Page 90 of Deep Blue Lies
I think about protesting that I ate some salad at lunch, but I’m tired.
“The funeral is set for Monday. Clapham crematorium. I fear there won’t be many people there.”
I glance at her, the words make it seem real. I picture a giant hall, with a coffin at the front and dozens of empty pews. It’s so sad.
“So I’d like us to attend. I think she’d like that.”
The image in my head persists a moment, then dissolves as I try to place myself there.
“In London?”
“Mmmm.”
I can still see the hotel’s swimming pool out of the window, aquamarine under a deep blue sky.
“But how will we get there?”
“I’ve reserved some flights. Tomorrow evening.”
I get a jolt of something at this. Finality? Something like that.
“Poor Imogen is travelling on a different flight, this evening.” Whatever I was thinking is pushed away by this new thought. Imogen – this woman I’ve sort-of-known my whole life, this woman who wanted to talk to me. This woman whose life I tried to save. She’s gone. She’s in a box, somewhere on the island – presumably – and she’s going to be loaded into the hold of a plane. She’ll just be lying there, a few feet under where the alive passengers are sitting, completely unaware there’s a dead body underneath them. It’s such a strange thought. Reality is so strange, when you suddenly see it from a different angle.
“Do you have your passport?”
I give a little shake, refocusing on the question she’s just asked. “What?”
“Your passport? I need it to finish the flight booking. And we’ll need to collect the rest of your things from that apartment you were renting.”
Her words wash over me. I hear them, but they don’t connect. There’s something else though, something trying to push into my consciousness. “Did they do a post mortem?”
“What?”
“A post mortem, did the hospital do one?”
Mum’s voice is cool. “No. There was no need.”
“Why not?”
She looks at me strangely, and I try to hold on to wherever this thought came from. It seems important, even though I can’t exactly say why.
“Because she died of a heart attack.” She softens her face. “Following complications of her brain injury. It was expected.”
I nod. “Mmmm,” thinking, and then making the connection “But she was attacked. On the beach someone tried to kill her. Shouldn’t they look into it, at least?”
It looks as if Mum’s going to answer, but then she just shrugs her shoulders.
“I don’t know, darling. They’ve decided they don’t need one, and I think we should trust them to know what’s best. It means we can spare Imogen from the extended trauma of it. And we should be grateful for that. We can close this horrible chapter as soon as possible.”
“But… it’s not a trauma though, is it? A post mortem, I mean. She won’t know about it. And wouldn’tshewant to be sure? That it was Albanians who killed her, and not someone else?”
Mum smiles at me soothingly. “Who else could it be, darling?” I try to think again, getting my mind to show me the suspects I still have. But I can’t get any of them to focus.
“What were those tablets you gave me?” I say instead.
She looks startled, almost irritated. “Ativan. I told you. It’s just a little something to help with the shock.”
“They’re making me drowsy.”
