‘You want to keep it in the news?’ Tony says.
‘That’s right. I certainly do,’ DI Ferguson says keenly.
‘Yes, we’ll help,’ I say, looking to Jack, who nods his agreement.
‘Yes,’ says Tony.
‘Thank you. Kay will go over the details. Now, is there anything you want to ask me? If I can answer you, I will.’
Marian and Alan arrange takeaways for our meal that evening. My table only seats four, but we crowd round it, joined by Tony and Denise. Jack tells his parents what we’ll be doing for the appeal, then people make gentle conversation, mainly on safe topics. We’re all too numb to exchange any more reactions about Lizzie’s death. The medication has kicked in, making me feel dopey.
Marian and Alan go back to their hotel, Kay goes home, Tony and Denise leave and Bea arrives. We hug for a long time. Death does this: suddenly human touch, physical expressions of comfort and warmth, is instinctive. Freely given and received.
We settle in the kitchen and Bea makes coffee. ‘God, Ruth, I don’t know what to say. It still doesn’t seem real.’
‘Not even to me, and I saw her. Perhaps if I’d been able to go and identify her…’ A dozen blows at least. Her face.
‘Will they let you see her another time?’
I shrug.
‘Ask them,’ she says.
‘She was pregnant, Bea.’
Her lip quivers.
I try and keep my voice steady. ‘Twins, not far on, seven weeks.’
‘Oh Ruth, it’s horrendous. Whoever it is, I hope he’s shot resisting arrest or something.’ She slams the cafetière down on the side and I fear the glass will crack.
‘No. Don’t say that.’
‘Why?’ She’s almost cross with me.
‘Because then we won’t know anything.’
She baulks, considering this, raises her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it’s best-’
‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘it isn’t.’
I try and explain to her.
In the night I wake and hear crying, sobbing, Jack in the other bedroom. No sound from Florence. Poor, poor man.
I wonder whether she knew her fate. Whether she sensed it as the door swung open. She was good at reading body language; intrinsic to her work after all. But she was shy, too, reserved, so that might have been a check on her instinctive response.
At what point did she know? Or did she die ignorant, oblivious? You must have had time to grab the poker, or did you attack her before you picked that up? Trip her over, knock her down, punch her?
One of the hardest things is imagining the terror she must have felt if she did realize you were going to hurt her. If she understood with the innate sense of an animal that she was in jeopardy, in the deepest danger. The preservation of life is the strongest instinct; it’s why starving people will eat their young, why someone trapped will sever their own limb.
