‘Maybe your chin,’ I said doubtfully, because he seemed to want me to spot a resemblance.
‘No. She’s got Jemma’s father’s chin,’ he said.
I smiled at him: dear Fergus, Greg’s best friend, father of my goddaughter. ‘This was what I needed,’ I said.
‘Are you all right, Ellie? You seem – I don’t know – very thoughtful. A bit subdued.’
‘I don’t mean to. I’m fine, Fergus. Weary. I didn’t sleep very well. Actually, I came round to tell you that I think I’m going away for a while. I’ve been a bit mad, haven’t I? I feel more peaceful now.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think so. The stages of grief.’
‘If there’s anything I can do…’
‘You already have.’
‘What a ghastly time this has been for you.’
I smiled at him and looked down at the baby in my arms. ‘There’s been one light in all the darkness. A new life among the deaths.’
It would soon be dark again. So much darkness and so little light. I went to Gwen’s house and she let me in. Daniel was there, too, wearing Gwen’s stripy apron and covered in flour. ‘He’s decided to make pasta,’ said Gwen, proudly.
He led the way into the kitchen. There was flour on the floor, the work surfaces and the table. Bowls sticky with dough were piled in the sink and clothes-hangers draped with long strips of gunk hung from the backs of chairs. Two large pans of water were boiling on the hob, filling the room with steam.
‘Do you want to eat it with us?’ Gwen asked.
‘I don’t think so. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.’
‘Have a cup of tea at least.’
‘One cup and then I must go.’
‘Busy?’
‘Busy in my head.’
Daniel picked up one sagging strip of pasta dough and dropped it into the boiling water.
‘Are you using your car at the moment, Gwen?’
‘Not that I know of. I never use it if I can help it. It stands there from one week to the next. I’m thinking of selling it.’
‘If she does need it, she can use mine instead,’ said Daniel, hurling another strip into the pan and jumping back as water splashed over the rim. ‘This isn’t looking quite the way I imagined it would. They’re disintegrating.’
‘Can I borrow it? I’m insured to drive any car. I was thinking of going away.’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know. Just for a few days.’
‘But it’s Christmas.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t go away on your own. Come and stay here, Ellie.’ Gwen seemed close to tears.
‘That’s really lovely of you but I need to go right away. Not for long. I’m sure you understand.’
‘As long as you know that there’s always…’
‘I do know. I’ve always known.’
‘Of course you can take the car. Take it now.’
‘Really?’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll be very careful of it.’
I drove Gwen’s car home and parked it outside the gate, then let myself into the house. It was so empty, so silent, so cheerless. I wandered from room to room, picking up objects and putting them down again, running my finger along shelves to collect dust. Perhaps I would move. After I came back from wherever I was going, I would put the house on the market.
I came to a halt in the chilly living room where I closed the curtains. I decided I’d light a fire to brighten it up. The basket already contained pieces of kindling and some tightly screwed up pieces of paper. We’d got into the habit of doing it with used envelopes, letters we didn’t need, scraps of paper. Greg used to talk about identity theft and that it was better than buying a shredder.
I collected a bag of coal from my work shed, then set to work, although I’d rarely lit a fire before – that had always been Greg’s task. I made meals, he made fires. I laid several of the homemade fire-lighters in the grate, then arranged kindling in a wigwam over the top before striking a match and holding the flame against one of the twists of paper. It caught quickly on the dry kindling and I immediately felt the comforting warmth on my face. I sat cross-legged in front of the fire and began to toss the little screwed-up pieces into the flames and watched as they were consumed. Some I unrolled and read. Articles in six-month-old newspapers seem more interesting when you’re about to throw them on the fire. Mostly there were useless old envelopes and letters offering to lend us money or telling us we’d won some in a competition. It struck me that these were the last traces of Greg’s ordinary daily life that were left in the house, the rubbish that surrounds all of us. I was about to toss another into the flames when something caught my eye.
It was just a fragment of handwriting scrawled on the edge of the paper but it looked familiar and I couldn’t think why. I untwisted the paper and smoothed it out.
It had the office letterhead – Foreman and Manning Accountants – but above that, in her flamboyant calligraphy, was written: ‘I’ll ring you about this – Milena Livingstone.’ And underneath the letterhead, in a different ink, a name was written over and over again. Marjorie Sutton, Marjorie Sutton, Marjorie Sutton… About twenty signatures running down the page.
I sat on the floor and held the paper in both hands, staring at it. What did it mean? The message was in Milena’s handwriting. There was no doubt about that. After my days in the office, I knew it as well as my own. And it was on a piece of paper from Greg’s office with Milena’s name on it. It was the thing I had been looking for all this time, the connection. And I was more confused than ever. Why was Marjorie Sutton’s name written on it over and over again? And what was it doing here?
I tried to remember. I thought so hard it hurt. I looked at one of the newspapers. It was from the day that Greg had died. Yes, that was it. These were the scraps from the tidying I had done that day, just before the knock on the door, before my life changed. The connection between Greg and Milena had been in my hands on the day he had died, before I knew, perhaps while he was still alive. Before I had heard of Marjorie Sutton, before I had heard of Milena, or had known her handwriting. I looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper. Suddenly it seemed fragile, as if it might crumble away and the connection would be lost for ever.
I found her number and dialled it. She seemed confused to hear from me again. She said she had told me everything she remembered.
‘Did you know a woman called Milena Livingstone?’
‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘You might have forgotten.’
‘It’s a funny, foreign sort of name,’ she said. ‘I would have remembered it.’
I described the piece of paper I’d found. ‘Were they your signatures?’
‘I don’t see the importance of this,’ she said, with a touch of impatience. I felt as if I was talking to a small child whose attention was wavering.
‘I think it’s very important,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take the paper to the police. They may want to ask you about it.’
‘I certainly didn’t sign any piece of paper in that way.’
‘What exactly do Greg’s company… I mean Foreman and Manning, what do they do for you?’
‘I’m not sure that’s your concern,’ she said.
‘I suppose they do your accounts.’
‘Since my husband died…’ she began.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It was twelve years ago, thirteen almost. They handle the money side of things for me, the things my husband used to look after. I couldn’t do it myself.’
‘But there’s something about that piece of paper,’ I said. ‘It must have been connected with why Greg wanted to see you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘But have you had any trouble with the firm? Have they behaved strangely in some way? Were you having problems with them? Had you complained?’