I lean backwards. His breath smells sour. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. Marianne asked me not to tell you, that she would tell you in her own time, and then Adam died, and it all seemed a bit irrelevant. I asked the police not to say anything.’
‘How long have you known?’ He steps away from me. Some of the fury seems to have dissipated.
‘A matter of days. I’ve known Adam was having an affair – I told you – I just didn’t know who with.’
‘It’s a fucking mess.’ Ajay slumps into the chair opposite my desk. ‘They think I’m a suspect because of what you told them.’ He points his finger at me. ‘I thought you were my friend, Lydia. I know your husband has died, but how could you imply to the police that you think it’s me?’
‘But I don’t. I never implied that, Ajay. I promise.’
He stands up again. ‘I don’t believe you, Lydia. I think when you are hurting, you want to bring other people down too, so you’re not all alone in your bubble of misery.’
‘No, Ajay! It’s not like that!’
But he ignores me and storms out of my office.
8
I suppose I’ve watched too many police procedurals over the years and read too many crime novels, because my expectations of a murder investigation are not met. It seems to me as if nothing is happening. DC White calls every other day to update me that they have nothing to update me with. I ask if Ajay is still a suspect or is likely to be charged, but he refuses to answer the question. So today, I lose the plot.
‘You must have some information for me.’
‘I’m sorry, but–’
‘You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.’ And then I burst into tears. Loud, sniveling sobs down the phone line.
‘Mrs Palmer, I can confirm that Mr Arya is still a person of interest,’ he says quietly.
I sense that he is speaking out of line. Do they really think Ajay is a suspect? I’ve played around with the notion repeatedly during the past few days, and at first it seemed totally outlandish, but the police wouldn’t be investigating Ajay unless they had a good reason to. Have I got him totally wrong? I suppose he could have killed Adam if he had found out about the affair. Even so, I find it hard to believe. I can’t even look at Ajay now that the police have planted these suspicions in my head, but I’ve got to work with the man. The situation is untenable.
‘So why isn’t he locked up?’ I ask, sniffing.
‘As I said, he is a person of interest. We don’t have enough evidence to – look, I’m speaking out of turn here. Just rest assured you will be the first to know as soon as we have any more information.’
I think of Ajay sitting in his office, running our business. Could he really have killed Adam? We all need some closure, and fast.
‘When can I organise Adam’s funeral?’
‘As soon as the coroner releases his body.’
I don’t go into the office much. Nicky emails me every few hours, so I work at home, pottering alongside Oliver, who seems to be surgically attached to his iPad. I haven’t got the energy to suggest he do something else. I spend hours mulling over Ajay’s relationship with Adam. Would he really have electrocuted Adam? Has Ajay got it in him? And I try to avoid any direct contact with Ajay. I’m worried that if I see him, I might ask him outright if he killed Adam, and I suspect that isn’t a good approach. On the odd occasion when I go into work and I have to speak to him, I call him, even though he is in the next-door office. The trouble is, now that the police have planted that enormous seed of doubt, my trust in Ajay evaporates further every day. He had the motive, I suppose he had the means, but is he a murderer? I guess it’s possible.
It’s my girlfriends who get me through, particularly Cassie and Fiona.
Fiona sent me a text a week or so after Adam’s death to say that having experienced the sudden death of her own husband (although he died in a car accident, so no questions of it being a suspicious death), she knows what it’s like to organise a funeral, and is happy to help in any way she can. I take her up on the offer.
Just over two weeks after Adam’s death, DI Cornish rings to say that Adam’s body is being released and we can organise the funeral. At this stage, the coroner’s report states death by electrocution and an open verdict, although the police still think Adam’s death was suspicious. There will be a full inquest, and the police investigation will continue.
Today is the day we lay Adam to rest. Time doesn’t seem to flow in a linear way when you’re navigating grief. Sometimes it feels as if I last saw Adam weeks ago; other times, it feels like last night. And my grief is confused. I no longer loved Adam in the way I used to, but I didn’t want him dead. Of course I didn’t. I simply didn’t want to be married to him anymore, and the feeling was mutual. But today, I need to focus on the man he was: husband, father, friend and colleague. I need to play a part. Our wider circle of friends and family have no idea we were planning on separating, and they will expect me to be devastated. I suppose I am, but in a different way.
‘You don’t need to come,’ I say to Oliver as I straighten his black school blazer. ‘Dad wouldn’t mind.’
‘I want to come.’
I nod, and holding his hand, we walk together to Mia’s room. She’s wearing a short black skirt and a black blouse that I have loaned her. It makes her look pale and very young. Bea, her husband, Craig, and their two boys, Finlay and Louis, are hovering in the hallway downstairs. Even Louis, her favourite cousin and all-time idol, can’t muster more than a watery smile from Mia.
‘The cars are here,’ Bea says. Fiona suggested that we organise limousines to take us to the crematorium. They are parked up outside, long, dark, foreboding. Too big for our diminished family.
I sit on the back seat between the two children, clasping both their hands. I think it’s the first time we’ve clutched hands like this since they were both in primary school. We are the last to arrive. Perversely, it’s a bit like a wedding. The most important guests turn up last. What surprises me is that there are quite so many people here. Every pew is full, and people are standing at the back of the room. All eyes swivel to look at us, me specifically. I can’t tell if their expressions are of pity or suspicion. I suspect a mixture of both. I clutch Mia’s and Oliver’s hands tighter. Mia whispers, ‘You’re hurting me, Mum.’ I let go.
As we ease into our front-row seats, Cassie leans forwards from the row behind us and squeezes my shoulder. Fiona is sitting next to her, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, looking smart in a dark grey, lightweight trouser suit. Cassie is wearing a long, shapeless, drab cotton dress that I haven’t seen her in before. Funereal garments are not her thing.
As both the kids sob quietly, I wonder if I should have insisted they stay at home. It was Bea who said they should come; that it might give them the closure they’ll need. She forgets that they were both there when the ambulance men took away their father’s body.
Last week, when Fiona and I were at the funeral parlour, the funeral director turned to me and asked what my budget was for the coffin. For a brief moment, I thought of putting Adam in the cheapest pine box. It would be sweet revenge. But then I thought again. He was my husband. I used to love him. He didn’t choose to die. He should have had decades left to live, so I pondered what he would have wanted. I chose the most expensive coffin in their catalogue. I think he would be pleased with the cherry-red coffin with gold handles and the sumptuous flower arrangements draped on and around it.