I try to hide my frustration. ‘What you said to the police, yes. But to me.’
Silence.
‘Please.’ Begging isn’t my style, but beg I will if that’s what it takes to extract whatever information he has left to give.
He throws the tape gun on the bed. ‘We’re in the same boat.’ His voice shakes. He’s angry. ‘I don’t buy it, either. I told the police the same as you. But it’s as if they didn’t want to listen. All I got was condescending bullshit about the people closest to the deceased not really knowing them in these types of cases. Seriously! I think they would’ve tried to pin it on me if I didn’t have an alibi for the time she died. If it’d been convenient for them, that is.’
I remain silent, willing him to continue.
‘I told them, yes, she smoked weed on the odd occasion. But nothing more than that. And it wasn’t as if she ever went near the real hardcore drugs. It really wasn’t that much of a big deal.’
He’s almost shouting now. Normally, I’d reach out. Tell him to calm down, but I need to know more. ‘I still can’t believe she took any drugs at all,’ I say.
‘It was a matter of fitting in. Peer pressure, if you like.’
‘And you, George? Did you take drugs? Do you?’
‘Me. No. Tried weed. Didn’t like it.’ He hesitates.
‘What? What is it?’
He resumes running a strip of tape along the edge of a box. There’s more. Something he’s holding back on telling me. I’m sure of it.
‘Come on. George. There’s nothing you can say that’d crush me more than I’m already crushed. What is it?’
‘Did you know Daisy was on antidepressants?’ His words land like a slap across the face.
‘Sorry?’
‘She had been for a while before she died.’
‘How long?’
‘About a year.’
‘A year!’ I recall when she’d never take anything, even for a muscle strain or inflammation when we were training, or a headache. ‘But she never took any sort of medication.’
He shrugs.
It’s my turn to raise my voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I’ve never had the opportunity. This is the first time we’ve really been able to speak properly. In any case, it felt disloyal.’ He runs his hands through his soft curls that reach his shoulders. ‘She didn’t want anyone knowing. What good would come out of you knowing? I thought it would upset you. It has upset you.’
‘Did Layla know?’ I ask.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
He nods.
That single gesture hurts more than his words. He told them and not me. Not Mum.
‘I guess that backed up their argument,’ he says. ‘Stick a label on her as being unstable and move on to the next case.’
‘For what? What was she taking them for, exactly, George?’
‘Does it matter?’ He’s being guarded.
