Deborah Crombie - Where Memories Lie

There was resentment-she guessed as much at her involvement in general as at being given the tedious job of getting a warrant-combined with what might have been a flicker of relief. He was probably glad not to have to cope with Kristin Cahill's parents, she thought, but then again, she'd never seen Cullen display much empathy in interviews.

But he merely nodded at Kincaid and said, "I'll find a sympathetic judge," before handing Kincaid the car keys and heading off towards the tube station.

While Gemma had come via tube, Kincaid and Cullen had come in a Yard Rover, and now Kincaid took over the wheel as he and Gemma made the short drive to World's End. The car was silver and anonymously discreet-nothing obvious to set the neighbors gossiping, Gemma thought as they pulled up to the block of flats just to the west of Edith Grove.

The address they had been given was not in the monolithic seventies-era block of flats that dominated the skyline between the King's Road and the Thames, but rather a more modest council estate that Gemma guessed had been built not long after the war. It looked well tended and comfortable, an image marred by the orange stripes of paint on the street and the Sokkia team working the accident site.

When Kincaid had found a spot to park the Rover, they walked over to speak to the lead investigating officer.

"Don't often get the Yard in an accident reconstruction," the officer said when Kincaid had introduced them.

"Anything interesting yet?" Kincaid asked.

"The laser's faster, not miraculous. I'm Bill Davis, by the way." Davis was a stocky man with a bristle of gray hair and lines round his eyes that suggested he liked a joke. "And there's not much to work with here. Still might have been a drink driver who didn't even see the poor kid. Except that from what we can see of the tire marks, it looks like the driver might have swerved towards the pedestrian." He nodded at the camera mounted over the traffic light. "Maybe you'll get something off the CCTV."

"I've got the Yard on it now," Kincaid told him.

"Going to interview the family?" Davis shook his head, said, "Don't envy you," and went back to his laser.

They found the flat easily. Gemma rang the bell with a slight tightening of the throat and a sympathetic smile at the ready, but the woman who answered almost immediately gave them a quick assessing glance before saying quietly, "Homicide team, then?" and motioning them in.

"Yolanda Fish." She extended a firm, dark-skinned hand to each of them as they introduced themselves. "Detective constable. Family liaison officer." She had a competent sort of compassion about her, just the right balance for family liaison.

It was not a job Gemma envied. The liaison officer was there to provide support and information about an ongoing investigation for the families of victims, but they were also police officers, and bound to report anything they learned in confidence that might have an impact on an investigation.

"Mr. Cahill is taking a bit of a…rest. Not feeling too well." DC Fish glanced towards what Gemma assumed were the bedrooms and lifted a hand to her mouth in a quick but unmistakable mime of drinking. "But Mrs. Cahill-Wanda-is in the kitchen. I'll just tell her you're here before I take you back."

Gemma stopped her. "Is she-"

"Holding up as well as you'd expect. Kristin was an only child, and there aren't any close relatives nearby. Nor a priest, although I know someone who might come in for a bit."

Yolanda's momentary absence gave Gemma a chance to look round the flat, and although the block may have originally been owned by the council, it looked as though this flat had been bought by the owners and refurbished. The sitting room was beautifully proportioned, fitted with expensive hardwood flooring, and arranged with a pleasing assortment of antiques and contemporary furnishings. The walls had been hand finished in a pale buff that set off the artwork and furniture.

The kitchen, when Yolanda beckoned them in, confirmed Gemma's opinion. Pale blue walls set off the collection of antique china on a Welsh dresser and the warm woods of contemporary cupboards and a refectory table.

But then her attention was taken by the woman who sat at the table's end. Gemma put her age in the mid to late forties, and with her chin-length dark hair and her daughter's slight build, she might have passed for a good deal younger on a different day. But on this morning her face was ravaged by grief. The eyes she raised to Gemma's were swollen, her stare blankly uncomprehending. A mug filled with untouched tea sat before her.

Yolanda went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Wanda, these are the police officers I told you about. They need to ask you a few questions." She glanced up at Gemma and Kincaid, adding, "I can make you a cuppa-"

Shaking his head, Kincaid pulled out a chair and sat facing Wanda Cahill. "We won't trouble you long." Yolanda nodded and, moving back to the sink, began drying cups with a tea towel.

Gemma felt a stab of relief at Kincaid's declaration, then was ashamed of her reaction. But the pain in the room was palpable, a miasma in the air that made it seem hard to breathe. She slid into a chair at the opposite end of the table, as if the physical distance might provide some barrier.

As Gemma watched, Wanda Cahill made a visible effort to focus on Kincaid. "I don't understand," she whispered, and her voice sounded rusty, as if sobbing had rasped her throat. "They rang the bell. At first I thought it was a dream, the same dream I'd had since Kristin was a child, whenever she was away from home. And always I would wake up and know it was a dream, and then I could go back to sleep. But it didn't stop, the sound, and I couldn't-I couldn't-I knew-" She looked from Kincaid to Gemma, her brow creased, her fingers pinching at the edge of her unevenly buttoned cardigan.

Gemma knew the dream, had had it herself, waking with a jolt and thumping heart in the darkest hour of the night to the imagined sound of a knock or the bell. She would sit up in bed, listening, and when she realized the dogs were quiet, she'd know that she had imagined it, that the children were safe. But for this woman, the nightmare had become real.

She stood and went to Wanda Cahill, kneeling and taking the woman's unresisting hand in her own. "Mrs. Cahill, tell me about last night. Was Kristin at home?"

Wanda Cahill looked at Gemma with the same baffled expression she had turned on Kincaid, but after a moment a spark flared in her eyes, and she spoke, her voice stronger. "She came home after work, for dinner. It's hard for her sometimes, living at home. Her father still treats her like a child, and I try to buffer things as much as I can." Her face came alive as the recollection moved her into the past.

"Did she talk to you about anything in particular, at dinner?"

"No. But her mobile rang while we were eating, and Bob made a fuss over no phones at the table-you mustn't think he doesn't love her," she added, suddenly entreating. "He just wants things to stay the way they were when she was younger. Maybe he loves her too much-"

As Wanda's face began to crumple again, Gemma said quickly, "Do you know who rang her on her mobile?"

"No. She didn't answer. But I assumed it was the young man who called just afterwards on our phone. It was her friend from work, Giles. He was very polite, but she didn't seem particularly happy to talk to him."

"What did she say?"

"Well, he must have been asking her to do something, because she said thanks, but she couldn't, really. But Bob was grumbling at her by that time, so she left the room…"

"She didn't say anything about work? Or tell you where she was going?"

Wanda shook her head slowly, and Gemma could see the grief swamping her again, a rising tide. "No. She kissed me, the way she always does when she goes out, and said she loved me. But she was that aggravated with her dad. If he hadn't-if she hadn't-When he asked where she was going, she said out with friends, and that she wouldn't be late…"