Читать книгу Scared to Death: A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down - Kate Medina, Kate Medina - Страница 16

The room Jessie and Marilyn entered was small and airless. Scuffed baby-pink walls, a burgundy cotton sofa backed against one wall, two matching chairs facing it, a brightly coloured foam alphabet jigsaw mat laid in the middle of the vinyl floor, each letter fashioned from an animal contorting itself into the appropriate shape – an ape for ‘A’, a beetle for ‘B’, a cat for ‘C’. The air stiflingly hot, even though someone had made an effort to ease the pressure-cooker atmosphere by opening the window as far as its ‘safety-first’ mechanism would allow. A fly, seeking escape, circled by the window, cracking its fragile carapace against the glass with each turn.

A chubby, blond-haired baby boy in a white T-shirt and pale blue dungarees was sitting in the middle of the mat, smacking the handset of a Bob the Builder telephone against its base. An elderly lady – late seventies, Jessie guessed – tiny and reed thin, was perched on the edge of the sofa watching the baby. Her hands, clamped on her knees, were threaded with thick blue veins, her skin diaphanous and liver-spotted with age. She had dressed for a formal occasion in a grey woollen tweed skirt, grey tights and a smart white shirt, the shirt’s short sleeves her only visible concession to the day’s unforeseen heat. Her brown lace-ups were highly polished, but the stitching had unravelled from the inside sole of one, the sole cleaving away from its upper.

Starting at the sound of the door, she looked over, her face lighting briefly with a sentiment that Jessie recognized as hope, half rising to her feet before collapsing back, the light dimming, when she realized that it was no one she knew.

‘Mrs Lawson, I’m Detective Inspector Bobby Simmons and this is my colleague, Doctor Jessica Flynn.’

From beneath her silver hair, the old lady’s dull gaze moved from Marilyn to Jessie and back. She made no move to take Marilyn’s outstretched hand.

‘Have you found Malcolm?’

‘Not yet, Mrs Lawson. We need some details from you to help in our search.’

She nodded, murmured, ‘Of course. Whatever you need.’

While Jessie sat down in one of the chairs opposite the sofa, Marilyn moved to stand by the window, reaching behind him to give it a quick upwards heave to see if it would budge, which it didn’t. Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the notes written in the notebook that DS Workman had thrust into his hand a few moments before Jessie had arrived at the hospital.

‘Malcolm’s car? He drives a dark grey Toyota Corolla, registration number LP 52 YBB? Is that correct?’

Mrs Lawson’s gaze found the ceiling as she tried to summon a picture to mind. ‘The colour is right, yes, and the make. I’m pretty sure that the make is right.’ She paused. ‘The registration number … I’m sorry, but would you repeat it.’

‘LP 52 YBB.’

Her eyes rose again. ‘The 52, yes, but the rest … I’m sorry, but I really can’t remember.’

‘We’ve got this information from the DVLA, so it should be accurate.’

‘The car has a baby seat in the back seat, of course, for Harry. Red and black it is. A red and black baby seat.’

Marilyn made a note. ‘Does Malcolm own or have access to any other vehicles?’

She shook her head.

‘Do you have any idea where he could have gone. Any special places that he likes to go? Friends who he could have gone to visit?’

‘He had a few friends, but he lost touch with them after … after Daniel died. He spends all his time looking after Harry.’

‘Pubs? Clubs?’

‘No.’

‘A girlfriend, perhaps?’

‘No. Really, no.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘He wouldn’t stay out all night and he wouldn’t leave Harry like that.’

Jessie leaned forward. ‘Where is Harry’s mother, Mrs Lawson?’

‘She’s … she’s in a home, Doc—’ Her voice faltered. ‘Doctor.’

‘Jessie. Please call me Jessie.’

‘She’s in a home.’

‘A home? A hospital?’ Jessie probed. ‘Is she in a psychiatric hospital?’

Breaking eye contact, the old lady gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if she was embarrassed by the information she’d shared.

‘She couldn’t cope when Danny died. She was always fragile and she broke down completely when Danny took his own life.’

‘Where is the home?’ Marilyn asked.

‘It’s … it’s up in Maidenhead somewhere. I remember Maidenhead …’ A pause. ‘I … I can’t remember the name. I’m sorry, I never visited.’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Lawson,’ Jessie cut in. ‘The police can find out if they need to talk to her.’

‘You won’t get any sense from her.’ The words rushed out. ‘She hasn’t spoken a word of sense since she was admitted six months ago. Malcolm goes to see her, takes Harry along sometimes, but she says nothing to him. Nothing to Harry either.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Lawson. You’ve been very helpful.’ Marilyn cleared his throat again, the sound grating in the claustrophobic space. ‘We are, uh, we’re working on the assumption that Malcolm left Harry here deliberately, because he believed that the hospital was a safe place at that hour of the night, and then went on somewhere else, to a location that we have yet to determine.’

‘To commit suicide?’ Her voice rose and cracked.

Marilyn shuffled his feet awkwardly against the tacky lino, the sound like the squealing of a trapped mouse.

Jessie nodded. ‘It is our working theory at the moment, Mrs Lawson.’

The old lady raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Jessie’s heart went out to her. She could be sitting facing her own mother: decades older, but with the same raw grief etched on to her face.

‘Something must have happened to him. He wouldn’t have left Harry.’

‘He left Harry in a hospital, Mrs Lawson,’ Jessie said gently. ‘Somewhere safe.’

‘He wouldn’t have left him. Not here. Not anywhere.’ Jamming her eyes shut, she shook her head. ‘And he would never kill himself, not after Danny.’

‘Mrs Lawson, you told DS Workman that Malcolm has suffered from severe depression since Danny’s death,’ Marilyn said. He looked intensely uncomfortable faced with the mixture of defiance and raw grief pulsing from this proud old lady. Jessie wondered if he usually left Workman to deal with families of the bereaved. From his reaction, she concluded that he did, couldn’t blame him.

‘Malcolm believes in God, Detective Inspector. Suicide is a sin in God’s eyes.’

‘Mrs Lawson.’ Jessie waited until the woman’s tear-filled eyes had found hers. ‘Depression is complex and the symptoms vary wildly between people, but it is very often characterized by a debilitating sadness, hopelessness and a total loss of interest in things that the sufferer used to enjoy.’

‘Your own baby?’ Her voice cracked. ‘A loss of interest in your own baby?’

‘A sufferer can feel exhausted – utterly exhausted, mentally and physically, by everything. Little children are tiring enough for someone who is healthy. For someone with depression, having to take care of a young child, however much they love that child, would be incredibly hard, a Mount Everest to climb each and every day. Depression also affects decision-making because the rational brain can’t function properly …’ Jessie paused. ‘And a person suffering from depression can believe that the people they leave behind are better off without them.’

Another sob, quickly stifled. His face wrinkling with concern at the sound, the little boy on the mat looked from his Bob the Builder phone to his grandmother.

‘You’re wrong, Doctor.’

‘Mrs Lawson.’ Moving to sit next to her on the sofa, Jessie laid a hand on her arm. Her skin was papery, chilled, despite the heat in the room. Jessie took a breath, fighting to suppress her own memories. ‘Mrs Lawson.’

‘No. No. You’re wrong.’ Tears were running unchecked down her cheeks. Unclipping her handbag, she fumbled inside and pulled out a crumpled tissue. ‘You’re both wrong. He would never leave Harry, not after Danny. He’s already lost one child, he’d never risk losing another. You need to find him.’ Her voice broke. ‘What are you doing to find him? Why are you sitting here? You need to find Malcolm now.’