Chapter 18 Carla
Carla
NOW
Iris and I are still sitting on the sofa in Ash’s living room.
Iris has turned her attention back to her phone.
I look over her shoulder. She’s scrolling through clothes on Vinted.
Perhaps that’s what we need. Some retail therapy.
I could take Iris shopping in town. On second thoughts, she’s probably way too old for that now.
She’ll ask me to transfer some money into her bank account and buy stuff online without leaving the comfort of her bedroom.
She looks up, maybe feeling my eyes on her, and gives me a tight smile.
Some of the tension that had built up in my shoulders eases.
I think the interview or the chat, or whatever you want to call it, went reasonably well and Iris doesn’t seem too perturbed, which is the main thing.
But when Ash walks slowly back into the living room, the stunned look on his face tells me he has a different take on how things panned out.
‘Iris, are you driving home?’ I ask, nudging her gently. I drove over here. I thought it would be better for both Iris’s and my nerves.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘In that case, say goodbye to your dad and go and get set up. Do your checks, get your app ready, L plates on.’
‘I know the drill, Mum.’
Iris is taking her test next week. She’s a good driver – cautious and alert, like her dad.
But I’m a bad passenger – nervous and mistrustful.
The number of times I’ve bitten back a comment or pushed down hard on an imaginary brake pedal.
And there have been more times when even a short drive has ended in a row.
I went through the same thing with Olly.
It was a huge relief when he passed his test. I’ll be glad when Iris can drive on her own, too.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Ash, as soon as Iris has left the room.
‘Roly made a strange comment about a footprint at the scene of the crime. It was like he was speaking hypothetically, but he was looking at Iris’s shoes in the hallway when he made it.’
‘What did he say exactly?’ I ask.
‘He sort of apologized for not, you know, um … using the roach I gave him.’ Ash clears his throat. ‘Not in so many words, but that was the gist of—’
‘Ash, what did he say exactly?’ I repeat.
‘He said he couldn’t tell me if they found anything at the crime scene, even if he wanted to. Like a footprint, for example.’
I let this percolate for a few seconds. ‘Maybe he just spotted Iris’s shoes on his way out and that’s why he mentioned a footprint,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe he really was speaking hypothetically.’
‘Hmm.’ Ash isn’t convinced.
‘I’ll talk to Iris about it, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’
I say goodbye to Ash and head out to the car. Iris hasn’t adjusted the mirrors or the seat and seems to have been waiting for me to get into the car to do all that. I’m about to make a comment, but think better of it. It will only start a fight and it’s not as if we’re in a hurry.
During the drive home, I try to work out what to say, but it’s not easy combing through my thoughts with Taylor Swift blaring out of the speakers.
I can’t very well say that Ian let on there may have been a footprint at the scene of the crime and ask Iris if there’s any chance it’s hers.
I can already see how this is going to play out, no matter how I broach the subject.
Iris will round on me for not trusting her.
She’ll ask me the question I’ve been asking myself: what sort of mother thinks her daughter might be a murderer?
I still haven’t come up with the right words when Iris parks in the driveway of Crooked Oak Cottage. I’m going to have to wing it, play it by ear. Iris takes off her seatbelt and is about to leap out of the car, but I put my hand on her arm to restrain her.
‘Iris, I need to ask you about something,’ I say.
‘OK.’ She sounds uncertain.
But just then Margo races out to the car to greet me, Cheddar in tow. I’m relieved, although I know it’s only a temporary reprieve. I’m going to have to talk to Iris about this.
Once inside, I kick off my shoes in the hallway next to Iris’s Chelsea boots. For all her bravado, acting as if she didn’t care, she dressed up smartly today for her interview with Ian – linen trousers, a blouse and her leather boots.
I head for the kitchen, from where I can hear Daniel humming.
He sings – and hums – so tunelessly that it’s almost impossible to recognize the song, but I love hearing his off-key melodies.
Daniel’s wearing an apron and the novelty Yeti slippers that Margo insisted on getting him for Father’s Day.
