Читать книгу Her Deadly Secret - Chris Curran - Страница 11

Joe

Joe could see Hannah sitting in the kitchen as he closed the back gate, but when she saw him she stood and headed into the hall, probably going back upstairs. He made two mugs of tea, praying she hadn’t locked herself in the bathroom as she often did these days.

She was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, as usual. Her hair looked damp, so at least she’d washed properly this morning. He’d heard Loretta trying to persuade her to have a shower yesterday. ‘Make you feel a bit more yourself,’ that’s what she’d said. As if they could ever be themselves again. Their real selves: Lily’s mum and dad. Not: the parents of the dead teenager.

Of course, the tea had been a mistake because, as soon as she realized he was coming in, Hannah swung her legs off the bed and made to leave. He thrust the mugs onto the chest near the door, great dollops slopping over the side, and grabbed her arm. ‘Hannah, please. Please, I’ve made us some tea.’ She didn’t turn, but at least she stayed where she was, rubbing the red marks left by his fingers. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to hurt you, but sit down, please. Have your tea.’

He took a chance and sat on the bed with a mug in his hand. Still not looking at him, she pulled out a handful of tissues and dabbed at the slops, then took the other mug, went to sit at her little dressing table, and stared out into the street. They drank in silence for a few minutes.

When she put her mug down – she always drank her tea really quickly, they used to joke about her asbestos tongue – he knew he had to speak before she disappeared again. He gulped at his own drink, coughed, as a few drops went down the wrong way, but forced himself on.

‘I went to see them at The Children of Light.’ Her head jerked up. ‘They said Lily was involved. Called her Sister Lily, for God’s sake. Did you know about it, Hannah?’

A nod was all he got.

‘Why, love? Why would you let her go there after all you said about them?’

Her hands were in her hair and her voice was croaky. ‘I couldn’t stop her.’

‘Was it this boy? Did he get her involved?’

‘It was nothing like that, Joe.’ It was the first time she’d said his name for so long. And he waited for her to go on, hardly daring to breathe. She still had the wet tissues in one hand and she looked down at them dripping onto the dressing table. Finally, she placed the soggy mess in front of her, shaking her head and wiping her hand on her skirt. When she turned her eyes were glassy.

‘She went looking for her real father. Wanted to find her biological dad.’ He couldn’t breathe. Just waited. Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear. ‘She thought it was one of them – at The Children.’

Breathe, say something. ‘And was he? Did she find him?’ He’d never asked her about this other man. It never seemed to matter – before. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Hannah. And tell the police. If she found him, you must know what that means. Talk to me, Hannah, please.’

She stood, but her face was blank again and she was staring past him, shaking her head. ‘I can’t. I can’t talk about that.’

He was on his feet too; part of him wanting to hold her, to tell her it was all right. Another part wanting to shake her, to wake her up and make her think of Lily.

He was so tired.

She clutched herself and pushed past him, and he heard the click as she locked the bathroom door.

Rosie

‘Oliver and I are planning to move abroad.’ Rosie expected her mother to turn to her, say something, start to cry even, but she just trudged onwards. Rosie had called her that morning, suggesting a walk and, knowing what she was going to say, she had winced at Marion’s obvious delight.

‘Oh, darling, yes, that’d be lovely. Let’s go to Rye Harbour. The wild flowers at the nature reserve will be beautiful just now. I’ll come and pick you up.’

They didn’t talk much during the drive and it wasn’t until they were walking along the main path towards the sea, the salt marshes on their right and the river on their left, that Rosie broke the silence. It had turned chilly and their only company was a couple of small boats chugging down river to the sea and some little black-and-white seabirds shrilling overhead. The flowers her mother had hoped for were there, but their colours were muted in the mottled light, their petals bothered by the breeze.

Rosie pulled her collar around her throat, but Marion, in only a light jumper and cotton trousers, seemed oblivious to the cold. She had been tall and curvy when Rosie and Alice were young, but the weight had dropped off her when all the trouble began, even before the murder. She had become a little healthier-looking in the last few years. But to Rosie’s eyes she seemed almost frail today.

They walked on, until they reached the beach, its shingle falling in a steep slope to the sea. On the opposite side of the river, the sands of Camber stretched into the distance. When they were little, Rosie and Alice always wanted to go there instead of walking the ‘more interesting’ route their dad preferred on this side. At Camber Sands, even though they couldn’t see them from here, were ice cream kiosks and shops selling blow-up boats and plastic buckets and spades. But she didn’t want to think about that, so she looked along the sands to the horizon and stared hard at the nuclear power station crouched over Dungeness.

‘Did you hear me, Mum?’

Marion had been gazing in the other direction, over the marshy nature reserve to the wooden birdwatching hide and the Martello tower. ‘Sorry, darling, what?’

‘I said, we’re going to live abroad.’ She told herself to say it all, get it out. ‘With him living so close, and you sheltering him, it doesn’t feel safe, especially for Fay.’

