Fragile Cord by Emma Salisbury Page B

child, causes
shockwaves right through to the family’s core, spreading out into
the community. For most people it was inconceivable, an aberration,
an act against humanity. When that parent goes on to kill him or
herself, it leaves more questions than answers, as those left
behind struggle to come to terms with betrayal and rejection, to find meaning in
their loved one’s final words and actions.
    It was not unusual for someone on the
brink of suicide to make preparations; to tidy their home, to make
sure their insurance and finance were in order. Many saw it as
leaving nothing to chance, a clumsy way of trying to minimise pain.
This was the reason that they left a note, to absolve blame and
explain their impatience to move on to another world. Tracey had
left her home spotless, but there had been no note, only a ticked
off shopping list on the kitchen work-top and a To-do list for the
school’s summer fair. Coupland’s gaze swept each room looking for a
hint of discord: a solicitor’s letter threatening court action
maybe, torn up photographs or forgotten shards of smashed crockery
lying on the floor, tell-tale dents in the walls, but there were
none.
    Moving from room to room he surveyed
every living space, each one a picture of suburban calm. Yet
something troubled him, niggled away at the base of his skull and
he tried to focus on it now as he headed back through the kitchen
to the mud-room he’d found himself in earlier. Muffled voices
wafted through from the hallway but he stayed put. If he were
needed Alex or one of the uniforms would come looking for him.
    Despite the circumstances of his visit
he liked this room; the large windows ensured the maximum exposure
to natural light, and looked out onto a vast well-stocked garden
that suggested a gardener rather than any green fingers on the part
of the owners. To the side of the room an external door led into
the garden, a heavy-duty doormat and boot scraper lay in readiness
for the debris and muck that come hand in hand with small children.
This was the kind of home he would have liked for him and Lynn, all
that space for a growing family, for Amy and the brothers and
sisters they had hoped for her but never arrived. Despite its Grand
Design scale Tracey had turned it into an oasis of security and
love.
    Was it really a charade?
    And if it wasn’t, what could have
happened to make her wipe out her own flesh and blood?
    As Coupland turned from looking out
through the patio doors he found once again he was facing the
little boy’s easel, which had been angled to look out into the
garden. He tried to imagine what the boy had been painting – the
rockery perhaps, or the large sunflowers that swayed in the welcome
breeze? He felt the cogs turning in his brain, alerting him to the
fact that something wasn’t quite right. Retracing his steps into
the hallway he took the stairs two at a time before cutting across
the landing, opening every door until he found a room painted in
primary colours with a bed the shape of a racing car standing pride
of place in the centre.
    Every little boy’s dream.
    A miniature wardrobe
and chest of drawers stood against a wall, a pit-stop sign had been
stencilled onto the toy cupboard doors. On the far side of Kyle’s
room, beneath the window, was a small desk. On top of the desk was
a ream of blank A4 paper and a wooden pencil case with a sliding
lid. Coupland had owned one himself as a small child, hadn’t
realised they still made them. He walked over to the desk and
picked up the pencil box, sliding open the lid to find half a dozen
charcoal pencils, neatly sharpened. Turning it over in his hands he
found a message carved on the underside of the box: To Kyle, Merry Christmas, love Grandma and
Grandad, XXXX.
    Taking a final look at the empty walls
he hurried back down the stairs and into the sitting room where a
sedated Angus slumped back against the settee, Alex, Filofax open
on her knee, already making the first of a series of