Dying to Know (A Detective Inspector Berenice Killick Mystery) (49 page)

Berenice
put the lions back in their box. She stared at the photograph on her desk. That small white coffin…

What
she remembered was the flowers. Cascades of them, draped in piles, over the coffin, filling the church. She remembered thinking that perhaps he was hiding behind them, perhaps he’d jump out, smiling, laughing, and their mother would look up and see him. She’d imagined, perhaps, how her mother would give him a clip round the ear, giving him what for, getting everyone to make this fuss…

But
there’d been nothing like that. Her mother, when she glanced at her, as she did all through the service, was tight-faced with grief, unashamed of the tears which soaked her face.

We
didn’t recover. My mother and I. We never managed to negotiate the gap that lay between us. As soon as I could, I joined the Job, fled to Leeds.

Berenice
fingered the edge of the photograph, then slipped it into the file. Her fingers brushed against the van Mielen book, and she pulled it out.

She
scanned the words in front of her, about light and rays and transformations, about particles and aether and the flood that will cleanse us all.

And
yet, in the end, it was an ordinary crime.

That
man downstairs is hard, ruthless, greedy. Damaged, maybe, but in the end just an ordinary criminal.

She
stared at the photograph again. Jacob, she thought. She imagined the tiny body lying in its coffin. That mother, the van Mielen one. Amelia. Burying her child. And then, years later, Virginia has to do the same…

She
remembered her mother saying, over and over, I loved him more than my own life. She remembered Virginia’s words, I couldn’t have loved that child more.

I
couldn’t have loved that child more. If… if what?

She
stared, unseeing at the plastic lions. A thought, just beyond her reach. The white coffin, the flowers…

Oh
My God, she thought. It’s so bloody obvious. No wonder Clem Voake is denying everything.

She
picked up her coat, grabbed her bag, and raced for her car.

Helen set the table for dinner. One plate, one glass. She picked up her phone, dialled Chad’s number again, heard it click to answer, left yet another message.

‘It’s
me. Please just tell me where you are.’

He
could be anywhere, she thought. When does he become a missing person? When do I tell the police? Tomorrow? Now?

The
saucepan of pasta was boiling over, dripping sticky water over the hob. She switched off the gas. Then she poured a large glass of wine. The pasta congealed, uneaten, in the pan.

Berenice drove slowly through the darkness. The sea glittered in the distance.

If
I’m right, she thought, Elizabeth lied. But why? Why would she lie?

And
if Iain and Murdo were best friends…

If
I’m right…

Ghosts.
Like Amelia’s brother. And Amelia’s daughter, buried in an old church.

What
if they’re just stories, just fairy tales?

In
the beginning, she thought…

She
drove up the hill to Virginia’s cottage, slowed to a halt. A single light glowed pale in the window.

She
switched off the engine. Then she walked up the path to Virginia’s door.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Virginia
stood in her doorway.

‘What
do you want?’

‘I’d
like a word, Mrs. Maguire.’

‘You’ve
arrested him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Has he admitted it all?’

‘I’m
afraid I can’t go into that.’

Virginia
gave a shrug of her shoulders. She turned, unsmiling, and led the way inside. She indicated a chair, and Berenice sat down.

‘I’m
not sure I can help you any further,’ Virginia said.

‘Are
you alone?’

Virginia
nodded. ‘Tobias will be back soon. He’s out at the pub, with his friend Finn.’ She looked up, nervously. ‘This isn’t about him, is it? He’s a changed boy with all that suspicion lifted – ’

‘No,’
Berenice said. ‘This isn’t about him.’

‘Oh.
Good.’

Berenice
fished in her bag and drew out the photograph. She showed it to Virginia.

Virginia
looked down at it. ‘Did I give you that?’

‘It
was in Tobias’s things.’

‘Oh.
Yes.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘We can have it back now, can’t we?’ She spoke fast.

‘Soon,
yes.’

Virginia
reached for the photo, but Berenice moved it out of reach.

‘Mrs.
Maguire,’ she said. ‘Why is Elizabeth at Jacob’s funeral?’

‘Was
she?’ Virginia stared at Berenice’s hands. ‘I can’t remember.’

Berenice
held it out again. ‘There. And she looks terrible.’

‘It’s
not a good picture – ’

‘You
can see she’s crying…’

Again
Virginia grabbed at it. Berenice tucked it back into her briefcase.

‘You
shouldn’t have it,’ Virginia said. ‘It’s not yours…’

‘You
and Elizabeth… You’ve not been entirely honest, have you? About your relationship…’ Berenice watched her.

Virginia
shrugged. ‘You can understand why, surely. After she and Murdo…’

‘After
she and Murdo what?’ Berenice waited.

‘Do
I have to spell it out to you? You know all there is to know about that woman tempting my husband away from me…’ She got to her feet. ‘Do you have anything else to say to me?’

Berenice
returned her gaze. She shook her head.

Virginia
went to the door and held it open for her.

Berenice
gathered up her things.

‘I’d
like my photograph back too.’

Berenice
shook her head. ‘Evidence, I’m afraid.’

At
the door she offered her hand to Virginia. ‘Thanks so much for seeing me.’

