Dying to Know (A Detective Inspector Berenice Killick Mystery) (53 page)

‘And
what did he say?’

She
smiled. ‘He said that what his faith allows him, is a kind of trust – that justice will be done without a human being having to make that kind of judgment.’

‘However
crap the courts are,’ Berenice said, ‘I’d rather have their judgments in this life, not the next. When I was a kid, they’d tell me about hell. I don’t want no dealings with the devil now I’m grown.’

Virginia
shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine he means hell. He’s so jolly these days. There’s a lightness of step about him, you wouldn’t recognize him. And you know what it is? He told me his wife’s expecting, he said. A miracle baby. He said he wasn’t sure it was his to start with, but it is, apparently, definitely. Early days, I told him he should wait for three months, before he tells people that kind of news…’

Berenice
stared at her.

Virginia
bent to her pockets. ‘I showed him these. The ones you gave me back, the pages from the back of Murdo’s book. He told me his wife took them out, she was crazy, you see, but now she’s not.’

‘The
stuff that Amelia wrote…’

Virginia
nodded. ‘Her daughter, little Grace, she’s buried up at the old church on the marshes, you can see the grave if you know where to look. Anyway, then Amelia disappeared. No one knows what happened to her after that. These pages end with her terrible sorrow, but maybe that’s not the end of the story.’

The
bell rang for the end of visiting hours. Berenice reached across and touched Virginia’s arm. ‘I’ll come and see you again.’

‘Thank
you. That would be nice.’ Virginia was calm, composed, as if she’d just invited her to tea. She folded Amelia’s pages back into her bag, and allowed the warder to lead her back to her cell.

Amelia
put
down
her
pen
.
She
blew
on
the
paper
to
let
the
ink
dry
.
Then
she
re
-
read
her
words
.

‘
This
is
not
the
end
,
’
she’d
written
. ‘
I
will
not
say
,
this
is
the
ending
of
my
story
.
Dear
Gabriel
,
’
the
letter
went
on
, ‘
as
you
well
know
,
when
I
left
you
,
I
had
no
idea
where
I
was
going
.
I
couldn’t
see
beyond
my
grief
.
Our
grief
,
I
should
say
.
Now
,
all
this
time
later
,
I
can
acknowledge
that
you
too
were
in
pain
,
the
pain
of
a
father
whose
child
has
died
.

‘
I
do
hope
you
get
this
letter
.
I’m
concerned
not
to
have
heard
from
you
for
so
long
.
I
hope
you
got
my
last
letter
,
thanking
you
for
sending
my
brother’s
crucifix
.
I
am
so
very
grateful
for
it
,
the
more
so
in
that
I
know
it
to
be
yours
.
Guy
would
have
wanted
you
to
have
it
,
but
in
turn
,
I
must
thank
you
for
making
it
a
gift
to
me
.
I
was
glad
to
get
your
news
from
Berlin
.
I’m
glad
your
science
is
going
so
well
,
and
that
you
have
found
happiness
.
If
Ernst
is
also
a
scientist
,
you
and
he
must
have
much
in
common
.
As
I
have
said
before
,
who
would
have
imagined
these
chapters
of
our
stories
?
Who
would
have
thought
that
I
would
find
such
happiness
with
my
dear
William
?

Yet
even
now
,
we
cannot
know
the
ending
of
our
stories
.
Distant
as
it
is
from
Philadelphia
,
we
are
all
concerned
to
hear
that
Europe
is
on
the
brink
of
another
war
.

‘
I
do
hope
we
meet
again
.
Germany
seems
so
far
away
.
I
was
concerned
at
the
fear
you
expressed
in
your
last
letter
,
that
people
such
as
you
are
no
longer
welcome
there
.
I
hope
I
hear
from
you
soon
,
dear
Gabriel
.
Guy
would
have
been
so
happy
to
know
that
we
are
friends
.

‘
Well
,
I
must
go
now
.
And
here’s
my
darling
daughter
,
Clara
,
coming
to
tell
her
Mother
to
put
down
her
pen
and
to
ask
Cook
if
there’s
cake
for
tea
.

‘
With
every
good
wish
,

‘
Your
loving
friend
,
Amelia
.
’

Piano notes. Sunlight pours through the studio windows. Helen, alone, is practicing.
Jetée
,
coupé
,
pas
de
bourée
…

He
opens the door, almost silently. He begins to follow her, watching her feet, a step here, a step there, an attempt at a pirouette. He almost falls, and she reaches out to steady him, and starts to laugh, and Chad laughs too, holding her, her crimson dancewear bright against the pale walls. She clings to him, still laughing, and he places a hand on her rounded belly, in wonderment at the new life growing there.

In her cell, Virginia sits, alone. She holds a photograph. It shows a boy, blond and sweet-smiling. She smiles too, gazing on his face.

His
story, she thinks. His conception, his adoption, the web of lies that entrapped us all, that cost two men their lives, that cost me my freedom. But he is free, this child. He is beyond this realm, the ties that bind us here.

She
gazes upwards, at the tiny square of light with bars across it. I brought this on myself, she thinks. There was chaos, and disorder. There was a father, ousted from the truth, who met his end…

Who
met his end at my hands.

I
deserve my fate.

In
her mind he’s falling, falling, turning, spinning, the splash of the sea loud against the stones, deafeningly loud.

Chaos
and disorder.

She
thinks of the lab, the particles colliding, turning, spinning, smashing, falling.

Falling.

She
breathes, in, out. But now, there is peace. It is over. Out of the collidings, there is meaning. Out of the chaos, there is truth.

As
it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be…

She
stares again at the photograph. She smiles, at his beauty, at his innocence.

It
is enough, that he lived.

She
breathes his name. ‘Jacob…’ However it was you came into this world - I was the woman you called mother. I raised you. I had that place. You loved me as your mother. And I loved you.

A
whisper, again, of his name.

I
love you still.

It
is enough.

Acknowledgments

Many
people have helped me with this novel. My visit to the Large Hadron Collider at CERN was compellingly fascinating, and I would like to thank Steven Goldfarb of the ATLAS experiment there, and also Ariane Koek and Renilde Vanden Broeck for making me so welcome. I would also like to thank Steve Lloyd and Adrian Bevan of the School of Physics and Astronomy at Queen Mary, University of London.

I
also wish to thank Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor, retired, formerly of Sussex Police, and Glenn and Liz Stone of Kent Police.

Thanks
are also owed to The Royal Literary Fund Fellowship Scheme, and to my agent, Vivien Green, for her unwavering support.

Over
the time of writing this novel, I have had various physicists explain their work to me in great detail. I fear they will shake their heads at just how little I really understood. Were this a work of physics, my mistakes would be unforgivable, but this is a novel, and in my defence I would say that my aim was always to describe the poetry of physics as much as its mathematics.