The Mother-in-Law(21)

A wedding photo catches Jones’s eye and she pauses briefly to look at it. “This is a nice picture. Is that your mother-in-law?”

She points to Diana, standing to Ollie’s left in the picture. “Yes. That’s Diana.”

“I imagine it’s a hard time for you all. Were you very close to your mother-in-law?”

Jones continues looking at the picture, and those surrounding it on the wall, seemingly uninvested in the answer.

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Jones smiles. “My ex’s mother was a real piece of work. I could barely be in the same room with the miserable old cow. It killed my marriage in the end. So how about you? How was it complicated for you?”

“Oh, you know. Just . . . complicated.”

Jones and Ahmed pick their way down the hall, pausing to look at the photos that dot the walls. Jones, as far as I can tell, is the senior member of the duo, despite being younger and, obviously, female. In amongst my many more-pressing thoughts, I find the feminist in me cheering for her.

“Did you spend much time together as a family?” Jones continues. “Birthdays, Christmases, that kind of thing?”

I think of the last Christmas we spent together. The ugly words, the gnarled faces, the screaming over the turkey. It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark commercial.

“I’m sorry, did you say which unit you were from?” I ask. For a moment I feel like a character out of Law & Order: SVU, which is, of course, my only point of reference for police showing up on the doorstep.

“We’re from homicide,” Jones says evenly.

“Lucy?” Ollie calls from the next room. “Who is it?”

I take a deep breath and walk into the living room. Jones and Ahmed are at my heels. The back door is wide open and Edie appears to have disappeared—a ball must have landed in our yard. Edie adores nothing more than throwing a ball back over the fence.

Ollie stands up, confused.

“It’s the police,” I say.

Ahmed approaches Ollie and extends a hand. “You must be Oliver Goodwin?”

“Ollie,” Ollie says, shaking Ahmed’s hand.

I see Ollie through the police’s eyes. He looks like hell. He’s wearing navy track pants and a maroon rugby sweater, his hair is a shambles, his skin has an odd, grey tone to it. It reminds me of the way he used to look when our kids were newborns and not sleeping, when he would appear in the doorway and beg to go back to sleep “just for half an hour” despite the fact that I was the one who’d been up most of the night.

“I’m Detective Constable Jones and this Detective Constable Ahmed,” Jones says. “We have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Questions about what?” Ollie asks.

There’s a pause, then Jones gives a slight chuckle. “Uh . . . about your mother’s death?”

Ollie’s eyes shoot to me and I shrug. Finally, after a second or two, he gestures for the cops to sit down. They do, on the couch.

“So what can we do for you?” I ask, sitting beside Ollie, on the arm of the armchair. “Do you have any more information about Diana’s death?”

“We don’t have the coroner’s report yet,” Jones says, “but we’ll have it soon. In the meantime, we’re gathering information. You mentioned to Constables Arthur and Perkins that your mother had cancer, is that correct?”

“It is,” I say, when Ollie fails to reply. “Diana had breast cancer.”

Jones flicks open a black notebook embossed with a gold police logo and holds her pen poised. “And can you tell me who her doctor was?”

“Her GP was Dr. Paisley,” I say. “At the Bayside Medical Clinic.”

“And her oncologist?”

Everyone looks at me. Everyone, including Ollie. “Actually . . . I’m not sure. She never mentioned her oncologist’s name to me.”

Jones closes her book. I get the feeling this isn’t news to her. “I see.”

Ollie blinks. “What do you see?”

“We haven’t found any evidence of your mother’s cancer. There is no record of her visiting an oncologist. No mammograms or ultrasounds, no chemotherapy. As far as we can see, she didn’t have cancer at all.”

Jones seems irritated by this, as though their incompetence is somehow our fault. “Well, obviously you haven’t looked in the right place,” I say. “You can’t have checked with every doctor—”

“There’s no referral from Dr. Paisley,” Jones tells us calmly. Her elbows rest on her knees, her hands are clasped together. “There are no scans or blood test results, or anything that might indicate cancer.”

I feel my face screw up. This is just ridiculous. People didn’t say they had cancer if they didn’t. Or perhaps some people did, people with hypochondria or Munchausen’s or those who wanted to garner sympathy or money or friendship. But Diana hated sympathy and she certainly didn’t need money. As for friendship, she hated people fussing around her or offering her so much as a tissue. Diana would never say she had cancer if she didn’t. I’m as sure of this as I am of my very existence.

And yet.

“A problem with the system,” Ollie says. “That must be it. Why would she say she had cancer if she didn’t?”