‘It was awful,’ says Debra. ‘What can you say? There’s nothing you can say. Losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to someone.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I say.
‘I started to cry and her mum ended up consoling me. I felt terrible.’
‘It was still nice of you to phone.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Debra and I can hear her drawing on a cigarette. That must mean that she’s standing in the garden. Leo won’t let her smoke indoors. ‘But what can you do? Have you seen her Facebook page?’
‘No.’
‘It’s full of people posting stuff like “rest in paradise” and “another angel in heaven”. Most of them didn’t even know her. Jesus.’
I think of DS Kaur asking if any ex-boyfriends were stalking Ella on Facebook.
‘The police were here just now,’ I say.
‘The police? Why?’
‘They’re talking to all Ella’s friends apparently. You’ll probably be next.’
‘God. The boys will love that. Two policemen turning up at the door.’
‘One’s a woman. She’s the scary one too.’
‘Do they have any idea who could have done it?’
‘They were asking about ex-boyfriends.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said there was no one recent.’
‘You didn’t mention Rick?’
‘No.’
Another deep intake of breath. I steel myself for the next question but Debra only says, ‘I still can’t believe it. Ella dead. Murdered. It’s like a nightmare.’
‘Or a book,’ I say. ‘I keep thinking I’m in a book.’
‘You always think that,’ says Debra. ‘Do you want to come over?’
‘No. It’s OK. I’ve got a bottle of wine. And Herbert.’
‘Sounds perfect. I’ve got to collect the boys from Cubs in a minute, then make supper. Leo’s out playing five-a-side.’
‘Domesticity, eh?’
‘Yeah. It’s a trap all right. Maybe see you tomorrow?’
‘Georgie’s back tomorrow.’
‘Give me a ring. Maybe we can meet up for coffee.’
‘Ok,’ I say. ‘Bye. Take care. Drive carefully.’
I drink my glass of wine standing up and then pour another. Then I click on Ella’s Facebook page.
Chapter 4
Simon turns up the next day at four, about three hours after he was expected. Georgie texted me en-route so I wasn’t waiting by the window but it is, nevertheless, annoying. I saw Debra this morning and went to the shops, but there were lots of things I could have done in the afternoon if Simon didn’t have this curious belief that the drive from London to West Sussex takes twenty minutes.
‘I was expecting you at one.’ These are my first words to my ex-husband.
‘Georgie texted you,’ is his response.
‘Hi, darling.’ I hug my daughter. ‘Did you have a good time?’
She hugs me back but lets go to give Herbert a much more enthusiastic reception.
‘How’s my puppy? How is he? Oh, bless him. Look at his little face.’
She scoops him up and covers him with kisses. Simon and I watch them. It’s one of those moments where I know we’re thinking the same thing (why isn’t she that affectionate to us?) but I don’t want to acknowledge it.
‘Lucky Herbert,’ says Simon at last, getting Georgie’s bag out of the boot.
‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’ I say.
He hesitates. He doesn’t really want to be trapped in the house with me but he probably needs the loo (he’s just the right age for prostate trouble).
‘Just a quick one,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
How long does he think it will take? I’m hardly planning a Japanese tea-drinking ceremony. I follow him into the house, aware that my teeth are gritted.
He goes to the loo immediately but emerges to chat to me while I go about the laborious and time-consuming task of putting tea-bags in water. Georgie has disappeared upstairs with Herbert.
‘Kitchen looks nice,’ Simon says. I had a new kitchen put in when I moved here and it is nice — shiny doors, granite tops, skylight and a view into the garden. But Simon always mentions it partly, I’m sure, because he resents the fact that I have the kitchen I’ve always wanted. We sold the London house when we divorced but, because Simon married a relatively wealthy woman, he was able to buy another place in the city. I was exiled to the countryside so, in my opinion, granite worktops are the least I deserve.
‘How’s Fleur?’ I counter. I’ve nothing against Simon’s wife. In fact I often sympathise with her, married, as she is, to man who colour-codes his socks. She’s a lawyer, like Simon, but she’s currently at home with a three-year-old and a twenty-month-old. Can’t be much fun, especially since it would never occur to Simon — who thinks of himself as a new man — to take paternity leave.
‘She’s OK,’ he says. ‘A bit tired. Ocean still isn’t sleeping through the night.’ I don’t blame her. She’s probably traumatised by her ridiculous name.
‘That’s tough.’ I bet Simon has decamped to the spare room. He looks pretty well-rested to me.
Simon is fiddling with his keys, a sure sign that he’s nervous. ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ he says at last. ‘Georgie showed me something about it online.’
Ella’s death is everywhere. In newspapers, on TV, online, floating through the ether. Apparently you can get your Facebook page ‘memorialised’ (Debra says we should suggest this to Ella’s parents) so the deceased can exist in cyberspace for ever.
‘It was a shock,’ I say.
‘Georgie says that she taught her, this Ellie.’
‘Ella. Yes, she taught her English in Year 10.’
‘It’s a shock for her too. She kept talking about it.’
‘It’s her first brush with death, I suppose.’ Simon looks hurt. ‘Apart from your dad,’ I say quickly. ‘I wasn’t forgetting that. But Georgie was only three when Derek died. Now she’s a hormonal teenager.’
‘Talking of hormones,’ says Simon. ‘She’s still in touch with that Ty.’