Falling (26 page)

Richard didn’t answer for a moment, still studying his feet. Then he nodded. “I wanted to see you. I’m sorry. I know you have kids of your own. I shouldn’t…I just…I’m sorry. It’s just that I really needed to talk to someone. My sister, she said I should talk to her, but I can’t tell her…and my mum…she hasn’t got out of bed. You know, since. I mean, it’s just different with you.”

Cecilia felt her chest inflate.

He had wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. There were tears in his eyes. “They don’t know, you see…about dad. About what it was like. But you know, cos you were there. With Dad I mean, and you knew him so I can talk to you.”

Cecilia rubbed her forehead, sudden feeling like she had been drinking. “I…I guess, but you know, there were an awful lot of passengers that day. I probably didn’t even see him.”

Richard looked up at her. Frowning. “He wasn’t a passenger. He was the pilot.”

Cecilia stared at him, the dark eyes, the dark hair, and now instead of the boy it’s the father before her, and it’s not now, it’s ten days ago, and they haven’t taken off yet, but they’re going to and then they will fall and the world around them will spin away.

“You’re Oliver’s son.”

Chapter 43

Freya – Monday, 26th March – 8.38pm

There was singing, a yawning wail tumbling off-key, the high notes morphing into a shriek. A thud against the sepia-toned wall. Freya sipped water weak coffee. Trying to pretend this was all normal. No big deal. Her hands were shaking. The room was spartan, a table, four straight back chairs cushioned with a thin layer of listless grey foam. It smelled of disinfectant, the faint acid of vomit. The guy across the table smiled at her. He looked like a rugby player, had the thick build, the close cropped hair the colour of her grandmother’s mahogany table. But his navy blue eyes were soft, looked like he was just waiting to understand. Freya smiled back, imagined a paint brush in her hand, moving in the rounded shape of his cheekbones. Then she shook her head, suddenly remembering why she was there.

“I’m sorry, Maddie. I feel awful asking you.” The other detective stood, just beyond the open door to the interview room, his voice low, almost vanishing in the singing, the distant sound of shouting. He stood, was rocking, back, fore. Looked like he didn’t even know he was doing it. The little boy slept heavily on his shoulder, cheek marked by the cables on his father’s sweater, curls flopping into his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid. I need all the practice I can get. We’ll be upstairs when you’re done. Come here, little man.”

The child stirred, just slightly, head lolling as his father handed him to the woman, the one who had brought her coffee, apologising that she couldn’t find any decent biscuits. People working nights, we get depressed. So we eat all the chocolate digestives. Patting her stomach, the gentle curve of early pregnancy. A laugh like rain on treetops.

The father watched them leave, his hands on his hips, tired, defeated.

She hadn’t gone to bed. Had stayed curled on the sofa, staring at the dark television screen. Re-playing it, over and over again. The girl’s face. The dead girl’s face. The crumbled buildings, a casket for a downed plane. This was too much, was more than she had bargained for. That was the thing about the truth though, wasn’t it? It came as it was, raw and unvarnished. Didn’t stop to consider what you could handle, what you wanted to hear. Part of her wanted to bury her head beneath the cushions, pretend that she didn’t know anything. Pretend that her world was stable and perfect, just what it should be. In other words, be just like her mother.

She would talk to someone, share it. That would make it easier. She had even stood up, head swimming with a lack of sleep, before she realised that there was no-one. Her brother was too young, too raw with grief. There was her grandfather. She could talk to her grandfather. Had felt a soaring relief, then an immediate plunging as she thought of her grandmother. She had sunk back down to the sofa, finally falling asleep, sometime around dawn.

“You okay?” Asked the detective.

It must have been in her face, the isolation, the sudden sparking of fear that she was in far deeper than she had ever meant to go. The rugby player watched her, features concerned. “Can I get you anything?”

Freya shook her head, smiled. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” If she kept saying it, she would start to believe it.

“Yeah?” He glanced up as the other man closed the door, dimming the wailing to a dull roar. “Freya, this is DC Allison, Tom. I’m Dan. Dan Terrill.”

“Hi, I’m sorry about that.” The man with the little boy gave her a tired smile. He looked a policeman, even though he didn’t wear the uniform. He wore the build. Skinny. Upswept shoulders, like they are balancing the weight of the world on top of them, poker player face, creased with lines of worry.

