Night Running Read online

  I placed Claire’s picture in the middle of the wooden mantelpiece over the open fireplace, stood back, and looked at it. It had been taken on a summer’s day before we knew about the cancer, when she was about three. She wore a sleeveless, blue and white checked gingham dress. Her blonde hair was tied in two short plaits that fell either side of her face; the ends level with the bottom of her ears. Her blue eyes shone out against her light tan. Her complexion looked like a bowl of peaches and cream. I gasped. My god she was beautiful. I knew I was about to lose it again.

  My phone rang. ‘Hello, Mum.’

  ‘Hey, darling, listen. It’s entirely up to you, but Georgie is having such an lovely time, and seems so happy here, and, as it’s half-term, I wondered if she could stay a few more days, say until Friday.’

  ‘Yes, of course. In fact it suits me. The move was a nightmare, nothing fits, and I’m having a hell of a week. If that’s alright with you and Dad, I could cancel my days off for Thursday and Friday and catch up with some work.’

  ‘No problem with us. You know we love having her here. Why don’t you pick her up on Saturday?’

  ‘Oh, Mum. You sure? That’d be great. I could catch up on work, and try to get this place a bit straight.’

  ‘We’re sure. Hold on, Georgie wants to talk to you. Before I pass you over, why don’t we bring her round on Saturday morning? You can show us the new place.’

  ‘It’s not wonderful. It’s tiny, but I guess I’ll sort it, somehow. Saturday’s fine, about eleven-thirty. I’ll get something for lunch.’

  ‘Okay. See you then. Here’s Georgie.’

  ‘Mum, Mum, Mum. Hi.’

  You okay, darling? Do…’

  ‘We went swimming.’

  ‘Great. What else have you done?’

  ‘Ice cream, Granny’s pasta.’

  ‘Sounds good. What’re you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  ‘She’s fine, darling,’ my mother said. ‘Very excited. Don’t worry about her.’

  ‘I’m not. I know she loves being with you both. What time’s she going to bed?’

  ‘Soon. Why? What time is it?’

  ‘It’s gone nine.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Okay, she’ll go soon. She’s just watching the end of a Curious George movie with your father. She’s curled up on the sofa with him.’

  I smiled. Georgie was happy. Why should I worry? ‘Okay, Mum. Thanks again. See you Saturday. ‘Bye then.’

  Georgie was Claire’s twin. When Claire’s illness started, my parents stepped in and looked after Georgie whenever I needed to be with Claire. I didn’t have to ask them. They’d known when I wanted them, and were there. Their house became like a second home to Georgie. I never worried about her. I don’t know how I would have coped without them.

  So, I’d better get this place in some sort of order, I thought, as I poured another glass of wine, flopped back down on the sofa, and flicked the TV back on. I caught the end of another bulletin about the house fire.

  ‘…the police and fire service are still finalising their investigation into the fire, but have issued a joint, preliminary statement saying they do not believe there was any foul play and extend their sympathies to the child’s mother and her partner in what they see as a tragic accident.’

  2

  John Swain looked around the small hotel room that had become his partner, Emma’s, and his home since their house had been destroyed by fire. The black dress that Emma had worn at their son’s funeral the previous day hung randomly from the back of the room’s door, the dress’s waistband hooked over the plastic door peg. Her black coat lay on the floor where she’d dumped it. John’s suit, shirt, and tie were strewn where he dropped them on the one chair. A couple of almost empty carrier bags of clothes sat on the floor where they’d been put by Emma’s mother–she’d gone shopping for them and brought the bags to the hotel. Many of the items were discarded on the floor after John and Emma had delved in and out of the bags, searching for something to wear. Piles of worn clothes lay dumped under the chair, in corners, and around the bed. Nothing was tidy. They weren’t living out of a suitcase, more like two carrier bags and a bag of cosmetics and toiletries. On the small work surface–where Emma had dumped her bag, John his keys, phone, and wallet–a breakfast tray had been left by one of the hotel staff. The two croissants with butter and jam, two glasses of orange juice, and two mugs of coffee were untouched, like most of the meals that’d been brought to their room.

