Falling (17 page)

“It’s tough, I guess. That kind of situation.”

“Yeah.”

“At least he tried.”

There was a burst of laughter from the other side of the office, startling in the quiet. Then a lull as they realise where they are. Now a deeper silence, the office tight with contrition. Tom dialled the phone again. “Mr Henderson? DC Allison from South Wales Police.”

“Ah, Detective Constable. I was expecting your Inspector.”

“He sends his apologies.”

“You want the report, I assume? On Elizabeth Hanover?”

“If you could.”

“Of course. Of course. Now, I have completed the PM. It’s been rather a busy day in fact. You were extremely lucky I could fit her in.”

Lucky. Tom closed his eyes.
Lucky
. If she had kept her door locked, if she hadn’t been home that night. But how the fuck did you get further from lucky than this? “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. We appreciate it.”

“Indeed. Now, let me have a quick look…yes, cause of death, a simple linear fracture to the skull leading to a subdural bleed. The result of blunt force trauma to the back of the head.

Did she see it coming? Did she know that she was in trouble, heart pounding, skin spiking with fear? Did she know that she was going to die?

“Can you identify the weapon?”

“Shape of the fracture…I’d say that in all likelihood, the most likely candidate is something hard edged, a brick, say, or a square paperweight. We have defensive wounds on her arms, contusions and whatnot, indicative of some kind of struggle.”

Thinking she was safe. Perhaps turning away, maybe to make a cup of tea, maybe chatting. Then turning back, and now the situation has changed and suddenly, from nowhere, she’s in danger, and raising her hands, trying to save herself, but its already too late.

“Under the young woman’s nails, I found skin cells, traces of blood. Not her own. It has gone for DNA analysis, but it will take some time. You know how these things are. Trace evidence…I have, ah, some hairs, not the victim’s. Follicular tissue was still attached, so perhaps pulled out in a struggle. That could come in handy. DNA and such.”

Fighting – scratching and tearing, desperate. Feeling it slip away, but not giving up, not for an instant, because then she’s dead and she doesn’t want to die, so she fights and fights.

“Do you have a time of death?”

“Ah, now, I’m going to have to say between 8pm and midnight on Monday, based on degree of rigidity, temperature and such. Now our victim…”

“Libby.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her name. It’s Libby.”

“I see. Yes. Well. Anyway, when I examined the victim, I found evidence of faint lividity along the back. However, one can see true fixed lividity along the front, so I would say that the body was supine for the first few hours following death – I’d say perhaps three to four hours – and then moved to the river location and placed into a prone position where it remained until it was found.

“She.”

“Sorry?”

“She. Her name was Libby.”

Chapter 28

Cecilia – Monday, 19th March – 8.03pm

Cecilia had lit a single lamp. The Tiffany one in the corner. The living room was thick with shadow, bone-chillingly cold. No-one had put the heating on, and for no reason that she could understand, Cecilia was angry. She knelt, the cold from the hard wood floor seeping its way through her jeans. The damn fire wouldn’t light. She jammed her thumb down hard on the ignition. Click, click, click, click. Fuck.

What kind of a fucking husband was he? Not to be home on a night like this.

The boy – Richard – had walked her to her car, their feet slopping through the snow, an unsteady rhythm. Could feel him, gaze ahead, but every now and again dropping to her when he thought she wasn’t looking. He hadn’t said much, and she had struggled to keep pace with his long stride. He had opened the car door for her, had watched her as she slid inside. The slip of paper clutched inside his hand. She had written her number, handwriting awkward and spiky, a strip from today’s newspaper. Wasn’t sure why. She already had one child, surely didn’t need another. But he seemed comforted somehow, being in her presence, even though she had no idea what it was that he needed comforting from. And she felt…what? A tiny whisper nestled in the back of her brain. Like a mother. And even though she had spewed her sad, sad story out onto this poor boy, she had somehow felt…okay. Had felt like she did in that field, with the plane on fire and the snow falling and all the death. That perhaps she was helping someone in some small way. That perhaps she wasn’t entirely useless after all.

The fire sparked to life, heat rolling out. Cecilia stared into it, flames small at first, then climbing, climbing. Her hand grasped the dial, turning it, so that the flames stretched higher, until they reach the treetops.

