‘Gideon Chase,’ he murmurs, careful not to dislodge the dubious Band-Aid. ‘Sorry I’m late. The traffic.’
She smiles sympathetically. ‘It’s always bad. Thanks for coming so quickly. I know this must be difficult.’ She opens a door with her swipe card. ‘Let’s go through to the back. We can find somewhere quiet to talk.’
7
To an archaeologist like Gideon Chase, locations and first impressions are of particular importance. A stretch of scorched red Egyptian sand or a dark-green field of English countryside say much about the possible discoveries that lie ahead. The cheap, windowless, wooden door that DI Baker opens and ushers him through does the same.
It’s a dull box, floored in black carpet tiles and walled in shades of scuffed grey. Decor as welcoming as a grave. The only bright thing in the room is the woman DI. Reddish-brown hair, sharply dressed in a russet jersey top and flared black trousers. Gideon perches on an uncomfortable moulded chair and out of curiosity nudges the edge of the table in front of him. It’s bolted to the floor.
Megan Baker is big on first appearances too. With a background in psychology and criminal profiling, she is already appraising the man with dark, Hugh Grant-style hair. He has brown eyes, a full mouth and good cheekbones. His fingernails show no trace of nicotine and have been cut not chewed short. No wedding ring. Many married men don’t wear them but those with strong values do, and he radiates traditionalism. They are epitomised in his blue wool blazer with its leather-patched elbows, an item of dress cultivated in college cloisters rather than council estates. And it doesn’t go with the black cashmere pullover or floppy green shirt. Any woman in his life could have told him that.
She slides an opened envelope over the table. ‘This is the note your father left.’
Gideon looks at it but doesn’t move. It’s spattered with dark marks.
She realises what has caught his attention. ‘I’m sorry. Putting it in a different envelope didn’t seem the right thing to do.’
The right thing to do.
So much of his upbringing has been about the right thing to do. All of it inadequate preparation for the moment you get handed an envelope spattered with the blood of your dead father.
‘Are you all right?’
He fingers a flop of hair from his face and looks up at her. ‘I’m fine.’
They both know he isn’t.
He glances down at the envelope and his own name staring up at him in his father’s copperplate capitals.
GIDEON
For the first time in his life, he is pleased that his father preserved his own eccentric style and used a fountain pen instead of a Biro or felt tip, like the rest of the world seems to do.
Gideon catches himself thinking fondly of the old man and wonders if it’s just a passing moment, if one effect of death is that you suddenly find respect for the things you used to despise. Does it somehow wipe the slate clean and compel you to think only good of those you thought badly of?
He touches the corners of the envelope. Lifts it a little but doesn’t turn it over.
Not yet.
His heart is thumping, like it used to when he and his father argued. He can feel the old man in the letter. He can feel the presence through the parchment. He flips the envelope and pulls it open. As he unfolds the letter, he feels annoyed that the police have read it before him. He understands why: they needed to read it. But they shouldn’t have. It was addressed to him. It was private.
Dearest Gideon,
I hope in death the distance between us is less than in life.
You will find out many things about me now that I am gone. Not all are good and not all are bad. One thing you may not discover is how much I loved you. Every moment of my life I loved you and I was proud of you.
My dearest son, forgive me for how I pushed you away. Looking at you every day was like looking at your mother. You have her eyes. Her smile. Her gentleness and her sweetness. My darling, it was too painful for me to see her in your every breath. I know that is selfish. I know I was wrong to banish you to that school and ignore your pleas to come back home, but please believe me, I feared I would have fallen apart if I had acted otherwise.
My sweet, wonderful child, I am so proud of what you have become and what you have achieved.
Do not compare us. You are a far better man than I ever managed to be and I hope one day you’ll make a far better father too.
You may wonder why I have taken my life. The answer is not a simple one. In life you make choices. In death you are eternally judged on them. Not all judges are good ones. I hope you judge me well and judge me kindly.
Believe me, my death was a noble one and not as pointless and cowardly as it may seem. You have a right to understand of what I speak and a right not to care a jot and to live your life without giving me a second thought.
I hope you choose the latter.
My solicitor will be in touch and you will find that all I have amassed is now yours. Do with it as you will, but I beseech you not to be too charitable.
Gideon, as a child we played games — do you remember? I would devise treasure hunts and you would follow clues I left. In death I leave you clues as well and the answer to a mystery. The greatest treasure of all is to love and be loved — I hope beyond hope that you find it.
It is best that you don’t search for the answers to other mysteries, but I understand you may wish to, and if you do, then you do so with my blessing and my warning to be careful. Trust no one but yourself.
Dearest son, you are a child of the equinox. See beyond the sun of the solstice and focus on the rise of the new moon.
Things that you first think are bad will prove good. Things you think good will be bad. Life is about balance and judgement.
Forgive me for not being there for you, for not telling you and showing you that I loved you and your mother more than anything in my life.
Your humble, penitent and loving father,
Nathaniel
It’s too much to take in. Too much to understand all at once.
He runs his fingertips gently over the letter. Feels the words ‘Dearest Gideon’. Lets the fingers of both hands rest on the line ‘My sweet, wonderful child, I am so proud of what you have become …’ Finally, almost as though he’s reading Braille, his fingers find the words that moved him the most: ‘Forgive me for not being there for you, for not telling you and showing you that I loved you and your mother more than anything in my life.’
Tears well in his eyes. He feels, impossibly, like his father is reaching out to him. The sensation is that of a prisoner and visitor divided by glass, putting their hands together to say goodbye, touching each other emotionally but not physically. Invisibly divided by life and death. The letter has become a wall of glass, the way his father has chosen to say goodbye.
Megan watches without interrupting and with only occasional glances at her wristwatch to quell the rising guilt about keeping her sickly four-year-old waiting at Grandma’s. She can see the suicide letter is tearing Gideon apart.
‘Would you like some time alone?’
He doesn’t react. Grief is packing his head like cotton wool.
She clears her throat. ‘Mr Chase, it’s getting very late now. Would it be possible to make an appointment to see you tomorrow?’
He climbs out of the numbness. ‘What?’
She smiles understandingly. ‘Tomorrow.’ She nods to the letter. ‘There are some things we would like to ask you about. And I suspect you’ll have questions of your own.’
He has a lot of questions and now they start to spill out. ‘How did my father die?’ He looks pained. ‘I know you said he’d shot himself, but what happened exactly? Where was he? What time …’ His voice breaks with emotion. ‘When did he do it?’