What You Left Behind (29 page)

They stared at each other until Lorraine touched her lip pointedly and raised her eyes. Instinctively, Burnley drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

“And while we’re at it, what did the pathology report reveal about Lenny Jackman? And the other scene forensics? There were plenty.”

She stood up to leave, trying to contain her thumping heart. She’d not wanted to become involved in these cases, and if it had been anyone,
anyone
, but Greg Burnley on the other side of that desk, she’d have left well enough alone.

“Nothing’s available yet,” he stated. “I’ll let you know when it is.”

He picked up his desk phone and jabbed a few numbers. “Jane, bring the Dean Watts file to my office immediately, please.” He hung up. “I’ll get you copies of the suicide note and you can analyze it to your heart’s content.” That laugh was back again. “Comparing it to what, though, I have no idea. That’s your problem.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
midnight but Lorraine couldn’t sleep. The guest room was hot and humid, the thick stone walls of Glebe House hanging onto every shred of the day’s heat and transmitting it back at night like a giant storage heater.

“The stupid thing is, this place is freezing in winter,” she said to Adam, remembering nights from her childhood bundled up in sweaters and woolly socks.

She slipped off her T-shirt and pulled the sheet up under her arms.

Adam smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“Stop it,” she said, shoving him in the shoulder. “It was weird in the station,” she added after a short pause. “Lana seemed relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Sonia was in a right state when I took her back though.”

When Lorraine dropped Lana home Sonia had been standing at the door, waiting for them. Lorraine wondered if she’d been there since the moment they’d left.

“For God’s sake, what have you
done
?” were her first words to her daughter after they’d gone inside.

“It wasn’t that bad, Mum,” Lana had said. “Chill out.”

“
Chill out?
You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sonia had seemed more fragile and thin than usual, her movements even more erratic, her mental state more frantic.

“The detective was really nice, actually.”

Lorraine had stifled a noise at this point.

“What, do you think he’s going to put you on his Christmas card list? Wave if we bump into him in the supermarket? For God’s sake, Lana, you’ve just confessed to
killing
someone. You’ve ruined your entire life.”

“You know,” Lorraine said to Adam, “Sonia seemed more concerned with Lana’s medical school application being turned down because of a police record than anything else.”

“She’s been through a lot” was his drowsy reply.

“God, it’s too hot in here.” Lorraine got out of bed and opened the window in the hope there might be a breeze.

The whole house seemed to creak and groan as she tried to settle again. She wondered if Jo had fallen asleep yet. The prospect of another night without Freddie filled them all with dread.

“At least we know now where Freddie was last night,” she went on. “I just don’t understand why Lana didn’t tell us sooner.”

“Kids don’t snitch on each other, remember? Anyway, it’s clear that Freddie chose to leave home of his own accord. The question is
why
.”

Adam pulled up the floral bedspread. Lorraine kicked it off again.

“Jo’s still out of her mind with worry,” she said, “although she was comforted to know that Freddie had been at the shelter. I stopped off at the Job Center in Wellesbury on the way home and managed to get copies of forms with Dean Watts’ handwriting on them. Something for our friends at the university to analyze tomorrow. I’ll drive out and see Bill.”

Adam sighed and rolled over to face her. “Has this all become a distraction for you, Ray, or do you really think there’s some kind of a link?”

“Adam, the Watts case has new evidence. It needs re-examining. After what I went through last time I can’t watch Burnley fuck up again. I’m hovering over the Lenny Jackman death like a hawk too. As for a link, unless Freddie does something stupid”—she sighed—“then I don’t see one. Even so, it’s only a matter of time before some zealous reporter picks up the story. Two homeless lads kill themselves in a month, same area as the Wellesbury Six. It’s too soon after that to ignore.”

“But if Dean’s death was an accident, as Lana claims, then it’s hardly the start of another spate, is it? Lenny whoever-he-was gets lumped in with the couple of hundred other railway jumpers each year, and on its own it isn’t remarkable. Even in this area. You’d think Burnley would prefer to take the stolen-bike-and-accident option.” Adam curled an arm round her waist. “Do you believe Lana was on the motorbike?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Lorraine said. “But one thing’s for certain: either Lana’s lying or Dean’s suicide note is. I just don’t know why she would confess to something she didn’t do.”

“And if Lana is telling the truth, who wrote the note?”

They lay in silence for a few minutes, breathing in the night’s thick heat. Adam batted away a mosquito.

“Earlier, at the Manor, Sonia implied Lana was protecting Gil by confessing, to save him from any inquiry.” Lorraine rubbed her eyes. She was tired but knew sleep was still a long way off.

“That sounds unlikely,” Adam said. “Why not just defend him rather than implicate herself? Also, where are her injuries?”