There was the low squeal of brakes, a flood of light illuminating the snow outside of the wide open curtains. The thud of a car door. A moment, two, then another thud.

Cecilia pushed herself to her feet. Her heart beating faster.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you in.”

The front door thunked into its frame. Then the slop of footsteps on the mat.

Cecilia was frozen, standing in the shadows, and for a fleeting moment it felt that she was invisible. But then they are in the doorway, her husband starting. He sees her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at her son, carried high on his father’s shoulder. Tiny frame buried within a thick winter coat. His head hung, heavy with sleep, nose pressed to his father’s neck. The bruise is still there, flowering purple. There was a soft sound. He was snoring.

“He’s tired.”

“I didn’t know…I thought you would…I thought he would stay at your mother’s.”

Tom was cradling her son, arm wrapped protectively around him. “I thought…maybe you’d like to see him.”

She knew that she should move, step forward, take him into her arms. But she was scared, frozen, feet planted right into the walnut floor.

She had woken up early on Wednesday morning, the air thick with the promise of snow. Hard to believe that was only two days ago, seemed a lifetime. But then, it was a lifetime. Thirty six hours before the flight. Thirty six hours before falling back to earth. My mother, she’s sick, some kind of stomach bug. Looking at Tom, wondering why he was telling her this, why she would possibly care. She never looked after Ben. Still not piecing it together, and then finally the slow realisation dawning that he was asking, or trying to without framing the words. Looking from him, to her son, a mounting fear because she knows that she’s not up to it, and he should know too. Hadn’t they agreed that it was best if his mother did the childcare? Hadn’t they discussed this already? What would she do with him? How would she cope?

Then hearing herself saying the words. All Right. I’ll do it. Wondering what the hell she was saying. Seeing her husband’s face, relief and concern vying for supremacy. Looking out of the window, realising that the snow that has been threatening for days is finally falling, and that they won’t be able to go anywhere, will have to stay here, just the two of them in this too small house. A growing sense of claustrophobia, panic.

But it’s too late and Tom has to go, is pulling on his coat, glancing from her to their son, still chewing his lip as if he’ll think of an alternative. Any minute now. Then time’s up and he hasn’t, and he has to leave, kissing Ben, that awkward moment when he tries to figure out what’s expected and then gives up, a stranger’s have a good day, and he’s gone.

Looking at her son. Wondering what the hell she’s done.

But the snow falls and falls, and Ben claps his hands with excitement and for a while it’s as if he’s forgotten that he’s been left with the secondhand parent. And she has a brainwave, a rare moment of motherhood, wrapping him in his winter coat, fitting the bobble hat with the overlarge bobble over his dark tumble down curls. Let’s play in the snow. The whoop of excitement, and she’s breathing him in, like a luxury perfume. Watching as he runs through the snow, crouching, scooping flakes into a ball with clumsy little boy hands. Feeling a flush of something that she doesn’t recognise, but that’s warm and safe and complete. Wondering if maybe she can do this after all.

Then when the excitement begins to wane, and his face glows a brilliant red with the cold, calling him in, feeling like a proper mother. I’ll run you a bath. A stroke of genius – then we’ll have hot chocolate with marshmallows. How would that be? Her little boy clapping his hands, laughing, and she had done that.

Turning the taps, boiling hot water cascading into the claw foot bathtub. Congratulating herself. Thinking that he’s behind her. Then a sickening series of thuds, a childish scream. The sudden tearing awareness that she hasn’t closed the child gate.

He was curled in a ball at the bottom of the stairs, arm crossed protectively over his curls.

Running down the stairs so fast that it seems inevitable that she will fall too. Pulling him up into her arms, and he’s screaming, so loudly that it grates at the inside of her. Fear gripping her so tight that she can’t think, running down the drive in slippered feet, putting him into the front seat, even though the child-seat is right there and she knows he should be in it. Wheels spinning on snow.

Then waiting as the doctors examine him, as they look at her, and she can see it in their eyes that they are thinking the same thing as she is. Bad mother. Then Tom is running in, and her son’s eyes spring alive and he’s crying again and now she’s angry that he’s laying it on, reaching for his father. Cradled tight together, the perfect pair. Opening her mouth to try and explain, but Tom won’t look at her, and when he does finally look at her when the doctors have gone and there’s no-one left but this fracture of a family, his lips are compressed, so tight that they seem to have vanished. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have expected you to watch him.

