‘Can you tell us, in your own time, what occured on the day of your “accident”?’ she asks. She adds a strange weight to the word accident that ignites a niggle inside.
‘I don’t remember much,’ I reply as the male officer scribbles on a notepad. ‘I remember Jack and I were talking and then we were hit and I remember seeing the wall and lamppost coming towards me. And then I was talking to a fireman. That’s it.’
‘And what was your husband doing at the time you were hit?’ she asks.
‘Apart from driving the car?’ I sound facetious, but I don’t really understand the point of the question.
‘Was he driving erratically, too fast? That sort of thing.’
I close my eyes, try to remember what was happening before that moment. I open my eyes. ‘We were talking, and then the car hit us.’
‘Talking, not arguing?’ she asks.
‘If we were arguing, I would have said we were arguing.’
She looks pointedly at Jack. ‘As we both know, it’s not always easy to say what we mean if we feel under pressure.’
‘I don’t feel under pressure, and Jack and I don’t really argue,’ I reply. Which is true. We generally don’t have anything to argue about – our main bone of contention is Eve and we simply don’t talk about her, and if we try we end up not talking at all.
‘Not at all?’ The police officer, Detective Sergeant Morgan, asks.
‘No, not really. We don’t have anything to argue about.’
She nods sceptically and makes a note in her notebook for the first time. She’s trying to talk to me woman-to-woman, but it’s not working because I get the impression she does not like women. Or men, for that matter. But there’s something unconventional in all of this. My eyes go to Jack, to the way his rigid body language and unblinking glare are directed at her, and then my eyes go back to the policewoman. Jack and Detective Sergeant Morgan know each other. How though? She doesn’t look like the sort of person whom Jack would have had enough of a connection with to seduce, but then things might have been different when they met. There might have been a spark between them.
I reassess her, now that she might have slept with my husband. She doesn’t make the most of herself. She’s done her make-up all wrong: that brown lipstick does not go with her natural colouring. If I was talking to her, I’d advise her to go for a foundation a little less orange-beige and little more bluey-pink in undertone. On her lips I’d advise a stronger red lipstick – not bright red, but maybe burgundy red, then on her eyes with one coat of black mascara during the day, and two coats in the evening. Her current make-up job makes her seem mean. But then maybe I am being generous – maybe it isn’t the make-up, maybe she looks mean because she is mean. Jack wouldn’t have slept with her, I decide. She’s far too unpleasant a person. So why does she have an axe to grind with him? Because she clearly has one.
‘What were you talking about before the crash?’ she asks.
‘About what it was like when Jack and I first met. I think I was saying that he wasn’t irresistible to all women, thankfully, and he was asking me why thankfully, and as I was about to reply we got hit.’
‘So he’d asked you a question? Did he look at you while asking it?’
‘Not that I remember,’ I reply.
Like a hungry dog thrown a bone, she leaps on this statement like the piece of evidence that she’s been waiting for: ‘Are you saying you’re not sure if his eyes were on the road when the accident occurred?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand the point of these questions,’ I say to her, redoing her make-up as I stare at her. Maybe she’s doing the same to me, maybe she’s visually removing my scar and putting hair on my head. ‘Wasn’t it the other driver who was breaking the law by being on his mobile phone and trying to turn out onto a busy road without concentrating? I was looking in the direction the car came from and I didn’t see it, how would Jack? And if he did, what would he have been able to do?’
Detective Sergeant Morgan’s plain brown eyes stare at me as if I have sworn at her. Then she starts calculating how to get to me, how to upset me. The axe that needs grinding has clearly been extended to me.
‘Maybe we should move on,’ she says, diplomatically. ‘What do you know about the death of the first Mrs Britcham?’
I draw back inside, wondering where this has come from. Is this how she plans to get at me? To accuse me in the death of Eve?
