Forget Me Not (18 page)

‘Look, Rose.’ Ben’s calmer now, he has his emotions under control. ‘I know you’re having a terrible time of it. I think your guilt about the way you treated Vivien colours everything you see and everything you do. But you cannot make up for neglecting her by trying to take over as Lexi’s mother. I’m her father and I’m perfectly capable of looking after her. I won’t have you undermining me.’

‘Ben, my comments were made in confidence, out of concern. Cleo has twisted what I said.’

‘I’m furious, Rose. How dare you go around telling people I have a drinking problem, implying I’m not fit to look after my daughter?’ He’s standing close to me, talking in harsh whispers, so the people passing us don’t overhear what he’s saying. He doesn’t wait for me to answer his question. ‘I have enough on my plate, I won’t tolerate your outbursts and your acting out. I’m warning you, don’t pull another stunt like this, or you will be sorry.’

‘I would never do anything to hurt you.’

‘And yet you have.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re unreliable and you think only of yourself and your own needs. I see now why Vivien struggled so much, why she had the issues she did.’

‘That’s a low blow.’

‘Is it? I think you need to take a look at your sudden urge to be part of Lexi’s life after all these years, before you do something that hurts her even more than she’s hurting already.’

‘Does it really matter, Ben? My reasons for wanting to be in Lexi’s life? Doesn’t it count for something that I am Vivien’s mother? That I lost her too?’

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat.

I’m sick of being the villain. Sick of his accusations.

‘If one day you are unlucky enough to have to look at the dead body of your daughter, then you may judge me.’

‘I think it’s best if you go now,’ he says, ‘before Lexi comes out. I don’t want her to witness some kind of scene. I need you to stay away from my daughter until you sort yourself out. We have enough to deal with and you seem determined to make everything worse.’

He strides off towards the school gates. A blonde in skinny jeans and high-heeled boots approaches him, puts a hand on his arm and inclines her head in sympathy.

I do not go home. I phone DS Cole on her mobile and I ask if I can see her. I tell her it’s urgent.

The police station is inside a two-storey golden-brick building, with a pair of antique lamp-posts flanking the front door. The building is charming, and it holds the promise of comfort and security. But the quaint exterior is deceptive and once I’m on the inside I find myself back in the dismal surrounds of Interview Room One, in the bleak, small space I remember.

Almost immediately, I feel that coming here was a mistake. I hope I’m wrong.

‘Thank you for seeing me so quickly,’ I say.

DS Cole and I sit next to each other, this time, instead of on opposite sides of the table. She is wearing her tailored white shirt and her tan brogues. Her hair seems to have turned a paler shade of blonde.

‘No problem,’ she says. ‘Has Ben told you about the toxicology results?’

I hesitate. I have the same sensation I always have when I’m talking to DS Cole, as though I’m treading on eggshells, and I must weigh each word with care. As though each sentence I utter might incriminate me and then she will see right through me, right inside to the rotten core. I’m relieved when she carries on talking.

‘We’ve had a look at your daughter’s laptop and we’ve managed to trace the source of the pills she’d taken. The drugs were prescribed by a private GP, a weight-loss specialist. I thought you might like to know.’

‘I see. Yes. Thank you.’

‘The thing is,’ she says, ‘this medication wasn’t actually prescribed for your daughter. The prescription was for Alexandra.’

My hands are folded in my lap, left under right, so she doesn’t see the bruises. Other than the bags under my eyes, I hope I appear my usual calm and controlled self.

‘Does that come as a surprise?’ she says.

‘I – it would have. But I had a conversation with Mrs Murad the other day, and she told me Vivien had developed some kind of preoccupation with Lexi’s weight. So now it makes sense. I really had no idea. I would never have let her give that kind of medication to a child; I don’t care if it was prescribed by a doctor. If I’d known, I would have done something.’

‘Ben didn’t know either.’

‘I see.’

‘And there’s still the question of what happened to the empty packaging.’

‘Yes.’

There is a pause, we fall silent, each waiting for the other to speak. I came here intending to tell DS Cole about Cleo’s photographs, about the fact that she’s admitted to watching my daughter. But now, sitting here in this windowless room, I’m having second thoughts. I wonder if more police interference is really what this family needs.