“That’s okay. Your son?” Freya gestured to the closed door.

He nodded, pulling a chair out from beneath the table. “I don’t normally bring him to work.”

“How old is he?”

“Three.”

Then a splurge of guilt. Her determination, her stubborness. Wasn’t it all about her, when you came right down to it? Her need to know. And now that she knew, or thought that she knew, only now was she starting to understand the costs. To her family, who would buckle under the weight of all this truth. Even to these men, saying late to talk to her. “I’m so sorry. It’s late. I should have waited until tomorrow.”

“No, no.” The rugby player, Dan, smiled. He was handsome when he smiled. “We’re very glad you called. Besides,” a lopsided grin “there’s nothing good on TV tonight.”

Freya smiled back, momentarily soothed. She looked at the skinny man, the one with the little boy, and felt something, tickling at the edge of her consciousness. “I, I’m sorry. I know you don’t I? Weren’t you at the memorial yesterday?”

The detective, Tom, nodded grimly. “My wife. She was onboard. Flight attendant.”

Freya felt her stomach drop, suddenly felt like a child playing Cluedo, confronted with a real murder. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. She’s…She made it. A broken arm. Some bruises. She was lucky.”

Then she realised. The woman with the chestnut hair. Richard’s new friend. The proximity of everything threw her. “Oh, of course, my brother…” Suddenly realised what she was saying, how ridiculous it would sound. My seventeen year old brother has a be-friended your model wife. “My, ah, my brother, he was there too. I mean, not there, there. He didn’t come in. He stayed outside, under the tree.” Freya flushed. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

The detective frowned. “Dark-haired boy? He was wearing jeans?”

“That’s him. He couldn’t face coming in. It’s been a lot for him. For all of us.”

The two men nodded in unison, like they’d been practising it, and then there was an awkward silence.

“You said you thought your dad knew Libby?” Dan asked, tone tentative.

“Yes. I think so.”

She could forget about it, pretend that she didn’t know. Wasn’t that what they did? After all, she didn’t know that she was right. She could be wrong. She must be wrong.

“What makes you say that?” Dan leaned across the desk, coaxing the words out of her.

“There was a picture, the two of them together. I knew…” Freya pulled in a deep breath of stale air. “He had affairs. My mum, she has always tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening…I mean, she always did. But I knew, deep down. I think, she thought she was doing it for us.” Didn’t know why she was saying this, couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “Me and my brother. But after this…I mean, you can’t live like that, can you? Pretending all the time.” She shook her head, suddenly uncomfortable. This wasn’t why she was here. “I’m sorry, I, he just died, so it’s a, a tough time, I guess.” Freya rubbed her eyes, was surprised to find them damp, suddenly. Finally.

“It’s okay. Take your time.” Dan was watching her, and there was this look about him, like he understood, like he got it. And she wanted to blurt it all out, all of the stuff that was in there that had been hers and hers alone.

“Freya, your father’s name…” Tom’s fingers were twitching, like he was nervous.

“Oliver. Oliver Blake.”

“And what car did he drive?” Tom asked.

“A Mercedes, S-Class. Navy blue.” An image sprung to her mind of the immaculate car, plunging her hands into the side pockets, the boot. That smell. “I looked in it. After I found this picture of my father and this woman. I wanted to, I don’t know, I guess I wanted to find out who she was. What had happened. And there was…there was this smell. It was, I don’t know, like meat gone off, something rotten. And…” Freya looked down. Couldn’t believe what it was that she was about to say. “there were stains.” Shook her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s nothing. I just,” A quick uneasy laugh. “I’m watching too many crime dramas.” The men glanced at each other, her stomach flipped. “There was something else, in the boot.

A sports bag. It had things in it. I guess, I think he must have hid them there, you know, so my mother wouldn’t see. Phone bills, credit card receipts. I called one of the numbers. I assumed it was hers - the PCSO’s - he rang it every day. But I got a man instead.”

The detectives started, staring at her, and she wondered what it was that she had said.

“When was this?” Dan asked.

“Last night. Maybe around 6, 6.10.”

The two men glanced at each other, something transmitted that she didn’t understand.

“Ah, Freya, you said that there was a picture?” Tom asked.

“Yes. I have it. Do you…?”

“Please.”

