Then Freya leaned back, half-sitting in the piled up snow, and unravelled her arms from around her brother. She looked at him, studying him like she is seeing him for the first time, then looked up at Tom.
Tom stepped forward. “Richard Blake, you are under arrest for the murder of Libby Hanover.” He could see Libby’s body in the snow. Jim, a broken man with his head rested on the mortuary glass. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence.” It felt like a rosary, a balm to wash away sin. That in spite of all that he has done wrong, there is this that he can give to a family and say, I did my best. “Stand up for me please, Richard.”
The young man looked at him, as if he was seeing him from a very long way away and Tom could feel his muscles tense, waiting. Then, as if he was a thousand years old, Richard pushed himself to his feet, hands held out, palms down, head sunk low. Tom clasped cold metal around his wrists, fingers brushing bare iced skin. Thinking of Libby on a mortuary slab, of smoke so thick it steals the breath from your chest, a pulsing heat that presses down on you, threatening to devour you whole.
“Did you burn the house, Richard?”
The boy looked up, glazed, confused almost. “I…” Looking at his sister, and she looks afraid again, as if she’s wondering just how much more there is to come. “I’m sorry. I was just…I was so scared. It was a mistake. Please. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t want to. And I didn’t know how to fix it, and Dad was gone, so I thought, if the house wasn’t there any more, they wouldn’t want to arrest me…”
“So you set fire to it?”
He paused for a long moment, then a quick nod. “I put petrol in the letter box.” Then his voice dropped down to a whisper. “I didn’t know that her father was in there. I heard it on the news. After. That’s why I came here, I just, I didn’t know where to go, and Dad, he always knows what has to be done, but he’s…I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Tom stared at him, this man-child, so heavy with what he has done, so weighted down by it, and yet for him the answers are so simple. I did it because I didn’t want to think about it. Thinks of his marriage, knowing that he is somewhere that he shouldn’t be, and yet willing to push it away, do whatever he had to, just so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
“Richard.” His voice was softer than he had expected it to be. “Where’s Cecilia?”
“Cecilia?”
“Cecilia Williams. She’s my wife.” Saw him pull back, a wash of recognition crossing his features. “You remember me? From the memorial? From the kitchen, the night you were standing in my garden, watching me and my family. Just like you did with Libby.” Now there was something else, something building in his insides, the anger and the fear. “What have you done with Cecilia, Richard? The same as you did to Libby?”
Freya was crying openly now, and she had reached out a hand, clinging onto Dan like without him she will fall. Looking from her brother to Tom.
“I don’t know…”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You don’t know what you did with her?”
“No, I, I didn’t do anything, I haven’t seen her. I called her, last night. But I couldn’t reach her, she wasn’t answering.” Gestured to the metal fragments, the burn marks on the ground. “I didn’t speak to her, honest I didn’t.”
Wanting to rail back and punch him. Just because it’ll make it easier. But Tom was looking into his eyes, and saw it sitting there. He was telling the truth.
Chapter 52
Cecilia – Wednesday, 28th March – 10.22am
Cecilia walked, high above the crashing waves. The rocks tumbled away beside her, a precipitous fall into white foam pierced by jagged edges. A cold wind swept in from the sea, wrapping itself around her and tugging at her clothes, her face. There were few other walkers. Too early, too cold. But Cecilia didn’t mind, the quiet suited her. Just her and the seagulls that circled overhead.
Thought about Tom, his phone call yesterday, his voice quick, fearful.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Yes. I…why?”
A long, static filled silence. She could hear his breathing, slowly steadying. “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s nothing. It’s okay. I just, I wanted to check, and I couldn’t get hold of you.”
“I’m sorry. I was in the hospital. Visiting Maisie. I left my phone in the car. You sure everything’s okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s okay.”
“Look,” Cecilia had taken a deep breath. “I was wondering…”
“Yeah?”
“Tomorrow. Would it be all right if I visit. To see Ben?”
Tom had paused. She thought that she could hear him smile. “Yes. Of course it is. Look, I was going to do him a party. You know, he didn’t get one for his birthday. Just my Mum, a couple of the neighbours. Will you come for that?”