‘Nothing,’ I reply, quickly, in case she takes any hesitancy as me trying to conjure up an alibi. ‘Nothing at all. Why, do you think I had something to do with her death? Because I didn’t know her and I didn’t know Jack at the time.’
‘But you did know that the airbag was faulty in your husband’s car, didn’t you?’
A sickness is starting to whirl around my stomach. What is going on? ‘Is that illegal?’ I ask. ‘Should I have not got into a car that I knew had a faulty airbag? Am I going to get arrested for that?’
‘No, no, I’m not saying that at all.’
‘Then what are you saying?’ I ask.
She throws a look in Jack’s direction, obviously wishing he wasn’t there. This is all too much. I’ve had enough already of people talking to the right side of me, of them avoiding my scar with their looks and their conversations, of them avoiding my hairlessness in the same way. I don’t need it from a random stranger who is trying to blame me for something I couldn’t have stopped.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I ask her, and before she can answer, I continue, ‘Why are you asking me these questions? What has Eve got to do with anything? For that matter, what has our conversation before the crash got to do with it? The other man went into us. I want to know why you’re being like this.’
Detective Sergeant Morgan sighs, a bit too dramatically for someone as unemotional as she is. ‘Mrs Britcham, I don’t like doing this kind of thing,’ she says, when she clearly does, ‘but I have to investigate when a second person close to a murder suspect is hurt in suspicious circumstances. And I’m sorry to point this out, but your husband nearly killed you.’
My heart grows cold. ‘Did he?’ I’m alarmed and it shows. ‘When?’
I’m wracking my memories, trying to work out when he tried to do that. I look at Jack, who is glaring at her like he did before. If he did try to kill me, then he’s being very languid about it.
‘With the crash,’ Ms Morgan replies.
I frown at her. ‘But someone went into us.’
‘I know,’ another of her dramatic sighs, ‘but you were most hurt because your airbag didn’t deploy.’ Oh, that’s who she is. She’s the police officer who questioned him when Eve died. She must be.
‘So you think Jack was driving around hoping someone would crash into us and I’d be killed when the airbag didn’t work?’ I ask, trying not to sound patronising. ‘Really?’
‘It’s just as plausible as asking us to believe that Eve Britcham died from simply falling down the stairs.’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, because I do not know what to say.
The silence in the room stretches and stretches, and I’m supposed to end it, I think. But I’m not inclined to do so. What am I to say to this half-baked accusation and unnecessary line of questioning?
‘I’m sorry I had to put that thought in your head,’ Detective Sergeant Morgan says.
‘No, you’re not,’ I reply quietly. ‘You want me to be upset; you want me to be suspicious of Jack. What I don’t understand is why.’
‘I don’t want you to be suspicious of Mr Britcham, I simply want you to know what you’re dealing with. There is a reason why we haven’t closed the case on the death of Eve Britcham and why the coroner recorded an open verdict.’
‘And there’s a reason why you had to release him without charge,’ I reply.
‘It’s not that simple, Mrs Britcham. When we were investigating the background of Eve Britcham, or Eve Quennox as she was known before her marriage, we came across a lot of information that made u
s suspicious of Mr Britcham. Let me put it this way: if my husband found out some of those things about me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he snapped my neck and threw me down the stairs to hide it.’
My gaze shifts to Jack, and my stomach flips to find he is no longer glaring at Detective Sergeant Morgan with all the resentment he must feel towards her – instead he is staring at the ground, his arms folded tightly across his body, his hair falling forwards, his body language like a weeping willow, reaching towards the ground for comfort and relief. He’s not angry; he’s holding himself together. He is trying not to crumble.
‘Things like what?’ I ask, returning my focus to her. I hate that she’s got my attention, and that Jack seems to be falling apart at this. What has she said that would do this to him?
‘That’s not for me to tell you,’ she replies, satisfied now that she has finally managed to needle me and awaken my curiosity. Because both of those things lead to being suspicious of Jack, which is clearly what she wanted all along. ‘I just want you to be careful. I’d hate for you to have another accident.’
