‘Michael’s dead,’ Carol said again. She wondered if she’d ever be able to say it without feeling a physical ache in her chest. David Jordan staggered, grabbing at a frail hall table which tottered under his hand. Her mother was still making that hellish sound.
Carol tried to move out of the doorway but it was hard to manoeuvre. To her surprise, Alice Flowers eased her way past them in spite of her bulk, supporting Jane from behind and allowing Carol to come in and close the door. Between them they half-dragged, half-carried Jane into the living room and laid her on a sofa.
David followed them, bemused and lost. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How can Michael be dead? I had an email from him this morning. There must be some mistake, Carol.’
‘Dad, there’s no mistake.’ She left Alice holding her mother on the sofa and went to her father. She put her arms around him, but he was as stiff as he’d always been in the face of any emotion from the female members of his family. David had been a great dad when it came to having fun or being stuck with your maths homework. But he’d never been the one you went to in any kind of emotional state. Yet still she clung to him, dimly aware that he’d grown thin, a pale imitation of his more vigorous self.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whisky and three tumblers. She poured a stiff measure into each glass then emptied one in a single gulp. She refilled it, then handed one to her father, who stood looking at it as if he’d never seen a drink before.
Jane had run out of steam and was leaning against Alice, a piteous expression of misery on her face. She held a hand out for the whisky and knocked it back exactly as Carol had done. ‘What happened? Was it a car accident?’ she said, her voice cracked and broken. ‘That stupid sports car of Lucy’s. I knew it was dangerous.’
Carol sat down next to the whisky. ‘It wasn’t a car accident, Mum. Michael was murdered. And so was Lucy.’ Her voice rose at the end of the sentence and she could feel tears at the back of her throat. She’d been holding herself together all day and now she was starting to come apart. She supposed it was something to do with being with her parents. Even though she was the one taking the adult role, she couldn’t help slipping into her natural position in the emotional hierarchy.
Jane shook her head. ‘That can’t be right, dear. Michael didn’t have an enemy in the world. You must be confused.’
‘I know it’s hard to take in, but Carol’s right.’ Alice Flowers demonstrated why she was an FLO with the gentle firmness of her tone.
‘What happened?’ David asked abruptly, slumping down on the nearest chair. He tried to drink his whisky but it chattered against his teeth and he lowered the glass again. ‘Was it a burglar? Someone trying to break in?’
Alice Flowers took over again. ‘We believe someone broke in, yes. It may have been an escaped prisoner.’
Jane struggled upright, frowning. ‘The one on the TV? That terrible Vance man? Him?’
‘It’s possible,’ Alice said. ‘Officers are still examining the scene. It’s early days. We will keep you informed, of course.’
‘Vance?’ Jane turned an accusing glare on Carol. ‘You arrested that man. You sent him to prison. This isn’t just some random attack, is it? This is because of you and your job.’
‘This is not Carol’s fault, Mrs Jordan,’ Alice said. ‘This is the fault of the man who attacked your son and his partner.’
‘She’s right, Jane,’ David said, his voice dull and toneless.
‘Believe me, Mum, I’d have done anything for this not to happen. I’d have taken a bullet for Michael. You know that.’ Carol couldn’t stop the tears now. They streamed from her eyes, running down her face and dripping from her chin.
‘But he’s the one that’s dead.’ Jane folded her arms across her chest and began rocking to and fro. ‘My beautiful boy. My Michael. My beautiful, beautiful boy.’
And so it had gone. Grief, recriminations, tears and whisky had circled round each other all night. Carol had finally crawled into bed just after three, so tired she could scarcely undress. Alice Flowers had promised to remain till morning, when she’d be relieved by a colleague. She understood Carol’s fear that Vance might not stop at her brother.
Carol lay stiffly under the covers of a bed she’d only slept in half a dozen times. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid of the images her mind would project if she let down her guard. In the end, exhaustion won out and she crumpled into sleep in a matter of seconds.
She woke just after eight with a dull headache and a panicky fear of the silence in the house. She lay for a few minutes trying to pull herself into some sort of shape to face the day, then dragged herself upright. She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands, wondering how in the name of God she could carry on with her job, her life, her parents. Alice Flowers was wrong. Michael’s death was her fault. The responsibility lay squarely at her door. She had not protected him. It was as simple as that.
Knowing that, she didn’t think she could stay under her parents’ roof any longer. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes and headed downstairs. Her parents were in the living room with Alice. They appeared not to have moved. ‘I need to go,’ she said.
Jane barely lifted her head. Listless, she said, ‘You know best. You always do.’
‘Can’t you stay?’ David said. ‘You should be here with us. You shouldn’t be among strangers, not when you’re grieving. We need you here, your mum and me.’
‘I’ll be back,’ Carol said. ‘But I can’t settle while the man who killed Michael is free. Finding killers is what I’m best at. I can’t just sit here, I’ll go mad.’ She crossed to her mother and gave her an awkward hug. She smelled of whisky and sour sweat, like a stranger. ‘I love you, Mum.’
Jane sighed. ‘I love you too, Carol.’ The words felt dragged from her lips.
