Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
The minutes that followed were a blur. She should go and check, she dimly thought, in case there was any possibility Rosemary was mistaken and Paul could still be saved.
But, even through the wet room’s open door, she could immediately see it was hopeless.
On the floor, to one side, was a small double-barrelled shotgun – she recognised it with a jolt of horror as the one Will had carried around so proudly after his shooting lessons, barrels open and tucked over his arm as Paul had taught him:
Never, never let your gun
Pointed be at anyone.
That it might unloaded be
Matters not the least to me.
Paul’s wheelchair was there too, empty. He was lying on the floor in his pyjamas – Kate glimpsed one bare foot, the toes surprisingly long, pointed in her direction.
His face was intact, but the back of his head had been completely blown apart.
There was blood and worse up the wall, and more blood on the floor, puddled and streaked, as if someone – Rosemary, presumably – had attempted to reach his body.
Beside the door, a blood-soaked towel showed where she’d tried to clean herself.
‘My hands were all covered with it,’ Rosemary said, behind her. ‘I couldn’t get my blasted phone to work. I had to . . .’ She indicated her filthy clothes.
Kate nodded numbly. ‘You did the right thing.’ She had no idea if that was true, but she wanted the other woman to hear some words of reassurance.
‘I’ve only called the police. Not the children yet. They’re sending an ambulance anyway.’ Rosemary sounded as if she was on autopilot. ‘Perhaps they’ll know what happens next.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ Kate said gently. She heard sirens. ‘Is the electric gate open?’
‘Oh!’ Rosemary gasped. ‘No – they mustn’t ring the bell—’ She hurried to the controls for the gate, just beside the front door.
‘It sends Jamie an alert,’ she added. ‘If he sees police and an ambulance, he’ll realise.’
As soon as the gate had trundled open, the ambulance came in, followed by a police car. Two young women in dark-green uniforms jumped out of the ambulance, calm but purposeful, grabbing bags of equipment and canisters of oxygen. Already the air was crackling with radio traffic.
At the front door, the two paramedics hesitated.
‘Please, come in,’ Rosemary said. ‘I mean, there’s nothing you can do, but come in anyway.
He’s through there.’ She pointed. Kate half-expected her to offer them a scone and raspberry jam.
But of course, Rosemary was in shock, they both were, and this surreal this-can’t-be-happening feeling must be what shock felt like.
Two police officers followed – one female, one male. They took in Rosemary’s bloodied clothes.
‘Was it you who called 999?’ the female officer asked gently.
Rosemary nodded. ‘I’m his wife.’ Perhaps it was the word ‘wife’ that did it, the awful finality of a lifetime together coming to an end, because she blinked and gasped, her composure finally cracking. She turned away, her shoulders shaking.
The officer turned to Kate. ‘And you are . . . ?’
‘A neighbour. I heard the shot.’
The male officer cocked his head. ‘Is that your property next door? With the machinery I can hear?’
‘Yes. I only just heard the bang over the noise – that was why it took me—’
‘If you could tell them to stop work, but to stay at the property until someone’s spoken to them,’ he said gently, and Kate realised she’d been about to gabble incontinently at him.
The paramedics came back from the wet room.
‘We’ll need to get a doctor out,’ one of them said quietly to the police officers, and for a single, mad, dizzying moment, Kate thought, He’s still alive, then realised the woman was actually saying the opposite, that they’d need a doctor to come and certify Paul’s death.
Dimly, she grasped that a whole vast machinery was about to swing into action.
Suicides, she’d read somewhere, were treated no differently from any other violent death.
There would be police photographs, forensic evidence collected; the body would be taken to a hospital for a post-mortem.
Paul’s computer and phone would be analysed for evidence of his state of mind.
And finally, many months or even years from now, there would be an inquest.
A Land Rover pulled into the drive at speed, squeezing in between the ambulance and police car. Sally, Gordon’s wife, jumped out of the passenger side and came towards the house, followed closely by Gordon. The male police officer moved to head them off.
‘It’s all right,’ Rosemary said, noticing. ‘They’re friends. Oh, Sally – Gordon,’ she called desperately. ‘Paul’s gone and killed himself.’
Sally came and enveloped Rosemary in a hug, bloody clothes and all, while Gordon surprised Kate by letting out a terrible, bellowing wail.
‘If you could all move into the sitting room,’ the policeman said. ‘We need to cordon this area off.’
Rosemary allowed herself to be led towards the sofa. As Sally urged her to sit down, the farmer’s wife shot a look back towards Kate that was, Kate was surprised to see, almost accusatory.