Cecilia had pulled in a deep breath, steadied herself. “I…I’ll try.”
A rough cawing broke out above her. Cecilia tucked her hands into her pockets, tilting her head upwards. The seagull spun, gliding, then plunging downwards, faster, faster. Like it was falling. But then, just at the last second, as it hovered inches above the white foam, it pulled up, climbing again. Not falling then. Flying.
She had visited the hospital, way before visiting hours. Had held her head up, pretended that she belonged. Had stood for a moment, watching Maisie eating porridge, spooning it to her mouth with slow, awkward movements. Then she had become aware of Cecilia standing there, had looked up with a smile that had lifted Cecilia six inches off the ground.
“I brought your lipstick.”
Maisie had set down her spoon, leaning back against the pillows. “Well. Now, you shouldn’t have come so early. It could have waited.”
Cecilia smiled. “Didn’t want you looking like death when your daughter gets here.”
She had held out the lipstick and Maisie had reached, grasping her hand tightly. “You. You’re a good girl. Do you know that?”
Tears had sprung into Cecilia’s eyes. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“No. Now, you listen to me, young lady. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. You kept me alive out in that field. I know that you think I’m wrong.” Maisie was watching her, gaze knowing. “But it’s true. I know people. I can always tell. And whatever it is that you think about yourself, you’re one of the good ones. And you mark my words, my lovely, things will come right.” She had squeezed Cecilia’s fingers tightly.
The tears had spilled down Cecilia’s cheeks. She leaned in, kissing Maisie on the cheek, allowing her to brush away the tears with awkward fingers. She didn’t ask her why she was crying, and Cecilia didn’t tell her about the suitcases that still sat in the back of her car, or that she had spent the night in the Marriott. Had ordered room service, had taken a bath. And had cried and cried and cried. For all that had passed. For all that would never be.
Cecilia watched the gull. It was carrying something in its beak now, a prize for its daring. Watched it climb, climb, until it vanished into the sunlight. She turned, looked out over the waves, the wind scouring at her cheeks until they burned.
She couldn’t even remember why she had gone into the cockpit now, some last minute errand before the passengers boarded.
“You, ah, you got a minute?” Oliver had been facing away from her, had been sitting in the pilot’s seat, punching in numbers. For a moment, she hadn’t been sure that he was talking to her, had glanced over her shoulder at the co-pilot, whatever the hell his name was. But he had gone, had slipped through the door into the main cabin, muttering something about using the head before the chaos began.
Oliver had glanced back at her, following her gaze. “Guy’s a prick. Won’t last long here.”
“Yeah.” She hadn’t wanted to talk, had wanted to do her job and go back to her seat. She hadn’t looked at him.
“I, ah, shit.” He’d let out a sound, a half-laugh, half-sob. “Shit, I’ve had a rough day.”
“Yeah?” He looked grey, like he hadn’t slept in months. Cecilia had pulled her papers together, glancing up at the snow. Not at him though. Looking anywhere but at him.
“You, ah, you ever done anything bad?”
That had caught her attention, gluing her to the floor. Her heart had begun to thump. “What?”
“I, fuck, what was I…oh, there it is.” He was still typing in numbers, moving dials. “I don’t know. I just, ah, you ever just wish that you could go to sleep and never wake up again?”
She hadn’t been able to speak, the words clogging her throat, wondering how it was possible that he could know so much? Had felt him watching her, and it was like he was pleading with her for something, only she didn’t know what. Hanging there, waiting to see which way life would go. Then the door had swung open, the co-pilot squeezing his way into the cockpit, a wave of voices getting closer, and now she had an excuse, a reason to run away. She hadn’t looked back. Had just pasted on a happy smile. Had left, knowing that he was still watching her.
Another seagull wheeled overhead, diving on thermals. Or maybe it was the same one. How did you tell? Cecilia leaned her head back, tilting so that she almost fell, watched it until she felt dizzy. It sounded like a newborn baby, crying.
Chapter 53
Jim - Wednesday, 28th March – 11.03am
“Did you see him? When you came in? That bloke across the way there. You know the one, grey hair, bit paunchy. The one sleeping. Well, he’s that bloke. You know, was in that fire. His daughter was that girl, that police officer they found dead.”
