She’s lying down.’
‘Hang on,’ the dark-haired one spoke for the first time, ‘you’re not Mrs McMillan?’
‘No, I’m the nanny. I’ll get her.’
She had already turned away when he said, ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
Rose knew that tone. The tone denoted interest, suppositions about complications. He’d be wondering about Robert, about affairs and unreciprocated crushes, about fumblings in the middle of the night. She heard the tone from Robert’s friends, from Francine’s occasional forays into the world of other mothers, from workmen who came to the house. She wasn’t offended by it, not any more. Most people couldn’t even begin to understand the closeness between her and Robert. He was her brother. Her naïve older brother.
She turned back. ‘Rose Wilson.’
The cops exchanged glances. ‘Maybe we could interview you first, Rose?’
Rose didn’t want to but it would look strange. She turned back and sat down on a stool, hands clasped in front of her on the table, facing the cops.
‘Sorry. It’s been a heavy day. Family funeral.’
The dark-haired one unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a form. ‘Julius McMillan’s funeral? Was it this morning?’
‘Still going, I’m sure.’
‘I met McMillan once,’ said the baldy one. He waited then, open mouthed, for a prompt.
Exhausted, Rose gave it to him. ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled at the table. ‘When I was a young cop I arrested some care-home kids and McMillan was their defence counsel. Even back then, and that was ten years ago, you could tell he’d been brilliant and here he was defending a wee—’ He looked up, remembered where he was. ‘You know. Well, you know how he did those defence cases.’
Rose cleared her throat. ‘Look, um, I can save you a bit of work if you’d like. That’s how I met him. I was one of those cases. He defended me when I got in trouble.’
It took a moment to register. Then the dark-haired one dropped his voice to confidential. ‘What sort of trouble?’
‘You don’t need to whisper. It was a culp hom.’ She noticed that she’d dropped her own voice. ‘The family know, well, the kids don’t know and I’d rather you didn’t mention it in front of them ...’
The cops were too uncomfortable to write it down.
‘Culpable homicide?’ The dark-haired one repeated it to give himself time to take it in.
They’d go straight back to the office and check out her record. They’d see the guilty plea and the details. Were the photos in that file? If they saw the photos they’d be horrified. Julius McMillan showed her them. He wanted her to see them, take it in, get over it. She could recall them in detail: Sammy slumped against the wheel like an empty costume, blood everywhere. Black and white, colour. Mugshots of her, encrusted with dried blood.
The balding cop cleared his throat. ‘And you stayed in touch?’
‘He did. He helped me out when I was released.’
‘That was good of him.’ His eyebrows were high on his forehead.
‘Yes. He was a better man than most people knew. I can understand Robert wanting to be alone. He’ll need time. Julius is a terrible loss to all of us.’
‘He was very ill, wasn’t he?’ The baldy one was building to something.
‘Julius?’ she said, trying to anticipate his next move. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid he was. Lung condition. Could have happened at any time. He wasn’t in pain.’
‘So it was a mercy, really?’
She shrugged. They looked at each other. And though Rose kept a straight face she was thinking that the bald cop had never been with anyone when they died. Rose knew that death was never expected or accepted, no one went gently. There was always a futile kick against the kitchen floor. She dropped her eyes to the table and repeated the palliative lie for him, ‘It was a mercy, yes, I suppose.’
He smiled at her for saying that. ‘But Robert doesn’t see it that way?’
‘He didn’t show it but I’m sure he’s
‘Hang on,’ the dark-haired one spoke for the first time, ‘you’re not Mrs McMillan?’
‘No, I’m the nanny. I’ll get her.’
She had already turned away when he said, ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
Rose knew that tone. The tone denoted interest, suppositions about complications. He’d be wondering about Robert, about affairs and unreciprocated crushes, about fumblings in the middle of the night. She heard the tone from Robert’s friends, from Francine’s occasional forays into the world of other mothers, from workmen who came to the house. She wasn’t offended by it, not any more. Most people couldn’t even begin to understand the closeness between her and Robert. He was her brother. Her naïve older brother.
She turned back. ‘Rose Wilson.’
The cops exchanged glances. ‘Maybe we could interview you first, Rose?’
Rose didn’t want to but it would look strange. She turned back and sat down on a stool, hands clasped in front of her on the table, facing the cops.
‘Sorry. It’s been a heavy day. Family funeral.’
The dark-haired one unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a form. ‘Julius McMillan’s funeral? Was it this morning?’
‘Still going, I’m sure.’
‘I met McMillan once,’ said the baldy one. He waited then, open mouthed, for a prompt.
Exhausted, Rose gave it to him. ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled at the table. ‘When I was a young cop I arrested some care-home kids and McMillan was their defence counsel. Even back then, and that was ten years ago, you could tell he’d been brilliant and here he was defending a wee—’ He looked up, remembered where he was. ‘You know. Well, you know how he did those defence cases.’
Rose cleared her throat. ‘Look, um, I can save you a bit of work if you’d like. That’s how I met him. I was one of those cases. He defended me when I got in trouble.’
It took a moment to register. Then the dark-haired one dropped his voice to confidential. ‘What sort of trouble?’
‘You don’t need to whisper. It was a culp hom.’ She noticed that she’d dropped her own voice. ‘The family know, well, the kids don’t know and I’d rather you didn’t mention it in front of them ...’
The cops were too uncomfortable to write it down.
‘Culpable homicide?’ The dark-haired one repeated it to give himself time to take it in.
They’d go straight back to the office and check out her record. They’d see the guilty plea and the details. Were the photos in that file? If they saw the photos they’d be horrified. Julius McMillan showed her them. He wanted her to see them, take it in, get over it. She could recall them in detail: Sammy slumped against the wheel like an empty costume, blood everywhere. Black and white, colour. Mugshots of her, encrusted with dried blood.
The balding cop cleared his throat. ‘And you stayed in touch?’
‘He did. He helped me out when I was released.’
‘That was good of him.’ His eyebrows were high on his forehead.
‘Yes. He was a better man than most people knew. I can understand Robert wanting to be alone. He’ll need time. Julius is a terrible loss to all of us.’
‘He was very ill, wasn’t he?’ The baldy one was building to something.
‘Julius?’ she said, trying to anticipate his next move. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid he was. Lung condition. Could have happened at any time. He wasn’t in pain.’
‘So it was a mercy, really?’
She shrugged. They looked at each other. And though Rose kept a straight face she was thinking that the bald cop had never been with anyone when they died. Rose knew that death was never expected or accepted, no one went gently. There was always a futile kick against the kitchen floor. She dropped her eyes to the table and repeated the palliative lie for him, ‘It was a mercy, yes, I suppose.’
He smiled at her for saying that. ‘But Robert doesn’t see it that way?’
‘He didn’t show it but I’m sure he’s
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