Emily
I watched as Cian pulled on the wrinkled T-shirt that I had pulled off him and thrown on the floor the night before. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.
The voice echoed out again through the letterbox while the doorbell rang – much too loudly. Cian didn’t bother putting on his socks or shoes. He paused at the door for a moment, turned to look at me. ‘Emily, you trust me, don’t you?’
I nodded. ‘Of course,’ I said, and I meant it. I trusted him implicitly.
‘You believe I would never, ever hurt Rose?’
‘Of course I believe you,’ I told him.
‘Then help me, Emily. Please.’ He held out a hand to me as if he wanted me to come with him. Slowly, unsure of myself, I reached out to him and he turned and led me downstairs just as a third call came through the door.
‘I’m coming,’ Cian shouted, a hint of irritation in his voice. Although I was dressed, I felt exposed. It would be clear to whoever saw that we had been sleeping, and perhaps much more. We were dishevelled at best. My hair was no better than it had been earlier – but at least I had washed my well-worn make-up off and brushed my teeth. I expected Cian to let go of my hand and to shoo me into the kitchen. When he said he wanted me to help him, I assumed he wanted me to cover up whatever had gone on between us but he made no such move. Still holding my hand, he opened his front door to three police officers on his front step – one of whom I immediately recognised as DS Bradley. Our eyes met briefly, his widening just a little, before he looked back to Cian.
‘Mr Grahame, is it okay if we come in? We have a development in your wife’s case we’d like to talk to you about?’
He stood back and let go of my hand. ‘Detective Bradley, come in,’ he said, gesturing to the living room. ‘This is my friend, Emily D’Arcy. Emily, DS Bradley – he’s been overseeing the investigation into Rose’s death.’
I nodded, briefly, in DS Bradley’s direction.
‘We’ve met,’ he said.
‘At the dentists – Scott’s,’ I said by way of explanation to Cian, before offering to make tea or coffee for him, DS Bradley and his colleagues.
‘Tea would be nice,’ DS Bradley said.
‘Could you make a pot of coffee too?’ Cian asked me, before planting a kiss on the top of my head and leading the three men through to the kitchen.
I was off kilter then. Not sure what was going on. But he had asked me to help him and I’d said I would. I’d said I trusted him, and I did. So I followed him through to the kitchen where I quickly lifted the empty wine bottles and glasses from the table, binning the bottles and rinsed the glasses.
Cian straightened the cushions on the sofa before inviting the police to sit down while I blushed at the memory of his hands skimming over my breasts as he kissed me deeply the night before on that very sofa. I boiled the kettle and put on a pot of coffee to percolate. I took cups from the cupboard and set up a tray.
‘There are biscuits in the cupboard to the right of the cooker,’ Cian called behind to me as I heard them make small talk. Small talk about me.
‘Emily has been a good friend to me in recent weeks,’ Cian said. ‘I’m not sure how I’d have got through this nightmare without her support.’
‘I’m glad you have a support network. I imagine that’s very important,’ DS Bradley said, as I handed him his cup of tea and cleared the remaining dishes from the previous night onto the tray. I picked up my phone, which was blinking at me from the table, and went back to the kitchen where I loaded the dirty plates and bowls into the dishwasher and pretended I wasn’t listening to them.
‘I don’t have to be here if this is private,’ I offered.
‘DS Bradley can say anything he needs to in front of you,’ Cian said softly, smiling at the three police officers.
‘Well, Mr Grahame—’
‘Cian, please. I’ve told you to call me Cian.’
‘Well, Cian, as you know we have suspected there was more to Rose’s death than just an accident. We now have significant reason to believe this is true and that your wife may have been killed intentionally. Further to that, we also believe foul play was involved in the death of Kevin McDaid. There’s no easy way to tell you this, but both inquiries have been upgraded to murder investigations.’
I heard Cian swear as my breath caught in my throat. I felt dizzy.
