Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (26 page)

I cast my eyes around the ward for the first time since arriving.

It’s been painted in an ugly salmon-pink, the colour of Germolene. Striped turquoise curtains hang by the side of each bed, ready to be pulled around when privacy is needed. It’s an
old bloke’s idea of what women like. Reminds me of the decor of a bad wedding-reception venue.

The visitors at the next bed begin saying their goodbyes, telling the lady they’ll be back tomorrow, with more magazines, more Lucozade. For a moment I’m nostalgic for the Lucozade of old, when it used to come wrapped in that special netting that told the world you were
really
poorly.

Short of somewhere to focus my eyes – that’s not on Kate, or on the rest of the patients in the ward – I pick up Alexa’s copy of
Vanity Fair
. It’s not my usual choice of reading but my mind is racing and I need something to do with my hands. After a quick flick through, I decide
Vanity Fair
is rubbish. There’s far too much text. I’d rather read
Now
or
OK!

I begin reading an article on a posh celebrity who lives in Bermuda. She’s someone I’ve never heard of who’s loosely connected to the Royal Family. She’s all blonde hair and legs, late thirties, and has just had her first baby. ‘It’s amazing,’ she beams. ‘It’s
the most
incredible thing. It’s so beautiful, it’s astonishing. There’s
so
much love.’

I shut the magazine with disgust, mentally dusting my hands.

Just once –
once –
I’d like to come across a new mother in a magazine who says, ‘I’m finding this really hard. It’s not at all like I thought it would be. I don’t think I’ll be having another … And’ – she says this next part sniffling into a hanky – ‘my husband’s been next to useless. I thought he’d make a wonderful father, but, well, he’s leaving it all to me. He’s being a complete dick, actually.’

I glance towards Kate distractedly and immediately jolt backwards, almost falling off my chair.

Her eyes are open and she’s watching me.

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask her quickly, trying to gather myself. My voice comes out strangled-sounding and desperate.

Her eyes are rheumy, the linings raw. She tries to smile. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

‘Came to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I ramble. ‘Alexa’s here too, but she just had to nip out to make a call. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Kate closes her eyes and I reach for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘We’re glad you made it, Kate.’

I look to the ward entrance, willing Alexa to return, willing her to hurry. I feel a little out of my depth here and I’m not sure I’ll handle this properly.

No sign.

With her eyes still closed, Kate whispers, ‘Where am I?’, and this shocks me.

I’d assumed, moments earlier, that she was lucid. That she knew what happened and was not mentioning the pills, in the first instance, because she was embarrassed. Or perhaps because I was not the right person to talk to.

Suddenly I feel woefully inept, like I am
absolutely not
the best person she should be talking to about it. Even if I did find her.

‘You’re at the hospital,’ I say tentatively. ‘Lancaster Infirmary.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Not really.’

‘That’s okay … just rest for now,’ I say, and her eyelids flicker open a little. She looks like one of those cruel pictures you see of celebrities exiting the clubs in the early hours. The ones with their eyes half closed, looking like they’re totally plastered.

‘Lisa,’ she asks me, ‘is Guy here?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Is he coming?’

Uneasily, I say, ‘I expect so,’ because I can’t come up with anything better to say to her when put on the spot.

Is
he coming?

Not likely.

He’s in a police cell, or else he’s being interrogated about your missing daughter.

As I think about this, it crosses my mind that Kate has not yet asked about Lucinda.
Has she come back? Is there any more news?
You would expect at least that … wouldn’t you?

This conspicuous lack of enquiry further cements in my mind the certainty that Kate suspects Guy is responsible. I know it would be the first thing out of my mouth, doped or otherwise:
Where is my child
? I’d be shouting on waking,
Where is my—

All at once, and as if from nowhere, Kate gives a violent, involuntary shudder. I jump up towards her. ‘Kate? Kate? Are you okay?’

She nods, seemingly unable to speak, and I’m not sure what to do. Do I press the emergency call button? Do I run and get the nurse?

I’m about to alert the staff when I see a tear course down Kate’s cheek. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. And it’s only then that I realize she’s too distressed to communicate. The huge shudder she gave was the precursor to this, her now-anguished sobbing.

