by S K Sharp
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Do you understand why you’ve been asked to give this statement?’
I show him my phone, where I typed body Robbins Wordsworth Park into the search engine on my way here:
Thirty-five-year mystery of missing father solved.
Police have confirmed that remains uncovered during construction of the Wordsworth Park leisure centre in north-west London last month are those of missing businessman Arthur Robbins. Robbins, who disappeared in 1985 leaving behind a wife and teenage son …
Detective Scott gives me a searching look. I tried not to think about it on the way here and so, of course, I couldn’t think about anything else: how could Arthur Robbins’ body stay hidden for thirty-five years in a place like Wordsworth Park, which really isn’t all that big and where a hundred people walk their dogs every day? It didn’t make sense until I saw the boarded-up building site as I came out of the station. Thirty-five years ago, the same ground was a different building site. Parklands was about to go up.
‘You found him when you pulled down the old Youth Centre.’
‘And why would you say that, Ms Walker?’
‘You’re asking about the night of 9th June. Whatever happened to him, it happened on that night.’ 9th June 1985: Arty Robbins had hired the Mary Shelley for a private party. It was his fiftieth birthday and he’d invited half the neighbourhood.
‘And how would you know that, Ms Walker?’
‘Because they poured the foundations for Parklands the next morning. We stopped to watch on the way in to school. I remember it …’ I can take myself back there if I want. I can see the site change, day by day as I walk past it every morning and afternoon.
‘We?’
‘Look, Declan was with me for the whole of that evening, from when his family showed up at the Shelley until after midnight. I know you’d already started looking for Arty Robbins by then because there was a policeman in my house when I got back home, asking about him. Declan and I were together the whole time. So … I’m sorry, but he’s not the one you’re looking for.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising when it’s the police who’ve arrested the wrong person.
Detective Scott cocks his head. ‘What do you mean – we’d already started looking for Arthur Robbins?’
‘I just told you: there was a policeman at my house when I got home. He was asking about Mr Robbins.’
Detective Scott pretends to consult his notes. ‘Ms Walker, what was your relationship with Declan Robbins in 1985?’
‘How do you know Arty Robbins didn’t just … fall?’ I remember that hole in the ground where Parklands was going to be. There weren’t any fences, nothing to stop people getting onto the building site if they wanted to – not like there are today. We used to go there all the time. Declan’s mate, Gary, used to smoke weed there after dark with his friends. Declan too, sometimes.
‘That’s not something I can discuss, Ms Walker.’ Detective Scott is looking right into me. ‘Your relationship with Declan Robbins?’
‘I was his girlfriend.’
‘Ms Walker, before we go on, I would like to note for the recording that Mr Robbins claims, in his own statement, that you have an exceptional memory and that your account of that night is liable to be more detailed and accurate than his own.’ He raises an eyebrow and I see he doesn’t believe it. ‘A gift, he called it.’
‘I wouldn’t really call it a gift. But yes, I can tell you exactly what happened that night.’
Detective Scott flashes me a condescending smile. I’m about to shrug it off – I’m used to it, get it all the time – but then he says, ‘I must warn you, Ms Walker, that fabrication of evidence may be taken as perverting the course of justice, an offence under the—’
‘It’s called hyperthymesia,’ I snap. ‘Google it. There are a few dozen of us in the world.’ As a matter of fact, there are probably quite a lot more, but it’s not easy to get a diagnosis. ‘I saw three different memory specialists when I was in my twenties. There’s a paper about a group of us in an American medical journal. I can give you the names of the consultants I saw. You can look them up if you don’t believe me. I can give you the number for my old therapist, too, if you like. She’s the one who helped me … come to terms with it, I suppose you’d say. Every day of my life, every detail, they all exist in here.’ I tap the side of my head. ‘I’m not like you, Detective. I can tell you what I ate for dinner on 17th September 2002. I can tell you what my mother said when I came home from school after I sat my history A-level …’ I want to go on – to tell him it’s so much more than a party trick, that it’s the single defining factor of my life – but my words peter out.
