Free Towers of Silence by Cath Staincliffe

talk to Martina?”
    “Okay. It shouldn’t take long.”
    We went into the back room and Martina used the remote to turn off the television. She sat down with me at the table, Connie leant against the door.
    “I’ve been back to Heald Place,” I told them both, “asking the neighbours if anyone saw your mother come home for lunch. The police had already done that, as you know, and no one saw her. Then I realised that Martina and Roland were the obvious people to double-check with. You’d be able to say if there were signs of your mother being in that afternoon or home for lunch.”
    Martina exhaled. “Right,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes. “I can’t remember anything.”
    “You can’t remember?” I wasn’t clear what she meant. Was it all lost to her given the trauma that had followed or couldn’t she remember seeing any sign of Miriam’s presence?
    “I don’t remember any dishes in the sink. The paper wasn’t there. She usually read the paper with her lunch.”
    “What time did you get home?”
    “About four,” she smoothed her hair back towards her bun.
    “And Roland?”
    “Same,” she told me.
    “Who was home first?”
    “Me.”
    “Was it unusual for your mother to be out at that time?”
    “Not really. I thought she’d be home soon to start ...” She stopped abruptly, misery making her suck in her cheeks and clamp her lips tight against the quivering.
    “Okay,” I said. My heart went out to her as she tried to compose herself. To lose a parent was painful enough. I still mourned the loss of my father who’d been dead for eight years but at least I’d been able to blame a disease for his death, it wasn’t at his own hand. With suicide what did you blame? Mental illness? The person who left you behind? Yourself for not being able to prevent it?
    Connie stepped closer and put her hands on Martina’s shoulders, rubbed her upper arms. “Martina rang me at six,” she said, “the police about half an hour later.”
    I was relieved I didn’t need to ask Martina anything else. She’d told me all I needed to know; Miriam had stayed out that day and Roland had been home last.
    “Thanks, that’s all I need for now.” I said.
    Martina took my cue and nodded. Connie released her and she went upstairs.
    “I’m sorry - it’s upsetting.”
    She sighed and nodded sat in the chair Martina had left.
    “Do you have a list anywhere of her possessions, things she had with her, clothes, bag and so on.”
    “I don’t remember a list. Why?”
    “I thought she might have got the bus to town. If there’d been a ticket, I could try and trace the driver, the passengers.”
    Connie nodded her understanding. “They just gave us a plastic bag, with her rings and her handbag,” she swallowed. “We didn’t get her clothes.”
    I nodded fast. They’d have been bloodied, torn.
    “Her bag?”
    “Yes.”
    I thought of Miriam Johnstone falling, clutching her bag. There was pathos in the image.
    We heard the front door open. Connie sprang up and out of the room. I heard Patrick’s voice mingle with Connie’s. Someone running downstairs.
    The pair of them came in followed by Martina.
    “And he’s run off?” Patrick asked, unzipping his jacket.
    “Run off? Is this because I was coming?” I asked Connie.
    “I think so,” her face was drawn. “He’s only fifteen. When Ma died ... he couldn’t talk about it, still can’t really. The only way he could cope was to retreat.” She paused. Her caramel eyes glistened. I could tell she was on the verge of tears but determined to hold them back while she explained. “He didn’t want to know. He never asked a single thing, not one question. He was like a block of wood at the funeral. Never spoke to anyone, never said a word ... I don’t know how to help him. He’s a child really. I think this, asking him to talk to you, maybe it was too much. Pushing him too far.” Guilt clouded her eyes and she turned to Patrick.
    I wished she had said