I Let You Go (2 page)

He spoke to Control Room to let them know they were five minutes away, but didn’t call home. Ray had taken to phoning Mags instead on the rare occasion when he was going to be on time, which seemed a much more practical approach to the long hours the job demanded of him.

As they rounded the corner Kate slowed the car to a crawl. Half a dozen police cars were strewn haphazardly down the street; lights throwing a blue glow across the scene every other second. Floodlights were mounted on metal tripods, their strong beams picking out the fine mist of rain, which had thankfully abated in the last hour.

Kate had stopped on their way out of the station to grab a coat and exchange her heels for wellies. ‘Practicality before style,’ she had laughed, throwing the shoes into her locker and pulling on the boots. Ray rarely gave much thought to either principle, but he wished now he’d at least brought a coat.

They parked the car a hundred metres away from a large white tent, erected in an attempt to protect from the rain whatever evidence might have been left. One side of the tent was open, and inside they could see a Crime Scene Investigator on her hands and knees, swabbing at something unseen. Further up the street a second paper-suited figure was examining one of the huge trees that lined the road.

As Ray and Kate drew near to the scene they were stopped by a young PC, his fluorescent jacket zipped so high Ray could barely make out a face between the peak of his hat and his collar.

‘Evening, sir. Do you need to see the scene? I’ll have to sign you in.’

‘No thank you,’ said Ray. ‘Can you tell me where your sergeant is?’

‘He’s at the mother’s house,’ the PC said. He pointed down the street to a row of small terraced houses, before retreating into his collar. ‘Number four,’ came the muffled afterthought.

‘God, that’s a miserable job,’ said Ray, as he and Kate walked away. ‘I remember doing a twelve-hour scene watch in the pouring rain when I was a probationer, then getting told off by the DCI for not smiling when he turned up at eight o’clock the next morning.’

Kate laughed. ‘Is that why you specialised?’

‘Not entirely,’ Ray said, ‘but it was certainly part of the appeal. No, it was mainly because I was sick of passing all the big jobs over to the specialists and never seeing anything through to the end. How about you?’

‘Sort of similar.’

They reached the row of houses the PC had pointed towards. Kate carried on talking as they looked for number four.

‘I like dealing with the more serious jobs. But mainly it’s because I get bored easily. I like complicated investigations that make my head hurt to figure them out. Cryptic crosswords rather than simple ones. Does that make sense?’

‘Perfect sense,’ said Ray. ‘Although I’ve always been useless at cryptic crosswords.’

‘There’s a knack,’ said Kate, ‘I’ll teach you sometime. Here we are, number four.’

The front door was smartly painted and slightly ajar. Ray pushed it open and called inside. ‘CID. All right if we come in?’

‘In the sitting room,’ came the response.

They wiped their feet and walked up the narrow hallway, pushing past an over-loaded coat rack, beneath which sat a pair of child’s red wellies, neatly placed beside an adult pair.

The child’s mother was sitting on a small sofa, her eyes fixed on the blue drawstring school bag clutched on her lap.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Ray Stevens. I’m so sorry to hear about your son.’

She looked up at him, twisting the drawstring so tightly around her hands the cord gouged red grooves in her skin. ‘Jacob,’ she said, dry-eyed. ‘His name is Jacob.’

Perched on a kitchen chair next to the sofa, a uniformed sergeant was balancing paperwork on his lap. Ray had seen him around the nick but didn’t know his name. He glanced at his badge.

‘Brian, would you mind taking Kate into the kitchen and filling her in on what you’ve got so far? I’d like to ask the witness a few questions, if that’s okay? It won’t take long. Perhaps you could make her a cup of tea at the same time.’

From the reaction on Brian’s face, it was clear this was the last thing he wanted to do, but he stood up and left the room with Kate, no doubt to moan to her about CID pulling rank. Ray didn’t dwell on it.

‘I’m sorry to ask you even more questions, but it’s vital we get as much information as we can, as early as possible.’

Jacob’s mother nodded, but didn’t look up.

‘I understand you couldn’t see the car’s number plate?’

‘It happened so quickly,’ she said, the words triggering a release of emotion. ‘He was talking about school, and then … I only let go for a second.’ She pulled the drawstring cord tighter round her hand, and Ray watched the colour drain from her fingers. ‘It was so fast. The car came so fast.’

