Ade lay at the other side of the bed, the baby between them. He was caressing Joshua’s back, the tears dry on his face. He spoke occasionally, sounds more than words, groans of sorrow.
Gill came in again. They had to take Joshua’s feeding things from the kitchen, his bedding, to try and help them understand why he had died. Though usually there was no explanation. ‘We have to try our best,’ she said.
Did Janet cry? Hard to remember now.
Afterwards there were tears. A vale of tears, but then the shock and grief seemed too deep, any sobs buried under the weight of them, deep in the core of her.
They wanted to take him. Her arms pulled him close. Another night. Another day. A few more hours.
She would die herself, she would lie down and die. Or go mad. Already she could feel a tsunami of guilt and blame swelling. Ready to smash her sanity, the ability to function. Send her howling in the wilderness, pursued by demons.
They said that she and Ade should choose some clothes for him, change him. One last time. They needed to take his clothes. The clothes he was wearing. She cried then. Yes. She remembers that. Hot tears dripping on to the babygros and little outfits as they tried to choose.
When they took him it was as if they had torn her skin away, her skin and the soul of her. Leaving her raw and damaged.
Ade had held her all night long. The doctor had given them both something to take. But Janet had not wanted to sleep. Because sleep felt like an abandonment, a travesty. And if she slept she might forget. And wake up to fresh horror. And she feared her dreams.
They couldn’t account for his death. Janet and Ade had done everything right, kept the room at a reasonable temperature, not too hot, not too much bedding, baby on his back, though he was old enough to roll over by then, mattress passed all the required safety tests. Joshua had no infection, no hidden heart problems, no problems of any sort. He was a healthy baby. He was dead.
You can’t hurry grief. Janet learned that in the years afterwards. Grief took its own sweet time, broke all the rules, there was no template. People talked of stages and milestones, but they were just clumsy labels that dissolved as the white-water roared around her. There was no map taking you from A to B, it was a whirlpool and you went round and round, got lost for ever. The bereavement counsellor gave them one piece of advice that made some sense: Whatever you feel, it’s all right for you to feel that. There is no right and wrong.
Oh, and she felt so many things, in amongst those heavy numb days. Anger hot enough to melt iron, jealousy, fury. For weeks she could not see a child, a parent, without an urge to hide or hurt them. Repugnance, at herself, at her weakness. Guilt.
The damp spot at the back of his neck, the way he threw back his head when he chortled. He would never grow another tooth, learn a new word, or wear school uniform, play an instrument or marry or mess up and get hooked on drugs or fail his exams or have children of his own, apply for a job, learn to swim, watch the sunrise, emigrate and leave her missing him. He’d never say mama again.
Denise had stood over her child’s cot and tried to smother her. Janet had stood over her own child’s cot and tried to bring him back to life. And now she had to go in there and do her job, indifferent to any such irony and with all the empathy she could muster.
48
THE FINAL INTERVIEW was a three-hour marathon with Janet teasing out every tiny little detail from Denise. All the stuff about how she’d got the bus down there and back, how she’d wrapped the knife in a tea towel and put it in a carrier bag to take home. How there had been a bit of blood on her coat sleeve so she had put it in the wash and it had come out fine. How she had known the door wouldn’t be locked, had just gone in and found Lisa in the living room. How Lisa’s robe had come apart when they were arguing and Denise had told her to cover herself up and Lisa had screamed at her to get out, to fuck off, she never wanted to see her again. How easily the knife slipped in. She only meant to frighten her into silence. How Lisa fell and Denise still held the knife. How Lisa had hit the edge of the coffee table, breaking one of the legs. Denise made no apology for blaming Sean for her daughter’s death. And even in the light of her own confession, seemed still to hold him accountable.
Rachel had gone with Janet to lay the charges. They’d done it! They’d got the bitch. Her first murder case solved. She felt like going dancing and getting hammered. Even the spurt of frustration and anger she felt every time she thought of James Raleigh and what he’d done to Rosie Vaughan didn’t diminish the sense of victory in the Lisa Finn case. When they left the custody suite and got back to the office, there was a round of applause. Her Maj was grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Command are most impressed, as they should be.’ Andy popped a bottle of fizz, only enough for a thimbleful each, and then it was back to work.
Gill called Rachel into her office, stood arms folded, peering over her specs. ‘There’s always a process of adjustment when someone joins a syndicate,’ she began, ‘not officially a probation period, but a chance to test the waters, get to know each other…’
Like dogs sniffing bums.
‘… not exactly been a smooth ride, Rachel, has it?’
Her stomach dropped. She was going to kick her out. Oh, God.
‘More of a bull in a china shop. So, if you’ve any second thoughts…’
‘None,’ Rachel said quickly. Don’t do this to me.
‘Want to think about it?’
‘No.’ This is all I want to do, please, please!
Gill studied her for a moment. Rachel’s mouth was dry, her stomach knotted up. If you dump me, I will rip your fucking throat out.
Gill gave a curt nod. ‘Right, then. Make yourself useful.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Legs like water.
Outside, in the dark, she turned her back to the driving sleet and lit up, closed her eyes, let the relief crawl through her. She was in. Everything was going to be all right.
Rachel leaned across her desk to Janet. ‘Want to celebrate – us and the lads?’
‘No, ta. Could do with a night in, what’s left of it.’
She did look wiped out, Rachel thought. Am I missing something? That business of wanting to be alone – what was that about? ‘Where’d you go off to? Earlier?’
‘Anyone ever told you you’re a nosy cow?’ Janet said.
‘Blame the job,’ Rachel said, still wanting a proper answer. ‘Well?’
Janet tutted and looked up from her files. ‘Nowhere. Just needed some air, recharge.’ She smiled, blue eyes, clear and frank.
Rachel didn’t believe a word of it; there was something else going on, but obviously Janet wasn’t going to let her in on it.
‘Do you think she’ll get off on manslaughter?’ Rachel asked.
‘Could go either way,’ Janet said. ‘Depends if the defence can whip up enough sympathy for her. Less than a year since Nathan’s death, she’s still half-mad with grief. The provocation might well be grounds for a partial defence.’
Manslaughter on grounds of diminished responsibility, the act carried out while the balance of her mind was disturbed. Rachel shook her head. ‘I’d give her life, no parole. I said, didn’t I – wasn’t fit to be a mother. If people like that keep having kids-’
‘People like that?’ Janet raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you suggest, Rachel? Mass sterilization, camps, euthanasia?’
‘Don’t be soft.’
‘I am going home.’ Janet got to her feet. ‘Domestic duties to perform. If you fancy coming, it’s chicken korma tonight at ours. Meet the kids?’
‘No, you’re all right,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll make a start on this.’
Janet smiled. ‘They don’t bite,’ she said.