Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

The woman officer made a small head movement. ‘This isn’t your home, Mrs Cunningham?’

‘No, I’m staying here with my friends, Katherine and Jeremy. What are you here for?’

‘There’s been an incident.’

The back of her scalp tingled.

‘Can I just check your home address, Mrs Cunningham?’ The PC, this time.

‘31 Elgin Drive.’ She gave the postcode. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘There was an address written down on a piece of paper in the glovebox of your husband’s car,’ the sergeant said. The constable showed it to her. She recognised her own writing: Gone to stay with Katherine . The phone number was given and Katherine’s address.

She looked at them, a horrible suspicion growing in her. What were they doing, looking in the glovebox of Paul’s car?

‘Is your husband the registered keeper of a silver Porsche, registration GX04 VYA?’

‘Yes, he is. Why, what’s happened?’ Suzanne looked from one officer to the other. She wiped her clammy palms on the cardigan. ‘Please, tell me what it is.’

‘Mrs Cunningham, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ The sergeant blinked, and shifted a fraction in her seat. ‘There’s been an incident involving your husband. Emergency services were called to the scene just after two am. A vehicle was found crashed into a tree at the end of Elgin Drive – a silver Porsche. It had been driven at a high speed, judging from the amount of damage—’ The sergeant stopped, her eyes becoming duller. ‘We believe it was your husband at the wheel, Mrs Cunningham. He was dead when we arrived at the scene.’

Tree. Husband. Dead.

The words refused to make sense. She looked into the officers’ faces. Both wore such serious expressions.

‘I don’t understand. He crashed into a tree?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the sergeant resumed. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Cunningham. A nearby resident heard the crash take place and came out to see what had happened.’

‘What time did you say this was?’

The sergeant brought out a notebook and glanced at it. ‘It was fifteen minutes past two.’

Her scalp prickled. It had been him, earlier.

‘Your husband wasn’t wearing a seat belt,’ the constable said. ‘Did he normally wear one?’

‘Yes, always.’

She realised she was staring at his ears and wrenched her gaze away. Her mind was off on a tangent. Why didn’t he have an operation to fix his ears?

‘Mrs Cunningham?’

She forced her mind back to the PC’s question; no seat belt. What did that mean? Either Paul had been in a great hurry to go somewhere, or he was in such a state he hadn’t cared about belting up.

An icy clamminess settled over her. She was certain of it now: Paul had killed himself on purpose.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cunningham, I know this must be hard for you. But I have to ask you a few more questions.’ The sergeant turned the page of her notebook. ‘When did you last see your husband?’

She answered the questions, despite not feeling fully present in the room. Her mind drifted. She was alone, far out at sea, and there was no one to rescue her.

‘Mrs Cunningham?’

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

The constable repeated his question. Would she be able to visit the mortuary later to identify her husband’s body? A family liaison officer would be available to offer support and would explain all about the post-mortem procedure and the inquest.

When they’d gone, Suzanne went upstairs. The door to Katherine and Jeremy’s bedroom was ajar and she could hear them talking. Jeremy’s voice followed by Katherine’s fainter reply. Something about someone snoring. The exchange sounded ridiculously ordinary.

She went into her bedroom and shut the door. She would tell them in the morning that Paul was dead. How could she tell them now, when she didn’t believe it herself?

She lay down in bed and closed her eyes. A murky light seeped into the room and she found herself thinking about ordinary things: her back pain was getting worse, with this mattress, perhaps she should go to the osteopath again; what was Marmaduke doing now? He was all alone with Paul.

No, that wasn’t right. Paul was gone now. He would never be coming back.

She sat up, imagining the thud of the impact, the buckling of metal, the lifeless body slumped against the steering wheel.

Suzanne found her mobile on the dressing table and switched it on. She ought to tell Daniel and Laura. She was about to call Laura when she saw there were two voicemail messages. She played the most recent, sent at 1.32am:

‘Mum, I’m OK. I’m in the police station at Shepherd’s Bush. They’re taking my statement now.’

Then an earlier message, inaudible except for the words ‘Dad’ and ‘following me’ . The fear in her daughter’s voice made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Suzanne pressed the call button. Laura picked up immediately.

‘Hello, Mum. I’m so glad to hear from you. Did you get my messages?’

‘I did, just now. What are you doing at the police station?’

‘I’m waiting here with a cup of tea. I don’t want to go home yet and the police might want to talk to me again. I told them about Dad, I told them everything.’ Laura sounded drained of energy. ‘He was waiting for me in his car, outside my flat. He tried to stop me going to the police. I thought he was going to hurt me.’

Suzanne felt a numbness settle over her. She couldn’t process her daughter’s words. Paul had been trying to hurt Laura? How could that be?

‘They were trying to get hold of him,’ Laura went on. ‘Then they told me he’s been in some sort of incident. Do you know where he is? They won’t tell me.’

‘He’s dead, Laura.’

‘What?’

‘He drove into a tree. The police told me twenty minutes ago. It was just up the road from the house.’

A small gasp, then silence.

‘I’ve got to go and identify the body,’ Suzanne continued. ‘Will you come over later?’

‘Of course. I’ll get a cab.’ Laura lowered her voice. ‘Was it on purpose, Mum?’

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

Suzanne drove into the vacant driveway of number 31. The storm had bashed the poppies in the flowerbed; bruised heads sagged from bent stalks. She turned her key in the lock, pushed on the front door. The smell of glass cleaning spray struck her first. The light had been left on in the hall. She put down her things and opened the living room door.

The room had changed since the last time she was there: the wood of the sideboard and the coffee table shone; the cushions were neatly arranged and the carpet had been vacuumed, as if he’d wanted to leave the place looking nice for her to come back to.

No note. The police had said to look out for a suicide note.

She went into the kitchen. No empty beer cans lying around, no sign that any food had been prepared. Everything had been put away and the surfaces were spotless. No note in the kitchen either. She checked the dining room and the conservatory, then opened the office door. The desk had been cleared of his papers – of everything, except for the computer screen, a cigarette lighter and a scattering of ash. Something papery.

She went closer, wondered briefly what it had been and if this little heap was something the police or the coroner might be interested in. Then she brushed the debris into her hand and dropped it into the kitchen bin. Whatever it was, she’d rather it was gone.

There was no note anywhere. She allowed a vague disappointment to drift away. Perhaps it was better that way. Yes, it was definitely better that way. She didn’t want to read some concocted explanation of his actions, or a pathetic goodbye. She didn’t want to know that he couldn’t live without her, or Laura, or Emma, or whatever else had gone through his head, or any more of his words that meant nothing.