‘What were you looking for? Where else did you look?’ Iris demands.
I decide to answer the first of these questions and ignore the second one. I’m not about to fess up to rummaging through her wardrobe as well, but I can level with her about the diary. ‘Iris, look, I’m worried about you. I’m worried the police might think you had something to do with Josh’s death. I wanted to make sure there was nothing that might …’ I’m about to say ‘incriminate’, but I catch myself.
Iris glares at me through narrowed eyes. I’m making a right hash of this.
‘I know you started a diary,’ I continue, ‘when Melanie suggested you should write down your thoughts and feelings. I can only imagine how much you must have hated Josh after what he did to you and I thought maybe we should … I should …’ I sigh. ‘I thought it might be a good idea to get rid of it in case anything you wrote could be … misinterpreted.’
I can see Iris’s expression softening. ‘Oh,’ she says, conveying something resembling forgiveness in that one syllable.
I try again. ‘So are you going to tell me?’
‘About the diary?’
Why do I always feel as if I’m talking at cross purposes with my teenage kids? Iris stops pacing and folds her arms across her chest. Hmmm. I’m not quite forgiven, then. I need to tread carefully. ‘Well, I meant about the necklace, actually,’ I say, ‘but—’
‘I mean, Josh knew I was pissed off at him for wearing that stupid his-and-her necklace.’ She pauses, as if daring me to reprimand her for her language. I don’t. I want to hear what she has to say. ‘So he gave it back to me. Sort of like a peace offering, I s’pose. Like that could make everything better!’
‘I see. When I found it, it was wrapped in a bloodstained tissue. Whose blood was it?’
‘Mine!’ Another hesitation. Is it my imagination or is she working out what to say? Weighing up her words? Coming up with a story? ‘I cut my finger,’ she continues. ‘A paper cut. It hurt like hell and bled like mad. So I wrapped the tissue around my finger. I was going to chuck the necklace out, so I wrapped it in the tissue ’cause that was for the bin, too. Clearly, I forgot to throw it out.’
‘Right, well, I threw it out, the tissue and the necklace, so it’s gone now.’ I pull on the door handle, ready to leave her room before she can tell me I had no right to discard her stuff.
‘And I threw out the diary,’ Iris says quietly.
I freeze for a split second, stunned by her admission, then I step out onto the landing and close her bedroom door behind me.
*
I’ve decided to attempt a new recipe from the Mary Berry cookbook Margo gave me last Christmas – sausage and red pepper hot pot. I need to get a few things from the supermarket. Sausages and red peppers, for a start. I ring Ash via speakerphone from the car. He’s at work and I expect to get voicemail, so while the phone rings, I mentally prepare a message.
To my surprise, he answers my call on the third or fourth ring. ‘Carla. Everything all right?’ The rhotic sounds of his North Devon accent are really pronounced in that one, tiny question and the familiarity of his voice almost makes me smile.
‘Yes, Ash, everything’s fine. I just rang to say that I asked Iris about the wolf pendant and bloodstained tissue. You were right. It was her blood.’ I tell Ash what she told me.
‘Ah, good. I told you there would be a reasonable explanation, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you were right,’ I repeat.
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Yes,’ I say, but it comes a beat too late. Ash will know I’m lying.
*
The hot pot is simmering on the hob and I’ve taken Cheddar out for a walk despite the drizzle. I’ve also done a little bit of work. I’m feeling exhausted, but very pleased with myself, as I sit down with Margo in the living room to do her reading. I’ve made a mug of tea, which is steaming on the coffee table in front of me and Margo has pulled the blanket over our legs.
Just as Margo opens her book, the doorbell goes. I mutter a mild swear word under my breath, not loud enough for Margo to hear.
I open the door and find myself face to face with Yvonne Knoll, Joshua’s mother. I was irritated when the doorbell went; now I’m furious. How dare this woman show up on my doorstep! She’s not welcome here. It’s still spitting, but there’s no way I’m inviting her in.
She’s quite a lot taller than me, so it gives me some satisfaction to look down on her from my raised position inside the house. I’m struck by her appearance. She looks thin and ill. She’s overdressed – in a tweed skirt, blazer and heels – and she’s wearing far too much make-up, as always, but her foundation and concealer fail to hide the dark rings under her eyes, the deep-red lipstick doesn’t fill in the cracks in her dry lips and her blusher seems to highlight her gaunt cheeks. Her bleached teeth – no doubt courtesy of her orthodontist husband – are the only thing about her that remain polished. She looks so frail that I almost give in and allow her to step into the hallway, but then I think better of it. I don’t want this woman anywhere near my family or inside my home.
‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ she begins. She’s right about that. ‘I wanted to talk to you, you know, mother to mother. I …’ Her voice trails off, as if the motivation she’d had for coming here is now abandoning her. I’m not going to help her. I wait.
Her hair is wet and bedraggled now. A streak of black mascara has run down each of her cheeks. I can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s the rain. She looks absolutely terrible. She swipes at her face with her hand and I notice her chipped nails. She usually looks as if she’s just stepped out of a beauty salon and has never done an hour’s housework in her entire life. I feel myself thawing, ever so slightly – she cuts such a pathetic figure, you’d have to be heartless not to feel a bit sorry for her, but I’m not caving in. She can stay outside in the rain until she has said what she has come here to say.
‘I know you went through a lot with Iris during the last school year,’ she continues at length. ‘I know how close you are to your daughter. So, perhaps you can understand a little the pain I’m going through right now. When a woman loses a child, well, there’s no word for it, is there?’
