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  'Where?' I said. Where did he have to go at a time like this?

  'Where?' my mother said, foggily, as if she were on something.

  'What about Kerry and Brendan?'

  'They've gone out. Would you like some tea?'

  'Love some. I'll just pop upstairs.'

  That's the good thing about your parents' house. It's still sort of your home, even if it's not the one you grew up in. You can go anywhere in it, open cupboards. I was going to do something terrible. I hardly knew why. It was as if I had an abscess in a tooth and I was getting a penknife and jabbing it into the abscess, flooding myself with more and more pain so that it would just overwhelm me and be gone, or I would be gone. My mother had gone to the kitchen and I ran up the stairs and into the bedroom where Kerry and Brendan were staying. I felt a tension like electricity in me. My ears were humming with it. I could hear my pulse, hear the blood rushing through my veins.

  The arrangement in the bedroom was obviously temporary. They had barely unpacked. Kerry's dressing gown and nightie were tossed over the bed. A suitcase was half open, leaning against the wall, her clothes neatly folded. On the corner table there were a number of bottles, shampoo, conditioner, creams, scent, all of it Kerry's. I looked around. That was a funny thing. Kerry could have been staying here alone. I couldn't see a single object or item of clothing that belonged to Brendan. Next to the bed was another, closed, suitcase. I laid it flat on the floor, flicked the catches and opened it, revealing Brendan's clothes. It wouldn't take a minute. One by one I lifted shirts, trousers, underpants and turned them over so that I could replace them in the right order. The case was almost empty when I felt as much as heard steps running up the stairs. I didn't even have time to move from my knees when the door opened and Brendan appeared. For about a tenth of a second I had thought, well, what does it matter? But by the look on his face, I thought, Oh fuck. At first he just looked surprised, and no wonder, with me rooting around in his case, his clothes arranged around me.

  'Miranda?' he said. 'What the…?'

  I tried to think of something, but my brain had turned to thick soup.

  'I'd forgotten something,' I said randomly. 'I mean I thought you'd taken something by mistake.'

  Now his face turned angry.

  'What the fuck?!'

  And then Kerry appeared behind him.

  'Brendan?' she said. 'What…?' And then she too caught sight of me.

  'The rope,' I said. 'I thought you'd taken my rope by mistake.'

  CHAPTER 24

  'What?' said Kerry wildly. 'What rope?'

  'Jesus Christ,' said Brendan. 'Look at you!'

  'What rope?' repeated Kerry.

  She took a step forward so that she was glaring down at me. She had her hands on her hips and her face was scarlet. It was as if all her natural reserve, her anxiety and timidity, had been burned away by grief and rage. I could almost feel the emotion steaming off her. I got up from the floor and stood there, surrounded by Brendan's clothes.

  'I don't know,' I said. 'I just thought…' I trailed off.

  'You were going through Brendan's stuff, for God's sake. What did you think?'

  'I was sorting out my flat,' I said.

  'And? And?'

  'Let me get this straight,' said Brendan. 'You're going through my things' – here he kicked at his clothes with a foot, so they spread out across the floor – 'to find some rope. Yes?'

  'I was just confused,' I said in a mumble.

  'Confused?' said Kerry. 'Do you realize that our little brother was buried yesterday? And now you come over here, you make a special journey, to poke around in Brendan's case…'

  'It'd be better if I went now,' I said.

  Brendan took a step forward so that he was barring my way.

  'I don't think so, Mirrie.'

  'Let me through.'

  'You're not going anywhere until we've got to the bottom of this.'

  'We're all overwrought.'

  'Overwrought?' yelled Kerry. For such a slight person she can make a very loud noise. 'Over-fucking-wrought?!'

  'What's going on?'

  My father had appeared in the doorway.

  'Nothing,' I said, hopelessly.

  'I'll tell you what's going on,' said Kerry. 'She,' and she pointed a finger at me, 'she was going through Brendan's case.'

  'Miranda?' said my father.

  'Looking for rope,' added Brendan.

  'Rope?'

  'That's what she said.'

  Brendan squatted down and started folding up his scattered clothes and putting them neatly back in the case.