If I had another ‘accident’ – preferably a fatal one – she’d be on cloud nine. She’d be right there waiting for me to be declared dead so she could slap handcuffs on Jack. She is more than a mean person – she is nasty, conniving and cruel. I curl my lips into my mouth to stop myself from telling her what I think of her. And from telling her that if I didn’t know for a fact that Jack didn’t kill Eve then she could easily have destroyed me with what she has done today.
‘Can you leave now, please?’ I ask Detective Sergeant Morgan.
‘Of course,’ she says, solicitously, clearly happy that she’s got to me.
‘I have to put cream on my wounds and take my painkillers,’ I add. ‘That’s what I have to do now. I’d show you out, but I find walking really difficult as my left leg was very badly bruised, as were a lot of my internal organs. The doctor who took the stitches out of my head said I should try to avoid stress or upset, so you’ll understand why I’m not that keen on thinking about having another accident.’ Ms Morgan swallows and I can see a tiny flash of guilt in her eye. Her unnamed companion eyes her up with distaste, obviously not impressed with her timing, either. ‘But it’s OK, now that you’ve done your best to put the idea into my head that my husband’s probably a killer, and told me you’d hate for me to be hurt – or possibly even killed – I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m sure this won’t set back my recovery at all.’
She says nothing as she leaves, but the policeman gives me a sad smile and I know that he doesn’t agree with what she has done, nor does he believe Jack is a killer.
Jack doesn’t move until we’ve heard the door click shut behind them. Then, when he is certain we are alone, he raises his gaze to me and our eyes slot together. The smell of burning rubber, the lift of the car, the sound of crunching metal swell around me and I feel all my internal organs contract painfully in response. I force the memories away, but our wary gazes stay linked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack says, tiredly. ‘I should have stopped her.’
‘I don’t think anything could have stopped her,’ I reply.
‘She just has this ability to make me feel …’
‘Guilty?’
He nods. ‘Even though I didn’t do it,’ he says. ‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It never occurred to me that you did. I know you couldn’t.’
I want to ask about the rest of it. About what it was in Eve’s past that could possibly have led to them thinking he did, what it was about what she said about Eve that took him from being angry and indignant to being scared and shaken. But I can’t. That is an Eve conversation. And, of all the Eve conversations we are never going to have, this is probably the least likely of them all to happen.
‘Can you get me my painkillers, please?’ I ask him.
‘Of course,’ he says, standing up. ‘Of course.’
Once I am alone in the living room, I close my eyes. It’s easy to get the image I have of her up in my mind, to see that smile, that sparkle in her eyes and that pink dress.
What secrets did you have, Eve? And should I try to find out about them?
chapter seven
libby
‘You know how it is, Sis,’ says Caleb, my brother, throwing his hands wide while his face is the picture of ‘this is bigger than all of us’. He does and says that far more than any adult should. Despite how he behaves, he is an adult – with a son. And now, apparently, a dog.
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t. I can promise you, I really don’t.’
I’m pretty sure most people wouldn’t understand how you could blithely pull up outside someone’s house with a dog and ask them to take care of it for you because in the rush to prepare for a holiday you booked six months ago you forgot to make arrangements for the dog. They’re en route to the airport, by the way.
Who does this to two healthy people, let alone one who is recovering from a car crash? Oh yes, that’s right, my brother.
‘Ah but, Sis—’
‘I’ll give you “Sis”,’ I say to him. ‘Why are you taking advantage of our good nature?’
‘I’m not,’ he protests, genuinely horrified that is what I think he is doing. ‘There’s no one around to look after the dog. Benji wouldn’t let me leave him with anyone, and you know how much he trusts you, so what am I supposed to do? Leave the dog on his own?’
‘You could have simply picked up the phone to call and ask me in advance. You do know how to use a phone, don’t you?’
