Forget Me Not (13 page)

‘And did you know that the current resident of the property is one Cleo Baker?’

I pull away from him as I swing my legs onto the floor. ‘I had no idea Cleo still lived there.’

‘But you did know that the three of them lived in Cinnamon Wharf together? Ben, Vivien and Cleo?’ Isaac sounds incredulous. I prickle.

‘Yes. For a brief time they were all there together. A few weeks, maybe. But this was years and years ago. I suppose it sounds bizarre.’

‘I have to say it does.’

‘Cleo and Ben were a couple before he and Vivien got together. I think Vivien asked if she could move in with them for a while, after a bad break-up. And I guess she and Ben were attracted to each other. Cleo was pushed out.’

‘So would it surprise you to know,’ Isaac says, ‘that Cleo Baker continues to live in this flat without paying any rent?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That would surprise me.’ I take a swig of my beer. Isaac does the same.

‘Ben is obviously a wealthy man,’ Isaac says, ‘but I’m wondering why he would subsidize an ex-girlfriend for all these years?’

I look down. The veins on the back of my hands protrude and bruises have spread where I dig my nails into my skin.

‘You’re saying you think they have been having an affair?’

‘I’m saying,’ Isaac says, ‘you might wait a while before confronting Ben. His loyalty to Cleo might run a lot deeper than you think.’

I reach for my beer bottle and I drink from it until it’s half-empty. Isaac sits forward on the couch and he’s right up close. My hand rests on my thigh, and he runs his fingertips over the angry half-moon bruises.

‘What happened to you?’ he says.

‘Nothing.’

Isaac has the good sense not to ask again.

‘Has Ben ever told you that there was a time when I lived with them in the house on Blackthorn Road?’ I ask him.

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Lexi was an IVF baby, a twin actually, the only one of the babies to survive a disastrous pregnancy. But she was born very premature, and she was in the Weissman Unit for three months. When she was discharged, she was still on oxygen, and Ben and Vivien were really anxious around her. They needed a lot of support. So I took leave and I moved in with them for six weeks.’

I cover my eyes with my hands, as I remember. I see myself walking out, walking across those black-and-white tiles. I should never have left them alone.

For a few moments we sit in silence. Isaac’s hands are wrapped around his beer bottle again.

I turn my body towards his. ‘You were the one that found her?’ I ask.

I didn’t mean to say this, but I do. He doesn’t seem surprised by my question. I think he’s been waiting for me to ask him.

‘Yes,’ he says. He looks at me with compassion and sadness and I think he may be going to apologize to me again, and if he does, I am going to scream. But he doesn’t.

‘I tried everything,’ he says. ‘CPR. Mouth to mouth. There was nothing I could do for her.’

‘I understand.’

‘She looked so tiny,’ he says, ‘like a child.’

‘She would have hated people to see her that way. She hated being vulnerable.’

‘I covered her with a blanket from her bed,’ he says. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I had to cover her. I put a pillow underneath her head, as though she was asleep. I couldn’t bear to leave her on that cold floor. I stayed with her, until the ambulance came. I didn’t leave her alone.’

I have tears in my eyes, but they don’t spill over.

‘I’ve seen my share of dead bodies,’ I say. ‘I bathe the babies and I dress them, and then I hand them back to their parents for one last cuddle. They are small and at peace. Not like my daughter.’

I shudder as I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t understand how Ben can live in that house. I don’t understand how he can bear to set foot in that bathroom.’

Isaac reaches out and takes hold of my hand with both of his. His skin is so warm.

‘That house is their home,’ he says. ‘Everything the child knows is in that house. Her mother is in that house.’

The throbbing in my head has quietened down. I have a few precious hours before I wake tomorrow morning and it all comes back again. I consider that my every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of Vivien and of Lexi. Perhaps even I deserve a few moments of peace. I feel the pressure of his thumb through the cotton of my jeans, against my thigh. I lean against him.

‘Will you stay, tonight?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

He feels so sturdy, so compelling as he holds me, and I feel so very alive and then so very guilty.

