After You Die (41 page)

‘Susan’s sorting –’

‘You don’t know and you don’t care. Doesn’t matter as long as I’m gone.’ Caitlin let out a wordless cry, animal in its intensity, all pain and frustration. ‘I did as I was told. I’ve been
good
. You can’t make me go for no reason. It’s not fair.’

The doorbell rang and Julia imagined one of the neighbours coming around to interrogate her about the police activity this morning. Couldn’t face them. Not after everything else today had thrown at her.

‘You can’t stay here, lovey. I’m sorry, honestly I am.’ Julia went over to her, placed a hand on her arm. ‘This isn’t the right home for you any more. We can’t give you what you need.’

‘You said you’d look after me. You promised!’

‘We have, haven’t we?’

Caitlin shrugged her off. ‘You hate me.’

‘No—’

‘You only wanted me here for the money, didn’t you?’

Susan’s voice was bleeding out of the phone, urgent and high-pitched, and Caitlin snatched it out of Julia’s hand.

‘I’m not going,’ she shouted into the phone.

Julia didn’t hear Susan’s reply but whatever she said she misjudged it and Caitlin threw the handset across the room. It hit the fridge and broke apart, leaving a dent in the enamel.

‘Please, Caitlin, sweetheart, just calm down.’

‘Why should I?’ she snarled. ‘Say it. Say you hate me.’

‘Why would I hate you? You’re a lovely girl.’

Julia heard the fear in her own voice, began to back away, but Caitlin followed each faltering step, growing larger and angrier.

The doorbell rang again and Julia glanced towards the door, praying it was Matthew, key forgotten, about to come around into the back garden.

‘Nobody cares what I want.’

She was crying and Julia was crying too.

‘Nobody cares about me.’

‘That’s not true,’ Julia said, pleading with her, willing her to believe it. ‘We do care, we’re trying to do what’s best for you.’

‘Stop lying to me!’ Caitlin’s hand lashed out and swept the drying rack off the draining board, glasses smashing around their feet. ‘You think I’m shit. You all do.’

Julia could feel pieces of broken glass through the thin soles of her ballet pumps as she backed away, heard them crunching but only distantly, her pulse thundering in her head as Caitlin swore at her.

She curled her arms around her stomach, a tiny foot kicking out as if her baby knew it was in danger, some defensive urge rushing along the umbilical cord, screaming
fight
.

Ferreira rang the doorbell. Again. Held it down for a few seconds this time, unignorable.

The sound of smashing glass answered it.

‘Round the back,’ Zigic said, already moving, heading for the tight channel between the Campbells’ house and the rear wall of the neighbouring chapel, a swirl of dead leaves trapped there, bits of rubbish blown in off the lane.

Behind him Ferreira was calling to the uniforms, telling them to stay out front in case she made a run for it.

He heard raised voices inside the house as he rushed along the narrow alleyway, Caitlin shouting, screaming, more smashing sounds that spurred him on and over the hip-high stone wall which bordered the garden, foot landing in a flower bed, something spiking his ankle but he could see them now through the kitchen window, Caitlin yelling in Julia’s face, backing her up against the worktop, Julia crying, shaking her head.

The back door was locked when he rattled the handle.

‘Kick the fucker in,’ Ferreira said.

He struck out at it, felt it wobble but hold, an old door on flimsy hinges, the woodwork softened by damp. The second kick opened it and they were in.

Julia looked up, straight into Zigic’s eyes and he saw the terror there, but Caitlin didn’t turn, kept shouting.

‘You’re a liar!’

She grabbed a handful of Julia’s hair, twisted it in her fingers.

‘Caitlin, that’s enough,’ Zigic shouted.

Julia was trying to pull free, dipping and squirming, but Caitlin moved with her, chunks of glass squeaking and crunching under her feet.

‘Don’t make this worse than it already is,’ Zigic said, taking a couple of steps closer. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt Julia.’

A low growl rumbled around the kitchen, a formless, furious despair from Caitlin, and Julia was pleading with the girl in a desperate whisper, both arms hugging her swollen stomach.

Zigic glanced at Ferreira, saw his own discomfort reflected back at him. She had a baton in her hand, already extended, and she nodded towards Caitlin, inviting him to give her the word so she could move in and restrain her.