She answered his questions quietly, giving no sign of the frustration she must surely be feeling. Ray hated causing such intrusion, but he had no choice.

‘What did the driver look like?’

‘I couldn’t see inside,’ she said.

‘Were there passengers?’

‘I couldn’t see inside the car,’ she repeated, her voice dull and wooden.

‘Right,’ said Ray. Where on earth were they going to start?

She looked at him. ‘Will you find him? The man who killed Jacob. Will you find him?’ Her voice cracked and the words fell apart, morphing into a low moan. She bent forward, hugging the school bag into her stomach, and Ray felt a tightening in his chest. He took a deep breath, forcing the feeling away.

‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he said, despising himself for the cliché.

Kate came back from the kitchen with Brian behind her, carrying a mug of tea. ‘All right if I finish this statement now, guv?’ he asked.

Stop upsetting my witness
, you mean, Ray thought. ‘Yes, thank you – sorry for interrupting. Got everything we need, Kate?’

Kate nodded. She looked pale, and he wondered if Brian had said something to upset her. In a year or so he would know her as well as he knew the rest of the team, but he hadn’t quite sussed her out yet. She was outspoken, he knew that much, not too nervous to put her point across at team meetings, and she learned fast.

They left the house and walked in silence back to the car.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, although it was clear she wasn’t. Her jaw was rigid; the colour had completely drained from her face.

‘Fine,’ Kate said, but her voice was thick and Ray realised she was trying not to cry.

‘Hey,’ he said, reaching out and putting an awkward arm round her shoulder, ‘is it the job?’ Over the years Ray had built a defensive mechanism against the fall-out of cases like this one. Most police officers had one – it’s why you had to turn a blind eye to some of the jokes bandied about the canteen – but perhaps Kate was different.

She nodded and took a deep, juddering breath. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not normally like this, I promise. I’ve done dozens of death knocks, but … God, he was five years old! Apparently Jacob’s father never wanted anything to do with him, so it’s always been the two of them. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.’ Her voice cracked, and Ray felt the tightness in his chest return. His coping mechanism relied on focusing on the investigation – on the hard evidence before them – and not dwelling too deeply on the emotions of the people involved. If he thought too long about how it must feel to watch your child die in your arms, he would be no use to anyone, not least to Jacob and his mother. Ray’s thoughts flicked involuntarily to his own children, and he had an irrational desire to call home and check they were both safe.

‘Sorry.’ Kate swallowed and gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I promise I won’t always be like this.’

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Ray said. ‘We’ve all been there.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Even you? I didn’t have you down as the sensitive type, boss.’

‘I have my moments.’ Ray squeezed her shoulder before taking his arm away. He didn’t think he’d ever actually shed tears at a job, but he’d come pretty close. ‘You going to be okay?’

‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

As they pulled away, Kate looked back at the scene, where the CSIs were still hard at work. ‘What sort of bastard kills a five-year-old boy, then drives off?’

Ray didn’t hesitate. ‘That’s exactly what we’re going to find out.’

I don’t want a cup of tea, but I take it anyway. Cradling the mug in both hands I press my face into the steam until it scalds me. Pain pricks my skin, deadening my cheeks and stinging my eyes. I fight the instinct to pull away; I need the numbness to blur the scenes that won’t leave my head.

‘Shall I get you something to eat?’

He towers over me and I know I should look up, but I can’t bear to. How can he offer me food and drink as though nothing has happened? A wave of nausea wells up inside me and I swallow the acrid taste back down. He blames me for it. He hasn’t said so, but he doesn’t have to, it’s there in his eyes. And he’s right – it was my fault. We should have gone home a different way; I shouldn’t have talked; I should have stopped him …

‘No, thank you,’ I say quietly, ‘I’m not hungry.’

The accident plays on a loop in my head. I want to press pause but the film is relentless: his body slamming onto the bonnet time after time after time. I raise the mug to my face again, but the tea has cooled and the warmth on my skin isn’t enough to hurt. I can’t feel the tears forming, but fat droplets burst as they hit my knees. I watch them soak into my jeans, and scratch my nail across a smear of clay on my thigh.

