Unforgotten (16 page)

When he finally went into the house he found Mike waiting in the hall with a sturdy dark-haired woman in a crisp white blouse and black trouser suit. She introduced herself as the family liaison officer. Judging by her manner, her level gaze, the way she offered her condolences simply, without embarrassment or false emotion, he guessed she’d undertaken this task many times before.

Her name was Pat Edgecomb, and she led Hugh into a room he hadn’t seen before, partly a study equipped with a desk and computer, partly an entertainments room with a wide-screen TV and a baby snooker table. The Koenigs probably called it the den.

‘The Koenigs have given this room over to you for as long as you need it,’ said Pat, ‘so you and Charlie can have some space to yourselves, see people when you feel like it, get away when you want to be by yourselves.’

Hugh said, ‘We won’t be staying that long.’

Pat nodded understandingly. ‘Until you move on, then. Perhaps I should explain my role?’ she continued. ‘Basically I’m here to do as little or as much as you’d like me to. If you want information, help of any sort, if you’d like me to contact any person or organisation on your behalf, or if you’d just like me to wait while you decide whether I can be of any use, then that’s fine with me.’

‘Thanks, but I haven’t begun to work out what needs to be done yet.’

‘Well, if you’d like any suggestions, just say the word.’

‘Food first,’ said Mike from the door, clasping his hands together like an attentive waiter. ‘What’s it to be, Hugh? Bacon? Eggs? Toast? Coffee?’

Hugh had lost track of time but breakfast seemed as good a meal as any. ‘Whatever.’

‘Whatever, it is!’

Pat sat in an oversized leather chair whose cushion gave a soft hiss under her weight, while Hugh chose the matching sofa opposite a window that offered the full version of the view the jammed curtains in the room above had denied him that morning: the skeletal branches of the tall beech amid an army of oak and ash, and Meadowcroft two gardens away.

‘First of all, what would you like me to call you?’ Pat said. ‘Mr Gwynne or Hugh?’

‘Whatever.’ It seemed to be his word of the moment.

‘Hugh, then. Shall I just run through who’s here?’

‘Please.’

‘There’s a loss assessor from your home insurance company, a Mr Preston. He’d like a quick word with you before he goes, if that’s at all possible. Then there’s Angela Parfitt, who was, I believe, your wife’s supervisor at the Citizens Advice.’

Was
, past tense. This was to be Lizzie’s story from now on.

‘And your business partner Mr Wheatcroft.’

Hugh thought Ray had gone to the office hours ago. Perhaps he’d been there and come back.

‘Oh, and a young friend of Charlie’s who arrived ten minutes ago. I don’t know his name.’

‘Joel?’

‘If you mean the Koenigs’ son, he’s here, yes. But this is someone else.’

Hugh dragged a hand down his face. His mind was too full of his conversation with Lou to concentrate on all this. Having called to comfort her, he’d found that she was the one comforting him. She realised Mum would have known nothing about the fire, she’d reassured him straight away; she knew smoke
killed people in their sleep. What worried her was that he might be blaming himself for not having been there.
You’re not, are you, Dad? Because you mustn’t blame yourself, you really mustn’t. Because if you’d been home you’d have been asleep as well, then Charlie and I would have lost both of you, and then what would we have done?
But if wise, prescient Lou had assuaged one guilt, she had unwittingly unleashed another: that if he’d been home last night then the match-lighting vandal would never have got into the house in the first place, not without the most almighty struggle; that if he’d been home there would never have been a fire at all.

He tried to order his thoughts. ‘There’s my wife’s family to contact,’ he told Pat. ‘Her mother. Her half-sister. They’re both away, I think. Or they were till recently. Her mother was somewhere in Scotland. And Becky – I’m not sure.’

Pat picked up a piece of paper from the low table in front of them and handed it over to him. ‘Charlie and I managed to find contact details.’

‘Oh.’ There was an Edinburgh address and number for Lizzie’s mother, and a hotel in Marrakesh for Becky.

‘The Koenigs say you’re more than welcome to use their phone.’

There was a knock, the door swung open and at first no one came in, then Mike appeared, concentrating hard on carrying a laden tray. ‘Scrambled egg, toast, bacon, coffee.’ He placed the tray carefully on the low table.

‘Thanks.’

Mike waved him towards the food. ‘Don’t want it to get cold.’

‘Thanks, but I should make some calls first.’

‘Better on a full stomach,’ said Mike, straightening up and revealing his own substantial waistline.

Pat nodded her agreement, and suddenly it was easier to give in, to let himself be led in small matters like food and delayed phone calls, and reserve his energies for the bigger decisions.

He took a token mouthful of egg and toast and was surprised to find he could get it down. ‘We’ve just come back from seeing your colleagues in CID,’ he told Pat.

‘DC Smith told me.’

‘He tell you why we went?’

‘Very approximately. I understand you had a break-in two weeks ago, then a prowler.’

‘And my wife didn’t smoke.’

She gave a slow nod, the sort that acknowledges the information but enquires no further.

‘They think that’s how the fire started,’ Hugh said, ‘with a cigarette down the side of the sofa. That or a candle.’

