Matt was sitting on Wren’s side of the bed, staring out of the window and the old church next to their house. ‘So … we’re saying there was a second dog that might have killed Steph?’
‘That’s right, which means it’s possible that the only reason Steph’s dog went wild when the doors finally opened again, was because it was trying to protect her.’
‘You said Steph’s dog definitely had her blood on its mouth.’
‘It did. But maybe it was trying to nudge her awake or something. It’s a theory, anyway. But basically, we have another dog.’
Matt pondered it. ‘Then how did that one get out of the cupboard?’
‘Maybe whoever was singing, let it out …’
The rain had started drumming against the window now. Fast enough to obliterate any trickles that were trying to race gravity to the bottom of the pane. None of them made it.
‘How believable is this old lady?’
‘I just met with her, Matt. She has no history of dementia. She wasn’t asleep. I reckon she saw what she saw. Which means, if there really is a second dog then things are a bit more complicated.’
‘No shit.’ Matt looked down at the video player and at the Holly Wasson bumper pack Bob had given him. He shook his head. ‘So who else could have been there?’
‘I suppose the Hodges would say what else was there?’
‘You need to find out who it was.’
‘M-hmmm … anyway. I just thought you’d like to know.’
‘Thanks.’ Matt nodded. ‘And thanks for a thoroughly odd day.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘So what are you up to now?’
He laughed. ‘Now don’t shoot me but me and the wife are off to church. Our priest’s doing a talk on the Biblical Principles of Marital Romance.’
‘Whoah, easy tiger— ’ Matt flicked his gaze toward the door. He could hear a girl sobbing.
‘Matt?’
‘Sorry, Larry. Gotta go.’ He stood up.
He said goodbye and tapped the phone off. He opened the door a tiny crack and noted the ridiculous expectation he had, that he might see Holly Wasson standing there on his landing, coiled cord in hand. Instead, he pushed the door back and just leant against the doorframe, sighing. Not with frustration, but sadness. He listened to Amelia and Wren in the bathroom. Wren was speaking with her most soothing, gentle tone because their youngest was tearfully refusing to go in her room. Telling her mum that she hated this house, that she hated her room and that a house was only a home if it felt safe.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary Wasson clinked a plate full of runny lasagne onto the dining-room table. ‘Oh, it’s a terrible business,’ she said, in that vacant, slightly metallic voice she had these days.
Rachel looked down at the food and wondered if Mum was referring to Steph’s death or what was for dinner. The meal was so full of deep-red tomato purée that it looked like a placenta sitting there, with a few lumps of half-red garlic bread seeping into it. She slowly pressed a fork into the grey-looking meat and each prong slid through.
‘Killed by her own dog. That’s very strange.’ Mum’s face was gaunt, and around it her black hair still hung long, but it was extremely thin-looking. It used to shine, that hair. Shine and bounce. She’d curl it up just to nip to the library or even for that jazzercise class she used to rave about. She’d prep herself so she’d feel like a dancer in the wall-to-wall mirrors. People used to comment on her hair because every happy strand would join forces with the others, linking arms to make a thick, rich mane that even Kassy said was decent.
But Holly’s death had ruined even that.
Suicide is like a gas. It lingers in the air and cannot be wafted away. It hangs there invisibly, seeping through the cracks of the house that hosted it, so that it fills every room and every person. And it filled Mum’s hair. In the weeks that followed the hanging, those strands no longer stood together. They weren’t on speaking terms any more. Each of them became a separate, thin, spider strand, dangling from the dome of Mum’s scalp, the curve of which could be clearly visible when the light was right.
Like now. She could see the white glistening arc of Mum’s scalp now, shining through a once lush, but now devastated, forest of thin, dead trees.
Rachel once heard her mum being described as a weather girl. Which on one level sounded like a sexist insult until later when she realised she’d like that said to her. But now the weather girl was a grim, lonely chambermaid of a woman whose busy fingers would often scratch behind the thin arch of her ears. Rachel saw dandruff flutter onto the table almost every time she did that.
‘Steph’s in a better place now,’ Mum said.
Rachel nodded, though she wasn’t even sure if she believed it. ‘Yeah.’
Mum pressed a fork through the slit in her thin lips and with a start Rachel heard it clink hard against her teeth. Then Mum took a sip from her mug, which had clear liquid in it. Vodka.
She also had a new cat called Finlay, who kept trotting in now and again to stare at them both. Especially at Rachel, as if Finlay could smell that old imposter cat Pob, hovering around her.
Mum still loved animals. All around the dining room those cheap and dated pictures of creatures still hung, in thin frames. Tigers and wolves, bears and birds
