The Visit

“Hello?” Muted strains of classical music reach David’s ears as the door opens. She has a smile the melts away like ice as she recognises him. “Oh, Officer Banks, I wasn’t expecting you. You’d better come in.”

“Thank you.” His rank is Detective Inspector, but he doesn’t correct her. She moves aside, ushering him in. He gets the feeling she doesn’t want him on the doorstep for too long; the neighbours might see. He feels a pang of empathy for Jehovah’s Witnesses. This is how they must feel, their presence at the door akin to bird shit on the paintwork that must be washed away before anyone sees.

He waits as she closes the door. They don’t speak as she leads him through to the living room. It is even more dismal and depressing than he remembers. She gestures with one hand at the stained sofa and he takes a seat.

He hates this part of the job more than any other. There is an uncomfortable silence as he tries to think of the best way to start. He rubs his chin, finding a patch of stubble that he has missed when shaving. The music continues in the background. Mozart, he thinks, the Requiem Mass.

She speaks first. “So,” she says. “I’m guessing you have some news for me.” She looks hopeful.

He nods, swallows. “I do.”

She jumps to her feet, full of nervous energy all of a sudden. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words tumbling over each other in an effort to be free. “Where are my manners. Let me get you something to drink.”

He raises his hand to decline but she ignores it and continues. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger perhaps.” She winks at him. “I know you probably shouldn’t, being on duty and all, but I won’t tell if you won’t.

He can sense an undercurrent of fear in her words, in the way her movements are jerky and disjointed. He knows that, on some level, she is aware of what he has to tell her. Basic human trait, he thinks, deny something long enough and hope it goes away.

But he knows that it won’t, that his words will slice her apart like a knife, creating a wound that will never heal.

“Mrs Wells,” he says.

“Angela,” she says. He detects a faint tremor in her voice.

“Angela,” he says. “Please, I think you should sit down.”

She nods once. He sees her throat work as she swallows.

“It’s about Alison?” The question isn’t really a question. He nods and takes a deep breath.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this,” he begins, hating the way the words sound trite and inadequate, “but we discovered a body this morning.”

He pauses. Her eyes are bight and glassy. “And?” Her voice is brittle.

The carefully prepared speech is gone, torn from his memory by that one word. He starts to speak, forcing the words out. One after the other, hoping they will come easier. They don’t. His tongue is mired in molasses.

“We think it’s Alison. I can’t confirm that yet, not without a positive identification, but I wanted to let you know.” He feels hot. It’s becoming harder to breathe. He takes small sips of cloying air. “We should have DNA confirmation very soon.”

He sees her eyes light up as he gives her this one false hope; he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the body is that of Alison Wells; but the machinations of bureaucracy move slowly and he would be remiss if he didn’t allow for a possible misidentification.

Mozart gives way to Bach, one of the Fugues. He can almost see her processing the information he has given her and using it to shore up her defences, a brittle façade that he knows will soon be demolished like a house of cards in a strong wind.

“I’m really very sorry,” he begins.

“it’s okay,” she says, cutting him off. “There’s hope yet, eh?”

He can only nod in mute silence, knowing there is no hope. He thinks she knows it too, deep down. A solitary tear escapes one eye and trickles unchecked down her cheek. He knows it will be the first of many.

They sit in silence for perhaps a minute. He wants to leave, wants to go home and wash away this unclean feeling.

“I should be going,” he says. His head is starting to ache.

She nods. “Thank you, David,” she says. “Would you be okay to find your own way out?”

He nods, not trusting his voice.

“You’ll be in touch?” she asks as he pulls himself to his feet.

“Yes,” he says. “We’ll be in touch very soon.” He waits for a response. None is forthcoming.  “Goodbye, Angela.” He thinks she nods; it is hard to tell.

He walks to the front door. He closes it behind him and takes a moment to rest his head against the cool plastic. As he is walking away he hears her voice, a high-pitched wail of anguish and despair. He shivers, knowing she is saying goodbye to a child.