I can’t tell her I eased the ring from her mother’s finger after she was dead, and I thought I’d placed it safely in my pocket. I can’t mention how afraid I am that she’ll see something else: a strand of her mother’s hair, a blood spot, even though there should be none. But the mind plays tricks on you when matters of life and death are concerned.
My heart thumps.
“Mum’ll be thrilled that you’ve found that,” I force myself to say. “You can give it to her tonight. I know it means the world to her.”
Jayne freezes when she hears the gunshot. The sound is muffled by the river, which is swollen, the water rushing noisily beneath her. But it’s unmistakable.
She knows that gunshot is not uncommon in the countryside, but the fact that her weapon is missing is enough to fill her with fear. It was loaded.
Has Ruth brought the gun out here? Is she still drunk? Has there been an accident?
Oh, dear God, no.
Has her friend unraveled that far?
It’s hard to know where the shot came from. It could be almost any direction. Jayne pivots and starts back toward the barn.
What will Mark say if this gunshot comes from her weapon and if someone is hurt? How will she live down how stupid she’s been? How irresponsible? How will anyone explain this to Toby. And what about baby Alfie?
The questions arrive so fast and so insistently that she feels as if she might scream. She clamps a hand over her mouth. And runs.
And yells for Ruth, desperate to hear a reply.
Her voice carries up and around the valley, penetrating the mist further than before, until it reaches the place where Ruth is.
Imogen stares at the ring, turning it around, looking at it from every angle, as if it’s a treasure she just dug up. I sincerely hope this isn’t going to be a problem.
“Mum doesn’t go anywhere without this. She never takes it off, even to wash her hands.”
“I know.”
“What does it mean that it’s here then?”
“Just that she lost it. It happens. Rings can loosen.” I have no idea if this is true, but I say it as authoritatively as possible. “Like I said, she’ll be chuffed to bits that you’ve found it. You’d better put it somewhere safe.”
Imogen balances the ring on her knee while she unclips her gold necklace. She loops it through the ring but struggles to do the clasp back up.
When frustration gets the better of her, she says, “Can you help me?,” and I can tell it pains her to ask.
I put on my reading glasses, take the necklace from her shaking hands and ease the tiny hoop into the clasp, let the chain fall back against her lovely skin, and step away.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, putting distance between us.
“I’ll fix us something to eat,” I say. “For lunch.”
“I’m not hungry. I’m probably going to go up to my room.”
“Well, I’ll fix something anyway and you might feel hungry by the time I’ve made it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not hungry. Please go away. Go home. I don’t need you to stay with me.”
Her voice is raised and she’s shaking with bravery.
I’m transfixed by the way her fingertip is touching her mother’s ring where it rests in the delicate hollow at the base of her neck, as if she’s drawing strength from it. I’m transfixed by it and Edie’s death plays out in front of my eyes, every moment, every sound she made, the scent of her, the warmth of the struggle. Murder is not how you think it will be. It’s intensely intimate. Time stops.
