Something Might Happen (12 page)

I stare at him.

What? Lennie?

He nods.

With Darren? What do you mean involved?

He looks me in the eye this time. Well—I mean sexually.

I can’t help it—I laugh.

I’m sorry, I tell him, shaking my head. I mean, no way.

Mawhinney gives me a cool look.

You’re surprised by the idea?

Yes of course. Totally. Well, it’s not true—she wasn’t.

You can’t believe that would have been the case?

No, I say again. No way.

I run my fingers over the top of Liv’s head and Mawhinney folds his big arms and tilts his chair back. He waits a second
or two before saying, Well, Darren has implied to us that it was.

I laugh again. Liv stirs against me, makes a snaffly sound with her lips.

Implied?

He’s said as much.

Well then, I say, he’s having you on. He’s making it up.

Pretty sick thing to do, Mawhinney comments.

I shrug.

He has problems. I mean, I’m not standing up for him or anything. I’m just saying he has.

Mawhinney seems to think about this.

You think he’d say such a thing to get attention?

Quite possibly, I say.

Even though it made him—possibly—a murder suspect?

I shrug.

I thought people confessed all the time to things they’d never done—disturbed people, I mean—I thought the police were used
to that?

You think he’s disturbed? Mawhinney says quickly.

No, I begin, and then another thought creeps in.

You’re not thinking Darren did it, I say. You don’t think he killed her?

Mawhinney smiles.

I’ll be honest with you, he says. It’s really impossible to know anything at this stage. Time is passing.

Darren wouldn’t hurt anyone, I tell him, I just know he wouldn’t.

Mawhinney says nothing. He has the face of someone who’s heard it all before.

As we go through the next room I try to glance again at the map, but Mawhinney seems eager to move me on. The Post-it notes
have what look like phone numbers on them. I wonder if these are leads the police are chasing—or whether that’s just the way
it is on TV.

I’d be most grateful, he says, if you’d keep this conversation just between ourselves.

What about Lacey? I say and feel my colour rise as I say it.

What about him?

Does he know, about Darren?

Mawhinney holds the door open and I catch a whiff of deodorant as his arm goes up.

Oh, he says, Lacey knows.

He reaches in his trouser pocket and tears the foil down on a packet of Trebor Mints and offers me one. I shake my head.

Darren didn’t even know Lennie, I say. Or she didn’t know him. Not any more than I do anyway. They may well have spoken at
the farm shop but that’s it.

Mawhinney considers this.

Trouble is, he says, you think you know someone—you could swear you knew what they were capable of—and then they go and surprise
you. Human nature.

He smiles at me.

Happens all the time in this business.

* * *

Darren is one of a small gang of lads—Dave Munro, Roger Farmiloe and Brian Whittle, too—who spend a lot of the day in The
Red Lion doing nothing much except watch TV.

The day after Lennie dies, Darren very nearly makes the six o’clock local TV news. But in the end they plump for his mate
Brian, who’s employed by Waveney District Council to sweep the area between North Parade and the pier and therefore has a
closer connection to the scene of the crime.

Meanwhile reporters have spoken to just about everyone in town: hotel people, shopkeepers, chambermaids, the staff at the
brewery, the woman who cleans the toilets at The Anchor.

Ellen Hasborough, who runs the Whole Loaf Organic Deli on the corner of East Street and Pinkney’s Lane, tells the local radio
station that, Our rustic idyll is shattered. People used to come from miles around for a peaceful day here, for our famous
coastal-path walks. I can’t see it happening any more.

And a local councillor is reported as saying, They are lovely people here and it’s a shocking business. The whole community
is taking it very badly.

With no funeral in sight, the town creates its own small marks of respect. The flag which normally flies from the mast in
the middle of St James’s Green is lowered for a week and the bakers and the fish shop draw down their shades even though business
goes on as usual behind them. Even the Ramirez brothers go so far as to place an
old-fashioned black-edged notice in the window of the Dolphin Diner next to the dusty fisherman’s netting and dried starfishes,
expressing their Deepest Sympathy for the family of Lennie Daniels who was so close to our hearts. Which, as Mick notes, is
rich, considering that for two years running Lennie begged them to donate a fish and chip supper for the school summer raffle,
only to be met both times with a flat and charmless refusal.

