Her mother had been quiet, replying in one word answers.
What was going on with your father?
Freya crouched down, pulling at the laces, knotting them tight. Then pushed herself up, darting down the stairs, light steps.
She had hoped that the family would be asleep, that she could pull on her coat and grab her bag, letting herself out of the house and into the car without ever having to answer a question. Because this isn’t how they do things here, this isn’t how their family works.
But she was never going to be that lucky. There were voices, coming from the kitchen. Her grandmother, trilling, incessant. Her grandfather, low, rare. Freya hesitated, hung in the hallway. Didn’t seem to be breathing. She’d just grab her keys. Go.
“Freya. Is that you?”
Freya stopped. Sighed. Bugger. She could still go. Before they could ask her where. She sighed again and turned, heading to the kitchen.
Her grandmother was crouched on the floor, corduroy trousers hiked up revealing freckled legs, Minnie Mouse socks. Bottles of bleach, counter sprays, bin bags, coffee filters, arrayed on the floor before her, the cupboard beneath the sink hanging open. Her grandmother’s arm swallowed whole by it, her shoulder moving back, fore, in wide sweeping movements, as if she’s trying to fight off a monster that’s eating her a bit at a time. Her grandfather sat at the kitchen table, Daily Telegraph spread out before him. A glance up, a quick nod, toast crumbs scattering across black and white pages. Behind him, Richard, and Freya felt a spark of surprise hadn’t expected him to be up yet, wondered if he had slept, or if it was that he just needed to be there, where life was. He stood at the patio doors, looking out over the snow-bound garden, drinking coffee, dark hair standing up on end and looking so much like their father that it took her breath away.
“My god, how many bottles of bleach does one house need? Look at this, two, three.” Her grandmother scrubbed furiously, shoulders vibrating beneath her peach blouse, stopping briefly to scratch at a stain on the cupboard floor with a fingernail.
“Grandma? What are you doing?”
Her grandmother glanced over her shoulder. “I was getting a new bin bag. Have you seen the state of this cupboard? Shocking.” She paused, a frown flitting across her face. “You’re going out?”
Freya hesitated, glancing at her grandfather. He was looking at her too with a slight frown.
“I…” Freya tugged her coat on, trying not to look at her grandmother, her face dark, overhung with warning clouds. “Yes. I, I’m going to the crash site.”
The kitchen stilled.
“What?” Her grandmother’s voice was trimmed with ice.
Richard was watching her. The mug shaking in his hand. She wanted to reach out, steady him, tell him that it was okay. But she had to go, now, whilst she still could.
“That’s ridiculous, Freya. Why would you want to do…nonsense. You don’t need to see that. George. Tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her that she shouldn’t go.”
“I’m not telling her that.”
“George! Would you speak to her?”
“What do you want me to say to her, Bets?”
Her grandmother sighed in exasperation. “Anything. Good God!”
“All Right, fine. Freya. I think that’s a very brave decision and I’m proud of you.”
“George!”
They hung there for a moment, stale-mate. Then her grandmother tched, a small noise, a minor nudge to break the spell. Her grandfather turned the page of his paper, brushing toast crumbs onto the floor, her grandmother muttering, turning back to the cupboard, arm swiping furiously at the stains. Richard turned back towards the garden.
Freya looked down, buttoning her coat. “Grandad?”
“Yes, love?”
“Don’t tell Mum. Okay?”
Chapter 19
Tom – Saturday, 17th March – 11.01am
“Jim,” said Tom “you know I need to ask?”
Jim was leaning over the kitchen table, gaze fixed off in some middle distance. Ethan sat beside him, his chair pushed back, arms folded tight across his chest. Tom cradled his coffee. The kitchen clock ticking extraordinarily loudly.
“I know.” Jim had pushed himself up, squared off his shoulders. Preparing himself for what was to come.
“I could…”
“No, it’s okay, Tom. Go on.” Jim’s fingers were tapping the table top, a fast beat, like that way he could hurry the investigation forward.
Tom flicked open his notepad. “When did you see Libby last?”
“Tuesday. She came to dinner. Essie, she likes to cook. Worries Libby doesn’t eat enough…” Jim’s voice stumbled over the words, and he looked down at his hands. A breath, another, a moment to grieve for his wife’s grief.
