The Evidence Against You

by Gillian McAllister

  ‘He knew she had a second phone, and he never told anyone?’

  ‘I know,’ Chris says. He looks at her, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘I think that’s horrible. So that’s why I’m telling you.’

  ‘There wasn’t a second phone in the safe.’

  ‘Then I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘Did your father have something to do with it? What happened to her?’

  ‘No – no,’ Chris says quickly. ‘I think he’s just … ashamed. About trying to cover it all up.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’d do that. This whole time – it’s like I didn’t know her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If she had a second phone, that fits with the drugs. God.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Chris says. ‘Doesn’t it make more sense that she had an affair, and your dad … well, you know.’

  Izzy looks at him, properly this time. She has been suspicious about Chris’s motives, about his and Tony’s staunch belief in her father’s guilt, in mud sticking, just like her father said. Everybody seemed so sure, but now she sees it for what it is: faith. Faith in the justice system. Faith in a conviction. And faith in the establishment, too, in the status quo. In self-preservation – the lies we tell ourselves.

  63

  Izzy’s life has divided into two.

  Two days ago, she and Nick were standing in the kitchen, looking at the back door. Three weeks since the break-in, her diligent, methodical husband still hadn’t reported it to the police, as he’d promised to do. ‘The thing is …’ he said, biting his lip.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  The thing was, if he reported the break-in, it would all unravel. They’d look into her father’s case. And they’d see it. Files checked out. Things looked up on systems. Every piece of information that he’d found for her. Everything he’d done for her. He’d lose his job. Maybe worse. It was an imprisonable offence, what he’d done: he had googled it.

  ‘So, what do we do?’ she says. ‘We deal with it ourselves?’

  ‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘That’s all we can do.’

  She had stared at the tap, glinting in the morning sunlight, as he had said it. But it wasn’t the only thing they could do, was it? He could come clean. It was easy to think, to expect. Harder to actually do, she knew.

  Besides, running parallel to that was Izzy’s other life. The one where she was still seeing her father, without Nick’s knowledge. The one where she was on the verge of figuring it all out.

  But, she thought, looking at the back door, its brand-new lock: she was running out of time.

  Somebody was trying to stop them. Somebody was coming for them.

  And that’s why she does it. The second he leaves the house to go to his sister’s early on Saturday morning.

  She opens the lid of his laptop, types the password, and within moments, all of the information Nick has access to as a police analyst is accessible, right in front of her.

  She looks for the CRIS icon on his desktop, but that’s when she sees it: the folder.

  Name: Gabriel.

  She opens it, not thinking of what it means. Not wanting to think.

  64

  It contains one Word document. It is what seems to be Nick’s investigation of her father’s case. All date stamped. So organized it is like reading a timeline.

  General notes: June

  Alex dragged after death – jeans rolled up in classic folds, which indicates dragging – but forensics noted that Gabriel English could have easily carried her as he is over six feet four. Query discrepancy?

  PC Bryan Michaels said on 03/11/99 (early hours) that Gabriel English displayed clear symptoms of denial. He kept asking, over and over, whether Alexandra English could be resuscitated. He spent the night sobbing in his cell, banging on the door, and asking them to try and resuscitate her, that some people have been known to be revived after minutes and hours. He suggested a defibrillator.

  Izzy has to stop reading that part. Her eyes are filmed with tears, her throat tight. Her father, in deep denial, in shock, crying in his cell over the woman he had loved so much.

  After a few moments, she begins reading again:

  No David Smiths were traced.

  June 24th

  Address of home entered on to database: no hits. Address of restaurant entered on to database. An entry was thrown up but it was shielded in 2002.

  June 28th

  Passed the file on the restaurant by colleague.

  Witness statement (whistle-blowing) of Rudy Morris, 2002: he was distributing drugs, with Marcus Scott the head dealer. Rudy claims Marcus had been trafficking heroin through the restaurant premises during 1999. Paying the owner to turn a blind eye, to cut it and clean up – commercial kitchen so cleaning easily explained.

  Jason Brewer was approached for a statement in 2002: he saw a transaction take place on Sargisson Avenue at 11.30 p.m., 1 August 2001.

  Malcolm Graham was approached for a statement in 2002: a friend of his, Ralph Thompson, had bought heroin from Rudy Morris in August 1999.

  Steve Eason was approached for a statement in 2002: his son, Oliver Eason, died in 1999 from complications after taking heroin. He confirmed this to be true but had no knowledge of the restaurant being a venue for trafficking and had never been there himself.

  Drugs ring investigation collapsed when the dealers being watched destroyed the drugs and evidence before police could get the warrant.

  That’s all it says. She sits back in the chair in shock.

  Pip’s stepfather?

  And her husband, working it out …

  But not telling her.

  65

  Izzy collects her father from his bail hostel – he’s waiting outside – and brings him back to their house. She has explained briefly already, on the phone on the way over, but her hands are shaking as she shows him the Word document. Nick. Nick. Nick. Her mind thrums with his name. What was he doing? He was collecting information in support of her father’s innocence. And trying to find out who else might have done it. Just as she was.

