I was hovering over the kettle, waiting for it to boil, when Gilbert came in. ‘Can I have a word, Charlie,’ he said, ‘in my office?’
I wondered what was wrong with the phone and followed him up the stairs. Jones’s brief had complained about me, I decided. So what? I was fireproof. The worst that could happen was that they’d pay me to go quietly, on full pension. It’d be a wrench, I told myself, but I’d survive. Maybe I’d be going to Malta after all. Or Marrakech. I’d always wanted to go to Marrakech.
It wasn’t until he was in his seat and I was facing him that I noticed how white his face was. He glanced towards the window, then down at his blotter, which he decided needed moving a couple of inches to the right. He looked anywhere but at me. Gilbert always looks grave, but this was something extra. ‘What is it?’ I asked as I lowered myself into the chair.
‘I’ve some bad news, Charlie,’ he said, finally facing me. ‘It’s your friend Rosie. Rosie Barraclough. I’m afraid she’s been found dead.’
She couldn’t be. That was my first reaction. It was impossible. She was vibrant and beautiful and bubbling with life. She always wore red, highlighting her silver hair, and pictures of her flashed up before me: Rosie the first time I saw her, sitting behind a desk at the grammar school; Rosie waving her geologist’s hammer at me deep in a quarry in the Dales; Rosie at the football match, shouting for the referee to put his spectacles on. She couldn’t be dead. It was impossible.
But that was the visible Rosie. There were other times, when she wouldn’t see me, when her demons came, and I knew it wasn’t impossible at all.
Gilbert was talking but I hadn’t heard a word. ‘I’m sorry, Gilbert. What was that?’
‘I was just saying that Graham Myers, Superintendent Myers from Scarborough, has been on the phone. Rosie was found this morning in a bed-and-breakfast in Scarborough. First indications
are that she’d taken an overdose of paracetamol. There was a note, addressed to you. Graham would like you to go over and do the necessary.’
‘Identify her?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Right.’ I rose to my feet and looked around. What did I need? I wanted to get over there, see for myself. I didn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it, until I saw her lying there. ‘I’ll go now,’ I said, ‘if that’s all right?’
Gilbert jumped up. ‘I’ll tell one of the DCs to take you. Go collect your jacket and I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘No,’ I protested. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll manage on my own.’
‘It’s too far to go on your own,’ he insisted. ‘And you’ll be in the wrong frame of mind. I’ll see you downstairs; that’s an order.’
Poor old Robert drew the short straw, mainly because he holidayed with his kids in Scarborough. We drove most of the way in silence, passing the occasional comment about other drivers and briefly talking about the job. People from Yorkshire divide into groups according to which seaside resort they prefer: Scarborough, Filey, Whitby or Bridlington, with Scarborough devotees considering themselves to be a cut above the others. They refer to the place as the Queen of Watering Holes, and acknowledge no rivals. All it
meant to me was that he knew where to find the police station.
Graham Myers could not have been more considerate. He shook my hand and told me how sorry he was. Robert said he’d see me tomorrow and turned to go.
‘Aren’t you waiting for me?’ I asked. ‘It won’t take long, will it?’
They’d obviously worked it out between themselves. Robert brought me, I’d stay overnight, somebody would deliver me back home. I was incapable of straight thinking, was being blown along by events, so I just accepted what they said. I thanked Rob for bringing me and he said it was a sad business.
‘Will you tell the others, please,’ I said before he left. I didn’t want embarrassed glances and everybody avoiding me when I was back in the office.
She was at the hospital. I’d expected her to be in a funeral home, but I should have realised that there’d have to be a PM, so she was at the hospital. I’ve been through the procedure dozens of times, and it’s never easy, but this was the first time I’d been the person doing the identification.
The attendant lifted the sheet back and there was Rosie, her face framed in silver and red, looking blissfully unaware of the grief she was causing. Her eyes were closed and I swear there was a hint of a smile on her lips as she lay there, deep in the
peaceful oblivion she’d craved for so long.
‘Do you want leaving for a while, Charlie?’ Superintendent Myers asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’ I touched the side of her face with the back of my fingers, then stooped to kiss her forehead. ‘No,’ I repeated, adding: ‘This is the woman I know as Rosie Barraclough.’
