When my father collected me for the second time at Redruth Station he seemed so much older than he had nearly a week ago. Charlie and I had fled London the week before, and had been staying with my parents for only a few days before I realised I needed to go back to London to collect a crucial bundle of notes that I’d forgotten and that I needed to finish writing up my thesis. It hadn’t been a pleasant trip and I’d been so glad to see my father again, waiting on the platform at Redruth to meet me. But I’d swear his skin was greyer than it had been when he’d collected Charlie and me those few days earlier, and there were lines on his face that I’d never noticed before. Or maybe I just hadn’t looked at him properly, so absorbed was I in my own worries.
My mother didn’t seem too good either. Only for Charlie was she managing to keep a bright voice and smile. This hurt more than I thought it could; that she was trying so hard. But Charlie was still treating the trip as a holiday and when she was at the local school my mother spent all her time outside. In the late afternoon, once the light faded and while Charlie was watching a DVD, I caught sight of my mother at the top of the garden, surrounded by a pile of weeds, her arms hanging loosely by her side. For ten minutes she didn’t move while the shadows lengthened around her. She just stood there, staring out to sea, her shoulders folded inwards.
* * *
It was a complete surprise when the police dropped by. I was glad my father answered the door and not my mother. We were in the garden having breakfast when they rang the front doorbell. My father went inside and a few moments later fetched me in; I carried my half-empty mug of coffee with me. He led me not to the sitting room but to his study. That seemed odd. Two police officers, a women and a man, stood awkwardly in front of the desk, as if waiting for a dressing-down by the headmaster. The woman was young, barely twenty-five, and looked as if she was growing out of her uniform, while the man, who was around forty, I would guess, was holding in front of him his peaked cap with the black and white chequered band around it. He introduced himself as Sergeant Trevellyan. Both officers refused to take a seat when my father offered. Avoiding their serious faces, I glanced around the room. It was then that I noticed that the newspapers from earlier in the week were piled on top of one of the bookcases, well out of Charlie’s reach. My agitation grew and my hand began to shake. Carefully I put down my coffee mug on my father’s desk.
‘We need to speak to Mrs Hector alone,’ the taller one said when my father looked as if he was about to shut the door and make himself comfortable. The man had a gentle voice and a strong local accent. After my father had gone, he suggested I sit. Once I did so, a few seconds passed when all I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the heavy breathing of the older police officer. Through the open window I could see Charlie piling grass clippings onto an old tray, while my parents sat, talking intently, on a faded garden bench. A seagull flew overhead, its call evoking happier memories of long summers by the sea.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mrs Hector, that your husband’s been found dead in London,’ Sergeant Trevellyan said.
‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘He’s barely thirty-one and very fit. And I saw him only a few days ago.’ I’d been trying to blank out that day but now I ripped aside the frail fabric of forgetfulness and resuscitated the memory. Surely what had happened to Jeff then couldn’t have killed him. He’d been on his feet and out the front door of my building in a flash.
‘I’m afraid it’s the truth.’ The policeman’s voice had become even more soothing.
My throat felt constricted. I took a deep breath before saying, ‘Why haven’t the London police contacted me?’
‘It’s protocol. The Met called us and that’s why we’re here. It has to be done face-to-face, you see.’
There was a pause. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my inner ear. I said, ‘Where did my husband die?’
‘At the flat of a friend, apparently. Someone called Steve James.’ There was another pause before he added, ‘I understand you’re separated from your husband.’
‘I am.’
‘Did you know that he took drugs?’
I answered that I didn’t. The policeman explained that it looked as if Jeff had died from complications from a head injury that were made worse by a cocktail of drugs and drink. I guessed what this meant. That the bang on his head that he got when he fell must have been preceded by – or maybe followed up by – substance abuse.
‘The Met want you to go up to London to identify the body and you’ll be needed for an interview.’
This would be my second journey up to London this week and I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I tried to focus on the ghastliness of the train journey rather than on what I would find at the other end. The policeman gave me some procedural details about where to go and who to report to. I scribbled his instructions on a piece of blank paper that I found on my father’s desk. Having something to do with my hands was one way of concealing my anxiety. It didn’t stop the queasiness though. The coffee in the mug I’d put down earlier smelled revolting and I held my breath as I shifted it onto one of the bookshelves.
No sooner had the police officers gone than Zoë rang.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m so terribly sorry this has happened.’
I mumbled some response.
‘When are you coming up to London?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘They’ll have to interview each of us again.’
‘I know.’
‘Sally, can I see you?’
‘If you must but I saw you only a few days ago.’ My voice sounded cracked and I swallowed to clear my throat. If only my head could be so easily cleared. It felt as if were stuffed with cotton wool that was slowing down my thought processes.
‘We barely spoke that time.’ Zoë’s voice sounded too loud and I wanted her off the phone.
‘It was for long enough.’
‘Well, we both know what happened.’
‘So do the CID.’ That interview only days before had gone on and on.
‘We just don’t know what happened afterwards. Did they tell you anything?’
‘Only that he probably died of a drug overdose and a head injury. What did they tell you?’
‘Much the same.’
After replacing the receiver, I saw through the window that Charlie had filled two small plastic dishes with grass clippings, and was carrying them to her grandparents. I heard her clear voice saying, ‘This is your pretend lunch and I’m in charge.’ My mother laughed at this; the first time I’d heard her laugh for days.
She wouldn’t be too happy when she learned I had to go to London again, and why.