The street was lit up with flashing blue lights a couple of hours later when he came home from the event. He had the number of the insurance company in his pocket and the list of his best pieces—the Georgian silver pillboxes, the Art Deco jewelry—in his head. Phil was picking it up later that night from his man. Everything was in place for him to collect the insurance and then quietly sell the pieces to discreet collectors who would not ask questions if the price was right. Double bubble. And he could keep his house.
He was astonished by the number of police waiting for him. He’d been expecting a couple of cops, a bit of sympathy, a businesslike account of the break-in, and an invitation to see what was missing. He was ready. But not for this.
Charlie threw open his car door and almost fell out in his haste.
“What on earth’s happened?” he said to the small crowd of neighbors held behind black-and-yellow tape, but no one would look him in the eye, not even the Simpsons from next door.
An officer walked toward him, took his arm, and led him gently to a police car. “Mr. Williams? Could you come and sit in here for a moment,” he said. “I’m DI Wicks. Can you tell me where you’ve been this evening?”
“Er, a Rotary do at the Park Lane Hotel.” And he fished the invite out of his dinner jacket pocket. “I’m on the committee. What’s happened? Has there been a break-in?”
“Who lives at this address, Mr. Williams?”
“Me.”
“Just you?”
“Yes, I live alone. What is this about?”
“Well. I’m sorry to have to tell you that two people were attacked at your address tonight. One person has died and the other is critically ill.”
And the world stopped. He stared at the detective for what felt like an age. “Died? Critically ill?” he managed to croak. “Who?”
“We are still in the process of formal identification of the deceased but we have a witness who says the survivor is your daughter.”
His stomach heaved and he spewed the last course of his meal, filling the police car with the sweet-and-sour stench of undigested tiramisu.
“Christ! Sergeant,” DI Wicks shouted out the window, “get some wet wipes pronto.”
Later, at the police station, they’d taken his soiled clothes away and given him a paper overall to wear. But he could still smell it.
He wept as he told them about Birdie. How she and her mother had moved out. “She’d only recently come back into my life. I’d given her a key to the house—and the code to the alarm in case I wasn’t there to let her in.”
“But you didn’t know she would be there tonight?”
“No, no. Oh, God, why was she?”
“We don’t know. A neighbor saw the door was open when he walked his dog. When we arrived, we found the victims in the living room.”
Charlie wasn’t able to bear to hear the details of what had happened then, but the detective carried on, punctuating each horrific point with a small apologetic cough.
“A plastic bag? What sort of monster would do that?” Charlie sobbed.
Birdie had been asthmatic as a child, struggling to breathe some nights. He and Lila had had to sit with her, watching her fight, trying to decide whether it meant a trip to the hospital. He could still hear the slow rasp and wheeze of each breath.
“Have you caught the bastard who did this?” he shouted to stop the sound.
The inspector shook his head. “But we will,” he added. “We’ll get whoever was responsible.”
And they thought they had, of course.
* * *
—
That night at the festival, he heard himself scream, “Birdie!” over the music and the girl whirled round.
And he screamed again, the shock rattling his jaw.
“Are you okay?” The girl crouched beside him and took his hand.
“Why are you here?” he said, his focus slipping off the face in front of him. He must have been hallucinating.
When he saw the mistletoe necklace round her neck, Charlie tried to grab it.
“Birdie . . .” he gasped.
But she pushed him back and ran off. He heaved himself onto his shaking legs and threw himself into the crowd to follow her, ricocheting off the dancers.
NOW
Sixty-nine
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2019
Dee
We walk Cal’s friend Mikey home after a bit. It isn’t far and I need the air. Liz wants to chat but I tell her I’ve left something in the oven. She hasn’t heard about Liam being charged yet but she will. She won’t want anything to do with us then.