‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says to Sharma. She looks at me. ‘But Charlotte Jensen’s just arrived.’
Charlotte’s back in the ill-fitting jeans and oversized shirt with pockets I recognise from the first few days after Cassie was hit.
‘Oh, Alice,’ she says, frowning as if she doesn’t understand what she’s saying. ‘I’m afraid Jack’s rather upset about the whole thing. He’s on the phone to his office. Apparently reporters have already started calling. He’s trying to figure out how best to deal with it.’ Her small hand flutters up to her temple.
‘I’m afraid it’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? As if we haven’t been through enough.’ I steer Charlotte by the arm into the family room and Jack comes in a moment later like a typhoon. Charlotte motions for him to sit, but he ignores her and stays standing.
‘I know who it was,’ he rages. ‘Cassie’s stepdad, Marcus Garrett, I’m absolutely sure of it. He told the papers as a way of putting two fingers up at us. It’s obvious, because we wouldn’t let him see her.’
Charlotte sits down, her tone balanced. ‘Cassie always said he could be tricky, but she never made him sound vindictive. Do you really think he’d go that far?’
‘Oh, come on. Don’t you remember how weird he was with Cas? He is vindictive and he’s delusional and—’ Charlotte raises her palm to Jack for him to stop.
‘That’s enough, Jack.’ She doesn’t have to raise her voice as well.
‘We can’t just pin this on Marcus without thinking of other plausible solutions. I mean, it’s always so busy here.’ She turns to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Alice, but could it have been, I don’t know, not a nurse or a doctor, but a porter or cleaner or someone?’
I nod. ‘Yes, I had the same thought, to be honest.’
Jack doesn’t say anything. He’s got his man; this discussion is just to keep his mum happy. A muscle in his jaw jumps with tension. A hospital PR person joins us; they talk about what is likely to happen, advise Charlotte and Jack on how to handle the reporters. Charlotte and Jack spend the rest of the morning with Cassie and I help coordinate a staff meeting. We’re getting our own security person for the next few days and everyone is reminded that visitors who are not related to a patient have to ring ahead and have family permission before they can visit.
After the meeting I join Carol and Mary in the nurses’ room. Carol fills the kettle from the tap as Mary reads aloud from her phone screen. She pauses to look up briefly as I come in.
‘This is the one I was talking about,’ she says. ‘Here in the comments section this guy who calls himself Peckham Tim says that Jonny Parker was a big drinker.’
Carol nods judiciously, and, forgetting I was there that night, she wrinkles her nose as she says, ‘Paula said she could still smell it on him.’
‘Yeah, but here, this is the bit.’ Mary starts to read aloud from her phone. ‘My ex-girlfriend didn’t like him; he always made her uneasy. He groped her one night in the pub and when I confronted him he denied it, which led to a fight, and that was the last time we saw him. He’s a nasty piece of work. Lock him up!’ Mary and Carol look at each other, their faces animated, delighted by their villain.
‘Bastard,’ Carol says, shaking her head. The kettle rumbles to a boil. ‘You having tea, love?’ she asks me. I nod, and Mary keeps talking.
‘On the Mail website people are saying he was obsessed with her, wouldn’t leave her alone. There are witnesses from the party who saw them in a clinch, just as the clock struck twelve, before they had a row and Cassie got upset.’
‘Who were?’ I ask, feeling myself frown. ‘Arguing, I mean.’
‘Ali, catch up! Jonny and Cassie; loads of people at the party saw them. They rowed just before she walked home … was in tears and everything. He stayed drinking for another hour before driving towards home absolutely steaming and, more to the point, pissed off with Cassie …’
‘You don’t think it was an accident?’
Mary raises her eyebrows in a look that says, in her story, it definitely wasn’t an accident.
I don’t realise I’m shaking my head until Mary asks, ‘What is it? Why are you looking like that, Ali?’
‘I just … I don’t know.’ I think of Jonny. I’ve seen enough to know what real tragedy looks like; I know it can’t be faked. ‘He just seemed so devastated.’
‘Of course he was!’ Mary snorts at my ignorance. ‘Devastated because he knew he’d be caught.’ She picks up her tea and takes a sip as she sits down at the table with Carol. I leave them with their eyes glued to their screens, hungry for more details to smear all over Jonny.
An hour later, both Mary and Carol have left for the day. I go to the nurses’ room to collect my coat and bag when the locker we keep for patient items catches my eye.
The leather bag Charlotte brought in for Cassie has the earthy smell of animal; it’s wrinkled and old, as though it’s been on many adventures. I move it to the desk and open the zip. Charlotte folded everything beautifully inside. I take out a carefully pressed pair of blue stripy pyjamas, a packet of white cotton briefs, a plain bra, a cashmere jumper, bed socks and a pair of cotton tracksuit bottoms. Everything is so well laundered it all looks brand new. There’s a Kate Atkinson novel and a wash bag with an electric toothbrush and some half-used Clarins products. Charlotte packed thoughtfully for her daughter-in-law. I feel disappointed; pyjamas can’t tell you the truth about a person.
As I’m repacking the bag my fingers find an internal pocket hidden in the seam, there’s something in there. I slide the zip back and slip my hand inside and pull out a small envelope. There’s nothing written on the front but the back is well sealed. I look up at the door as I slide my thumb under the flap. No one will know. The paper tears easily. Inside, there’s a piece of A4 paper, torn out of a book. The note’s short, written in black biro. Jack, I’m going away for a while. I don’t know how long. I need space. Please don’t call or look for me. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready. C
I read it three times, turning it over, looking for any other clues. My heart’s beating fast, as though it’s trapped inside my ribcage. There are voices outside on the ward; they sound like they’re getting closer. I shove the clothes, wash bag and book back in the bag, not bothering to fold them again. I put the bag back into the locker just as Lizzie opens the door. She doesn’t see me fold the envelope into my pocket.
‘Alice, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I was hoping to have a quick word?’
‘I was just about to go …’ but then I look at her. She looks wired, as much as her round, open face will allow her to look wired, and I know this is important.
‘Sorry, Lizzie, of course. What’s up?’
Her brow furrows. She’s about to crack into tears. I stand, put my arm around her shoulders, guide her into a chair and pass her a tissue.