‘Was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?’ DS Cole asks.

I decide to tell her. I have to, because Ben won’t listen to me. And I trust DS Cole.

‘I’m concerned about someone named Cleo Baker,’ I say. ‘She’s an old friend of my daughter’s and she and Ben were in a relationship, many years ago. I understand you’ve already talked to Ben about her?’

DS Cole nods. ‘Have you also had contact with Ms Baker recently?’

‘Yes. I bumped into her the other night, on Blackthorn Road. She was on her way to see Ben. And then we spent an afternoon together in Regent’s Park.’

‘Do you mind if I ask what you talked about?’

‘We were reminiscing, about Vivien.’

‘And what is it that concerns you?’ DS Cole says. She leans forward in the way she does, when she’s concentrating.

‘I’m worried that Cleo is unstable.’

I tell her about the way Cleo refused to let me in to the house, and then I tell her about the photographs. DS Cole doesn’t say much.

‘My concern is that Cleo was watching my daughter. And now my granddaughter. Without their knowledge. Stalking them.’

‘Right.’ She is thoughtful. She doesn’t seem alarmed.

‘Do you think Cleo might have threatened Vivien in some way?’

I think back, to the bizarrely calm conversation I had with Cleo as we stood in front of her shrine to my daughter.

‘No, I don’t think she had any contact with Vivien. My impression is she wouldn’t have approached or spoken to her. She was honest about taking the photographs in secret. She didn’t try to cover up at all.’

‘Do you think your daughter might have known she was being followed?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘It might go to her state of mind, when she took the overdose.’

‘It’s Lexi I’m worried about,’ I say. ‘Cleo’s been fixated on the family for a long time. I’m afraid she has some sort of designs on my granddaughter. I keep seeing that photograph of Lexi on her wall. Is there anything you can do?’

‘I think I need to consult with my Senior Investigating Officer,’ she says. ‘You did the right thing, coming to talk to me.’

‘Will you go to Cleo’s flat, and see if the photographs are still there?’

‘What do you mean, still there?’

‘I mean, she may take them down. I took her by surprise. I would imagine she wouldn’t want anyone to see them.’

I regret my stupid statement. Now I suspect DS Cole thinks the entire thing was in my imagination. And I put the idea into her head.

‘Did she seem like she wanted to hide them?’

‘No. In fact, she seemed proud of the pictures. She said something about going on photography courses.’

Is it my imagination, or is DS Cole looking at me like she thinks I’m an unreliable witness? A doddering, grieving grandmother. Again, I curse the fact that I didn’t think to take a photograph.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. ‘I’ll talk to my SIO.’

‘Thank you.’

DS Cole is still looking at me, waiting to see if I’m going to say something more, but I’ve clammed up. I’m afraid of what I’ve just done. I’m afraid of stirring up a hornet’s nest. I am afraid of Ben’s anger and Isaac’s disapproval. Isaac warned me to take this slowly, to be patient, but I’ve gone and done the opposite. I’ve reacted out of anger and fear. I wanted to get back at Cleo for keeping me away from Alexandra; and at Ben, too, for speaking to me the way he did this morning. And now I might just have sealed my own fate.

Ben is going to be furious when he finds out I’ve been here, casting suspicion on Cleo and laying him open to further scrutiny. This brief interview may well be the end of any relationship Ben and I might have had.

‘Do you have to tell my son-in-law about this interview?’ I say.

‘Is there a reason you don’t want me to?’

‘I think he’ll be angry. Ben doesn’t want to hear anything negative about Cleo; he’s become dependent on her since Vivien died. He doesn’t like me interfering.’

And he’ll take it out on me by keeping me away from my granddaughter.

‘I’ll do my best to keep your name out of it.’

‘Thank you.’

And then I think, to hell with Ben. I’ve done the right thing. I’m finished with keeping silent. Keeping my mouth shut, not noticing. I tried to warn Ben but he wouldn’t listen.

‘DI Hawkins is wrong about me,’ I say. ‘I do have a lot of questions. But I’m also afraid of the answers. Sometimes it’s better not to know, less painful. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I’m not sure. I suppose I don’t agree, or I wouldn’t be a detective.’

