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He blushed slightly. ‘Well,?
?? he said uncertainly, ‘I suppose, given the cyclical nature of manic depression, highs followed by lows’ – Wilson was feeling his way here – ‘and given that this was three weeks before her death, it isn’t at all inconsistent with her having jumped—’
Wilson’s stumbling sentence was cut short by Holden. ‘As evidence goes, it proves nothing. Quite right.’ She turned now to Fox. ‘What next then Derek?’
‘I want to interview Jake. He’s a worker at the day centre. She tried to ring him the morning of her death three times. He should be able to clarify her state of mind.’
‘Good,’ Holden said, nodding her head. ‘Anything else?’
‘Danny turned up at the flat when we were interviewing Anne.’
Holden looked puzzled. ‘Danny?’ she queried.
‘You know,’ Fox continued, ‘mad Danny Flynn, from the day centre.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course. What did he want?’
‘He said someone had been following Sarah.’
The DI laughed, again catching Wilson off his balance. ‘Sounds about par for the course, for Danny.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Fox.
‘Nevertheless,’ she said firmly, ‘we do need to be sure that it was suicide.’
Anne Johnson’s first reaction on seeing the place where her sister had plummeted to her death was to turn on her heel and run. But that would have been difficult. She had dressed up for the occasion – a white blouse, a discreet dark-blue skirt, and moderately high heels – and given that she had trouble even walking in high heels, running away was patently not a realistic option. A second complication would have been the extravagantly large bouquet of flowers she held in her arms. It had seemed such a good idea when it had first occurred to her. It would be some weeks before she could lay poor Sarah’s body to rest, so to place a wreath of flowers at the site of her death had seemed an ideal temporary tribute. But now, standing on the dirty grey strip of paving stones at the base of the car park, it all seemed banal, pointless and even tasteless. The stunning bouquet seemed ridiculously over the top for this tawdry setting. Who was to say that by tomorrow morning someone wouldn’t have nicked it for their lover or elderly mother, or that a drunk wouldn’t have urinated all over it? And what was she trying to achieve with this bouquet anyway. To commemorate her sister’s wonderful and fulfilled life? To celebrate the sensitive, supportive and joyful relationship that she and her sister had enjoyed? Without warning, her body shivered. Who the heck was she trying to fool? Her sister’s life had been punctuated with mental health problems and mangled relationships, and she, Anne, had been only too ready to wash her hands of Sarah when things got difficult. And when she’d told the detective that she rang her sister every three weeks, well that hadn’t actually been the truth, had it? God, what a selfish cow she was! These thoughts were followed by a wave of self-loathing that hit her with such physical intensity that she thought she was going to be sick. She bent over, propping herself against the wall with one hand while the other clung on to the flowers. She waited, willing herself to retch, but nothing came up, and gradually the feelings of nausea receded, until she was able to straighten herself up and breathe in a gulp of air.
But, although the nausea had gone, the sense of futility she had felt earlier was flooding back. Looking round, she realized that she didn’t actually know where the body had fallen and lain. She’d studied the photos in the paper, and she had tried to listen to what the police had to say, but now that she was here, none of that was much help. Somehow she had assumed that there would be marks of some sort on the pavement, maybe a dark circle of something that she could identify as blood. Didn’t the police use chalk to mark the positions of dead bodies, or was that only on television? Or maybe you had to be the victim of murder, not just a suicide, to attain that level of importance? But the only markings on the pavement were bird droppings – pigeons she guessed – and what looked like spatterings of yellow paint. (How did they get there?)
It was at this point that Anne Johnson became aware that she was being watched. She looked up to see a young man staring at her. He must have just come out of the car park, for he was standing two steps from the bottom of the concrete stairs that led down from the first storey of the car park to the pavement, some five metres from where she was. To her astonishment, she recognized him.
Her first words were softly spoken, addressed more to herself than to anyone else. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re him!’ The young man must have heard – or possibly lip-read – her words, for he remained still, frozen to his step. Only his eyes betrayed agitation.
‘You’re him!’ she said again, this time more loudly, and with the index finger of her right hand pointing directly at his head. ‘You’re the art student in the paper? The bastard who pushed her over the edge.’
If Bicknell was startled by the violence of her words, he was not showing it. He looked at her for three or four seconds, before thrusting his hands into the pockets of his zipped jacket in a studied act of defiance. He then stepped forward down the last two steps, spun round and started to walk away.
‘Stop right there!’ Anne Johnson was at school again, her voice lancing across the playground, bringing bullies and bullied reluctantly to heel. Bicknell came to a halt, and after some hesitation turned around. When he looked up, he saw her as many younger persons had over the years. She was not a tall woman, but as she stood there, one hand firmly on her hip, the other casually holding her bouquet like it was a lethal weapon, he felt a shiver of something not so far removed from fear. He felt compelled to move towards her.
‘I’m him,’ he said, when he was half a pace from her. ‘That is to say, I’m the student in the paper. But I don’t push people off multi-storey car parks. So, I’d be very careful what you go around saying, lady.’
‘I was speaking figuratively,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes.
‘Whatever,’ he responded, holding her gaze. Ever since he had printed off those photos he had taken of Sarah Johnson, as live and dead, Bicknell had got to know her features in some detail. Now, like DS Fox before him, he found himself taken aback by the face of her sister Anne – the same straight brown hair, oval face, and slightly upturned nose.
‘God, you are like her.’ The words came out automatically, an unconscious reaction to his thoughts.
‘Only on the surface,’ she responded instantly. ‘Underneath we’re chalk and cheese.’
He nodded uncertainly. ‘Right’ he said, but wondered why she had been so quick to emphasize their difference.
‘Did you talk to her?’ she rushed on. Then paused, uncertain how to phrase what she wanted to say. ‘Before she ... before she... .’ The words stuck to the back of her throat, unwilling to be uttered. She tried again. ‘When she was looking at your plaque. Did she say anything? Did you get an impression of how she was.’
‘No!’ he said flatly. She said nothing in return, merely did something with her face which made him realize that more was expected. ‘I was taking photos, from a distance. Talking would have ... have interfered with the experiment.’
‘The experiment!’ She tossed the words back at him, because it was easier to be cruel than generous. Easier to inflict pain that endure it. ‘Well, that would never do. To interfere with the experiment.’
She had spoken loudly, loudly enough, she realized, for passers-by to hear. An old woman with a shopping trolley had stopped and was watching with fascination – Anne scowled at her until she resumed her slow progress – then turned back to Bicknell. ‘Look, I need to lay these bloody flowers right where she fell. You can at least help me with that.’
