Chapter 9
Nadeeka collects the girls from school. When they get home, she installs them in the kitchen with a glass of milk and a biscuit each and tells them she has something important to talk about.
‘Is Daddy going to live with us again?’ Maya looks hopeful. ‘He’s always saying he wants to.’
Bloody hell, Scott. What happened to presenting a united front to the kids?
When Nadeeka discovered Scott had been cheating on her, she had thrown him out.
He’d gone to stay with his mum for a week, and Nadeeka had told the girls that Kath had asked him for some help around the house.
A week had turned into a month, and then Nadeeka and Scott had sat down with their daughters and given them the age-old explanation that they would always be a family, and would always love each other, but that Mummy and Daddy had decided they would be happier living separately.
‘No,’ Nadeeka says firmly. ‘Daddy’s very happy living with Gabriela.’ She has no idea if this is true, but Scott is no longer her problem to deal with. She takes a deep breath. ‘This is about Jamie.’
‘Jamie’s not going to live somewhere else, is he?
’ Nish says. ‘We only just finished our castle. He said he’d bring it to school so I can show Miss Key how the drawbridge works.
’ Jamie and Nish’s junk model Norman castle has been taking shape in the utility room for the past few weeks.
What started as a Blue Peter challenge had turned into an obsession with the recycling, Nish racing to Jamie in excitement whenever she found the perfect piece of packaging for a tricky piece of fortification.
‘It’s an amazing castle.’ Nadeeka fights to keep her voice level. ‘Miss Key is going to be so impressed.’
Maya – older and more perceptive than her sister – fixes anxious eyes on Nadeeka. ‘You said Jamie was in hospital. Is he really sick? Is it cancer?’
Nadeeka knows the girls will take their lead from her, so she is determined not to cry. ‘There was an accident.’ Beneath the table, she grips the edge of her chair, pressing her fingertips against the wood. ‘Jamie died.’ She swallows. ‘It’s very sad, but . . .’
But what? There is no but; there is nothing that could possibly mitigate the fact that Jamie has been murdered – right here, in their own home.
Nadeeka presses her fingertips harder into the wood, but perhaps it doesn’t matter whether she cries or not, because Maya is sobbing anyway.
Tears spill over her thick dark lashes and fall, unchecked, to her lap.
Nish frowns as she processes what Nadeeka has said, then she takes her lead from Maya and bursts into tears.
‘I don’t believe you.’ Maya shakes her head, her voice rough and angry.
‘It’s true. I’m so sorry.’
‘Actually forever dead?’ Nish says.
‘That’s the only kind of dead, stupid!’ Maya snaps.
‘I’m not stupid!’
Nadeeka pulls them into her, cutting off the argument and squeezing them tight, and crying too, harder now because she isn’t only crying for Jamie, and for herself, but for the second family she created after Scott had blown up the first. She’s crying for her daughters, who at nine and six are having to deal with the fallout of an adult world.
They sleep together that night, the three of them spooned in Nadeeka’s bed and the girls falling asleep within seconds.
Nadeeka could have wriggled out and spent the evening downstairs, but she was afraid the girls would have nightmares, or that they’d wake and be frightened, so she stayed wedged between her daughters, reliving the moment she had come home from work to discover her home had become a crime scene.
I’m saying that, right now, we have no leads.
How is that possible? How can a man be murdered in broad daylight, in what is generally held to be a nice neighbourhood, and no one see his attacker?
But then Nadeeka thinks about all the unsolved crimes she has read about – the murders and robberies and sexual assaults – and realizes it must happen all the time.
Jamie is a statistic. Another unsolved crime.
-Detective Inspector Colin Burton and his team will continue to turn over stones until they run out, and then they will quietly push the investigation to the back of the cupboard.
Because, by then, someone else will have been murdered or raped or robbed, and the police’s stretched resources will need to be redirected.
Nadeeka is still thinking about this when her alarm goes off and she wakes from broken sleep that has left her more tired than eleven hours in bed should merit.
What if the lack of leads means the investigation team is already becoming lacklustre?