Freya pulled her rucksack out from underneath the table, fingers shaking, head seeming to swim. “I have the other papers too. Phone bills. Hotel receipts.” Pulled them free from the bag, slipping them onto the table. And there, at the bottom, the glove. Her mother’s glove. She could leave that. That wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t be interested in an odd glove.

“Everything okay?” asked Tom.

“Yeah, I…” She could forget about it. She could just forget. She reached back into the bag. “I’m sure this isn’t relevant. I mean, I don’t know why I brought it.” Freya pulled the glove free, laying it out on the table in front of her.

It sat there. Seemed like it sucked up all of the oxygen in the room. The quality of the air changed, charged now with electricity.

“Where did you get this?” Tom reached for it, hand hovered over it, not touching.

“The bag. It was in the bag with all of the papers and stuff. The one in the boot of my Dad’s Mercedes. I don’t know where the other one is.”

The men were looking at each other. Seemed that she was missing something.

“I don’t even know why he had it.”

“What do you mean?” Asked Dan, gently.

“Well, the gloves. They’re my mother’s.”

Chapter 44

Tom – Monday, 26th March – 10.38pm

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean…fuck.” Dan sat forward in the chair, then a quick turn, glancing over his shoulder at the DS’ office, the row of padded chairs, Ben’s small figure huddled beneath his father’s coat. “Shit, sorry mate.”

Tom smiled, weary, waved his apologies away. “He’s sleeping.”

“They’re sure?” DI Maxwell leaned against the doorframe.

“The Air Accident Investigator said it’ll take some time. Pilot suicide is a big conclusion. But the guy I spoke to said that he’d put his pension on it. Off the record, mind.”

“Jesus.” The DI scrubbed at his face. “What a fucking mess.”

“Tell me.” Tom was drinking coffee, hot and stewed, sitting too long on the hot plate. He took a sip, grimacing. “I’ve sent the glove to forensics. We’ll get Oliver Blake’s toothbrush and a hairbrush, for comparison. I would also be very interested in talking to the wife.”

“The daughter’s sure? That the gloves are her mother’s? I mean, they’re like those unisex ones, yeah?”

Tom shrugged. “She says so. Says she bought them for her mother. I don’t know, I mean. It’s got a ring to it. The wife finds out husband’s been having an affair, goes after the mistress.”

“Yeah, well, woman scorned and all that crap.” offered Dan.

“Yeah.” Tom thought for a moment. “The only problem I’ve got is, how the hell did she get Libby’s body down to the riverbank? I mean, that was a fair walk and one hell of a climb down. So, unless this woman is built like a brick shit house…”

“Or…”

“Or” finished Tom “she had help.”

The office was quiet, just the three of them left. I can stay, if you need me to, Maddie had offered, had stroked Ben’s hair. He’s a poppet, Tom. He had smiled, his heart clenching. You go. It’s late. Go home. You’re sure? I’m sure. We’ll be fine. Had tucked his coat around his son, turning so that he wouldn’t watch her walk away.

“Where’s the daughter now?” Asked the DI.

“She’s downstairs. She’s just freshening up. I said I’d give her a lift home.” Dan was looking at his desk as he spoke, moving papers around aimlessly.

Tom watched him. Smiling.

“I’ll pick up Oliver Blake’s hairbrush, toothbrush, that kind of thing. And I called the garage.” Added Dan. “Tow-truck is going to meet me at the house to collect Oliver Blake’s car.”

The DI nodded. “All Right. Jesus. Right, good job guys. I mean it. You worked your arses off. You’ve put the second glove into the lab on a quick turnaround, yeah? Let’s wait and see what forensics have for us and we’ll take it from there. Go home. We’ll pick this up again in the morning.”

“Cheers, boss.”

“Merry Christmas.” Dan shook his head, words echoing hollow. He watched him leave. Then sighed, shook his head. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Tom looked down at his coffee. “So, ah, you’re giving her a lift home?”

“Yeah, well, you know. She came on the bus. And, you know, what with it being so late and the service will be rubbish…” He was flushing, cheeks turning pink. Then he looked up. “Oh, piss off.”

Tom grinned. “No. I hear you. I mean, the buses. They’re shit.” A pause. “She seems nice, mate.”

Dan didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah. She does. Must have been through hell.” He sighed. “And it’s about to get worse, poor bugger. So, how are things at home?”