“There was absolutely nothing about their being paid. Chrom-Med’s own website, which had a lot of detail about the trial, had nothing about any payments. I knew that the development of the genetic cure would have cost a fortune, and three hundred pounds was a tiny amount of money in comparison, but it still seemed strange. Chrom-Med’s website had e-mail addresses for every member of the company—presumably, to look open and approachable—so I e-mailed Professor Rosen. I was pretty sure it would go to a minion but thought it was worth a try.”
Mr. Wright has a copy of my e-mail in front of him.From: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]
Dear Professor Rosen: Could you tell me why the mothers on your cystic fibrosis trial are being paid ?300 to participate? Or perhaps you would prefer me to couch it in the correct language, “compensated for their time.”
Beatrice Hemming
As I’d predicted, I didn’t hear back from Professor Rosen. But I carried on searching on the Net, still wearing my coat from when I’d got in from visiting Kasia, my bag just dumped at my feet. I hadn’t switched the light on and now it was dark. I hardly noticed Todd coming in. I didn’t even wonder, let alone ask, where he’d been all day, barely glancing up from the screen.
“Tess was paid to take part in the CF trial, so was Kasia, but there’s no record of that anywhere.”
“Beatrice …”
He’d stopped using the word
“But that’s not the important thing,” I continued. “I hadn’t thought to look at the financial aspect of the trial before, but several reputable sites—the
It would have been in the papers, but since your death I had stopped reading them. Chrom-Med’s flotation was a crucial bit of news to me, but Todd didn’t react at all.
“The directors of Chrom-Med stand to make a fortune,” I continued. “The sites have different estimates, but the amount of money is enormous. And the employees are all shareholders, so they’re going to get their share of the bonanza.”
“The company will have invested millions, if not billions, in their research,” Todd said, his voice impatient. “And now they’re having a massively successful trial, which is payback time for their investment. Of course they’re going to float on the stock market. It’s a completely logical business decision.”
“But the payments to the women—”
“Stop. For God’s sake, stop,” he shouted. For a moment both of us were taken aback. We’d spent four years being polite to each other. Shouting was embarrassingly intimate. He struggled to sound more measured. “First it was her married tutor, then an obsessed weirdo student and now you’ve added this trial to your list—which everyone, including the world’s press and scientific community, has wholeheartedly endorsed.”
“Yes. I am suspicious of different people, even a trial. Because I don’t know yet who killed her. Or why. Just that someone did. And I have to look at every possibility.”
“No. You don’t. That’s the police’s job, and they’ve done it. There’s nothing left for you to do.”
“My sister was murdered.”
“Please, darling, you have to face the truth at some point that—”
I interrupted him. “She would never have killed herself.”
At this point in our argument, both of us awkward and a little embarrassed, I felt that we were going through the motions, actors struggling with a clunky script.
“Just because it’s what you believe,” he said. “What you
“How can you possibly know what the truth is?” I snapped back. “You only met her a few times, and even then you barely bothered to talk to her. She wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to get to know.”
I was arguing with apparent conviction, my voice raised and my words sharpened to hurt, but in truth I was still on our relationship beltway, and inside I was uninvolved and unscathed. I continued my performance, marveling slightly at how easy it was to get into my stride. I’d never had a row before.
“What did you call her? ‘Kooky’?” I asked, not waiting for a reply. “I don’t think you even bothered to listen to anything she said to you on the two occasions we all actually had a meal together. You judged her without even having a proper conversation with her.”
“You’re right. I didn’t know her well. And I admit that I didn’t like her all that much either. She irritated me, as a matter of fact. But this isn’t about how well—”
I interrupted him. “You dismissed her because she was an art student, because of the way she lived and the clothes she wore.”
“For God’s sake.”
“You didn’t see the person she was at all.”
“You’re going way off the point here. Look, I do understand that you want to blame someone for her death. I know you don’t want to feel responsible for it.” The composure in his voice sounded forced and I was reminded of myself talking to the police. “You’re afraid of having to live with that guilt,” he continued. “And I do understand that. But what I want you to try to understand is that once you accept what really happened, then you’ll realize that you weren’t to blame at all. We all know that you weren’t. She took her own life, for reasons that the police, the coroner, your mother, and her doctors are satisfied with, and no one else is to blame, including you. If you could just believe that, then you can start to move forward.” He awkwardly put his hand on my shoulder and left it there —like me he finds being tactile difficult. “I’ve got tickets home for both of us. Our flight leaves the evening after her funeral.”
I was silent. How could I possibly leave?
“I know you’re worried your mother needs you here for support,” continued Todd. “But she agrees that the sooner you get back home, back to your normal life, the better.” His hand slammed onto the table. I noticed the disturbance on my screen before his uncharacteristic physicality. “I don’t recognize you anymore. And now I’m
