Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘Now? Do you want me to send a car to collect you?’

‘No. I’ll make my own way. I can be there in about half an hour. Is that all right?’

Ramsay had my statement in front of him and looked tired. He did not offer me tea, barely glanced up. At last he said, ‘Is there anything you didn’t tell us in your statement?’

I thought back to the long interviews, one in Kentish Town and the other in Stockwell. I had rambled, repeated myself, repeated the repetitions, gone round in circles and off at tangents, included irrelevant information. Had I left anything out?

‘I don’t think so,’ I said eventually.

‘Take your time.’

‘I don’t need time,’ I said. ‘I think I told you everything.’

He shuffled the papers, frowning. ‘Tell me, please, did you ever visit the site of your husband’s accident?’

‘I don’t think it was an accident.’

‘I’m asking you a question. It’s quite simple. Were you ever there?’

‘How did you know?’

He looked up sharply. ‘Was I meant not to know?’

‘Why are you asking me now?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Yes, I went there.’

‘And you didn’t see fit to tell us?’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

‘Is this yours?’

He took a transparent bag out of his drawer and held it up: my scarf.

‘Yes.’

‘It has blood on it. Whose blood would that be?’

‘Mine!’

‘Yours?’

‘Yes. I cut myself, that’s all. Look, I went because I wanted to see where Greg had died. It was purely personal.’

‘When?’

‘When did I go?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t know exactly. It was a long time ago. No, I do know. It was the day before Greg’s funeral and that was on the twenty-fourth of October so it must have been the twenty-third.’

He wrote the date down and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you tell anyone you were going?’

‘No. It was something I had to do on my own.’

‘And afterwards did you tell anyone you’d been there?’

‘I don’t think so. No, I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Like I said, it was personal.’

‘But you have close friends – friends in whom you confide?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it must have been an emotional experience.’

‘It was cold and wet,’ I said, remembering slithering down the bank.

‘So isn’t it a bit odd that you didn’t tell anyone something like that?’

‘It’s not odd. The next day was the funeral, and I had lots of other things to think about.’

‘I see. So there’s no one to verify your story?’

‘It’s not a story, it’s the truth. And no, there’s no one to verify it, though I don’t see why it needs verifying. Why is it so important?’

But even as I said the words, I realized why he thought it was so important. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I stared at him and he looked back at me implacably.

‘It’s just funny you never mentioned it,’ he said.

‘Are you serious?’ said Gwen. ‘What are they playing at?’

I tried to hush her but she wouldn’t be hushed. I had arrived at what Fergus had called the baby-boasting party with a miniature pair of dungarees and a beret. When I’d bought them, they had seemed impossibly small, like doll’s clothes, but when I peered into the cot I realized they were much too big.

‘She’ll grow into them,’ I said. ‘Eventually.’

‘She’s called Ruby,’ said Jemma.

‘Oh, great,’ I said. ‘That’s a lovely name.’

‘Admittedly Ruby sounds like someone who should be dancing on a New Orleans riverboat,’ said Fergus.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Jemma, picking Ruby up and telling her she wasn’t going to let that horrible man say such horrible things about her. She was talking in a tone I’d never heard used by an adult. It was clearly something I’d have to get used to over the coming years. Jemma insisted that I hold Ruby. She told Ruby I was her godmother and that we ought to get to know each other straight away. Sensibly enough, Ruby was fast asleep as Jemma showed me her miniature fingernails and her equally miniature toenails. Then she woke up and Jemma retrieved her, coaxed her and contentedly fed her.

I went into the kitchen, where Gwen was making tea. Mary had brought a cake and was getting out plates and cups, keeping a watchful eye on Robin, who was fast asleep in his car seat in the corner. He used to look tiny, but now, compared to Ruby, he was big, on a different scale. I was still feeling a bit awkward with Gwen, having stolen her identity and everything, but I made an effort to tell her about things, the way I always used to. That was when she erupted in disbelief, and just as she did so, Joe came through and joined us. It was like the meeting of a secret society.

‘I’m just escaping from Babyland,’ he said. ‘Not that she isn’t beautiful. She’s very sweet, isn’t she?’

We all agreed that she was.

‘Obviously every parent is convinced that their own baby is the most beautiful in the world,’ said Joe. ‘I can remember saying something of the kind when Becky was born.’ He picked up a slice of cake before Mary could stop him. He took a bite as he continued talking, crumbs spilling from his mouth. ‘The difference is that when I said it I was right.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mary, and I could see she was about to launch into a Robin-is-best speech.

‘To return to what we were saying,’ interrupted Gwen, hastily, ‘Ellie has to do something to stop the police messing her about.’

‘What are they up to now?’ asked Joe, raising his eyebrows at me and grinning. I could tell he was trying to make me feel better about the mess I’d caused, turning it into a kind of joke that we could laugh at.

So, of course, Gwen had to explain to all and sundry about my latest encounter with the police. I was a bit ashamed to be the centre of attention again. They’d had to be sympathetic to me as a widow, listen to my rants about Greg and his innocence, then deal with my activities as some kind of fraudster. And always it had been me, me, me at the centre of things, with everyone else in a supporting role, their concerns pushed aside.

‘You should have asked us to come with you,’ said Mary. ‘I can’t bear to think you went on your own. It must have been grim.’

‘You’d done enough already, all of you. Besides, it was something I needed to do alone.’

‘What’s outrageous,’ said Joe, ‘is that visiting the scene of your husband’s death is something they should find suspicious. Of course you had to go. It would be stranger if you hadn’t.’

‘Do you think they were really suspicious?’ asked Gwen. ‘Of what, for God’s sake?’

‘I get the impression that they’re extremely irritated by me,’ I said, and then cast a glance at Gwen. ‘As you probably are. Or, at least, you should be.’

There was a joint, rustling murmur that of course they weren’t and how none of it mattered.

‘On the other hand,’ said Gwen, ‘have you thought that you may need some advice? I mean, legal advice.’

‘Legal advice?’ Fergus had come into the room with a plate of biscuits. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said Gwen, slowly and carefully, ‘if they were talking to Ellie about when she went to the scene, and asking if anybody was with her to corroborate what she was saying…’ She turned to me. ‘It feels awful even to say it but you’re the one, after all, who’s been claiming that Greg’s death was not what they assumed, was inexplicable. So it looks as if they might be thinking that…’But she stopped, unable to say it out loud.