Forget Me Not

I immediately tried calling Clare myself, I don’t know why. I hoped for some sort of rational and reasonable explanation as to why she wouldn’t have got Julie’s call. When it went straight to answer service, I wondered who else I could call to try to find her. It would be a bit hysterical to call the hospital, wouldn’t it? I mean, she was a grown woman. She could be anywhere. She might be with her parents. Out with another friend. She’d been seeing someone lately, someone she’d admitted to developing deep feelings for. She could be lying in post-coital bliss in his bed right now, being decadent and loved-up for once in her up-to-now sensible life. I almost envied her, if she was. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been post-coital anything, never mind blissed-out.

I was about to call Julie back, when my phone rang and her name popped up on the screen. I answered, said hello, expected her to tell me Clare had just rolled into work, hungover but happy.

I hadn’t expected the breathless, sobbing, gasping, almost screaming cry of my friend.

‘It’s her, Rachel. It’s Clare. She’s dead.’

Chapter Three

Elizabeth

I was sitting in front of the kitchen range, shaking. I winced at the sweetness of the tea I’d been given for the shock.

I had just been too late. Even if I’d got to her an hour before, it would probably still have been too late to save her. She shouldn’t really have survived for as long as she did – her wounds were so severe.

‘Mrs O’Loughlin, if we can just go over your statement one more time,’ the kindly-faced police officer said to me.

He’d been lovely. So gentle in his manner. So sorry for what I’d been through, even though I wasn’t the victim here. Not at all.

‘I’m not sure I’ve anything more to tell you,’ I said, placing the cup on the kitchen table, the shake in my hand more pronounced than it normally was. ‘I can’t think of anything more.’

My brain was trying to process the trauma. I knew that. In my younger years I’d worked as a theatre nurse. Cared for many survivors of catastrophic traumas – the de facto warzone that Derry had been during the Troubles meant I saw more than most. Heard more than most. Lost limbs, blast wounds, burns, gunshots, a child who couldn’t be saved, whose body was broken beyond repair by the impact of a car bomb.

Images were coming at me now. Fast. Horrific. I shook my head to try to get rid of them, but they didn’t go. They wouldn’t go and now I had these flashes of that woman, her orange T-shirt and linen trousers – blood-soaked, mud-soaked, wet through. Her eyes, flickering, closed. That wound, jagged, vicious, intentional. The soft warmth of her last breath on my cheek. How gentle it had been for someone who was taken from the world so violently.

‘And you saw no traces of anyone else along the road? No cars passed as you were out walking?’

I shook my head. It had been so quiet. Blissfully quiet.

‘It’s a quiet road at the best of times, especially at that hour of the morning,’ I told him as one of his colleagues offered to refill my teacup.

‘I imagine,’ he said. ‘And she just said those two words? “Warn them”? Nothing more at all?’

‘Well, my hearing isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but no, DI Bradley, she didn’t say anything else. I don’t think she had the strength. The poor girl. Do they know who she is yet? Who she belongs to? Her poor, poor family.’

‘I believe they think they’ve identified her,’ he said, his soft blue eyes sad. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t give you any further information until she’s been formally identified by a family member. You know how it is.’

I nodded. I did, indeed, know how it is, and how it was. I’d stood with family members myself as they’d identified bodies of their loved ones. A matter of procedure. A formality that sometimes felt unspeakably cruel.

‘And you’ve never seen this woman before?’

I shook my head, rubbed my arm to try to ease the aching muscles. ‘I don’t often get out and about, apart from walking Izzy there. My health isn’t what it used to be. And I don’t tend to bump into too many people when I’m around these roads and fields.’

The handsome DI Bradley nodded again, closed his notebook and sat back in his chair.

‘Mrs O’Loughlin, I appreciate this has been exceptionally traumatic for you, but we really appreciate your time and the information you’ve been able to give us. Have you any family members who can call over and sit with you? You’ve had quite a shock.’

‘My son-in-law will be visiting later. He always comes on a Wednesday with my grandchildren. Makes sure I’ve everything I need.’

