“My mobile is about to die, can you check yours?” I ask Richard.
He sighs, then reaches for his pocket. His expression changes immediately and he starts to pat himself down and search inside his bag.
“Shit, I don’t have it…”
“Maybe you left it in the car?” I reply, and concentrate on finding the e-mail before my phone is completely out of juice.
When I do, I show the receptionist the screen with an inflated sense of triumph. She takes an extraordinary length of time to stab the reference number into her computer, using just one finger.
“A reservation was made for you this afternoon, two rooms…”
“Thank goodness,” I say, and start to smile too soon.
“… but it was canceled this evening.”
The half-formed smile slides right off my face.
“What? No. When? By who?”
“It doesn’t tell me who made the call, only that the rooms were canceled at eighteen thirty.”
Richard picks up my credit card and hands it to me.
“Come on, if she says the place is full there’s no point standing here arguing about it. It’s crazy late, and we’ve got another early start tomorrow. I know somewhere we can stay.”
Him
Wednesday 23:55
Even when I hear the familiar sound of police sirens, I stay where I am outside the bathroom. Waiting while they pull up outside before coming in through the open front door downstairs. Priya takes charge of everything, and seems remarkably sober too, given how many bottles of beer I thought we drunk together earlier. I watch them all coming and going, police colleagues walking through the crime scene that used to be my home, while I seem unable to stand or think.
I only snap out of it when I hear my niece start to cry in her bedroom, woken by strangers working on the murder of her mother. Not that she knows that, or will understand it anytime soon. Doctors are checking her over now; they think she was drugged. I try to get up using the wall for support, avoiding looking inside the bathroom. They haven’t moved Zoe yet. She’s still lying in a pool of red water, staring up at the name on the wall.
“Take it easy,” says Priya, rushing over to help me get back on my feet. “I’ve got this. You shouldn’t be here, is there somewhere else you can go?”
There isn’t.
Olivia is screaming now. I don’t know how to explain what has happened to a two-year-old; I don’t understand it myself. Priya carries on talking, but all I can hear is a little girl crying out for a mother she’ll never see again.
“I’m guessing you’d rather avoid social services getting involved, so I’ve found a neighbor who says she can look after your niece; sounds like she’s looked after her before. You’ll need to sign something, but a family liaison officer will take care of everything, is that okay?”
I think I nod, but I don’t know if it is okay. Maybe I should stay with her.
“Good. You can’t stay here,” Priya says, as though reading my thoughts.
“I need to find out who did this,” I insist, my voice sounding strange inside my ears.
“I know you do. But maybe tomorrow, sir. I think it might be best if I get someone to drive you somewhere else for the night?”
“Where do you think I’m going to go? And why haven’t you asked the most obvious question yet?”
Priya pulls the face she reserves for when she feels most uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what you—”
“Don’t treat me like a fool, Priya. You know exactly what I mean. What do your instincts tell you? Do you think she did it?”
“Who?”
“Anna! They never liked each other. Why else would my ex-wife’s name be written on the wall in blood? She’s been the first to arrive at every crime scene. I know you suspected her earlier. Maybe I could have stopped this from happening if only I’d—”
Priya stares at me with a look that lies somewhere between pity and mistrust, and it redefines her features.
“Go on, say whatever it is that you’re thinking,” I say when she doesn’t speak.
“Well, you said yourself that the bathroom door was locked from the inside when you arrived…”
I don’t have the patience for one of her pauses.
“Yes,” I snap.
“And the key to the door was found on the side of the bath—”
“Are you suggesting it was suicide?” I interrupt. She stares at me, the awkward silence answering the question for her. “If my sister committed suicide, then what did she use to slit her wrists? Do you see a knife or a razor?”