breathless as he removes his shoes, as if this is the first physical activity he’s undertaken in years.
‘I don’t want you to be at all worried by the presence of two detectives, Mrs Wainwright,’ says DC Aspinall. ‘It’s quite routine.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ I tell her, my tone bitter. ‘Just confused.’
‘Confused?’
‘Yes. As to why you deem it necessary to be here today. Could this not have waited?’
‘It couldn’t, I’m afraid.’
‘You appreciate I’m not in a fit state to go over things with you right now? The funeral’s on Tuesday – could you come back when everything’s a bit more settled? I really don’t see the urgency, since the charges against me have been reduced.’
DC Aspinall doesn’t answer, instead she waits on her colleague, who has now removed his shoes and is standing in the doorway in his stockinged feet.
It’s warm in here; I have the heating up high. Since I’ve come out of hospital I feel the cold more – like an old person – and though I’ve managed to refrain from sitting with a blanket over my knees, I’m sure the room is overly warm for the average person.
Beads of sweat have sprung up across DS Quigley’s brow and the top of his head. He’s looking kind of awkward, standing there, so I ask if he would like to sit. ‘Perhaps over there?’ I suggest, pointing to the chair in front of the dressing table.
He’s apprehensive, as the chair is overtly feminine: pink candy-striped cushions with crimson ribbon piping. It’s the chair from the guest room. I switched it when it became obvious that Eve had been sitting in my chair to apply her make-up. And she wrecked all my cosmetics, which Sean says she absolutely did not, insisting it must have been Felicity in a fit of rage (the reason fo
r which was not explained). She also managed to smear lotion on the white suede covering of my chair. So of course I had to trash it.
‘I’ll take my coat off, if you don’t mind,’ DS Quigley says, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘It’s pretty hot in here.’
‘Mind if I sit on the bed?’ asks DC Aspinall.
‘Help yourself,’ I tell them, giving in to the interview as it slowly dawns on me that they’re not going to return in a few days’ time to sort out whatever it is they’ve come here to do.
DC Aspinall perches on the edge of the mattress, as if to sit on it fully would be disrespectful, and she fixes me with a sad smile.
After a moment of silence she says, ‘Nice guy, your dad.’
And suddenly I’m knocked for six. All at once my guard has dropped, because I wasn’t expecting her to say that. Not sure what I was expecting, but a giant wave of emotion surges through me and I’m powerless to stop it.
Trying to hold on to some kind of restraint, I nod furiously in response to her words. ‘Yes,’ I am trying to say, ‘Yes, he was,’ but the tears are falling faster than I can wipe them away, and I’m unable to form any coherent sounds. I lift my head to look at her, and my face collapses.
‘Hey,’ she says, moving quickly from the bed and coming to kneel beside me. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t try to stop it.’
She strokes my arm soothingly. I’m rocking like a child, back and forth, back and forth, as a dam of pent-up grief is released.
Sobbing, I’m able to utter, ‘It’s all so shit . . . Everything . . . it’s all turned to shit.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know it has.’
She stands and strides towards the dressing table, where DS Quigley holds out the box of tissues for her to take, and then returns to my side. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Don’t try to talk for a minute. Take your time.’
She’s got such a kind face. A quiet prettiness that you wouldn’t notice on first meeting her. I glance at her hand and, on seeing the absence of a wedding ring, wonder for the first time about this woman’s story. Then my thoughts move to her aunt.
‘How’s Jackie doing?’ I ask, blowing my nose.
‘Not too good,’ she replies.
‘She really loved him, huh?’
‘It’s been hard to watch.’
She holds on to my hand as she speaks. She has a solid grip, and it’s comforting. ‘This is probably not the best time to bring this up,’ she says now, with a certain amount of reluctance, ‘but . . . she has the cat.’
‘Morris?’ I ask, surprised, because I’d been told a neighbour of my dad’s had taken him in.
‘Jackie can keep him for a short while,’ she says, ‘but we live in rented accommodation and pets aren’t allowed. Jackie wondered if you would be able to have him here.’
‘Of course,’ I say quietly, thinking how nice it will be to have something of dad’s. Everything else was lost in the fire. I have nothing left of his. Aside from a few of my own photographs. Most of the ones of my mother have gone as well. ‘Tell Jackie to bring him around whenever’s best . . . or I could come and get him. Whichever way, I’d like to see her.’
DC Aspinall tilts her head. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say, a little embarrassed. ‘Did she tell you I sent her away from the hospital?’
She nods. ‘Jackie understands, though. She can see why it would have been hard for you to see her.’
I take a deep breath in an attempt to settle myself, but there’s a sob lingering within my chest and my breath catches as I try to inhale. The linings of the airways are still raw, and I wince as the air fills my lungs.
‘I heard you were lucky to get out,’ DC Aspinall says.
‘Yeah, I heard that, too.’
DC Aspinall pauses at this, looks a little uncomfortable and relaxes her grip. ‘That’s why we’re here, actually,’ she says, meeting my gaze.
‘You’re not here to talk about Eve Dalladay?’
She shakes her head, keeps her tone steady and businesslike. ‘The fire . . . it turns out there’s evidence of foul play.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘We need to ask you a few questions, Mrs Wainwright, because it seems as though the fire was started deliberately.’
