More flowers than mourners at Caroline’s funeral and even these are thin on the ground. Joanna grips Mike’s hand and tries to hold it together as she stares at the pale wood coffin. Unable to join in with the feeble warbling of ‘Abide With Me’ – her sister’s favourite hymn – she hears a sweet and strong soprano from somewhere at the back take the lead. She is grateful for it; grateful things at least go without a hitch. She doesn’t flinch once during the service. Not when the Reverend Hugh Mumford fluffs the lines she wrote for him and needs a glug of water from the bottle by his elbow, or when the coffin slides behind the curtain and disappears forever.
Some of her father’s relatives are here. Huddling together at the back of the east London crematorium, clutching wreaths they don’t know what to do with. Dressed in black, they’re like the scavenging crows that crowd the bins in the park on sunny afternoons. Barely recognising them, Joanna has nothing to say and refuses their frosty sympathies, their automatic shoulder squeezes. She recalls their ineptitude, and worse, their condemnation at her mother’s failed suicide attempt when she and Caroline were small. Every member of her family, apart from Great-Aunt Dora, turned their backs on them, reluctant to sully their sanitised lives with their troubles. Joanna can’t forgive them, not that they’ve asked for forgiveness, and having them within her sights makes her skin shrink inside her clothes.
She hasn’t the faintest idea how they got to hear about Caroline. Yes, she supposes – even though she’s been avoiding the newspapers – her sister’s violent death would undoubtedly have been reported, but she and Mike haven’t told a soul. Her colleagues at the Royal College of Music haven’t been informed yet, so even if they had read about Caroline’s death in the papers they wouldn’t know she was Joanna’s sister. But this is how bad news travels – it was the same when their mother died two years ago – because not one of her father’s lot congratulates Joanna on her sell-out performances at the Wigmore Hall last month. Not one of them seems to have caught that.
She can’t help but be embarrassed by the lack of numbers, the lack of occasion; sitting with Mike in an otherwise empty row at the front of the chapel of rest, Joanna’s thankful the boys aren’t here to see it. The place provides no more reverence than a village hall, with its pine-clad walls and high glass ceiling. And afterwards, chivvied along by a team of obsequious undertakers, they are ushered out under a stone-hard sky in time to see another cortege move up the long avenue of gravestones. Like a bloody death factory, she thinks, her mind whirling as she watches funeral cars disgorge themselves of mourners who, whiplashed by the tails of their coats, stand shivering in the December wind, waiting their turn.
‘Joanna.’
A voice beside her: timid, hesitant, breaking her mood. She turns to a tall, stylish, white-haired woman, her dark wool coat buttoned to the neck.
‘No – it can’t be?’ Joanna clamps a sodden tissue to her mouth in disbelief.
As slender and upright as ever, Mrs Hooper has barely changed. Impossible to think – Joanna does a swift calculation of the years to have fallen between – Lillian Hooper must be at least eighty.
‘How lovely to see you.’ Mike gives Mrs Hooper a kiss.
‘Are you coping all right?’ Mrs Hooper enquires and Joanna sees again her kind, knowing eyes. ‘Such a terrible thing to happen, I’m so very sorry about Carrie.’
‘It’s so good to see you.’ Joanna presses her lips to Mrs Hooper’s powdered cheek. They stay like this for a long time, Joanna’s gratitude crackling like static into Mrs Hooper’s hair, its scent of lily-of-the-valley opening the door on to that childhood summer in Witchwood. The two of them singing and playing the piano together, before everything was blighted and a blackness descended on the village.
‘It’s amazing to see you,’ Joanna reiterates when they finally pull apart. ‘I can’t believe you’re here – how many years has it been?’ Trembling against the cold, she finds a dry corner of tissue and dabs her nose.
‘Ten. Dora’s funeral.’ Mike does the maths.
‘Well remembered … and what a fraught day that was.’ Mrs Hooper digs Joanna a fresh tissue from her bag.
‘That was the last time I saw Carrie,’ Joanna says. And fearing she will cry again, focuses on the impossible shine on Mrs Hooper’s patent-leather shoes. ‘Are you still living in Witchwood?’
‘Yes, still there.’ A small smile.
‘However did you manage the journey?’ Mike poses the question Joanna was about to ask, the pair of them noticing that as well as a matching patent-leather handbag, Mrs Hooper is also armed with a stick.
‘I’m staying with my sister in Wandsworth – she invites me now and again.’
‘And how did you hear about Carrie?’ Joanna sniffs, plucks a Labrador hair off Mike’s coat.
‘Oh, that was Gordon – one of the rare occasions he actually telephoned me.’
How did he find out, Joanna wonders, did he read it in the papers too? ‘Is Gordon here?’ is all she asks, spinning to look for him.
‘No. He couldn’t make it. He sends his condolences.’
Joanna dips her head, thinks again how little Mrs Hooper has aged; aside from her snow-white hair she’s exactly the same.
‘He sent flowers.’
‘Yes, it was a big surprise to see them. Please thank him for us.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to see you,’ Mrs Hooper says. ‘He’s quite the devoted fan. You won’t know it, Jo, but he’s been following your career from the off. Buys all your CDs.’
‘That’s so sweet.’ Joanna blushes without knowing why. ‘How is he, is he still in Italy?’
‘Oh, no. He retired. Couple of years ago. He lives in London now. Not that it means I get to see him any more frequently.’