‘No. No. We know what happened to Rose. It was an accident. This is madness,’ Cian said angrily. ‘And that animal McDaid took his own life. How can you have a murder inquiry when someone threw themselves off a bridge? Is that not the worst use of police resources ever?’
‘Cian, you know we have discussed our concerns about the incident in which Rose died. I’m sorry, I know this can’t be easy for you at all. As for McDaid, you’ll appreciate we are not at liberty to go into details except to say at this stage the evidence presented to us would lead us to believe that Kevin McDaid did not take his own life.’
‘So someone threw him off the bridge? A grown man? Who, if the rumours are to be believed, sent a message, apologising for what he was about to do, to Kevin’s mother? I write fiction for a living and I can tell you now, my editor wouldn’t let that one go. And none of this, even if true, points to foul play being involved in Rose’s death. No one would hurt her. No one.’
DS Bradley coughed and looked at his colleagues who were both staring directly at Cian. Bradley spoke again: ‘Mr Grahame.’
‘Cian. I said to fucking call me Cian!’
‘There’s no need for that language, Cian,’ DS Bradley said, softly, warmly. I wanted to cling to that feeling of softness in his voice. It made what was being said to us slightly more bearable. ‘Our investigations are at a delicate stage – and because of that we have some questions we would like to ask you.’
‘You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with this?’
My heart jumped in my chest.
‘We simply just want to ask some questions. It’s important we get what information we can from you. We can do this now, or we can do this at an arranged time at the police station. It might be easier just to have a chat now.’
‘It might be easier if you told me what exactly you think happened to my wife.’
‘As I said, we are at a very sensitive stage of the investigation but information has come to light that we really would like to talk to you about. Now at this stage we are asking you to voluntarily help us with our enquiries, but yes, we will be interviewing you under caution.’
‘Then I’m going to have to ask that my solicitor is present.’
‘That’s certainly your right,’ DS Bradley said.
‘It’s more than my right. It’s the only way to protect myself from whatever nonsense you lot are trying to pin on me. I write crime novels, Detective Bradley. I know that interviews under caution only happen if police believe that the interviewee is suspected of a crime. It would therefore be fair for me to surmise that you suspect me of hurting my own wife – who had my son with her at the time of her death. And that further to that, you might suspect me of wasting my energy and my breath on that scrote, Kevin McDaid, who, if you lot had been more effective, would never have been out on the streets, driving like a maniac and mowing down innocent people. So I think I will take what I am legally entitled to take. I’m not afraid to answer questions, DS Bradley, but let’s not pretend this is just a cosy chat over tea and biscuits.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Detective Bradley said, sitting back in his seat and brushing invisible crumbs off his trousers. ‘In that case, we’ll see you at the station, Cian. Can we expect to see you and your solicitor there at what, noon?’
‘If I can arrange alternative childcare for my son, then you can,’ Cian said. ‘But I’m sure you’re aware these things don’t just sort themselves out.’
‘No, I imagine they don’t. But while we’re here,’ DS Bradley said, his tone much cooler than before, ‘perhaps you wouldn’t mind if my officers had a look in some of your computer files? Perhaps a look around your office?’
Cian snorted. ‘You have to be out of your mind,’ he said. ‘Detective, without a warrant, I am under no obligation to allow you or your officers any access to my home or my personal files so I’m going to ask very nicely that you, and your … minions … leave.’
DS Bradley stood up. ‘I have to say, I’m disappointed that you aren’t being more co-operative. I thought we were all on the same side here. That we wanted to get to the bottom of what happened to your wife.’
‘But we know what happened to my wife,’ Cian said, his voice shaky. ‘I identified her body for Christ’s sake. I saw the dents in her head. I saw the bruising. I saw how her arm was twisted. I saw where the blood had congealed around her mouth. So I know what happened to my wife and I damn well know who did it as well.’
