Sister

cliches took verbal form.

“You’ve seen the place where she died, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you think anyone would choose to die there?”

“I don’t think it was a matter of choice.”

For a moment I thought he had started to believe me, then realized he was blaming mental illness for your murder. Like an obsessive compulsive who has no choice but to repeat the same task a hundred times, a woman with postpartum psychosis gets swept along by her mental tide of madness to inevitable self-destruction. A young woman with friends, family, talent and beauty who is found dead arouses suspicion. Even if her baby has died, there’s still a question mark about the end of her life. But throw psychosis into the list of life-affirming adjectives and you take away the question mark; you give a mental alibi to the killer, framing the victim for her own murder.

“Somebody forced her into that terrible place and killed her there.”

DS Finborough was still patient with me. “But there was no reason anyone would want to kill her. It wasn’t a sexual crime, thank God, and there was no theft involved. And when we were investigating her disappearance, we couldn’t find anyone who wished her harm, in fact quite the reverse.”

“Will you at least talk to Simon again?”

“I really don’t believe there’s anything to be gained by that.”

“Is it because Simon is the son of a cabinet minister?”

I threw that at him in an attempt to make him change his mind, to shame him into it.

“My decision not to talk to Simon Greenly again is because there is no purpose to be served by it.”

Now that I know him better, I know that he uses formal language when he feels emotionally pressured.

“But you’re aware that Simon’s father is Richard Greenly, MP?”

“I don’t think this phone call is getting us very far. Perhaps—”

“Tess isn’t worth the risk to you, is she?”

Mr. Wright has poured me a glass of water. Describing the toilets building made me retch. I have told him about Simon’s lie and my phone call to DS Finborough. But I have left out that as I spoke to DS Finborough, Todd hung up my coat; that he took the cards out of the pockets and neatly laid each one out to dry; that instead of feeling that he was being considerate, each damp card smoothed out felt a criticism; and that I knew he was taking DS Finborough’s side, even though he could hear only mine.

“So after DS Finborough said he wouldn’t interview Simon, you decided to do it yourself?” asks Mr. Wright. I think I detect a hint of amusement in his voice; it wouldn’t be surprising.

“Yes, it was getting to be something of a habit.”

And just eight days earlier, flying into London, I’d been someone who always avoided confrontation. But in comparison to the murderous brutality of your death, confrontation with words seemed harmless and a little trivial. Why had I ever been daunted by it before, afraid even? That seemed so cowardly—ludicrous—now.

Todd was going off to buy a toaster. (“I can’t believe your sister had to grill her toast.”) Our toaster in New York had a defrost function and a croissant-warming mode that we actually used. At the door he turned to me.

“You look exhausted.”

Was he being concerned or critical?

“I told you last night that you should take one of Dr. Broadbent’s sleeping pills I got for you.”

Critical.

He left to go and get the toaster.

I hadn’t explained to him why I couldn’t take a sleeping pill—that it would have felt cowardly blotting you out, even for a few hours. Nor would I tell him now that I was going to see Simon, because he would have felt duty- bound to stop me being “so rash and ridiculous.”

I drove to Simon’s address, which I’d found on a Post-it in your address book, and parked outside a three-story mansion in Kensington. Simon buzzed me in and I made my way up to the top flat. When he opened the door, I barely recognized him. His soft baby face was ridged with tiredness, his designer stubble grown into the beginnings of a sparse beard.

“I’d like to talk to you about Tess.”

“Why? I thought you knew her best.” His voice was snide with jealousy.

“You were close to her too, weren’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“So may I come in?”

He left the door open and I followed him into a large, opulent drawing room. It must be his father’s London pad when he isn’t in his constituency. On one wall, running along the length of the double drawing room, was a vast painting of a prison. Looking closer, I saw that it was actually a collage, the prison made from thousands of passport-sized photos of babies’ faces. It was engrossing and repelling.