Marion lurched down the shingle bank towards the water and Rosie followed, pushing her heels into the stones to stop herself from slithering too fast. She raised her voice. ‘It’s no good running away. You need to listen.’

When Marion turned back her mouth was a tight line, her hands clutched under her armpits. Her voice fierce. ‘No, Rosemary, you need to listen. I was so angry when Alice died that I had to find someone to blame and, when they told me it was your dad, I believed them because I hated him at that moment. Our lives were a mess and, after all I’d done to support him, I thought he was having an affair.’

Rosie slid down to her, grabbing the tops of her arms. ‘What?’

Her mother gave a harsh laugh. ‘The big argument we had was because I was sure he had another woman.’ She pulled away, trudging off along the pebbly bank as Rosie stood staring after her, trying to understand what she had heard.

During the trial, and immediately afterwards, the papers were full of rumours about her dad’s secret life. As well as stories suggesting he might have been abusing Alice and possibly some of his pupils, there was stuff about her parents’ marriage being in a rocky state because of his infidelity. Rosie and her mother had never discussed any of it.

Rosie followed her. She could hardly get the words out. ‘Why did you never tell me this, Mum?’

Her mother spoke slowly as she struggled to keep her footing on the shingle slope. ‘The way he was behaving made me sure there must be someone else, but he denied it. I told him he had to move out anyway, and I went away that weekend so he could tell you and Alice.’ She stopped, looking down at the pebbles, churning them with her foot and clutching herself. Her back looked so fragile as the breeze pressed the thin wool of her jumper against the ridges on her spine that Rosie’s throat ached.

Her dad’s story had been that he was at two different supermarkets at the time Alice must have been killed, but there was no evidence to place him at the first shop, which meant that forty minutes or so were unaccounted for. Rosie had known her mum and dad weren’t getting on in the months before the murder. But she and Alice had had no inkling about a mistress. Apart from the hints in the papers, the first real suggestion of it was six years ago. A television programme set out to prove he was innocent and raised the possibility that he was with another woman during those missing forty minutes. But it wasn’t very convincing because he refused to speak to them and, although two of his friends told them they suspected he was having an affair, they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, name the woman. So, the TV people couldn’t even guess at her identity.

‘Was he? Having an affair, I mean.’

‘Apparently, although he only admitted it to me recently. When I went to see him in prison.’

‘And I suppose he told you he was with her when Alice was killed. Just like that TV programme said, but he didn’t think to mention it to the police at the time? You don’t really believe that, do you?’

Marion shook her head. ‘It was all such a mess. In his first interview, he wanted to keep her name out of it. Didn’t think it mattered because he never imagined he could be a suspect. When he realized it was getting more serious he called her and asked her to back him up, but she was married and, of course, she didn’t want to get involved in a murder case. His defence counsel told him then that it would do more harm than good if he changed his story without anyone to corroborate it.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the police about her?’

‘Like I said, he had denied it and I had no idea he was going to see her that day. Anyway, when I first spoke to the police, before they convinced me he must have done it, I thought it was best if I said our marriage and family life were fine. Didn’t want them to know how difficult things were for all of us.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you don’t actually know if this woman is real. And that, even if she is, you only have his word for it that he was with her on the day Alice was killed.’

With a jerk that made Rosie start, her mother headed back up the beach. ‘I’m cold. Let’s go home.’

Rosie scrambled after her, and by the time they reached the car park, they were both breathless.

Marion drove through the gate so fiercely she almost hit a cyclist. She pulled the car to one side and dragged on the handbrake then sat, still breathing hard, hands flat on the wheel. ‘Look, Rosemary, you have to talk to him: talk to your dad. He still is your dad, you know.’ It was clear she was struggling to keep her voice steady, and Rosie bit back what she was tempted to say. It wasn’t worth it.

But her mother took another wavering breath and carried on. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you: he explained everything to me and I believe him. He didn’t do it. On the day it happened he had been with her, his woman, for the forty minutes when he claimed he was at the first supermarket. That’s why he only had time to buy a few things. Just enough to make you girls think he’d been shopping.’

She gave a smile that was more like a wince. ‘Instead of cooking, he tells me, he was planning to take you and Alice out for lunch on Sunday, to tell you we were breaking up. And if I’d spoken up for him about those ridiculous rumours that he had been abusing Alice, they wouldn’t have got any traction. That was what that TV programme said, wasn’t it? And they were right.’

‘So you never believed he abused Alice?’

Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I was just so angry with him. He couldn’t help his illness, but he hadn’t even tried to find work that would use his talents properly and bring in some decent money. If he had you could have gone back to your old school and we wouldn’t have been in danger of losing our home.

‘Then I guessed he was being unfaithful. Getting ready to ruin all our lives and that brought me close to hating him. And, Rosemary, although I knew he wouldn’t have abused Alice, I did think he could have killed her. Not deliberately, but he had a temper and she could be really difficult. You know how she was with him sometimes. Just like she was with you. Pushing and pushing to get a reaction.’

