What to Do When Someone Dies Read online

  ‘Clearly?’

  The officer pulled a face. ‘We didn’t even see there were two of them at first.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘My partner called the fire brigade and an ambulance. I walked round just checking. I couldn’t really get close. It was still hot.’

  He was talking as if he had come across a bonfire that had got out of control. Dr Sams was writing notes on a pad of paper. When he had finished he put the end of the pen into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Did you form an impression of what had happened?’

  ‘It was obvious,’ the officer said. ‘The car lost control, came off the road, rolled down the embankment, hit a concrete ridge, burst into flames.’

  ‘No,’ said Dr Sams. ‘I meant more how it had happened, how the car lost control.’

  The officer thought for a moment. ‘That’s pretty obvious as well,’ he said. ‘Porton Way goes straight and then it suddenly curves to the right. It’s not very well lit. If a driver was inattentive – if he was talking to his passenger, or something like that – he could miss the turn, carry straight on and then be in big trouble.’

  ‘And you think that was what happened?’

  ‘We checked the scene. There were no skidmarks, so it looks as if the car left the road at speed.’

  Dr Sams grunted, scribbled some more notes, then asked the officer if he had anything else he wanted to add. The policeman looked at his notes. ‘The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The two bodies were pronounced dead at the scene, but we knew that anyway.’

  ‘Is there any suggestion that any other vehicle was involved in the crash?’

  ‘No,’ said the officer. ‘If he crashed because he was avoiding another vehicle, there would have been skidmarks of some kind.’

  Dr Sams looked towards those of us in the front row. ‘Does anyone have any questions arising from this statement?’

  I had many, many questions buzzing around my head, but I didn’t think that the answers to any would be found in that officer’s little black notebook. Nobody else spoke either.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dr Sams. ‘Could I ask you to stay for a few minutes, in case any questions arise?’

  He nodded and made his way to his seat, a few rows behind. It occurred to me that this was probably a morning off for him, an escape from the office and having to fill in reports.

  Dr Sams then called Dr Mackay. A woman in a trouser suit came forward and sat in the chair. She was about fifty with dark hair that looked dyed. She didn’t swear on the Bible. Instead she read a promise from a piece of paper. I agreed with that in theory, but as she said the words, they sounded thin and unconvincing. I preferred the idea that if you didn’t tell the truth a bolt of lightning would strike you dead and you’d be punished in hell for all eternity.

  Dr Sams looked at us again, especially me, the grieving widow, and him, the grieving widower.

  ‘Dr Mackay carried out the post-mortem examination on Mr Manning and Ms Livingstone. It’s possible that the details in her evidence will be distressing. Therefore some of you might wish to leave the court.’

  I felt a hand grip one of my arms. I didn’t look round. I didn’t want to catch anybody’s eye. I simply shook my head.

  ‘Very well,’ said Dr Sams. ‘Dr Mackay, will you give us a brief account of your findings?’

  Dr Mackay laid a file on the table in front of her and opened it. She scrutinized the text for a few moments, then looked up. ‘Despite the condition of the bodies, I was able to undertake a complete examination. The police report stated that the two people in the car were not wearing seatbelts and the injuries were consistent with that: I mean, consistent with the head of each person being thrown forward and striking the interior of the car. The result was massive trauma. Therefore the cause of death was, in both cases, compression of the brain resulting from a depressed fracture of the skull.’

  There was a pause as Dr Sams wrote his notes. ‘So the fire was not a factor?’ he asked.

  Dr Mackay caught my eye. I saw an expression of sympathy.

  ‘That was a crucial question in my mind,’ she said. ‘Obviously, in each case there was much destruction of skin, subcutaneous and muscular tissue. I took blood samples from both Mr Manning and Ms Livingstone. Both tested negative for carbon monoxide.’ She looked towards us. ‘That suggests the two of them were not breathing after the fire started. I also checked the airways and lungs and found no traces of carbon. Also, although the bodies had suffered the burns I mentioned, they showed no signs of vital reaction. I can give you the technical details if you want but, broadly speaking, the sites of burning showed none of the signs of inflammation you would expect if it had happened while the person was still living.’ She looked at me once more. ‘It may be of some comfort to the families to know that the deaths must have been all but instantaneous.’

  I glanced across at Hugo Livingstone. He didn’t look comforted. He didn’t even look obviously upset. He was frowning slightly, as if lost in thought.

  Dr Sams asked Dr Mackay if she had checked Greg’s blood-alcohol level. She said she had and that there was nothing untoward. She said it and glanced at me again, as if that was more good news, another thing for me to be relieved about. Dr Sams asked if anybody had any questions for Dr Mackay and once again there was an awkward pause.

  I didn’t really have anything to ask but I had a lot to say. I wanted to say that Greg had always been a careful driver. Blind drunk and engaged in animated conversation, he still wouldn’t have missed a turn in the road. He wore his seatbelt even when moving the car ten feet. I could have announced this to the court, but then I would have been the person with questions to answer: what did I know about the way he behaved when he was with this other woman? Did I not know about this other relationship, this other life? And if I didn’t, what did my knowledge about him count for? I stayed silent.

