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She smoothed her dress down with the palms of her hands. She didn’t even know if anyone would see her in it, apart from her father, Elias. She hadn’t invited Adrian to the funeral as she felt that it would add an extra dimension of complication to their already complex relationship. She had invited the friends of her mother’s that she knew about and just hoped that word would spread, because her mother’s life was a mystery to her. She probably knew her mother as well as her mother knew her, which wasn’t that well at all. Even though she had visited her frequently, her mum had always been into something new, some new hobby or collection or charity. Imogen had tuned most of it out. She wished her mother was there now and she would listen, she would take an interest in what she was saying and not just fob her off and look for an excuse to leave.
Imogen imagined Irene telling her that she was putting too much mascara on as she dragged the wand across her eyelashes until they clumped together. Going to a funeral like that was just asking for trouble. Imogen wasn’t a crier, unless you counted movies like Armageddon and The Shawshank Redemption. She had managed to fine-tune her apathy in the real world, but as soon as she was immersed in fiction she seemed to be able to connect to the part of her that had emotion. She was thankful for it. If it wasn’t for those experiences, then she might worry about her own humanity; it was reassuring to know that the idea of a meteor hurtling towards the planet and wiping everyone out was distressing to her.
When she felt like she had enough war paint on she pinned her hair back, ready to put on her mother’s yellow pillbox hat with black net across the eye. It was in the box of things she had taken from her mother’s place. Just one box from her mother’s hoard, Imogen hadn’t wanted any more than that. There were no great memories among all of Irene Grey’s possessions; she seemed to collect and discard items indiscriminately, and so Imogen had arranged for house clearance to go and sort it out after she had taken the few items she had wanted.
Imogen picked up the hat and put it on. A touch of colour – her mother hated black. She picked up her phone, unsure whether to text Adrian; he had offered to come, but it just didn’t feel right. There was also the issue of Elias. Being with Elias reminded Imogen of her ex-boyfriend Dean, and she wasn’t over him yet. She had met Dean during a case, before she had even met her father. Her relationship with Dean was incompatible with her job; he didn’t quite operate on the right side of the law. Her father and Dean were more than friends, they were family. Her father operated several businesses and Dean was the person he sent round when all other forms of communication had broken down. Whenever she was with her dad she was aware that he was in contact with Dean and the idea of Adrian being there at the same time was a conflict Imogen wasn’t ready to deal with just yet. She would have to do today alone. It felt wrong to want support anyway; it was her mother’s funeral and Adrian barely knew her mother. She put her phone on silent and chucked it inside her bag.
The day seemed to move as though she were on fast forward, occasionally stopping to take it all in, but mental absence seemed preferable to being upset. She found herself standing by the grave, her father opposite her, tears in his eyes, genuine love and affection in his disposition. She could feel the emotions creep to the surface as she thought of her parents, apart for all those years, knowing the other would come if they would only ask. How did they wait so long? If they had really loved each other wouldn’t they have just been together? She couldn’t imagine being told you couldn’t be with someone else and actually listening. How could he stand to be apart from the woman he loved? How could he stand to be apart from her, his daughter? A part of her would always resent him for that.
She brushed her eye with the back of her hand, trying to make it look less like she was wiping away a tear. Why did she care if people saw her crying? Why wasn’t she allowed to cry?
They lowered the coffin into the ground and the people gathered around for a few seconds, registering the moment until it was over and then dispersing. Back to life.
Imogen suddenly felt overwhelmed. Was that it? Was her mother really gone? It just didn’t make sense. Irene Grey had been Imogen’s entire family for so long; she was the only thing Imogen could depend on being there no matter what, always where Imogen left her. It felt so wrong to leave her here.
‘Imogen,’ Elias said, snapping her out of her thoughts. ‘Come on. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I don’t really feel like it right now, to be honest with you,’ she said. She had managed to avoid spending any meaningful time alone with Elias since she had found out who he was. Somehow, talking to him today felt like a betrayal. Her mother hadn’t wanted them to pursue a relationship, and Imogen had to wonder why.
