‘But didn’t you see Lucy’s Winnie the Pooh light? Didn’t you find it?’ Jean’s voice was full of contempt.
‘We did. Jean, there was no way we could have known Lucy had the light in her room and not, say, on the landing.’
‘But didn’t you plug it in? Didn’t you see how dim it was? Just a faint gold glow. Night lights like that are designed to go in children’s rooms. That’s the whole point of them. You should have known.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Someone should have known! How many detectives saw that light? Don’t you have children? Don’t they have night lights?’
How many detectives does it take to change a light bulb? Charlie mused.
Proust was looking at Sam, waiting for him to answer.
‘My sons sleep with their bedroom doors open, and we leave the bathroom light on.’
‘Mark didn’t know either,’ said Jean. It sounded like a concession. ‘He’d heard Geri mention a night light, but he won’t have known what sort, or where it was. Geri was always the one who put Lucy to bed and got up for her in the night.’
‘Was Mark a good father, would you say?’ asked Proust.
‘Of course he was! He has to work all the time, that’s what I meant. Like a lot of fathers. But it was Lucy’s future he was working for. He adores that child.’ Jean’s head dipped. ‘I still can’t believe she’s gone. My sweet Lucy.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jean. And I’m sorry to have to put you through a second interview.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You need to talk to someone who knows even more about Geri and Lucy than Mark does. And that’s me. I can’t believe you didn’t show me the diary straight away. That’s the first thing I’d have done, in your position. I could have helped you a lot sooner.’
‘The decision wasn’t—’
‘I wasn’t a part-time grandmother.’ Jean Ormondroyd cut Sam off angrily. ‘I spoke to Geri and Lucy on the phone every day. I knew every single detail of Lucy’s life: what she ate for every meal, what she wore, who she played with. Geri told me everything. The night light was in Lucy’s room, and the door had to be
closed
—Lucy insisted. That way the monsters couldn’t get into her room from the dark bits of the house.’ Jean looked at Charlie, dissatisfied with the reaction she was getting from Proust and Sam: solemn silence. Charlie smiled sympathetically.
‘When Geri and Lucy came to stay the night at my house, which they often did if Mark was away on business, the Winnie the Pooh night light came too. And Lucy’s door had to be shut; if we took too long to shut it, five seconds instead of two, she’d get panicky. We’d finish her bedtime story, kiss her goodnight and have to run to the door to close it before any monsters crept in.’
Proust leaned forward, rubbing the knuckle joints of his left hand with the fingers of his right. ‘Are you telling me that Mark never put his daughter to bed? Not once? At weekends, on holiday? He didn’t know she had a light in her room and that the door had to be closed?’
‘He might have had a vague idea, but Geri was always the one who put Lucy to bed. If Mark was around, he’d do the bedtime story session downstairs. He’d always read her as many stories as she wanted. But bathtime and bedtime was Geri’s responsibility. They had their routines, like most families.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Proust. He pulled a small grey mobile phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at it, then dropped it back in. ‘I find it odd that he and Geraldine didn’t discuss Lucy’s fear of monsters and her need to have her door either open or shut.’
‘They did,’ said Jean. ‘Mark told me on the way here: he knew there was a problem about monsters, and he knew Lucy had been fussy about the light and the door, but he didn’t remember the specific details. He’s a very busy man, and . . . well, men don’t remember those domestic details in the way women do.’
Charlie was beginning to admire Jean Ormondroyd, who was clearly determined not to cry. She wanted them to focus on the information she was here to give them, not on her feelings.
‘It’s not just the night light that’s wrong,’ she said. ‘There are other things. Lucy had a DVD of
Annie
the musical, yes, but I didn’t buy it for her. Geri did. And the conversations the diary describes between Geri and me—they never happened. I didn’t buy her a mug with any book title on it—it didn’t happen!’
Mug with a book title? Charlie would have to look at the diary; she hadn’t a clue what Jean was talking about. I don’t work here, she reminded herself. I don’t have to understand.
‘Jean, who do you think wrote the diary, if not Geri?’ Sam asked.