I look around the room at the home I have spent so many years creating. The curtains, bought to match the cushions; the artwork, some of my own, some I found in galleries and loved too much to leave behind. I thought I was making a home, but I was only ever building a house.

My hand hurts. I can feel my pulse beating rapid and light in my wrist. I’m glad of the pain. I wish it were more. I wish it had been me the car hit.

He’s talking again.
Police are out everywhere looking for the car … the papers will appeal for witnesses … it will be on the news …

The room spins and I fix my gaze on the coffee table, nodding when it seems appropriate. He strides two paces to the window, then back again. I wish he would sit down – he’s making me nervous. My hands are shaking and I put down my untouched tea before I drop it, but I clatter the china against the glass tabletop. He shoots me a look of frustration.

‘Sorry,’ I say. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, and I realise I’ve bitten through the inside of my lip. I swallow the blood, not wanting to draw attention to myself by asking for a tissue.

Everything has changed. The instant the car slid across the wet tarmac, my whole life changed. I can see everything clearly, as though I am standing on the sidelines. I can’t go on like this.

When I wake, for a second I’m not sure what this feeling is. Everything is the same, and yet everything has changed. Then, before I have even opened my eyes, there is a rush of noise in my head, like an underground train. And there it is: playing out in Technicolor scenes I can’t pause or mute. I press the heels of my palms into my temples as though I can make the images subside through brute force alone, but still they come, thick and fast, as if without them I might forget.

On my bedside cabinet is the brass alarm clock Eve gave me when I went to university – ‘Because you’ll never get to lectures, otherwise’ – and I’m shocked to see it’s ten-thirty already. The pain in my hand has been overshadowed by a headache that blinds me if I move my head too fast, and as I peel myself from the bed every muscle aches.

I pull on yesterday’s clothes and go into the garden without stopping to make a coffee, even though my mouth is so dry it’s an effort to swallow. I can’t find my shoes, and the frost stings my feet as I make my way across the grass. The garden isn’t large, but winter is on its way, and by the time I reach the other side I can’t feel my toes.

The garden studio has been my sanctuary for the last five years. Little more than a shed to the casual observer, it is where I come to think, to work, and to escape. The wooden floor is stained from the lumps of clay that drop from my wheel, firmly placed in the centre of the room, where I can move around it and stand back to view my work with a critical eye. Three sides of the shed are lined with shelves on which I place my sculptures, in an ordered chaos only I could understand. Works in progress, here; fired but not painted, here; waiting to go to customers, here. Hundreds of separate pieces, yet if I shut my eyes, I can still feel the shape of each one beneath my fingers, the wetness of the clay on my palms.

I take the key from its hiding place under the window ledge and open the door. It’s worse than I thought. The floor lies unseen beneath a carpet of broken clay; rounded halves of pots ending abruptly in angry jagged peaks. The wooden shelves are all empty, my desk swept clear of work, and the tiny figurines on the window ledge are unrecognisable, crushed into shards that glisten in the sunlight.

By the door lies a small statuette of a woman. I made her last year, as part of a series of figures I produced for a shop in Clifton. I had wanted to produce something real, something as far from perfection as it was possible to get, and yet for it still to be beautiful. I made ten women, each with their own distinctive curves, their own bumps and scars and imperfections. I based them on my mother; my sister; girls I taught at pottery class; women I saw walking in the park. This one is me. Loosely, and not so anyone would recognise, but nevertheless me. Chest a little too flat; hips a little too narrow; feet a little too big. A tangle of hair twisted into a knot at the base of the neck. I bend down and pick her up. I had thought her intact, but as I touch her the clay moves beneath my hands, and I’m left with two broken pieces. I look at them, then I hurl them with all my strength towards the wall, where they shatter into tiny pieces that shower down on to my desk.

I take a deep breath and let it slowly out.

I’m not sure how many days have passed since the accident, or how I have moved through the week when I feel as though I’m dragging my legs through treacle. I don’t know what it is that makes me decide today is the day. But it is. I take only what will fit into my holdall, knowing that if I don’t go right now, I might not be able to leave at all. I walk haphazardly about the house, trying to imagine never being here again. The thought is both terrifying and liberating. Can I do this? Is it possible to simply walk away from one life and start another? I have to try: it is my only chance of getting through this in one piece.