A Question of Despair

Sarah stared at her reflection. She was in the bathroom supposedly getting ready for bed and sleep she suspected wouldn’t come. Examining her face closely, she was surprised it showed no sign of stress, no inner turmoil. Surely no one witnessing that pitiful scene could remain untouched? The scarring, she knew, was mental not physical. Lifting her arms, she released the long blonde hair from its tight bun. The tension was still in her neck, she circled her head slowly two or three times.

Again, she studied her reflection: the eyes appeared less tired than before, the skin smooth, unblemished. Like Evie’s. The flashback was involuntary. Sarah clutched the sink. The support wasn’t enough.

What’s wrong with me? She was accustomed to being alone, an only child, both parents dead, few friends outside the firm. But this urge for some sort of human contact was overwhelming. She needed to talk, needed someone to hold her, needed someone to make it better. Chiding herself for the weakness she recognized too, how real the need was. Apart from the unprecedented vomiting earlier, she’d maintained her usual cool professional composure throughout, even when telling Karen her baby was dead. She’d offered the girl a little comfort, now she ached for it herself.

‘We’ve found her, Adam.’ Barely a pause. He knew. Lying on the couch now she gazed through the window, a stiff scotch in the other hand.

‘We’re waiting on the post-mortem, but the early signs point to asphyxiation.’ She mentioned the petechial haemorrhaging then: ‘I saw her, Adam.’ She closed her eyes, still saw her, lying in that rank almost final resting place. ‘There wasn’t a mark on her body.’ She heard rustling. Was he loosening a tie? Shifting position in bed?

‘She’s at home. I was there earlier. Family liaison’s with her now. A uniform posted outside.’ She took a sip, rolled the spirit round her mouth. ‘You know, it’s strange, Adam . . .’ The thought was taking shape even as she voiced it. ‘Karen’s been convinced from the start Evie was dead. Telling her tonight, it was as if she knew, like we were merely confirming it.’

‘She couldn’t have, could she?’ Because if she had . . . The notion needed thinking through but not now. Changing the subject she told him about her uninvited guest, his unwanted gift. Deliberately made light of it.

‘Sure.’ Agreement was easier than arguing. He’d only fuss. As it happened, the forensic team had left details of an approved locksmith. Their note also said the apartment was clean. They meant forensically, given her aversion to all things domestic.

‘You say there was barely a mark on the baby’s body?’ He’d obviously been mulling it over. Something in his tone made her sit up mentally.

‘I’m no expert . . .’ No, but as a lawyer he specialized in child cases. ‘But I do know asphyxiation can be difficult to detect and more important from your point of view to prove.’

‘I’m talking homicidal smothering.’ She took a few more sips, listening. He told her suffocating someone usually left corroborative medical evidence: bruising, bleeding, lacerations, even finger or nail marks. ‘But if a pillow or cushion’s applied skilfully enough it won’t necessarily leave any signs of violence.’

‘The petechiae on its own doesn’t prove she was murdered. It can be present in other causes. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome for instance. She could have died naturally, even accidentally.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, lady. I’m just saying . . .’ She heard a sigh. ‘A good defence lawyer could argue death wasn’t deliberate.’