Like This, for Ever

the first time she’d ever willingly invited Joesbury into her flat and she’d expected to be jumpy as hell. Instead, she was finding his presence strangely soothing. The knots that had been clenched up inside her for most of the day were loosening. But Christ, why was her flat so unwelcoming? Why did she insist upon plain white, picture-free walls, spartan furniture, a complete absence of ornaments or personal possessions? She didn’t like clutter, but would a few cushions hurt? And those light fittings had probably been trendy in 1965.
    ‘Give me some credit,’ she said. ‘I promised him nothing. He told me his mother’s name and I said I’d give it some thought.’
    ‘OK.’ He nodded at her to go on.
    ‘I did then remote-access the system, so if you want to report me to Tulloch, I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
    One eyebrow flickered. ‘Save your breath, Flint, I’m not getting involved in your catfight.’
    ‘She started it.’
    The eyebrow went up. Five wrinkles appeared between it and his hairline.
    ‘First thing I did was to run her through the box. Nothing.’
    Joesbury nodded. The box was slang for the Police National Computer. ‘So we know she’s not banged up somewhere,’ he said.
    ‘Then I thought I’d better make sure she’s still alive,’ Lacey said. ‘Because I’d feel a proper prat if I spent hours trying to track her down, only to find out she’d gone under a bus five years ago.’
    ‘And did she?’
    ‘Go under a bus? I wish.’ Lacey got up, pressed the space bar on her computer to activate the screen and looked back at Joesbury. He crossed to join her. He hadn’t been home all day. There was no trace in the air of the lightly spiced cologne he wore after a shower. He smelled of London, of fast food and traffic and smoke and beer.
    Knowing exactly what she was doing, and how it would be interpreted, she stepped closer to him. Their shoulders brushed and stayed together.
    ‘Oh lord,’ said Joesbury, as he took in the information on the screen.
    It was a coroner’s report, dated seven years earlier. The report itself ran to some ten pages and contained police statements, medical details, post-mortem reports. The summary was just two paragraphs long and told them that Karen Roberts, aged thirty-six, of Lambeth Road in Kennington, had taken her own life after several years of mental illness, including severe post-natal depression. She’d taken a whole load of diazepam, lain down in a warm bath and drawn a knife across her femoral artery. Her body had been discovered by her four-year-old son, Barnaby.
    ‘He doesn’t remember anything?’ said Joesbury.
    ‘Apparently not, although …’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What age do kids start remembering things?’
    Joesbury made a
who knows?
gesture. ‘Round about three, I would have thought. Huck says his first memory is going to feed the ducks one Sunday morning and falling in because I was talking to one of the mums, who was blonde and pretty. He was two and a half at thetime. On the other hand, his mum’s told the story so often he probably just thinks he remembers it.’
    ‘I wonder if at some level he does remember it,’ said Lacey. ‘Barney, I’m talking about now. Remembers it, but just doesn’t want it to be true.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘He’s a very switched-on kid. Very computer savvy, for one thing.’ She explained about his systematic search for his mother. ‘There was press coverage of Karen Roberts’s suicide. Not much, but reporters invariably attend coroners’ inquests and a kid finding his mother’s body would be a story they’d be bound to cover. I found the coverage with a quick Google search. I can’t believe he’s never done the same thing.’
    ‘You think he knows but he’s in denial?’
    ‘I think it’s quite possible. He also told me he has what he called episodes. Memory blackouts. I think he found out about his mum, wiped it from his head and now his brain is playing odd tricks on him. That would make him a pretty screwed-up kid, wouldn’t it? Acting out this elaborate charade of looking for his mum when all the time he knows she’s dead.’
    Joesbury said nothing. He didn’t need to.
    ‘What on earth do I do?’ she asked him.
    He shook his head. ‘This is a bloody minefield. You have to talk to his dad.’
    She’d known he was going to say that. She could have worked that one out for herself. ‘I think he’s scared of his dad.’
    ‘Seriously scared, or just a