She imagines the major crime incident room where she supposes DI Burton works (the image heavily reliant on the crime dramas Kath has recommended over the years) and pictures his team slumped in their chairs, idly checking emails or completing a crossword.
Nothing to do, no leads to follow. Just days away from we’ve done all we can, lads.
Nadeeka wonders if she should keep the girls at home, give them time to absorb the traumatic hand they have all been dealt.
She watches them eat their cereal, changing her mind with each spoonful they take, and finally decides they are better off at school.
That they will be safer at school, she thinks, because, although she is trying hard to pretend that home is still the same place it was before Jamie died, that isn’t at all how it feels.
All night, Nadeeka had seen shadows, heard footsteps; repeatedly snatched herself from nightmares with her heart thumping and her hair plastered to her cheek.
So she navigates the school gate once more, glad of the cardboard castle which she holds like a shield against the head tilts of concern – and of gossip.
‘Wow!’ Miss Key’s reaction is gratifyingly enthusiastic. ‘What an amazing model!’
Nish beams. Her favourite teaching assistant is, as ever, in colourful dungarees peppered with animal pin badges, with two plaits that make her look young enough to be in school herself.
She claps delightedly when Nish shows her how to operate the drawbridge, and touches the fortifications deferentially. ‘And are these loo rolls?’
Nish nods. ‘And this bit is egg boxes, smooshed up and painted green to look like grass.’
‘I don’t suppose we could keep it in class for a bit?’ Miss Key glances at Nadeeka. ‘We’d be ever so careful.’
‘If that’s okay with Nish,’ Nadeeka says, and, since Nish looks as though she might explode with happiness, the castle stays at school.
Nadeeka says a hurried goodbye as her eyes fill with tears.
How ridiculous to cry over a cardboard castle!
It’s only that she’s handing over yet another link to Jamie, albeit this one was received with more reverence than his bagged-and-tagged laptop or his yellow safety helmet.
Nadeeka thinks about the receptionist’s awkwardness when she tried to take the hard hat away.
Could she be ND? Before she knows what she’s doing she’s on her way to ATP Construction.
She doesn’t want to be at home, jumping at shadows, waiting for DI Burton to bring news.
If Jamie was killed because of an affair he was having, then Nadeeka and her daughters have nothing to fear.
No one is lying in wait to break into the house; no one is coming for Nadeeka.
How ironic, she thinks, that the answer she wants least is the one that will give her the peace of mind she needs.
‘Oh! Hi.’
Is it Nadeeka’s imagination, or is the receptionist’s greeting a little less warm today? There’s the now-familiar head tilt, but is there something else in the young woman’s expression?
‘I don’t think I got your name yesterday,’ Nadeeka says.
‘It’s Stacie.’
‘Oh.’ Not ND. ‘Hi, Stacie.’
‘Did you want to see Mr Bennington again? Only, he’s in a meeting at the moment.’
‘No, I . . . I wondered if I could have a list of Jamie’s colleagues.’ Nadeeka makes herself smile at Stacie, as though this is a perfectly normal request. ‘So I can invite them to the funeral,’ she explains, having hit upon this – surely plausible – reason on her way here.
‘Oh, my God, of course.’ Stacie’s expression softens. ‘You poor thing, having all that to arrange, too. You can give me the details, if you like – I’ll write down my email address – and I’ll share them with the team.’
‘I’d like to send them personally.’ Nadeeka leaves a beat. ‘It’s what Jamie would have wanted.’ This last is clearly impossible to argue with because Stacie taps on her keyboard and a moment later the printer beside her whirs and spits out a document.
Nadeeka itches to snatch it up herself, but she waits until Stacey hands it to her. ‘Thanks.’
Sarah Thompson, Michael Edwards, Priya Kapoor, Emma Robinson, Chloe Zhang, Nicole Davis . . .
‘Nicole Davis.’ Nadeeka snaps her focus back to Stacie. ‘Is she in today?’