‘No,’ I say, pulling my hand out from hers and straightening in my seat. ‘It started from a cigarette, my dad, he . . .’
I stop speaking.
DC Aspinall stands. Her face is now clear of emotion, her empathetic demeanour gone.
‘There have been small traces of solvent found,’ she reports, withdrawing a notepad from her jacket pocket as I stare at her, speechless. ‘It’s most likely to be lighter fluid, but as yet the result is inconclusive. But they were found on his chair.’
34
‘SO YOU’RE SAYING you think it was me?’ I cry to DC Aspinall, as I jump up from my seat. ‘You think I murdered my own father?’
They are speaking, asking questions about my whereabouts that night, but I can’t hear them any more. My head feels like it is going to explode. I can’t believe someone has done this on purpose. Why would they? I don’t understand.
‘You think I killed him?’ I cry again. ‘Why? Why would I do that? Tell me!’
‘Mrs Wainwright, calm down.’
‘No, I won’t calm down.’ My nose is running, and I’m spitting phlegm as I speak. ‘And what was all that about a minute ago? The pretend sympathy? All that rubbish and you accuse me of setting him on fire? You stupid woman,’ I sob. ‘There’s no way on earth I’d hurt him,’ I say putting my hands over my face.
I move to the corner, shaking. I can’t stand to hear what they are saying. I feel trapped. I need to get out.
‘Mrs Wainwright,’ DS Quigley says, ‘you really need to calm yourself so we can talk.’
‘What are you going to do? Take me to the station, like last time? What a charade that turned out to be.’ I swing around to face DC Aspinall. ‘I think you’ve already displayed a high level of incompetence, Detective. I don’t see any reason why this should be any different.’
Someone has killed my dad. Someone has deliberately killed my dad.
DC Aspinall shrugs as if to suggest my accusation has no grounds. ‘I act on the information I’m given,’ she says steadily. ‘Any officer would have arrested a person under those circumstances. And, by that, I mean a repeat offender.’
‘But I didn’t do anything,’ I cry out.
She throws DS Quigley a look of quiet exasperation and refrains from challenging me further. We both know that I did do something. I rammed Eve’s car repeatedly. But I did not injure her.
At that moment, Sean comes in. He’s heard the commotion and bounded up the stairs and is now standing in the doorway surveying the scene. I am a few feet away from him. He looks between the three of us, unsure of what to do.
Fixing his eyes on DC Aspinall, he asks, ‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’
I don’t give her time to answer. ‘They’re saying I murdered Dad.’
‘What?’ he says.
DC Aspinall sighs out heavily. ‘That’s not what was said, Mrs Wainwright, and you know it. Not once have you been accused of murdering your father.’
‘So why are you asking me where I was? Why are you asking me what I was doing?’
‘Because we’re trying to build up a picture of what happened in the few hours leading up to the fire. And for that we need your cooperation. If you’re unwilling to reveal your where-abouts in the hours before the fire, that leaves us with a problem. If we can’t check out an alibi, Mrs Wainwright, then that person automatically becomes a possible suspect. Simple as that.’
I cast a look towards Sean. His brow is furrowed as he most likely tries to work out why I would not mention travelling to Bolton. He’s trying to fathom what the big deal is – why not just say it?
I told Sharon Boydell I would never reveal the truth about Eve’s son, and now both DC Aspinall and DS Quig
ley are suspicious. They are pressing me to talk.
Eventually, I drop my shoulders. ‘I went looking for information on Eve,’ I say quietly. ‘I travelled to the school of Psychological Sciences at Manchester University. A number of people saw me. They’ll be able to tell you I was there.’
‘Anywhere else?’ asks DS Quigley.
‘Then I went in search of Eve’s family.’ I glance at Sean. By his expression, I’d say he thinks I’ve lost my mind. ‘I talked to her grandmother,’ I say, ‘and she’d not seen Eve for years. I came home and, as you know, I went to bed. When I woke up the place was on fire.’
‘That’s it?’ asks DC Aspinall.
‘That’s it.’
Sean walks towards me slowly. When he is in front of me, he rests his hands on my shoulders, holds me at arm’s length, and regards me with a desperately sad expression.
‘What is it?’ I whisper.
He leans in and places a soft kiss on my forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, Natty,’ he says, before touching my cheek with his fingertips. Then he kisses my brow again, as though to quiet me.
‘Sorry?’ I ask.
‘For everything,’ he replies.
‘Oh, get the fuck off, Sean,’ I snap, and push him away.
DS Ron Quigley decided that, since it was his first day back on the job, he would treat Joanne to lunch.
‘Your choice,’ he says to her, as she drives, ‘but I want more than a sandwich or a thin piece of quiche.’
Joanne picks out her favourite coffee house in Windermere. The food is excellent and the atmosphere informal. Joanne can get something light – she can’t manage a huge meal at lunchtime, falls asleep at her desk if she does – and the menu also caters well for the likes of Ron. He’s a man’s man who requires a proper feed at midday.
Joanne tells the waitress she’ll have the goat’s cheese-filled field mushroom and smiles to herself as Ron orders the braised pig’s cheek and the boeuf bourguignon. ‘Hungry, are you?’ she says, and he replies, ‘Always, love.’
‘Would you like the escargots with the beef?’ the young waitress asks him, and he looks at her, unsure.