Detective Scott’s scepticism doesn’t change. ‘So, what: you just remember … everything?’
‘Like I’m right there.’ With all the baggage and all the feelings.
‘So I could ask you what day it was on, say, 11th February 1995?’
I have to think for a moment. Sometimes it’s right there in an instant, at other times it can be like leafing through the pages of a book. Dad’s one-way trip to the hospital was months away. Things weren’t going well with Declan. Valentine’s Day was a disaster that year …
There it is. Music flurries up in my head – the sound of my radio alarm that morning. Bloody Celine Dion singing ‘Think Twice’.
‘Saturday.’
‘Very good, but—’
‘The weather was miserable but Declan and I went out for breakfast at the café down the road anyway. It was called Annabel’s. I had poached eggs but they were overcooked and both the yolks were hard. They burnt one side of my toast, too. Declan spilt his coffee. Outside the café window were three blue Ford Fiestas, all lined up in a row. We thought that was funny. The couple at the table next to us sat in silence the whole time we were there. I remember I spent half the morning later thinking how I never wanted Declan and me to end up that way, and how we were already halfway there. If you want something you can double-check, there was a Space Shuttle landing on the news – I don’t know which one – and Mark Foster won a gold medal in some swimming competition. I think he set a World Record.’
I take a deep breath. Yes, I can feel it now. The certainty. For all the trouble it causes me, my memory is a rock of surety. I can tell this man exactly what happened on the night Arty Robbins disappeared. I can help Declan, because I know where he was and I know he’s no killer.
‘I lost my virginity that night in 1985, Detective Scott. I probably remember it more clearly than you remember what you had for breakfast this morning.’
Detective Scott gives me a sour look. ‘I didn’t have breakfast this morning.’
‘And I didn’t have to come here.’
We glower at each other, and then Detective Scott raises his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘My apologies, Ms Walker, but, to be honest, one of the first things you learn in this job is how unreliable memory can be – how two people’s recollections of the same event hours earlier can be very, very different. You’d be amazed at how much embellishment we can conjure out of absolutely nothing, quite unintentionally. People convince themselves, after the fact, that something must have been a certain way; and then later, when asked to recall the events they witnessed, they genuinely think that a whole bunch of stuff they made up is what they actually saw. Over long periods of time, memories of different events in the same place can mix together. It can seem like two things happened on the same night when actually they were years apart – just in the same place under the same sort of conditions. You see what I’m getting at, Ms Walker? And you’re sitting here telling me that you can remember, with perfect clarity, something that happened nearly thirty-five years ago? I hope you can understand why a jury might have doubts.’
I’m tired and off-kilter and I want this to be over, so I can go home. ‘Detective Scott, you may think you know how memory works but you don’t. I spent most of my twenties and thirties talking to experts. Would you like me to relate the conve
rsations we had? The explanations I was given? I can do that, if you like, although you’ll need a bigger tape recorder. I’ve had scans and tests until I was blue in the face. I know about impressionistic memory and embellishment and cross-synthesis. When I got home from seeing Declan that night, the clock on the mantelpiece in the lounge said seven minutes past midnight. I’m perfectly aware that when I see a clock that says seven minutes past midnight, I have no more idea than anyone else whether that clock happens to be stopped or running late, or set to Timbuktu time and—’
‘I’m not suggesting that you’re—’ He’s annoyed at me now but I don’t care.
‘Yes, you are.’ I just want to go home. ‘At some point you’re going to suggest that perhaps I remember seeing the clock on the mantelpiece on some other day; or that when I tell you I saw Declan from my bedroom window, it wasn’t that same night; or that the dress Mum was wearing might have been—’
‘Are you really that confident of your memory?’
What do I have to do to prove myself? ‘Would it help if I tell you what everyone wore to the party that night? Mum’s dress was a dark purple. It had lines of black spots, long sleeves, big shoulders. Tight at the waist. Dad was in a black polo-neck shirt and a leather jacket, like he thought he was the Milk Tray man—’
‘Arthur Robbins,’ says Detective Scott. ‘What was he wearing?’
