The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

tidying the house. I dust, hoover, and after cleaning the fridge and wiping down the kitchen surfaces, pour the last of the vodka and red wine down the sink. Finally, I collect my papers, reports, photos, the diary and the burner phone, and leave.

The drive to Helston seems interminable; every red light and section of roadworks is a personal affront. Eventually I make it to Godolphin Street and the café where Lisa and I have agreed to meet at four. I check my phone. It is ten past three. I order a coffee and find a table near the window: I want Lisa to be able to see me when she arrives. The street life outside the café ebbs and flows; a dribble of construction workers popping in for takeaway coffees and cakes, a stream of young mums passing on their way to the school pick up, and again on their way home. I order another coffee, and then a sparkling water, before finally checking the time. It is nearly twenty past four. Probably just tidying up or waiting for a late parent.

‘Excuse me,’ calls the sullen-faced waitress. ‘We close at half-past.’

I leave the café and walk straight to the school. I’m just turning the corner when I spot the first police car. It’s parked near the front entrance. A second is parked in a lay-by opposite. I slowly make my way through the school gates and into a nightmare.

The tiny entrance is crowded with people. By the plastic ID badges dangling from their necks, I can see that they’re all school staff or police officers. A middle-aged woman, clearly the school receptionist, is sitting at her desk weeping. Next to her a female officer makes a feeble attempt to try and comfort her. Other staff members appear shocked and uncertain, and I hear someone whisper, ‘I just can’t believe it.’ I’m about to step forward and ask for Lisa when I see the head teacher, clearly distraught, emerging from her office, and being escorted by an overweight man in a poorly fitting suit. Spotting me, she grabs the man’s arm and points animatedly in my direction. For some reason I have an overpowering urge to run, but I resist the impulse and wait for them to approach.

‘Mrs Hardy,’ says Mrs Drake. ‘Could you come with us, please?’

I find myself on a stiff wooden chair in the head’s office sitting under a poster that reads Stand up for what is right, even if you stand alone. Next to me, DC Ron Verby sits with a small leather-bound notebook balanced on one knee.

‘Can I ask what this is all about?’

The detective and head teacher exchange a glance.

‘Mrs Drake informs me that you were talking to Mrs Gannon yesterday afternoon. Mrs Lisa Gannon?’

‘Yes, I was.’ My unease grows with every syllable. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

DC Verby clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Mrs Gannon is dead.’

I wasn’t sure if his habitual approach is always so blunt, or if he is simply testing me, but it is a good ten seconds before I can reply.

‘Dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘When? What? How?’

‘Mrs Gannon was found this afternoon in her home. We believe she may have taken her own life.’

I feel a clenching in my gut as the blood runs from my cheeks. My brain seems to have shut down.

As the reality of what I have just been told strikes, words form.

‘But …’ My throat closes. I am unable to continue.

‘It would be helpful if you could tell me about what you and Mrs Gannon discussed yesterday.’

‘Discussed?’

‘Mrs Drake seems to think that Mrs Gannon was quite upset.’

I’m finding it hard to think. Lisa is dead. How is this possible? I have planned everything so carefully: the visit, the paperwork, the call to the solicitor in Truro. I’ve even dusted my mother’s bedroom and changed the sheets in anticipation of her coming to stay. ‘Mrs Hardy?’

‘I’m sorry.’ I feel hazy, sick. ‘Could I have a glass of water please?’

Mrs Drake disappears, returning shortly afterwards with a glass of water. I sip it gratefully. ‘I was supposed to meet her today at a café on Godolphin Street.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Four.’

The DC gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, which I take to mean that Lisa had been long dead by that time.

‘And your discussion yesterday?’

I take another sip. ‘We were discussing the death of my son Michael at Edgecombe Hall six years ago.’

‘The public school near Falmouth?’ enquires Verby. ‘Where that gold medallist went?’ I think of the pretty, blonde teenager waving her arms high above her head as she stands front and centre on the Olympic podium.

I take a breath. ‘For some time now, I’ve been convinced that my fifteen-year-old son Michael wasn’t alone the night he drowned.’ Verby looks confused. ‘My son drowned in 2015 at Argal Lake, Detective. Your own division investigated.’ He gives me an ah yes look and I carry on. ‘Recently I found a diary he wrote suggesting that he was in a sexual relationship with someone while at the school. He referred to this person as “Diving Fish”.’

‘Diving Fish?’ says Verby, clearly confused.

‘Chinese proverb,’ pipes up Mrs Drake, as she hovers near us both. ‘About a woman so beautiful that the fish forgot how to swim when they saw her and drowned. There’s also another version where the geese forget how to fly and fall to the ground.’ I look at her in surprise. ‘I did one of my undergraduate modules in Chinese studies.’

‘And did you get a proper name?’ asks Verby.

‘No,’ I reply, ‘but yesterday Lisa confirmed to me that she had also been in love with this Diving Fish person.’ By this point the DC has stopped writing.

The head teacher steps forward. ‘Lisa told you this?’

‘Yes. And though she didn’t say it in so many words it was clear that she was also sexually exploited by this person.’ I begin to cry. ‘That’s why she was so upset.’

‘Jesus,’ mutters Mrs Drake. ‘As if that