Losing You (38 page)

‘So how are the two of you getting along, here on your own?’

Opening her eyes and lifting her head, Emma said, ‘OK, I guess, probably because we don’t actually see all that much of each other now she’s taken over Will’s visiting hours at the hospital. Harry came at the weekend with Jane, which seemed to cheer her. You saw them, didn’t you? Actually, you cooked dinner for us all. Sorry, my head’s all over the place.’

‘It must be reassuring to know that Harry and Jane think you’re doing the right thing.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes it is, and Berry agrees with me too. I just keep wondering what they’d say if I suddenly decided that Will was right after all – and I have to admit, there’s a tiny part of me that’s afraid I could be getting this horribly wrong.’

‘You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have doubts, especially over something so important.’

Putting her face in her hands, Emma combed her fingers back through her hair and took a deep, ragged breath. ‘The orthopaedic surgeon is keen to operate on her leg,’ she said. ‘I think they’re scheduling it for sometime in the next few days. All this surgery, so much anaesthetic ... Still, it has to happen,’ she added briskly, as though to buoy herself. ‘Tell me what happened when Donna and Melissa went to see her on Sunday. Did you hear them talking to her?’

Polly shook her head in regret. ‘No, they wouldn’t relax the rule of two visitors at one time, so all I can tell you is that whatever they said to her, they’ve decided to carry on keeping it to themselves.’

Emma’s laugh was mirthless. ‘Well, at least that shows they have some faith in her coming round, or why keep the secret? Maybe they wouldn’t tell us anyway. I was thinking I’d give Clive Andrews a call tomorrow. I haven’t heard from him since last Friday, so maybe something new has happened, though I’m sure he’d have been in touch if it had. Come to think of it, I must contact Hamish Gallagher too, to let him know what I’ve decided about the job.’

‘And what have you decided?’

‘That I can’t take it, not even on a part-time basis, but I’ll ask him to consider me for freelance work at a later stage, once things have settled down a bit.’ Would that ever happen, she was wondering. What on earth did the future hold for them? ‘Will was asking in his email if there’s been anything in the local press about what’s happening to the Lomax boy. Have you seen or heard anything?’

Polly shook her head. ‘Not recently, but he must be going in front of the magistrates any time now.’

‘I’ll ask Clive when I speak to him. I’m as keen as Will to know that justice is taking its proper course, and not just focusing on Lauren and where she went that night.’

Jackie Dennis was at her desk, half hidden behind a mountain of paperwork, when Clive Andrews returned her call.

‘You wanted to speak to me,’ he stated.

‘I did. It’s about Lauren Scott. Have you seen her mother recently?’

‘I spoke to her this morning. I didn’t mention anything about Lomax’s missing blood, because I was hoping it might have turned up by now.’

‘You, me and the CPS,’ Dennis answered, trying not to be annoyed. ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell’s going on over in those labs, but I heard yesterday there have been a few mistakes recently, and apparently questions are raining down from on high. Which doesn’t help us much, I know, but for the moment I’m afraid it’s all I can tell you about that.’

‘So no magistrates’ hearing in the offing?’

‘Not yet, no, and I’m sorry to land you with this, Clive, but I’m afraid the Scotts’ case has been relegated to the bottom of my pile, thanks to a lorry decapitating an elderly couple on the M4 on Saturday night, and a father of three who went under a bus on the Fishponds road Sunday afternoon. And that’s just for starters; it’s been a hell of a weekend, so you’re lucky you were off, and frankly I’m considering going off altogether with the way things are. How the hell are we supposed to run an accident investigation unit, or any kind of unit, when they keep forcing all these cuts on us, is what I want to know. It’s a bloody nightmare. Everyone who’s left is either running scared for their job and pension, or they’re so busy looking for some other kind of employment they might as well not be here at all. It’s crazy. We can’t function like this, no one can. But just you wait, any day now some shifty little git from the Home Office, or the press, is going to be down on us like a ton of bricks over something we’ve missed, or got wrong, and will they want to hear that we’ve had our manpower reduced by forty per cent, or that the budgets we’re being given barely pay for the sodding petrol to get us to a scene, never mind getting us back again? Will they hell! Are you sorry you rang in yet, because there’s plenty more in my spleen that’s needing out?’