I am woken by a series of loud bangs. Three aggressive bursts of sound. Someone is knocking on my front door.

I turn onto my back and open my eyes. My room is dark; there is blackout lining on the curtains, so I can sleep through the day when I’m working night shifts.

I reach out with my right hand and feel the empty space beside me. Isaac left early this morning, while I was still hazy with sleep. I lift my head to look at my clock, my vision still a little blurred from sleep. It’s mid-morning.

I lay my head down on the pillow where he slept, where I can still smell him.

The banging starts up again.

I stand slowly and walk, heavy-limbed, to the front door where I grab my coat from its hook and throw it on over my nightgown. I peer through the peephole, then remove the chain from the door and open up to the familiar, acrid air of the passageway.

DS Cole is standing in front of me, and this time she is not alone. A tall, thin man lurks behind her. My eyes are back in focus, and I see he’s older than she is, somewhere in his early forties. His high forehead, sharp blue eyes and Roman nose combine to give him an intense, predatory appearance.

‘DS Cole,’ I say. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘I apologize,’ she says. ‘I did try to call you earlier but I think your phone’s turned off.’

‘I was just about to leave for work.’

DS Cole takes in my hastily slung-on coat and my bare feet and looks unconvinced.

The man behind her introduces himself as DI Hawkins. He keeps his hands in his pockets as he talks to me, which I think somehow disrespectful. His eyes flicker as he peers over my shoulder and down the passage. I stand there stubbornly, one arm on the door handle, the other on the door frame, and I don’t invite them in.

‘We won’t disturb you for long,’ DS Cole says. ‘But we’ve had some toxicology tests back and we wanted to talk to you about these.’

She shifts her canvas bag, adjusting the strap so it sits more comfortably across her body. She’s in a tailored grey suit today and her hair is a fresh, pale blonde. The dark roots I noticed at the hospital are gone.

DI Hawkins takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms. I remain planted in the doorway, frozen still. I can hear the Pomeranians across the hall snuffling at the gap between the door and the floor.

‘The results show unexpected levels of amphetamines in your daughter’s body,’ DS Cole says.

‘Amphetamines?’

‘We believe Vivien had taken diet pills before she died,’ she says.

DI Hawkins is looking at me, expecting me to say something. I picture him kneeling down and turning over rocks. All kinds of ugly insects swarm out from underneath. I dislike him.

‘Did you know Vivien was using these pills?’ DS Cole says.

‘No. I didn’t. Vivien was always conscious of her weight, but she was careful about her diet. I had no idea she was taking pills to control her appetite.’

I cough. The lump in my throat is back again.

DI Hawkins speaks for the first time, and his voice is harsh and too loud. ‘We’ve looked at Vivien’s GP notes, and there’s no record of any such prescription. In fact, her GP had no idea she was taking these pills.’

‘I see.’ I sound cold, detached.

‘Do you find any of this a cause for concern?’ DI Hawkins says. He sounds impatient, irritated with me. It seems the dislike is mutual.

‘Of course I’m concerned. I’m shocked. I’m trying to digest all of this. Are you saying these pills are linked to her death?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he says.

There is something about his tone I don’t like. Something accusatory. DS Cole fidgets. She adjusts her bag again and runs her fingers through her peroxided hair. I want to believe she doesn’t like the way DI Hawkins talks to me, that she’s on my side.

I don’t know why they have come to see me at my home, or what they’re looking for. I feel as though I’m taking a test I haven’t prepared for. DI Hawkins is staring at me with those shrewd eyes of his.

‘You’re a medical professional,’ he says.

‘I’m a nurse.’

‘A senior nurse.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you work in a large hospital?’

‘Yes. On a neonatal unit.’

‘So as a senior staff member of a large hospital, you’d have access to all kinds of controlled substances?’

I laugh. A nervous laugh. An incredulous one. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say.

‘Did you ever provide your daughter with diet pills?’ DI Hawkins says.

DS Cole definitely looks uncomfortable. She smiles at me, in an attempt at reassurance, but the look on her face only increases my sense of impending doom.

