My mind is still scrambling to catch up. Martin takes a deep breath.
“Vera Blackwood,” Martin says, “I am arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Laura Silveira.”
I sway backward. The sunlight is so bright I can barely see him.
“And also on suspicion of the murder of Dominic Mayes,” Martin continues.
I try to draw a breath, but the air’s too thick, my throat too narrow.
“And also, based on old evidence reviewed last night,” Martin says, “on suspicion of the murder of your daughter, Ruth Mayes, in 1992.”
A voice says, “No.” I think it must be Edwin.
Joel holds on to me. The world sways around us.
“You do not have to say anything,” Martin says, “but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
My knees buckle, and I lean against Joel, peering through the unbearable light toward Vera. She opens her mouth and draws in a deep breath, and then she exhales in a long sigh that rolls toward me like an icy wave crashing over my skin.
Edwin’s face is gray. Danny’s eyes meet mine for a moment, and then he bends over and retches repeatedly. For a long moment, there is no other sound. No other movement. Laura’s eyes are fixed on the gravel at her feet.
“Let’s get you down to the station, Mrs. Blackwood,” Martin says then, his voice remarkably gentle, and we watch as the blue light flashes along the lane toward us. The gravel sprays in impressive arcs. Martin eases Vera gently into the rear seat, protecting her head from the doorframe with his large hand.
The sun scorches my retinas and hollows out my skull.
In the silence that blooms behind the police car’s fading growl, a gull takes off from the garage roof with a great flapping of wings, and I watch it fly away until it’s a speck in the sky, somewhere out over the sea. Then the front door opens andmy attention is tugged back to the land: to the broad-shouldered man and the tall young woman with the pink streak in her hair; the two strangers who stand on the doorstep of Summerbourne as if they belong there.
Laura gazes at Alex and Kiara, and her hand rises to the locket around her neck. She clears her throat before glancing at the rest of us.
“Shall we go inside?” she says. “I think I’d better tell you everything.”
26
Laura
July 1992
RUTH TOLD EVERYONEher baby was due toward the end of August. Privately, I knew the end of July was more likely. Dominic continued to come home on a Friday night and return to London on a Monday morning, and Vera visited for lunch on Tuesdays or Wednesdays. The rest of the week, we suited ourselves.
On the Monday following Alex’s unwelcome visit—the twentieth of July—Ruth asked me to take him a note.
“Make sure you put it straight into his hands,” she told me. “If he’s not in, don’t post it through the letter box—bring it back.”
I glimpsed an anonymous list of demands: paternity claim to be renounced, visits to be of appropriate duration and frequency for a family friend, no hints ever to be made to “the father.”
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” I asked.
She scowled. “He has no choice. It’s my decision.”
“I just can’t see him accepting his own child calling him Uncle Alex.”
“Just give him the note, Laura. Whose side are you on?”
The water from the taps had developed a rusty brown coloring that day, so Ruth and Edwin waited in for the plumber while I plodded into the village in the early afternoon heat. I passed Helen Luckhurst outside the shop.
“How’s Ruth? Any better?” she asked.
“She’s great,” I said. “Thanks. I’d better get on.”