‘Let’s go and raise a glass to your mother. Please.’
‘OK,’ she acquiesced; it didn’t feel right to just slip back into real life immediately. She would have a gin, then go home and watch black-and-white movies, maybe some Fred and Ginger.
In the pub, the news was running, the same scaremongering, hate-fuelled drama that she had stopped watching years ago. It was no good for her anxiety.
‘It was peaceful when she died,’ Elias offered. ‘She didn’t even feel the aneurism; it took her in her sleep. When I woke up, she was just gone.’
‘That must have been awful for you. I still can’t believe it,’ Imogen said, both upset and relieved that she hadn’t been with her mother at the end.
‘No. It doesn’t feel real. I only just got her back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said. She was genuinely sorry that they had spent all those years apart. Arranged marriages seemed so archaic and she just couldn’t get her head around the fact that he hadn’t fought for her and her mother, that he had chosen someone else.
‘Do you believe in fate?’
‘I try not to think about it. I don’t know what I think about things like that. I barely believe in coincidences though.’
‘I think maybe your mother and I weren’t meant to be. The obstacles were too many for it to be an accident.’
‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this.’
‘I think that me and her were never about us. I think we were brought together so that you could exist. I think you are the reason we fell for each other. You are special, important in some way.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’ Imogen said, brushing off the compliment. Is this how he let himself off the hook for not being around?
‘Maybe, yes. Your mother loved you very much, even though I know you struggled together, but because of your struggle you are a remarkable person.’
‘Is that what you tell yourself? That me growing up without a father is fine because it was character-building?’
‘I’m sorry to make light of it. I am sorry I missed all those years with you.’
‘I’m not. We did OK,’ Imogen said more defensively than she intended.
‘We can talk about the past if you want to. We can talk about why I wasn’t around.’
‘I know – you had to marry a good Greek girl and my mother wasn’t one.’
‘That’s true. I did have to marry someone I didn’t want to,’ Elias said, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
‘So why did you?’
‘Arranged marriage is a complicated thing that seems quite alien to people from other cultures. We were in financial trouble and my father had promised. I couldn’t dishonour him and so I married into the family.’
‘So, your money isn’t yours, it’s your wife’s?’
‘No, I worked hard and made sure not to repeat my father’s mistakes; my money is my own. Kiki has taken her half and we are now in the process of getting a divorce.’
‘And your children? Did you ever love their mother?’ Imogen said, still confused as to how he could have left them both.
‘Not like I loved your mother,’ Elias said, staring into his empty whisky tumbler.
‘So, what changed in your marriage?’
‘Our parents died, and we didn’t feel the same way about divorce as they did. She was in love with someone else, also. Our parents were the only winners in that situation. But we got our boys and we love them very much.’
‘All sounds very amicable,’ Imogen said, finding it hard to believe that the relationship that stopped her from having a father was that easy to dissolve.
‘It is.’
‘What do they think about me?’ Imogen said. Elias, a man who had been a ghost when she was growing up, suddenly thrust in to her life during a murder investigation barely a year ago. She had always been an only child and so it was hard to think of herself as an older sister to three grown men.
‘Your brothers? Surprised, but they want to meet you.’
‘They do?’ Imogen hadn’t even considered meeting his children, but hearing Elias call them her brothers made that seem inevitable and her discomfort returned.
‘Yes. We’re having a family gathering soon, would you like to come?’
‘I don’t know. It feels too soon for that. I can’t just get a whole new family now that my mother has gone.’ Imogen said. Irene was the only parent she had ever known; she had longed for more when she was younger and now that her mother was dead, she felt like it was wrong to replace her immediately.
‘At least consider meeting with me properly – we could have dinner on Friday night.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s too soon. I need more time.’
Imogen stood up and left her half-finished gin on the counter. This was all too strange. First he wanted to get to know her, now he wanted her to meet her brothers. Just the word brother sounded alien to her in this context; she had no reference for it. It didn’t mean anything to her, not in the same way as mother did, not in the same way that orphan did. That’s how she felt, orphaned, even though her father was sat right opposite her. It didn’t matter; she was all alone in the world now. No more Greys.