“It’s unlikely, yes, but not impossible,” Lorraine responded. “As for her injuries, Gil said she fell off, didn’t he? She could have been thrown clear before impact, landed on soft ground. We don’t know that she hasn’t recently suffered a bad back or a stiff neck or even cuts and bruises. The incident was a month ago now, kids are good at concealing things, and they heal quickly.”

She yawned.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring like the one in Gil’s picture, though I guess she could have got rid of it.”

Adam nodded. “Confessions can take their time coming, especially if she reckoned she could get away with it to begin with. It was the dead of night, no witnesses—or so she thought—she panicked and ran.”

“It fits with what she said. Ever since her brother killed himself, Jo told me that Lana has been hot-housed for a medical career, almost like a replacement.”

“So doctor-in-the-making falls in love with the wrong boy. A
homeless
boy. There’s no way her parents would approve.”

“Agreed,” Lorraine said. “The pressure gets too much and she turns bad girl for a night—drinks, smokes weed, drives a stolen bike. Let’s face it, our kids aren’t always who we think they are.” She recalled what Grace had been through the previous year, and the problems she and Adam had had coming to terms with it.

“So Dean died instantly and there was nothing Lana could do. Her career was over before it had even begun. She panicked. She ran.”

“She could be covering up for someone else, but who, and why? Dean’s
real
girlfriend?” Lorraine suggested, answering her own question. “Let’s face it, Lana with a homeless lad is pretty improbable, even as a rebellious strop.”

“Perhaps someone’s blackmailing her.” Adam sounded sleepy. He eased himself down the bed. “My gut says we should believe her for now.”

“Your gut?” Lorraine said sarcastically. “That’s ironic coming from the man who refuses to base anything on assumptions.
Ever
.”

“This is different,” Adam replied, glancing at his watch before unbuckling it and putting it on the bedside table.

“Why?”

“It’s not my case.”

A
DAM HAD FALLEN
asleep within minutes, but Lorraine remained awake. At least she didn’t think she’d dropped off: every so often she jerked upright and tried to focus on the small display of the bedside clock. She couldn’t recall fretting over the time after 3:27, so when she opened her eyes after being woken by a noise downstairs she was dismayed to see light seeping in around the curtains already.

“What’s going on, Jo?” The crying noises had drawn her to the kitchen. She’d forgotten to put on her slippers and the kitchen flagstones felt soothing and cool on her hot feet. “Jo, what’s the matter?”

She sat down beside her sister at the table.

“For God’s sake, talk to me. Is there news?”

Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, Jo turned slowly to Lorraine. “It’s Freddie,” she sobbed, staring at the paper again. “He’s left me a suicide note.”

26

“This is purgatory,” Sonia says. “That’s what it is.”

I don’t know what that means but it’s making Sonia unhappy. Her voice is stretched out thin and she is lying in bed. Tony is there too, looking after her.

They don’t know about my secret hiding place behind the cupboard on the landing. They’d be cross if they knew I was listening but ever since the detectives took Lana to the police station yesterday my stomach has been churning. I don’t know what to do.

“Take these,” Tony says.

I imagine him sitting on the edge of Sonia’s bed. Tony sleeps in another bedroom. His duvet is brown and gray.

“Thanks,” Sonia says, and then it goes quiet as she sips water.

She’s been different since Simon died, doing and saying things I
don’t understand. She said she wanted to find God. I offered to help, but not until I’ve found a girlfriend I told her. Neither of us have had any luck.

“I can’t believe she did such a stupid thing,” Sonia says once her pills have gone down.

I hold my breath, listening to every word.

Tony makes a noise like he’s blowing out all the air in his lungs. “After everything,” he says, “we don’t need it.”

“It feels like it’s happening all over again,” Sonia says.

My heart bangs heavily. I don’t want that. I would get angry and not be nice anymore.

“I know what you mean,” Tony replies. “She’s throwing her life away.”

They said that’s what Simon did. Threw his life away. Wasted it. Chucked it out. They’re wrong. He didn’t. If he’d thrown it away we could have got it back for him. Sometimes I’ve thrown things away by mistake and it’s easy to find them if you look. There’s no bringing Simon back. His lips were blue. I saw them.

I butt my head against the wall to make the thoughts go away. Later I will do another drawing.

“Did you hear something?” Sonia says.

The floorboards creak as Tony comes out onto the landing. I press flat against the wall but he won’t see me here. “Probably just the dogs,” he says, going back into the bedroom. The bedsprings squeak as he sits down again.

“What if they arrest her?” Sonia asks.

I imagine Lana in handcuffs, being put in a police cell. I would draw a picture of her escaping if that happened.

“Then we get a bloody good lawyer.” Tony’s sigh is deep and rasping, the kind that makes you feel guilty.

“She won’t be able to go to uni—”

“Sonia, is that all you ever think about? Our daughter has just confessed to
killing
someone.”

I hear Tony walking about. His fingers tap on glass. If he’s at the big window he’ll see the horses in the fields.