Forget Me Not (2 page)

I pause.

‘I’m a little confused,’ I say, ‘because I’ve told you all of this before. Has something happened, DS Cole?’

I know there are times when police keep information back – a piece of evidence, perhaps. I wonder if there are things about my daughter’s death that DS Cole knows but does not share with me.

‘Well,’ she says, considering her words carefully, ‘as you know, we’re still not sure about the cause of death. Vivien’s body was found in her bathroom that afternoon, and she’d sustained an injury to her head. While we don’t think this injury was severe enough to have caused her death, we need to understand what happened to her. We have to consider the possibility that Vivien was assaulted.’

DS Cole is doing everything she can to avoid using the word murder, but still, I hear it loud and clear. I see it, written on these grubby, windowless walls in capital letters. As she speaks, my vision blurs around the edges. I seem to be staring at her from far away, as though we’re standing at opposite ends of a long, dark tunnel.

‘Rose, are you
sure
you’re all right?’

My bones are heavy inside my skin and it takes an effort to nod my head. I look away from her, down at the floor for a few moments, until my vision clears.

‘A pair of diamond earrings is missing from the house, though the rest of Vivien’s jewellery, including the engagement ring she was wearing, is all accounted for. There was no sign of forced entry at the property either, but it’s possible someone might have approached your daughter on the street as she came back from her run, and forced her to let them inside.’

When I try to swallow, it feels as though something’s got stuck. I clear my throat.

‘We also have to consider the possibility that your daughter let someone into the house,’ DS Coles says. ‘Someone she knew.’

I nod. A terrible image hovers at the periphery of my vision and I try my best to block it out, but it won’t leave me. The image grows larger and I teeter at the edge of a crater, my thoughts fragmenting.

‘In the weeks before Vivien died,’ DS Cole says, ‘did she mention anything that might have happened to upset or alarm her? Someone behaving strangely? Even something minor that might have seemed unimportant at the time?’

‘I don’t remember anything like that. But as I say, if there was something upsetting her, I’m not the person she would have turned to.’

‘And who would she turn to?’

‘Her husband.’

‘Did you ever suspect your daughter might be seeing someone else?’ she says.

The question blindsides me. I haven’t been asked this before.

‘DS Cole, do you know something?’

‘These are standard questions,’ she says. ‘I have to ask.’

‘I see. Well, the truth is I don’t know. But it’s unlikely. I can’t imagine Vivien doing anything to jeopardize her marriage.’

DS Cole gives me a regretful, tight-lipped smile.

‘So you can’t release her body to us?’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.

I start as she leans forward and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I try not to flinch.

I remember the last time my daughter touched me. We were standing in the entrance hall of the house on Blackthorn Road. Vivien put her arms around me, she hugged me. I remember my own arms stayed limp at my sides. That was eight years ago.

It’s dark by the time my interview with DS Cole is over. The bus stop is right outside the police station; I wait twenty minutes for mine to arrive and the journey home is slow and tedious, stop-start through the London rush hour. I sit up at the top, where the windows of the bus are shut tight and the glass mists over with the breath of so many people crammed together. Everywhere I go feels airless.

I disembark opposite Cambridge Court and cross over to reach the front door of the building. Leaves litter the concrete steps. The paint on the lintel is cracked and a spiderweb hangs down across the corner of the doorway. Inside, the air is stale with the fug of bin bags left out too long.

While I fumble for my keys on the fourth floor, the dogs across the hallway begin yapping.

My own flat is silent. I close the door behind me and I slip off my coat and hang it carefully on its hook. I run my hands down the pale-pink cashmere, smoothing it out, so it hangs straight. The coat was a gift from Vivien on my fiftieth birthday. There was no party and no family celebration; I worked that day. Ben, Vivien and Lexi were away on holiday in France, but she had the coat delivered to me. With roses and champagne.

How bizarre it is, to know my daughter will never age.

I pull off my boots. Then I stand still for a few moments, unsure what to do next. I can see through into the kitchen, where one plate, one knife, one fork and a single glass are laid out to dry next to the stainless-steel sink.

