My friend. My mentor. I walk across the room towards her, body trembling. I lean across the bed and kiss her on the forehead.

‘Rest in peace,’ I whisper.

140

Miles

I’m in my office, reading. My mobile rings. Hayley. I pick up.

‘Miles, I have terrible news.’ Silence for a minute. A minute that seems like forever. ‘Your mother is dead,’ Hayley continues, voice like lead.

‘How …?’ I splutter. ‘Where …? What …?’

‘She didn’t come down for breakfast this morning. So I took a tray up for her. And when I went into her room, she was lying on her back in bed. Dead.’

This must be a dream. It can’t be real. My mother is part of me. I always felt she would live forever. I want to hold her. I want to touch her. Tell her that I will always love her.

‘Dial 999, immediately,’ I manage.

‘I already have.’

141

Saffron

Mother-in-law, you are dead, but it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. For years I have longed for you to be gone, but now it has actually happened, I feel nothing, not even remorse. There is just an empty space in my head.

142

Miles

The ambulance has been and gone, because Mother could not be resuscitated. Two police officers are in our house. A male, DS Stephen Badminton, who has grey hair and a grey face. He doesn’t look well. And a young female PC, Jenifer Tomlinson, with shiny black hair glued to her head like a helmet and eyes like a little beetle. They’re sitting in our drawing room sipping tea that Hayley made, dripping with authority and sympathy. Saffron and I are sitting on the sofa by the window holding hands. Hayley is sitting in the middle of the room opposite the police. Thank goodness the boys are at school.

‘So what did she look like when you found her?’ Jenifer Tomlinson asks.

‘Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.’

Hayley bursts into tears. PC Tomlinson looks across at Saffron and me.

‘Someone needs to ring her surgery. Get a doctor to come out, inspect her body and sign the certificate. Would you like me to do that for you, Mr Jackson?’

‘Yes please. It’s Broadbent Surgery, Esher.’

I look up the number on my phone and give it to her. She dials through.

‘PC Jenifer Tomlinson, from the Surrey Police here,’ she barks at the receptionist. ‘I need a home visit from Caprice Jackson’s GP, to confirm her death and sign the death certificate.’

Black beetle eyes blink as she waits, holding the phone patiently to her right ear. If she is married she has decided not to wear jewellery. Her nails are short and practical, like her hair.