‘Oh, Kate,’ I say, and try to put my arms around her. Again I notice how thin she is. I can feel the ribs in her back. It’s as if they’re sitting directly beneath the fabric of the gown, no flesh at all in between.

My face is next to hers, and I kiss her hair softly. It smells faintly of sour vomit but it’s not totally unpleasant, more like the acid smell of a well-used Thermos flask. I don’t pull away. Somewhere in the distance I hear the fast, hard clicking of Alexa’s boots, but I don’t register her presence until she speaks.

‘Have you told her?’ she demands from the foot of the bed. ‘Have you told her about Guy?’

I turn around quickly. ‘No,’ I mouth, my eyes wide.

Kate must have an inkling, though, surely. If Kate suspects her husband of foul play, she must know it won’t be long before the police cotton on to it.

‘Told me what about Guy?’ Kate asks, stumbling on her words. ‘Is he … is he injured?’

Alexa fixes Kate with a steady look. ‘He’s been arrested.’

Instinctively Kate moves her hand to her mouth in dismay, but gets a stab of pain from the drip cannula. She whimpers softly. Her whole face is contorted and I am now more confused than ever. Again she goes to speak, but cannot. She looks to me, whispering, ‘Why?’, and I’m thinking,
I thought you knew why
.

I thought you’d discovered Guy has been lying to you, and that’s why you tried to kill yourself. If it wasn’t for that reason, then … what is it?

I stop with the speculation when I notice Kate’s pleading eyes are still upon me. ‘Why?’ she says again, silently, but I have no answer.

I mean, what on earth am I supposed to say?

33

I
’
VE HAD MY PHONE
switched off inside the hospital. There are signs all over the place saying mobiles interfere with the defibrillators or ventilators … or something, which I’m sure is probably bollocks, but can understand all the same. The last thing you’d want lying in a hospital bed is some loud-mouthed idiot telling the world how important he is.

When I reach my car I switch my phone back on and see I have a text. It’s from Lorna, one of the kennel girls at the shelter. It says simply:

Bluey back
.

I give out a small cry of relief and climb behind the wheel. I get the heat going and immediately ring Lorna. As soon as she answers, I say, ‘Where was he?’

‘Tied to the fence at the bottle bank by Booths,’ she says breathlessly. She must be in the middle of mopping up. ‘Mad Jackie Wagstaff found him at seven this morning, when she was recycling her empties. She dropped him off saying he must have been abandoned, because the car park’s empty at that time. She sends her apologies for bringing you another dog, by the way, but said she couldn’t just leave him there.’

‘How long do you think he’d been there?’ I ask.

‘No idea. She said he was a sorry sight. Poor bugger had his head down as usual, waiting for someone to come and get him. Probably stand there all bloody week if he had to.’

I feel a sob building in my chest and have to take a couple of breaths to stifle it.

‘Lisa,’ Lorna asks, ‘you still there?’

‘Yes,’ I sniff, ‘just relieved he’s all right … 
is
he all right?’

‘He seems okay. He’s not eaten, but that’s not unusual for him. I might mix a bit o’ cat food in with it, see if he’ll have it then. What d’you think that fella wanted with him, anyway? Why run off with him then go and dump him? … I said to Shelley, “What’s the point in that?” ’

‘I’ve got a theory – I’ll tell you about it when I get in. I shouldn’t be too long, depends on how bad the roads are.’

‘They’re better than yesterday.’ Then her tone changes: ‘Lisa?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Joe told us about your friend in hospital. Is she going to be okay?’

I’d asked Joe to telephone work for me and let them know the score, told him to tell them about Kate so I could get straight to the hospital to see how she was doing.

‘She’ll recover,’ I say to Lorna. ‘I’ve just seen her, and she was sitting up and able to talk. Her sister’s with her, I’ve let them have some time together.’

‘Did she, like, have problems or something?’

‘She’s the one whose daughter’s missing.’

‘Oh,’ she says emphatically. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’

‘I know,’ I say, and I tell her I’ll be around in half an hour.

As I drive, my head is muddled with thoughts. I try listening to the radio but I can only get Radio 2 in this area, and I can’t stand the string of moaners who ring in to Jeremy Vine at this hour, so I turn it off.

