Free Apportionment of Blame by Keith Redfern

interesting, though, that Helen’s mother thought she was happy at work. I wondered what else Helen had not told her.
    Did she have a regular boyfriend?”
    â€œNo. She had lots of friends. She was always going out with someone. But there was no one special.”
    Interesting again. Helen apparently hadn’t mentioned Stuart to her mother, but surely that was hardly relevant to anything. Again I decided it would be inconsiderate to mention something she didn’t need to know, and may never need to know. I kept quiet about Stuart.
    â€œJoyce told me that she and Helen were half-sisters.”
    â€œYes. I was married before. He died.”
    Her expression suggested little remorse at that fact, and I let it go.
    â€œHow much younger than Helen is Joyce?”
    â€œAbout two years.”
    â€œSo you must have met her father soon after Helen’s father died.”
    â€œYes,” she said, looking hard at me.
    I sipped my coffee and considered the impertinence of my last question.
    â€œActually, you might as well know. We knew each other before Helen’s father died.”
    This was interesting, but again hardly relevant, and I had no reason to pry into her private life.
    â€œYou were old friends, then?”
    â€œNot old friends exactly, but I did meet him before my husband was killed.”
    â€œJoyce said something about an accident.”
    â€œYes. He had a motorbike.”
    She said no more, obviously thinking the rest was obvious. It was.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I offered.
    She shrugged.
    â€œIt was a long time ago.”
    â€œAnd Helen never knew him.”
    â€œNo. Oliver has always been,” she paused to correct herself with some effort, “was always her father.”
    I finished my coffee. I couldn’t see how anything was helping me.
    â€œLook, would you mind if I take a look in Helen’s room? You never know. There might be something that springs out at me.”
    â€œNo, go ahead. I’ll show you where it is.”
    She led me upstairs. Her movements were of someone pushing her legs through treacle. Everything a visible effort, her body weighed down by thoughts and despair. I wondered, as many others have, how any parent ever copes with losing a child. And to lose a child in such a tragic way, and not to know why.
    This led me to realise again the importance of finding the truth and the responsibility on my shoulders. I hoped I could live up to it.
    We came to a spacious bedroom with its bed made up as if its regular user was due back at any moment. There was a dressing table and wardrobe in matching coloured pine, and in the corner a work area with the laptop, now returned, box files and shelves of ring binders.
    I just stood in the room and looked about me, wondering where to start.
    â€œI’ll leave you to it, shall I? If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”
    â€œThanks,” I said rather inadequately.
    Crossing to the wardrobe I discovered Helen’s clothes, still there waiting for something or someone. The drawers in the dressing table were full and well ordered - underwear mainly, some tights, lots of feminine odds and ends, sweaters - nothing out of the ordinary.
    I glanced at the desk area in the corner. If there was going to be anything interesting and relevant, I would find it there.
    The box files were all labelled neatly - Work, Holidays, Family, Finance. Which one first? Joyce had thought everything was straight forward at work and her mother thought the same. But I needed to know who or what was G, so I opened the work file first.
    It was virtually empty. There were copies of application forms, brochures from companies, perhaps dating back to before Helen went to Colbox, but there was nothing useful that I could see. No letters, or notes, or names. I closed the file and returned it to its place.
    I couldn’t think of any reason why a holiday or its plans could kill Helen. So I turned to Finance.
    There were