‘Um . . .’ Stacie stands up and scans the open-plan office. ‘I’m sure I saw . . . yeah, she’s in. Can I ask why—’
‘Which one? That desk there? Dark hair?’ Nadeeka points, conscious of her voice rising, but unable to control it. Nicole Davis. ND.
‘Yes, she’s an account manager, but—’
Nadeeka doesn’t wait to hear the rest. She makes her way through the open-plan office towards the desk on the far side which, like Jamie’s, is surrounded by blue dividers.
Above these screens is a gleam of mahogany hair pushed back by a pair of glasses, and as Nadeeka draws closer she sees smoky eyeliner on porcelain-pale skin; a deep red stain on full lips.
And now Nicole is looking up at Nadeeka expectantly.
She’s in her late twenties, wearing a white blouse that is somehow at once demure and provocative, the buttons low enough to show a shadow of cleavage.
Her eyes are blue, startling against her dark hair.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Nicole Davis?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nicole Davis,’ Nadeeka says again, or maybe she shouts it, because the curious expression on Nicole’s face is replaced with a frown.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is Jamie Golding’s partner.’ Stacie has appeared by Nadeeka’s side. ‘Jamie who died,’ she clarifies, dropping her voice to a whisper as though what she’s saying would cause offence if conveyed at normal office volumes.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Nicole says.
Nadeeka hesitates. Now that she’s here, she doesn’t know what to say. She can’t stop looking at Nicole, taking in her narrow waist, the lack of wedding ring, the tiny silver cuff on her left ear. Is she Jamie’s type? She couldn’t be more different from Nadeeka, but what does that tell her?
‘Did you . . .’ Nadeeka swallows. ‘Did you know Jamie well?’
‘Not very.’ Nicole glances at Stacie and her eyebrows flick upwards in a conspiratorial wtf? ‘He hadn’t been here long, but everyone works pretty closely together, so—’
‘How closely?’
Other people in the office are watching them now. Two or three have stood up to get a better view.
‘I’m sorry?’ Nicole gives a confused half-laugh.
‘Jamie had “ND” written in his diary.’ Heat floods Nadeeka’s face.
She puts a hand in her pocket, wanting to show Nicole the messages and the photos of the diary entries, then she remembers the police have her phone.
‘Four times,’ she says instead. ‘Four times last month he said he was working late, and instead he was meeting ND.’
There is a long and uncomfortable pause.
‘Sorry,’ Nicole says, eventually, ‘but what exactly has that got to do with me?’
‘When did you last see Jamie?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Jamie was murdered on Monday afternoon. Did you see him on Monday?’ Nadeeka’s voice rises. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’
And now Nicole’s on her feet, telling Nadeeka she’s got a bloody nerve, and Nadeeka is choking on her words, tears streaming down her face. What was she thinking, coming here?
‘Ms Prasanna.’
Nadeeka feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to see Adam Bennington, Stacie hovering by his left elbow.
‘She just barged in,’ Stacie says.
‘This must be a very upsetting time for you, Ms Prasanna—’ Adam says.
‘It’s pretty bloody upsetting to be accused of having an affair and then murdering someone, too,’ Nicole chips in, although something about the younger woman’s expression makes Nadeeka think she’s revelling in the drama.
‘—but if you need anything else, I’d prefer it if you came through me.’ Adam’s smile is kind but firm.
‘I’ll show her out, Adam,’ says a woman wearing a navy blazer, who looks vaguely officious.
‘Thanks, Carrie.’
They talk over her head, the way doctors do over patients, and then Nadeeka finds herself propelled past desks, past muffled titters and low voices, and out to reception, where Carrie opens the door leading to the car park.
‘Everyone at ATP Construction would like to express their condolences for your loss,’ she says. ‘But we will not condone the harassment of our staff.’
‘But I think she knows—’
There is no trace now of the supportive smile that a moment ago had mirrored Adam Bennington’s. ‘If you come back here again,’ Carrie says, emphasizing every word, ‘I will call the police.’
And a second later Nadeeka finds herself in the car park, the door to ATP Construction firmly closed.