I picture Arty Robbins in the Shelley that night. ‘Pale-blue jacket. Blue jeans. Levi 501s, I think. Some sort of white shirt. I never saw him with his jacket off so I don’t know whether it was a polo shirt, but it probably was. Brown leather cowboy boots. They looked old, like he’d had them for ages. They had a design on them. Some kind of snake. A rattlesnake, I think. I remember he had a belt with a big silver buckle, too. I didn’t see what it was.’ Flash clothes, flash car. He wanted to stand out, wanted everyone to know he was loaded …
Detective Scott’s face changes. His posture shifts. The bored ennui is suddenly gone and I have his attention. We watch each other in silence and then, very slowly, he nods.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Well?’
‘Do you want me to tell you about the night Declan’s father disappeared or not?’
‘Yes, please, Ms Walker,’ says Detective Scott. ‘I think that would be very helpful.’
2
Saturday 8th June 1985
I’m standing in the alley that runs behind the back of my house, far enough from where it opens onto Shelley Street that no one will see us unless they look. No one ever actually comes down here except me and Dec because it’s all overgrown with brambles and ivy and full of insects and spiders. It’s a perfect summer evening and Dec’s arms are around me, the two of us crushed together and kissing. I feel his tongue flickering over my lips, which is weird but sort of nice, and so I open my mouth a bit too, and feel how that excites him even more. His hand on my back slips slowly downwards as if he thinks it’s some sort of ninja hand and that if it’s stealthy enough then maybe I won’t notice, which makes me want to laugh.
He pulls away just an inch and murmurs ‘I love you, Nix!’ which I know perfectly well is supposed to distract me from his ninja hand but kind of makes me melt inside anyway. I draw back one arm from where it’s draped around his shoulders and reach behind me. I feel him tense as I grab his wrist, the disappointment already building. This time I can’t stop myself. There it is, the little giggle.
He pulls back, hurt. He’s probably about to say something – almost certainly the wrong something – so I don’t let him. I step into him and lace my fingers through his hair. I feel a delicious shiver go through him, and then it’s my turn as he presses me against him and I know exactly how much he wants me.
He tugs my blouse free of my skirt. His other hand slips inside. I feel his fingers on my back, hot and electric. There’s a delicious warmth in my belly and I know I ought to stop, but the thing is, I don’t want to stop. We’ve been going out for two months now and I think I’m ready. Just … not in an alley full of insects and brambles.
The hand on my back is sliding around my ribs. I kiss him harder, like I’m somehow not noticing, and let him cop a feel for a moment, just long enough for him to think he’s getting away with it, before I break away.
He doesn’t complain. I should hope not, too. He knows perfectly well I’ve let him go a whole lot further than we usually do.
‘I love you, Nicky Walker,’ he says again, this time with a cheesy grin. To be honest, it works just as well as it did the first time.
‘You are a lot better than homework,’ I say back, which makes him laugh, and then I laugh too, and then I’m kissing him again before I even have time to think about it, and I have to stop myself before we end up doing it behind a bush at the back of someone’s garden. I want our first time to be a better memory than that.
Dec looks sort of sad and distracted when I pull away. At first I think it’s because I’m not going to have sex with him, although it’s a bit daft to imagine that our first time would be in an alley. But then he sighs and I realise it’s not about that at all. ‘I’ve got to talk to you about something.’
‘What?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s not a big deal, but …’ He trails off. ‘Tomorrow, maybe. At Dad’s thing. You’re coming, right?’
Dad’s thing being a party at our local pub, the Mary Shelley, which belongs to Dec’s granddad, Vincent Robbins. My best friend Kat’s mum works there on account of Kat’s real dad – the one who walked out of her life before she was even born – having been Dec’s dad’s little brother, and all the Robbinses being so big on looking out for family. My own mum helps out too, sometimes. Anyway, Vincent is throwing a party tomorrow for Dec’s dad’s fiftieth birthday or something like that, and all their friends are invited, even if – as Dad says – friends means everyone in a mile radius. But then maybe they are all friends. The Robbinses have lived in Wordsworth Park since forever and they’re loaded. Everyone knows Dec’s dad. Arty Robbins is a parish councillor and a school governor and all sorts …
Arty Robbins has a secret, mind you. And I know it.
