Absent Light (13 page)

She left the path and climbed up onto the grass where there were a number of more recent graves, the heels of her shoes spiking the frozen ground, slowing her down. Gazing at fragments of other people's grief, reading the monuments of mothers and fathers, pausing over the dearly beloved and greatly missed, and those reunited at last, she found the plainly worded stone.

Precious Memories
of a Dearly Beloved Daughter
Rose Buchanan 1985-2000

A fresh Christmas wreath lay at the base of the cool dark marble. She reached out, touched the holly, the blood-red berries, pearlescent mistletoe. She thought of the Rose she'd seen in the family photo album: a slight, graceful girl, more child than woman, warm eyes, shy smile, the girl who had a future. Rose's mother spoke of a loving daughter who'd always been a good girl, always had the right friends, always worked hard at school. Until…

Helen remembered the bizarre period of time when she and Adam danced around each other, he fearing her betrayal; she not knowing what to do then realising, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had to do something. Already sensing her decision, Adam became contemptuous of her, distancing himself, rubbishing her. The whispering campaign started. If the spotlight fell on one officer, it fell on many. And, as the rumours intensified, she heard that she was, after all, nothing more than a poor little rich girl, a tart, a marriage-breaker, and grass.

She recalled sitting in the Buchanans' kitchen much later on. It was the only time she'd ever visited a relative of a victim. It had snowed. Sunshine smirked through the trees like a joke in bad taste. Warmly welcomed by Cherry Buchanan, Rose's mother, because of her contact with her daughter which had made her feel sick with herself.

The kitchen was vibrantly-coloured, like her own, and she wondered if it would change over the years, the colour fading as surely as the life had dwindled from Rose's body.

Whether it was because Helen was both a woman and not a police officer, Mrs Buchanan asked all sorts of tentative questions.

“The coroner said she died of a single stab-wound to the heart. I suppose that was good really.”

Helen agreed, lying to protect her. Afterwards, she swore it was the last time she'd ever lie.

“The marriage hadn't been right for years,” Cherry Buchanan confided, a softly spoken, articulate woman with luminous dark eyes, hair slightly too long for her age, but only just. The mug of tea in her hands seemed soldered to her fingers and she sat hunched, her shoulders stooped with grief. “You know how it is, you do your best, put on a front, make it work, but there comes a time when you can't do it any more. I was naive. Thought divorce would be more straightforward. Certainly didn't expect venom. Rose took her father's side and went to live with him.”

“How old was she?”

“Fourteen,” Cherry Buchanan replied with certainty, as if the number were inscribed on her heart. “For twelve months she wouldn't see me and he did nothing to encourage it. Then she started truanting. She got into some minor trouble with the police. It was pretty clear that her father wasn't looking after her. I tried talking but he wouldn't listen, said I was over-protective. When I found out that Rose was often left to fend for herself, particularly at weekends, I went the legal route and got a load of vitriol thrown back at me from his solicitors. I talked to Social Services and had several miserable meetings with some bloke from CAFCASS, but nothing helped. They weren't interested in seeing fault. They seemed completely blind to what was really going on. If anything, they took my husband's side, even when my daughter's safety was in jeopardy. The common consensus seemed to be that I was the problem. Then I found out about Jacks.” She broke off, looked straight at Helen with soulful eyes. “That's when I thought I'd made a breakthrough. They'll have to listen to me now, I thought. I believed I'd a real chance of getting my daughter back. I went to the police.”

Helen could hardly bear to look at the woman. There was so much pain in her eyes, so much guilt in her own. “What were you told?”

The bereaved mother's voice was without expression. She spoke in a lifeless monotone. “That there was no evidence that a crime had been committed.”

“But Rose was under the age of consent,” Helen said in astonishment.

Cherry Buchanan shook her head sadly. “Even if Rose was having a sexual relationship with Jacks, as I suspected, there was little the police could do because she wasn't too far off her sixteenth birthday.”

“You were actually told that?”