Next day, Saturday, Lacey finds me on the promenade.

A thunderstorm during the night has left the air soft and silky, the crackle washed out of it. The tide’s far out, the groynes
exposed, the brown beach laced with hundreds of glistening creeks.

The drama class Rosa and Jordan go to on Saturday mornings has been cancelled, so we’re on the beach instead, chucking a Frisbee
on the driest band of shingle. Fletcher is straining on his lead, desperate to go down and join them, but he’s not allowed.
There are places where dogs have to be on a lead, even out of season.

It’s chilly but there’s no wind. One or two brave, elderly people have opened up their beach huts and put kettles on and started
edging down to the sea, towels wrapped around their waists.

Suddenly he’s behind me.

They’re not really going in are they?

Oh, I say, blushing furiously.

Sorry, he says, I could see you were in a dream.

Well, I say. Hi.

It’s freezing, he says. Do they really swim in this?

I shrug.

It’s warm enough, once you get in.

Lacey shivers.

I was looking for you, he says as Fletcher wags and wiggles.

I try to turn Liv’s buggy round so it doesn’t face into the wind.

Oh? I say. Really?

It sounds ruder than I meant it to. I glance towards the kiosk. Estelle is watching us intently, cloth in hand.

Lacey looks at me.

Want some coffee? he says.

OK. Please.

I watch him get it—his tall straight back as he stands there talking to Estelle. How Estelle smiles and leans her elbows on
the counter, then touches her hair.

So, he says, when he returns with two mugs.

So, I ask him, you got yourself a room?

He smiles at me.

Yes, he says, I got one. Thank you.

He’s laughing.

What? What’s funny?

You are. He rips open a sachet of brown sugar and crumbs spill on the white table. You make me laugh. The way you talk, all
your funny questions.

It’s you, I say. Then I blush again.

And you’re always blushing, he says.

I ignore this.

I only asked you if you got a room—

I know, he says, and he sits back in his chair, relaxed. I didn’t mean that.

What, then?

He thinks for a moment.

Only that it’s possible to talk to you for ages and find out nothing.

I laugh.

What exactly would you want to find out?

I don’t know, he says. You tell me.

You see! I cry. That’s what you do all the time—turn everything back into a question.

Lacey smiles. At my feet, Fletcher wimpers, strains at the lead and then pants.

Poor dog, says Lacey. Can’t he join them?

No, I say, we’d never get him back.

I watch as Lacey rubs Fletcher’s head, pulls at the silky scrags behind his ears.

Does he want a drink?

I shrug.

Lacey picks up Jordan’s Mickey Mouse bucket.

I’ll get him one, shall I?

If you want, I say. The tap’s over there.

He goes over to the low concrete wall and fills the bucket and carries it back. He carries it the way Jordan would—concentrating,
taking care not to spill any.

He sets it down in front of Fletcher and the dog laps enthusiastically.

There, you see, Lacey says, he was. Poor dog was thirsty.

The wind blows and Estelle’s tub containing beach bats and fishing nets falls over and rolls clattering over the prom. Estelle
comes out and gathers it up and takes it back. The old people are coming out of the sea now, tiptoeing up over the shingle,
towels over their shoulders.

The Frisbee flies up and clatters across the concrete near us. Lacey straightaway picks it up and tries to throw it back.
But he can’t do it because the wind is against him and it lands back on the prom. Both kids shriek at him.

Like this! Jordan shouts, showing Lacey the flick of the wrist. Fletcher is now vigorously chewing the side of Jordan’s bucket.
I take it from him.

You said you wanted to talk about Alex, I remind him.

He looks surprised.

Yes, he says, yes. If you don’t mind. There’s something I need to ask you, actually.

You mean to do with the investigation?

I can’t really claim that it is, he says. Or at least, it might be, but, well, I’m not sure.

Well, I say, go ahead.

You’ll blush if I ask it.

Really?

I laugh and my heart races.

