Where the Memories Lie

 

 

I pictured us all about five years ago, before the Alzheimer’s was really rearing its ugly head, when we had all taken a family holiday out to stay with my parents at their converted finca in Andalucía. I didn’t get to see them that much after they moved abroad so it was a great time, with both the Tates and Maxwells spending lazy days around the pool, reading books or playing water volleyball or bat and ball. We’d taken Charlotte with us, too, and both girls were hardly out of the pool for two whole weeks. On days out we soaked up the history of the area, then went for early evening walks to the local restaurants and ordered tapas that, surprisingly, Anna loved. Even the squid! Who’d have thought things would end up here?

 

‘We won’t take long, Tom,’ DI Spencer softened his voice slightly, making it sound soothing and relaxed, and it struck me that he was probably a bit like a chameleon, changing his persona when relating to different types of people as he tried to eke out more information. ‘Do you remember telling Olivia about Katie Quinn?’

 

Tom’s eyelids flew open and his gaze sought mine. The skin around his eyes wrinkled at the edges as his face crumpled in on itself.

 

I blinked back the tears. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I had to tell them what you told me.’

 

154

 

Where the Memories Lie

 

Ethan glared at me again, and I looked away, out of the window at a magpie on the lawn, squawking as it chased away a blackbird. What was that saying about them? One for sorrow. Was it a premonitory warning? I swallowed and turned back.

 

‘Do you remember telling Olivia that you’d buried Katie under the garage?’ DI Spencer tried again.

 

‘She’s lying. Olivia’s always lying.’ Tom clamped his mouth into a thin trembling line.

 

‘Was it an accident? Is that what happened?’ DI Spencer asked and waited patiently in the silence that followed. When Tom didn’t speak, he said, ‘We found a skeleton buried where you said it was.

 

Is that Katie?’

 

Tom started coughing, a hacking, dry sound. He leaned forward and Nadia patted his back.

 

I poured him water from a jug on his bedside cabinet and tilted the glass in front of him. ‘Have a drink.’

 

His eyes streamed as he took some small sips, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the coughing fit or because he was crying.

 

‘We need to find out what happened to her, Mr Tate,’ DS Khan said gently.

 

Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let the tears wind down his cheeks. ‘I . . . it’s . . . was a long time ago.’

 

‘We know. That’s why we need to piece things together,’ DI Spencer said. ‘Can you tell us?’

 

‘She shouldn’t have done it.’ Tom looked up and stared at me but he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking through me, as if drowning in some distant memory.

 

‘Done what?’ DI Spencer asked.

 

Tom opened his mouth to speak and then shook his head.

 

‘ Please, Dad,’ Nadia pleaded with him in a tiny voice.

 

Suddenly Tom snatched his hand back from Nadia’s and fum-bled with the bed covers, trying to pull them down but really 155

 

Sibel Hodge

 

just flinging them around. ‘You’re not taking me away. I know your type!’ he snarled, managing to free his pyjama-clad legs and swing them over the edge of the bed. ‘No, no, no.’ He shook his head manically. ‘Not taking me. Not.’ He tried to lift himself off the bed with his forearms but he was breathing hard, face red with effort and anger. ‘I’m not going with you! You’ll put me in one of those . . . one of those . . .’ He pointed a shaky finger at DI Spencer.