On my fridge, secured with four round magnets, is a child’s drawing. It is a picture of a small ginger-haired girl standing next to her small, dark-haired mother. The figures are squashed into the bottom right-hand corner of the page, and my granddaughter has signed her name in capital letters across the top:
LEXI
.

I need to see her.

I turn back to the front door. I pull on my coat and my boots, I pick up my bag and my keys, and I leave.

On the ten-minute walk to Vivien’s house, the rain is soft and persistent. By the time I reach number sixty-three Blackthorn Road, my hair lies damp and limp against my skull. My coat is covered in tiny droplets of water, glistening under the orange streetlights.

The stucco-fronted Victorian villa is set back behind wrought-iron railings. The steps leading up to the front door are marble; the rounded topiaries, one on each side of the front door, are a matching pair. Two Range Rovers lie quietly on the driveway, like slumbering guard dogs. The shutters on all four floors are closed, but light seeps out through the ground-floor windows.

I press the buzzer, looking directly into the camera. Before long, the lock on the gate snaps open and I walk along the short path and climb the shallow steps. I’m expecting to see my son-in-law at the front door and so I’m caught off guard when his driver opens up instead. Isaac is a man of around my age, solidly built and shaven-headed. We’ve met a handful of times before, but only briefly. The last time we saw each other was at Lexi’s birthday party, where, like me, he hovered around the edges; he was helping guests with coats and parking permits. I remember Vivien insisting he have a piece of cake, handing him a pink paper plate, laughing.

He ushers me in out of the rain. ‘Ben’s upstairs; he’s putting Alexandra to bed,’ he says. ‘Here, let me take your coat.’

‘Thank you.’ I shrug off the damp cashmere and hand it to him. I’ve already left muddy footprints all over Vivien’s Victorian chequerboard floor.

Isaac opens the cupboard next to the front door and slips my coat onto a hanger. Inside, I catch a glimpse of Vivien’s black fur – the goatskin – still hanging in its place. On the floor of the cupboard, there are three pairs of navy wellington boots arranged in order of size.

‘I was hoping to see Lexi before she fell asleep. Do you think I can pop upstairs to say goodnight?’

‘I think it’s probably better if you wait down here.’ Isaac looks somewhat uncomfortable as he says this.

‘Of course,’ I say.

I’m disappointed but not surprised. I understand that spontaneous visits are still not welcome.

It looks as though Isaac was just about to leave the house: he’s wearing a long tan mackintosh. But it appears that now he’s going to wait, watching over me until Ben comes downstairs. I run my hands over my wet hair, trying to smooth it down.

Isaac is looking at me, as though there’s something he wants to say. I imagine a little softness in his eyes.

‘I wanted to say how sorry I am,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine …’ His sentence trails off into silence.

‘Do you have children, Isaac?’

‘I have stepdaughters. Twins.’

‘Then you probably can imagine,’ I say.

I didn’t intend to but I’ve made him uncomfortable. I’m irritated at not being allowed to do something so simple as go upstairs and kiss my granddaughter goodnight. He looks away, glancing hopefully upstairs, but there’s no sign of Ben.

We stand, awkwardly, in the middle of the entrance hall. Isaac has his hands clasped in front of him, his feet apart. I smooth my hair down again.

Vivien is everywhere around us. Each object has been chosen with great care. Tall glass vases, silver picture frames and stone sculptures are positioned just so. On the walls, bold oil paintings hang alongside charcoal sketches. Everything clashes and yet fits together.

I hear the creak of Lexi’s door on the first floor and I look up. My son-in-law stands at the top of the stairs, staring back at me.

In the living room, Ben presses his palm flat against a panel in the wall and it opens to reveal a mirrored cabinet filled with glasses of different shapes and sizes, and row upon row of bottles. The Bell’s Special Reserve, already two-thirds empty, stands forward from the rest. Ben half-fills his glass with whisky. He doesn’t bother to replace the lid of the bottle.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he says, half-turning towards me but not quite looking at me.

‘A glass of water, thank you.’

After all these years, the two of us are polite strangers, our connection to each other oddly tenuous in Vivien’s absence. Ben leans down to open the fridge in a cupboard under the drinks cabinet. He takes out a bottle of Perrier and pours.

