Peter James: Love You Dead

He slipped back to their bedroom, brushed his teeth, then pulled on his jogging gear, went downstairs, grabbed Humphrey’s lead and took him out into the early-morning dark, misty drizzle.

Forty-five minutes later, invigorated by exercise and a shower, he dressed and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for Cleo, and to feed Humphrey. He entered the kitchen, switching the light on, and said his usual, ‘Morning, Marlon!’ to his goldfish. Then as he looked at the square tank on the work surface his heart sank.

‘No!’

He ran across and peered in. The goldfish was floating, motionless, on the surface. ‘Marlon! Marlon!’

He dipped his cupped hand in the cold water and lifted the fish out. ‘Marlon. Hey, old chap. Hey!’

As the water drained from his palm the small fish lay there, eyes glazed and motionless.

His heart heaved. ‘Fellow!’ he said. ‘Hey, fella?’ He blew on the creature, but there was no sign of any movement. ‘Hey, come on!’

He slipped him gently back into the water. ‘Come on, chap, swim! Come on!’

Then his mobile phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

It was Marcel. His voice was sombre. ‘Roy, I am sorry for calling you so early.’

‘No, it’s fine, I’m up.’

‘I thought you would want to know. I’m afraid I don’t have good news. I’ve just had a phone call from the clinic. Sandy was found dead in her room a short while ago at around 4 a.m. this morning.’

‘Dead?’

Roy Grace felt as if the floor was sinking beneath his feet. As if he was in a lift that was plunging downward. ‘Dead?’ he repeated.

‘I’m sorry to give you this sad news.’

‘How — I mean — what — what happened?’

The German detective hesitated. ‘Well, I’m sorry if this information is going to distress you. She was found by a nurse. I just went to the hospital to see for myself. She had hanged herself from a cord she attached to a light fitting.’

‘Jesus,’ he said.

The floor was still sinking and the whole kitchen seemed to be swaying. He gripped hold of the oak refectory table with one hand to steady himself. ‘Oh God, Marcel, that’s awful. Thank you — thank you — for — for telling me.’

‘Roy, there is some more information I have for you. Sandy — her son, Bruno, yes?’

‘Bruno. Yes, Bruno,’ he said in a daze.

‘Sandy left a letter in her bedside cabinet. It was sealed, but on the front was written, “To be opened in the event of my death.”’

Grace said nothing. Kullen continued.

‘I just opened it. Inside is a laboratory DNA report on Bruno, confirming from DNA samples from him, yourself and from Sandy that you are the father. And there is a letter, written to you, in her handwriting. Do you want me to read it to you? Or I can scan it and email it to your private address.’

Upstairs, he heard Noah crying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please scan it and email it, and I’ll call you back later this morning.’

‘You will have it in a few minutes.’

Roy sat down bleakly at the kitchen table, staring at the tank, willing Marlon to suddenly start moving. But the fish remained motionless. He looked at his phone, waiting. Moments later, the email arrived from Kullen.

He opened the attachment and looked at the words, written in Sandy’s familiar handwriting. It was less neat than it used to be, but still clearly legible. Clearly hers.

Dearest Roy,

If you are reading this then you will know that I am gone. Where, eh? We used to talk about that, didn’t we? All those long discussions about whether we just faded to black, oblivion, or whatever. Guess I’ll find out now — or not.

I know you came to see me looking for answers, I’ll do my best here in this letter. I made a mess of things, that’s for sure, but I don’t blame you for anything, and I don’t want you blaming yourself. But your suddenly coming back into my life is too much. I’ve been happy, being anonymous. Now I’ve got a whole shitload of stuff dumped on me. All the people I’d have to tell — my parents, friends, authorities — I just can’t cope with this — the shame and the embarrassment. I don’t know how to start or where to go. I certainly didn’t want you back in my life, I can’t deal with it. I don’t really think I can face anything, it’s all too much. Like I’ve been living this past decade in some kind of a cocoon — some huge bubble — and suddenly the bubble’s burst. We all make choices in life, constantly, every day, and sometimes they are the right choices and sometimes the wrong ones. I did a bad thing in the way I left you, but back then I really didn’t want a future with a man married to his work. I didn’t want to be the third party in that triangle. I discovered I was pregnant and I had some fast decisions to make. Either I stayed, in which case I would have been trapped by this child into remaining with you — for a while, at least. Or I had an abortion. But I didn’t like that option, not after trying all those years to get pregnant, all the infertility treatments we endured. I was scared about my biological clock ticking — stupid, I know, because I was still young, but I was afraid that if I had an abortion, would I ever get a second chance? So the other option was that I leave, without you ever knowing I was expecting our child.

I don’t really understand what was going through my mind at that time. You know I had never been happy about the hours you worked. I think it was that day, your thirtieth birthday, when we had planned a lovely, romantic dinner together, and then I got your call that yet again you were on a case and would be late. Something snapped inside me, and I made my escape — I’d been planning the possibility for some time, sitting on the fence, wondering if I would have the courage to actually do it. Simple as that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I hope this, in particular, will help ease your pain rather than worsen it:

You need to know I wasn’t a saint, I wasn’t the good person you always believed I was. This may hurt to read, but you need to know that I wasn’t always faithful to you — I had some one-night stands. I’m not making any excuses — nor am I going to name names. I’ve been in a dark place for years. Since long before you and I ever met. I thought being with such a strong, stable man would help me, that you would be my rock. But it didn’t, not really. I hid things from you, like the medication I took for anxiety. You never knew that I was hooked on valium for quite a while — I managed to keep that from you. I kept a lot from you. I’m not a nice person, I never have been. I’m just a mess. My depression spirals. A guy I was going out with a few years ago got me into drugs and I spent two years, maybe longer, I don’t remember exactly, hooked on heroin. I tried to clean up as much for Bruno’s sake as anything. There’s so much I wanted to tell you — and ask you — when you came here last. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was so shocked to see you, my head was all over the place. I guess I knew then I couldn’t see any future. My face is going to be permanently scarred. I’ve got motor-control problems — the consultant neurosurgeon just told me that my head hit the road at a bad angle — the worst bloody angle it could have hit — all my grey matter is jumbled up inside the box that’s meant to protect it. But hey, I’m rambling.

I never wanted you back, but seeing you and Cleo — that was pretty hard. It drove it home that for me, you’re gone forever.

The thing is, Roy, I just see the future as a long, dark tunnel with no end. There’s no hope, no future. Especially now everyone knows the truth. I just can’t cope, I don’t want to go on. Many people could cope with that, but I’m not strong enough to.