Forget Me Not. Claire Allan
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of jinxing it, she wanted to keep it to herself for now. It was all fairly new, you see. Do you think it’s him? You do, don’t you?’
‘We’re at the very early stages of the investigation. At this stage we’ve no clear suspects, but nor have we ruled anyone out. How new is fairly new?’ DI Bradley asked.
‘Maybe a month, six weeks at most. Something like that.’
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Brendan popped his head around and spoke.
‘Sorry, love. I’m just going to go and pick up the kids from school. I’ll take them to your mother’s house, keep them out of the way for a bit.’
Julie nodded, her eyes darting to the packet of cigarettes on the coffee table. She clearly wanted to smoke another one.
I glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and realised with a start that it was almost three o’clock and I usually picked Molly up from daycare at three thirty on a Wednesday. I needed to go, too, or I’d be late.
‘Actually, DI Bradley, I need to go, too. I have to pick my little girl up from crèche, and I need to collect my car from work first. I’m sorry, my husband’s working in Belfast and there’s no one else who can collect her.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But could you call into the station at some stage in the next twenty-four hours if at all possible? We’d like to take a full statement and get a copy of these messages, Mrs Walker.’
‘Of course,’ I said, taking his business card from him. ‘I’m sorry to have to rush off.’
I was lifting my coat from the arm of the sofa, when Julie spoke.
‘How did she die?’ she asked, her voice small. ‘What happened?’
Constable King shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. ‘At the moment we can’t say too much while we await a postmortem examination, but it looks as if the cause of death was severe blood loss brought about by knife wounds.’
I felt my stomach tighten again. My legs weaken. I thought of Molly standing at the door of the crèche, some brightly coloured painting in her hand ready to be shoved in my direction with a smile. I thought of how we usually sang nursery rhymes all the way home in the car. How my evenings, which I’d considered so completely dull and ordinary, could never be so again.
I desperately needed to speak to Paul, but more than that, I ached to speak to Michael. Michael who could distract me from any pain, who could help me block the horrific reality of what had happened. Michael who was my guilty pleasure, and my darkest secret.
‘Mammy, why are you sad?’ Molly blinked at me, her bottom lip trembling as I undid her seat belt and lifted her from her car seat.
I’d been trying to act normal for her; clearly, I wasn’t doing a very good job.
But just how do you tell a three-year-old something so catastrophic has happened? She trusted me implicitly to protect her from all the bad in the world. This would prove to her that I wasn’t infallible. That bad things happened. Horrible things. And while it’s a lesson we all have to learn, I didn’t want to be the one to take the innocence from my baby girl.
‘I’m just a bit sleepy,’ I lied, kissing the top of her head. ‘You know how you get really grouchy when you need a nap? It’s a bit like that.’
She looked at me for a moment, her blue eyes staring out from under the mop of tight blonde curls surrounding her face. I swear she could see right through me – knew I was lying – but just chose not to challenge me. Not this time.
‘Okay, Mammy,’ she said. ‘Let’s go see Daddy and Beth.’ She took my hand in hers and pulled me towards the front door.
‘Daddy’s working in Belfast still,’ I told her, ‘but Beth should be home and I bet she’s ready for cuddles from her best girl in the world.’
Molly beamed at me, delighted to have her place as best girl in the world reinforced, and I let us into the house, calling upstairs to my older daughter that we were home. I really needed her to take Molly out from under my feet for a little, just until I called Paul and then, of course, Michael. I should have been seeing him that night, at the creative writing class I tutored, but I’d hardly be teaching that night. Not after what had happened. It would have been wrong. Everything felt wrong, even the most mundane tasks.
Beth appeared at the top of the stairs, still in her school uniform, but her hair was loose around her shoulders and she was wearing her fluffy slippers instead of school shoes.
‘You called?’ she asked, giving me the same inquisitive look her little sister had just moments before.
‘Beth, could you mind Molly for a bit? I need to make a few phone calls.’
‘Mum, what’s going on?’ she asked, walking down the stairs towards me. ‘Trisha Donnelly was on Snapchat telling everyone you’d just walked out of class today. What’s up? Is it Dad?’
She was twelve years older than her little sister, but she looked just as vulnerable as she walked down the stairs towards me.
‘Mammy says she needs a nap, ’cos she’s a sleepyhead,’ Molly said, throwing her padded jacket on the floor and grabbing her favourite teddy bear from the hall table.
Beth raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘Mum?’ she asked again.
‘It’s not Dad. Dad’s fine. I’m going to call him now, but please, Beth, could you just mind Molly for a little? Put on a DVD or something. Just make sure I get a little peace.’ I heard the wobble in my voice and inwardly crumbled.
‘You’re scaring me, Mum,’ Beth whispered as if Molly didn’t have the ears of a bat.
‘Darling, please, I’ll explain it all shortly. But don’t worry. Everything’s okay.’
I felt awful lying to her, but this wasn’t something you just blurted out. Truth being told, I didn’t know how to say it. How to find the words.
Reluctantly, she led her little sister into the living room and I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, where I sat on the edge of the bed and took my phone out. It was Paul’s number that I dialled first. It rang three times before he answered. On hearing his ‘hello’, I felt my composure slip.
‘Paul,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘You need to come home. Something really awful has happened. I need you here.’
‘The girls?’ he asked.
‘They’re fine,’ I assured him. ‘It’s Clare. Paul, have you seen the news about the body found at Coney Road?’ I realised I’d started to shake.
‘Yes, I saw it … but, God, no, Rachel,’ Paul said, his voice low. ‘It’s not Clare? It can’t be.’
‘Police confirmed it this afternoon,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘It was murder, a knife wound.’
I finally gave in to sobbing as I heard my husband try to soothe me down the line.
‘I’ll be home as soon as traffic allows,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it, Rachel. This is awful.’
I couldn’t even speak to say goodbye, so I just ended the call and curled up into a ball on my bed, burying my head in my pillow so that my daughters wouldn’t hear my sobs. I didn’t want to alarm them. I wished there was someone here to hold me and soothe me as I cried.
I knew I should have wished for that person to be Paul, and in a way I did. But more than that, I wished it were Michael. I needed him. My body physically ached for the comfort he could give