I could hear that he was starting to get upset. He was still grieving and here were the police, for all intents and purposes, casting aspersions as if he were the villain of the piece. This gentle man who had let me in and showed me his vulnerable side – who cried over his wife and wondered if he was raising his son right and just wanted to be held at the end of the day when he felt lonely. A man who was trying to get his wife away from a work situation that had become almost unbearable for her. A man who had only known me a couple of weeks and who was already trying to protect me. Who already wanted me.
‘I think in that instance, it really is better that we do continue this conversation at the station,’ DS Bradley said, nodding a goodbye in my direction and turning towards the door.
‘I think so,’ Cian said. ‘But I’m telling you now, you have it wrong. I would never have hurt my wife. And as for McDaid? The only time I ever saw his pathetic face was on his day in court and I’d have been happy never to have seen him ever again. I actually wish that on the night that bastard grew a conscience and threw himself off a bridge, I had been there to see him hit the water. But instead I was here, with Emily trying to convince me that I had reasons not to take my own life.’
*
My head was spinning but I was doing my best to try and make sense of what had just happened. Cian had asked me to help him. He had said it just before we had walked down the stairs. He had said it after he kissed me. After a night in which he had kissed every inch of my body and made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years. If ever. He had asked me to help him after he told me how he could confide in me. How he believed fate had brought us together.
I didn’t know what he meant when he asked me. All I knew was that I would help him in whatever way I could. So when he told the police I had been with him on the night Kevin McDaid died I had nodded without thinking too much. They were walking out of the room anyway and all I had to do was hold it together until they had left the house. I had to keep a look of nonchalance on my face as if this wasn’t at all news to me. As if he hadn’t just dropped it in there without warning and expected me to react appropriately.
And a double murder inquiry? This all felt so messy and the hangover that had been threatening to take hold swooped in, making my head ache.
As I looked at DS Bradley, saw him look back at me, I was sure I felt my cheeks colouring. I felt as if my discomfort was written all over my face, and probably across my chest too, which had a lovely habit of flushing when I was nervous. The off-the-shoulder look couldn’t hide the pink hue creeping up towards my neck.
As soon as they left the room, I turned to the sink, put the cool water on full and splashed it on my face, patted the back of my neck. I could feel my legs shake and the rush of blood through my body threaten to deafen me.
I jumped as I felt Cian’s arms thread around my waist, and him pull me back towards him, kissing my head and then the side of my neck. ‘I’m sorry for landing you in it,’ he said, his voice contrite. ‘I panicked. Emily, I can see where this is going and I’m so scared.’ His voice cracked and as it did, so did my resolve to ask what the fuck just happened. I turned around so that I was looking him directly in the eyes. He was crying and my heart contracted. Putting my hands to his face, I used my thumbs to brush his tears across his cheeks.
‘It’ll be okay, Cian. It will.’
‘But you saw them. You heard them. They have it in for me. I panicked. I knew the first thing they would ask me was where I had been the night he died – and what was I to say? Home alone? They never believe that. Jack wasn’t even here that night – he was with his grandparents. They’ll have me arrested and in front of the courts before I can blink – for Kevin’s death and for Rose’s. Jesus, Emily – as if I would, as if I could …’
He looked at me so intensely. His eyes burning into mine. His arms around my waist. The only thing I could do was to comfort him and shush him and assure him it would be okay. I pulled him into a hug, worried he would feel the thumping of my heart against his chest.
Then it occurred to me that there was something else I could do to help him – something that might just help me too. ‘There’s someone you should talk to,’ I said, pulling away from him and reaching into my bag for Ingrid Devlin’s business card.
*
I surprised myself at how focused I suddenly became. I told Cian to call his solicitor, and arrange for him to be there at the police station. I suggested he call Rose’s mother and ask her to keep Jack for another night – then it dawned on me that mightn’t be the best move. If the investigation into Rose’s death was to be reopened – with the finger of suspicion not directly pointing at Cian but certainly swirling around in his general direction – it was possible that the Grahame family could start being less than co-operative. No, it was better that Cian get Jack back as quickly as he could.