‘The man who killed her, obviously. I can’t believe you need me to tell you. Haven’t you worked it out yet? He made her write it, before he murdered her. And the suicide note. He made her write a diary that would make the police believe she was capable of doing such a terrible thing—which of course she wasn’t! That’s why Geri wrote things that weren’t right, things he wouldn’t know weren’t right, as a way of signalling she wasn’t doing it by choice, so that Mark and I would know.’
Charlie thought this sounded far-fetched. If Geraldine had wanted to signal to her husband and mother that she wasn’t writing the diary of her own volition, would she really do it by changing the location of a night light? Or writing that Jean had bought Lucy the
Annie
DVD when she hadn’t? Mark hadn’t even known what sort of night light Lucy had. Had he known where the
Annie
DVD had come from? Doubtful. Geraldine could have planted an incorrect detail about his work if she’d wanted to be sure of alerting him to something being amiss.
‘Jean, I need to ask you something else,’ said Sam. ‘Have you heard the name Amy Oliver before?’
‘Yes. She was Lucy’s friend at school, one of her two best friends. Of course I’ve heard of Amy.’
‘How recently was Lucy in touch with her?’
‘Not since Amy left St Swithun’s, which was some time last year. Spring or summer. Amy moved away.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
Jean shook her head. ‘I was relieved, to be perfectly honest. So was Geri. She thought Amy was . . . well, a bit unstable. Volatile. She often upset Lucy. They fought a lot, and Amy always ended up screaming and crying.’
‘What did they fight about?’ Sam asked.
Jean sighed. ‘Lucy’s . . . Lucy was a real stickler for detail. She knew the difference between what was true and what wasn’t.’
‘Are you saying Amy used to tell lies?’ asked Proust.
‘All the time, according to Geri. And Lucy, who, bless her heart, couldn’t stand to let things pass if they simply weren’t right, she’d try to correct Amy. That’s when the screaming would start. Amy lived in a fantasy world, by the sound of it, and she was over-sensitive. Not at all robust.’ Jean made a dismissive noise. ‘You know what little girls are like—it’s the law of the jungle, isn’t it? No good being a timid little mouse.’
‘How did Oonagh O’Hara fit in?’ Sam asked. Proust snorted quietly. Charlie knew there were many things in which the inspector had no interest whatsoever. Evidently the complex relationships that existed between primary school girls was one of them.
‘That was another thing about Amy.’ Jean pursed her lips. ‘She wanted Oonagh to be her best friend, not Lucy’s. She’d deliberately try to exclude Lucy, tell Oonagh secrets and make her promise not to tell.’
‘What sort of secrets?’ said Sam.
‘Silly things, not even secrets. She wanted to make Lucy feel left out, that’s all. She’d whisper to Oonagh, “My favourite colour’s pink—don’t tell Lucy.” She used to say she was a princess, apparently. She was a princess and her mother was a queen. Geri said . . .’ Jean’s words tailed off.
‘Go on,’ Sam encouraged her.
‘Geri said it was as if Amy wanted to . . . to punish Lucy for seeing through her, for insisting on pointing out the truth whenever she made up her silly stories.’
‘Was Geraldine happy in her marriage?’ asked Proust impatiently, as if to demonstrate the difference between a proper question and a pointless one. ‘Did Mark treat her well? Did they love each other?’
‘Why don’t you ask Mark?’ said Jean. ‘It’s unforgivable, if you’re trying to make out he’s guilty in some way. He’s a wonderful person, and he worshipped Geri. He never raised his voice with her, not once in all the years they were together, and you’re trying to find fault with him because you need to blame somebody and you can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Let’s move on to the gloves,’ said Sam. ‘Jean, tell Inspector Proust—’
‘You tell him. You’ve obviously told him already. Why do I have to say it again?’
‘I’ll hear it from you,’ Proust barked, and the small woman shrank back in her chair. As someone who believed in the law of the jungle, thought Charlie, Jean Ormondroyd could hardly object.
‘Geri had a pair of yellow rubber gloves in the drawer beneath the sink, for washing up the things that wouldn’t go in the dishwasher. I used to say to her, why buy things that won’t go in the dishwasher when it’s just as easy to . . .’ She stopped. ‘The gloves aren’t there any more. I was wanting to wash a few glasses, help Mark out, and the gloves had gone. Mark didn’t even know they were there, so he hasn’t touched them. They were always there.’
‘Might Geri have thrown them away?’ Sam asked.
