Mo Hayder - Poppet

She has to go back into the kitchen. She stands there in shock, conscious of how similar it all is – the jars piled up, the lids, the circular discs of wax paper standing by until it’s time to set them on the surface of the jam. In the boot room she can see the steaming mash of seeds she’s dumped ready to take to the compost heap. The same sugar and bubbling-syrup smell is in the air.

On a far shelf, in a gap between the stacks of ‘Penny’s Christmas Chutney’ and the ‘Four-Lane Forgotten Crab-apple Jelly’ is a calendar. She hand-made it one cold December weekend when she’d no orders to fill, no one to see, and nothing better to do – carefully colouring the top panel in the colours of that month, using an old calligraphy pen to hand-letter the days of the week. She crosses to it now and frowns. It’s October. October, the month to collect crab apple and sloe. To start her gin infusions. She goes to it, lifts the page and looks at November – just a few days away. The second of November is All Souls’. The day human beings truly understand the pointlessness of their bodies, and recognize where they really exist – in their spirit. The ancient and mystical day of the dead.

It is fifteen years – almost to the day, since Isaac Handel killed his parents.

AS AJ GOES down the corridor towards Melanie’s office, Zelda’s painting in his hand, it strikes him that maybe it’s not just the chill he got from this picture that’s driving him, but more his need for an excuse to speak to her. To be in her company. As he climbs the stairs to the mezzanine he’s thinking of the way she turned her back to him in bed last night – and how it made him want to protect her. He wonders about Jonathan Keay and his strong arms and whether he protected her. The patients used to call him ‘Throw away the key, Keay’ for his surly manner. He had an arrogant, upper-class accent, as if he had grown up playing polo. AJ considers whether Keay was ever surly with Melanie. If so, she didn’t deserve it.

He knocks, out of decorum, and there is a long pause. Then a groggy ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘AJ?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. He hears footsteps and the key being turned. It’s only now he realizes the door was locked. When she opens it and he sees her face he understands. She’s sleep-creased – her hair mussed. She’s been catching up. Instantly he wants to kiss her. ‘Oh.’ She rubs her face. ‘I’m sorry. I was …’

‘I know.’ He comes in and closes the door behind him. ‘Hey,’ he says, holding out his arms. ‘Come here.’

She smiles and falls against his chest. He squeezes her and kisses her on the head. She is so warm and so soft. If he knew the words and had the confidence, he’d propose marriage to her here and now. Just so he could go on smelling her messed-up hair for ever.

‘I didn’t sleep last night.’

‘I know,’ he murmurs. ‘Me neither. Shall I make you some coffee?’

‘Oh God. Yes please.’

Melanie has an annexe to her office with a bathroom and a kitchen area equipped with a microwave, a hob, a sink, a fridge and a state-of-the-art coffee-maker with lots of very bright enamelled cups the size of thimbles. While she goes into the bathroom and splashes her face with water, he makes three cups – two for her and one for him. He knows how she likes her coffee now they’ve had breakfast together. Strong, black and full of sugar. He thinks it’s great she has sugar instead of sweeteners and lots of milk – it’s exactly the way Mum and Patience drink their coffee; not American, very European. Melanie might be contained and strict at work, but when it comes to pleasure and passion she gives it free rein.

She goes back to her desk and he brings the cups over. She picks up hers, sips and raises her eyebrows at him. ‘So?’

He unrolls Zelda’s painting and holds it out. Melanie stares at it for a while, then puts on her glasses and peers at it more closely. Eventually she shakes her head.

‘Sorry, no. I’m a dummkopf . What am I looking at?’

‘Zelda painted it.’

‘And? It’s Dracula. Or a bat – it’s hard to tell.’

‘I think it’s her running away. And here? See it?’

He puts his finger on the face of the figure on the hillside.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s you-know-what. The M word.’

Melanie peers at the painting. After a while her face falls. She rubs her eyes wearily. ‘Oh, AJ, please God, not this again. It’s all done and dusted—’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. I got a call from the review team this morning. They can’t say anything on record, but they gave me the nod things are going to be OK – there won’t be any further inquiries. Zelda will be buried with the dignity she deserves and everything will go back to normal. Normal .’ She emphasizes the word. ‘And you showing me this? AJ, seriously, the words “hornets’ ” and “nest” are coming to mind. Also the word “poke”. Poke in a nonsexual way.’

‘Hear me out, please …’

She gives a long groan. But she doesn’t get up from the desk. She props her head in her hands and rolls her eyes. ‘Go on – hit me with it. I’m all ears. The eyes, though? They’re a different matter – no control over them. If you think I’m drifting – blame the eyes.’

He sits down opposite her.

‘Look at this.’ He rests a finger on the figure. ‘Doesn’t it make you think of anything? Anyone?’

Melanie is silent for a moment, staring at the image. She doesn’t dismiss it – she actually is studying it – giving it some thought. ‘Yes,’ she admits, taking off her glasses. ‘OK, yes, it does remind me of someone. It looks like Isaac Handel. It’s the pullover – his favourite pullover. And the hair – and his toys, of course.’

‘Isaac.’ AJ takes a long, controlled breath. ‘Exactly. Isaac.’

‘He’s gone. He was released yesterday.’

AJ nods. He doesn’t say anything about the garden last night but he’s thinking it. He wonders if she is. ‘Melanie – looking back, do you remember him sometimes talking to Zelda?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why would she draw him like this?’

‘I don’t know, AJ. I honestly don’t know.’

‘Isaac was a patient at the same time that Pauline died – do we know if they spent time together?’

‘I can’t recall things like that. It was years ago. And aren’t we going above and beyond our remit here? Losing Zelda – the whole bureaucratic nest of vipers it’s stirred – I thought it was all calming down, tying itself up.’

‘Think about it – it’s too much of a coincidence – the power cuts, the writing. And Isaac wearing the …’ He gestures at the picture, groping for the right words. ‘Him painted with this face. Can we call one of those cops – the ones we met at the forum? They deal with stuff like this. We don’t have to make it official, just ask to meet them casually and—’

‘AJ, please .’ Melanie covers his hand with hers. ‘ Please , I know I’m not perfect, but – just let me be a slob on this? Let it lie, eh? Keep the unit moving in the right direction. No scandal, no police ferreting around. The Trust hates that sort of thing.’ She bites her lip, her head on one side. ‘Please, AJ. This means a lot to me.’

He is silent. He looks at her fingers on his hand. She loves this unit so much. If he’s going to get into the proper world of relationships, these are the things he has to shut up about.

‘Something else,’ she says, while he’s still waging his internal battle. ‘I was going to ask, if it’s not too rude, whether you had plans for tonight?’

He glances up. She’s smiling at him, those clear blue eyes like summer sky. She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well?’