‘Has he got a family, kids?’ Mike asks.
‘No, dear. There was someone special once. A lifetime ago. But she was already married. I’m not entirely sure he ever got over her,’ Mrs Hooper says forlornly. Then, eyes brightening, an idea forming, ‘Why don’t you bring your boys to Witchwood? Gordon might actually come and visit me if he knew you were going to be there. You could stay at Pillowell – it’s yours now, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Joanna shifts her gaze to her husband.
‘Yeah, the cottage must be in a hell of a state by now.’ Mike, keen to put obstacles in the way, is fully aware of his wife’s reluctance to return to Witchwood, and the nightmares she still suffers from because of what she experienced there. ‘Jo said it was a bit of a wreck back then and I doubt Carrie’s bothered with it.’
‘No, I don’t think she did. Dora was silly; it would have made much more sense for her to leave the cottage to you two after Carrie’d been given the London flat. Anyway, don’t let that put you off, I don’t think it’s too bad. Tilly Petley keeps an eye, puts the heating on, that sort of thing, and Frank does the garden, any urgent maintenance – Dora fixed it up with them years back. They’re still being paid out of her estate so far as I know, along with any utility bills. You remember the Petleys, Jo? They ran the shop. Still do.’ Joanna nods that she does. ‘With a bit of love, Pillowell would make a wonderful retreat. To be honest, it’s all Witchwood is these days – holiday homes for those rich enough. Place is dead come winter. The heart’s been sucked right out of it. Although –’ Mrs Hooper stares off into the middle distance – ‘we all know any heart that village had was snuffed out the summer you and Carrie came to stay with Dora.’
They fall into a reflective silence, their contemplations oscillating through the surprising birdsong.
‘I’m sorry, love.’ Mike, touching Joanna’s hand, is the first to speak. ‘I didn’t realise how late it was.’ He consults his wristwatch. ‘I’d better get back to work, we’ve got the Geneva lot coming in this afternoon.’
‘Oh, yes, your presentation. You get off,’ Joanna assures him. ‘Good luck with it all. I’ll see you at home later.’
‘Lovely to see you, I hope we can get together again soon.’ With another kiss for Mrs Hooper and a quick embrace with his wife, Mike strides away.
‘You’ve got a good man there.’
‘I have.’ Joanna smiles. ‘He’s a darling, and such a great father. I’m really very lucky.’
‘It was a lovely service, you know,’ Mrs Hooper says automatically.
‘You think? Dire organist.’
Mrs Hooper agrees and they titter into their necks like a pair of schoolgirls, forgetting for a moment why they are here, who it is they are missing.
‘Shame you couldn’t have played?’ Joanna says.
‘Me? Oh no, dear. With these?’ Mrs Hooper splays her hands to show the nobbled knuckles of arthritis. ‘It’s only for my own entertainment nowadays.’
‘A shocking thing.’ A pink-faced man in a button-popping cardigan of black and white diamonds zooms into their conversation. ‘You have my deepest condolences.’
‘Oh.’ Joanna flings her head to him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Hi. I’m Jeffrey … Jeffrey Morris.’ The man dressed as Punchinello extends a hand. ‘I worked with Miss Jameson … Caroline … at the Animal Rescue Centre. Your sister was one of our volunteers.’
‘Oh, right.’ Joanna shakes the slightly damp palm. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I’ve been following the story in the papers.’ Punchinello looks at her through lowered lids. ‘I heard they arrested the man that did it.’
‘And promptly released him again,’ Joanna explains tersely, her civility wearing ghost-thin. ‘The shop had CCTV and there were witnesses – the guy did nothing wrong.’
‘Nothing wrong ?’ Jeffrey pulls a preposterous spotted handkerchief from his pocket. ‘But he killed her.’
‘No. Really. That’s not what happened … not what happened at all. The poor guy was just defending himself. It was Carrie who attacked him, and in doing so she somehow stabbed herself.’ Joanna turns away to hide her tears.
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Punchinello, embarrassed, buries his nose in his handkerchief. ‘I’m ever so sorry, it really is a terrible thing, but please,’ he adds, before shuffling away, ‘do come and see us. We’re just off Birdcage Walk, St James’s. Your sister was a hugely valued member of the team, and … and, of course, there’s things she left in her locker you might like to have.’
‘There, there.’ Mrs Hooper rubs Joanna’s arm when Jeffrey Morris ambles away.
‘What the hell was she doing carrying a knife?’ Joanna sobs. ‘None of it makes sense and the police haven’t got any answers. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this.’ Her expression determined. ‘Mike’s not keen but I’m going to Bayswater next week to sort out the flat – thought I could do some digging around then.’
‘Digging around ,’ Mrs Hooper echoes. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Because I want to find out what was going on,’ Joanna tells her. ‘Carrie was obviously frightened of something … someone . Why else would she have armed herself?’
‘Promise me you’ll be careful,’ Mrs Hooper warns, passing Joanna another Kleenex.
‘You’re as bad as Mike.’ Joanna blows her nose.
‘I’m serious, Jo.’ And Mrs Hooper looks it. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve no idea what Carrie was mixed up in.’ She puts an arm around Joanna’s middle to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘Fancy getting a cup of tea somewhere? Get warmed up?’
Joanna, at the end of her reserves, sways her response.
‘Come on, then, I know a nice little place just a short taxi ride away.’