My lips twitch in amusement in spite of the circumstances.
‘I don’t know what you’re cooking,’ I say, ‘but it smells amazing.’
He beams at the compliment. My stomach rumbles loudly, making us both laugh.
‘Veggie chilli,’ Daniel says. ‘Olivia’s here. She’s staying for lunch.’
I raise my eyebrows, but he has turned away from me, back to the stove. I walk over to him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him on the back of his neck. ‘Are they back together?’
‘Don’t know,’ Daniel says. ‘I didn’t ask.’ He wriggles out of my embrace and turns to me with a wooden spoon. ‘Have a taste.’ He holds out the wooden spoon in one hand, cupping the other hand underneath in case some of the sauce spills.
I’m happy to do as I’m told. ‘That’s delicious,’ I say sincerely.
‘Does it need more salt?’
‘Nope. It’s perfect. It’s every bit as good as it smells.’
‘It’ll be ready in five minutes. How did it go with Ian and Iris?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘No trick questions. Ian and his colleague just wanted as much background information as possible about Josh.’
The table is already set, so I have time to go and talk to Iris.
I go upstairs and pause in front of Olly’s bedroom door, which is ajar and through which music is escaping into the corridor.
It’s not his usual angry rap or hip-hop, but softer.
Something similar to The Weeknd or Daft Punk.
I try – and fail – to keep up with current trends.
Give me Anna Netrebko or Plácido Domingo any day.
Olly was still in bed when Iris and I left for Ash’s this morning.
I only have a few minutes. I should really go and see Iris.
But I don’t. Instead, I raise my hand and knock gently on Olly’s door.
I tell myself it’s because I want to avoid a clash with Iris just before lunch.
But the truth is, I would like to avoid having this conversation altogether.
I’ve told Ash I’ll ask her about the footprint, so I’ll have to do it at some point.
Sooner rather than later. Just not right now.
‘Come in,’ Olly calls.
I open the door to find Olly, Liv and Iris – Liv and Olly lounging on his bed and Iris sitting on the office chair.
Iris and Liv always got on so well, so I expect they’ve got some catching up to do.
Iris pretty much avoided everyone after December of last year, so I doubt she kept in touch with Liv any more than she kept in touch with anyone else.
Olly has his arm around Liv and she’s snuggling into him. It looks like they are back together, then. I’m pleased. I’m very fond of Olivia, but, more importantly, I don’t think Olly has been truly happy since they broke up.
‘No, don’t get up,’ I say, as Liv scoots towards the edge of the bed. ‘I just wanted to say hi.’
She smiles. ‘Hi, Carla,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
It’s odd, Josh never called me ‘Carla’. I asked him to, more than once.
Iris called Josh’s parents by their first names.
But, to Joshua, Ash and I were Mr and Mrs Ashford – I kept my married name to make things simpler for the kids.
He called Daniel by his first name, though.
I think Josh did it deliberately, to set some sort of boundary, or make a point.
Although the statement he wanted to make was lost on me.
Maybe he just wanted to keep his distance, but, again, I can’t imagine why.
Olivia is absolutely beautiful. She has long dark-brown hair and grey-green eyes; a heart-shaped face and skin that has been untouched by acne.
I can tell from the expressions on Iris’s and Olly’s faces that I’m intruding, so I tell the three of them we’re eating in a couple of minutes and leave the room.
Throughout lunch, Olly grins like a Cheshire cat.
But as I study Olivia, I get the feeling there’s something about her that’s different.
I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
She’s as attentive as she always was towards Olly, she’s polite to me, she praises Daniel for the meal and she makes Margo laugh.
Maybe she isn’t quite as chatty as she was before, but that’s probably to be expected.
She hasn’t been part of Olly’s life – or of our lives – for several months, and Olly was heartbroken when they split up, not that he ever blamed her for that.
In fact, I don’t know why they broke up.
Olly was evasive and didn’t want to talk about it when I asked back then.
