The Mother-in-Law(22)

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Ollie shakes his head. “But she committed suicide. That’s what you guys said.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Now Ollie seems to snap to attention. “But . . . you said there was a letter?”

“There was a letter.”

“Can we read it?”

“Eventually. But it’s currently part of our investigation.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re checking it for fingerprints. Doing a handwriting analysis.”

“You think it was forged?”

“We’re trying not to make too many judgments until we know more.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ollie says, standing up. He begins to pace. “Just ridiculous.”

“Listen, there is evidence to suggest she committed suicide. The materials. The letter we found in her desk drawer.”

I blink. “Her desk drawer?”

“Muuuuuum, I’m huuuuuungry.”

Everyone glances in the direction of the voice. Edie is standing at the back door. Jones and Ahmed rise to their feet.

“Who are these people?” Edie asks, walking up to Jones, not stopping until she’s practically between her thighs.

“My name is Detective Jones,” Jones says. “This is my partner, Detective Ahmed. We’re police.”

Edie frowns. “But you don’t have police clothes on.”

“Some police don’t wear uniforms. But I have a badge. Here. Look.”

Jones, I notice, has changed temperaments as if on an axis. Suddenly she is, perhaps not quite maternal, but certainly friendly and warm. It’s clear to me somehow that she doesn’t have children of her own, but she appears the type who might very well be someone’s favorite aunt.

“I think we’ll leave it at that for today,” Jones says, taking her badge back from Edie and putting it in her jacket pocket. “But if you think of anything significant, or remember Diana’s oncologist’s name, please do give me a call.” Her tone indicates that she doesn’t expect that call to come.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Ollie says, as they walk toward the front door. “Mum wouldn’t lie about having cancer.”

But my mind is caught up with something else, something irritating and itchy, like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue. No matter how many times I turn it over, I can’t make any sense of it.

If you committed suicide, why did you leave the letter in the study drawer, Diana? Why wouldn’t you leave it where you knew someone would find it?





12: LUCY


THE PAST

A week or two before Archie’s first birthday, Ollie and I arrive at Tom and Diana’s house. We are immediately shuffled into the front living room, the “good room” all the Goodwins call it, which is strange because all the rooms seem pretty good to me. Still, it’s a novelty as we usually gather around bar stools in the kitchen, or hang out in the den.

“Can I get you another mineral water, Lucy?” Diana asks.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

Diana and Tom’s sofa is so plump with stuffing that I have to clutch the armrest for stability. It doesn’t help that my knee is doing its nervous bounce thing. Diana does nothing to put me at ease. She is her classic self today—her gaze beady and guarded. She sits right on the edge of the couch, her legs crossed at the knee. Nettie and Patrick were here when we arrived, but after giving us a quick, apologetic wave, they made themselves scarce. I wish I could make myself scarce.

Diana and I attempt to make small talk—about work (mine, never hers), about my dad’s health (the precancerous mole he recently had removed), about the 70s zebra-striped jumpsuit and jacket combo I’m wearing (which Diana mistook for pajamas), but I sense Diana’s heart isn’t in it and neither is mine. We both want to get on with what we came here for, and it’s clear from the fact that Ollie and I suggested this meeting that we want something.

“Cheese?” Diana says, holding up an antipasto platter.

“No,” I say, and we drift back into silence.

Unfortunately, Ollie is still locked in conversation with Tom, long after Diana and I have exhausted all avenues of conversation. Tom, it appears, is talking about the inheritance again. He adores talking about the inheritance and drops it into conversation as often as he possibly can. It reminds me of a child desperate to tell their friend what they’d gotten them as a birthday present before they can tear off the paper. The inheritance, he says, will look after us in our old age. Admittedly, it’s nice to know we’ll be looked after and it does give me some comfort in those times we eat instant noodles for dinner because we can’t afford anything else . . . but at the same time, it feels like poor taste to talk about what we’ll get when someone dies before they are dead.

“Anyway, we wanted to ask you something,” Ollie says, after what seems like an eternity. Diana and I sit a little straighter. Tom is the only one who seems surprised that there is a purpose to our visit. For someone so successful, he really can be quite thick.

“We’ve found a house,” Ollie announces.

“And not a moment too soon!” Tom says eagerly. He, like the majority of Ollie’s friends, has been unsettled about the fact that we’re renting and likes the security of bricks and mortar for investment.