Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,14

was a lousy husband, but even so it is hard to be thinking about someone filling in the gap Adam has left.

Ajay leans forwards and squeezes my hand. ‘I’m sorry, Lydia.’

It’s the first time I have to go and collect Mia from school since Adam died. Oliver doesn’t want to come with me.

‘Sweetheart, I can’t leave you here by yourself. You’ll have to come.’

‘I don’t want anyone to see me,’ he says, trembling.

I know how he feels. I am dreading the pitying looks from some and the crossing the road to avoid us by others.

‘We’ll park a couple of streets away. You can stay in the car and I’ll message Mia to meet us.’

We both put on our sunglasses in the forlorn hope that they are going to protect us from the world. As I park the car on a quiet residential street, I pull my mobile out of my bag to message Mia. I have twenty-seven new messages, in addition to all the ones I’ve received over the past couple of days. It’s extraordinary how bad news travels so quickly. Many are from work colleagues, a few from friends. I don’t have the energy to read them.

I walk to the end of the street to meet Mia. She emerges with two of her besties. They have their arms around her. I am glad that Mia is getting support. But when they see me, they let Mia go and hurry off in the opposite direction.

‘How was your day, darling?’ I ask.

Mia turns her head away from me, her chin in the air, as if she hasn’t heard.

‘You know I’m here if you want to talk.’

‘I don’t.’ She throws her rucksack into the boot and flings open the rear passenger door.

‘You can sit in the front,’ she tells Oliver. ‘I’m going in the back.’

Oliver doesn’t hesitate. It’s rare that he gets to sit in the front seat.

As I pull the car into the drive, I see there is an unfamiliar silver saloon car parked in front of the house, a BMW, I think. Even before I see DC White, I know they’re police officers, not from the way they’re dressed, but the way they hold themselves. The two men climb out of their car at the same time as I get out of my car.

‘Mrs Palmer, could we have a private word, please? My name is Detective Inspector Cornish.’ The tall, older man has a long, heavily lined face.

I chivvy the kids inside and tell Mia to help herself to drinks and biscuits. I lead the policemen into the living room and shut the door behind us. My palms are sweaty and I try to keep my knees from trembling. I indicate for them to sit on the sofas. I sit on Adam’s armchair. It seems appropriate when I’m about to receive news of him.

‘We have had the results of the post-mortem. Unfortunately, Mr Palmer’s death doesn’t seem to have been as straightforward as we initially assumed.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, leaning forwards, my damp palms smoothing down the cotton fabric of my maxi dress.

‘We think your husband’s death was suspicious,’ DI Cornish says. I notice now how all of his features are severe. That long aquiline nose, the angular jawbone and deep-set eyes; his coarse black hair and the black trousers paired with a black long-sleeved shirt, despite the summery day.

I try to focus on what they’re saying. ‘Suspicious?’

‘According to the post-mortem report, he suffered a sudden cardiac death by ventricular fibrillation, but the pathologist found evidence of heart muscle damage and fibromuscular dysplasia.’

‘I don’t understand.’ I feel myself trembling again and sit on my shaking hands.

‘We believe Mr Palmer was electrocuted.’

‘What!’

‘The symptoms are indicative of electrocution.’

‘But I dived in and I wasn’t electrocuted! That doesn’t make sense.’

‘No, on the face of it, it does seem strange; however, the pathologist is positive that your husband died from electrocution.’

I shake my head. It’s not possible. How could I be unaffected, but Adam was killed?

‘It is a very rare form of death, and due to the considerable improvement in electrics, no one has been killed through electrocution in a swimming pool in the United Kingdom during the past ten years.’

‘So why do you think it happened to Adam?’

‘We got lucky,’ DC White chips in. His senior colleague glares at him.

‘What DC White means is that our pathologist recently returned from a secondment in the United States and saw a similar case over there.’

‘So he might be wrong,’ I say, my eyes