And poor Olly’s problems were relegated to the background while we all dealt with Iris’s problem.
I catch Olivia’s eye and she smiles timidly.
I’m reading too much into this. Liv probably just feels a little awkward around us after not seeing any of us for so long.
Olly is clearly just as smitten with her as he was before.
I hope she’s on the same page as him. I don’t want him to end up with his heart broken – again.
After the meal, Iris says she’ll clear up.
She’s quite helpful around the house – if I ask.
She’ll vacuum downstairs or upstairs – it’s best not to ask her to do both – or she’ll walk the dog or listen to Margo read.
I’ve learnt not to bother soliciting Olly’s assistance.
He always has something more urgent to do.
But Iris doesn’t often offer to help or do something helpful spontaneously.
Daniel makes coffees for him and me and we take them into the living room.
I curl my legs under me on the sofa. Neither of us speaks for a few minutes as we sip our drinks.
Perhaps, like me, Daniel is lost in his thoughts.
I can’t help thinking of all the things I should say.
There’s so much I haven’t told Daniel, so much I probably should share with him.
He doesn’t know about the necklace; he doesn’t know about the shoes.
I want to confide in him. No, that’s not quite true.
I want to feel I can confide in him. But since everything blew up around Iris, I don’t.
Daniel is upright, principled and honest. He wouldn’t approve of me throwing out the necklace or of Ian giving us a heads-up about the shoes, if that’s what he has done.
I take the empty coffee cups into the kitchen.
Iris has finished tidying up in here, but she’s standing by the bin and appears to be pushing something down into it.
She doesn’t see me at first and when she does, she jumps.
She stares at me, seemingly rooted to the spot, like a rabbit caught in headlights.
Her face goes very red. Then, without a word, she turns on her heels and flees from the room.
I know before I look what I’m going to find.
Iris has made an effort to bury them under some rubbish and a different image superimposes itself in my mind for a split second – the bloody tissue with the necklace inside that I also threw out and covered with rubbish.
I roll up my sleeve and push bits of paper and some food aside with the tips of my fingers to uncover the shoes.
Her burgundy Vans. I close the lid of the bin and almost on automatic pilot, I put the coffee cups into the dishwasher and put on an eco-cycle.
As I turn around, I feel my legs buckle and I grip the table for support.
It feels as if the walls are closing in around me and the floor is pitching.
A rush of blood fills my ears, but doesn’t quite drown out the thoughts streaking through my head, questions to which I know the answers.
Could it be a coincidence? Deep down, I know it can’t be.
That’s just wishful thinking. Those trainers were relatively new.
She loved them. There’s no reason to throw them out.
No other reason. How did Iris know about the footprint?
When I asked her to go out to the car, she must have eavesdropped from the hallway on my discussion with Ash.
That explains why she wasn’t ready to drive away when I came out.
I stare out of the window at the crab apple tree, laden with fruit.
It swims in and out of focus, then seems to tip and I get the disquieting impression that my world is tilting on its axis and won’t ever be righted.
Because there’s not even a scintilla of doubt left in my mind.
My daughter has committed murder. I could try to deny it, put it down to coincidence or misunderstanding.
I could even tell myself that Iris threw out her shoes as a precaution when she heard there might have been a footprint at the crime scene.
But what I can’t explain away is that Iris has countless pairs of shoes, and yet she knew which ones to throw out.
Earlier, when we went round to Ash’s, Iris was wearing her ankle boots. But she has thrown out her Vans.
It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath and see straight. Then I go up to Iris’s bedroom. I knock loudly on the door.
‘No!’ comes Iris’s tearful voice from inside.
I open the door anyway, only a crack before it slams in my face, and when I try to push it open again, it won’t budge.
‘Iris?’ No answer. ‘Iris!’
‘Go away!’
I can hear her sobbing and an invisible, icy hand squeezes my heart. I let my back slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. I imagine Iris sitting against the door on the other side, a mirror image of me. And a silent tear rolls down my face.