“I teach English literature at a comprehensive.” Gwen leaned towards her, frowning. “Listen, the police officer I spoke to said they thought Reagan’s death could have been caused by an alcohol or drug overdose.” She set her empty mug down and went on, “I don’t believe it, not for a minute. Reagan might have had a few drinks with friends, but she didn’t binge. And she would never do drugs. I know kids. I’m not a naive mum. I see kids every day at school, I know what sorts of things they get up to. That wasn’t Reagan, I’m telling you.”
Gemma had heard similar testimony from parents before, painful in its earnestness. Shocked and grieved, most didn’t want to believe their children could have been at fault. But Gwen Keating was right, she did know kids, and nothing about the woman struck her as naive.
And then there was the way Reagan’s body had been described, which suggested another possibility—one that Gemma was certain her mother would find even more painful—suicide. “I’m sure they’ll have some answers for you soon,” she said, knowing that there was no good outcome, although a natural death would surely be the least painful.
“I want to take her things home,” Gwen said, gathering her handbag to her, the first step in leave-taking.
Nita’s head snapped round towards her, as if she’d been somewhere else entirely until Gwen spoke. “You can’t.”
“What?” Gwen stared at her. “What do you mean, I can’t? Why ever not?”
Nita said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that the police told me that her room should be left as it was until they’d done their initial investigation. They didn’t tell you?”
“No. They did not.” Gwen’s lips were pinched tight.
Somebody at Kensington nick had made a right balls-up of this, thought Gemma, starting with mentioning alcohol and drugs to Gwen when they hadn’t done a tox screen or a postmortem. If it had been anyone on her team, she’d have had their head on a platter.
Nita shot her a pleading glance.
The room had grown warmer and stuffier. Wondering why Nita didn’t open the windows for a little air, Gemma resisted the urge to get up and crank the casements out herself.
MacKenzie’s voice had been a low murmur from the entry hall. Now Gemma heard the front door open and close. Rising, she peered out the front windows and saw MacKenzie pacing the pavement, mobile held to her ear. MacKenzie looked up, waved, and smiled.
“She could see Reagan’s room, couldn’t she, Nita?” Gemma asked, finding herself unable to sit down again. The scent of the roses had grown stronger.
“But—I don’t know if she should— And I don’t think I can possibly—”
“I’ll go with her,” Gemma said, cutting off Nita’s protest.
Nita frowned. “And you’ll make certain—”
“Of course Gwen won’t take anything.” Gemma’s patience was wearing thin.
“Well, all right, if you’re certain,” said Nita, acquiescing with less than good grace. “It’s the front room on the first floor. Jess has the back. I’ll be in the kitchen. I need to make some phone calls.” She gave them a brisk smile and went out. The room was so quiet that after a moment Gemma heard her soft footfalls on the stairs.
She turned to Gwen. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Gwen stood, nodding, and Gemma guessed she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Then let’s go up, shall we?” Leading the way, Gemma had to admit that, in spite of the circumstances, she was curious. She wanted to see more of the house. And she wanted to know more about Reagan Keating.
When Gwen hesitated outside the closed bedroom door, Gemma turned the knob and gave Gwen an encouraging little pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be right beside you,” she said, standing back to let Gwen enter.
It was a spacious room, with two large south-facing windows. The blinds were half drawn and the windows closed, so it was even warmer than downstairs. Scent lingered in the air, something fresh and slightly grassy. The double bed, covered with a bright orange-and-purple-flowered duvet, looked hastily made, and one of a cascade of decorative pillows had fallen on the floor.
Reagan had had an eye for color, Gemma thought, and had liked her creature comforts. There was a bookcase filled with paperbacks and magazines, an armchair with a beaded reading lamp beside it, and on the desk, a little tea-making station with a tin of tea, a tin of shortbread, and a chipped Brown Betty teapot.
A pair of jeans was thrown over the chair arm, and two summer dresses lay rumpled on the foot of the bed as if tossed there in a hurry. Were these the things Reagan had almost worn on Friday night, then discarded?
Gwen sagged onto the edge of the bed as if her knees had been suddenly cut from under her and gathered up one of the dresses. “I gave her this,” she said. “For her birthday.” She gave a sudden wracking cry, then her shoulders began to shake as she rocked, weeping, the tears streaming down her cheeks and the dress clutched to her breast.
Gemma sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders, murmuring, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” as if Gwen were the child, all the while knowing that it wasn’t all right and that it never would be.
When Gwen’s sobs had subsided to hiccups, Gemma looked round for tissues, spying a roll of kitchen towels tucked neatly behind the tea kettle. Giving Gwen a squeeze, she got up to fetch the roll, but as she stood at the desk she couldn’t help looking at the big corkboard above it.
It was covered with scribbled notes and photos and pages torn from the Ollie catalog. There was the photo Gwen had shown her, and several others that Gemma remembered glimpsing in her own copies of the catalog. The notes were written in a neat, round, fluid hand that made Gemma think that Gwen had taught her daughter proper cursive script when she was young. Most seemed to be simple shopping lists, or reminders to meet someone at a certain time—indecipherable unless you knew the code of the initials and abbreviations Reagan had used.
But it was the photos that interested Gemma most. It was unusual to see so many printed photographs these days, when most people stored photos on their phones. Checking the desk, Gemma spotted a small color printer tucked behind a stack of books. There was an empty space at the front of the desk that might have held Reagan’s laptop.
Tearing a couple of sheets from the kitchen roll, Gemma went back to Gwen. Then, as Gwen nodded her thanks and blew her nose, Gemma turned again to the photos on the board. There was one of Reagan with Oliver, and another of Reagan with Oliver and Charlotte. She hadn’t realized that Charlotte had known Reagan. There were dozens of photos of Jess—Jess dancing in practice gear, Jess dancing in full costume, and one of Reagan and Jess together. Her arm was thrown casually over his shoulders and they were laughing, making faces at the camera.
And there were photos of Reagan with her friends. Most were late-night-group-selfies-in-the-pub, fuzzy and unflattering. But there were several shots of a very good-looking young man, and their placement made Gemma think those had been looked at often. He was very blond, with straight hair cut collar length all round, full lips, and striking blue eyes. His gaze engaged the camera in a way that made Gemma think he was used to being photographed.