‘You killed Dad.’ I still can’t believe it.
She looks at me as though she’d forgotten I was there. She walks from one side of the room to the other – back and forth, back and forth – but whether it’s to soothe Ella or herself it isn’t clear. ‘It was an accident. He … he fell. Against the kitchen counter.’
I cover my mouth with my hands, stifle the cry that builds at the thought of Dad lying on the kitchen floor. ‘Was he … was he drunk?’
It changes nothing, but I’m searching for reasons, trying to understand how my baby and I came to be imprisoned in this flat.
‘Drunk?’ Mum looks momentarily confused, then she turns away and I can’t see her face. When she speaks, she’s trying not to cry. ‘No, he wasn’t drunk. I was.’ She turns back around. ‘I’ve changed, Anna. I’m not the person I was back then. That person died – just like you all thought she had. I had a chance to start again; not to make the mistakes I made before. Not to hurt anyone.’
‘This is what you call not hurting anyone?’
‘This was a mistake.’
An accident. A mistake. My head is spinning with the lies she’s told, and if this is the truth, then I’m not sure I want to hear it.
‘Let us go.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You can, Mum. You said yourself: this has all been a big mistake. Give me Ella, put down the gun, and let us go. I don’t care what you do after that – just let us go.’
‘They’ll put me in prison.’
I don’t answer.
‘It was an accident! I lashed out, lost my temper. I didn’t mean to hit him. He slipped and …’ Tears trace the outline of her face and drop onto her jumper. She looks wretched, and despite myself – despite everything she’s done – I feel myself weakening. I believe her when she says it was never meant to be like this. Who would want this to happen?
‘So, tell the police that. Be honest. That’s all you can do.’ I keep my voice calm, but at the mention of the police her eyes widen in alarm and she resumes her pacing, even faster and more frantic than before. She pulls open the sliding door to the balcony and a gust of icy air rushes in. There are cheers from somewhere on the street – seven floors below us – and music competing from every direction. My heart pounds, my hands suddenly clammy and hot despite the open door. ‘Mum, come back inside.’
She walks out to the balcony.
‘Mum – give me Ella.’ Trying to keep my voice calm.
The outside space is small – designed more for cigarettes than for barbecues – protected by a toughened glass surround.
My mother crosses the balcony. She looks down and I don’t even know what I cry out, only that it leaves my mouth and makes no impact, because Mum’s staring down at the street with horror on her face. Ella’s tight in her arms, but so close to the edge, so close …
‘Give Ella to me, Mum.’ I move slowly, one step at a time. Grandmother’s footsteps. ‘You don’t want to hurt her. She’s just a baby.’
She turns around. Her voice is so faint it’s a struggle to hear her against the noise of the city below us. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Gently, I take Ella from her, resisting the urge to snatch her and run, to barricade myself in another room. Mum doesn’t resist, and I hold my breath as I reach out one hand. She must know this has to stop.
‘Now give me the gun.’
It’s as if I break a spell. Her eyes snap to mine, as though she’s just remembered I’m there. Her grip tightens and she pulls away, but my hand is already around her wrist and, although I’m seized by terror, I can’t let it go. I push her arm away from me – away from us – towards the night sky, but she’s trying to turn back towards the apartment and we’re both using every ounce of strength we have. We tussle like children over a toy, neither letting go; neither brave enough to do more in case it—
It doesn’t sound like a gun.
It sounds like a bomb. Like a building collapsing. Like an explosion.
The glass surround shatters. An echo to the gunshot, to the fizz of fireworks overhead.
I let go first. Step back from the edge of the balcony, where there’s nothing now between safety and the night sky. My ears are ringing like I’m in a bell tower, and above the ringing Ella is screaming, and I know it must hurt her because it’s hurting me too.
My mother and I stare at each other, eyes wide in mutual terror at what just happened. What could have happened. She looks at the gun in her hand, holding it flat in her palm, as though she doesn’t want to touch it.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispers.
‘Put down the gun.’
She walks inside. Puts the gun on the coffee table and paces the flat. She’s muttering something, her face twisted and her hands on her head, fingers grabbing at her hair.
I look down from the balcony, Ella held safely away from the edge. Where are the people? Where are the police cars, the ambulances, the crowds running to see where the gunshot came from? There is nothing. No one looking up. No one running. Revellers on their way from one bar to another. A man in an overcoat, talking on the phone. He walks around the shattered pieces of glass. Drunks, litter, broken glass – just another unwanted consequence of New Year’s Eve.
I shout, ‘Help!’
We are on the seventh floor. The air is filled with snatches of music as doors open and close, a continual thump of bass from somewhere a few streets away, fireworks from party-goers too impatient to wait for midnight.
‘Up here!’
There’s a couple on the pavement below. I glance back at my mother, then lean over as far as I dare and shout again. She looks up; he does too. He raises one arm – what looks like a full pint glass in his hand. And the tinny cheer that drifts up to me tells me my shouting is pointless.
I’m about to turn away, when I see it.
Parked on the street, oblivious to the double yellows, is a black Mitsubishi Shogun.
SIXTY-THREE
MURRAY
Murray and DS Kennedy had decamped to the kitchen of Oak View, where an unofficial incident room had been established.
‘Check the voters’ register for Mark Hemmings.’ James was standing up, issuing actions to a young DC, who was furiously scribbling them down, ready to relay them to control room. His phone rang and he took the call, listening intently, then covering the microphone as he updated the detective sergeant.
‘Anna Johnson’s car pinged automatic number plate recognition cameras twice leaving Eastbourne. There are several cameras on the A27, but they didn’t trigger any of them.’ Murray’s heart sank – had Caroline taken Anna and the baby somewhere else entirely? The DC was still talking. ‘They picked up the car again in London – the last ping was just after half ten on the South Circular.’
James looked at Murray. ‘Anything from Hemmings’ phone?’
‘Still ringing out. I’ll keep trying.’
‘I’ve asked for cell site on Anna’s phone.’
Murray pressed redial. Nothing. He had already left a message, but if Mark had switched his phone to silent for the drive, it could be another hour before he responded. In the meantime, who knew what Caroline had planned?
‘Sarge, there are tons of Mark Hemmings on Voters. Do we have a middle name?’
While James rooted through the pile of post abandoned on the kitchen table, in the hope of finding at least an initial, Murray brought up Google.
It was, he thought, the online equivalent of good old-fashioned policing, the sort that didn’t rely on police intelligence systems, or databases, or data protection waivers. It was the equivalent of knocking on doors, asking real people what they knew.
He searched for ‘Mark Hemmings, Putney’ and got too many hits to be useful. He closed his eyes for a moment; remembered what he knew about Anna’s partner. Then he allowed himself a slow smile. Mark Hemmings hadn’t only lived in a flat in Putney; he had worked there.
‘Flat 702, Putney Bridge Tower, SW15 2JX.’ Murray spun the phone across the table to James, the listing of accredited counsellors open at: Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST, DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP.