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Authors: Sophie Hannah
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idea of Geraldine committing suicide is extremely distressing for you—’
‘Not just suicide—murder. The murder of our daughter. Don’t bother trying to be tactful, Sergeant. It’s not as if I’m going to forget that Lucy’s dead if you don’t say it out loud.’ Bretherick’s body sagged. He put his arms around his head, as if to protect it from blows, and began to cry silently, rocking back and forth. ‘Lucy . . .’ he said.
Kombothekra walked over to him and patted him on the back. ‘Mark, why don’t you sit down?’
‘No! How do you explain it, Sergeant? Why would my suit have disappeared, apart from the reason I’ve given you? It’s gone. I’ve searched the whole house.’ Bretherick swivelled round to face Simon. ‘What do you think?’
‘Where did the suit normally live? In the wardrobe in your bedroom?’
Bretherick nodded.
‘And you definitely haven’t removed it? Left it in a hotel or at a friend’s house?’ Simon suggested.
‘It was in my wardrobe,’ Bretherick insisted angrily. ‘I didn’t lose it, imagine it or donate it to charity.’ He wiped his wet face with his shirt sleeve.
‘Might Geraldine have taken it to the dry-cleaner’s before . . . say, last week?’ Kombothekra asked.
‘No. She only took clothes to the cleaner’s when I asked her to. When I ordered her to, because I’m too busy and important to make sure my own clothes are clean. Sad, isn’t it? Well, they’re not clean any more.’ Bretherick raised his arms to reveal new damp patches on his shirt, superimposed over the dry sweat stains. ‘You might well wonder why I’m so upset.’ He addressed the coving on the ceiling. ‘I hardly ever saw my wife and daughter. Often they were there but I didn’t look at them—I looked at the newspaper or the television, or my BlackBerry. If they hadn’t died, would I ever have spent time with them, enough time? Probably not. So, if I look at it that way, I’m not really going to be missing much, am I? Now that they’re dead.’
‘You spent every Saturday and Sunday with them,’ said Kombothekra patiently.
‘When I wasn’t at a conference. I never dressed Lucy, you know. Not once, in the whole six years of her life. I never bought her a single item of clothing—not one pair of shoes, not one coat. Geraldine did all that . . .’
‘You bought her clothes, Mark,’ said Kombothekra. ‘You worked hard to support your family. Geraldine was able to give up work thanks to you.’
‘I thought she wanted to! She said she did, and I thought she was happy. Staying at home, looking after Lucy and the house, having lunch with the other mums from school . . . Not that I knew any of their names. Cordy O’Hara: I know that name now , I know a lot about my wife now that I’ve read that diary.’
‘Which dry-cleaner’s did Geraldine use?’ Simon asked.
A hard, flat laugh from Bretherick. ‘How should I know? Was I ever with her during the day?’
‘Did she tend to shop in Spilling or in Rawndesley?’
‘I don’t know.’ His expression was despondent. He kept failing new tests, ones he hadn’t anticipated. ‘Both, I think.’ He sank into a chair, began to mutter to himself, barely audible. ‘Monsters. Lucy was scared of monsters. I remember Geraldine wittering on about night lights, vaguely—I could hardly be bothered to listen. I thought, You sort it out, don’t bother me with it, I’m too busy thinking about work and making money. You sort it out—that was my answer to everything.’
‘That’s not what the diary says,’ Simon pointed out. ‘According to what Geraldine wrote, you were concerned enough to persuade her to let Lucy sleep with her door open.’
Bretherick sneered. ‘Believe me, I didn’t give my daughter’s fear of monsters a second thought—I thought it was a phase.’
‘Children go through so many, it’s natural to forget about them once they’ve passed.’ Kombothekra had a seven-year-old and a four-year-old, both
‘Not just suicide—murder. The murder of our daughter. Don’t bother trying to be tactful, Sergeant. It’s not as if I’m going to forget that Lucy’s dead if you don’t say it out loud.’ Bretherick’s body sagged. He put his arms around his head, as if to protect it from blows, and began to cry silently, rocking back and forth. ‘Lucy . . .’ he said.
Kombothekra walked over to him and patted him on the back. ‘Mark, why don’t you sit down?’
‘No! How do you explain it, Sergeant? Why would my suit have disappeared, apart from the reason I’ve given you? It’s gone. I’ve searched the whole house.’ Bretherick swivelled round to face Simon. ‘What do you think?’
‘Where did the suit normally live? In the wardrobe in your bedroom?’
Bretherick nodded.
‘And you definitely haven’t removed it? Left it in a hotel or at a friend’s house?’ Simon suggested.
‘It was in my wardrobe,’ Bretherick insisted angrily. ‘I didn’t lose it, imagine it or donate it to charity.’ He wiped his wet face with his shirt sleeve.
‘Might Geraldine have taken it to the dry-cleaner’s before . . . say, last week?’ Kombothekra asked.
‘No. She only took clothes to the cleaner’s when I asked her to. When I ordered her to, because I’m too busy and important to make sure my own clothes are clean. Sad, isn’t it? Well, they’re not clean any more.’ Bretherick raised his arms to reveal new damp patches on his shirt, superimposed over the dry sweat stains. ‘You might well wonder why I’m so upset.’ He addressed the coving on the ceiling. ‘I hardly ever saw my wife and daughter. Often they were there but I didn’t look at them—I looked at the newspaper or the television, or my BlackBerry. If they hadn’t died, would I ever have spent time with them, enough time? Probably not. So, if I look at it that way, I’m not really going to be missing much, am I? Now that they’re dead.’
‘You spent every Saturday and Sunday with them,’ said Kombothekra patiently.
‘When I wasn’t at a conference. I never dressed Lucy, you know. Not once, in the whole six years of her life. I never bought her a single item of clothing—not one pair of shoes, not one coat. Geraldine did all that . . .’
‘You bought her clothes, Mark,’ said Kombothekra. ‘You worked hard to support your family. Geraldine was able to give up work thanks to you.’
‘I thought she wanted to! She said she did, and I thought she was happy. Staying at home, looking after Lucy and the house, having lunch with the other mums from school . . . Not that I knew any of their names. Cordy O’Hara: I know that name now , I know a lot about my wife now that I’ve read that diary.’
‘Which dry-cleaner’s did Geraldine use?’ Simon asked.
A hard, flat laugh from Bretherick. ‘How should I know? Was I ever with her during the day?’
‘Did she tend to shop in Spilling or in Rawndesley?’
‘I don’t know.’ His expression was despondent. He kept failing new tests, ones he hadn’t anticipated. ‘Both, I think.’ He sank into a chair, began to mutter to himself, barely audible. ‘Monsters. Lucy was scared of monsters. I remember Geraldine wittering on about night lights, vaguely—I could hardly be bothered to listen. I thought, You sort it out, don’t bother me with it, I’m too busy thinking about work and making money. You sort it out—that was my answer to everything.’
‘That’s not what the diary says,’ Simon pointed out. ‘According to what Geraldine wrote, you were concerned enough to persuade her to let Lucy sleep with her door open.’
Bretherick sneered. ‘Believe me, I didn’t give my daughter’s fear of monsters a second thought—I thought it was a phase.’
‘Children go through so many, it’s natural to forget about them once they’ve passed.’ Kombothekra had a seven-year-old and a four-year-old, both
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