Читать книгу The 3rd Woman - Jonathan Freedland - Страница 10

She woke from two hours of not-quite sleep – the fitful dozing that was often the closest she got to rest – with a momentary pause. It lasted less than a second, the most fleeting delay before she realized that the sense of a great, grave weight sunk onto her chest was not the product of a dream that would slip away, but of memory. She had remembered what had happened in the night, and her spirit sank with the recognition that it was no illusion or confusion, but real. Abigail was dead. She had not been able to save her.

She had refused Jeff Howe’s offer to sleep on her couch, which meant she had to drive herself to Quincy’s house in Brentwood. The long downhill ride along Huntley Avenue, the twists and turns, made her nauseous. Though she suspected that had less to do with the winding road – which was, in fact, remarkably free of the potholes that were standard in all but the richest, and usually expat Chinese, neighbourhoods of Los Angeles – and more to do with sickening anticipation of the duty that faced her.

The dashboard clock told her it was just before seven. Quincy would be up now, getting the kids ready for school.

She walked around the single BMW – an SUV – in the driveway. That meant Mark was already at the office. Some role in finance she struggled – or, rather, had not bothered – to understand. The dawn start was becoming rarer in LA these days: most began work later and carried on into the evening, so they could be on Beijing time. But it was a relief. She would need to be alone with Quincy.

She pressed the doorbell once and waited. She could hear her nephews squabbling, then her sister’s voice: ‘Juanita! Will you get that?’

The live-in maid; Maddy had forgotten about that. It still surprised her, the notion of anyone in her family being able to afford staff. When they grew up under the same roof, they could afford nothing.

The door opened to reveal Juanita’s pursed lips. Suddenly, and for the first time, Maddy thought of what she looked like: sleepless and in stained jeans with a sweater holed below the armpit. Was the Mexican-Catholic maid judging her appearance – or would she have got that look of disapproval no matter how she was dressed, thanks to a sustained campaign of propaganda from her employer?

‘Hello, Juanita,’ she managed, stepping inside. ‘Is Quincy around?’

‘We’re in here!’ her sister called out, her voice full of capable good cheer, the mom busy with her brood.

Maddy thought of asking Juanita to call Quincy out so they could speak alone, but thought better of it. So, bracing herself, she entered the kitchen that was as big as her entire apartment, large enough for the boys to be throwing a softball to each other in one area, their play barely disturbing their sister as she sat, eating cereal, at the breakfast bar. Quincy was stationed at what she called ‘the island’, making waffles.

‘Hi, Aunt Maddy,’ said the younger of the two boys, raising a mitt in greeting. His child’s smile stabbed at her heart. He was not much older than Abigail in the photograph.

Quincy looked up from the stove. ‘What happened to you? You look awful.’

Maddy moved over to her sister, dropping her voice. ‘We need to talk.’

‘I know,’ Quincy said, pulling at a wide drawer which noiselessly slid out to offer a vast range of cutlery. ‘That’s why I’ve been calling you. You know Mom has an appointment today, don’t you? At Cedar Sinai? Mark arranged it, with a specialist he knows. The thing is, I can’t take her. And it’s very much your turn, isn’t it? Why don’t you put these on the table? It’s so nice to see you. The kids haven’t seen you for ages.’ She handed her three plates and a small jug of maple syrup.

Maddy took them and put them straight down. ‘Quincy, it’s not that. It’s something terrible. We have to talk. Away from here.’

Into the vast living room, the silent black of the enormous TV screen that filled one wall reflecting them as they faced one another. Quincy’s brow was furrowed into a frown that said: What have you done now?

‘It’s Abigail. The police called me in the middle of the night. She was found … They found her. She’s dead, Quincy.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t make me say it again.’

‘What are you talking about? I saw her on Sunday. She was here. She had lunch with us.’

‘They say it was a heroin overdose.’

‘Heroin? Abigail? Why would you say these things, Maddy? What’s wrong with you?’

‘I wish it wasn’t true. But I’ve seen … I’ve seen her. I was there a few hours ago, at the coroner’s office. It’s not a mistake.’

Once Quincy surrendered to the truth, she crumpled. As she did so, she instantly managed to find what had eluded Maddy all night: tears. Quincy held her arms open to be hugged by her younger sister, and they stood together, Maddy’s face growing wet from tears that were not her own.

‘You should have told me,’ were the first words Quincy managed.

‘I couldn’t do it over the phone.’

‘You should have come here earlier. I should have known.’

‘I couldn’t wake you up in the middle of the night. It would have terrified the children.’

‘It wasn’t right that you had to know this on your own, Maddy.’ After a few seconds, she spoke again. ‘And where was she?’

‘Like I said, in her apartment.’

‘No. I mean where?’

Maddy hesitated, picturing the image supplied to her at the coroner’s office and now seared into her mind: of Abigail, laid out on the floor. She should tell her. Quincy had a right to know. If Maddy had had to endure it, then they both should. Quincy had even said as much, that it was wrong for Maddy to carry this knowledge alone. Instead she said, ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’

At that, Quincy started sobbing again. Her son, Brett, was calling for her.

‘I’m really sorry, but there’s something I need to ask you,’ Maddy began. ‘About Abigail.’

Quincy stood up. ‘I’m going to go over to Mom’s now. I think we should go together.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘What do you mean, you “can’t”?’

‘I can’t, Quincy.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to work. Jesus.’

‘Of course I’m not! For God’s sake. But I need to find out what happened to Abigail. None of it—’

‘Are you kidding? Let the police do that. Right now, you need to be with your family.’

‘I can’t do it, Quincy. I’m not going over there.’

‘Christ, Maddy. I don’t understand you at all, do you know that? At a time like this, your place—’

‘Look, just tell me. Did Abigail do drugs? Is that possible?’

‘Abigail? Abigail? I can’t believe you’d even ask that. Of course not.’

‘OK. Because what this means—’

‘Where would she even get drugs from? She didn’t mix in those kind of circles. And nor do I.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘Shhh. The children!’

‘No.’ Madison raised her voice louder, deliberately shouting out the word most likely to anger her sister. ‘What. The. FUCK is that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, Maddy. Nothing. We’re all in shock. Ignore it, just ignore—’

‘Are you saying that I mix in those kind of circles, that I hang out with junkies? Is that what you’re saying? You can be a real shabi sometimes, you know, Quincy.’

‘How dare you use that language in this house!’

‘I can’t believe it. You’re blaming me!’

‘I’m not. Of course I’m not, Maddy. I’m just saying that you, you know, sometimes showed Abigail a more urban lifestyle than—’

‘More urban? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You mean because I don’t live in Crestwood fucking Hills with an SUV and a Merc?’

‘I think you should leave. I need to tell our mother that her daughter is dead.’

That stopped Maddy cold. She felt the rage ebb, leaving only exhaustion behind. ‘I’m sorry, Quincy. I’m not thinking straight. I’m just so …’ The sentence faded away.

Quincy looked at her with eyes that were raw. ‘OK. But you’re meant to be this great investigator, so brilliant at finding out the truth. But you don’t even know the people right in front of you, do you? You think you’re this big media star, Maddy, but guess what: you don’t always know everything. Not about me. Not about Mom.’ She paused, considering whether to continue. ‘Not even about Abigail.’