‘Mum’s helping out,’ I say. I look away and then slowly look back, doing my best at a sultry Madonna come-hither look. ‘Actually, Mum and Dad are probably going to be there all night. Your mum and dad too, I reckon.’ I have plans for tomorrow night, you see.
Dec licks his lips. His eyes narrow. ‘Reckon so,’ he growls. It’s about the worst Clint Eastwood impression imaginable but it makes me smile. I hug him and then we’re kissing again, and it takes an age before I tear myself away and skip down the alley. When I look back, Dec is still there, watching me.
I’m at the gate into our back garden when I hear a noise from Kat’s house next door. I can’t see anything, but it’s a man’s voice, low and throaty, and I know exactly who it is, which makes him the last person I want to meet sneaking around out here.
‘I’m going to keep these.’
Here’s the secret: Dec’s dad, Arty, and Kat’s mum are having an affair. I’ve known since I saw him sneak up next door’s garden from the alley two weeks ago while I was standing at the bathroom window. I mean, I didn’t know that was what he was doing there, not the first time, but I’ve seen him again since, and heard a couple of things, too; and no, I haven’t seen them doing it, thank God, but why else is Arty Robbins sneaking in through the back garden when he’s Kat’s uncle and they’ve all known each other for years and years and he could simply go in the front if there wasn’t something he was trying to hide?
Which makes it all really weird, because Kat is my best friend and Dec is my boyfriend, and Kat and Dec are cousins, and I’m the only one who knows about Dec’s dad and Kat’s mum, and what am I supposed to do?
‘And you, sex-kitten, you can go draughty down below until next time, to help you remember what we just did.’ Arty Robbins laughs. It’s not a nice laugh but then I never liked him. No matter what everyone else thinks, there’s something not ri
ght about Dec’s dad.
And that’s the thing, because I don’t think Dec likes his dad either, but everyone else thinks he’s the bee’s knees and I don’t want to cause trouble. It’s just … I don’t know. Should I tell someone about what I know? But who?
He’s coming this way. He’ll use the alley to sneak away because that’s what he always does, and now I can’t decide whether to dash for the gate into our garden – which means he might hear me – or go back the other way and hide. Bloody Kat! She told me her mum was working at the Shelley tonight, which was great because it meant I could see Dec and pretend I was at her place, but it also meant I wasn’t expecting Dec’s dad; and now apparently Kat’s mum isn’t working at the Shelley after all, which means I’d better not tell Mum I’ve been at Kat’s house revising for next week’s exams in case she decides to check, which means I have to come up with another story about where I’ve been, and pronto.
I go for the gate, open it as quietly as I can and slip out of the alley, holding my breath as Arty Robbins hurries away. I lurk behind the garage for a few minutes, wondering what to tell Mum about where I’ve been, then head up the garden path. The best thing would be if she’s in the lounge and I could slip in quietly enough that she doesn’t hear.
No dice: Mum’s in the kitchen as I come through the back door. She looks up, startled. I’m instantly on guard because her face looks like something really bad has happened – either that or she’s thinking really hard about something, which probably means it’s something to do with me. And now I’m wondering if her secret mum-radar already knows where I’ve been or, worse, she’s worked out my plan to slip away with Dec from the party tomorrow night.
‘Mum … what is it?’ The way she’s staring is starting to freak me out.
‘Nothing, love.’ She turns away. ‘Just looking at you, that’s all.’
She doesn’t ask where I’ve been, which sets off about another hundred alarms in my head because she always asks, and that look was definitely not nothing. ‘I was in the park with some friends,’ I say. There’s really no way for Mum to check but I still have this dread that somehow she knows I’m lying.