That reminded me that that bread was still proving in the airing cupboard and the bananas were still overripe in the bowl. I didn’t have the energy left in me to make banana bread any more. The children would have to make do with fresh bread and jam. It had been good enough for their mother when she was little.

He handed me a card with his details. Told me to call him if I could think of anything else. Any detail at all.

‘If there’s any way we can be a support to you then please get in touch. We’ll have someone from victim support get in touch to talk to you about your experience, help you through the trauma.’

‘Detective Bradley, victim support have no need to be wasting their limited resources on me. I’m tougher than I look, you know!’

He smiled. ‘Well, I imagine you are, especially with all the help you’ve given to people in the past, but we all need a little help from time to time,’ he said.

I didn’t argue. There was little point. But I knew I wouldn’t talk to anyone from victim support. I’d just file the horror of this morning’s find with all the other horrors in my mind. They were my cross to carry.

Chapter Four

Rachel

I moved through the early afternoon in a haze. I considered crying off to the head but what good would that have done? I’d just have ended up sitting and thinking about the unthinkable. Not that staying in my classroom stopped that. As much as I tried to focus on my work, I couldn’t. It was stupid of me to ever think that I could have.

My friend was dead. Someone I’d known for thirty years, from the first day we’d sat together on the newly polished floor of the assembly hall in St Catherine’s College, our too-big green pinafores and coats swamping us as we nervously waited to be divided into our form groups.

We’d clicked over a mutual dislike of geography and Kylie Minogue, and we’d stayed friends since. We didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but we were there for each other through everything life threw at us. When Julie had postnatal depression, when Clare’s marriage had crumbled just days before her third wedding anniversary and when I’d fallen to pieces after the death of my mother. The girls had held me up, literally at one stage, as grief took the legs out from under me and I’d fainted. They’d welcomed the steady stream of mourners to our home, directed them to where my mother’s body lay so that they could pay their respects and then offered a cup of tea afterwards. They’d made sure everything ran smoothly, while I’d sat, ashen-faced and bowed with grief, by the side of the coffin, unwilling to move – struggling to let go of my beloved mother.

How could it be that Clare was gone now? That her body had been found by the side of a road? The police weren’t saying murder yet and I hoped, perhaps naively, that it wasn’t murder. That it was an accident. Although I couldn’t think of any possible excuse for her being on that road, alone in the early hours of the morning.

I didn’t know how she’d died. Didn’t know when she’d died. All manner of horrors kept dancing through my head until I couldn’t hold in my pain and my fear any more. I simply lifted my bag, left my Year 12s open-mouthed and walked out of the classroom midway through a discussion on the book Of Mice and Men.

I walked to the head’s office, my legs shaking – the grief hitting me from the ground upwards, weakening me, diminishing me.

‘You’ll have to send someone to deal with my Year 12s,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve got to go home. I’ve had bad news.’

Sheila, my deputy head, looked me up and down. ‘Are you okay, Rachel?’

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I didn’t want to say the words. It was so completely, utterly, surreal. You never expect to have to say those words to anyone. Those are words for TV shows and movies, not for school offices on sunny June days as the school secretary eats an ice cream and talks about her forthcoming holiday.

I just shook my head as a surge of something powerful, painful and overwhelming rose up inside me. She was dead. My friend. I’d be sitting by her coffin next. And if Mr McCallion was right, it was a ‘gruesome murder’.

The shock rose up inside me until I had to run from the room to the staff toilets and throw up until I could barely breathe.

I was aware of someone, Sheila most probably, behind me. I was embarrassed she’d hear me retching, sobbing and trying not to scream. She sat down beside me, put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a hug. It should have been awkward. It certainly wasn’t professional. But it was just what I needed in that moment. It gave me time to find my breath again, to slow the shaking.

‘That body,’ I told her. ‘The one found this morning? It’s a friend of mine. One of my oldest friends.’ I stumbled over my words. My tongue felt too big in my mouth. The sentences too alien. ‘People are saying it’s a murder, Sheila.’

She hugged me a little closer, told me that of course I could go, but she wasn’t happy about letting me drive given that I’d had such a shock.

‘Do you want to call Paul?’ she asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to call my husband. I wanted, no, needed to go and see Julie. She was the only other person who could possibly understand.

