capital into his investment firm. Does that sound like something your daughter would do – push him to buy her something expensive?’
‘I imagine my daughter could have played her part in this argument,’ I say, ‘in winding Ben up. Ben is much more easy-going than Vivien ever was.’
‘Can you explain what you mean?’
‘Vivien could be controlling. She liked everything to be just so – the way she looked, what she wore, what she ate. It could get …’ I pause as I search for the right word. ‘Well, it could get exhausting. Frustrating. She grew up in a council flat, with a mother who worked twelve-hour shifts and who was permanently anxious about money. That kind of life leaves its mark.’
‘The thing is,’ DS Cole says, ‘the owner of the jewellery shop doesn’t remember it the way Ben does. He remembers Ben encouraging Vivien to pick out any piece she wanted, as though money was no object.’
‘Memory is a strange thing,’ I say.
DS Cole picks up her pen. I think she might be going to write something down, at last, but all she does is draw a series of short black lines as she runs her pen back and forth in the corner of the page.
‘May I ask why this argument between Vivien and Ben is of any significance?’
‘It may not be,’ she says, ‘but your daughter’s death is still unexplained. And it seems the earrings that Ben and Vivien eventually settled on buying are missing from the house.’
‘I see.’
‘So your daughter didn’t contact you at all on that Thursday, perhaps later on in the evening, after the argument?’
I shake my head. ‘No, she didn’t.’
DS Cole closes her notebook, the pen still inside, making a bulge down the middle, and shoves it back into her large bag.
‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,’ she says. ‘I apologize again for disturbing you at work.’
We stand and shake hands. I’m aware of how cold and dry my skin must feel. There is a strange tension between us.
I watch her walk away, waiting until she’s disappeared through the wide glass doors of the main entrance.
Chapter 7
I see Vivien, as a newborn. Her skull is so perfectly formed, her fontanelle still soft and vulnerable. Her eyes are closed, her lashes long and black, her mouth a rosebud—
‘Rose?’
A woman’s voice, far away, disturbs my reverie.
‘Rose?’ The voice is louder, closer.
I look down and I see I’m holding a bottle of breast milk in my hand. I’m standing in front of a small fridge. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
‘Are you all right?’
Amanda, a young nurse from New Zealand, is standing beside me. She’s one of the nurses I most enjoy working with. When I was managing the ward and she was on duty, I could relax. I didn’t have to watch her, or stay alert for errors, the way I did with some of the others. Amanda is kind. There is a link, I believe: those nurses who are careless with the babies, who handle them a little roughly or laugh too loud over their cots, those are the ones that make careless mistakes. Amanda is not one of those.
‘I drifted off,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.’
This has never happened to me on the ward. Up until now, I’ve been in control here at work. Amanda is looking at the bottle in my hand. I can see she’s worried.
‘Do you need help with something?’ I say.
The staff still come to me for advice, they’re used to me being in charge. I’ve been here such a long time. Forever.
‘Aren’t you looking after the Jones baby today?’ Amanda says.
I nod. She points at the milk bottle. ‘I think you’ve grabbed the wrong bottle there.’
I look down. The handwriting on the bottle is blurred. I hold it further away from my face until I can make out the label, which says
James
. The two bottles of milk must have been side by side, and distracted by DS Cole’s questions, I’ve picked up the wrong one.
‘Let me help you out there,’ Amanda says. She takes the
‘I imagine my daughter could have played her part in this argument,’ I say, ‘in winding Ben up. Ben is much more easy-going than Vivien ever was.’
‘Can you explain what you mean?’
‘Vivien could be controlling. She liked everything to be just so – the way she looked, what she wore, what she ate. It could get …’ I pause as I search for the right word. ‘Well, it could get exhausting. Frustrating. She grew up in a council flat, with a mother who worked twelve-hour shifts and who was permanently anxious about money. That kind of life leaves its mark.’
‘The thing is,’ DS Cole says, ‘the owner of the jewellery shop doesn’t remember it the way Ben does. He remembers Ben encouraging Vivien to pick out any piece she wanted, as though money was no object.’
‘Memory is a strange thing,’ I say.
DS Cole picks up her pen. I think she might be going to write something down, at last, but all she does is draw a series of short black lines as she runs her pen back and forth in the corner of the page.
‘May I ask why this argument between Vivien and Ben is of any significance?’
‘It may not be,’ she says, ‘but your daughter’s death is still unexplained. And it seems the earrings that Ben and Vivien eventually settled on buying are missing from the house.’
‘I see.’
‘So your daughter didn’t contact you at all on that Thursday, perhaps later on in the evening, after the argument?’
I shake my head. ‘No, she didn’t.’
DS Cole closes her notebook, the pen still inside, making a bulge down the middle, and shoves it back into her large bag.
‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,’ she says. ‘I apologize again for disturbing you at work.’
We stand and shake hands. I’m aware of how cold and dry my skin must feel. There is a strange tension between us.
I watch her walk away, waiting until she’s disappeared through the wide glass doors of the main entrance.
Chapter 7
I see Vivien, as a newborn. Her skull is so perfectly formed, her fontanelle still soft and vulnerable. Her eyes are closed, her lashes long and black, her mouth a rosebud—
‘Rose?’
A woman’s voice, far away, disturbs my reverie.
‘Rose?’ The voice is louder, closer.
I look down and I see I’m holding a bottle of breast milk in my hand. I’m standing in front of a small fridge. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
‘Are you all right?’
Amanda, a young nurse from New Zealand, is standing beside me. She’s one of the nurses I most enjoy working with. When I was managing the ward and she was on duty, I could relax. I didn’t have to watch her, or stay alert for errors, the way I did with some of the others. Amanda is kind. There is a link, I believe: those nurses who are careless with the babies, who handle them a little roughly or laugh too loud over their cots, those are the ones that make careless mistakes. Amanda is not one of those.
‘I drifted off,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.’
This has never happened to me on the ward. Up until now, I’ve been in control here at work. Amanda is looking at the bottle in my hand. I can see she’s worried.
‘Do you need help with something?’ I say.
The staff still come to me for advice, they’re used to me being in charge. I’ve been here such a long time. Forever.
‘Aren’t you looking after the Jones baby today?’ Amanda says.
I nod. She points at the milk bottle. ‘I think you’ve grabbed the wrong bottle there.’
I look down. The handwriting on the bottle is blurred. I hold it further away from my face until I can make out the label, which says
James
. The two bottles of milk must have been side by side, and distracted by DS Cole’s questions, I’ve picked up the wrong one.
‘Let me help you out there,’ Amanda says. She takes the
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