  But he was telling her the opposite. Why?

  Her mind is spinning with it, trying to work it out, her stomach clenched. No David Smiths traced. Her father crying in his cell. Nick’s betrayal, Nick’s betrayal, Nick’s betrayal.

  And … her mother. Her mother who seemed so smart, so together and vibrant, wrapped up in stuff that was so sordid. An affair. Sex with her brother-in-law. And now – separate from Tony, it seems to Izzy – drugs.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘Pip’s father gave evidence in this – whatever this was – this investigation, that there were drugs moving through the restaurant.’

  ‘Why would he know?’ her father says, still standing, his coat folded over his forearms, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Oliver. The brother. He died. We thought it was diabetes but it was actually heroin.’ She traces a finger over Nick’s notes. ‘But listen: he said he never went to the restaurant. But he did. We had a whole meal there. Mum served us. Remember?’

  Her father swallows, his eyes wide. He seems rattled, distracted. He met her on the steps of his bail hostel, kept looking over his shoulder up at the house. ‘So he lied to the police.’

  ‘Exactly. And why do people do that?’

  ‘Generally,’ he says, an eyebrow raised, ‘because they’re guilty.’

  ‘But not always,’ she says.

  Her father hides a smile.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ she says. ‘I don’t understand why these people were asked. How the police knew to ask Pip’s father. Why they didn’t look at your case again.’

  ‘This all happened in 2002,’ he says. ‘My appeal was in 2000.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘It’s a covert operation,’ her father says quietly, almost to himself. He puts his coat down on her kitchen table – her heart turns over at such a familial gesture, like he’s just here for a chat – and puts a hand to his chin. ‘The lads insid
e were often caught on these things.’ His voice is tight, his brow lowered. ‘It’s ring-fenced. Because there would have been a lot of convictions at stake – every dealer, every supplier – they open a secret file.’ He taps the screen. ‘Looks like your husband got the details on the restaurant from a colleague involved in it. It’s historic, so I guess it was easy.’

  ‘Start at the beginning. Explain this to me,’ Izzy says, looking up at her father.

  ‘Okay. A dealer blows the whistle on an operation. On a drugs chain. Marcus was selling, with Mum – apparently – and then with others, in different locations. Then it’s distributed to smaller dealers who sell to consumers. They start to investigate, maybe watch the dealers involved, interview people, like Steve, who might have some evidence. They were trying to get as much evidence – covertly – as possible, but it collapsed. Somebody must have alerted the dealers, and so, by the time they arrested them, the evidence was destroyed.’

  ‘Right. But why hasn’t it affected your case?’

  ‘That’s covert ops for you. The information will never, until Nick took an interest, have crossed over on to my file. No officer who investigated my murder would have any idea about this stuff. Chinese walls. And it happened so long after I was sent down.’

  ‘But … it’s so unfair.’

  ‘Well, the restaurant’s involvement was historic. And my case isn’t open. And it’s not cold. I was convicted. The police trust the justice system above anything else.’

  He walks to the sink and helps himself to a glass of water. His forehead catches the light from the kitchen window; he’s sweating.

  She continues to look at him while she thinks about Tony. So he wasn’t involved with the drugs. The police would surely have found out if he was. His affair with her mother was incidental. Just an unrelated thing, discovered because she had died. What would they find if Izzy died? A bunch of liked Instagram posts of a family none of them had heard of. Nobody would know what that family meant to her, because they are a private obsession.

  Her father is gulping his water. She appraises his slim frame, his prematurely white hair, his prisoner’s pallor, and thinks: he’s lost enough. She won’t tell him about Tony. It’s kinder not to.

  ‘Are you annoyed?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am. It seems so unfair.’

  ‘There’s only so much injustice you can take before you stop caring,’ her father says. ‘This doesn’t surprise me at all. I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘I can’t believe Mum was wrapped up in all this,’ Izzy says eventually. She blinks. Her mother isn’t Thea. And she isn’t like the Instagram family, either. She’s herself. Her flawed self. But perhaps she was trying to do the best for Izzy. To get them out of debt and to help her off to ballet school.

  ‘I know,’ he says, his tone softer now. ‘I know. But … I get it.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘She was always a misguided businesswoman. Wasn’t she?’

  Izzy thinks of the cheap wine, sold on at extortionate prices. At how amateurish her mother was at running a restaurant, but how swiftly she’d thrown herself into it, getting everyone into debt before she even knew it would work.

  ‘I don’t understand why the debts remained, though.’

  ‘You have to launder money slowly,’ her father says. ‘The cash was sitting there and, month on month, she’d launder it through the restaurant. And then, when I was inside, the house was seized to pay off the creditors.’

  ‘Oh,’ Izzy says. ‘Do you think …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think she did it – this – because … because of how much she loved us? Because she wanted to do the best for us?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ her father says quickly. ‘She loved you so fucking much, Iz. I guarantee it.’

  ‘And you,’ Izzy says simply.

