usual, her lips colourless, her short brown hair standing on end where she’d run her fingers through it, again and again. Hollow eyes were framed by dark circles and looked back at her accusingly: Why didn’t you know? You were meant to be in control. Why didn’t you spot how ill Ricky was? Was it just like it was with Jamie? You simply didn’t notice what was wrong?
Her phone rang and she hesitated, thinking it would be Hutch. It was her mum. Elizabeth imagined her in her Essex kitchen, pottering about in the inappropriate silk robe Elizabeth had bought her when on a shoot in Rome, more suited to a bordello than a bungalow in Frinton-on-Sea. It sat uneasily on her, as did a number of other things Elizabeth had bought on her travels: the sofa throw that she’d brought back from Colombia, or the Costa Rican mugs, or the Galapagos tortoise paperweight. None of it suited the home of a woman who had spent most of Elizabeth’s childhood holidays on the Costa del Sol searching high and low for Branston Pickle and Cheddar cheese. But that’s what parenting was like, Elizabeth imagined: you cherished unsuitable gifts just because your children had thought about you for the briefest of moments while shopping in a South American street market.
And you stood by them no matter what they’d done.
Thoughts of home were comforting and Elizabeth wished she was with her mum now, being made cups of strong sweet tea. Tea had got them through so much over the years.
‘Hello, dear. How are you? I wasn’t sure if you’d be up… Elizabeth, are you still not sleeping properly?’
‘Well…’ Elizabeth realised her mum wouldn’t have seen the news swirling on the internet. She kept the old android phone her daughters had bought her in a knitted sock in her bedroom drawer ‘for emergencies’.
‘Mum, Ricky Clough’s dead! He died last night.’
‘Oh no! Elizabeth! Really? How awful! How old was he?’
It was a relief finally to be able to talk about how terrible it had been, without having to put on a show of being capable and in charge. ‘Oh, Mum, it was so horrible! And do you know, I’m not sure how old he is… I went to his birthday party a few weeks ago and people said it was his fiftieth but I think he was a bit older.’
‘Yes, he looked a lot older.’ Maureen had got to the age where the death of friends was most often the reason for a phone call before breakfast, but news of an unnaturally early death was much less run-of-the-mill. ‘What did he die of, do they know?’
‘We’re not sure. Mum, it was during the show! I was there.’
‘Oh, Elizabeth! Did you see it happen?’
Elizabeth thought of Ricky’s body writhing on the studio floor, his eyes bloodshot and his mouth distorted, his hand gripping her wrist. And then she thought of her mum, running in from the garden on another glorious May morning, dropping to her knees with a small scream and cradling her husband’s head as he grasped hopelessly for his last breaths, his heart clenching itself into an unyielding fist. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Yes. I’ve got to go to the police station this morning for an interview.’
‘The POLICE? Good heavens! What on earth for? Oh, dear, are you in trouble?’
Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Was she? ‘No, I don’t think so, it’s just that they don’t yet know what he died of… I think they just want to speak to everyone who’d been with him.’
‘Well, I imagine it was his heart. I mean, he didn’t pay much attention to his health, did he? He was quite heavy. And for a man of his age…’ Her mum faltered and Elizabeth thought again of her dad at his office desk, gazing miserably at the Tupperware box of cottage cheese and pineapple chunks her mum had carefully prepared for him, longing for his egg-and-chip lunches of old in the City Road café. Not that it had helped in the end. Fat lot of good that low-cholesterol diet was, Maureen had said, sobbing, as they buried him, aged fifty-four.
‘I guess it’ll be on the BBC News by now.’ Elizabeth reached for the remote.
‘Oh yes, I’ll take a look. But are you okay, in yourself? I mean, I know you’d worked with him for a while but I was never sure if you really – well, you know – liked him? Was he a nice man?’
Elizabeth thought for a moment. ‘No, Mum, I don’t suppose he was what you’d call a nice man.’ Who wants to be nice? ‘But Ricky was interesting. He could be very good company. In his heyday.’ Elizabeth realised how easily she had let Ricky slip into the past tense and tears pricked her eyes again. He was already gone from the present and he would be gone from the future.
‘Well, I only really watched his shows because you were working on them, you know.’ Elizabeth’s mother seemed very happy to dump Ricky now that he was dead. ‘He wasn’t really my cup of tea. You know, a bit shouty and well, a bit crude sometimes.’
There had been many versions of this conversation before. Elizabeth sighed. ‘Yes. He wouldn’t have been right for Countryfile. Mum, I’ve got to go – I’ll call you later.’
‘But listen, your sister’s coming down to Frinton tomorrow for the weekend with the boys because Mark’s away. Why don’t you come too? I don’t like to think of you there, alone.’
Elizabeth very much wanted the comfort of home – even her mum’s neat seaside bungalow, with its limited provision of alcohol and pervasive smell of potpourri, and she longed to see Vic. Her sister was a successful divorce lawyer and had built a thriving practice in Manchester redistributing the wealth of Premier League footballers. Their chances to get together for boozy confessions had been much curtailed by Vic’s move up north. It would be good to see her – she had a lot to tell her.
‘I don’t know, I’ll see what the police say… Maybe I’ll come.’
‘Yes, do. And darling, can I tell Maggie? And Judy? I mean, it’ll be all over the news, won’t it?’
Elizabeth could only imagine how distracting this latest piece of information would be to the Zumba class in Frinton-on-Sea. It would surely trump the story of her wedding that wasn’t.
She showered and let the hot water run over her face, streaming down her strained neck, and wondered what not to wear for a meeting with the Metropolitan Police. A pile of discarded clothing in the middle of her bedroom floor included PVC trousers, a pinstripe trouser suit from Kate Moss at Topshop that looked nice and boyish but had a wine stain on the jacket, and a summer dress from Zara that in sunlight was entirely see-through and always made her think of that photograph of Lady Di, standing coyly in the sunshine holding the hands of some toddlers. Maybe too demure? She rather suspected that the penetrating gaze of DI Watson would see through it all.
Elizabeth picked up the pinstripe jacket and stared at it. She remembered where the wine stain came from. A few weeks ago Ricky had invited her as his plus one (she was, after all, technically single) to an exhibition in a private gallery of the animal sculptor David Farrer. After swigging Chablis straight from the bottle, Ricky had bought a life-size papier-mâché head of a white cockerel, for which he paid over the odds on the basis that the gallery would let him take it home right there and then. Between them, they’d carried the cock’s head – and the wine – home to his house in Kensington, stumbling drunk along the streets with Ricky crying to anyone who would listen, ‘I’ve got an enormous cock!’ The next morning she woke as usual to four texts from him, alluding in various ways to his purchase (‘Isn’t it awfully good to have a cock?’ and ‘I’m going to call him Percy’), but the final text said that he’d been
