Miss bits out in my research? The suggestion stays with me after Huhne has left. All I do is about research. As if I can’t obtain facts from a simple Google! I go to my rucksack and pull out the articles I printed. There! Plain in black and white. In two articles:
‘When DC Debbie Huhne was in uniform a family tragedy struck her. Or rather, her family – a car knocked down her husband, 36, and daughter, 7, as they were crossing the road. The driver did not stop. Both husband and daughter died in hospital.’
And another one, from the time:
‘PC’s family killed in hit and run. The seven-year-old daughter of a policewoman, as well as her husband, were knocked down by a speeding car, which did not stop when it hit them. PC Debbie Huhne has been described as a ‘rising star’ by senior officers in the Met, who have all expressed their condolences. A funeral was held yesterday. PC Huhne did not attend. A colleague said, ‘Everyone grieves in their own way. Debbie obviously thought it would be too difficult to see her family buried.’
So. She is in denial. She hasn’t grieved and thinks (or pretends to think?) they are still alive. Does she go home and cooks for them each night, and wonder why they persistently fail to come to the table? When she masturbates does she think her husband is doing it? Has she stopped turning up at the junior school gates at home time, and goes to middle school instead? Her daughter would be, what, ten, now? The perfect age for autographs. Too young to read my books, though.
DC – sorry DS – Pearce always used to go on about his wife. Does she even exist? Or did he make her up, to cement the similarity with Columbo? I wonder how Pearce’s wife would feel about the way he talks to Debbie. It’s a good job for him that Debbie’s husband is dead, or he’d be sure to permanently snuff Pearce’s cigar. He looks strong in the pictures. Strong and kind. Strange that Debbie doesn’t remind Pearce she’s married if she thinks she is. Maybe she does when I’m not there.
One thing is certain though: Debbie needs help with her grief. She needs something to make her face up to reality. Even if it’s all a ruse, a trick, her professional mode of getting personal with people, that she didn’t feel inclined to bury with them, it wouldn’t hurt to unsettle her. Maybe she even killed them herself, so she could use them without the misfortune of them existing. Must be demanding having to look after a family when you’re trying to have a career. Maybe not. I dare say it was an accident. Albeit a brutal one. Question is, what can I do brutal enough to jolt her into reality?
Pictures, maybe? Pictures featured large in book one. That was Adam’s doing. Not just pictures of queens being ejected from towers but of cars too. He was keen on cars, at the time. They hadn’t caused any sadness for him yet. He would pretend he was steering while he ran around the playground, school corridors, his home. Sometimes he would enlist me to beep as we turned corners, but more often he would just crash into whoever was coming round them.
‘Heavens above,’ Mrs Price, our form tutor, once said, as she picked up the marking Adam had sent tumbling to the ground. ‘Adam Lomax, I dread the day you get a real car!’
When he wasn’t being a car, he was drawing them. I’m not sure how accurate they were. Their main feature was that they were green. Not as in Eco friendly; as in the colour. Alien cars.
So what Debbie needs, I think, is a picture of one of these cars. Dig out Adam’s old crayon from the treasure chest – there! Now, let’s see. A car. Crumpled bonnet, check. Zoom marks next to the wheels, check. And darkened windows, check. Now the people. A couple of girl and a man (in stick form) flying up into the air, with crosses for eyes, and a bit of blood. Not bad, but maybe still not poignant enough. Give the daughter some plaits, make her look pretty – Debbie has to grieve fully for her loss. Couple of pink ribbons on the end. There. Done. Now to post it to the station for DC Huhne’s attention. That should help her grieve. Or at least, distract her from the case.
I run to the pillar box and deliver my missive into its red mouth. Chew on that, friend of Nicole. Then I run back to the house, lock and bolt the door, draw the curtains in my bedroom, and take book three out of the treasure box, while putting Ally’s keys in. I stroke book three. I would love to read it, pleasure in it, remind myself of past successes. But I must prioritise. I suspect my time to achieve Luke’s fulfilment may be limited. I have a few hours until my meeting with Luke’s lawyer. Time to check out the house for sale in Adam’s street.