“I thought he was suspended,” Harrison says when he sees us standing there. He looks at me as though I were a piece of shit on his handmade shoe.
“Can we come in?” Bird asks.
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I noticed the extra car on the driveway. Bit late for visitors.”
They appear to have a silent staring contest, but Harrison is the first to look away.
“Perhaps it’s best if you speak to my solicitor from now on,” he says.
“I think it might be better, for you, if we came inside. We know that someone called Mary Kendall was impersonating your wife. We know she works as a care assistant at The Manor where your daughter lives. And we know you went along with it. Sergeant Carter has uncovered a sufficient amount of evidence to arrest you. We can talk inside the house or we can take you to the station, your call,” Bird says and he stares at her without saying anything. As though he is buying some time. Thinking. Amending his plans.
“Have it your way,” he says to her, then turns to me. “For the record, you’re wrong. About everything. But you’d better come in.”
A voice inside my head screams not to. Everything about this situation feels off. One minute Harrison is insisting we speak to his solicitor, then he just invites us into the house? This doesn’t feel right. Or sensible. Or safe. But I don’t know how to tell Bird that without sounding like a wimp. I think I’ve finally earned her respect; I don’t want to lose it now. We follow Harrison down the dimly lit hall toward the kitchen at the back of the house, and I wonder why the lights are turned down so low. Spyglass feels cold and damp tonight, as if the heating has been switched off, as though nobody really lives here.
Bird walks ahead of me and I feel bad about all the lies I have told her. I used to hate this house, but now I realize I just hated the woman who owned it. Bird’s grandmother, the woman who died twice, ruined my family’s life when she decided to sell the pub. She owned both properties—Spyglass and The Smuggler’s Inn had been in her family for over a century. Just the luck of being born rich rather than a result of any hard work on her part. There have always been rumors that the Bird family arrived in this village at the same time theSerendipitywashed up on Blackwater Bay, and that all their wealth was a result of stolen gold. That woman never worked a day in her life, and her greed cost my family everything.
Nothing has been the same since.
When Mum was diagnosed with cancer, I was convinced she got ill as a result of the stress of losing her home and her business. Old Mrs. Bird said she was forced to sell the pub to the brewery to pay for her live-in carer. She told my parents, via her solicitor, that she had run out of money, and that she had to sell Spyglass or the pub to pay for her care. She said that Spyglass was her home, so she could never sell it, but didn’t seem to mind selling ours. I tried to talk to her myself, but she wouldn’t even open the front door. She said she didn’t have a choice about selling the pub. But life is all about choices. I guess sometimes so is death.
Old Mrs. Bird made the wrong choice, then she died.
I hear a kettle boiling in the kitchen, and it sounds like screaming.When I spot two suitcases at the bottom of the stairs the alarm bells inside my head only ring louder. Was Harrison just about to do a runner? My phone buzzes inside my pocket causing a temporary distraction. I wouldn’t normally check it at a time like this, but the only person who tends to text me late at night is my wife, and since Steren was born I’m always anxious to know that my daughter is safe.
“Maybe turn your phone off if it is going to keep beeping and buzzing,” Bird says with her usual disdain for technology. I switch it to silent before opening the message. It isn’t Jane texting, and it isn’t a number I recognize. I see a message from the coroner’s office and my eyes can’t read the words fast enough.
“It’s the team trying to identify the body on the beach,” I say.
They both stop and turn to stare at me.
“Well?” Harrison asks. “Is it my wife?”
I don’t answer.
“Carter? Are you okay?” Bird asks.
Her patience soon expires when I still don’t reply.
“For fuck’s sake, Carter. Do you have the results or not?”
55BIRDY
“The results are inconclusive,” Carter says, staring down at his screen.
“What does that mean?” Harrison asks.
“Let me see that,” I say, taking the phone from Carter and reading the message. “According to the coroner’s report, they cannot confirm that the victim was Eden. They have requested and are still waiting for dental records, but they say the DNA sample from the missing woman’s hairbrush is not a match with the victim.”
“Well, I guess there’s no need for your little visit now,” Harrison says, looking a bit too pleased with himself. “Thanks for popping in, but you can’t arrest me for killing my wife if she isn’t dead. And if they can’t identify the body—”
“Just because they haven’t yet doesn’t mean they won’t,” Carter says.
“You just can’t let it go, can you?” Harrison replies.
“There’s still dental records.”
