by S K Sharp
‘No. Although whoever it was, they were a bit taller than me. Not huge or anything, but definitely taller.’
‘OK. Right. These photographs. I don’t doubt they were there, Ms Walker, or that they’re now missing. It’s just, you don’t have any proof, and I’m wondering: why would someone put themselves at risk when we already have a set of those pictures in evidence?’
The scepticism in his voice should be a warning but I plunge on regardless. ‘You don’t have all the pictures – only the ones Kat’s mum didn’t throw away. She still had the negatives. I took them to be developed.’
‘Negatives?’ I see a flash of annoyance. ‘Right. So there are more pictures than the ones we collected – ones that you claim may be critical to this case – and now they’re gone. Have I got that right?’
I bow my head.
‘How many keys do you have?’
‘Four. I have one.’ I pat my bag. ‘There’s a spare in the flat. It’s still there. Kat has one and Mum has one as well. You know, just in case …’
‘All accounted for?’
I nod.
‘Any visitors in the last couple of weeks who might have had access to the spare you keep at home?’
I shake my head.
‘Really? No one?’
I feel stupid, but it’s been months since I had anyone in my flat.
Detective Scott flicks a glance towards my bag. ‘Would it have been possible for anyone else to gain access to your key recently, without your knowledge?’
‘I …’
‘You were with Declan Robbins last night, correct?’
‘I … yes.’
‘And you stayed overnight?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this morning, he was already gone when you woke up?’
I nod.
‘What time was that?’
‘About …’ I see where this is going. ‘What: Dec got up early, took my key, copied it, brought it back, left again and then, instead of going straight to my flat to take the photographs while he knew for sure I wouldn’t be there, he hung around so that he was still there when I got home?’
‘Unlikely, granted. Has he had access to your keys previously?’
‘No!’ But he has. He could have taken them last week, when I went to see him. Except that he never went out, so how could he have made a copy? And why?
My head is spinning – memories of last night and of all the nights Dec and I had together, and of this morning, and of my phone on the table instead of in my pocket, and of the way Anne Robbins looked at me when I asked about that night.
Detective Scott gives me a look with a lot of sharp edges. ‘Let’s move on to the part where you decided you were going to do our job for us. These photographs. Who knew you had them?’
‘Kat,’ I say. I can’t look at him. ‘And … and Dec.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, obviously Mrs Clarke knew I had them.’
‘Right.’ He makes some notes. ‘You said you had two sets developed. Where’s the other one?’
‘My mum has them, unless she’s given them back to Mrs Clarke.’ I almost tell him I’ve already looked through them and that the ones from the end of the party are missing, but I think I’ve already stretched as far as it will go his willingness to indulge me.
‘I take it the negatives are gone?’
I nod.
‘Right. What I want you to do, Ms Walker, is go home and wait for uniformed officers to take a formal statement – as I already asked you to do earlier. From your account, we’re talking about robbery and assault. Print out the delivery statement and any other documentation you have for those photographs. We’ll take it from here. And, Ms Walker, please leave the police-work to the real policemen in future. We’ll be taking statements from Mr Barclay and Mrs Clarke as soon as possible.’
‘Don’t you need to send some specialists or something, to take fingerprints?’
Detective Scott takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. ‘Don’t touch anything until the officers arrive, OK? Now, Ms Walker, I’m going to ask again: where is Declan Robbins?’
‘I don’t know.’
The memory of the curtains in Dec’s room burns me. Someone opened them in the night, between the time when I saw Dec leave and when I woke up the next morning …
‘Ms Walker?’
I snap back into the present. ‘Sorry!’
‘Do you have any idea – any idea at all – where Declan Robbins might have gone? It’s vital that he turns himself in.’
I’m about to tell him the honest truth: that I don’t have a clue, that I’m as bewildered as anyone, that I can’t imagine him leaving his mum in the state she’s in … and then I realise it’s not true. I do have an idea where he might have gone. Scotland. Harris Lodge. The card I saw on the table when he invited me to dinner. It wasn’t there last night.
‘No,’ I say. ‘None.’ And then, ‘Have you investigated Arty Robbins’ brother?’
‘Daniel Robbins? We made some enquiries. Unfortunately he passed—’
‘Thirty-odd years ago, in a bike accident. I know, but that was long after Arty Robbins was killed. Did you know he was Katherine Clarke’s biological father?’
Silence hangs between us. Detective Scott is trying to lure more words out of me, but I’m wise to that trick.
‘No,’ he says at last.
‘Declan’s mum seems to think Daniel Robbins was at that party back in 1985.’
‘I’m aware of Mrs Robbins’ statement.’ The way he says it, with a sardonic curl to his lips, it’s like he doesn’t believe a word of it.
‘No one else seems to know a thing about it. I certainly don’t remember anyone mentioning him, and given that Daniel Robbins had been estranged from his family for fifteen years, it seems that him coming back would have been a big deal.’
Detective Scott shrugs. ‘So Daniel Robbins wasn’t there.’
‘But why would she make up something like that? What if he was there, but hiding?’ What if he’s the face hiding in Chloe Clarke’s photographs?
Detective Scott sighs. ‘I’d like to go back for a moment to an earlier statement that you gave, if that’s OK?’ he says at last. ‘Can you describe again what Declan Robbins was wearing that night?’
