She dragged herself away from the window and went downstairs. James was sitting in the living room with a book on his knee. He hadn’t drawn the curtains. As soon as she came in he started reading again, but she could tell he was fumbling to find his place. It was a show for her benefit. Before that, he’d been staring into the fire, miles away. She wondered for the first time if he had a fantasy lover too. Or even a real one. It had never occurred to her before. Now nothing would have surprised her.
Usually reading absorbed him. His taste was for the improving and informative, even in fiction. This was a travel book he’d seen reviewed in one of the Sundays and had ordered over the net. He said he’d wasted his first chance at education and wanted to catch up. When he discussed his reading, despite her degree, she felt ignorant in comparison. But recently, since Christopher’s death, it seemed nothing held his attention. She wondered if it could be guilt which was eating away at him. He’d never particularly liked Christopher, might even, on that last night, when her brother had been such a pain, have wished him dead.
Perhaps now he was regretting that he’d been so hostile.
She sat on the floor in front of James, her back against his legs, her arms around her knees. She was so close to the fire that she could feel her face turning red. She needed the physical contact. James’s bony legs against her back. The heat on her forehead. It anchored her in the present. Without it she’d get lost in her stories. Muddled. It would be like when Abigail was killed. That same sensation of disbelief.
She turned to him. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Like what?” he asked calmly. He gave up the pretence of reading and set the book aside. There was a picture of a compass on the cover, a big ship’s compass in a brass case.
“Like everything that’s been going on here. Christopher. Abigail. I can’t believe it’s happened again.” The words were inadequate. She couldn’t explain that she’d lost trust in the everyday, in her own memory.
“Of course we’ll talk if you think it would help.” It was clear from his tone that he didn’t see how it could be useful. Usually she would have agreed with him. She’d felt that much of the analysis of relationships which had engaged her friends when she was a student was bizarre, an unnatural entertainment. No more than prying and gossip. She’d found James’s restraint attractive. After Abigail’s death too many people had wanted to discuss her feelings.
“No,” she said quickly. “It won’t bring Christopher back, will it?”
They’d put Matthew to bed and had just finished eating when there was a knock on the door. She was reminded of the night when Christopher had turned up and looked across the table to James, wondering if he’d picked up on the memory, but he was already on his feet, preparing to answer.
She heard a muttered conversation in the hall, then James came in followed by Vera Stanhope and her sergeant. “Inspector Stanhope would like to ask you some questions,” he said. “Do you mind?”
She thought James was annoyed by the interruption, but as always with James, it was hard to tell.
“No. Of course not. Sit down.”
“It’s about Christopher,” Vera said. “Not really my job to be asking questions. There’s a local team investigating his death now. But you already know us. Better, I thought, that I come along than a couple of strangers.”
“Thank you.” Though Emma thought strangers might be less disturbing than this woman who seemed to dominate the small dining room, who had already made herself at home there. She’d flopped onto one of the empty chairs and was pulling off her cardigan, as if the heat was unbearable to her. Emma felt she should apologize for the temperature, stopped herself just in time. This was their home.
“Did Christopher have a mobile phone with him when you saw him?”
“I don’t remember him using one,” Emma said.
“He was seen in the parish council cemetery early on the day he was killed. Near Abigail’s grave. The witness thinks he might have been using a mobile, though we didn’t find one on his body.”
“Surely you can trace if he owned a phone,” James said.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it’s not that easy,
apparently. Especially the pay as you go sort. People swap them, sell them. There are no bills, it’s hard to get hold of records.” Vera changed tack suddenly, stared at Emma. “Have you ever visited Abigail’s grave?”
“No.” If Emma had thought more about it, she might have been tempted to lie. The bald denial sounded heartless.
“You knew where she was buried though. Did you go to her funeral?”
“No,” Emma said again, adding, “My parents thought it would be upsetting. And although Keith had wanted a quiet burial, apparently the press were all there. I’m glad I stayed away.”
“What about Christopher?”
“He wouldn’t have been there.”
“No? Are you sure? Did you talk about it?”
“There was no need. It would never have happened.”
“He could have slipped out of school. Gone by himself.”
“I suppose so. But someone would have seen him and mentioned it to my parents.”
“Of course.” Vera nodded vigorously. “A place as small as Elvet, you’d think it would be impossible to get away with anything.” She paused. There was no need to say, But two murders. Someone got away with that. “Christopher would have heard where Abigail would be buried though. It’d have been public knowledge.”
“Yes.”
“He must have visited the cemetery before,” Vera said. “Our witness said he went straight to her grave that morning. It was still nearly dark, but he knew whereabouts in the cemetery she was buried.”
“I don’t know.” Emma felt her head spinning. The questions were coming too fast. She had the dizzy feeling of being only half awake, slipping again into a dream. She had to concentrate hard. “Christopher was always very private. Even when he was a boy. He’d disappear for hours and no one knew where he was.”
“Do you ever walk down the lane to the river?” Vera had suddenly changed pace. It was as if she was making polite conversation over tea. “It’d be a nice walk in the right weather. Flat for pushing the pram. Good for a family trip out.” Although the question was directed at Emma, she flashed a sly look at James.
“I’ve walked there,” Emma said, confused by that look, wondering what it could mean. “Occasionally.”
“I’m surprised you never looked at the grave. Just out of curiosity. She was your best friend.”
“I’ve spent my life trying to put Abigail’s murder behind me.”
Vera gave her a quick, appraising stare, but let it go.
“I think Christopher might have used a mobile while he was here,” James said.
“Might have. What does that mean?”
“After the meal he went upstairs to the bathroom. I checked on the baby and heard him talking.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“I don’t make a practice of eavesdropping.”
“Don’t you?” Vera sounded genuinely astonished. “I do it all the time.”
“I assumed,” James said, after a moment of disapproving silence, ‘that he was talking to someone back in Aberdeen. A girlfriend perhaps. To let her know that he’d arrived safely. Our landline’s in the kitchen. We’d have overheard him if he’d used that. I assumed he wanted some privacy.”
“Did it sound like a call to a girlfriend?” Vera asked.
“As I said, I didn’t listen.”
“But his voice, was it tender? Intimate?”
“No,” James said. “It was more businesslike than that.”
Vera pulled a notebook from her bag and jotted down a few scribbled notes. “We don’t understand where he went for the rest of the day,” she said. “He seems to have disappeared. He was at the cemetery at about eight, then we know he took the lane to the river.”