The words have no sooner left my mouth when my brother’s phone starts to ring. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and removes it, peering at the screen. ‘I’ve got to take this,’ he says and immediately pushes a button and puts the phone to his ear. ‘Yeah?’ he says, his tone dripping with honey.
He is tall, my younger brother, and good looking, and a charmer on so many levels.
‘Uh-uh,’ he says into the phone, as he paces the floor of my kitchen. I look out of the window into the small patch of garden that this house has. Jack is playing with Benji and the dog, Butch. It’s cute, a brown fluffy ball with black patches and a small, narrow face that looks like it is constantly trying to make sense of what you’re saying while keeping inside all the secrets it is has learnt from its time on Earth. It’s not the dog I object to, it’s the lack of warning – actually, the outright deceit. I have spoken to my brother at least three times in the last few days, and he has not at any point mentioned the dog. I should have known that there was something odd about the fact he only called when Benji was asleep. Because Benji would have told me.
I look over at Caleb as he uh-uhs into the phone.
Moving stiffly, because it is still difficult to walk with the pulling sensation and with pain sparkling at my nerve endings, I go to him and snatch the mobile out of his hands, put it to my ear. A woman is talking.
‘Love, he’s not worth it,’ I say to her and hang up before slapping the small, silver rectangle back into the palm of his hand.
‘Libby!’ he almost roars. ‘That was my bank manager!’
‘Really? So why’s she calling you on a Saturday? Not enough days in the working week to talk to you?’
His glower is one that would be guilt-inducing had I not known him all my life. He is a laugh, and I do adore him, but he is known for taking the Michael. His glower slides seamlessly and effortlessly into a sulk. Anyone looking at us now would think he was a teenager being told off by his mother. But he is a father. I often think he forgets that. He loves Benji and is responsible when he has to be, but I think the thought of what he has to do all the time scares him, so he decides to check out and leave it up to our parents or me to sort out. I mean a dog, really!
‘Caleb, you’ve not really been fair on us, have you?’ I say. ‘What would you do if I turned around now and said we can’t look after him? That we’re off on holiday ourselves?’
He looks alarmed. ‘You
’re not, are you?’ he asks, then doesn’t wait for an answer before saying, ‘Nah, course you’re not. You wouldn’t be going nowhere with your hair like that.’
Automatically, I raise my right hand, run it over the smooth curves and bumps of my scalp, avoiding the scar. He hadn’t seemed to notice when he pulled up and came into the house. Benji’s eyes, however, had widened and he’d said, ‘Wow!’ with a massive smile on his face. ‘You’re soooo cool Auntie Libby.’ Then he’d rushed around to the back seat of the car to get the dog out.
Caleb’s phone starts to ring again, this time the one in his inside jacket pocket. Of course my brother has more than one phone; I’m pretty sure he has more than one name when dealing with the various women ‘friends’ he has. At least with Jack, I always knew that he used his real name with every woman he slept with. Caleb reaches for his phone.
‘If you answer that phone, I will not only chuck it down the toilet, I will pack up your dog and send you all on your merry way. Do you get me?’
He hesitates, not sure if I mean it. He studies my expression for a few seconds, and comes to the conclusion that I mean it.
‘Ah, Sis, you know what it’s like,’ he says again, ignoring his phone to pull out a chair and sit down heavily. ‘Benji’s wanted a dog from time. The boy ain’t got no mother. How can I say no to him?’
‘I don’t care about the dog,’ I say. ‘It’s the not telling me part that I object to. You constantly make decisions that involve me and then expect me to go along with them. How is that fair?’
‘Sorry, Sis,’ he mumbles, as if he means it. On one level he does; on most other levels he is only saying that to get the bollocking over that bit quicker.
‘Jack has to go back to work on Monday, and I can’t look after a dog – I can barely walk across the room, let alone take him out for walks twice a day. How are we supposed to do this without any advance warning?’
‘Sorry, Sis.’