But she was a child, for all her aggression, and he didn’t want to have to justify the use of force later, in some bland, safe room where this atmosphere couldn’t be recreated as explanation.

‘Caitlin, you need to step away from Julia now.’

The growl became a snarl and he saw the movement she was going to make ripple across Caitlin’s back a split second before she twisted and lunged, shoving Julia away from her with every ounce of strength her stocky figure held.

Then it was chaos.

Caitlin bolted for the door, slamming into his shoulder as she went, Ferreira diving after her. He tried to reach Julia but there was so much space between them suddenly, too much for him to cross, as she struggled to regain her balance, stumbling, feet tangling, one gold pump finding solid ground, the other a shard of glass that sent her skidding across the tiled floor.

And she was falling.

Her hands flew out but it wasn’t enough. The chair she grabbed at tipped and she hit the floor in stages, stomach striking the edge of the table, knees buckling, and he went down at the same time. Too late to do anything but soften the drop.

Julia screamed, a long piercing wail as she rolled into a ball, arms around herself, legs kicking weakly at the air.

‘You’re going to be okay,’ he said, fumbling his phone out of his pocket.

He found her hand and gripped it tight, told the dispatcher he needed an ambulance, urgently, gave them his name, the address. The voice on the other end wanted to know what the problem was and he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

‘It’s a fucking emergency, just get someone here now.’

Julia tried to sit up. A small spot of blood appeared at the groin of her lemon-yellow jeans, began to spread faster than he’d have thought possible.

‘No, don’t move, okay. You need to stay as still as you can.’

‘It’s too late,’ she groaned.

‘The ambulance is on its way, they’ll be able to fix this.’

‘This won’t get
fixed
.’ She gasped as she moved, sat up, groaned at the sight of the blood. ‘Oh my God, what have I done?’

‘It isn’t your fault.’

The tears were flowing freely down her face, hair stuck to her flushed and damp cheeks. Zigic put his arm around her and she slumped against him, wept quietly, muttering to herself, words that sounded like a prayer.

He stroked her shoulder and strained for the sound of a siren, heard only shouts in the street and an engine revving before pulling away.

A minute later Ferreira was standing at the back door, eyes magnetised to the blood for a second before she gathered herself.

‘We got her.’

‘Go and make sure the ambulance can find us.’

Julia’s shoulders shook under his hand and he felt the weight of this like a stone in his chest; wanted to apologise, wanted to reassure her, but the blood was spreading and he was sure she was losing the baby. He tried not to think of Anna, stared at the smashed tumblers and crockery which had done this to Julia, the pieces blurring under his gaze, but all he could think of was what a fragile state pregnancy was and what small things could end it. There had been violence here but it was painfully easy to imagine Anna tripping over a dropped toy or that stupid tufted rug in their living room. He knew that even if he was mere feet away from her he wouldn’t be able to stop it happening.

Then he hated himself for laying his own fears over Julia’s tragedy.

‘I can’t feel her moving,’ she said, in a thin voice. ‘Why isn’t she moving?’

Zigic squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, Julia. She needs you to stay strong.’

‘It’s too late.’

‘No, it’s not. Babies are tougher than you think.’ He willed some certainty into his voice even though it was cracking. ‘She’s going to be fine, she’s a fighter. You’re going to get through this. Both of you.’

In the distance he heard sirens, drawing closer very fast, until the blare of them filled the lane. Ferreira came back through the kitchen door and went to let them in at the front, two women with hard faces and soft voices who swept in with a confidence which inspired a moment of bright hope to flood across Julia’s face.

They eased him out of the way and he stood by uselessly while they performed the most perfunctory of examinations, before lifting Julia to her feet, one either side of her, strong hands under her arms, encouraging her in sweet but determined tones.

‘There we go.’

‘Well done, Julia.’

‘Let’s get you outside, shall we?’

‘There’s a good girl.’

Zigic couldn’t tell from their attitude whether the baby was okay or not. They were too practised at controlling people’s fears and the potentially violent reactions which could follow the realisation of them. The bleeding seemed to have slowed but maybe that wasn’t a good sign. Twenty-eight weeks gone, she’d told him the first time he’d come here. Six and a half months. Babies were born that premature all the time, he thought, were born and survived if their care was good enough.