“So,” Tom said. “Tuesday evening?”
“She was here, six til, I don’t know, ten maybe?” Jim looked at Ethan. A slow nod, not meeting his father’s eye. “Ten. We were all here.”
“And how did she seem to you?”
“I don’t know.” Jim shrugged. “Better, I suppose.”
“Better?”
“Yeah, she’d been, I guess, off, recently. You know, not herself.”
“In what way?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know, withdrawn. Quiet.” Jim rubbed at his face with thick hands. “She just, she wasn’t herself.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
He nodded, a pause, swallowed. “Yeah, she, she just, she laughed it off. Said she was tired.” Shook his head. “I didn’t push her. Thought she would tell me if she wanted…if she needed to talk.” Jim looked down at his hands. “I should have asked. Pushed a bit harder. You think there’s always time.”
Tom nodded, a quick fleeting scribble. He hadn’t seen Cecilia this morning, had been gone before she got up. Had briefly considered stopping, a quick knock on her bedroom door, but had decided against it. Could get away with that, considering himself a good husband because he let her sleep.
Tom couldn’t remember when it was she had migrated from their kingsize bed into the occasional double, how long ago. Some flimsy excuse, I’ll be home late, don’t want to disturb you. He had known in his gut that it was one of those moments, the ones when you set out your stall. But he had nodded, like it meant nothing. And then the next night, when she had gone to bed early because she was tired, hoping that it wasn’t his bed that she had gone to. Then the relief when he went to bed two hours later, finding it empty.
“Sorry.” Jim shook his head.
Tom looked back up again, a smile. “Not a problem. Do you want a minute?”
“No. Let’s just, let’s do it.”
“How long had Libby seemed withdrawn?” asked Tom
“Um, a while, I guess. A couple of months.”
“And you have no idea why?”
Jim shook his head. Ethan shifted in his chair, glanced up at Tom, then back down, looking to his fingers.
Tom watched Ethan for a moment. Kept his face flat. “So, Jim. How did Libby get home on Tuesday night?”
“Ethan.” Jim nodded towards his son. “He drove her home.”
Ethan didn’t look up.
“I see. What time was that, Ethan?”
“Huh?” Ethan looked up. “Oh, um, I guess, about ten, maybe ten thirty.”
“Right. So what did you guys talk about?” Tom was watching Ethan, felt Jim move, sense the frisson of tension spiking the room. A flash of something crossed Ethan’s face. Tom wondered if it was guilt. Looked at his hands, unwrapped from his chest now, splayed on his knees, large, thick fingered.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? It’s, what, a twenty minute drive?”
“Well, I mean, not nothing. Just nothing important. Just stuff, you know?”
A silence settled heavily on the room.
“There was something going on with her though.” Ethan’s words seemed to tumble faster. “I don’t know what, but, it was, I guess, like she was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Tom repeated.
“I don’t know. Maybe not afraid. Nervous.” Ethan knotted his thick fingers together.
“What makes you say that?”
“I…you’d have to know Libby. You, did you know her?”
Tom shook his head. “I met her, just the once, when she first joined.”
“It’s like, she’s never afraid of anything. Is she, Dad?”
Jim smiled then, shoulders un-tensing. His eyes had filled with tears.
“But the past couple of weeks.” Ethan shook his head. “She’s been…I don’t know…jumpy, I suppose. I mean, she came to ours for dinner the other night…”
“When was this?”
“Last week. Monday. We - me, Libby and my wife, Isabelle - were in the kitchen, around 8 o’clock, you know, so dark, and we had the lights on. And…” Ethan looked up again. “…it’s just that she wasn’t happy. About the light. You know, that you could see in from outside. She kept, like, looking over her shoulder. Twitchy.”
Tom frowned. “Did she say why?”
“She thought, said she thought she saw something. Someone. She laughed. Said she was imagining things.” His voice had shrunk, wasn’t looking at Tom now, but down at the table.
“You didn’t tell me this.” Jim was staring at him, voice hard as rocks.
“I know. I, it wasn’t…At the time it wasn’t a big deal.” A little boy, caught throwing rocks at a greenhouse.
“You don’t know that though, do you?”
“I…”
“You realise that it could have been him? The one who killed her.”