‘I see.’

‘But your DC Smith didn’t seem too interested.’

‘You gave him all the details?’

‘At some length.’

‘I’m sure he’ll carry out a proper investigation.’

‘Difficult to prove arson.’

Pat gave a concerned smile, like a doctor humouring a valued patient, and Hugh realised it was pointless to say more. Her job, like DC Smith’s, was to discharge her duty in accordance with the training manual, then sign him off.

He managed two more mouthfuls of scrambled egg before his stomach began to rebel. The coffee was good though, and he managed a whole cup.

Having fulfilled his duty as breakfast waiter, Mike stood up and lifted his arms wide before letting them fall to his sides. ‘Well . . .’

‘God, yes – you must get on your way, Mike.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘See me out?’

On the doorstep Mike said lightly, ‘Why don’t you and Charlie take some time out together? I don’t know, go for a walk or something. All this’ – he flipped a hand in the direction of the kitchen and the murmur of muted conversation – ‘the
paperwork, the formalities, it can all wait. Charlie needs to know there was nothing he could have done.’

‘Of course there was nothing he could have done.’

‘But he needs to hear it from you.’

Hugh took a steadying breath. ‘You’re right . . . I’ll talk to him as soon as I’ve spoken to Lizzie’s family.’

‘You understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes. Yes . . . he’s always been fragile.’

‘Well, anyone would be in the circumstances. Seeing his mother . . .’

‘Thanks, Mike – for everything.’

‘Hell, Hugh . . . I just wish . . .’ His face contorted in sympathy.

‘I know. Drive safely.’

Mike pulled him into a rough bear hug then stepped outside and paused to delve into his pockets for keys.

‘I would never have let him see her,’ Hugh commented. ‘I would never have put him through that.’

Mike stared at him in puzzlement. ‘I didn’t mean at the mortuary. I meant at the house, seeing her at the house.’

They exchanged a look of complete misunderstanding, then Mike’s round face paled a little. ‘He saw them bring her out. He saw them trying to resuscitate her. Christ, Hugh, I thought you knew.’

For a moment no one realised he was there. The kitchen was long with dark wooden fittings and a look of permanent twilight relieved by a sprinkling of down-lighters. Ray was leaning against the central counter frowning at his watch as he listened to a man in a grey suit clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest. Behind them, at the near end of a long rectangular table, Sarah Koenig was sitting with her back to him, next to Angela Parfitt from the Citizens Advice and, opposite her, a weeping grey-haired woman with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. At the far end was Charlie with the lanky figure of Joel
Koenig opposite, and between them a hunched, shaven-headed young man Hugh hadn’t seen before.

Ray spotted him and straightened up. ‘Hugh! How are you doing? You manage to eat something?’

At this, the other conversations petered out and everyone looked round. Hugh realised with a momentary sense of disorientation that the weeping woman was their cleaning lady Mrs Bishop.

The man in the grey suit was from the loss adjusters. Hugh shook his hand then, with a gesture of apology, moved rapidly on, only to find Sarah Koenig looming up in front of him, wanting to know if he’d like more toast or coffee. He paused long enough to decline with excessive politeness, then Mrs Bishop’s tear-streaked face was staring up at him, her dry birdlike hand clutching his, drawing him down onto the chair beside her while she repeated over and over again that she couldn’t believe it, she simply couldn’t believe it. Finally, counting off the minutes, he accepted Angela Parfitt’s condolences on behalf of herself and her colleagues at the Citizens Advice and promised he would contact her if there was anything she or the staff could do.

At long last he reached Charlie’s side, to find his gaze drawn to the shaven-headed youth slumped on the other side of the table. It might have been the two scabs high on his scalp where the razor had nicked the skin, it might have been the grubby night-time pallor and unhealthy sprinkling of spots, it was certainly the evasive downcast gaze that refused to acknowledge Hugh’s arrival by so much as a glance, but Hugh took a violent objection to his presence. Not only was a casual stranger deeply unwelcome at this most private of times, but in that instant his drooping air of failure and self-absorption seemed to epitomise the whole rotten culture that had led Charlie into drugs. With another lurch of resentment it came to Hugh that he was a fully paid-up addict waiting to lead Charlie back into temptation. Why else would he be here? Why else couldn’t he look Hugh in the eye?

Charlie said, ‘Oh Dad, this is Elk.’

Elk?
But it went with the territory: a travesty of a name to go with a travesty of a person.

The creature made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet. There was a clumsy unravelling of limbs, a forward crouch, a grudging nod, an evasive gaze which flicked up as far as Hugh’s shirt front before dropping again as he slouched back in his seat.

Hugh’s voice trembled a little as he said, ‘Charlie, how about a walk?’

Charlie looked up, his eyes dull and red-rimmed from the long night. He murmured, ‘Okay,’ before turning to Elk. ‘Be right back.’

‘No sweat.’ Elk’s voice was rasping and high-pitched.