  Dr Sams released Dr Mackay and she went back to her seat. He said he was calling no further witnesses and asked if anybody had any statements to make or any questions to put to the court. I looked at my notebook. Without realizing it, I had drawn little stars around ‘Inquest’. Then I had drawn little circles around the stars and little squares around the circles. But I had not written a single note. I had no questions to ask. Nothing to say.

  ‘Good,’ said Dr Sams. ‘There is obviously no confusion about the identity of the victims and the time and place of their death. If there is no objection, I would like to record a verdict of accidental death in the case of Gregory Wilson Manning and of Milena Livingstone. The deaths can now be registered and the bodies released for burial. Written confirmation will follow in a day or two. Thank you very much.’

  ‘The court will rise,’ said the court officer, and we all stood.

  I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride. It felt so familiar. I looked at Gwen, who managed a brave smile. I felt we should be going out for a lunch to celebrate. We walked out and stood on the pavement in the sunshine.

  ‘Well,’ said Gwen, ‘in some ways it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Right,’ I said, out loud. I had noticed that I was beginning to talk to myself, like a mad woman, trying to fill the silence of the house with a human voice. I didn’t care. I had a purpose. I was going to take Greg’s life apart and find out what had been going on. He wouldn’t escape me that easily. I was going to track him down.

  After the inquest I’d persuaded Gwen and Mary to leave and assured them that, yes, I’d be all right and, no, I really didn’t mind being left alone – in fact I wanted it. Gwen asked if I was starting work again and I said I was thinking about it. Probably it would have been a good idea. It would have been therapeutic. I restore furniture, from valuable antiques, all oak burr, rosewood or gleaming mahogany, to someone’s worthless but beloved piece of junk. I’d taken the kitchen table I sat at now off the top of a skip and mended it; the bed that we–I – slept in. I had done up the books
helves on the wall. Badly paid though it often was, part-time though it usually was, sometimes over-time, sometimes hysterically so, I loved it. I loved the smell of the wood and the wax, the feel of a chisel in my hand. It was where I’d always gone to escape.

  But not now. I started with the tiny mezzanine room. It was next to the bathroom and overlooking the garden, which was small and square, dominated by the rickety shed at the end where I stored the furniture I was working on. This was a study of sorts. There was a filing cabinet full of things like accounts, documents, insurance policies; a bookshelf that mostly held manuals and reference books I used for work, and a table I had found in the junk shop at the end of the road, then sanded and waxed it, on which stood Greg’s laptop. I sat down and opened the lid, pressed the starter button and watched icons spring to the screen.

  First, the emails. Before I started, I searched ‘Milena’ and ‘Livingstone’ and came up with nothing. I winced at the unopened messages that had arrived since Greg had died. There were about ninety, mostly junkmail and one sent by Fergus about half an hour before I had rung him and given him the news. He was suggesting they run a half-marathon that weekend before watching the football together. I bit my lip and deleted it.

  I went through his mailboxes methodically, missing out none. Even when they had titles like ‘Customer Service’ or ‘70% off in our Clearance Sale’, I read them. There was almost nothing to do with work; he had a separate mailbox for that. Deliveries, house stuff, bookings, confirmations of travel arrangements. Several were from me and I looked at those as well. They had an easy intimacy about them that seemed far away and unfamiliar now. Death had turned Greg into a stranger; I could no longer take him for granted. Dozens were from Fergus, setting up meetings, swapping bits of gossip, sending references to websites they’d been discussing or continuing a conversation. Joe, of course. Other friends – James, Ronan, Will, Laura, Sal, Malcolm. Casual greetings and arrangements to meet. Sometimes I was mentioned: Ellie sends her love; Ellie’s sprained her ankle; Ellie’s a bit down in the dumps (had I been? I couldn’t remember); Ellie’s away and Ellie’s returned. One or two from his brothers, Ian and Simon – usually about some family-related issue, but none from his sister Kate, and none from his parents, who used to communicate with their eldest son by ringing on Friday evening at six o’clock for a fifteen-minute chat. Online articles. Blogs about subjects I hadn’t even known he cared about. When there was anything remotely interesting or curious about the emails he had been sent, I pressed the little arrow beside them to see what he’d written in reply. He was normally quite terse – he always used to say that tone was hard to detect in an email; you should be careful about irony or sarcasm. He was careful and factual, even with me.

  One of Greg’s more regular email correspondents was a woman called Christine, the ex of an old friend, who he sometimes met up with; he wasn’t so careful with her. I flicked between her messages and his. She lamented approaching her thirty-sixth birthday and he said she was more attractive now than when they’d first met. She thanked him for taking a look at her boiler and he said it was nice to have an excuse to see her again. She said he was a very nice man, did he know that? And he replied that she must bring out the best in him. He was tanned after his holiday; she was radiant after hers. He was looking tired – was he overworking and was everything all right at home? He replied that she, on the other hand, was as fresh as ever and blue suited her.

  ‘But were things all right at home, Greg?’ I rubbed my eyes with my fists and glared at Christine’s solicitous notes, his flirtatious, evasive responses. ‘Come on, tell me.’

