Frozen Read Online Free PDF Page A

were talking about a different person. To stand there with two strangers trying to formulate reasons why she might have done something that I simply couldn't imagine her doing... It was madness, a dream.
    The man stood still while the woman talked, but he managed at the same time to give the impression that he was prowling. He craned his neck occasionally; he stared about proprietorially, as though she was a young cub having her first playful stab at being an adult. If I'd been the woman (PC Jefferies? Jefferson? Honestly, I don't remember. She was kind, she was brunette, and I liked her), I'd have hit him. Instead she just seemed to get a little softer and sweeter every time he leaned over to check what she was writing in her notebook, or finished her sentences for her, the patronising bastard. She was quite pretty, actually, in a bland sort of way. Perhaps that was her problem; he'd cast her in the role of dumb blonde before she even opened her mouth. And before he'd bothered to notice that her scraped-back hair was dark. She was good, too, sensitive but not indulgent. She kept her voice neutral and efficient.
    “This is really just a formality,” she said. (“Formality,” echoed PC Bastard. She glanced at him, and then pointedly turned her gaze back to Gabriel.) “There are no suspicious circumstances, so we just need to complete an Incident Report.” (“Report,” he said.)
    She asked us for Verity's personal details, and Gabriel and I alternated answers as if conforming to an unspoken system. Age, thirty-three; job, freelance fashion designer; residence, Gladstone Terrace, Battersea; single, no children; next-of-kin, Gabriel; there was no one else to notify. Yes, we could confirm that it was her. We could be contacted at the following addresses and numbers. Yes, she had our names down right. PC Brunette made it as easy as she could. All the same, it was a depressing process.
    “Thank you,” she said. She carefully folded her notebook into her breast pocket. “I know how difficult this is.”
    No. She didn't.
    PC Bastard harrumphed in a haven't-you-forgotten-something way. She blinked slowly, gathering patience. “Do you have any idea why she might have done it?” she asked.
    Gabriel looked half-hypnotised. He had shrunk even further into his clothes, and was scuffing his fingers back and forth across his threadbare jacket. He said nothing, so I spoke for us both. “No...” I said doubtfully. “No idea at all. I thought she was happy.”
    But happy people don't jump off cliffs, do they?
    “I see...” She sighed in a never-mind kind of way. For her, the reason really did not matter’ it was enough that it had happened. She could complete her paperwork.
    “Well, that's pretty much all we can do for now. Our report will record this as attempted suicide. Unless either of you have reason to think otherwise?”
    We shook our heads meekly.
    She continued sympathetically, “Well, we didn't find a note in her car. Perhaps there's something in her flat. If you do find anything, please let us know. We'll keep the file open.” She smiled warmly at us both, and handed us each a card with contact details.
    “Car,” PC Bastard said suddenly. She frowned at him, and then nodded. We must have looked blank.
    “Ms. Hadley's car,” she explained. “We found it in the car park at Beachy Head. It's in the pound. But I'm afraid we really can't keep it there.”
    I looked at Gabriel, who shook his head, not returning my gaze. “Don't drive,” he muttered hoarsely.
    Down to me, then. “Where do I go?”
    “It's all on the card,” she said. “Eight-thirty to twelve-thirty, and two to four-thirty.”
    I nodded. They nodded. They left.
    Gabriel and I sat and stared at the floor. Eventually Adam came in and stood, waiting for us to notice him.
    Gabriel glanced listlessly up at him, and I roused myself enough to make the introductions. “Gabriel, you remember Adam.” It must have been at least fifteen years since they