Virginia’s
arms stayed at her side. The door slammed behind her.

She drove fast, back to the police station. No point going home, she thought.

The
duty sergeant nodded at her in greeting. ‘Someone to see you, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘In reception. A woman. Bit of a state, I’d say.’

She
walked round, glanced through the glass.

The
vicar’s wife. Helen, wasn’t it?

She
opened the door. ‘Hello.’

Helen
looked up. She was ashen-white, red-eyed. She got to her feet. ‘I want you to have these,’ she said.

She
was holding out some sheets of paper in trembling fingers.

‘Amelia,’
she said. ‘Van Mielen’s daughter. Gabriel’s wife. Her child died…’

‘Are
you all right?’ Berenice said.

‘No,’
Helen said. ‘I’m not all right at all.’

They sat in the canteen. Berenice placed a large mug of tea in front of her.

‘Missing?’
she said.

‘I
bet he’s with Virginia,’ Helen said.

Berenice
shook her head. ‘I’ve just come from there. She was alone. Unless he was hiding.’

‘He
doesn’t need to hide.’

‘Do
you think he’s in danger?’ Berenice asked.

Helen
shook her head. ‘Not in physical danger, no.’

Berenice
felt suddenly weary. It must be about midnight, she thought. I have work to do –

‘…
it’s all connected,’ Helen said, suddenly. ‘The physics and the lab and the aether in the writings, and the dead child and the poor ghost of a soldier who died in the war. And now Chad has gone.’

‘I
have a murder enquiry on my hands.’

Helen
looked at her. ‘That’s what I mean. It’s all the same.’

‘In
what sense is it all the same?’ Berenice stifled a yawn.

Helen
began to speak, stopped. She shook her head. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong. I’m not really thinking straight at the moment.’

‘Marriages
often have their troubles.’ Berenice stirred her spoon around in her mug.

‘This
isn’t troubles.’ Helen’s voice was loud. ‘Oh no. This is entirely my fault. This is me wrecking something that was good, just because I – I wanted…’ She looked up. ‘I’m not even sure I want children. I mean, yes, of course, I do, but to wreck my marriage, to run off with someone else out of some kind of rage or pain or something, when I could have just said to Chad, we need to talk about this – ’

‘Perhaps
you did say all that. Perhaps he just didn’t listen.’

Helen
looked at her.

‘Mind
you,’ Berenice was saying, ‘what do I know? All I’ve learned about marriage I learned from being the Other Woman.’ She glanced at Helen. ‘I don’t imagine that’s your problem with him, is it?’

Helen
shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘Even
vicars, yeah?’

‘They’re
only human.’

Berenice
smiled. ‘Aren’t we all.’

Helen
pushed the yellowed pages across the table to her. ‘Keep these. Please.’

‘You
don’t want them?’

She
shook her head. ‘They’re bad for me. All that pain and heartbreak and grief about children. I can’t do it anymore.’ She got to her feet.

‘What
will you do?’ Berenice walked beside her through the canteen.

Helen
shrugged. ‘What can I do? Hope he comes back, I guess.’

‘He’ll
probably try to tell you he’s safe. People usually do that.’

‘And
if he doesn’t?’

Berenice
held the door open for her. ‘I’ll put out a shout if you like. At least we can try to find out where he’s hiding. But we don’t extend to marriage guidance.’

Helen
gave her a thin smile.

‘And
even if we did – ’ Berenice held out her hand. ‘ – I’m not the person to ask.’

She saw Helen out to her car, returned to her office. She sat in the silence, in the pool of light from her anglepoise lamp.

The
notes of hate mail were spread out in front of her, all with their clumsy red words predicting disaster. She picked up the last one. The handwriting was different. Neater.

Found
by Iain Hendrickson, she thought. And what if he’d written it himself? What if he’d thought of a way to keep the heat off him. After Murdo’s death.

In
her mind, she saw the beach. Two men, shouting, fighting. One blow, two blows to the head. And then one carries the other, his arm swinging, as Tobias said. And he carries him, somehow, all the way up Hank’s Tower.

She
picked up the book. And if I’m right, she thought, the answer is here.

‘Amelia
Voake,’ she said, out loud, poring over the writings. She flicked to the last few pages.

‘I
have no husband. I have no child. I, Amelia van Mielen, am once more alone. With these pages I finish my story.’

‘I
have no child…’

Berenice
held the funeral photograph in the palm of her hand. She recalled Virginia’s words, all those days ago, sitting in the interrogation room downstairs, ‘I couldn’t have loved that child more…’

The
unbearable pain of the loss of a child. The destructive force of a mother’s grief.

Her
desk phone shrilled. ‘Killick,’ she said, hearing the duty sergeant ask if she’d be sleeping at HQ that night.

‘No,’
she said. ‘I’m off home. Don’t suppose I’ll sleep, but I’m off home anyway. Yeah. Ta. Night.’

She
gathered up her coat, her bag, her car keys.

I
know I’m right, she thought.

The night was cold and clear, and gave way to a crisp bright dawn. At nine o’clock, Berenice drove through the gates of the lab and parked in the visitor’s car park.