I waited a beat. I wanted to help if I could, but all I was hearing was her insistence that it couldn’t be suicide. She was grieving, maybe in denial. It didn’t make sense, she claimed, she wanted to know why. What if there was no reason? No logical explanation? “Hiring someone like me isn’t necessarily going to answer those questions. I could launch an investigation and find nothing and you’d be wasting your money.”
“It’s not about money,” Connie said, a frown furrowing her brow, “it’s about…” she broke off, wrestling her emotions.
“I want to be straight with you,” I said. “It sounds like you want me to prove something suspicious about your mother’s death but from my point of view there’s really nothing to back that up and I wouldn’t be happy working for you with that expectation there. I’d be just as likely to confirm the inquest verdict. But I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry. There are other agencies, obviously, but can I suggest if you do approach anyone that you agree on a fixed number of hours and a fixed rate.”
There were plenty of rip-off merchants about who would milk the Johnstones for all they had.
Connie rose, avoiding eye contact. Patrick took the folder from her. The four of them walked up the steps and along the hall to the front door. Their shoulders were set and the air stiff with tension.
The teenagers walked down the path, Connie muttered a goodbye and followed. Patrick hung back. When they were out of earshot he turned to me.
“Will you not think this over, give us an answer tomorrow.”
I opened my mouth to refuse but he barged on.
“Connie had to identify her mother. She had to do it by looking at her hands. Things were that bad.”
Oh God. I didn’t need to hear this.
“Connie can’t accept it. The police did nothing. If we just knew more about those missing hours. Even if all you could do was fill in some of that last day, that would really help. It wouldn’t explain everything but it might tell us something of what Miriam was doing. We’d have a bit more of the picture. Surely, you could do that?”
That wasn’t what Connie had asked. I shook my head slowly.
“Aw, Jesus,” he cried out his voice strained. “Where’s the bloody harm in it?” He pinched the top of his nose near the glasses. Blew out. “Look, we’ll ring tomorrow. Think about it.” He pushed the folder at me. I took it. To refuse that would have been heartless.
“We’ll ring tomorrow,” he said again and turned away. He walked down the path pulling up his collar against the cold, his shoulders rounded, head thrust forward.