There was a delay while Sarah Koenig, swelling importantly to the challenge of finding outdoor clothing for Hugh, searched out her husband’s best golfing jacket, only to fret inconsolably when no walking shoes of the right size could be found. Escaping the house in his ordinary shoes, Hugh set a fast pace as they started down the drive, before slowing down abruptly. ‘I thought we could do with a bit of time on our own. All those people . . .’

Charlie gave what might have been a nod.

Still in the grip of his incoherent animosity, Hugh demanded, ‘Who’s Elk? What’s he doing here?’

Charlie murmured, ‘He’s a mate. He just dropped by.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He’s in NA. He’s here to support me.’

‘Support you?’ Hugh echoed doubtfully.

Charlie made no response as they turned out of the drive into the lane.

‘Sorry,’ Hugh said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry. He just doesn’t look very . . .’ Abandoning this thought, he explained, ‘I’m finding it difficult having strangers around, that’s all. I find it . . . intrusive.’

‘I was trying to keep him out of your way.’

They were heading away from Meadowcroft, following the
route of a favourite Sunday afternoon walk which led up the lane, past the last house to a footpath that trailed across open fields to a copse on the brow of a hill. Charlie’s jacket, like all his clothes, was far too thin, and he was walking with his shoulders high, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes narrowed against the chill wind.

In a rush of remorse and unhappiness, Hugh looped an arm round his shoulders. ‘It’ll be better when Lou gets here. Then we can get away on our own, we can have time to . . .’ But he couldn’t imagine what time could do for them, he couldn’t imagine an end to this sadness. He said, ‘I think the flights from India come overnight, so with luck I can pick her up first thing in the morning.’ He squeezed Charlie closer against him, but the two of them weren’t in step, they butted awkwardly against each other, and in the end it was easier to let his arm drop.

‘Charlie, last night . . . I had no idea you arrived when you did. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Charlie’s face darkened. Eventually he murmured, ‘No chance.’

‘What?’

A pause. ‘Never had the chance to tell you.’

Confounded by this, Hugh nevertheless let it pass. ‘I thought the Koenigs must have called and told you to come. I’d no idea you were already on your way. What time did you get here?’

Charlie might have shrugged, it was hard to tell with his shoulders so high. ‘Twelve,’ he muttered. ‘Just after . . . I dunno exactly.’

‘And the fire?’ Hugh asked. ‘It was still burning? Or had they put it out?’

Charlie’s mouth tautened.

Touching his sleeve, Hugh drew him to a halt. ‘If you could bear to tell me.’

Charlie whispered, ‘Yeah, it was burning.’

‘And the fire brigade – they were there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You saw them bring Mum out?’

Charlie gave a short nod, his face very pale.

‘God . . . I’m so sorry. How awful for you.’

Charlie dropped his head, his thick wavy hair falling forward over his face.

‘And then? What happened then?’

‘Then . . . then they tried to – to . . .’

‘Resuscitate her?’

Charlie nodded.

Hugh’s throat constricted, it was an effort to speak. ‘Was she still alive when they brought her out?’

‘I dunno.’ Charlie’s voice rose briefly. ‘They wouldn’t let me near.’

‘And nobody told you anything?’

Charlie shook his head.

Eventually they walked on. As they passed the last house and left the shelter of the trees the wind intensified, swooping down off the open fields, and Charlie’s face took on a pinched, dogged look, his mouth pulled back against his teeth, his gaze fixed on a point a yard or two in front of his feet.

Hugh asked, ‘Was Mum expecting you?’ The silence stretched out so long that he thought Charlie hadn’t heard. ‘You’d called and told Mum you were coming?’

Another pause then a mumbled, ‘Yeah.’

They reached the kissing-gate to the footpath. Charlie went first, Hugh followed. ‘It was a last-minute thing? You just decided?’

The path ran along the edge of a ploughed field, they were forced to go single file, and Hugh suddenly wished he’d never suggested the walk, that they were sitting in the warmth of the Koenigs’ den where he could see Charlie’s face.

‘Or had something happened?’ he persisted to Charlie’s back.

This time the silence drew out for so long that Hugh cried with a flicker of exasperation, ‘
Charlie!
’

Stopping, Charlie half turned round. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Spain.’

‘But I wasn’t home.’

‘You were gonna be back though.’

‘But you spoke to Mum,’ Hugh asked again, needing to be absolutely sure, ‘you told her you were coming?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What time did you call her?’

Charlie had to think about it. ‘Eight?’

‘And she was all right when you spoke to her? There was nothing the matter?’

‘She seemed fine.’

‘Did she say what she was doing?’

‘No.’

Hugh looked away towards the brow of the hill where crows were circling over a stand of trees, and was gripped by a sense of loss so profound that for an instant it felt unsurvivable, as if his heart and all his vital organs had seized simultaneously. He sucked in a long breath and felt the wind drag the tears from his eyes. ‘If only I’d come home last night,’ he cried. ‘If
only
—’

‘Dad, no—’

‘But it’s true. If I’d been here none of this would have happened. None of it.’

‘Dad . . .’

Charlie took a step towards him but Hugh was beyond consolation. Shaking his head, he turned away and tramped back along the path.