The note Rosie had left was in the super’s office. ‘It’s only a photocopy, I’m afraid,’ he told me. ‘The original has gone for tests. We were playing safe, as we knew nothing about her, but I’ll get it for you in the morning.’
He produced the photocopies from his drawer. The first was of the envelope, addressed to
Detective Inspector Charles Priest, Heckley CID
in a small, neat script. The next sheet was the note.
Dearest Charlie,
I read.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Not the pills. That’s the easy bit. That’s the bit I’ve been drawn towards for years. No, it’s the writing of this note to you that is troubling me.
I warned you that I came with baggage, but I didn’t tell you how much. I once told you about my husband, said he was a waster. He wasn’t. He was kind and considerate and had the patience of a saint. I drove him to drink and gambling, drove him away from me. I didn’t want to do that to you. You deserve better.
The football match was fun. One of my happier memories. Your face when I came back from the Ladies was a picture. I hope you catch all the criminals, whoever they are. If anyone can do it it’s Charlie Priest.
I can’t put this off any longer. It’s calling to me. When you read this I’ll be part of yesterday’s ten thousand years. Thanks for trying, Charlie. Thanks for making me happy during our brief friendship, and please forgive me for doing this to you. I hope you find someone who deserves you more than I did.
All my love
Rosie
Graham Myers had left the room, left me alone with Rosie’s final message. I looked around and saw the usual trappings of office: the staff college photos; his uniform cap hanging on a hook; the law books that he’d never read. On the wall to the side of his desk was a picture of the Skye Cuillins, torn from a calendar and pinned up because it had special meaning for him. He was a man of the hills and I warmed to him. No doubt he’d turn to it when he was bogged down with NIMs and SARA and income generation and benchmarking, and off he’d go to where the only problem was to get back to safety before nightfall, before the pub closed.
I was looking out of his window when I heard
the click of the door catch as he came back into the room.
‘You all right, Charlie?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, fine, thanks,’ I replied, moving back to the chair I’d been sitting on. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Yes, of course, and I’ll have the originals returned to you, as soon as I can. What did you make of the message on the back?’
‘On the back?’ I hadn’t seen a message on the back. I turned the page over but the reverse side was blank, then I realised that there were two sheets.
The writing was much different on the second sheet. It was drawn out and had lost its neatness and precision. It was a drunken scrawl, and a shiver ran through me as I realised that she’d been
far-gone
as she’d struggled to write her final message. Oh, Rosie, Rosie, I thought. Why did you put yourself through this?
The words were difficult to decipher, each one tapering off as if the exertion were too much for her. The first one was particularly obscure.
Shahtoosh
, I read. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Is that an S or is it a G?’ Graham asked, pointing with a finger.
‘It looks like an S to me, but a G doesn’t help much, either, does it?’
‘No. It doesn’t.’
It just came to me
, the note continued.
It’s a nasty business. Ros
That was all. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to me,’ I said.
‘She was probably hallucinating,’ he suggested. ‘Like when you’re dreaming and have these enlightening thoughts on how to attain world peace. They turn out to be gibberish.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘How long had you known her, Charlie?’
‘Not long, about six months,’ I replied, although four months was probably nearer the mark. ‘We weren’t, you know, an item. Just good friends. I wanted it to be more than that, but Rosie fought shy of it, as you’ll have gathered from the note. I went to a geology class, and Rosie was the teacher…’ I left it hanging, left it for him to imagine how the hotshot detective had been smitten by the slim-shouldered tomboy with the shock of silver hair.
‘What about her next of kin?’
Poor old Superintendent Myers, I thought. Lumbered with me but still having to play the policeman. ‘Her mother is in a nursing home in Norfolk,’ I told him. ‘She has dementia or something. Rosie reverted to her maiden name, so her mother will be called Barraclough, too. And there’s a brother…somewhere, but he’s…they don’t
talk, he’s disowned her. And the ex-husband, of course. I don’t know his name. Her father committed suicide. He hanged himself.’
‘That fits,’ he said. ‘These things often run in the family.’
I stood up and glanced towards the window. Darkness had crept up on us and the sky was yellow with the glow of sodium lamps. ‘Thanks for everything, Graham,’ I said. ‘I’ll look for somewhere to stay and see you in the morning.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘I’ve told my wife to set an extra place and air the bed in the spare room. You’re staying with us tonight.’