He stood up and held his hand out for her to shake. She took pity on him, knowing full well that she was the only person he could truly share his grief over her mother’s death with. She put her arms around him and felt his tension ease within her embrace. From now on, he would be the only connection she had to her mother, too. She had to consider carefully what to do next. There was a whole other world that she could immerse herself in, but the idea of it scared her. She was only just getting accustomed to the one she was living in now. Imogen needed to decide whether she wanted all her life changes to happen at once, get it over with. Could she handle any more heartbreak?
Chapter Four
‘Please state your name for the tape,’ Imogen said. She had barely got into work when she was informed about the young girl waiting to be processed and questioned.
‘Caitlin Watts,’ the girl said, not looking at Imogen but clearly sizing Adrian up.
‘And how old are you?’
‘I just turned nineteen.’
‘You were spotted breaking into the old chapel on Smalling Street, is that correct?’ Adrian said.
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ She tilted her head down, keeping her eyes on him.
‘Was there a reason for that?’ Imogen asked.
‘Not a good one. I just wanted to see if I could,’ Caitlin said, still staring at Adrian.
Imogen noted that there was no nervous disposition with this girl at all; she seemed almost defiant, even a little defensive. What was her game?
‘We’re trying to get hold of the reverend in charge, who will tell us if anything is damaged or stolen.’
‘He’s away at the moment, gone to some pilgrim site in Kent.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I live with him,’ Caitlin said with a hint of a smile. ‘He’s my grandad.’
Imogen tried to gauge whether this was a lie or not; there was something very hard to read about Caitlin, a dishonesty about her. She looked over to Adrian, who shook off his surprise at this revelation very quickly and recomposed himself. Imogen could tell the girl was fixated on getting a reaction out of Adrian; her strange flirtation seemed to be working on him, he was visibly flustered by her.
‘Do you have any way of contacting him?’ Adrian said.
‘Not for a couple of days. He will be back before the weekend, though. He’ll tell you that nothing is missing or damaged; I’m not like that.’
‘If that were true you wouldn’t even be here at all,’ Imogen said.
‘We’ll check out your story – where will you be if we need to contact you?’ Adrian said.
‘I’ll be at my grandfather’s house, or at class. One of the two.’
‘What are you studying?’ Adrian said.
‘Psychology at the university. I want to be a shrink, get inside people’s heads and stuff.’ She smiled at Adrian.
‘You’re not staying in halls?’ Imogen said.
‘Not really any point, seeing as I live in the town. It saves money, which my grandad doesn’t have that much of.’ She answered Imogen coldly, seemingly annoyed that she was there at all, as though this would be a lot easier if Adrian were the only person in the room. She was an interesting girl – there was a definite vulnerability about her, something she was trying desperately to hide. Imogen could identify.
‘Are your parents not in the picture?’ Imogen asked.
‘No, apparently being parents was boring and not nearly noble enough, so they skipped off into the sunset together. I think they live in South America somewhere. They’re missionaries or something.’
That explained her strange behaviour – abandonment issues.
‘You don’t have any contact with them?’ Imogen pressed.
‘Not for around ten years now. But you know, I’m privileged apparently, so I don’t really deserve their attention. They only have time for Third World children.’ She brushed her glossy black hair behind her ears. The hair was the same colour as her perfectly groomed eyebrows, which almost looked painted on, but they were natural, Imogen could tell. Caitlin was making Imogen self-conscious; she watched as the girl’s striking blue eyes bore into Adrian and no doubt pulled at his heart strings.
‘I’m sorry, that must be hard,’ Adrian said.
Imogen shot him a look; it wasn’t like him to make personal comments like that. There was something a little mesmerising about Caitlin. She couldn’t tell whether it was intentional and manipulative or just the way she was, but Imogen was almost certain it was the former. Imogen was the one with a record for falling for suspects; it was the reason she’d lost the opportunity to get the DI job, because the DCI had found out about her relationship with Dean, which although not entirely illegal was most definitely frowned upon. The truth was that Imogen was a little relieved about not getting the position; she wasn’t sure she could handle the extra responsibility as well as everything else she had going on, on top of losing her mum.