  The bathroom door opened. Emma came out, a white bathrobe wrapped around her body, a smaller towel around her hair. John looked at her. She didn’t look at him. ‘Want some breakfast?’ he asked. She shook her head and pursed her lips, went to the seat by the work surface where there was a wall mirror, and started to do her make-up. She pressed her fingers onto both sides of her lower jaw and stared at her face: tired, strained with big, deep bags under her eyes. She’d barely slept since the tragic fire, had eaten hardly anything, wept almost continuously, and spoken little to John. As she let the towel around her hair drop to the ground, letting her long, blond hair fall to below her shoulders, she said, ‘What time are they coming?’

  ‘Ten. We’re meeting them in the lobby. Have you finished in the bathroom?’

  Emma nodded without looking at John. He stood up, took a bite from one of the croissants, and went to take a shower.

  Sergeant Richards looked about fifty. His expression pallid, his face wrinkled. He wore a sombre charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a plain navy tie, and stood about five-foot-eight. He took a pace forward when he saw John and Emma approach. Next to him was a younger, uniformed policewoman, two inches shorter than the sergeant, with black hair tied back in a bun, and an angular, severe face. A woman dressed in a navy suit and a white blouse–the same height as the policewoman–stood on the Sergeant’s right. ‘Mr Swain, Ms Fisher, pleased to meet you,’ the sergeant said, holding out his hands. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Richards,’ he turned to the policewoman standing by his side. ‘This is PC Sian Thirst, and this,’ he turned to the other woman, ‘is Detective Constable Lynda Street.’ The two policewomen nodded. ‘We’re all police liaison officers. We’re here to talk to you about the tragic fire in your house on November 10th, two weeks ago.’

  ‘I know,’ John said. ‘You told me on the phone.’

  ‘We’ve a private room? Would you like tea or coffee or something?’’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ John replied, and looked at Emma.

  She shook her head. ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘Can we get going, please?’ She’d dressed in jeans and a dark, fleece top. Her hair was still wet. She’d tied it back behind her head so it fell, straggly, down her neck. Her make-up masked her emotions.

  Detective Sergeant Richards looked at them both. ‘Okay. I’ll lead the way. He turned. The two policewomen followed, and they all trooped off down a corridor toward a closed door at the far end. They entered a room about twenty by twenty feet. In the middle was a square wooden table with a leather top and eight chairs around it. The detective sergeant sat down on the far side of the table, the two policewomen sat either side of him, and John and Emma took a side each.

  Once they were all seated, DS Richards looked at John, who wore jeans and an open-necked shirt, and said, ‘Mr Swain, you must be going through hell. We offer you our sincere sympathy. It was a terrible tragedy. I can’t possibly imagine what you’re suffering.’

  Emma put both her hands on the table and leant forward. She looked across at the detective sergeant and glared at him. ‘No, you can’t possibly imagine what I’m going through.’ She paused and looked hard into the detective sergeant’s eyes. ‘But I believe you’re here to tell us the result of the inquiry. Condolences won’t bring my son back. So can we get on with it.’

  Sergeant Richards blinked. ‘Err, okay. I was just…’

  ‘Thank you, but the result, please.’

  Sergeant Richards coughed and turned to PC Thirst. She was pulling an A4 file f
rom her bag. She handed it to Sergeant Richards. He took it, opened it, laid it down on the table in front of him, and looked up at John and Emma. ‘As we said in our initial statement, the fire, tragic as it was, was caused by a bedside lamp being knocked from an adjacent table,’ Sergeant Richards stopped and looked across at Emma who stared at him, ‘to your son’s bed and igniting his pillow.’ Sergeant Richards looked at Emma again. ‘When your son’s body was removed from the house, the fire officers found the remains of the bedside lamp lying on what was left of the pillow.’

  Emma’s hands shot up to her cheeks. She dragged them down toward her gaping mouth. She stared at Sergeant Richards with her eyes wide-open. Shakily, she said, ‘You mean the fire started next to his head, then?’

  The policewoman tightened her closed lips. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she replied.

  Emma jolted forward and buried her head in her hands, then, a couple of seconds later, lifted her head, and, with moisture in her eyes, glared at Sergeant Richards. She took hold of her chin, and with her eyes tight and nearly closed, her lips trembling, she asked him, ‘How did the lamp fall onto the pillow?’