‘How is Lexi?’ I say.

‘She’s fast asleep.’ He walks over and hands me a glass of cold, fizzing water. ‘I try to keep to her routine,’ he says. ‘Vivien always had her in bed by seven-thirty.’

‘Of course. Routine is so important. But what I meant was, how is she in herself?’

‘I’m not sure. She eats the food I put in front of her. She goes to school. The school counsellor says to follow her lead, to answer questions as she asks them, not to push her to talk until she’s ready.’

‘That sounds sensible. I’m glad you have their support.’

The silence between us rankles as we stand facing each other. I’m glad I have the glass to hold on to, something to do with my hands.

Ben is less imposing in the flesh than in the many likenesses of him that smile from newspapers and web pages. He’s not the sort of man you would pick out of a crowd: of average height, not much taller than I am, his wiry brown hair is shot through with grey and he has a hint of middle-aged spread. Vivien used to say that because he is soft-spoken and unassuming, people tend to underestimate him. She used to say he reminded her of a teddy bear.

Thirsty, my mouth dry again, I take a sip of icy water.

At this moment, Ben does not look like a cuddly toy. He looks like hell. His eyes are dull and bruised and he’s aged ten years in the weeks since she died. But then I imagine I don’t look so great myself.

‘Does Lexi ask about her mother?’ I say.

‘She does. Every day. When I fetched her from school yesterday, she asked if Vivien was waiting for us at home. I explained it, all over again. I told her that her mother can’t ever come back. She seemed to understand. Then a few hours later, she asked again. She wanted to know if Vivien would be home in time to read her a story before bed. They say children don’t really understand what death is at her age.’

He takes a deep drink of his whisky. Another dark, deep gap falls between our words, between us.

On the large leather-topped desk at the opposite end of the room there is a silver-framed photograph of Vivien. She is smiling, her head tilted, coquettish, to the right. Her dark hair hangs poker straight to her shoulders and the ruffles of her blouse are buttoned demurely right up to her throat.

I blurt out, ‘Do you think you should still be living here?’

‘We’re not moving,’ Ben says. ‘This is our home, Vivien and the architect practically rebuilt it from the ground up.’

He takes another drink, looking into the bottom of his whisky glass as though he might find salvation there. He leaves my side to pour himself another, and once again he’s generous with the Special Reserve. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him drink more than a couple of glasses of wine. I don’t like the way he’s drinking now, but I’m not about to antagonize him by suggesting he stop.

There are practicalities, I suppose. The size of the mortgage, the reality of selling such a house so soon after an unexplained death. Perhaps Ben has to live here for reasons I am not privy to, not burdened with.

I walk over to the back window. Vivien has planted a row of trees along the back wall, in an attempt to screen out the ugly brown-brick council buildings behind, though the saplings don’t quite manage it, they aren’t tall enough yet. There are tiny lights buried in neat lines all around the edges of the compact square of lawn. A stone lion is mounted on the side wall, under a floodlight. His mouth is open in a silent scream.

Ben has come to stand beside me.

‘DS Cole asked me to go in to the station for an interview this afternoon,’ I say.

We make eye contact in the window across our rippled reflections as he takes yet another, deeper drink.

‘What did she want?’ he says.

‘I don’t really know. She went over exactly the same ground we’ve covered before. When I saw Vivien in the week before she died, what she said to me, what I did that Friday.’

I’m not sure whether to say that DS Cole talked about the head injury, and a possible intruder. I decide it’s better to say nothing. If Ben is fearful, if that’s part of the reason he’s drinking, I don’t want to exacerbate his anxiety.

‘I assume they’re keeping in touch with you?’

He nods.

‘If you’re worried about your granddaughter’s safety,’ he says, ‘you should know I’m in touch with a security firm. We’re putting in a more sophisticated security system. Isaac is overseeing all of it.’

The bitterness in his voice is unlike the Ben I knew before. Ben who was Vivien’s rock, always on an even keel and so easy-going. Ben who was warm where Vivien was cold. For Lexi’s sake, I don’t want to see him change.