The Silence. Joss Stirling
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of note, merely ferried cotton, pineapples and black ivory for a living. His days of fame as an admiral of the fleet were to come later when the little French upstart shook the thrones of Europe.
So, when I was conceived, my Captain Jack was distinguished only by the fact that he had the good fortune to marry a woman from the merchant class. With her money he could order my measurements from architects, adjust and fashion me completely to his taste. When he returned from his voyage, Jack gave his wife a perfunctory kiss, looked in on the infants bawling in the nursery at Deptford, then hurried along the Thames to climb the hill that led to my cradle. The builders were waiting to cut the first trench, spades poised. Jack bounded across the heath, waved his pocket handkerchief as his Blue Peter, and they set off, digging deep in the soil.
Jonah, Present Day
‘So Jonah, we have a call here logged to the emergency services at 23.53. The caller identifies himself as you. Is that correct?’
Jonah sipped his water. ‘Yes. I made the call.’
The senior of the two police officers in the interrogation room flicked through the transcript of the brief conversation. Seen across the table like this, it looked like a script. ‘You said that you feared you’d hurt someone. Is that also correct?’ The inspector wouldn’t have been cast though in this role if this were a drama; he looked too scruffy and had several piercing holes in each ear. A director would’ve put him on the other side of the table with Jonah. ‘You requested the police as well as an ambulance. Please answer for the record.’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you tell us what you meant by that?’
‘I don’t know.’ The events were an ugly mess, like dropping a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and trying to retrieve the pasta strand by strand. Why was he even thinking of food? Jonah hadn’t slept since they arrested him. How many hours ago? God knows. He ran his hand over his face. This place was scarily familiar. He’d sat in numerous sets exactly like this one recently but none had the same smell as the real thing, the smell of sweat and some cheap industrial floor cleaner. TV sets weren’t around long enough to get the odour infused into the walls.
‘Jonah? Can you answer the question please?’
‘Sorry: what did you ask?’
‘I asked in what way you hurt her?’
He had a sudden jolt of realisation. These people would know. He wouldn’t be left speculating as he had been in the police cell. ‘Is she OK?’
The officers exchanged a look, debating between them if this was something that was better kept from him or not.
‘Please. She’s a …’ what was she exactly? ‘… she’s a friend.’
The scruffy man, Detective Inspector something, nodded to his female sergeant. Jonah had already forgotten their names. Nothing was sticking in his brain, wiped clean of everything but her scream.
‘Her respiration was compromised,’ replied the sergeant, a fresh-faced woman with sandy hair tucked back behind her ears, ‘she’s still in a coma, still critical, and we’ve no word yet as to whether she’ll survive.’
He’d heard the ambulance men discussing it. They hadn’t realised at that time that he was the chief suspect and instead they’d been impressed to meet the actor who played them on TV. They’d talked to him like he was one of them for real. They told him as if he already knew: interrupted breathing leads to oxygen deficiency which in turn could result in brain damage. He probably had known that, but he just hadn’t been thinking, only reacting.
‘Will you let me know the minute she wakes up?’ he asked.
‘There’s no certainty she will. We’re still trying to establish exactly what took place. This might turn into a murder enquiry. Are you prepared for that?’
He bit his ragged nail. ‘I still want to know.’
‘Why, Jonah? Are you afraid what she might remember?’ The inspector leant forward, body language intended to dominate.
Wishing his brain would stop note-taking on movement as if he were studying for a future role, Jonah shook his head. What he’d meant was that he wished to apologise for losing it with her, but he didn’t want to make anything that sounded like an admission of guilt. His frantic words on the emergency call were bad enough without adding that. ‘I just want to know that she’s OK.’
‘I wouldn’t wait until she can tell her side of the story, if I were you,’ said the inspector. ‘Tell us the truth now, hiding nothing, and your cooperation will be taken into account when the CPS comes to consider your case.’
He hadn’t really expected to walk out of here without some charges, not with his record, but he was hoping they would let him go on bail. ‘It’s complicated. I’m not exactly sure what happened.’ Jonah scratched at the spiderweb tattoo on his knuckles. He wondered if he should call a lawyer now. The last one that had been appointed for him by the courts had been a disaster so he’d not gone there yet, but from the seriousness of their expressions, he should reconsider the wisdom of talking to them alone.
‘Then start at the beginning. Tell us what your relationship with her was like.’
‘I wouldn’t say we had a relationship.’ He gave it the double meaning that the inspector hadn’t, mainly to stall while he considered the lawyer question some more.
‘Help us to see what went on in Gallant House, Jonah. At the moment, I have to say, things aren’t looking that good for you. We’ve got your call, there’ll be forensics, so dodging these questions is not going to help.’
‘I’m not sure anything is going to help.’ Jonah said this under his breath.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
He gave the inspector a bleak smile. ‘Nothing. I’m just really tired. Not thinking straight. Gallant House? That all goes back to Bridget.’
Jenny, One Year Ago
Bridget Whittingham was exactly as Kris had described when he rang Jenny to say that he’d fixed up the interview. Tall, thin, with fine-boned neck, wrists and ankles, Bridget moved like the dancer she had once been, her arm unconsciously leading her as she swept from room to room. Her auburn hair – Jenny assumed this was dyed – twisted into a soft peak on top of her head like a Mr Whippy cone. Not that Bridget looked the sort to buy that kind from street vans with blaring tunes. Jenny imagined Bridget’s ice cream came from hushed artisan shops that made flavours that included elderflowers or Madagascan vanilla pods.
‘And this is the drawing room.’ Bridget opened the door onto a high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were covered in an astounding plum flock wallpaper patterned with stylised peonies tumbling from urns. It was only saved from being overpowering by the white panelling that reached waist height. Chairs and sofas with well-turned wooden arms competed for attention in dusky pink upholstery like Victorian children come down from the nursery for their daily parental inspection. Family portraits hung in heavy gold frames; those pictured looked either faintly amused or terribly bored to be gazing down on a room that appeared not to have changed for a century. It was like walking into Schmann’s Symphony No. 1, thought Jenny. She’d played it recently with its nineteenth century lush inner tensions somehow resolving into harmony.
‘It’s still as Admiral Jack intended – the first owner. I redid it on my marriage to freshen it up and I have to say it’s held its colours quite well. North-facing –