We smile together, the tension broken.

I have come to like DS Cole. Sitting in this bleak room with her, I find myself wanting to confess. I want to have her pardon all my sins as a mother.

‘How old are you, DS Cole?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘How long have you been a police officer?’

She smiles. ‘Seven years.’

I’m surprised. Seven years seems a long time and she looks so young, so fresh-faced.

‘I know what it’s like to lose someone, the way you did,’ she says.

‘What happened?’ This is the first time she has shared something personal with me. I’m surprised and also moved.

‘My sister was murdered. She was a couple of years older than me, and she was away at college. One night she’d been out drinking and she had a fight with her boyfriend outside the pub. He let her walk home alone.’

She stops. I can see she doesn’t want to say any more.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. Then, ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, how people apologize to you all the time?’

‘You get used to it.’

I stand up. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ I say.

She stands too, and opens the door for me. ‘I’m sorry we still haven’t been able to give you any clear answers,’ she says. ‘I know it’s difficult to move on with your life while an investigation is ongoing. I know how important it is to have closure.’

My daughter is avoiding me.

I’m standing outside her bedroom door, holding a tray with a glass of skimmed milk and a banana-and-oat muffin. The door is shut.

‘Alexandra?’ I call out. ‘Open the door please.’

I hear a thud as she jumps off her bed and then her plodding footsteps, like a little elephant. When she finally opens up, she looks at me with that defiant expression that gets right under my skin. I try not to be angry. I try to smile.

‘Are you hungry?’ I say.

Alexandra shakes her head. She rubs her nose. She does this a lot when I speak to her, she’s fidgety around me.

And sometimes I find it hard to look at her. The double chin she’s developing, the way her belly pushes against the waistband of her skirt, the bracelets of fat bunched around her wrists. I have no control over what she eats at school or over what Ben feeds her when I’m not around. And she has no self-control, either.

I practically have to push past her to get inside her bedroom. Her clothes are strewn all over the floor, and there are felt-tip pens and little plastic creatures piled up on every surface, on the chest of drawers and bedside tables, and around her computer. I decide tidiness is a battle best left to another time since I am losing so many others.

I know she’s always starving when she gets home. The school feeds them lunch early, at twelve fifteen. I hate to think about the junk they serve up: pizza, breaded chicken, and cake or ice cream for dessert. It’s mind-boggling, given the levels of obesity in England. Alexandra promises me she’ll choose a baked potato with tuna and that she won’t take a dessert except on Fridays, but by the looks of her, she’s choosing no such thing and depriving herself of nothing.

On the surface, she complies with me. Underneath, she defies me. My daughter is becoming a practised liar.

I place the tray down on the desk, next to a photograph of Alexandra and her father. Ben is standing behind her, with his arms around her, and both of them have the same serious expressions on their faces, the same vulnerable eyes. It’s so easy for Ben, I envy him. He accepts the girl the way she is: pudgy and socially inept. It’s left to me to try to mould my daughter into someone who might have even the remotest chance of finding a place in the outside world. Alexandra is my only one, after all. And already, she has become a target for bullies.

She sits on the edge of her bed, staring at me with those apprehensive eyes of hers, as though she’s afraid of her own mother.

I don’t like to encourage Alexandra to eat in her bedroom, but this is the best chance I have of getting this stuff down her. I lift the glass of milk and balance the plate with the muffin on my lap as I sit next to her on the bed.

‘I’ve made you muffins,’ I say.

‘I’m not eating them.’ Her small jaw is set.

She moves away from me. She goes to stand next to her desk and her beloved computer. And her photograph of her father. She seldom comes downstairs when we’re alone in the house together. She waits until she hears Ben come through the front door, or until I call her down for a lesson with her tutor.

If I allowed her to, she’d stay holed up in her bedroom, sitting like a zombie, inert in front of the computer screen. If I tell her she’s had enough screen time, she’ll curl up on her bed and read. The child barely moves. When I was her age, I was at dance classes practically every day; I was exercising all the time, and even then my weight was an ongoing battle.