9

Detective Inspector Veronica Cray emerges from a barn wearing baggy jeans tucked into Wellingtons and a man’s shirt with button-up pockets that sit almost horizontally upon her breasts.

‘You caught me shovelling shit,’ she says, leaning into the heavy door, which swings inwards on rusty hinges. She drops a plank into the bracket. I hear horses shifting in their stalls. Smell them.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘So you wanted that drink after all,’ she says, wiping her hands on her hips. ‘Perfect day for it. My day off.’

She spies Darcy in the passenger seat of my car and Emma playing with the steering wheel.

‘You brought the family.’

‘The little girl is mine.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Is Christine Wheeler’s daughter.’

The DI has spun to face me.

‘You went looking for the daughter?’

‘She found me.’

Suspicion has replaced some of her warmth and affability.

‘What in glory’s name are you doing, Professor?’

‘Christine Wheeler didn’t commit suicide.’

‘With all due respect, I think we both should leave that to the coroner.’

‘You saw her- she was terrified.’

‘Of dying?’

‘Of falling.’

‘She was perched on the edge of a bridge, for God’s sake.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’

I glance at Darcy who looks tired and apprehensive. She should be back at school or being looked after by her family. Does she have any family?

The detective sucks in a breath. Her entire chest expands and then she sighs. She strides towards the car and crouches next to the open driver’s door, addressing Emma.

‘Are you a fairy?’

Emma shakes her head.

‘A princess?’

Another shake.

‘Then you must be an angel. I’m pleased to meet you. I don’t meet many angels in my line of work.’

‘Are you a man or a woman?’ asks Emma.

The DI laughs.

‘I’m all woman, honey. One hundred per cent.’

She glances at Darcy. ‘I’m very sorry about your mother. Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Believe me,’ she says softly.

‘Normally, I’m a true believer in most things but maybe you got to convince me of this. Let’s get you somewhere warmer.’

I have to duck my head as I go through the door. DI Cray kicks off her Wellingtons. Rectangles of mud fall from between the treads.

She turns away from me and begins making her way along the hall.

‘I’m going to take a shower, Professor. You put these girls in front of the fire. I got six different sorts of hot chocolate and I’m in the mood to share.’

Darcy and Emma haven’t said a word since leaving the car. Veronica Cray can render someone speechless. She’s unavoidable. Immovable. Like a rocky outcrop in a force ten gale.

I can hear the shower running. I put a kettle on the Aga stove and search through the pantry. Darcy has found a cartoon for Emma to watch on TV. I haven’t fed her anything since breakfast except for biscuits and a banana.

I notice a calendar pinned to a corkboard. It is dotted with scribbled reminders of feed suppliers, farriers and horse sales. There are bills to be paid and reminder notes. Wandering into the dining room, I look for signs of a partner. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and more on the fridge of a young dark-haired man, a son perhaps.

I don’t normally, knowingly search so openly for clues about a person but Veronica Cray fascinates me. It’s as though she’s fought a lifelong battle to be accepted for who she is. And now she’s comfortable with her body, her sexuality and her life.

The bathroom door opens and she emerges, wrapped in a huge towel knotted between her breasts. She has to step around me. We both move the same way and back again. I apologise and flatten myself against the wall.

‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’m inflatable. Normally I’m size ten.’

She laughs. I’m the only person embarrassed.

The bedroom door closes. Ten minutes later she emerges in the kitchen wearing a pressed shirt and trousers. Her spiky hair is beaded with water.

‘You breed horses.’

‘I save old showjumpers from the knacker’s yard.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘Find them homes.’

‘My daughter Charlie wants a horse.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Twelve.’

‘I can get her one.’

The girls are drinking chocolate. DI Cray offers me something stronger, but I’m not supposed to drink any more because it affects my medication. I settle instead for coffee.

‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’ she says, concerned rather than angry. ‘That poor girl’s mother is dead and you’re dragging her around the countryside on some fool’s errand.’

‘She found me. She ran away from school.’

‘And you should have sent her straight back there.’

‘What if she’s right?’

‘She’s not.’

‘I’ve been to Christine Wheeler’s house. I’ve talked to her business partner.’

‘And?’

‘She was having money problems, but nothing else suggests a woman on the verge of a breakdown.’

‘Suicide is an impulsive act.’

‘Yes, but people still choose a method that suits them, normally something they perceive as being quick and painless.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘They don’t jump off a bridge if they’re afraid of heights.’

‘But we both saw her jump.’

‘Yes.’

‘So your argument doesn’t make sense. Nobody pushed her. You were nearest. Did you see anyone? Or you think she was murdered by remote control. Hypnotism? Mind control?’

‘She didn’t want to jump. She was resigned to it. She took off her clothes and put on a raincoat. She walked out of the house without deadlocking the door. She didn’t leave a suicide note. She didn’t tidy up her affairs or give away her possessions. None of her behaviour was typical of a woman contemplating suicide. A woman who is scared of heights doesn’t choose to jump off a bridge. She doesn’t do it naked. She doesn’t scrawl insults on her skin. Women of her age are body conscious. They wear clothes that flatter. They care about their appearance.’

‘You’re making excuses, Professor. The lady jumped.’

‘She was talking to someone on the phone. They could have said something to her.’

‘Perhaps they gave her bad news: a death in the family or a bad diagnosis. For all you know she had an argument with a boyfriend who dumped her.’

‘She didn’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Did the daughter tell you that?’

‘Why hasn’t the person on the phone come forward? If a woman threatens to jump off a bridge, surely you call the police or an ambulance.’

