CELIA BARNES SITS IN THE same featureless interview room in Kentish Town Police Station with what could be the same cup of tea in front of her. She stares again at the island of bubbles turning slowly in the center of her cup, but in her mind she’s back by her father’s bed in the care home.
She remembers the nurse laying her hand gently on her shoulder, telling her he’d gone, and giving her some documents to sign, release documents for the funeral directors, she’d said. Celia remembers letting go of her father’s cold hand for what would be the last time to sign them, then sitting there while they removed his body, lifting him from the bed and onto a trolley. That was when she saw the sores on his legs and back, angry red blisters that had burst in some cases and stuck to the sheets.
They look worse than they are, the nurse had said, hastily covering them with a sheet, though she hadn’t looked her in the eye when she’d said it. Very common among the very old and bedridden.
Celia had said nothing, too shocked and emotionally wrung out from the long days and nights sitting vigil by her father’s bedside, hoping he might wake one last time so she could say a proper goodbye. And now he was dead, so what did it matter? What was the point of causing a fuss and making an already raw situation even more painful? So she had signed the papers and said nothing.
When she was growing up there had been a piece of embroidery framed above the fireplace. Her mum had made it when she was a girl. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” it said. Celia saw those words every day and thought it was like a secret message from God, telling her to keep quiet, not make a fuss, and ultimately she’d be rewarded. Only that wasn’t true, was it? The meek don’t inherit the earth, they just get pushed about by everybody else. It was a lie, the meek inherit nothing, it’s the devils who get everything. They always do.
Celia pictures the sores again, skin ulcers where her dad’s body had been in contact for so long with the sheets of the bed he died in, and all the while her sitting right next to him and meekly doing nothing about it.
. . . They look worse than they are . . . Very common . . .
But that had been a lie too, hadn’t it?
She stares at her tea, the cluster of bubbles like the center of a sunflower and reminding her of the logo on the documents she signed.
SunnySet—the company that had a policy of getting grieving relatives to sign legal disclaimers while they were still in shock to protect them from any future legal action. The same company that had still been sued by hundreds of angry relatives in a coordinated civil suit which came to nothing after some clever restructuring deal Celia didn’t really understand that meant they were left with nothing, while the owner walked away with millions in the bank and no personal liability.
SunnySet—Mike Miller’s company. The company he had built up, then sold for all the money that had paid for his golden life. She had ended up cleaning the house of the man who had squeezed the life savings out of her poor dad as he lay dying. She should have done more, made a fuss, or asked some questions, dared to be awkward for once in her life rather than meekly letting things drift by.
The door to the interview room opens and she looks up at a tall dark man and a short blond woman. She recognizes the woman from the papers. She has an odd name, like Leyton or something. The man looks like he might be Italian, and her mind flashes back to Commissario Brunetti. He introduces himself and the woman—Laughton, that was it—and asks her if she needs anything. He has very blue eyes that Celia finds it hard to meet. They sit down opposite her. The man presses the button on the bulky recording device bolted to the wall and a red light comes on. He checks the time on his phone.
“The time is ten twenty-six A.M. on Wednesday the sixteenth of September,” Tannahill says. “This is a follow-up witness statement from Mrs. Celia Barnes in relation to case number 45201/D. Present are DCI Tannahill Khan and Dr. Laughton Rees.” He looks up and smiles.
“You told PC Eades on the phone earlier that you’d remembered something, something that happened between Mr. and Mrs. Miller a few weeks ago, something you thought might be important.” He speaks slowly and softly, like he’s being careful not to startle her. “If you could tell us what you remember, take your time and give as much detail as you can.”
Celia cradles her tea with both hands and stares down at the scarred tabletop.
“Well, like I said on the phone, it was something I didn’t mention before because, well, I suppose I forgot about it. I mean, it wasn’t anything, really. It happened about a month or so ago. It was a Friday, definitely a Friday morning, and it was still warm, like at the end of summer.” She looks up. “Maybe you can look up when the last sunny Friday was so you can get a date, but I’m almost entirely sure it was in September.”
Tannahill smiles. “We’ll check. Carry on, you’re doing brilliantly.”
“Anyway, I let myself in with my key and headed for the stairs ready to start work. That’s when I heard voices, down in the basement. Angry voices.”
“Did you recognize these voices?”
Celia nods. “It was Kate and Mike. I stayed in the hallway. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, but . . . their voices were raised. I’d never heard them like that with each other before.”
“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
Celia shakes her head. “I didn’t really want to listen, truth be told. I started tidying a bit, nervous habit I suppose, and there was this envelope lying on the little table next to the stairs. It had been torn open, so I picked it up thinking it was rubbish, but there was something inside it, a scrap of an old newspaper. Then I heard someone coming up the stairs, so I put it back down, hurried over to the front door, and closed it loudly, you know, like I’d only just come in. I suppose I didn’t want them to know I’d heard them. Silly, really. I thought it might . . . embarrass them. They were always so private, and . . . well, I mean, couples argue all the time, don’t they? It’s part of married life. It’s nothing unusual. Except . . .” She shakes her head and frowns. “I should have told you before, after what happened to Kate, I don’t know why I didn’t, really. I think I was worried you might get the wrong idea about Mike, think that he was an angry or a violent person when it was just that one time. But then, all those things in the papers, about how he made his money, and those awful homes. It makes you realize . . . you don’t really know someone at all, do you?”
She looks down at the floor, tears brimming in her eyes.
“It’s OK, Mrs. Barnes,” Tannahill says gently, “we understand why you didn’t tell us before and we’re very grateful you’ve been brave enough to come forward now. It must have been very difficult for you. Just take your time, you’re being very helpful.”
Celia nods and dabs her eyes with a tissue before continuing. “Anyway, like I say, Mike came upstairs and he was all smiles when he saw me, like everything was fine, and, well, I started work, and by the time I made it back up to the ground floor the envelope was gone and I forgot all about it. But now I think it was that envelope and what was inside it that had caused the argument.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, like I say, I couldn’t hear them properly, but one thing I did hear was a name. It wasn’t a name I recognized and it didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but with everything that’s happened since I’ve realized what it was.” She pauses and stares at her untouched tea.
“Was the name O’Brien?” Tannahill prompts. “Shonagh O’Brien?”
Celia shakes her head and looks up at Laughton, the tears back in her eyes. “It was McVey. The name they kept saying was McVey, and the scrap of newspaper in that envelope was a piece of an article about what he did to your mum.”