My exhaust is blowing worse than ever and as I press on the accelerator I frighten a young mother standing at the lights with a pram. I check my mirror and see she’s shouting something angrily in my direction. I hope I’ve not woken her baby, I hope—

What the hell is Kate doing trying to kill herself
?

That’s what I can’t get out of my head.

I wanted to shout it at her. I wanted to shake her senseless and make her tell me just what the bloody hell was going on.

Now I can’t think straight. Now my head feels like someone’s firing pellets at it from close range, and every time I try to think rationally, every time I try to go through something from start to finish, the thought is obliterated before I can come to any proper conclusions.

Why didn’t she ask for Lucinda when she woke up?

Why did she fall apart so badly when she was told Guy had been arrested?

And this is a minor point, but I’m going to go ahead and voice it because it’s pissing me off, why did neither Kate, Alexa nor, come to think of it, Guy, thank me for saving Kate’s life?

I know they’re all over the place presently, but I’d have thought one of them might at least have said, ‘Thank God you came, Lisa.’

But no. Nothing.

My knuckles are a bloodless white on the steering wheel and I tell myself,
Okay, stop. For now, just stop thinking. Because Bluey’s back
. It’s the
one good
thing to come out of today.

Bluey’s back and I’ve made the decision that tonight he’s coming home to live with us.

34

J
OANNE
’
S IN THE
incident room along with four other detectives, waiting for the arrival of DI McAleese. It’s a glass room, built last year after one of Cumbria’s longest-serving detectives – DS Russ Holloway – died from pancreatic cancer.

A photo of Russ taken on his first day in uniform hangs in the corner; there’s a small commemorative plaque beneath. Joanne gazes at it now and remembers stopping the car when Russ mentioned pain in his abdomen, pain he’d complained about for the third time that week. Joanne had refused to drive any further until he rang his GP for an appointment, but by then it was already too late. Incredibly, he passed away just three weeks later.

McAleese comes in and shuts the door behind him. He’s wearing a deep-red shirt and contrasting tie; the shirt is dotted with patches of sweat, something Joanne has never seen on McAleese before. He’s a meticulous man, educated to a higher level than most in the room. He studied to be an actuary, and when he joined the force he was fast-tracked. Made the grade of DI in record time.

McAleese is looking harried, which, as the Senior Investigating Officer, is natural, but it’s not a natural state for him.

‘So I’m assuming the news has travelled, and you’re all aware that our third girl has turned up?’ He does a quick survey of the faces in front of him; there’s a quiet muttering of ‘Sir.’
Confirmation that, yes, they all know. ‘Francesca Clarke’s back with her family, and we’ll be conducting the questioning at her home shortly. She’s in no state to be brought in. Doc’s examined her, and he’s got what we need.’

He clears his throat before continuing. Loosens his tie slightly.

‘Our man’s got more brutal this time.’ He says this as if it was half expected. ‘I’ll spare you the nasties for now. Suffice to say, she won’t be getting over this in a hurry. We’ve got a couple of FLOs with her, and a counsellor’s on her way from Preston. Some psychologist woman who’s had experience in dealing with violent rape.’ He breathes out wearily and says, ‘She’s supposed to be very good—’ But like the rest of us he’s thinking it doesn’t really matter how good she is. It’s another life ruined.

McAleese chews at the end of his pen, everyone’s quiet because he’s mentally ticking things off a list in his head. He bites the side of his cheek and says, ‘Francesca Clarke’s father’s going ape-shit, he’s not happy with the handling of the case, etc., etc.… I need a volunteer for him … Anybody?’

Since no one’s coming forward in a hurry for what’s bound to be a shitty job, Joanne says she doesn’t mind doing it. Sometimes she’s better at diffusing situations than her male colleagues; she has a way of making the complainant feel as if the force is genuinely sorry for whatever it is they’re being accused of … without it actually being accountable.

It’s a skill she developed as a teenager, working in a couple of the Lakes’ poshest hotels as a chambermaid. When outraged guests complained they’d found a hair between the bed sheets, or a rust-stained teapot, Joanne found it incredibly easy to apologize, going well over the top with how absolutely unsatisfactory the situation was. Because that’s all the guests were really after: a ‘sorry’. No one ever said you had to mean it. And
yet, Joanne notices how often folk pull hard against saying it.