‘I need to see my friend. Our friend. Julie. She works with Clare. Worked. I suppose. We all went to school together.’

I knew I was rambling and talking too much, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Nor could I stop shaking. Once it had started, it became severe. Teeth chattering, legs jiggling. As if I had no control.

‘Maybe we should get you a cup of hot, sweet tea or pilfer a bottle of whisky from the summer fair tombola – for the shock,’ Sheila said.

I shook my head. I knew she meant well, but I couldn’t stomach it and I just wanted to go. It was the adrenaline, I imagined. The shaking and the sickness and the pounding of my heart.

‘Well, let’s get you to your friend, then,’ she said and helped me to my feet. ‘I’m so, so sorry you’re going through this,’ she offered. ‘It’s awful.’

I nodded because I didn’t know what to say, and despite the sickness and the pain in my chest, it still didn’t feel real. I didn’t know just how awful it was to become. Once I knew how she died, I knew it would only be worse. But for that moment I just kept thinking of my friend, hair tied back in a ponytail. Embracing life again in a way she hadn’t through her thirties. My friend smiling from her Facebook page. My friend who had the most contagious laugh in the world.

My friend who was dead.

Julie was perched on the edge of her sofa, her knees tight together, her body stiff with shock. She lit one cigarette off the end of another and continued smoking. Her hand shook as she brought the cigarette to her lips. Her eyes closed on the inhalation and as they did, a tear escaped, running down her already streaked face.

She looked wretched. Old. I’d never looked at one of my old school pals and thought we looked our age before, but Julie did in that moment, in that room. Her usually neatly preened hair was messy, strands of copper escaping from her ponytail, frizzy and unkempt. Her make-up was mostly gone, washed away by her tears and the rough way she pulled the sleeve of her cardigan across her cheeks to dry her face. Her skin would be red and sore later, I thought, as if that would matter. As if that was important in the grand scheme of things.

I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps that we’d run into each other’s arms and cling on, sobbing like lost souls. That didn’t happen. Julie looked at me through glazed eyes and just shook her head while I sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, my adrenaline gone and a weariness washing over me.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee, or something stronger?’ Julie’s husband, Brendan, asked me.

It had been him who’d let me in, who’d hugged me awkwardly at the door and who’d warned me that Julie was ‘in a bad way’.

‘I’m on the vodka,’ Julie spoke, her voice hoarse.

I noticed the tall glass, half full of a clear liquid and ice cubes, on the floor by her feet.

‘I’ll stick with tea,’ I said, knowing I’d have to deal with the girls later.

How would I tell them? Tell Molly her godmother was gone? I felt something in my stomach contract.

‘Probably the wise choice, I just … I just needed to block it out. Or something,’ Julie said. ‘Oh, Rachel, I can’t believe it. I can’t get my head around it.’

‘How much do you know?’ I asked her.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Ronan called me. He was in bits, Rachel. Could barely talk. He said the police had just called to their parents’ house, asked about distinctive marks, hair colour, clothes, that kind of thing. They’d found a bank card or something stuffed into her trouser pocket.’ Her voice broke as she spoke. ‘They’ve got to go for a formal identification. Can you imagine that?’

A sliver of hope surged inside me. ‘So the body hasn’t been identified yet? They could be wrong, Julie. Someone could have stolen her card or something. It doesn’t mean it’s her.’

Julie sighed, dragged on her cigarette again. ‘It’s her, Rachel. They had jewellery – that bracelet she always wears. They described the tattoo on her wrist. The identification is just a formality. It’s definitely her.’

The feeling of that sliver of hope disintegrating almost broke me in two. ‘But maybe …’ I offered to no one in particular, the sentence dying on my lips as I realised how futile it was.

Julie just shook her head. ‘I wish. I really, really wish. I can’t stop wishing and hoping, but Ronan was as sure as he could be. He’s going with their parents. He says he’s not sure his mother or father will be up to the task of identifying her. He might have to do it.’

