Detective Senior Constable Jones and this Detective Constable Ahmed,” Jones says. “We have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Questions about what?” Ollie asks.
There’s a pause, then Jones gives a slight chuckle. “Uh … about your mother’s death?”
Ollie’s eyes shoot to me and I shrug. Finally, after a second or two, he gestures for the cops to sit down. They do, on the couch.
“So what can we do for you?” I ask, sitting beside Ollie, on the arm of the armchair. “Do you have any more information about Diana’s death?”
“We don’t have the coroner’s report yet,” Jones says, “but we’ll have it soon. In the meantime, we’re gathering information. You mentioned to Constables Arthur and Perkins that your mother had cancer, is that correct?”
“It is,” I say, when Ollie fails to reply. “Diana had breast cancer.”
Jones flicks open a black notebook embossed with a gold police logo and holds her pen poised. “And can you tell me who her doctor was?”
“Her GP was Dr. Paisley,” I say. “At the Bayside Medical Clinic.”
“And her oncologist?”
Everyone looks at me. Everyone, including Ollie. “Actually … I’m not sure. She never mentioned her oncologist’s name to me.”
Jones closes her book. I get the feeling this isn’t news to her. “I see.”
Ollie blinks. “What do you see?”
“We haven’t found any evidence of your mother’s cancer. There is no record of her visiting an oncologist. No mammograms or ultrasounds, no chemotherapy. As far as we can see, she didn’t have cancer at all.”
Jones seems irritated by this, as though their incompetence is somehow our fault. “Well, obviously you haven’t looked in the right place,” I say. “You can’t have checked with every doctor—”
“There’s no referral from Dr. Paisley,” Jones tells us calmly. Her elbows rest on her knees, her hands are clasped together. “There are no scans or blood test results, or anything that might indicate cancer.”
I feel my face screw up. This is just ridiculous. People didn’t say they had cancer if they didn’t. Or perhaps some people did, people with hypochondria or Munchausen’s, those who wanted to garner sympathy or money or friendship. But Diana hated sympathy and she certainly didn’t need money. As for friendship, she hated people fussing around her or offering her so much as a tissue. Diana would never say she had cancer if she didn’t. I’m as sure of this as I am of my very existence.
And yet.
“A problem with the system,” Ollie says. “That must be it. Why would she say she had cancer if she didn’t?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Ollie shakes his head. “But she committed suicide. That’s what you guys said.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
Now Ollie seems to snap to attention. “But … you said there was a letter?”
“There was a letter.”
“Can we read it?”
“Eventually. But it’s currently part of our investigation.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re checking it for fingerprints. Doing a handwriting analysis.”
“You think it was forged?”
“We’re trying not to make too many judgments until we know more.”
“This is ridiculous,” Ollie says, standing up. He begins to pace. “Just ridiculous.”
“Listen, there is evidence to suggest she committed suicide. The materials. The letter we found in her desk drawer.”
I blink. “Her desk drawer?”
“Muuuuuum, I’m huuuuuungry.”
Everyone glances in the direction of the voice. Edie is standing at the back door. Jones and Ahmed rise to their feet.
“Who are these people?” Edie asks, walking up to Jones, not stopping until she’s practically between her thighs.
“My name is Detective Jones,” Jones says. “This is my partner, Detective Ahmed. We’re police.”
Edie frowns. “But you don’t have police clothes on.”
“Some police don’t wear uniforms. But I have a badge. Here. Look.”
Jones, I notice, has changed temperaments as if on an axis. Suddenly she is, perhaps not quite maternal, but certainly friendly and warm. It’s clear to me somehow that she doesn’t have children of her own, but she appears the type who might very well be someone’s favorite aunt.
“I think we’ll leave it at that for today,” Jones says, taking her badge back from Edie and putting it in her jacket pocket. “But if you think of anything significant, or remember Diana’s oncologist’s name, please do give me a call.” Her tone indicates that she doesn’t expect that call to come.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Ollie says, as they walk toward the front door. “Mum wouldn’t lie about having cancer.”
But my mind is caught up with something else, something irritating and itchy, like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue. No matter how many times I turn