The words stabbing at her like a knife and knowing, finally, that she had been right all along. And now what’s the point of her staying? They will be better off without her.

“Come on then, let’s take this off, little man.” Tom was weighting her son, pulling on his sleeve with one hand. Ben shifted, rubbing his eyes with a soft moan. Her hand, her good one, twitched. Wanting to reach out, but what if she dropped him? What if he cried?

Tom was struggling. It was awkward, Ben not helping. He was too tired. He just wanted to go to bed. Finally, Tom pulled the coat free, lifting the wool bobble hat from his head, dark curls flopping free. Ben started to cry softly.

“He’s exhausted.”

Tom was looking at her, like he was expecting something from her. But still she couldn’t move.

How could she, when her son was clutching at his father with fingers that seem to be embedded into his skin. His bandy legs clinging to his waist.

Cecilia took a step backwards.

Ben stirring, sitting upright, hands scrubbing at his face. Gazing blearily around the room.

Tom smiled, a bright, brittle smile. “Mummy’s home. Look Ben. It’s Mummy.”

He wasn’t looking, rubbing his head into his father’s coat, whining softly.

“He’s shattered.” Apologetic.

“Perhaps…he needs to go to bed. You should put him to bed.”

“Well…do you want to…”

Then her son stirred, sat up, twisting in his father’s arms. Tom’s face suddenly relieved. “Look, Ben. Mummy’s home. Why don’t you go and see her? Go on then.”

He came closer, looming large over her, thrusting her son towards her, desperate seemingly.

Against her better judgement, she reached out her good arm, carefully stroking the Tigger pyjamas. He was watching her. Big brown eyes. Her eyes. Wary.

“Hi.”

But his face suddenly fell, lip trembling, spinning back towards his father.

“He’s exhausted.” Tom repeated. “Just exhausted. Look, I’ll put him to bed. Why don’t you get a cup of tea? Did you eat? I’ll put him to bed and then I’ll make dinner. You have a sit down.”

Ben was crying softly now, back turned to his mother.

Cecilia turned and left the room.

Chapter 29

Freya – Monday, 19th March – 4.13pm

Freya’s mother had stalked into the kitchen, that day, a lifetime ago, had left her father standing, staring after her. Freya had watched him, his mouth moving in a silent defence, had heard the engine of his girlfriend’s car growling to life. Had watched, waited for him to say something. Anything. But he never had, had finally turned, tail of his shirt hanging down between his legs, climbing the stairs, head sunk low. Freya had held tight onto her brother’s hand. No one had ever mentioned it again.

Sometimes, as Freya got older, she had wondered if it had been discussed, if they had chewed it over in late night arguments, packed with guilt and recriminations. Deep down though she had known that wasn’t the case. Instead it hung over the house, an invisible cloud of radiation that seared their skin. She had watched her parents, dancing around it, playing a grown up game of dress up, and she had wanted to scream.

Freya had almost asked about it, once, twice, more times than she could remember. When the conversation would inadvertently circle towards it. She could feel the words, tingling at the tip of her tongue. How could you forgive him, how could you forget. And, perhaps most importantly, you do know that he has never stopped? But then she would see her mother’s face, eyes wary, like she knew what was bubbling there beneath the surface, and then she would stop and they would drift back to somewhere safer and they would all go on. Pretending.

She didn’t know if Richard remembered it. He was so small. But sometimes she thought that he did, in the way that he watched their father, the way that he positioned himself beside him, clinging to him almost, like his grip could keep him from drifting off from their family into the wide open sea.

For Freya it had been different though. She hadn’t clung. She had watched him too, but the way you watch a dog that is nuzzling at your leg but has already bitten you once. And her father had watched her in the same way. It was like each was afraid of the other, both knowing that they each had the means to destroy the family if they should so choose. A case of mutually assured destruction. In the end it was just easier to keep her distance. Keep an eye on her mother, her brother, make sure they were okay. But as to her father, just keep him at arm’s length. Just in case.