  Sergeant Richards twisted his mouth in a grimace. He frowned. ‘Forensics discovered the remains of a broken bulb…’ He stopped and glanced at Emma. She was staring out of the window, her hand covering her mouth. ‘…embedded in his head.’

  ‘No, no,’ Emma shrieked, and dropped her head onto the table, her hands over her ears, her sobs loud and from her heart, the table top wet from her tears. One of the policewomen tried to comfort her. She started to shake. She lifted her head a little, and turned her tear-stained face toward the Sergeant. ‘I c...a...n…’t take any more.’ One of the policewomen helped her to her feet and went with her to their room.

  Sergeant Williams shook his head. He turned to John, whose face had taken on the colour of ash. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Mr Swain. There’s nothing else to say, apart from offering our sincere condolences and to confirm officially that the police and fire service have closed their investigation.’ He closed the report and looked up at John. ‘This is your copy, Mr Swain. You may not want to read it, but we have to officially give you one. Would you mind signing this piece of paper to say you received it.’ He pushed a prepared sheet of A4 across the table for John to sign. John did as they’d asked, said goodbye, and rose.

  In the lift, he flipped open the report and turned to the back page.

  Conclusion:

  A tragic accident.

  Cause: the ignition of the child’s pillow by a lamp.

  No foul play.

  ~~~

  Emma’s sobs resounded down the corridor. John first heard them when he left the lift and turned toward their room. He put his key in the lock and pushed the door back. Emma was kneeling on the floor, her head in her hands, wailing and weeping.

  ‘Don’t come near me,’ she said, and sobbed louder than John had heard in the fourteen days since the fire. As he flung the report on the table and dropped into the chair, Emma lifted her head, supported it on one elbow, and stared at him. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

  John gulped.

  ‘The fire started next to Sean’s head. It’s too ghastly to think about. If you hadn’t left him in the house alone, it wouldn’t have happened.’ Emma closed her eyes. She sniffled a few times followed by a couple of loud sobs. ‘He’d b...b...e… still alive.’ She turned away, dropped back to the ground, and wailed again.

  John dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on the table. After a minute, when Emma’s crying had subsided a little, he sat up and stared at her, a crumpled heap on the floor. ‘That hurt. I know I should never have left him there. I’ll never forgive myself.’ He shook his head. ‘But you don’t need to remind me.’

  Emma raised her head and looked at him. She stared for a minute then pointed at him. ‘Yes I do. I loved Sean. He’s gone from me now, and you’re to blame.’

  ‘That’s unkind,’ John replied, standing up, and looking down in at her. ‘I know he wasn’t my son, but I feel his loss as much as you, and I feel the responsibility, which you don’t. You just mourn him. I mourn him and feel responsible for his loss.’

  She pulled herself up, and turned toward him. She narrowed her eyes, and shook her head. ‘I don’t get you, and I don’t think I want to try.’ She shook her head again. ‘I can’t live with you anymore. I’m going to my mother’s.’ She turned, picked up one of the carrier bags, chucked any of John’s clothing on the floor, and went around the room gathering up her cosmetics and some clothes. She stuffed them into the bag, picked up her handbag, and left.

  3

  Maureen Williams, Danny’s mother, leant forward and stared at me across the table. Her black hair, no more than half an inch long, lay in tight curls on the top of her head, showing all of her forehead. She had wispy, black eyebrows, and dark brown eyes. Her brown skin showed no sign of her age or the emotional pain she’d endured over the last few years. She wore a black T-shirt, dark navy jeans, and a simple gold necklace that dangled between her breasts and stopped close to her waist. Plain, thin gold bands, about two inches in diameter, hung from each of her ears. She looked beautiful and proud, but I knew she was angry with me. We were alone in one of the small interview rooms at the child protection office in Slough. It was two weeks since Danny had been stabbed. She’d come in without an appointment and demanded to see me.

  Maureen narrowed her gaze. ‘Why did you take my kids away? Why? You said you’d never do it again. Said I was okay, and they could all come back. They’ve had enough time in care. Why’d you do it?’ She shook her head, leaned forward more, and looked hard into my eyes. ‘I thought you were my friend. Thought I could trust you. Now you’ve taken them all away. Why?’ She put a hand up to her face and touched her right eye. I thought she wiped away a tear. I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to see her cry.

  I put my hands on the table and met her stare. ‘They’re in danger, Maureen. Danny was stabbed. He could have been killed.’ I shook my head. ‘All your children are younger than him. They can’t defend themselves as much as he can. They were in serious danger, as well. You were there. You know what happened. We had no choice.’

  Maureen sat back and looked at me, occasionally touching her cheeks with one hand. She was right. I had told her–when we returned her children to her four months earlier–that we were satisfied she could take care of them and they’d be safe. She was off drugs, didn’t drink anymore, and had found a job working in a supermarket where they thought well of her. She was a reformed character–but then her husband turned up.

  ‘When can they come back?’ When can I see Danny? They won’t let me go in and see him.’

  I bit on my lip. ‘You can come and see him with me, no one else. This afternoon, if you like. You know he’s doing okay?’

  Maureen nodded. ‘Maybe, but when can the others come back?’

  I ran a hand through my hair. ‘I can’t say. The police have to finish their investigation into Danny’s stabbing and then we have to make an assessment.’ I looked into Maureen’s eyes, clasped my hands together on the table, and leant forward. ‘At the moment, nobody is willing to say what actually happened on the night Danny was…’

  ‘Danny stabbed himself. That’s what happened. We’ve all told you that.’

  ‘Three times, Maureen? Would someone stab themselves three times, in front of you all?’ I looked into Maureen’s eyes. She didn’t flinch or turn away. She met my stare.

  ‘What happened, Maureen? Tell me?’

  Maureen raised her head a little, looked up at the ceiling, and stroked her neck. For a brief moment I thought she was about to tell me what did actually happen the night Danny was stabbed.

  ‘He tried to stab his father, but stabbed himself in the fight.’

  I peered at Maureen, and tilted my head a little to the left. I guess my disbelief showed on my face. ‘Three times.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t buy that, Maureen, and that’s why Danny and yo
ur children are in our care. Is Danny’s father threatening you?’