  'I think I should go,' I said.

  'I think you should explain yourself said my father in a voice tinged with disgust. He rubbed his face with his hand and looked around for somewhere to sit down.

  'I was simply trying to get things in order,' I began, then stopped.

  'The rope,' prompted Brendan. 'Mmm? Secretly going through my belongings looking for some rope?'

  I didn't have anything to say.

  What rope?' asked my mother, entering the room.

  I sat down on the unmade bed and put my face in my hands, like a small child trying to keep the world out of my head. Kerry started telling my mother what she'd found me doing, stoking up her outrage all over again, and I stared through the crack in my fingers at a patch of carpet and the legs of the chest of drawers, trying to block out the words.

  'I don't know you any more,' my mother said in a flat voice once Kerry was done.

  'Please,' I said. 'I'm upset. We're all upset.'

  'What I want to know,' said Brendan, 'is what rope it was. I mean – when you say "rope", well, the word only means one thing to all of us now. Mmm? Only one thing/

  There was a horrible silence in the room, then he went on: 'Is that what you mean by the rope – you mean, the rest of the rope? Mmm?'

  'I don't mean anything.'

  'And yet you went to the trouble of coming over here to look for it.'

  'Shut up,' I said, lifting my head from my hands. 'Shut up, shut up, shut up. I feel as if I'm in court or something, and everything I say's being turned against me. Don't all look at me like that!'

  'Why did you think it would be here? Mmm? Among my things? Is there something you want to tell us?'

  'No,' I said in a whisper.

  'It's obvious,' said Kerry sharply. 'She's obsessed with Brendan. She's always been obsessed with him. I tried not to see it. I tried telling myself it didn't matter. I was generous about it, wasn't I? I thought she'd get over it. Even when she went on and on about their relationship and wouldn't let go of it. When she wouldn't behave in an ordinary friendly way in front of him, but had to be all angry and bitter, or else too friendly. Even when she took her clothes off in the bathroom when he was in there, for God's sake, and I was in the bloody room next door trying to behave nicely to her.'

  'Say "you",' I said, hysteria rising up in me. 'Don't say "she" when I'm right in front of you.'

  Kerry talked over me. Everything she'd stored up was cascading out now. Her voice was high and hoarse.

  'Even when she started going all peculiar and flooding the bathroom and then accusing Brendan of doing it. Or tracking down old friends, like a spy, a bloody spy. I still thought it would be all right. Stupid of me, I see that now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And don't think we don't all understand what it's about. It's not just about Brendan, it's about me. Her elder sister. She's always been jealous of me. She always wanted to destroy everything. Like she did with Mike. And now look at her. Look!' She pointed again. ' Troy died. He killed himself. Our darling brother killed himself in her flat. Yesterday was his funeral. Does it stop her? No. No, it bloody does not. Because the morning after, the very next morning, she comes over here and starts snooping around. Even Troy dying doesn't stop her.'

  She started sobbing till her thin shoulders shook. Brendan went across to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

  'It's not about you, Kerry,' he said softly. '
Don't you see? When you say she's obsessed, that's probably exactly the right word. I've thought this for some time now. I blame myself for not doing anything about it. She's like a stalker. If she weren't family, I'd be calling the police by now, asking for protection. I've read about things like this; I think there's even a name for it, though I can't remember what. She probably can't even help herself.'

  'No,' I said. 'Don't say things like that.'

  'Miranda,' said my mother in her new, dull voice. 'There are things that have to be said now. Things we've all been avoiding. I don't think I've even said them to myself, but now that Troy 's dead, I can say anything. Perhaps you need professional help.'

  'You don't understand,' I said. 'No one understands.' I turned to my father. 'You don't think I'm obsessed, do you?'

  'I don't know what I think any more,' he said. 'But I know one thing.'

  'What?'

  'You'll start off by apologizing to Brendan for the way you've behaved. Just because there's been a tragedy in this family doesn't mean that we're going to stop behaving like decent human beings.'

  'But I…'

  'Whatever it is you're about to say, I don't want to hear,' he said. 'You apologize to Brendan. Do you hear me? That's the least we expect.'