‘I think I’m getting the picture,’ Andrews answered wryly. ‘It’s the same whoever I ring these days, from traffic, to CID, to the Coroner’s office, which is understandable,
given what we’re all having to deal with, but you still haven’t told me what you’re landing me with.’

Dennis’s heart sank. ‘You’re not going to like it,’ she warned, ‘but I know I can trust you to handle it discreetly. A journal’s come to light. It was found in Lauren’s flute bag and it makes for some very, how shall I put it, interesting reading. Made my eyebrows shoot up, anyway.’

‘So what does it say?’

‘I’m going to let you read it for yourself. I haven’t contacted the school yet, you should talk to Emma Scott before we do that.’ She began digging through the precarious pile in front of her. ‘We finally heard back from the service provider for the mobile phone that sent the mystery text to Lauren. Turns out it’s registered to the address in Glastonbury, with its direct debits paid from a bank account in London. The owner’s name’s escaping me for the moment, but ... Ah, here we go. Are you sitting comfortably, Clive-o, because once I’ve explained to you who this is and how they’re connected to both the Osmonds and Lauren Scott, you’re the one who’ll have to decide how to break it to her mother.’

Chapter Twenty

OLIVER WASN’T COUNTING
, why would he, but he guessed, if anyone asked, he’d have to say that the sequence he’d watched most on YouTube of Lauren Scott was one of her dancing, a bit like a ballerina in a cream diaphanous dress and no shoes, twirling, gliding, bending, swooping, until she lost her balance and started to fall around laughing at the end. Someone else burst out laughing too – it must have been whoever was shooting the video, probably her friend Donna, because someone had been playing the piano and Donna always seemed to be in the other videos. On the other hand, it could have been her friend Salina, because all the laughter sounded female. Salina was a quality singer, if you were into all that operatic stuff which Oliver wasn’t, but he enjoyed watching the performances anyway, if Lauren was involved.

It was as if by playing the videos, over and over, he was somehow keeping her as alive as she appeared in them. Occasionally when he watched her it was as if she was speaking poetry, or singing in her smoky soul voice, only to him. She had a look in her eyes that could make someone feel as though they were the only person that mattered. And when she played the flute, all romantic and haunting, he’d watch her lips, her fingers, her chest as she breathed, and feel it doing things to him that that kind of music had never done before.

It was like he was getting to know a ghost.

He was blown away by how brilliant she was at just about everything. It was almost impossible to stop watching her. She had a real magnetic quality about her, and she seemed so happy all the time. Everything about her kind
of glowed, from her skin, to her smile, to her hair, even her voice seemed to ring with joy which should, by rights, have made her seriously annoying, but somehow it didn’t. It just made her seem like the kind of person you wanted to be with, all the time, and that was what made him feel so desolate and empty, he guessed, that he’d never been a part of her world, nor would he ever be now. It was as though he’d lost her, which was crazy, when she’d never been his in the first place, so maybe what he was thinking was that he’d destroyed his chance of ever knowing her, because he was the moron who’d driven his car when drunk and smashed her beautiful, golden life to pieces.

It was no wonder her friends were pointing him to suicide sites and threatening all sorts of violence towards him; he would too if he was one of them. Her friend Donna had posted a video of herself on his Facebook page saying, ‘She had everything to look forward to, she loved life and we all love her, but you, you vile drunk, aren’t loved by anyone. I hope they lock you up and never let you out again.’

Her friend Melissa had posted another video saying, ‘On behalf of all Lauren’s friends here in Bristol, I hope someone does the same to you as you did to her, because it’s what you deserve. Why should you be out there living a normal life, when she might never know what one is again? We hate you, go away and die.’

He’d only watched those videos once, he’d have to be some sort of weirdo to have gone back for more, but he hadn’t forgotten what they’d said, and even wondered at times if he should go away and die. After all, what right did he have to anything, now that he’d taken everything from Lauren?

He wished, more than anything, that he could go to see her. He longed to tell her how sorry he was, and how he would do
anything
to be in her place so she no longer had to be. He felt sick with guilt and horror every time he thought of how he’d almost left her that night. Thank God he hadn’t, or she’d have died on the side of the road like an animal, and he’d be to blame.