That fleeting thought of her mother sent a chill through her; she couldn’t call her, she couldn’t go and visit.
Imogen shook off the impromptu melancholy and stood up.
‘We’ll check out your story. If your grandfather is happy not to press charges, you’ll be able to leave,’ Imogen said.
‘The uniformed officer will take you to the cell for a little while; it won’t be long though,’ Adrian said gently, taking the edge off Imogen’s words.
‘Thank you, Detective Miles.’ Caitlin smiled and blinked slowly, her thick black lashes closing then opening to reveal those eyes, almost in slow motion. There was an aura of ‘trouble’ around her, something Imogen couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Interview suspended at three fifteen,’ Imogen said and turned off the recorder.
Caitlin Watts folded her arms and winced a little.
‘Is something the matter?’ Imogen said.
‘I cut my arm on the window while I was trying to get through it, no big deal.’
‘Let me see?’
The girl pulled her cardigan off her shoulder, locking eyes with Adrian while she did it. There was a gash in the top of her arm, about ten centimetres long, certainly not nothing.
Imogen held her breath and counted to three before speaking again.
‘You need some medical attention. I’ll get hold of the doctor on call to come and see you. I think that’s going to need stitches.’
Imogen opened the door to see PC Ben Jarvis standing there waiting for instruction. Ben was new to the district and already he had made no secret of his interest in Imogen.
‘I need you to take the suspect to holding, then get the duty doctor to check her out,’ Imogen informed him.
‘Whatever you need,’ he said, smiling in a way that made her a little uncomfortable.
He brushed past Imogen – she felt like he was making sure that some part of his body was in contact with some part of hers – before leading Caitlin Watts out of the room.
Imogen sat on the edge of the table and looked down at Adrian, who was watching the girl leave, not pulling his eyes away until she wasn’t there to look at any more. She thought it was funny how his perception of the situation in that room was so different to hers; she had been preoccupied with Jarvis, he had been preoccupied with Caitlin. He hadn’t even noticed her awkward interaction with the PC. She folded her arms, and her movement made him turn and see her looking at him, his face reddening, as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘She’s pretty,’ Imogen said.
‘No. That’s not what I was thinking.’ He tried to hide his smile.
‘Then what? You seemed to find it hard to look away.’
‘Don’t you think there’s something odd about her?’
‘I think there’s something odd about you,’ Imogen said.
‘Pot. Kettle.’
‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’
‘Not even slightly,’ Adrian said. ‘I mean, the stuff about her grandad? She’s definitely lying, God knows what about. You know those people who just lie about everything? I think she’s one of those. They just can’t help themselves.’
‘You think she was trying to steal something?’
‘No idea. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her, though,’ Adrian said, still staring at the door long after Caitlin had been taken through it.
‘I’m sure you’re devastated about that.’ Imogen raised her eyebrows.
‘I’m not the one who’s into suspects,’ he said.
‘Touché,’ Imogen said, unsure whether to take offence or not. But she was uncomfortable having Dean and Adrian in the same headspace these days. She noted a hint of something whenever the subject came up between them, which was thankfully a rare occurrence. Was Adrian jealous? It certainly felt like it sometimes. Maybe she was paranoid, maybe it was wishful thinking. Why did everything have to be so complicated?
‘You didn’t tell me how your mum’s funeral went,’ Adrian said, cutting into her thoughts.
‘It went. It was tough. Glad it’s over.’
‘Was your father there?’
‘Still can’t get used to calling him that, but yes, Elias was there,’ she said, pulling the door open; she wasn’t in the mood for talking about herself right now. If she opened up to Adrian, she might start crying and never stop. She wasn’t sure she was ready for Adrian to see her like that just yet; she wanted him to think of her as strong.