Cherry Buchanan smiled. “A good-looking young detective, Roscoe, I think. That's right, Adam Roscoe, a very caring sort of chap. Unusual nowadays,” she said wistfully. “It wasn't his fault. Just telling me the way it was.”

Helen felt her stomach clench. “Were you ever told about Jacks's criminal past?” Helen asked softly.

Cherry Buchanan looked straight into her eyes. “Never.”

She let Stratton into the coach-house later that evening. She felt surprised, pleased, and nervous.

“Sure I'm not disturbing you? If you prefer, I could…”

“Come in,” she smiled. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” he said, “but don't let me stop you.”

“It's all right. I've already eaten.”

He looked around for a moment as if not quite sure why he was there. “Thought we might drink this,” he said, holding up a bottle of wine. “The label says it's got lead pencil overtones, whatever that means, but the guy in the shop assured me it was good.”

She handed him a corkscrew and, taking two glasses, led the way upstairs. She apologised for the mess. He eased the cork from the bottle and poured. “I thought it might be a difficult day,” he said, passing her a glass of wine the colour of garnets. They were standing either side of the fireplace, feet away from each other. It might as well have been a chasm, she thought.

“That why you're here?”

He smiled enigmatically, took a snatch of his drink. No, she thought.

“Do you do this often?” she asked him.

He looked taken aback. “What?”

“Call on victims of crime?”

“That how you see this?” His dark eyes settled on hers.

“How should I see it?” Her mouth felt dry and her voice sounded slightly hoarse. And she was being unfair. It was she who contacted him. What was she trying to do, drive him away?

“As a friend visiting a friend.”

Oh, she thought. She smiled uncertainly and invited him to sit down. He took the sofa. She took the chair.

“I went to St Laurence's today,” she said.

“Thought you might.”

“I'd hoped for guidance,” she said bleakly.

“Did you find it?”

“Not sure. Maybe.”

Stratton nodded thoughtfully. “Did you know Buchanan is still trying to sue us?”

She sat up. “
Mr
Buchanan?”

“For not properly monitoring Jacks.”

“What about his failure to monitor his daughter?” she said, her voice full of outrage. God knows how Cherry Buchanan must feel, she thought.

Stratton shrugged and looked gloomily into the fire. She wondered whether he was considering his own fractured family situation.

“You ever get lonely, Joe?”

“Sometimes. You?”

“Not as lonely as when I'm in a relationship.”

He looked at her and frowned. “Not sure I follow you.”

She smiled unsteadily. “Not sure I follow it myself.”

“Try.” He leant forward. He looked genuinely interested. She felt suddenly embarrassed.

“I guess, in a relationship, I can never shake off the feeling that something terrible is on its way.”

“What sort of terrible?”

“I don't know. Betrayal, I suppose. Good coming from me, isn't it?” She laughed without much mirth.

Stratton's eyes crinkled with humour. “Sounds like your choice in men is lousy.”

This time her smile was genuine. He was still looking at her. He spoke so softly she almost missed it. “I wouldn't betray you.”

She gazed into eyes that seemed to give nothing away. He put down his glass and stood up, taking her hand, pulling her to her feet. She felt awkward because she realised she didn't know him at all, at least, not like this.

Nothing seemed real. The room was all shifting shadows, the air electric. He kissed her once softly. Her head fizzed with wine even though she'd hardly touched her glass. Shouldn't be doing this, she thought, shouldn't get involved. He kissed her once again. His warm hands slid underneath her sweater. She pressed her body against his. This was crazy, she thought, dangerous to her, she was safer on her own.

“Are you sure?” she said. “Only I don't want you to think…”

“Shut up, Helen. I want to take you to bed.”

Afterwards, he fell asleep, and she was glad. She didn't want him to be one of those guys who get up immediately afterwards, thank you for a good time and say they'll be in touch. She didn't want a post-mortem, a discussion of his ex-wife – a sure-fire passion-killer – or displays of residual guilt. His head faced hers. The lids of his closed eyes were very dark. He looked quite beautiful, she thought, listening to the sound of his breathing against the fevered beat of her heart.