‘He’s probably married and doesn’t want to get involved.’ I’m not convincing her. I have a theory and no solid evidence to support it. Theories achieve the permanence of facts by persisting and acquiring an incremental significance. So do fallacies. It doesn’t make them true.

Veronica Cray is staring at my left arm which has begun to twitch, sending a shudder through my shoulder. I hold it still.

‘What makes you think Mrs Wheeler was afraid of heights?’

‘Darcy told me.’

‘And you believe her- a teenage girl who’s in shock; who’s grieving; who can’t understand how the most important person in her life could abandon her…’

‘Did the police search her car?’

‘It was recovered.’

That’s not the same thing. She knows it.

‘Where is the car now?’ I ask.

‘In the police lock-up.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘No.’

She doesn’t know where I’m going with this, but whatever happens I’m creating more work for the police. I’m questioning the official investigation.

‘This isn’t my case, Professor. I’ve got real crimes to solve. This was a suicide. Death by gravity. We both saw it happen. Suicides aren’t supposed to make sense because they’re pointless. I tell you something else, most people don’t leave a note. They just snap and leave everyone wondering.’

‘She showed no signs-’

‘Let me finish,’ she barks, making it sound like an order. Embarrassment prickles beneath my skin.

‘Look at you, Professor. You got an illness. Do you wake up every day thinking, Wow, isn’t it great to be alive? Or some days do you look at those shaking limbs and contemplate what lies ahead and, just for a moment, a fleeting second, consider a way out?’

She leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling. ‘We all do.

We carry our past with us- the mistakes, the sadness. You say Christine Wheeler was an optimist. She loved her daughter. She loved her job. But you don’t really know her. Maybe it was something about the weddings that got to her. All those fairytales. The white dresses and flowers; the exchanging of vows. Maybe they reminded her of her own wedding and how it didn’t match up to the fantasy. Her husband walked out. She raised a child alone. I don’t know. No one does.’

The DI rocks her head from side to side, stretching her neck muscles. She isn’t finished.

‘You’re feeling guilty, I understand that. You think you should have saved her, but what happened on the bridge wasn’t your fault. You did what you could. People appreciate that. But now you’re making a bad situation worse. Take Darcy back to school. Go home. It’s not your concern any more.’

‘What if I told you I heard something,’ I say.

She pauses, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘On the bridge when I was trying to talk to Christine Wheeler, I thought I heard something being said to her- over the mobile.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘A word.’

‘What?’

‘Jump!’

I watch the subtle change in the detective, a little shrinking created by a single word. She glances at her large square hands and back to me, meeting my eyes without embarrassment. This is not a case she wants to carry forward.

‘You think you heard it?’

‘Yes.’

Her uncertainty is transient. Already she has rationalised the possible outcomes and weighed only the downside.

‘Well, I think you should tell that to the coroner. I’m sure he’ll be pleased as punch to hear it. Who knows- maybe you’ll convince him, but I seriously doubt it. I don’t care if God himself was on the other end of that phone, you can’t make someone jump- not like that.’

On-coming headlights sweep over the inside of the car and pass into darkness.

Darcy lifts her eyes to the windscreen.

‘That detective isn’t going to help, is she?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re giving up.’

‘What do you expect me to do, Darcy? I’m not a policeman. I can’t make them investigate.’

She turns her face away. Her shoulders rise as though protecting her ears from hearing any more. We drive in silence for another mile.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m taking you back to school.’

‘No!’

The aggression in her voice surprises me. Emma flinches and looks at us from the back seat of the car.

‘I’m not going back.’

‘Listen, Darcy, I know you’re very sure of yourself, but I don’t think you fully realise what’s happened. Your mother isn’t coming back. And you don’t suddenly become an adult simply because she’s not here.’

‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions.’

‘You can’t go home- not alone.’

‘I’ll stay in a hotel.’

‘And how will you pay for that?’

‘I have money.’

‘You must have other family.’

She shakes her head.

‘What about grandparents?’

‘I have a shortage.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I have one left and he drools. He lives in a nursing home.’

‘Is there anyone else?’

‘An aunt. She lives in Spain. Mum’s older sister. She runs a donkey sanctuary. I think they’re donkeys. I guess they could be burros. I don’t know the difference. My mum said she was a poor man’s Brigitte Bardot, whoever that is.’

‘A film star.’

‘Whatever.’

‘We’ll call your aunt.’

‘I’m not living with donkeys.’

There must be other possibilities… other names. Her mother had friends. Surely one of them could look after Darcy for a few days. Darcy doesn’t have their numbers. She’s not even trying to be helpful.

‘I could stay with you,’ she says, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she’s sucking a boiled sweet.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not? Your house is big enough. You’re looking for a nanny. I could help look after Emma. She likes me…’

‘I can’t let you stay.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re sixteen and you should be at school.’

She reaches over the seat for her bag. ‘Stop the car. Let me out here.’

‘I can’t do that.’

The electric window glides down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to yell rape or kidnapping or whatever else it takes for you to stop the car and let me out. I’m not going back to school.’

Emma’s voice interrupts from the back seat. ‘No fighting.’

‘Pardon?’

‘No fighting.’

She looks at us sternly.

‘We’re not fighting, sweetheart,’ I explain. ‘We’re having a serious talk.’

‘I don’t like fighting,’ she announces. ‘It’s bad.’

Darcy laughs. Her gaze is defiant. Where does she get such confidence? How did she become so fearless?

Circling the next roundabout, I turn back.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asks.

‘Home.’

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