‘I – I’m afraid I didn’t know her.’
His face collapses and, for one moment, he looks on the edge of tears. Instinctively I reach out to him and touch his shoulder lightly. He’s weighed down by grief. I recognize it. I live with it too. His pain touches me and, to my horror, my eyes fill in sympathy. He steps away from me. ‘Okay. Well, sorry to bother you,’ he says.
He’s going to leave. I can’t let that happen. This is the perfect opportunity to find out more about the girl whose life I’m living.
‘You want to go for a coffee? There’s a café around the corner. I could meet you there in five minutes,’ I say, my words tumbling out in a rush. I sound desperate and I am. I’ve been stuck in the house on my own all morning.
Surprise flickers on his face, but he nods. ‘Thank you. I’ll see you in five minutes.’
I watch him walk out of the front garden and down the street, his shoulders hunched, his grief almost palpable. And then I go back inside the house to fetch my coat and bag.
15
Una
Peter is standing at the counter behind a queue of people and he looks up when I walk into the café. I’m relieved when I see him. This is the closest café to Elspeth’s house, but I was worried he’d walk straight past it as it’s tucked away between a row of imposing Georgian buildings in what looks like a residential street.
The café is only small and the tables are all taken. ‘Shall we get a takeaway and go for a walk?’ he says, when I reach him. ‘It’s so pretty around here.’
I say okay and we stand awkwardly in the queue, not speaking until we’re served. We both order cappuccinos, then head out into the cold clasping our cups with gloved hands. We wander across the green, our feet sinking into the wet grass, and towards the suspension bridge. It’s shrouded in a faint drizzly mist.
‘I just need to understand how she died,’ Peter says, after a while. He stops and stares at the bridge, horror in his eyes. ‘It’s so high.’
‘Do you want to walk across it?’
He looks surprised. ‘You can do that?’
‘Yes. It doesn’t take long.’
He nods and we stride towards the entrance of the bridge. He looks faintly sick as we walk along the pavement, past the barriers where the cars have to pay. ‘I don’t understand how she could have jumped from here,’ he says. ‘Look at the fences. They’re high.’
It wouldn’t be impossible to climb over them, I think, but don’t say. Instead I sip my coffee, enjoying the warmth. It’s so cold up here. I wish I’d brought my hat. ‘At the other end there’s a wall which would be easy to climb over.’
He winces as though imagining his sister tumbling over it and onto the hard ground below.
‘Did you come down from London today?’ I ask, after we’ve been silent for a few minutes.
He nods. His nose has gone red from the cold. ‘I came on the train. I just wanted to come here to … well, to understand. It was just the two of us, you know? Since Mum died.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I can’t get my head around it. I don’t believe she’d kill herself. Just before Christmas. She loved Christmas. I dunno … I just … Don’t believe it.’
An uneasy feeling travels through my body. ‘Then what do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know. I spoke to her only a few days before she died.’
I wait, biting my tongue to prevent myself asking any questions. Sometimes it’s better to let the other person tell you things in their own time. I’m learning that, thanks to Elspeth.
‘She sounded happy. She’d met someone, she said.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He worked for Mrs McKenzie apparently. She seemed smitten.’
Could it have been Lewis? Was he working for Elspeth last month? Aggie said that the gardeners never lasted long as Elspeth always found fault with them, but I’m sure Lewis had implied he’d been employed by the McKenzies for several months.
‘She was excited about Christmas. She wanted me to meet this guy.’
‘Did she say what his name was?’
He shakes his head, a lock of white-blond hair falling into his eyes. He brushes it away with one hand. The gesture is endearing and my heart goes out to him. I want to help him, this man who wears his grief like a shroud.
‘I called her once a week. I was her older brother. I felt responsible for her. I spoke to her on the fifteenth of December. I wasn’t able to see her on Christmas Day as I was working – I’m a firefighter,’ he explains, his voice dipping, and I regard him over my coffee with renewed interest. ‘But she was okay with it. She said she was spending it with him. When I rang her on Christmas Eve her mobile went straight to voicemail.’