As they had stood watching her carry flowers across the cemetery, ahead of the coffin and the male bearers, Gunn had remarked with barely concealed incredulity how much it went against every convention of island funerals. And Braque had thought it was exactly what she would have done.
Off to their left, a tiny dwelling with a green tin roof sat in a fold of the moor, and the road climbed towards a plateau that would carry them south-east, descending eventually into Stornoway itself. Gunn said, ‘We can go straight to the police station and view that video, if you like.’
Braque held out her hands, palms up. ‘Look at me, Detective Sergeant. I am soaking wet. I think I need to go to the hotel and change first.’
‘No problem, Ma’am. I’ll drop you off, then go to the police station and get it all set up. I’ll give you, say, half an hour, then call back to pick you up.’
‘Perfect.’
It was mid-afternoon by the time they drove down through Newmarket and Laxdale, past the hospital, and along Bayhead to the harbour. The rain had increased in its intensity, and the sky lay black and bruised all across the land behind them. The wind was up, tearing leaves prematurely from trees. The air seemed filled with them, like large golden snowflakes, as Gunn pulled over at the top of Castle Street. ‘I’ll see you shortly, Ma’am.’ And he glanced up at the sky, pulling a face. It could hardly have been darker. ‘Looks like we’re in for a bad one.’
At reception the girl said to her, ‘Your husband has phoned several times, Madam Braque.’
Braque was startled. It was rare for Gilles ever to phone her. Why hadn’t he called her mobile? Then she remembered that she and Gunn had turned their mobile phones to airplane mode at the cemetery. She had forgotten to switch it back. On the stairs she fumbled with trembling fingers to restore it, and stood outside her door looking at the screen, waiting for the phone to find a signal. Immediately it did, it beeped and alerted her to the presence of messages. There were three.
She slipped into her room, shutting the door and leaning back against it to listen to the most recent.
‘Sylvie, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this.’ She could hear the stress in Gilles’s voice, and it sent her own heart-rate skyrocketing. She tapped the Call Back button and stood listening, aware of her own breath quivering in her chest. ‘Jesus, Sylvie, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.’ There was anger now in his voice.
‘What’s wrong?’ She wasn’t interested in explanations, or excuses. She heard him sigh.
‘They think Claire has meningitis. She’s been taken into hospital.’
Braque’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Oh, God! What are they saying?’
‘I don’t know, I’m waiting to hear.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a waiting room outside the children’s ward.’
‘What about Jacqui?’
‘She’s here with me.’
‘Is she alright?’
‘Pretty upset. But seems okay otherwise.’
‘Let me speak to her. Put her on FaceTime.’
She called up the app and the screen flickered momentarily before a tearful Jacqui appeared. ‘Maman, where are you?’ Too distressed to play the which twin am I game.
‘Baby, I’m coming home. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.’
‘Jacqui’s sick, maman.’
‘I know, darling. Are you okay?’
The little crumpled face nodded. ‘Is Claire going to be alright?’
‘She’s going to be just fine, sweetheart. Dad’ll take care of you till I get back.’
‘When? When will you be back?’
‘Just as soon as I can, darling, I promise.’
The image of the child swung away, and Gilles’s face appeared on the screen. He looked tired as he raised his eyebrows. She heard the sarcasm in his voice. ‘More promises?’
Braque clenched her teeth and tried to hang on to control. ‘Soon as I get off the phone I’ll book my flights. Should be home by tomorrow night. Keep me in the loop. Please. I want to know what’s happening.’
He sighed and nodded. ‘You should have been here, Sylvie.’
‘I will be.’
And he hung up before she could say any more. Even goodbye to Jacqui. She slumped on to the edge of the bed and sat, head bowed, hands clasped around her phone between her thighs, consumed by guilt. Yes, she should have been there. So many times she should have been there. And so many times she wasn’t. She remembered George Gunn’s words. Sometimes you just have to make choices. Exactly what she hadn’t done. If anything she had chosen the status quo, a means of avoiding making those impossible choices. Career or family. It had been clear to her very soon after the break-up of her marriage that she could not have both. And all she had done was put it off, and put it off. Until now it was too late. She should have been there. She should never have left her girls.
She spent the next hour on the phone and the internet, booking herself on the first flight from Stornoway to Glasgow in the morning. Then on to London, and from London to Paris. Flight schedules too tight to offer smooth connections, leaving her with no option but to sit fretting in Glasgow and London waiting for onward flights. Two hours in the case of Glasgow, three in London. Arriving in Paris at rush hour. The Périphérique at a standstill if she took a taxi or a bus, the RER jam-packed beyond capacity.
Her stress levels by the time she concluded her bookings left her shaking. She wanted to call Gilles again. She wanted to hear the verdict on Claire’s diagnosis, and the prognosis if the news was bad. But there was no point. He would call her if there were any developments.
She gazed now at the phone in her hand, and knew she had to make the call she had been putting off for so long. A call she should have made months, if not years ago. But even as she selected the number and touched Call, she realized she was going to fudge it. She asked switchboard to put her through to Capitaine Faubert’s office.
‘Faubert.’
She couldn’t tell from that one word what kind of mood he was in. Whether he had just been for a cigarette or was suffering from nicotine withdrawal.
‘Capitaine, it’s Lieutenant Braque. I’m coming home.’
‘I’ve been wondering why the hell you haven’t called, Braque. What’s happening?’
‘Nothing’s happening, Capitaine. The funeral’s over. One of my twins has suspected meningitis and has been admitted to hospital. I’ve booked flights home tomorrow.’
‘Putain!’ she heard him mutter under his breath. But she knew, too, that he could hardly argue. ‘I want your report on my desk first thing Friday morning.’ Which would mean an all-nighter Thursday night.
‘Yes, Capitaine.’
‘And we’ll talk then, Braque.’
‘Yes, boss.’ She understood perfectly well that ‘talk’ was code for ‘lecture’. A lecture on her failure to prioritize, to make a decision one way or another. Mother or cop. And she would be faced, finally, with the choices that Gunn had spoken of.
Two simple words would put an end to it all. I quit. So easy to say, but how hard might it be to live with the consequences? Especially if it turned out that Jacqui was okay, or made a full recovery. In fifteen years, when the girls left home for university, or got married, or grabbed whatever other opportunities life might offer them in adulthood, what would become of Braque? Alone and unfulfilled. Left with a life on which the clock was counting down, a life filled only with regrets for all the might-have-beens. How would she feel then?