Page 42

‘That’s the one.’
‘We had a call. You know Jack-O’-Lantern Woods, west of Crompton? Car’s partially blocking one of the Forestry Commission access roads.’
‘Sorry,’ Teri says.
‘They didn’t report it Friday, thinking the owner would move it over the weekend. But now it’s Monday, and they need it shifted. If Mr Roth isn’t home, can I take a contact number for him?’
‘I can move the car, no problem,’ Teri says. ‘I’m so sorry it’s in the way.’
The police officer’s eyes travel over her once again. ‘You know where it’s parked?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Teri says. ‘Angus likes to run. Often, he’ll leave it there and run all the way home.’
She lies partly because she’s frightened of what Angus might do to her if she doesn’t – and partly because she’s afraid of the police officer. The woman seems to have her shit together in a uniquely frightening way. Teri feels like she’s being inspected and assessed. She bites her lip, forgetting it’s swollen – and flinches.
‘OK, good,’ the officer says. ‘I’ll just take Mr Roth’s number for the record, since we’re here.’
Blushing, Teri recites it.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Teri. Teri Platini.’
‘You live here, Teri?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your mouth looks a bit sore,’ the woman says. ‘And that’s a nasty scratch on your neck.’
Teri’s hand flies up. Earlier, doing her make-up, she hadn’t noticed a scratch, but now she feels it beneath her fingers, and the tiny bobbles of crusted blood along its length. ‘Sorry,’ she says, and winces. It must be the millionth time she’s apologized. ‘Basketball injury.’
‘Ouch. Where do you play?’
‘I don’t, really. Just practice.’
The officer nods. ‘Is everything OK at home, Teri, if you don’t mind me asking? Anything you want to talk to us about?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
PC Hopkins glances at her colleague. Then she digs a card from a pocket and hands it over. ‘My details. You can get in touch any time. About anything you like. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you could move that car as a priority, so we can stop getting calls about it.’
Teri takes the card, feeling her cheeks grow hot again. She thanks the officers and quickly closes the door.
TWENTY
Joseph’s first task, Monday morning, is to call his boss at the architectural firm in Shipley and tell her he’ll be working from home. Then he cancels all his meetings for the day.
Immediately afterwards he goes into Max’s room. The boy is lying beneath his duvet, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Asleep, he looks far younger than his eighteen years. Seeing him like this, it’s difficult to imagine him capable of a bad thought, let alone a bad deed.
Clutched in Max’s hand is a purple scrunchie that once belonged to Claire. It wasn’t in the bereavement box Joseph found yesterday. Somewhere, the boy must have a second stash of his mother’s things.
Five years since her passing, it’s obvious how intensely he still misses her. Does that change anything, Joseph wonders? Even slightly? Is Max’s ongoing heartache in some ways a spark of hope? Does the humanity it represents offer proof, however slight, that noteverythingis lost?
Tentatively, he touches his son’s shoulder – needing, suddenly, to feel the life flowing through him, the swell of his lungs as he breathes.
Joseph remains that way for some time, connected to Maxphysically if not by other means. Inevitably, his thoughts return to Drew, lying dead in his mother’s living room, and the unconscionable theft of her life.
Could he ever contemplate these lungs falling still? This heart failing to beat? To lose a wife, he’s learned, is to experience agony so devastating it cleaves a person in two. But to lose a son, or a daughter: how could anyone possibly survive that?