‘Oliver! Are you in there?’ his father called from outside the door.

Quickly closing down the screen, Oliver said, ‘Yes, what do you want?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure, why not?’

Pushing open the door, Russ stepped into the room. Finding Oliver already showered and dressed, which he often wasn’t first thing in the morning, seemed to smooth some of the flintiness from his eyes. ‘Charlie and I are off now,’ he said.

Oliver swallowed dryly. ‘Do you think I should come?’ he asked.

‘No. Like I said last night, you should spend the day working with Paul. You don’t need to be dealing with your mother right now.’

‘I’m not a child.’

‘I’m aware of that, but this accident is taking over your life, and you need to let it go for a while. Doing some research for Paul should help focus you elsewhere for a few hours. Most particularly outside yourself.’

Oliver flushed. ‘If you were in my position ...’

‘That wasn’t a criticism, merely advice. Paul’s already here, he’s over in the office, and Charlie’s happy for you to drive his car if you need to go out today.’

Thrown in so casually, as if Oliver had been behind the wheel a hundred times since the night his and Lauren’s lives had collided with such terrible force.
When we collide we come together
. Not one of his favourite songs, but it was in his mind now and he guessed it would probably stay with him all day. ‘Thanks,’ he said, glad his father wasn’t making a big deal about him driving, the way he had the last time.

‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘OK, good luck with Mum.’ He was probably wishing it more for his father’s and Charlie’s sakes than he was for himself. They were desperate to get him off these charges, and obviously he wanted rid of them too, he’d have to be a serious loser if he didn’t. It just seemed so unfair to Lauren, though, that he stood a chance of extricating himself from the consequences of that night when she’d never be able to.

He’d have liked to post something on her wall about how sorry he was, but he knew that having his name there would sully the page, for her and everyone else, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. He wanted everything about her to stay as pure and lovely as it had been before he’d come along and smashed out all the lights.

‘Are you OK?’ Phyllis asked, coming into Lauren’s room where Emma was sitting on the bed taking books from a box. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, I don’t think so, thanks,’ Emma replied, feeling herself welling up as she looked at Lauren’s old copy of
Winnie-the-Pooh and Some Bees
. So many memories came rushing at her that she felt almost dizzied by the images that were too painfully joyful to hold on to for long. She quoted softly from
Winnie-the-Pooh
. ‘Can you remember which book that’s from?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ Phyllis answered.

Why would she, Emma thought fleetingly, she’d never read the books to her children; Emma couldn’t remember her mother reading her any stories at all. ‘Me neither,’ she said. ‘It just came to my mind.’ She lifted her head, and seeing how uneasy her mother looked she straightened her shoulders to try and appear more together. ‘I told Will I’d dig out some of her old children’s books,’ she explained. ‘I think she’d like to have them read to her, so if he isn’t going to do it I will.’

‘I’d like to as well, if it’s OK,’ Phyllis offered.

Emma managed a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘I’ve been thinking, it must be quite a strain on you, spending all those hours sitting next to her, so if you need to go home ...’

‘I’m happy to do it,’ Phyllis assured her. Then she added, ‘For Lauren, and for you.’

Emma felt a jolt inside. Before she could stop herself, she’d tilted her head to one side and was saying, ‘Really? For me?’

Phyllis’s cheeks reddened. ‘Yes, really,’ she said quietly.

Emma didn’t know what to say to that, so she looked down at the book again and then held it out to her mother. ‘Why don’t you start with this one?’ she suggested.

Taking it, Phyllis stood looking down at it, keeping it closed. Finally she said, ‘I know now probably isn’t the time, but perhaps later we could talk about ... things ... I mean, you and me and how ...’

Embarrassed, and annoyed, Emma got to her feet. ‘You’re right, now isn’t a good time,’ she said shortly. Had her mother forgotten how often in the past she’d pushed aside Emma’s efforts to discuss what was wrong between them? Emma wasn’t doing this now to punish her, she was doing it because she genuinely couldn’t spare the time today, or the emotion. ‘What are you doing this morning?’ she asked, sliding the box of books back under the bed.