‘Of course I didn’t provide my daughter with drugs.’ A high-pitched yapping starts across the hall. I feel sure Mrs Shenkar is going to open her front door and peer out, to check what’s going on. Then the barking stops, abruptly. I imagine her in her muumuu, bending down and scooping up the two fluffy dogs and whisking them off for their breakfast.

The two officers don’t budge from my doorway.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘are you accusing me of something?’

‘We’re trying to understand Vivien’s state of mind when she died,’ DS Cole says. ‘She didn’t leave a note. No one who had contact with her has reported any changes in mood. She didn’t talk about being suicidal or having plans to harm herself. But now we know she took substances before she died. So it’s important that we understand where she got this medication from.’

I hear myself exhale. They’re both watching me.

‘And not only that,’ DI Hawkins says, ‘but there was no sign of any empty packaging in the home.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ I say.

‘Thank you,’ DS Cole says. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve delayed you.’

She smiles at me again, but DI Hawkins remains grim. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘relatives of the deceased usually have a lot of questions for us. They’re usually desperate to know all the details, to find out every last bit of information we might have.’

I see a millisecond of anger cross DS Cole’s face as she looks at her colleague.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘in my experience, all families grieve differently. I don’t like to be a drain on your resources, and I know there’s no point asking questions if you haven’t had time to find the answers yet. I’m sure you’ll let me know when you have something concrete to report.’

I won’t rise to the bait. If he wants to accuse me of something, he’ll have to be more explicit.

‘Oh, we will most certainly let you know,’ DI Hawkins says rather acerbically.

DS Cole touches my arm, just for a brief moment. ‘You can contact me any time,’ she says. ‘If there’s anything you want to ask me or tell me. Please don’t hesitate.’

I step back and shut the door on them. Then I lean against it for support and I close my eyes.

I arrive early for my shift. But instead of going up to the Weissman Unit, I walk around the side of the building until I reach the entrance to the private wing. I take the lift up to the third floor, to Mrs Murad’s rooms.

Her reception area resembles the plush lobby of an upmarket hotel. There is a Louis XV silk-upholstered sofa, sage-green curtains and a sage-green carpet dotted with little white diamonds. These rooms could not be more different from the Weissman Unit with its chipped Formica reception desk and blue linoleum floors.

I explain to the receptionist that Mrs Murad has left several messages for me, and I ask if she might have a few minutes to see me, in between patients. The young woman, with glasses too large for her face, looks at me with pitying eyes, a look with which I am now all too familiar. A look I myself have given many other bereaved parents. She offers me a cup of tea, which I decline, and she tells me there might be quite a wait. I sit rigid-backed on the sofa.

I run my fingers over my hair, tucking loose strands behind my ears. I hope I look presentable, and not as though I’m caving in under the burden of guilt and grief. I tuck myself inside my protective carapace, formed during many long years of self-reliance. I think I might look almost normal.

In the end the wait is not long at all. A couple leaves her office, a woman with the laboured gait of late pregnancy, her husband with his hand on the small of her back. Moments later, Mrs Murad herself appears in the doorway of her office. She’s a petite woman in a black suit, and her hair, like mine, is mostly a silver-grey.

She ushers me into her office, gesturing to a wingback armchair as she closes the door. In keeping with the waiting room, her consulting room is replete with soft furnishings and thick curtains. She sits opposite me, behind a large desk. In front of her there is a wafer-thin laptop.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Vivien,’ she says. ‘I wanted to tell you in person.’

The seconds pass. I look down at my fidgeting hands, my nails pressing into my own soft skin.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls.’

‘I thought you might want to talk to me,’ she says. ‘I thought you might have questions.’

‘Have the police been to see you?’

‘Yes, they have.’

‘They’re trying to understand her state of mind before she—’ I clear my throat as my words disappear.

Mrs Murad nods.

‘You treated Vivien for several years,’ I say, ‘you must have known her very well.’

‘Almost ten years, on and off.’

‘I’ve often wondered why you called me the day she died,’ I say. ‘When she missed her appointment, I mean. Because, surely, people miss appointments all the time? I’m guessing something was worrying you.’