“Mum. Shhh.”
“No, well, I’m saying. Did you see him?”
Jim stared at the curtains, pulled tight around the bed on the opposite wall. Could feel their gaze through the thin fabric. Wished like hell that he was anywhere else. Had tried to leave, had told the doctor that he’d had enough, he was fine, that they could just remove these damned drips and these beeping bloody machines and let him go home where he belonged. He had meant it too, at the time. And then Esther had looked at him, locked him in a spotlight stare. You’re staying. No, I’m not. I need to come home. Jim, I’m telling you now, you are staying. She had folded her arms across her chest, had pulled herself up, a Napoleon in tennis shoes. I’ve lost enough. Her voice had fractured, a crack running right through the heart of it. I am not losing you too. You are staying until they tell you that you are ready to come home. Now that’s an end of it.
“Yes, I saw him.” The second voice was low, a whisper. The woman’s daughter at least attempting to be discreet. But honestly, they were hidden by fabric. “Keep your voice down…”
“Oh, he’s asleep. Well, I tell you. There’s a lot of coming and going. They had someone here, late last night. I mean, it’s not on, it’s really not on. There was me, trying to get some sleep, and they’re like chatting and all.”
“Right, well…”
“No, but it turns out, they found him. You know, the one what did it. That’s what the police come here to tell ‘im.”
Jim stared at the curtains. You beg for answers. You tell them, and yourself, that you cannot live another day without them. You have to know. You have to unravel it, pulling at the thread until the entire pattern is laid bare, and then you can understand why it is that this has happened to you. He knew this. Had spent thirty years chasing those answers for everyone else, because they were that important. They mattered.
And then you get your answer.
Tom had arrived late, after the lights had gone off, the television silenced. Jim hadn’t been asleep, had been struggling lately, not keen to close his eyes. Kept feeling the flames lapping at his skin, the smoke pressing down on him. He had considered reading, had a Ludlum, page corner folded down, but couldn’t seem to bring himself to do that either. So he had lain there. Waiting.
At first, when he heard Tom’s voice, he wondered if he had fallen asleep after all. But there was no heat, no fire burning his skin. He had pushed himself up, glancing around the darkened ward, deep throated rumble snores washing their way from the bed in the corner, the elderly man with pneumonia. The lights were bright over the nurse’s station. And there stood Tom.
He had known then. Had felt the knowledge of it plump inside his stomach. You wait for the answers, because you believe, right down in the guts of you, that the answers will make everything better.
Tom had turned, seen him. Had raised a hand in greeting, gestured to the nurse, words that Jim couldn’t hear. The nurse, the one with the short hair, cut to make her look like a man, glanced over her shoulder, had sighed audibly.
Jim had pushed himself up, pain racing along his side, down into his pelvis. Tried to shift the elephant on his chest. Was breathing like he had run a damn marathon. But he had wanted to be sitting up for this.
Tom had walked quietly, glancing around at the other beds, the patients sleeping, or at the very least, pretending to.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Jim echoed.
“How are you feeling?” Tom had slipped into the chair, fingers clawing at the fabric on his knees.
Jim shrugged. “You didn’t come to ask me that.”
“No.”
“Well?”
Tom had lifted his head then, his gaze settling onto Jim. “I have news.”
“You got him?”
Tom had looked at him, framed the words carefully, picking his way across fractured ice. “We got him.”
Jim had expected happiness, had expected the moment to come with a flush of relief, satisfaction at the very least. But instead, his heart had pounded in his head, could taste bitter iron in the back of his throat.
“Who?” The word seemed to stick, coming out as a croak.
Tom had spoken slowly, his voice soft. Had talked about the boy, for that was all that he was, about his father. About the relationship that Libby had been having, the one that she had kept a secret even from Jim, about the phone calls, and the boy standing hidden in the shadows beyond her kitchen window.
“I don’t believe that he meant to harm her. But that is no consolation.”
Jim wasn’t looking at him, had gone back to studying the patterns on the cardboard stiff blanket. You pray for answers, and you think that the answers will make everything all right. But when you get the answers, you realise that they are merely a beautifully wrapped box that is empty inside. Because no matter what, she is still dead.