  I looked at his caved-in face. I looked at my mother's empty eyes. Then I stood up and faced Brendan. He stared at me, waiting. I clenched my fists together and dug my nails into my palms.

  'I'm sorry,' I said.

  He bowed his head slightly, in recognition. 'Mirrie, I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for you. I pity you.'

  I turned away.

  'Can I go now?' I asked.

  We all trooped downstairs together in silence. Kerry was still half-sobbing. At the front door, I stopped.

  'I left my bag upstairs,' I said. 'I'll get it and then I'll be out of your way.'

  I took the stairs two at a time, in spite of the pain banging round inside my skull, and pushed open the door to Brendan and Kerry's room. I knelt down in front of the chest of drawers and pushed my hand under it, into the narrow space I'd been staring at from my position on the bed. And I pulled out the coil of green rope.

  CHAPTER 25

  Detective Inspector Rob Pryor was nice, like a normal person that you might meet in the real world. He had curly blond hair and a relaxed, almost lazy manner. He brought me coffee from a machine just outside his office. He introduced me to colleagues. Vicky Reeder, the WPC who had looked after me, came over and said hello. Then Rob – he asked me to call him Rob, and I asked him to call me Miranda – took me into his office and shut the door. He showed me the view from his window. It was really just trees on the other side of the high wall that surrounded the police car park, but he knew what kinds of trees they were. He seemed proud of his view, or maybe he was just being reassuring, because then he turned to me and asked how I was.

  I said I was devastated, that we all were, and he nodded and said he understood.

  'It's difficult to deal with,' he said.

  'It's funny,' I said. 'I thought you'd be puzzled to see me and that you'd just tell me to go away. But you're acting as if you were expecting me.'

  He gave a sympathetic smile.

  'I wasn't,' he said. 'Not exactly, but it's not a complete surprise. When tragedies like this happen, people go over and over them in their head. They ask themselves if they could have done that or this to stop it. They become obsessed. They need someone to talk about it with. Sometimes they come in here and go over it with us without being exactly sure what they want. It feels so like a crime against them, they can't quite believe it isn't.'

  'So you think I'm using you as some kind of therapy?'

  He took a sip of coffee.

  'You were the one who found your brother,' he said. 'That's a big thing to deal with.'

  'That's not it,' I said. 'I've got things to tell you.'

  He leaned back in his chair and looked at me warily.

  'What things?'

  I told him my suspicions. I'd even brought the rope with me. I took it from my bag and placed it on his desk. When I'd finished, he gave a little shrug.

  'As I said, these things take time to get over.'

  'Which means you haven't listened to what I've said.'

  'What have you said, Miranda?'

  'I knew Troy,' I said. 'Better than anybody. He wasn't in the mood to kill himself.'

  'He was suffering from intense depression.'

  'He was in a good phase.'

  'Depression can be difficult to assess from the outside. Sometimes suicide can be the first visible symptom.'

  'This isn't just a feeling. There were all the other details I mentioned to you. There was the watch.'

  He looked at me with a questioning expression.

  'You're not serious about this, are you? So he forgot to put his watch on after his afternoon sleep. I do it all the time and he was depressed. You forget things when you're depressed.'

  'There's the rope.'

  'What do you mean, the rope?'

  'I didn't have any rope. This was bought specially. Brendan said he knew nothing about it and then I found this in his luggage. As I told you, I was looking for it when I was found by him.'

  'You see, Miranda, I'm with your sister on this one. You don't want to go looking through other people's stuff without their permission. You'll get into trouble.'

  'I'm in trouble,' I said. 'They're all furious with me.'

  'What can I say?'

  'It doesn't matter,' I said. 'The important thing is to sort this out.'

  'I don't understand,' he said. 'What is it you really believe?'

  I paused. I wanted to express this calmly.

  'I think that, at best, Brendan encouraged Troy to kill himself. At worst he, well…' I couldn't say the words.

  'Killed him? Is that what you're trying to say?' Rob's tone was harsher now, sarcastic. 'And what? Staged it?'