“Jim.” Tom glanced from father to son. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
“No, no. Let’s get the facts on the table, now.” Jim smacked his hand flat against the table top. “You said your sister was afraid. So obviously you went and looked? That’s right, isn’t it Ethan? You went outside to make sure there was no one there?”
“Jim.”
“When your little sister was frightened, when she said that someone was outside of that window, you went to look didn’t you?”
Ethan was crying now, head bowed down low.
“Jim. Come on. Leave it now.”
Jim pushed back his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floor.
“Okay, Ethan. Did she say anything else?”
Ethan was watching his father. He looked like his father, a little taller, a little broader, a little less worn down by a life serving as the thin blue line. Jim stood at the window, back turned to the room, shoulders drawn in tight. Ethan shook his head.
“So she never told you why she was nervous?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, in an explosion of sound. “Fuck. It’s my fault. Oh my god…”
“Eth.” Jim had turned now, hand on his son’s shoulder, eyes were red, cheeks wet. “It’s, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just, I’m taking it out on you, and that’s not fair. It’s okay.” He sank into a kitchen chair, hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m being a prick. I’m sorry, son.”
Tom watched them, father and son.
“Sorry, Tom. I’m sorry.” Jim wiped his eyes.
“It’s okay, Jim. We can leave it there for now…”
“No. It’s okay. Please. Go on.”
“Did she, was there a boyfriend?”
Jim shook his head. “There was a boy, in school. But they broke up years ago. He left for university. Durham, I think. Libby, she said it was for the best. There’s been no-one since.”
“Did she date?” asked Tom.
“Not really. Focused on her job, friends.”
“Did she ever mention anyone? Anyone that she had problems with?”
Jim shook his head again.
“I need to ask…”
“I know.” Said Jim. “It’s okay.”
“Jim, where were you on Wednesday?”
“Essie and I went to visit her parents - they live in Bath. We stayed the night and got back Thursday lunchtime, around one maybe. I can give you their number.”
“Thanks.” Tom made a note, then looked up at Ethan. His arms were crossed again. “What about you, Ethan?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Eth!”
“No, Dad. I’m asking. What, am I a suspect or something?”
“Eth, they’ve just got to eliminate us. It’s just procedure.”
Ethan sighed heavily. “Look, I went to work - I work for the council - you can check with them if you feel the need. Then I went home.”
Tom watched him. “Okay. And your wife - Isabelle, was it? She can vouch for you?”
Ethan fixed him with a look. “She was there when I got home, then she went to the cinema with her sister.”
“Right.” Tom nodded, slowly. “Okay.” Tried not to look at the man’s hands. “Just one more question. Anyone, anyone at all, you can think of with any reason to wish Libby harm?”
“No one that I know of. No.” Jim shook his head “I mean, she’s…Libby has always been such a popular girl. Always.”
“Ethan?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. Everyone loved her.”
Tom nodded, not saying what he was thinking, that no-one is loved by everyone.
Chapter 20
Freya – Saturday, 17th March – 11.30am
The snow had stopped falling, the sky a vivid blue. Freya picked her way through the slush, past the silent Talgarth church, grey smothered in white, along ribbon pavements.
It was quiet, most people choosing to stay indoors, their curtains closed. Those who did come out, who had to, they walked with their heads down, their collars pulled up, chins tucked in, as if they were marching into a hurricane. They looked down, or at worst straight ahead. They didn’t look at the mountain, where the tail of the plane had gouged a black gully into the snow. They didn’t look at the pall of smoke that still seemed to sit in the air, marking the spot where death had been.
Freya walked along the country lane. Shivering. Telling herself that it was from the cold. She had left the car by the old mill. Had smelt the coffee, freshly baked bread. She imagined painting it, the church and the snow, thinking about colours and where she would feather the brush, how the tones would work, the light fall.
Her mobile had rung as she had driven the winding mountains roads. Luke. It wasn’t the first time he had rung, or even the second. She wondered if it was the crash. If he had heard, wanted to see if she was all right.
Or whether he was going to ask her out again. He had once, the night before the plane crash, had drunk too much, wrapped thick arms around her, mumbling into her hair, had said that he had always fancied her. Freya had felt her insides go cold. Had smiled politely, breathing in the sweet smell of alcohol on his breath, and unravelled his arm, thinking how much he looked like her father.