  I moved to the sent messages, but the emails still didn’t tell me that. They told me he had ordered woodchip for the garden, grey paint for the kitchen, Omega 3 capsules for both of us; also a book on architecture and a new CD by Howling Bells, which I’d never heard of. Maybe he’d given it to someone as a present. Milena? Christine? I called up his music library and scrolled down, and there it innocently was.

  I went downstairs. It was still grey outside, and soon enough it would be getting dark again. The lawn was covered with soggy leaves and the pear tree by the back wall dripped steadily. I hadn’t eaten since the Danish pastries that morning, so I made myself a piece of toast and Marmite and a cup of camomile tea and took it back to the computer. The phone rang and it was Gwen, with the number of their solicitor for me to call. I couldn’t remember the one Greg had used when we’d bought the house. Now there was so much to be sorted out. I wrote it on the notepad I found in the desk drawer and said I’d call her the following day.

  Junkmail – but I found nothing apart from advertisements for Viagra, fake Rolex watches, amazing investment opportunities, guaranteed loans, unsecured credit and an invitation to the online casino, where everyone is king.

  Trash. Greg was pretty efficient at getting rid of old messages and, anyway, they only went back a few weeks: obviously the ones older than these were deleted at an even deeper level, somewhere in the mysterious circuitry of the computer. I ploughed doggedly through them, feeling I was getting nowhere and simply wasting my time. There was a strange little message from Tania, in which she said she didn’t really understand his query and he should ask Joe about it.

  I got the phone from our bedroom – my bedroom – and called Joe on the office number.

  ‘Yes?’ He sounded unusually curt.

  ‘It’s me. Is that the way you usually talk to clients?’

  ‘Ellie.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s one of those days. I was going to call you this evening. Tell me about the inquest. Are you all –’

  ‘Were there any problems with your business?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  I repeated the question, mentioning the email I’d found on Greg’s computer.

  ‘What date did you say?’

  ‘A week or so ago.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m scrolling through my mail and there’s nothing I can see from Greg about a worry.’

  ‘So, everything was OK?’

  ‘Depends what you mean. If you want me to bend your ear about clients who don’t pay up on time, don’t give us proper information and then complain, or dealing with the Revenue and the nightmare of bureaucracy… But that’s just business as usual and you’ve got problems of your own.’

  ‘All the work Greg had to do late at the office, that wasn’t because there were problems?’

  ‘Did he often work late?’ His tone was cautious, with an underlying note of sympathy.

  I felt the blood flame into my cheeks. ‘That is, he came home late recently. Later than usual anyway.’

  ‘Did he seem stressed?’

  ‘No. At least, not really.’

  ‘Not really?’

  ‘You know, I keep thinking back and seeing things I didn’t notice at the time – or, at least, thinking I can see things. Maybe he was a bit preoccupied. Or maybe I’m making that up.’

  There was a silence at the other end. I knew what Joe was thinking: that perhaps Greg was preoccupied because he was having an affair. I waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was too respectful of my feelings.

  ‘If he was worried, though,’ I continued, ‘I think he would have told me. He wouldn’t have protected me. That’s not the kind of marriage we had. That I thought we had. We were in things together; we shared things.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Greg would have told you.’

  ‘You mean about everything?’

  Another silence.

  ‘Ellie, I’m finishing up here. Can I come round on my way home? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can talk this through.’

  ‘I won’t be here.’

  I found her address in his old address book and decided to walk, even though she lived in Clerkenwell and probably wouldn’t be in anyway, and even though the drizzle outside was turning into a steady downpour. It didn’t feel like something I could express over the phone.

  As
I arrived, I saw her coming from the other direction, feeling in her bag for her door key. She was wearing a belted mac and a scarf tied round her head, and looked like a fifties film star in one of those classy black-and-white French movies.

  ‘Hello.’

  I stood in front of her and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, then gave an exaggerated little start. ‘Ellie? My God. I meant to get in touch. I’m so very, very sorry. He was such a lovely –’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course. You’re soaked.’

  I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my inquest clothes and had forgotten to put on a jacket. It was true that I was cold and wet. I must have looked dreadful.

  I followed Christine up the stairs and into a spacious kitchen-living room. She took off her mac and hung it over the back of a chair, pulled the scarf off her head and shook out her chestnut hair.

  ‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just at the moment.’ Then she offered me tea.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Or coffee, or a cold drink?’

  ‘Is that the boiler Greg fixed?’ I asked. ‘He never managed to get ours sorted.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Christine sat down opposite me, then stood up and filled the kettle but didn’t switch it on. She turned towards me. ‘Is there a particular reason you came?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  Her face took on the eager, helpful expression I’d become so familiar with since Greg’s death.

  ‘You were friendly with Greg.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Christine. ‘I was devastated when I heard.’

  ‘Would you say you were close to him?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by close.’ Her tone was cautious now.

  ‘I read your emails to each other.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He thought blue suited you.’ Her expression had changed: no longer eager but embarrassed. I pressed on. ‘How close?’