This time, Rosie couldn’t stop herself from sighing, and Marion’s hands clenched.

‘I know he’s innocent and if you talked to him, just once, you’d understand.’

Rosie met her mother’s eyes and held her gaze for a long moment. She could feel, and hear, the deep, deep, beat of her own heart and found herself saying, ‘All right, let’s go there now. I’ll talk to him.’

As Marion negotiated the sharp bends on the country roads from Rye, Rosie looked out of the car window, trying to calm down.

After the trial, Marion and Rosie had moved from the village to a flat in Bexhill, wanting to put a bit of distance between themselves and the whole business. Her mother suggested going much further, maybe to London or even to Leeds, where she’d worked for a while and had some friends, but Rosie insisted on staying at the same school. She’d had to move once and she didn’t see why she should do it again. And wherever she went, people were bound to find out about Alice and her dad in the end.

What impulse had made her agree to see him, she couldn’t understand, but maybe it was better this way. Get it all out in the open.

They were coming away from the countryside, passing a garden centre, a tatty looking pub and rows of semi-detached houses and Rosie closed her eyes and let herself remember again.

* * *

She is sitting with Dad on the sofa in the kitchen. Alice is dead. Yesterday, someone beat her over the head and now she’s dead. It’s impossible, but it must be true because there’s police all over the house and a detective wants to talk to her.

Dad is holding her hand. It’s a bit sticky and warm, but his is cold. He looks awful. Hasn’t shaved this morning and he always shaves. But his voice is the same. ‘Just answer the detective’s questions, Rosemary, don’t be scared.’

The man is big and friendly looking with a nice smile. He grabs one of the chairs from next to the table and puts it down in front of her. When he sits on it he’s too close, but he smells nice and his voice is gentle. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Miller,’ his smile widens, ‘Paul Miller. And you’re Rosemary. Or do you prefer Rosie?’

‘I don’t mind.’ She coughs and Dad smiles at her and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘Rosie’s OK,’ she says.

‘Fine. So, Rosie, your Dad took you for your tennis lesson, is that right?’ She nods. ‘But you came back by bus. Why was that?’

‘Dad said he had to go shopping and might not be finished in time.’ She leans back on the cushions, her heart beating a little slower.

‘Right. Now I noticed there was a shopping list attached to the fridge door. Do you know who wrote that?’

‘Mum did it on Friday before she left. It was the things she wanted Dad to get for the weekend.’ She is finding it easier to breathe now. This will soon be over.

But her dad sits forward, his voice hard. ‘I can’t see what this has to do with anything.’

Detective Miller puts up his hand to stop Dad, but keeps his eyes on Rosie. Still with that encouraging smile. ‘So, your mum told your dad that she’d made a list and he should take it with him to the shops on Saturday?’

‘Yes.’ A movement from Dad. ‘I mean, I think so. She wrote the list and I saw her put it on the fridge, but I can’t remember if she told Dad.’ Rosie’s heart is beating faster again. She’s said something wrong.

Dad sits back, his breath loud, and the detective says, ‘Not much longer now, Rosie. Just take me through what happened when you arrived home.’ She looks at Dad and he gives her a smile, but he’s worried. She can see that.

Detective Miller says, ‘Rosie?’ and when she turns back to him he nods. ‘Go on, just take me through it step by step and we’re done.’

A deep breath. ‘Well, when I got to the front door I rang the bell because I knew Alice was at home. I could hear her music playing really loud in the front room, but she didn’t open the door so I let myself in. I didn’t want to talk to her because I knew she’d be in a mood, and Dad wasn’t back, so I went straight upstairs.’

She knows that’s the wrong thing again when Dad’s hand clenches on hers, remembers what he said last night and turns towards him her heart thumping. He’s looking straight ahead. He won’t look back. The detective smiles at her. She swallows, but her voice croaks anyway. ‘It was only a few minutes before Dad got in, though. Wasn’t it, Dad?’

The detective says, ‘Your dad can talk to us later. I’d like your estimate of how long it was before he arrived.’

He’s nodding, trying to seem friendly, but she can hardly breathe. Feels Dad, very still, beside her. ‘Um, I don’t remember. I wasn’t thinking.’

The detective is still looking at her with a faint smile. ‘Well, about how many minutes would you say it was, Rosie?’

Her breath catches in her throat and it’s difficult to speak, but she has to tell him something. ‘About ten?’ She can’t breathe at all now, because that’s too many, but manages to say: ‘No, not as many as ten. Probably only five or six.’

‘You’re sure of that are you, love?’

All she can say is: ‘I think so,’ in a wobbly voice.

Dad’s hand grips hers and, when she sneaks a peek at him, she can see his neck is mottled with red, the way it goes when he gets cross. ‘Please don’t badger my daughter, Inspector. She’s given you her estimate.’

And they let her stop then, but she knows she’s done it all wrong.