Yes, he says, I think you will.

I wait and he looks at me.

You and Alex, he says, you used to be involved?

Well, yes, I say steadily. We went out. Years ago. Before Lennie and before Mick. It’s not a secret—everyone knows that.

Lacey thinks about this.

I’ve known him since I was a teenager, I say. I’m very fond of him. Mick’s known him almost as long.

Lacey’s silent. I wait.

OK, he says, OK, but—I’m sorry to ask but—is there still an excitement between you and Alex?

I put my hand to my face.

What? You mean now?

Yes. Now.

Lacey’s eyes are on my face.

No, I say quickly as the blood rushes to my cheeks. Well, no, I don’t think so.

I make myself busy by stuffing the bucket into the buggy’s rain hood.

You’re not sure? Lacey says.

I mean, as I said, there used to be. A long time ago. We—liked each other. But it’s over, from my point of view.

And from his?

I try to look Lacey in the eye.

Why on earth are you asking me this? I mean, has he said something?

Not a word, Lacey says in a strange, solemn voice. I promise you. Nothing.

Well then, I say, it’s a bit personal, isn’t it?

I’d still like an answer, he says gently.

Well, I—excitement’s a funny word for it, I tell him at last.

What word would you use, then?

I pause a moment. I feel suddenly drained, exhausted.

Look—is this really relevant to anything? I ask him.

I don’t know, he says. Is it?

Minutes pass and we both do nothing. Just sit in silence and watch the kids and the sea.

Sorry, he says after a moment or two. I shouldn’t have asked you that.

I keep a blank face.

I don’t care, I say. Ask me anything you want. I’ll tell you anything. I don’t care about anything much just now.

He pauses a moment.

This must be a nightmare—for you, he says at last.

In a nightmare, you wake up.

I’m sorry, he says again.

Is that it? I ask him.

What?

Is that all you’re trained to say? Sorry? Because really I’d have thought they’d have given you something better.

Better for what?

For—I don’t know—for fobbing people off with.

He says nothing.

Sorry, I say after another moment, I didn’t mean that. I’m just so fucking sick of it all.

Yes, he says.

I hate how it’s become the way we live. Every day we wake up and it starts over—all of this.

You’re still in shock, he tells me.

I think about this.

I don’t know, I say. Am I? I’m surprised at how OK I feel, really. Like I’m in a dream and most of me is somewhere else.

Lacey’s looking at me.

Everyone responds differently, he says.

But, I insist to him, it can’t last—you have to come out of it eventually, don’t you?

I don’t know, he says quietly. I’ve never experienced what you’re going through.

Also, I tell him, I feel different—

Different in what way?

I don’t know—bad, irresponsible—

Really?

Yes. Like I could fuck things up and not care at all.

What sort of things?

I don’t know. Just things. It’s as if I genuinely don’t care at all—or there’s nothing at stake. Not even the kids sometimes.
It scares me.

Why?

Because it’s not normal. It’s not how I usually am.

You’re too hard on yourself, he says. None of you are to blame for what happened.

I know that, I say.

Well then, I say after a pause. Maybe I’m just very angry.

Tess, he says gently, you have every right to be.

Why would anyone do it? I ask him.

He looks at me carefully.

Why would anyone want to take her heart?

Do you know what a trophy-taker is? he asks me.

No, I say. And then it dawns.

A body part, he says. Any part. It’s usually something smaller, something sexual maybe. A heart is rare.

Why?

He takes a breath.

Well—it’s very hard to take out.

I look quickly away at the sea where the horizon dissolves and water and sky blur.

Sorry, he says, but you did ask.

Tears spring to my eyes.

She’s dead, I tell him, I know that. I know she’s not coming back. But you see, to me—this place is still so full of her.

Lacey says nothing.

You think I’m silly, I tell him and I pick up a paper napkin and hold it to my eyes, or mad. Crazy.

No, he says. No I don’t.

He passes me another napkin. His fingers close to mine.

I don’t think you’re any of those things, he says.

Then what?

He doesn’t answer.

I fold the damp napkin, over and over, smaller and smaller.