My heart ached for Ronan, Clare’s older brother by eighteen months. As much as he’d roll his eyes at us and our giggling, melodramatic, annoying teenage ways, he’d been almost as much a part of our gang back then as any of us were. He and Julie had even shared an ill-fated snog at the youth club Halloween disco once. It was such a drama at the time. Drama. We hadn’t known the meaning of the word.

This wasn’t how our lives were supposed to go. Julie, Clare and I – we were meant to live to a ripe old age and become our own version of the Golden Girls. This wasn’t meant to be how it ended. I wondered whether I should have a drink, after all. Numb the senses. Dull the edges, just as Julie was doing.

‘Do they know what happened?’ I asked, not sure if I was ready for the response.

Julie’s hand shook more as she took another sip from her glass, shuddering slightly as the vodka slid down her throat.

‘It definitely wasn’t an accident,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have details – I’m not even sure that I want to know them. But the police are treating it as a murder inquiry. I imagine it’ll be all over the news by teatime.’

Brendan walked back into the room and handed me a mug of tea, but my hand was shaking too much to hold it. I sat it on the coffee table in front of me and looked at my friend. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. It was taking all my strength to keep breathing normally.

‘She was so happy, Rachel. I don’t know when you last spoke to her, but she was so happy. Said she felt her life was finally going in the right direction. She was finally over that bloody break-up and was ready to move on. It was the brightest I’d seen her in years. I don’t understand it. Who would do this to her? You know Clare like I do; she wouldn’t ever hurt a fly. I don’t understand …’ She finally gave in to her tears, her body shaking.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her. It was about three weeks before. We’d met for a hurried brunch one Saturday. She’d been so happy – glowing, in fact. Told me she believed more than ever that it was absolutely true that life began at forty. She was happy in work, hoping for a promotion, and she’d met someone.

I wondered about him. Did he know? Jesus, could he have done it? We knew so little about him. Had the police spoken to him yet? Did they know who he was? Clare had always been coy about him when we’d talked. Said she didn’t want to ‘jinx’ it. But she’d met him through a dating app and they’d been out a couple of times.

‘He’s a real gentleman. Not a player, like so many of the men on those sites. He seems genuinely interested in a relationship,’ Clare had said.

I’d warned her to take it slowly. She was a romantic at heart – threw herself into relationships too easily. Allowed her heart to be broken. She’d reassured me. ‘We’ve not even slept together yet,’ she’d whispered, blushing. ‘But I’m enjoying the snogging sessions.’ She’d sounded so upbeat. Young. Innocent. I’d been almost jealous of her joie de vivre.

‘Joy of life’. How quickly things had changed. I sat, numb, looking at Julie.

‘Have the police spoken to her new man?’ I asked.

Julie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. If they can find him, but you don’t think he’d be behind it, do you? He was making her happy.’

‘There’s something about it all that I don’t like. Did she ever tell you who he was?’

Julie shook her head. ‘She said we’d meet him soon enough. I wasn’t going to push further … Oh, God!’ She doubled over again. Another gut punch. ‘What if they don’t find him?’

‘There’ll be stuff on her phone. Her computer. They’ll find something,’ Brendan piped up. ‘But don’t jump to conclusions. Let the police do their job.’

‘I can’t breathe thinking about it,’ Julie said, tears falling thick and fast.

I felt useless. I couldn’t ease her pain. I couldn’t make sense of any of this. I just hugged her while she cried.

The sound of sobbing was nipping at me. It was too loud. My head was too full. My heart was too sore and yet at the same time I felt as if I were reading lines from a script. No one had these types of conversations in real life. No one. I dropped my head to my hands, covering my eyes, blocking out the glare of the sun through the window.

The doorbell ringing pulled me back to the present. I sat up, moved closer to Julie so that I could hug her as she cried. It seemed such an inadequate gesture.

I heard a man cough as if to announce his presence, and turned round to see Brendan standing with a man in a suit and a uniformed police officer.

‘This is DI Bradley,’ Brendan said. ‘And his colleague Constable King. They wanted to talk to you, Julie. And probably you, too, Rachel, come to think of it.’ He turned to inform them that I was one of Clare’s oldest friends, too.

‘Rachel Walker?’ the policeman asked and I nodded.