Later she fell asleep and woke shortly after three in the morning to find him awake, crooked upon one elbow, watching her dreamily. She turned towards him and smiled. He stroked her cheek tenderly. They kissed again, limbs reaching out, their bodies sliding over one another's, this time with more passion and less self-awareness. The next thing she knew the phone was ringing.

Her immediate thought was that phones ringing at that time generally heralded death and destruction. Messages like
taken a turn for the worse
,
come quickly
, or
there's been an accident,
acquire a chilling ambiguity in the middle of the night. But surely this didn't apply to her?

“Yeah,” she said blearily, holding the receiver to her ear.

“Helen, it's Dad.”

“Uh-huh.” Must be dreaming, she thought, keeping her head on the pillows, eyes firmly shut.

“Mum's been taken into hospital.”

Helen opened one eye, a surge of alarm shooting her into consciousness. She reached over and snapped on the lamp, Stratton stirring beside her. “What's happened?”

The tone was agitated. “She's suffered a heart attack. We're at Staffordshire General.”

“How bad is it?”

“The doctors are with her now,” he said evasively. “I think you should come.”

Helen rubbed her face in dismay. “I'll be there quick as I can,” she said, putting the phone down.

Stratton was already reaching for his clothes. “I'll drive you.”

“No, I can manage.”

“I know you can, but it will be quicker and safer if I take you.”

“Yes, but…”

“Think of me as a cab-driver,” he said, arching a challenging eyebrow.

Sweater, trousers, she was thinking, scrabbling for knickers and bra. Stratton was fully dressed, car-keys at the ready. She reached for her shoes and suddenly felt terribly lost. “Oh, Joe,” she said, holding her arms out to him.

He held her tight, like he was trying to keep her strong.

Stratton was driving at speed. They went through Aston and briefly joined the M6 before turning off and heading along the Wolverhampton Road. It felt as if she were going out on a crime scene job. Same white-knuckle ride. Same sense of apprehension, not knowing what exactly might be at the other end, what was involved, but already sensing the chaos. Depending on the seriousness of the crime, the volume of work and priorities, she'd worked both alone and with others. Towards the end of her time
, departmental budgetary constraints
was the new buzz-phrase. God knows what it was like now, she thought. She'd attended private homes, industrial sites, remote fields, and motorways. She'd toiled in near impossible conditions: in water, at heights, confined spaces. She'd seen corpses of the very young and the very old, and those in their prime. The fact that she was a stranger to them was their one saving grace.

She went over and over what her father said, trying to extract meaning from the few words he'd spoken as if she were going through a terse letter of rejection and trying to find some hope. Deep inside, she always suspected her mother would be the first to succumb to serious illness but not now, not like this. She was only fifty-four, for God's sake. That still counted as young, didn't it?

Stratton dropped her off at the entrance and drove off to park the car. She rushed inside, not knowing which way to go. Spotting a tired-looking nurse, she stumbled forward, gabbled her story and was pointed in the direction of Intensive Care. She ran down corridors, feverishly reading the signs on the walls as she sped past as if following some macabre treasure trail, unable to shake off the coldness in her heart. Rounding a corner, she was brought up short by the sight of her father. He was seated, his face in his hands. She could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was crying. Swallowing hard, she put her arms around him.

“Dad,” she said softly.

He pulled his hands away from his face. He was shaking all over. He looked grey and old, as if all his vitality was spent, his lust for life extinguished, and every value he'd come to rely on gone. “She died three minutes ago,” he said hoarsely. Then his face crumpled and he started to cry again. “What am I going to do without her, Helen? What am I going to do?”

* * *

In the past, whenever she'd looked at a dead body, she'd compared it to her own, not in an intimate or voyeuristic way, but with detached awe. This time it was different. In looking at her mother, she felt as if she were catching a glimpse of her own future. And when my own time comes, will there be someone there to hold my hand, she wondered? Will a loved one be present to act as spiritual midwife, or will it just be an array of machinery and faceless people? The thought of dying alone filled her with fear. The thought of death among strangers terrified her.