‘No. They were new ones. She’d keep a pair for ages before she’d replace them. The man who killed her wore them so as not to leave fingerprints.’ She shuffled her chair forward across the floor. ‘I’m not being fanciful, before you say I am. What other explanation could there be for any of this apart from what I’m saying? Well?’
Sam looked at Proust. Neither of them replied. Jean Ormondroyd’s eyes came to rest on Charlie, her expression fierce and demanding. Had it occurred to her, Charlie wondered, that getting an answer—even the right one—might be worse than not knowing?
9
Thursday, 9 August 2007
I don’t remember sleeping, falling asleep, but I must have, because I know I’m awake now. Awake in a room I don’t recognise, long and thin with a low ceiling. I haven’t seen it before, and this is the first time I’ve had this thought: that I don’t recognise my surroundings. So I must have been asleep. My clothes are twisted, as if someone has twirled my body like a skipping rope. My skin feels sticky, especially my back and the backs of my legs. I stretch out my hands, pat the surface beneath me—material, thick and fleecy.
I try to sit up, to look around, but my head aches too much. Moving it sends streaks of fiery pain shooting down my neck and back. I lower it gently, inch by inch, until it touches the bed again, closing my eyes against the glare from the overhead light, which is already, after only a few blinks, making my brain throb just above the bridge of my nose.
My throat is so dry it’s sore. Where am I? What the hell happened to me? I’ve had hangovers in my time, but never one as bad as this. And I haven’t been drinking. Fear spreads quickly around the points of pain all over my body, submerging them the way an incoming tide fills the space around small islands. I can smell new paint and a heavy fruity smell that is familiar. I’ve smelled it recently, I’m sure.
The children. What time is it? I have to collect Zoe and Jake. This is more important even than knowing where I am. I picture their eager, bobbing heads at the nursery window, the leap of joy in their eyes when they see me, and yank my body into an upright position, not caring any more how much it hurts.
I look at my watch. The digital display reads 0010.
Ten past midnight—oh, my God.
My stomach and heart lurch in tandem, as if someone’s tied a thick rope around them and pulled hard. That’s when I remember: Mark. I fainted on the street, and he helped me. Not Mark, I correct myself. Mark Bretherick is somebody different.
‘Mark,’ I shout, because my voice is working more efficiently than my body. I know I can’t move quickly enough.
I haul my heavy, tingly legs over the side of the bed and see that it’s not a bed, it’s some kind of high bench with white towels draped over it all the way along. ‘Mark,’ I yell again. What else am I supposed to call him? The door is open. Why can’t he hear me?
Ten past midnight.
Nick will have got a phone call from nursery after I failed to turn up. By now he’ll be frantic.
I need my phone. My bag is on the other side of the room, by the small convex window. I shuffle off the bench and try to stand up.
Why was I lying on white towels?
I wobble, try to perch on the bench again and fall. ‘Ow!’ I groan, face down on the stripy carpet.
Yellow, green, orange.
Dizzy, I manage to roll on to my back. I stare at the light, a transparent bulb inside a bell-shaped pink glass lampshade.
It comes to me suddenly: I’m in his house. Not-Mark’s house. He brought me home.
I haul myself forward and up on to my knees. ‘Mark! Mark, are you there?’ I call out, but my voice has lost its power. My handbag might as well be a hundred miles away. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I think about the ginger cat’s head, the blood around its ragged neck, and have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from vomiting.
On all fours, I count to twenty and gulp in air until the sick feeling passes. There are balls of fluff on the carpet. Like on ours at home, after we replaced the red that was everywhere with a more soothing grey-green. This carpet is new. Yellow, green, rust, taupe. And orange, like the cat’s head. Stripes. Chosen by a woman, surely.
‘Sally?’ He is here: the man I spent a week with last year. The man from my adventure. He smiles hesitantly before coming into the room, as if reluctant to trespass on my territory. His red-brown hair is wet, three small curls plastered to his forehead. I recognise the red sweater he’s wearing; he wore it at Seddon Hall.
I don’t buy that whole redheads-can’t-wear-red philosophy
: that’s what he said. He’s holding a glass of water. ‘Here, have a sip of this. You’ll feel better.’
‘My kids . . .’ I start to say.