Sister

I waited two and a half hours for DS Finborough to phone me back, and then I phoned the police station. A policewoman told me DS Finborough was unavailable. I decided to go to Hyde Park. I was hoping that DS Finborough would be nowhere to be seen; I was hoping that he was unavailable because he was now investigating a more urgent case, yours having been relegated to a missing person who’d turn up in her own good time. I was hoping that I was wrong and he was right, that you had just taken off somewhere after the death of your baby. I locked the door and put your key under the flowerpot with the pink cyclamen in case you came home while I was out.

As I neared Hyde Park, a police car, siren wailing, went past me. The sound panicked me. I drove faster. When I got to the Lancaster Gate entrance the police car was joining others already parked, their sirens electronic howls.

I went into the park, soft snow falling around me. I wish I’d waited a little longer and had an hour or so more of my life first. To most people that would sound selfish, but you’ve lived with grief, or more accurately, a part of you has died with grief, so you, I know, will understand.

A distance into the park I could see police, a dozen of them or more. Police vehicles were going toward them, driving into the park itself. Onlookers were starting to go toward the site of the activity—reality TV unboxed.

So many footprints and tire tracks in the snow.

I walked slowly toward them. My mind was oddly calm, noticing at a remove that my heart was beating irregularly against my ribs, that I was short of breath, that I was shivering violently. Somehow my mind kept its distance, not yet a part of my body’s reaction.

I passed a park ranger, in his brown uniform, talking to a man with a Labrador. “We were asked about the Lido and the lake, and I thought that they were going to dredge them but the chief officer fellow decided to search our closed buildings first. Since the cuts, we’ve got a lot of those.” Other dog walkers and joggers were joining his audience. “The building over there used to be the gents’ toilets years ago, but it was cheaper to put in new ones than renovate.”

I passed him and his audience, walking on toward the police. They were setting up a cordon around a small, derelict Victorian building half hidden by bushes.

A little way from the cordon was PC Vernon. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy from crying; she was shaking. A policeman had his arm around her. They didn’t see me. PC Vernon’s voice was quick and uneven. “Yes, I have, but only in hospital, and never someone so young. Or so alone.”

Later, I would love her for her physical compassion. At the time, her words burned into my consciousness, forcing my mind to engage with what was happening.

I reached the police cordon. DS Finborough saw me. For a moment he was bewildered by what I was doing there and then his expression became one of sympathy. He walked toward me.

“Beatrice, I’m so sorry—”

I interrupted him. If I could stop him saying the words, then it wouldn’t be true. “You’re wrong.”

I wanted to run away from him. He took hold of my hand. I thought he was restraining me. Now I think he was offering a gentle gesture of kindness.

“It’s Tess we’ve found.”

I tried to pull my hand away from his. “You can’t know that for sure.”

He looked at me, properly, making eye contact; even then I realized that this took courage.

“Tess had her student ID card with her. I’m afraid there isn’t any mistake. I’m so sorry, Beatrice. Your sister is dead.”

He released my hand. I walked away from him. PC Vernon came after me. “Beatrice …”

I heard DS Finborough call her back. “She wants to be alone.”

I was grateful to him.

I sat under a copse of black-limbed trees, leafless and lifeless in the silencing snow.

At what point did I know you were dead? Was it when DS Finborough told me? When I saw PC Vernon’s pale tearful face? When I saw your toiletries still in your bathroom? Or when Mum phoned to say you’d gone missing? When did I know?

I saw a stretcher being taken out of the derelict toilet building. On the stretcher was a body bag. I went toward it. A strand of your hair had caught in the zipper. And then I knew.

4

Why am I writing this to you? I deflected that question last time, talked about my need to make sense of it all, my dots of detail revealing a pointillistic painting. I ducked the real part of the question: why to you? Is this a make-believe game of the almost insane? Sheets and blankets make a tent, a pirate ship or a castle. You are the fearless knight, Leo is the swashbuckling prince, and I am the princess and narrator, telling the story as I want it. I was always the storyteller, wasn’t I? Do I think you can hear me? Absolutely yes/Definitely not. Take your pick; I do hourly.