Assuming that sickening impact wasn’t as fierce as it looked.

He walked outside behind them and numbly watched them guide her into the back of the ambulance, one painful step at a time, the younger of the two women climbing in after her and slamming the door.

‘Are you okay?’ Ferreira asked, touching his arm lightly.

‘Yeah.’ He went to wipe his eyes and saw the blood on his hands, no idea how it got there. ‘I – uh – I think I need to go home. Change out of these …’ He looked down at the blood on his jeans: too much of it, too bright. Fresh tears welled and he turned away from Ferreira to deal with them, hoping she hadn’t noticed how his fingers trembled. ‘I need to wash up. I can’t go back in like this. I really should go home and change.’

She frowned. ‘You couldn’t have stopped that.’

‘We could. If she’d already been in custody it would never have happened.’

‘This job—’ she bit her lip. ‘You can’t spend your life blaming yourself for not stopping shitty people doing fucked-up things. This isn’t on you.’

He nodded, feeling his throat tightening.

‘Here, take my car.’ She held her keys out. ‘I’ll call for a ride.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah, go.’

A couple of minutes out of the village, driving along a winding back road towards Ailsworth with his eyes prickling and his jaw clenched tight, he forced the swell of sadness away, toed the accelerator and concentrated as he swung the unfamiliar car into a sharp bend.

You couldn’t let these things touch you.

For your own sanity, they had to be boxed up securely and pushed to the back of your mind.

It was stupid. All the murder victims, the rape victims, the men and women beaten half to death; their names and faces would be with him for a few days or a few weeks, as long as it took to find the person responsible for their suffering. But quickly they’d fade, to be replaced by the next tragic case that landed on his desk. Forgotten to the point where he’d sometimes see one of them in a shop or a cafe and start towards them as if he knew them, only to realise, usually quickly enough, why he recognised them and that the smile on his face, the warm greeting on his tongue, would not be welcome.

This was going to stay with him, though.

When he got home the boys were playing in the garden. He heard them laughing and screaming as he climbed out of the car, the thwack of the tethered tennis ball he thought they were too young for, and he went through the side gate, found Anna picking over the wilting herbs in the wooden planter alongside the fence. She straightened at the sound of the gate opening and smiled at him, squinting into the sun.

‘Home in the afternoon,’ she said, walking over to him. ‘Either you’ve got a press conference or you’re—’

She’d caught sight of the dried blood on his hands, the faint traces which he hadn’t managed to wipe off onto his jeans before he got in the car.

‘Is that yours?’

It all came out in a rush, even though he didn’t mean to tell her, and her hand went to her stomach as he described the moment Julia hit the table and how close he’d been to catching her but not close enough, Anna’s face paling as he spoke. The boys had fallen silent, both standing with their plastic rackets dangling at their sides while the tennis ball continued to swing around its post.

He shouldn’t have brought this home with him.

‘Is she going to be okay?’ Anna asked.

‘I don’t know.’

She slipped her arms around his neck, up on tiptoes, and kissed him, whispered in his ear that it wasn’t his fault, he shouldn’t blame himself. He hugged her as tightly as he dared, aware of that delicate little body inside her, cocooned between them.

Ferreira glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time, wondering what was keeping Zigic. She’d been back at the station almost an hour, gathered together everything they would need during Caitlin Johnson’s questioning, had her fingerprinted and swabbed and sent down to the cells. Only a short stay because her social worker had arrived within fifteen minutes of being called, bringing a solicitor with her, and now they were both talking with the girl in an interview room. Straightening out her story and deciding upon the best way to proceed.

She wondered if Caitlin would be honest with them, hoped she wouldn’t, giving them an excuse to lay it all out on the table: crime-scene photos for shock value and forensics reports which put Caitlin’s clothing in the Campbells’ incinerator – along with the brambles and twigs Matthew really had been burning – her fingerprints on the bottle of white spirit which had been used to feed the fire, those short, dark brown hairs removed from the bloodstained towels in Dawn’s bathroom showing a type match. The DNA would have to wait but it felt like more than enough.