  ‘And me. But, you know, relationships are … She was reckless. Wild, at times. And so she forced me to be the safe one. I loved her, but that wasn’t always easy.’

  ‘I get that,’ Izzy says, thinking how the exact opposite occurs in her relationship. ‘So …’

  ‘It seems to me that Steve is at the centre of all of this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Izzy says, thinking of the way he looked at her across the petrol station forecourt. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then it’s time to speak to him. Isn’t it?’

  Steve hasn’t moved since Izzy used to visit Pip.

  ‘Everything’s so easy, these days, isn’t it?’ her father says when Izzy types the postcode into her phone to navigate them there. ‘That little thing can do everything.’

  Steve’s house is a Victorian terrace with a blue door which has no knocker or bell. Izzy stands on the steps, her father just behind her, waiting. Wondering if they are being foolish, to do this alone. Wondering if it’s all a mistake. Wondering at his precise involvement in her mother’s death. Will he lead them to what happened to her? Does he even know himself?

  Izzy knocks softly on the wooden door. Steve answers after a few minutes, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, one brightly-coloured flip-flop on, one in his hand. He looks harassed.

  ‘Steve,’ she says to him, not knowing what else to say.

  He stares at them both, saying nothing, his eyes moving from her to Gabe and back again.

  She is just wondering how they ought to play it when her father speaks.

  ‘We’ve seen the police report about your statement from the restaurant. We know how Oliver died. I think we had better come in.’

  His face drains of colour.

  She’s read about that happening many times, but she’s never seen it before. His cheeks lose their redness. His eyes go dark, becoming red-rimmed against his white skin. Little dots of sweat appear on his upper lip, which he wipes away. His lips turn a whitish blue.

  He steps aside, both hands dropping to his sides. The green flip-flop falls to the floor. Izzy stares at him. He’s not acting like somebody who has information. He’s acting like somebody who’s done something. Who has something to hide.

  As soon as they are inside, the door shut behind them, her father, always two steps ahead of everyone, says it. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Steve stares at them, in the darkness of his hallway. And then he speaks, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘How did you know?’

  66

  Izzy stands there, her whole body buzzing with shock. It was him. He killed her mother.

  The hall is huge but empty. Izzy looks at the floor. It used to be scattered with boys’ trainers and school bags, but there’s nothing now.

  The only sign he’s ever had a family is a framed black-and-white photograph above a corner table by the door. Pip. There he is. She takes a step closer; she can’t help herself. He has lines around his eyes. A receding hairline. The man who ghosted her when her mother died.

  ‘I don’t care any more,’ Steve says, standing at the end of the hallway. He turns away from them, his frame heavy underneath his too-small T-shirt, and leads them into his kitchen, though Izzy knows exactly where it is, knows to step down and turn to the left as they enter.

  They sit at the table. Izzy can see Pip’s old annex out in the garden. She can’t stop looking at it.

  Steve seems to dither over offering them a drink, then sits with them instead, his hands empty. ‘I want to tell you everything,’ he says. He runs a hand though his hair. It used to be dark, where Pip’s was golden, but now it’s almost all white, like her father’s. ‘I don’t care what happens to me.’

  ‘It was you,’ Izzy says, unable to stop looking at him. ‘And you let me think it was my dad.’

  Steve had been looking at her intently but, at that, his gaze slides down to the table. He says nothing for a few minutes. ‘Pip really loved you, you know,’ he says.

  More memories. Watching movies in the snug together. Steve making cinnamon hot chocolate, with far too much spice in. It had been disgusting. ‘Who’s going to tell him?’ Pip had said,
and they’d all laughed.

  And then, without saying anything else, Steve leans forward, puts his head in his hands and cries. His back shakes, his elbows rattle the wobbly table. A spoon falls from its perch across a sugar bowl and on to the surface.

  Izzy watches him, not sure what to say. Her father’s hands are knotted together, she notices, the bones showing.

  Steve lets out a kind of frustrated sigh, almost a shout. ‘I knew this would come,’ he says. ‘I knew you’d come. I’m relieved you’re here. I have been in prison, just like you,’ Steve says, a kind of manic elation in his voice. ‘Waiting for this to happen.’

  ‘What happened?’ Gabe says. His tone is short, that clipped tone he sometimes uses. He’s sitting straight, still with his Matalan coat on, staring at Steve, who opens his mouth and begins to speak.

  Haltingly, hesitantly at first.

  And then louder, and clearer.

  ‘I never meant to kill her,’ he begins.

  67

  Hallowe’en, Sunday 31 October 1999: the night of Alex’s murder

  Steve

  ‘I’ve been following you,’ Steve said to Alex. ‘I’ve been following you for weeks.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Alex said, squinting into the gloom. She was in the shipping container, where he knew she’d be. He could see her red hair and her white face, but nothing else. He moved towards her and saw the precise moment she recognized him.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. She drew a little package into her pocket, out of sight.

  ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  ‘Watching me?’ she said, bringing a pink hand to her chest. She was wearing a coat, but had it unbuttoned, exposing her white skin to the winter air. She reached for the key to the container, lying on Gabriel’s stool.