The Crow Trap Read Free Page B

“Not on my own. Not this time.”
    “Ah.” Edie drained her wine. It left a stain on her lips and the wide front teeth which Rachael had inherited. “Do you know, I always felt jealous of Bella. A bit. It doesn’t mean I’m not sorry now. Of course not. But I resented the way you were so close, the two of you.”
    “You never met her, did you?”
    “That made it worse. I imagined … it was the way you talked about her. I thought … “
    “That I wished she was my mum?”
    “Something like that.” “No,” Rachael said. “But we were friends. Real, close friends.”
    “If you want to talk about her I can listen all night.”
    “God no.” Wasn’t it typical of Edie and her friends that talking was seen as all that was needed? Throughout her childhood this house had been full of talk. She’d thought it was like a soup of words, drowning her. Perhaps that was why she liked numbers best, counting things.
    Numbers were precise, unambiguous.
    “What then?”
    “I need to know why she did it.”
    “We are certain that she meant it? It couldn’t have been an accident?
    Murder even?”
    Rachael shook her head. “The police came. And there was a note. It was her writing. And I explained to the policeman the words were put together as though she was speaking. Do you know what I mean?”
    Edie nodded.
    Of course, Rachael thought, you know all about words.
    “She knew I was coming that night. If she had a problem she could have talked to me about it. Perhaps she thought I wouldn’t help.” “No, she wouldn’t have thought that.”
    “I should have kept in touch over the winter. Then I’d have known. Do you realize I didn’t even phone her?”
    “Did she phone you?”
    “No.”
    “You do know, don’t you, that guilt’s a common feature of bereavement?”
    “Edie!”
    Edie had taught English and Theatre Studies at the sixth form college, but had also been responsible for pastoral care. She’d attended courses on counselling. The regurgitated nuggets of psychology always irritated Rachael.
    “I know,” Edie said unabashed. “Psycho babble. But it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
    “Really. I don’t need all that.”
    “I’m not entirely sure what it is you do need.”
    “Practical help. I need to find out what drove Bella to suicide. While I’m out at Black Law I can’t do that. Besides, it’s what you’re good at. Talking. Listening. Gossip even. Someone must have some idea why she felt she had to kill herself.”
    “Would she want you to do that? It seems … an invasion of privacy.”
    “She arranged for me to find her. She knew me. She knew I’d ask questions.”
    “Well then, where do we start?” Edie had used the same question when, occasionally, they had taken the bus together for the long trek into Newcastle. They had stood at the Haymarket looking down Northumberland Street at the heaving shops. Rachael had always preferred open spaces and felt overwhelmed, panicky, but Edie’s approach to shopping had been methodical.
    “Well then, where do we start?” And she had taken out her list and organized the day: Farnons for school uniform, Bainbridge’s for curtain material, lunch in the studenty cafe opposite the Theatre Royal, M & S for knickers and socks and back to the Haymarket for the three o’clock bus.
    Again Rachael was reassured. “I thought the funeral.”
    “Who’s arranging that?”
    “Neville, Dougie’s son. I had to let them know what had happened, though it didn’t occur to me at first. I never thought of him having any connection with Bella. She didn’t talk about him much. But of course he had to know about Dougie, and there’s the farm to see to.
    They’re just coming up to lambing … “
    “And he took responsibility for the funeral.” “Yes, he said he’d like to. I asked if he’d mind if I put a notice in the Gazette. She was well thought of by the other hill farmers. Some of her friends or family might see it and turn up.” She turned to