I didn’t have any choice. The meal was excellent but I wasn’t hungry. We sat and talked, sometimes about the world we lived in, sometimes about the job and a little bit about Rosie. Graham had never handled a murder case – which is the norm, most senior officers haven’t – so his wife was interested to learn what I did. I think she was a little disappointed that he’d become a desk pilot, but I laid it on about the irregular hours and she was pacified. They originated from Birmingham, so Scarborough was a culture shock, but they were loving it. She’d bought season tickets for the Stephen Joseph theatre and he was negotiating a share in a fishing boat.
Next morning I spoke to the coroner on the phone and he was happy to release the body, on
condition that the post-mortem findings concurred with the belief that she’d taken her own life. Rosie had left another envelope containing a will, although it was unwitnessed and not strictly legal. She appointed me as executor and, it could be argued, full beneficiary. I was to take what I wanted and sell the rest, the proceeds going to charity. I went down to the CPS office and had a word with one of the solicitors, but he had no experience in this field. He rang the Federation solicitor who was more familiar with civil law and in a better position to give advice. I took the phone and he made sucking noises through his teeth as I explained the circumstances to him. When I told him that I’d be happy with a small, valueless memento, he said we might get away with it, subject to no other will being found and the relatives not objecting.
Dave arrived at about ten o’clock and brought me home. When he turned off the high street I said: ‘Where are you going?’
‘Your house,’ he replied. ‘Where do you think?’
‘I want to go to the office.’
‘Mr Wood said I’ve to take you home. He doesn’t want to see you until Monday.’
I’d had enough. Everybody, starting with Rosie, was deciding what was best for me. I said: ‘Listen, Dave. I’ll say this once and once only. I’ll take the rest of the day off and come in tomorrow. Tell everyone that I want no messages of sympathy, no
hugs and no understanding looks. It’s back to business. I’m upset, Dave,’ I told him. ‘Of course I’m upset. I was fond of Rosie, wanted her in my life. But I’m angry, too. Suicide is a selfish act and I refuse to feel guilty. Rosie was ill. How ill we’ll never know, but it was her decision and I’m not letting her take me down with her. I wanted to help her but she wouldn’t let me. I tried, believe me, I tried.’ I looked out of the window at my house as he pulled up and reversed into the drive. ‘Sorry for sounding off, Dave,’ I said, ‘but that’s how I feel.’
He pulled on the handbrake and tugged at his door handle. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘I’ll let you make me a pot of tea.’
When he’d gone I put on my Gore-Tex coat, slung an old rucksack over one shoulder and walked all the way to Wicks DIY store, three miles away. I bought six tins of enamel paint in primary and secondary colours and put them in the sack. On the way home I purchased a salmon fillet, some
ready-scraped
new potatoes and a tin of peas. There was probably a tin in the cupboard but I wasn’t sure. It rained all the way back but I didn’t mind. I left the potatoes simmering while I had a shower, and grilled the fish in lashings of margarine. After that I watched one of the Kennedy videos that Dave had loaned me.
At about nine o’clock I went into the garage and
spread the two sheets of board on the floor. One was already white, so I painted the second one bright blue. I found an old half-inch brush that was worn out, dipped it in the yellow and started flicking.
It pays to have a rough idea of what you are trying to achieve before you start. I wanted a blue focal point somewhere on the white board, and a green one, or possibly two, on the blue board. Or perhaps a green one and a red one. I’d see how it developed. You have to be prepared to adjust your vision of the finished product, go where the paint leads you.
When both boards had an even distribution of yellow squiggles, splodges and dashes on them I switched to green and did it all again. Then it was black followed by red. I stood the boards against the wall, sat on my heels squinting at them for ten or fifteen minutes, then dipped into the yellow again and started all over. It’s not as easy as it looks. All the time you are making decisions: more emphasis here, less there, not too much of that colour. It’s all done by design and nothing is left to accident. Your mind is fully engaged, assessing the effects you are creating, balancing the colours and the depth of the coverage. And progress is painfully slow. You kneel next to the canvas, flicking paint, and as it goes from your hand to the painting it takes a little bit of you with it. It’s you on display
with the finished work, not merely a pattern of colours and shapes. The final work has no subject, not even a focal point. It’s all about emotion and spirituality. The artist tears his soul out and puts it on the wall for all to see. That’s what the critics claim. Me? I just like doing them and think they look good.