My heart sinks.
‘It’s me. Lorna. Your daughter.’ Mum’s voice wavers.
Panic flutters across Gran’s face. ‘I don’t have a daughter.’
My eyes fill with tears at Mum’s crushed expression and I blink rapidly to stop them spilling over. That’s not going to be helpful to anyone. Mum quickly recovers. ‘Of course you do. And a granddaughter.’ But she retracts her hand from Gran’s.
Gran turns to me, a spark of recognition in her eyes. ‘Saffy!’
I smile, trying not to look at Mum. ‘Hi, Gran.’
‘How’s that lovely man of yours?’
‘He’s good.’
‘I hope you’re still feeding him up.’
I laugh. Mum has slumped against the back of the sofa, utterly dejected.
‘It’s not a Thursday. You usually come and see me on a Thursday.’
Sometimes I’m shocked by how switched on Gran can be. And at others it’s like someone has snuck into the care home late at night and wiped her memory. It seems all the more cruel that she can’t remember Mum when she’s so lucid about other things. ‘It’s Monday, you’re right. But today the police are coming. Remember last week I told you about the bodies in the garden?’
Gran stiffens and Mum leans forward expectantly.
‘Why do the police need to see me?’
‘They just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all, because you used to live in the house.’
She narrows her eyes.
‘Just try to answer them as best you can. You … you spoke about a Sheila last time. And a Victor.’
‘Sheila. Wicked little girl.’
Who is this Sheila she keeps mentioning? As much as I’d love to know more I need to get her to focus on the topic in hand. ‘Can you remember living in the cottage, Gran?’
Gran straightens up. ‘Of course I can. I’m not fucking stupid.’
I’m taken aback. Gran has never spoken to me like that before and I’ve never heard her swear. ‘I know you’re not stupid,’ I say softly.
Mum’s voice cuts across us. ‘I think we should leave the questioning to the police, honey.’
‘I’m not questioning her,’ I say, throwing Mum a look. Even though I know I am. But Mum doesn’t understand how to handle Gran. And I do. The three of us fall into a terse silence. I know Mum is silently brooding that Gran forgot who she is. And I appreciate how hurtful that is, but she does it to me sometimes. Mum hasn’t been to see Gran very often since she was admitted to the home. I should have warned her it can be like this.
‘Jean hit her,’ Gran says suddenly, breaking the silence.
I lean towards her. ‘Who’s Jean?’
‘Jean hit her. Jean hit her over the head and she fell to the ground.’
I hold my breath, not wanting to interrupt her flow. I can sense the tension radiating from Mum.
Could it be possible that Gran does know something about the bodies after all?
We wait … one beat, two … Next to me Mum opens her mouth and I shake my head at her. No, I plead silently at her. Don’t speak.
‘I didn’t know what to do. Everyone said she was wicked. Everyone said she was bad for what she did. Victor was trying to hurt us.’
I lean forward carefully so as not to put her off her stride. ‘Gran … are you saying someone called Jean killed the woman at Skelton Place?’ I turn to glance at Mum, horrified.