‘Yes, it’s good to have you here too, then.’

I nodded again.

Julie and I shifted apart. She pulled the cuff of her cardigan across her face again to dry her tears – her skin now red and angry.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Cosgrove, Mrs Walker,’ Bradley said, looking at both of us in turn.

‘So, it’s definitely her?’ I asked, knowing even as I spoke that it was a stupid question. He’d hardly be here if it was someone else.

‘A positive identification was carried out a short time ago,’ he said.

I felt my body sag and Julie grabbed my hand. Brendan invited the two officers to sit down on the armchairs on either side of the room. DI Bradley took the seat closest to us and pulled out his notebook.

‘We’re trying to speak to as many people as we can, as quickly as we can, to try to gauge Ms Taylor’s last movements. Her brother, Ronan, gave one of my officers your details. He said you were very close to the deceased.’

I shuddered at the use of the word ‘deceased’. It seemed wrong. I felt angry. He shouldn’t be reducing who she was to how her life ended.

‘We are … were … very good friends with Clare. Yes,’ I said.

Julie just nodded.

‘And can I ask, both of you, about the last time you either saw Ms Taylor or spoke with her? When was the last time you received any communication from her at all, be it a text message or social media chat?’

Julie spoke first.

‘I saw her yesterday. At work. We work in the same building – the pensions office. Or we did.’

‘And how was she? Did she talk of her plans for after work?’

Julie shook her head. ‘It was a busy day. We just had a brief chat at lunch. Mostly nonsense stuff. About the book she was reading and holiday plans. I said I’d call her later and maybe we should go for a drink at the weekend.’

‘And you?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

‘I think we had a chat on Facebook a few days back. It was something and nothing. I think I asked her how things were going with her new boyfriend. Hang on, I should have it here on my phone.’

I noticed the glance pass between Bradley and his colleague at the mention of a boyfriend, and I rifled in my bag to pull out my phone, scrolling through my messages to find the last chat I’d had with Clare.

God, if only I’d known it would be the last chat I’d have with her, I’d have said more. It would have been more heartfelt than a simple exchange of gossip. I handed my phone over.

‘Do either of you know the identity of this new boyfriend?’ DI Bradley asked.

I shook my head before looking to Julie. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she did know, given how close they were, but she was looking downwards.

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. Clare was so scared of jinxing it, she wanted to keep it to herself for now. It was all fairly new, you see. Do you think it’s him? You do, don’t you?’

‘We’re at the very early stages of the investigation. At this stage we’ve no clear suspects, but nor have we ruled anyone out. How new is fairly new?’ DI Bradley asked.

‘Maybe a month, six weeks at most. Something like that.’

We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Brendan popped his head around and spoke.

‘Sorry, love. I’m just going to go and pick up the kids from school. I’ll take them to your mother’s house, keep them out of the way for a bit.’

Julie nodded, her eyes darting to the packet of cigarettes on the coffee table. She clearly wanted to smoke another one.

I glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and realised with a start that it was almost three o’clock and I usually picked Molly up from daycare at three thirty on a Wednesday. I needed to go, too, or I’d be late.

‘Actually, DI Bradley, I need to go, too. I have to pick my little girl up from crèche, and I need to collect my car from work first. I’m sorry, my husband’s working in Belfast and there’s no one else who can collect her.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But could you call into the station at some stage in the next twenty-four hours if at all possible? We’d like to take a full statement and get a copy of these messages, Mrs Walker.’

‘Of course,’ I said, taking his business card from him. ‘I’m sorry to have to rush off.’

I was lifting my coat from the arm of the sofa, when Julie spoke.

‘How did she die?’ she asked, her voice small. ‘What happened?’

Constable King shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. ‘At the moment we can’t say too much while we await a postmortem examination, but it looks as if the cause of death was severe blood loss brought about by knife wounds.’

I felt my stomach tighten again. My legs weaken. I thought of Molly standing at the door of the crèche, some brightly coloured painting in her hand ready to be shoved in my direction with a smile. I thought of how we usually sang nursery rhymes all the way home in the car. How my evenings, which I’d considered so completely dull and ordinary, could never be so again.