  'That's what I've been thinking about. I think it's worth looking into.'

  There was a long silence. Rob was gazing out of the window, as if something had caught his interest. When he turned back to me, I sensed a barrier between us.

  ' Troy took pills,' I said. 'He had terrible trouble sleeping. When he had taken his pills, he was out for the count.'

  Rob picked up a file from his desk.

  'Your brother had traces of barbiturate in his bloodstream.'

  'Exactly.'

  He tossed the file on to his desk again.

  'He was taking medication. There was nothing beyond what you'd expect. Come on, Miranda. What would you do?' he said. 'I mean, if you were me.'

  'I'd investigate Brendan,' I said.

  'You mean, just like that. Investigate?'

  'To see what you find.'

  Rob looked irritably puzzled.

  'What is it with this guy, Brendan?' he said. 'Have you got some problem with him?'

  'It's a bit of a long story.'

  He was definitely wary now, glancing at his watch.

  'Miranda, I'm a bit pressed…'

  'It won't take a minute,' I said, and I gave him the quick version of the story of Brendan and me as the view from his window darkened behind him. It "was one of those dark December days. When I finished, it was harder to make out his expression.

  'So?' I said.

  'You've had a tough time,' he said. 'Breaking up with a boyfriend.'

  'He wasn't exactly my boyfriend.'

  'And a death in the family. I'm really sorry, Miranda, but there's nothing I can do.'

  'What about this creep?' I said. 'Doesn't he sound dangerous?'

  'I don't know,' Rob said. 'One of the things I don't do is get involved in private disputes.'

  'Until a crime has been committed.'

  'That's right. I'm a policeman.'

  'Do you want more evidence? Is that it?'

  'No, no,' he said urgently. 'Definitely not. You've done enough.' He stood up, walked round his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. 'Miranda, give it
some time. In a few weeks, or months, it will seem different. I promise.'

  'And you're not going to do anything at all?'

  He patted a large pile of files on his desk.

  'I'm going to do a lot,' he said.

  Laura looked gorgeous. She'd just had her hair done at a place in Clerkenwell where you virtually have to take out a mortgage, but I had to admit it was worth it. Streaked and tousled, it glowed like a beacon on this horrible grey day. It seemed to light up the bar. She looked smart as well. I'd met her straight from work and she was wearing a suit and a white shirt with a ruffle down the front. I suddenly became self-conscious and looked around to see if I could catch my reflection in the window. I had an uneasy feeling that I didn't look particularly presentable. I didn't seem to have had the time for a few days. There had always been something more urgent. I'd been in a hurry to get to meet Laura, walking along Camden High Street, and I'd been going over in my mind what I wanted to say to her, getting it right, when I passed two schoolgirls and noticed that they were giggling and one of them glanced at me. They were giggling at me. I realized I'd been thinking aloud, walking along muttering to myself, like those people you cross the street to avoid because you think you might catch their eye and they might turn scary.

  In my sloppier moments, like when I was working hard, without the time ever to get ready properly, I tried to tell myself that I had a cute gamine look. I wondered if it had tipped over and I just looked like someone who had been released into the community.

  I brought the bottle of wine over to the table. Now that was another issue. I was going to start keeping track of my drinking. I didn't think it was particularly excessive, but I was going to start thinking about it. Not now, though. I had other things to sort out first. As I poured the wine, Laura looked at me and with a flicker of a smile she took a packet of Marlboro Lights and a lighter from her bag.

  'You've started again,' I said.

  'I used to love smoking so much,' she said, taking a cigarette from the packet and placing it between her glossy red lips. 'And then suddenly I thought: why not? I'll give up again when I'm old. You want one?'

  She flicked the lighter and sucked the flame into the end of the cigarette and then ejected a dense cloud of smoke. I was very tempted. The smell of it brought back late nights in a fog of drink and talk and laughter and intimacy. But I shook my head. Things were bad enough already. I had to make one gesture towards healthy living, however feeble. It took an effort. Laura was breathing the smoke deep into her lungs and when she exhaled she seemed to be savouring its taste on her tongue. I took a gulp of wine to take my mind off it.