As they left the interview room, they saw Denise walking towards them in the hall. There seemed to be some discomfort between her and Adrian, as they avoided eye contact. Workplace relationships rarely worked out, unless you were lucky enough to find ‘the one’ – an ideal Imogen wasn’t entirely sure she believed in. Most of the time, though, all that was left after the intimacy was resentment and embarrassment. Imogen promised herself she would never put herself in that situation again, which of course meant it was absolutely inevitable.
Chapter Five
Adrian lay in Imogen’s bed. His house had felt haunted since he lost Lucy, the girl he had fallen for, the girl he’d barely had enough time to get to know, the girl who had been killed to teach him a lesson. It seemed as though that haunted feeling was following him around though; maybe it wasn’t the house at all. Maybe it was him.
Behind him, the door opened. Imogen walked into the room and slid under the covers. White T-shirt and bare legs. He turned and stretched his arm out for her to rest her head on. Neither one of them liked being alone and so this filled a need, and they could trust each other with it.
Adrian was having one of those rare moments of simplicity. He wondered why they felt like they needed to keep this a secret, not just from the rest of the world, their friends and families – but from each other, from themselves. It was as though there was something wrong with this platonic intimacy, as though it were weird because they weren’t ripping each other’s clothes off. It almost made him feel dirty in a way that sex wouldn’t, more complicated, less understandable. Why would anyone want this? They never spoke about it; it was a silent agreement between the two of them. They had yet to acknowledge it even happened outside of this house. This was a moment, in context, that didn’t exist anywhere else. They drifted off together and in the morning one of them would go before the other awoke.
Adrian’s phone rang at six thirty a.m., a whole hour before his alarm was due to wake him. He looked at the screen, it was Denise. The bed was empty.
‘Denise? Why are you calling me?’ Adrian said quietly before realising that Imogen wasn’t next to him and so he didn’t need to keep his voice down.
‘Good morning, sunshine.’
‘Get on with it,’ he snapped.
‘There’s been a murder up at the university.’
‘What?’
‘The call just came in. I thought you might want to get up there. I tried to call you before the new DI got up there, but DCI Kapoor called him and asked him to deal with it.’
‘So, he’s already there?’
‘Yeah, him and DS Grey.’
‘What?’ he said, managing to soften it a moment before it came out of his mouth.
‘She said she tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.’
‘I’m on my way.’ He hung up and jumped out of Imogen’s bed.
Adrian pulled his jeans on and roughly pulled back the sheets, noticing the full mug of coffee on the side table. He picked it up and it was still warm; she hadn’t long left. This was her apology. He drank it and left it on the bedside table.
At the university it didn’t take him long to find them, and as he walked through the halls of the humanities department, he could hear Imogen speaking before he saw her. He turned the corner to see her standing next to DI Matt Walsh, the newbie in CID. He must have been approaching fifty years old, with white-grey hair, but somehow still quite youthful in appearance. He wore jeans and a blazer, and his hair was thick and floppy, reminiscent of the nineties somewhat.
As if sensing his presence, they both turned to look at him in unison. He noticed Imogen’s eyes dart away for a second before resuming her composure.
DI Walsh held his hand out immediately. ‘Detective Miles, good to see you again.’
‘Detective Walsh. Please, call me Adrian.’
‘Likewise, call me Matt though, not Adrian.’
Adrian half-smiled. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Professor of Philosophy found dead in his office.’
‘Dead how?’ Adrian asked, annoyed that he was out of the loop and the information was being drip-fed to him.
‘Murdered. Looks like he got his head bashed in with a large glass paperweight,’ Matt Walsh said.
‘This feels like an episode of Columbo already,’ Adrian said.
‘The techs are just in taking photos and logging evidence, but go ahead.’
Adrian walked into the office, where three crime scene technicians were doing their business. He stayed in the corner and looked around the room. Being there in person was different to seeing photographs; in Adrian’s experience, memories of scenes could be powerful, things could get burned into the mind. Photographs just didn’t give you the same perspective. He had heard of cases in the military where they had to get in and out of a scene without touching it, so they would use special cameras to capture the scene, then use giant 3D printers to recreate it perfectly, just so they could get the perspective and walk through the scene as many times as they needed.