‘But I can hardly take him to the police station with me,’ Cian had said.
‘I’ll look after him,’ I said. ‘You go and pick him up – now – and I’ll stay and look after him while you talk to the police. I’m sure you won’t be long.’
He nodded. ‘And this woman, Ingrid Devlin? How does she fit in?’
‘You say people want to believe you’re guilty? That they love to see someone who has achieved success get brought down a peg or two? Up until now, you’ve kept yourself from the press. You closed ranks when Rose died – now it’s time to open up. Get the media on your side. Tell them your truth, Cian. Tell them all the things you’ve told me – about the lonely nights and how Jack still cries for his mammy. Tell them how you hurt and make them see the person I see … the person Rose saw. Gentle and loving and protective. Don’t let the gossip mongers demonise you.’
I stopped myself from saying ‘like they did me’. The irony that if I didn’t get Cian to speak to Ingrid, she, and Ben, would demonise the hell out of my past was not lost on me. I felt the unfairness of it all seep from my bones. I didn’t get a fair ending with Ben, but Cian could make sure things ended well for him.
There was no way he was going to be framed for something he didn’t do. If it meant giving Ingrid Devlin exactly what she wanted on a silver platter then I would give it to her – and trust that karma would have its own way of dealing with her in the future.
By the time Cian’s solicitor picked him up to accompany him to the station, Jack and I were sitting on the floor in the living room playing with building blocks. I had called work, left a message in a suitably croaky voice with Tori that I was sick and wasn’t sure when I would be back in. I had also listened as Cian phoned Ingrid Devlin and arranged for her to call round later that day with a photographer in tow. He had looked disappointed when I said I didn’t think it would be a good idea if I was present when Ingrid arrived – I didn’t want her making any assumptions about our friendship – but said he understood. Not everyone would understand, in the way we did, that you can’t always choose when someone comes into your life.
I didn’t want to do anything that would pose a risk to Cian’s reputation, and as I played with Jack, stacking the wooden blocks one on top of the other, I realised it wasn’t just our future I was trying to protect. This child – this beautiful baby – had already lost so much. He was still so young, still in nappies. Still looked for a bottle of milk when he was sleepy. He was still teething, a stream of drool running from his mouth onto his bandana-style bib while we stacked the blocks together, singing nursery rhymes. I wondered would he have any memory at all of his mother? I doubted that he would. He would never remember her voice, her feel, the smell of her perfume. Or how she had pushed his buggy to safety as she was mown down. He couldn’t lose anyone else, least of all his daddy. It would be beyond cruel.
Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, I pulled him onto my knee, tickled his tummy and watched him wriggle and laugh – delighting in the infectious sound of his giggles. Then I pulled him to me, revelled in how he lay his head against my chest and looked up at me, his blue eyes wide, framed by the longest most luscious lashes. He touched my cheek with his pudgy hand and instinctively I kissed it, and rocked him back and forth gently singing Twinkle Twinkle to him as his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep. I wondered how many times Rose had done this and if she had appreciated it every time as much as I appreciated it right then. If she appreciated him – or did she ever lose her temper? Did she ever get cross when she hadn’t had enough sleep and he was cutting teeth? Did she ever look at the stretch marks on her body and think they looked horrid? Did she ever not see them as her war wounds – marks that she was a mother? Did she ever curse under her breath when she couldn’t go out with her friends at a moment’s notice because of her responsibilities to Jack? Did she ever, even for a moment, regret becoming a mother or wish she could turn back time?
Was she really perfect, when all was said and done? All I knew was that if this baby, the baby that had trusted me enough to fall asleep right there in my arms, was mine, I would never take him for granted. Nor would I take Cian for granted. I would appreciate each and every second with my family.
I kissed his head, rocked him gently though he slept, and sang on about diamonds in the sky, all the while hoping that Cian would be home to us soon. Where he belonged.