There was a woman standing in front of the house. She was in her early forties, with dark hair and a blunt fringe. She waved a badge at me and told me that her name was DI Yasmin Brooks, that she was here to ask a few questions about a young woman called Claire Connolly who went missing in 2005.
I looked behind her for evidence of other police officers, anything to offer context to this moment. We were into the second month of a government lockdown during a pandemic. We’d all been indoors for weeks, not allowed to leave our homes, not allowed to mix with other people. I had not spoken to a human being that wasn’t Daisy, Jessamine, or Annie since the middle of March.
“Claire…?” I asked.
“Connolly,” the DI repeated. “Could I come in, do you think? Ask you a few questions?”
“Erm, are you allowed? Given, you know, the situation?”
“Yes, sir.” The DI smiled. “I am allowed.”
Hugo appeared and started sniffing excitedly at the visitor’s feet. It had been a long time since Hugo had had an encounter with a new human being too.
“Cute dog,” said Yasmin, following me across the driveway. “What’s his name?”
“Hugo,” I replied. “He’s keeping us all sane.”
“I bet!”
She peered around the house as she passed through, and I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking it was grimy and tired and dirty. Things had gone to seed. We’d all gone to seed.
“So.” She took a seat at the kitchen table and looked at some notes. “Are you… Mr. Allen Black?”
“Oh,” I said. “No. No, my name is Stuart Tucker. Mr. Black doesn’t… he doesn’t live here anymore.”
She nodded. “But can I just check that Mrs. Anne Black lives here?”
“Yes. She’s in the garden.”
As I said this the kitchen door opened and Annie appeared in dark sunglasses and a black summer dress, a floppy straw hat in one hand. She looked from me to the detective and said, “I thought I heard someone.”
The detective introduced herself and Annie maintained her composure. “Nice to meet you, Miss Brooks.”
“DI.”
“Yes. Sorry. What can we do for you?”
“I work with the cold-case team at the Met, and I’m looking into a missing person case from 2005. A young woman called Claire Connolly.”
Annie rested her hat on the kitchen counter and joined us at the table. “Yes,” she said. “I remember that. The police came and spoke to us then, I recall.”
“That’s right.” The DI’s eyes went to her notebook again. “And at the time our officers spoke to yourself, your husband, Allen Black, and your children, Jessamine and Jasper Black. Is that correct?”
“Yes. As far as I recall.”
“And your husband? Where is he now?”
“Oh.” Annie shook her head dismissively. “Allen left here a long time ago.”
“Left? You mean, you’re separated?”
“Yes, very much so.”
I inhaled softly. I thought Annie had said that Allen was dead. I wondered if I’d somehow misinterpreted her words.
The DI nodded and made a note. “And your daughter? Jessamine? Does she still live here?”
“Yes. Although I’m afraid she is rather unwell. Bedbound. She’s not really in any fit state to be answering questions, I’m afraid.”