  ~~~

  ‘Look at these fantastic paintings,’ Georgie’s teacher said as Georgie flapped and thrust at me four large sheets of paper, splattered with random, different-coloured blobs and streaks of paint. She bounced from one foot to the other, smiling, with her head bobbing around.

  ‘Brilliant, darling. I love them.’ I grabbed hold of the paintings in my left hand, leant down, and hugged and kissed Georgie. ‘And you.’ I’d booked an afternoon off, and had planned to go home at about 2:00 p.m. to try to find a handyman to come and do several things in the cottage before going to pick up Georgie from school. Maureen Williams’s unscheduled visit disrupted that plan. I left the hospital, where Danny was, with Maureen at a few minutes to four then drove at breakneck speed to Georgie’s school, arriving just as the children started to leave.

  ~~~

  Georgie’s eyes started to close. ‘More, Mum,’ she murmured, and then she fell asleep. I looked at my watch. 7:45 p.m. I snuggled the duvet tight around her, kissed her lightly on the forehead, put the book, The Worst Witch, I’d been reading to her, down on the floor, and crept out of the room.

  The cold, white wine hit the spot. I ripped open a packet of sea salt and black pepper potato crisps and headed for the sofa, flicking on the TV on the way. My God, I’m exhausted, I told myself as the still image of a young couple flashed across the TV screen. I leant forward, peered, and listened. That’s the couple that tragically lost their son in a house fire, about a fortnight ago, I thought. I’d caught the end of a news bulletin.

  ‘Slough Fire and Rescue Services issued a statement today confirming their initial findings on the tragic house fire at 14, Firtree Road on August 10th, when a five-year-old boy, Sean Fisher, died. The fire was an accident. There was no evidence of any foul play.’ The presenter glanced down for a moment before looking back at the camera. ‘Earlier today, one of our reporters caught up with John Swain, the partner of Emma Fisher, the mother of the dead child, and asked his reaction to the findings. He was alone in a room at the hotel where they’ve been living in since their house burnt down.’