containers and jars. ‘Got anything to eat?’
‘I can make you a sandwich.’
‘How about a Coke?’
‘We don’t have fizzy drinks in the house.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
She’s found a packet of biscuits in the pantry and picks apart the plastic wrapping with her fingernails.
‘Mum was supposed to phone the school on Friday afternoon. I wanted to come home for the weekend, but I needed her permission. I called her all day- on her mobile and at home. I sent her text messages- dozens of them. I couldn’t get through.
‘I told my housemistress something must be wrong, but she said Mum was probably just busy and I shouldn’t worry, only I did worry, I worried all Friday night and Saturday morning. The housemistress said Mum had probably gone away for the weekend and forgotten to tell me, but I knew it wasn’t true.
‘I asked for permission to go home, but they wouldn’t let me. So I ran away on Saturday afternoon and went to the house. Mum wasn’t there. Her car was gone. Things were so random. That’s when I called the police.’
She holds herself perfectly still.
‘The police showed me a photo. I told them it must be somebody else. Mum wouldn’t even go on the London Eye. Last summer we went to Paris and she panicked going up the Eiffel Tower. She hated heights.’
Darcy freezes. The packet of biscuits has broken open in her hands, spilling crumbs between her fingers. She stares at the wreckage and rocks forward, curling her knees to her chest and uttering a long unbroken sob.
The professional part of me knows to avoid physical contact but the father in me is stronger. I put my arms around her, pulling her head to my chest.
‘You were there,’ she whispers.
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t suicide. She’d never leave me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please help me.’
‘I don’t know if I can, Darcy.’
‘Please.’
I wish I could take her pain away. I wish I could tell her that it won’t hurt like this forever or that one day she’ll forget how this feels. I’ve heard childcare experts talk about how fast children forgive and forget. That’s bullshit! Children remember. Children hold grudges. Children keep secrets. Children can sometimes seem strong because their defences have never been breached or eroded by tragedy, but they are as light and fragile as spun glass.
Emma is awake and calling out for me. I climb the stairs to her room and lower one side of her cot, lifting her into my arms. Her fine dark hair is tousled by sleep.
I hear the toilet flush downstairs. Darcy has washed her face and brushed her hair, pinning it tightly in a bun that makes her neck appear impossibly long.
‘This is Emma,’ I explain as she returns to the kitchen.
‘Hi, gorgeous,’ says Darcy, finding a smile.
Emma plays hard to get, turning her face away. Suddenly, she spies the biscuits and reaches out for one. I set her down and, surprisingly, she goes straight to Darcy and crawls onto her lap.
‘She must like you,’ I say.
Emma toys with the buttons of Darcy’s jacket.
‘I need to ask you a few more questions.’
Darcy nods.
‘Was your mother upset about anything? Depressed?’
‘No.’
‘Was she having trouble sleeping?’
‘She had pills.’
‘Was she eating regularly?’
‘Sure.’
‘What did your mother do?’
‘She’s a wedding planner. She has her own company- Blissful. She and her friend Sylvia started it up. They did a wedding for Alexandra Phillips.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘A celebrity. Haven’t you ever seen that show about the vet who looks after animals in Africa?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, she got married and Mum and Sylvia did the whole thing. It made all the magazines.’
Darcy still hasn’t referred to her mother in the past tense. It’s not unusual and has nothing to do with denial. Two days isn’t long enough for the reality to take hold and permeate her thinking.
I still don’t understand what she’s doing here. I couldn’t save her mother and I can’t tell her any more than the police can. Christine Wheeler’s final words were addressed to me but she didn’t give me any clues.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask.
‘Come to the house. Then you’ll see.’
‘See what?’
‘She didn’t kill herself.’
‘I watched her jump, Darcy.’
‘Well, something must have made her do it.’ She kisses the top of Emma’s head. ‘She wouldn’t do it like that. She wouldn’t leave me.’
7
The eighteenth century cottage has gnarled and twisted wisteria climbing above the front door, reaching as high as the eaves. The adjacent garage was once a stable and is now part of the main house.
Darcy unlocks the front door and steps into the dimness of the entrance hall. She hesitates, jostling with emotions that retard her movements.
‘Is something wrong?’
She shakes her head unconvincingly.
‘You can stay outside if you like and look after Emma.’
She nods.
Emma is kicking up leaves on the path.
Crossing the slate floor of the entrance hall, I brush against an empty coat hook and notice an umbrella propped beneath it. There is a kitchen on the right. Through the windows I see a rear garden and a wood railing fence separating neatly pruned rose bushes from adjacent gardens. A cup and cereal bowl rest in the draining rack. The sink is dry and wiped clean. Inside the kitchen bin are vegetable scraps, curling orange peel and old teabags the colour of dog turds. The table is clear except for a small pile of bills and opened letters.
I yell over my shoulder. ‘How long have you lived here?’
Darcy answers through the open door. ‘Eight years. Mum had to take out a second mortgage when she started the company.’
The living room is tastefully but tiredly furnished, with an aging sofa, armchairs and a large sideboard with cat-scratched corners. There are framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Most of them show Darcy in various ballet costumes, either backstage or performing. Ballet trophies and medals are lined up in a display case, alongside more photographs.
‘You’re a dancer.’
‘Yes.’
It should have been obvious. She has the classic dancer’s body: lean and loose-limbed, with slightly out-
