‘She was talking to someone on the phone. They could have said something to her.’
‘Perhaps they gave her bad news: a death in the family or a bad diagnosis. For all you know she had an argument with a boyfriend who dumped her.’
‘She didn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Did the daughter tell you that?’
‘Why hasn’t the person on the phone come forward? If a woman threatens to jump off a bridge, surely you call the police or an ambulance.’
‘He’s probably married and doesn’t want to get involved.’ I’m not convincing her. I have a theory and no solid evidence to support it. Theories achieve the permanence of facts by persisting and acquiring an incremental significance. So do fallacies. It doesn’t make them true.
Veronica Cray is staring at my left arm which has begun to twitch, sending a shudder through my shoulder. I hold it still.
‘What makes you think Mrs Wheeler was afraid of heights?’
‘Darcy told me.’
‘And you believe her- a teenage girl who’s in shock; who’s grieving; who can’t understand how the most important person in her life could abandon her…’
‘Did the police search her car?’
‘It was recovered.’
That’s not the same thing. She knows it.
‘Where is the car now?’ I ask.
‘In the police lock-up.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘No.’
She doesn’t know where I’m going with this, but whatever happens I’m creating more work for the police. I’m questioning the official investigation.
‘This isn’t my case, Professor. I’ve got real crimes to solve. This was a suicide. Death by gravity. We both saw it happen. Suicides aren’t supposed to make sense because they’re pointless. I tell you something else, most people don’t leave a note. They just snap and leave everyone wondering.’
‘She showed no signs-’
‘Let me finish,’ she barks, making it sound like an order. Embarrassment prickles beneath my skin.
‘Look at you, Professor. You got an illness. Do you wake up every day thinking, Wow, isn’t it great to be alive? Or some days do you look at those shaking limbs and contemplate what lies ahead and, just for a moment, a fleeting second, consider a way out?’
She leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling. ‘We all do.
We carry our past with us- the mistakes, the sadness. You say Christine Wheeler was an optimist. She loved her daughter. She loved her job. But you don’t really know her. Maybe it was something about the weddings that got to her. All those fairytales. The white dresses and flowers; the exchanging of vows. Maybe they reminded her of her own wedding and how it didn’t match up to the fantasy. Her husband walked out. She raised a child alone. I don’t know. No one does.’
The DI rocks her head from side to side, stretching her neck muscles. She isn’t finished.
‘You’re feeling guilty, I understand that. You think you should have saved her, but what happened on the bridge wasn’t your fault. You did what you could. People appreciate that. But now you’re making a bad situation worse. Take Darcy back to school. Go home. It’s not your concern any more.’
‘What if I told you I heard something,’ I say.
She pauses, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘On the bridge when I was trying to talk to Christine Wheeler, I thought I heard something being said to her- over the mobile.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘A word.’
‘What?’
‘Jump!’
I watch the subtle change in the detective, a little shrinking created by a single word. She glances at her large square hands and back to me, meeting my eyes without embarrassment. This is not a case she wants to carry forward.
‘You think you heard it?’
‘Yes.’
Her uncertainty is transient. Already she has rationalised the possible outcomes and weighed only the downside.
‘Well, I think you should tell that to the coroner. I’m sure he’ll be pleased as punch to hear it. Who knows- maybe you’ll convince him, but I seriously doubt it. I don’t care if God himself was on the other end of that phone, you can’t make someone jump- not like that.’
On-coming headlights sweep over the inside of the car and pass into darkness.
Darcy lifts her eyes to the windscreen.
‘That detective isn’t going to help, is she?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re giving up.’
‘What do you expect me to do, Darcy? I’m not a policeman. I can’t make them investigate.’
She turns her face away. Her shoulders rise as though protecting her ears from hearing any more. We drive in silence for another mile.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m taking you back to school.’
‘No!’
The aggression in her voice surprises me. Emma flinches and looks at us from the back seat of the car.
‘I’m not going back.’
‘Listen, Darcy, I know you’re very sure of yourself, but I don’t think you fully realise what’s happened. Your mother isn’t coming back. And you don’t suddenly become an adult simply because she’s not here.’
‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions.’
‘You can’t go home- not alone.’
‘I’ll stay in a hotel.’
‘And how will you pay for that?’
‘I have money.’
‘You must have other family.’
She shakes her head.
‘What about grandparents?’
‘I have a shortage.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I have one left and he drools. He lives in a nursing home.’
‘Is there anyone else?’
‘An aunt. She lives in Spain. Mum’s older sister. She runs a donkey sanctuary. I think they’re donkeys. I guess they could be burros. I don’t know the difference. My mum said she was a poor man’s Brigitte Bardot, whoever that is.’
‘A film star.’
‘Whatever.’
‘We’ll call your aunt.’
‘I’m not living with donkeys.’
There must be other possibilities… other names. Her mother had friends. Surely one of them could look after Darcy for a few days. Darcy doesn’t have their numbers. She’s not even trying to be helpful.
‘I could stay with you,’ she says, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she’s sucking a boiled sweet.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? Your house is big enough. You’re looking for a nanny. I could help look after Emma. She likes me…’
‘I can’t let you stay.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re sixteen and you should be at school.’
She reaches over the seat for her bag. ‘Stop the car. Let me out here.’
‘I can’t do that.’
The electric window glides down.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to yell rape or kidnapping or whatever else it takes for you to stop the car and let me out. I’m not going back to school.’
Emma’s voice interrupts from the back seat. ‘No fighting.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No fighting.’
She looks at us sternly.
‘We’re not fighting, sweetheart,’ I explain. ‘We’re having a serious talk.’
‘I don’t like fighting,’ she announces. ‘It’s bad.’
Darcy laughs. Her gaze is defiant. Where does she get such confidence? How did she become so fearless?
Circling the next roundabout, I turn back.
‘Where are we going now?’ she asks.
‘Home.’
10
If Darcy were a grieving husband or a mate, we’d go to the pub and get rolling drunk. Then we’d come staggering home, put on Sky Sports and watch some obscure ice-hockey game in Canada or that weird sport where they ski across country and shoot at targets. Men do that sort of thing. Alcohol isn’t a substitute for tears. It feeds them on the inside where it’s less public and the tissues don’t get soggy.
Teenage girls are trickier. I know from my consulting room. They’re more likely to fret, to stop eating, to become depressed or promiscuous. Darcy is a singular creature. She doesn’t prattle away like Charlie and Emma. She acts so grown up; smart mouthed and sassy, but beneath the bravado is a hurt child who knows less about the world than a blind girl at an art gallery.