Free What Remains by Tim Weaver Page B

‘I’d been thinking about calling you. I know this is kind of your … well, I guess this is what you do.’
    ‘I’m glad you came,’ I said.
    A small smile: fleeting, fatigued.
    I didn’t ask her anything else. Instead, I made her tea and led her through the house to the back deck. Gesturing for Gemma to take one of the chairs, we sat down either side of the burner, the brief silence filled with the pop of the wood. She laid her handbag on the floor, and then reached over to her tea, fingers lacing together around it.
    ‘How did you hear about Colm?’ she asked.
    ‘I know a few people at the Met.’
    ‘In Barnet?’
    ‘Not specifically, but I heard on the grapevine that you’d been there at the end of August. I’m conscious of stepping on any toes. But I wanted to call you.’
    She nodded. ‘I’m really pleased you did.’
    That was a good start. I wasn’t exactly sure how Gemma would view me, especially through the prism of the press – or perhaps through Healy himself. If she’d spoken to him on the phone in the moments after the two of us had fallen out, Healy would have ensured I’d come out looking second best. But Gemma was nothing if not battle-hardened: she’d been married to him for over twenty years, and that was a long time to get to know someone’s faults.
    ‘I don’t have any …’ She paused, looking down into hermug. ‘I don’t have much money, David. The boys are grown up, Colm’s gone. I don’t know how I –’
    ‘Don’t worry about that.’
    ‘You can’t do this for free.’
    I smiled. ‘I’m not even sure what “this” is.’
    She swallowed, put her tea down and went to her bag. After a few seconds, she brought out an envelope. It was creased, a little marked, a trace of a coffee stain on its edge. Taking it from her, I saw it was addressed to her in an untidy, wavering hand. It had been postmarked 21 August.
    ‘What’s this?’ I asked.
    Her eyes lingered on it, on the frayed corners of the envelope. It was clear she’d looked at it many times; taken it out and put it back. The flap was incapable of sticking any more, the adhesive long since worn out. ‘I think it might be …’
    I waited, not interrupting.
    ‘I think it might be Colm’s suicide note.’

13
    Something began to churn in the pit of my stomach as I opened the envelope and removed the letter. It was an ivory-coloured sheet of A4, thin stock, folded in half. On the side facing me, Healy had written GEMMA in uneven capital letters.
    I glanced at her. She was leaning forward in her seat now, and I saw a flash in her eyes, the glow of the wood burner painting one side of her face. A second later, a tear welled, forming along the ridge of her lashes, and she lifted her glasses to wipe it away; but then another came in its place and this time she let it fall, a trail tracing the contours of her cheek. I wondered what could reduce her to this, a woman Healy had driven away, whom he’d wronged, hurt and betrayed, who no longer wore a wedding ring and was three years past caring what he did with his life.
    But then I opened the letter.
    It was in black ballpoint pen and barely legible in places. Halfway in, I couldn’t understand what he had written, and had to retreat back to the previous line to try to get a sense of his meaning. But even if his words weren’t always clear, his intention was obvious: this was Healy at his most vulnerable, his most lucid. This was a man who could feel the walls closing in.
Dear Gemma,
This letter is long overdue. I have had a lot of time to think over the past months about how I treated people, particularly you and the boys. I did what I thought was best for you all, for Leanne too, our precious daughter, our baby, our beautiful girl, when she was alive. I miss her so much, some days it’s like I can’t breathe. I couldn’t get to her in time – another failure to add to all my others – but I’ve often wondered what things would be like if I had.
Do you think