I tell him. He checks his notes.
‘That’s exactly what you said before.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I remember saying it.’
He makes a note. I wonder whether it says: That Walker woman is a liar. ‘Did Declan Robbins change his clothes at any point, that you’re aware of?’
‘I … don’t know. His shirt, probably.’
‘His shirt?’
‘There was blood on it. I remember his dad’s hand-print.’ I shudder. ‘I assume he put on a different one when he left.’
‘But you didn’t see?’
‘He had a sweater on.’ Why is he asking about Dec changing his clothes?
‘What sort of sweater?’
‘Some white thing.’ I close my eyes and go back to that night, standing at the window looking down onto Byron Road. ‘No, not a sweater. It was a tracksuit top.’ I need Detective Scott to go and talk to Kat and Gary. I need him to start believing me. ‘Detective, I don’t know if it means anything, but I saw something the next day. It didn’t mean much before, but … When I came down for breakfast, Dad’s jacket had streaks of mud on it. That orangey clay mud.’ I don’t need to explain – he knows I mean mud from the building site. ‘I had other things on my mind at the time, but …’ Sorry, Dad, but I need the detective to start looking at someone who isn’t Dec. ‘It was a black leather jacket. That’s all I can remember.’
Detective Scott gives me a long, hard look. ‘I see.’
He’s not writing any of this down so I go for the kill. ‘There’s one more thing. Katherine. She was with Gary Barclay in the park that night. Last week she told me it was my dad they saw on their way back to the Shelley, not Arty Robbins. She tol
d me earlier today that she remembers seeing Dec when she left the Shelley again late that night, too. He was outside. It was past midnight.’
Detective Scott narrows his eyes. He knows I’m playing him but he can’t quite see how. Well, fine. I’m hardly going to spell it out for him, but Kat will tell him she thinks it was Dad she saw in the park, and he’ll put that together with the mud on Dad’s jacket …
Anything to save Dec – is that it?
I suppose it is.
Detective Scott takes another note and gets up to leave. He doesn’t offer to shake my hand. ‘Go home, Ms Walker. We’ll have some officers with you later this evening. And, Ms Walker …’ He pauses, waiting until he knows he has my full attention.
‘Yes?’
‘I have to warn you that the obstruction of justice is a serious charge, as is withholding information from the police. I’m going to ask you one more time—’
‘I really don’t know where he is.’ I look him in the eye until he gives a little nod. Then I watch him go. I haven’t made him happy.
When I reach my flat, an hour later, Kat is squatting against the front door and I’m so pleased to see her. She’s exactly what I need. The one person I can always depend on.
‘Kat—’
‘You fucking bitch,’ she says.
I stare, dumbfounded, hearing the tremor in her voice. She looks awful. Her eyes are red from crying. ‘What? Kat, what’s happened? What—’
‘You told the police about me and Arty. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone and you did!’
‘I had to! I—’
‘I was fifteen. It was thirty-five fucking years ago! You think I’m proud of it? The police have been on the phone to Gary as well. They’re poking about where he works, asking where he was this morning. He’s a fucking wreck. What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Kat, I’m—’
‘What? You’re sorry? Here’s a thought for you: stop being sorry and start being fucking different. Why are the police going after Gary? What did you say?’
‘You told me you didn’t tell anyone about you and Arty, but I saw the way Gary looked at you the weekend before last. He knew! He knew, Kat.’
‘Yes. He did! Of course he did. I told you that no one knew then – not ever! Gary knows about what Arty did to me because I told him. I told him after I told him I was pregnant with Max and he asked if I’d marry him, and I thought he should know what he was getting. Ten years after it happened, Nicky. Ten fucking years later, and I remember it like it was yesterday – the way I suppose you remember everything – because it was the scariest thing I ever did. So no, Gary didn’t kill Arty in some mad crime of passion or revenge or whatever, because I promise you, he did not already know any of it until I told him.’
‘I—’
‘I called Gary’s office. He was there all morning. He’s got a pile of witnesses. It wasn’t him in your flat, OK? But you know that, because you already know who did do it; you just don’t want to admit it.’
‘Kat—!’
‘Don’t! You’re not the only one who has nightmares because of things that happened years ago. You’re not the only one to have memories you wish you could forget. You don’t need to have some special condition for that, you know?’
We stare at each other. There are tear-streaks on her cheeks. We’ve been friends for nearly forty years.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she says. ‘I’ve been there for you through thick and thin, since we were teenagers. Dec’s my cousin, but I took your side when you left him because you were my friend. It didn’t even make any sense – you leaving the way you did. What did he do wrong? He was nothing but good to you and you fucked him over and I still stood by you. I’ve always been there for you. I really don’t understand you. I really don’t.’ She wipes away a tear. ‘Is it jealousy? You screwed up your own life, so now you want to fuck up mine, too?’
Three-quarters of my life. Kat’s all I’ve got left and I can’t let this happen, but I don’t know what to do.
‘Kat, when you were with your mum yesterday, looking at those photographs, were there only three films or were there four?’ I can’t stop myself. ‘Did you take one?’
The look she gives me is one of utter contempt.
‘There were four films, Nicola. And no, I didn’t take one.’
She walks away.
‘Kat! Kat!’
I stand in the doorway after she’s gone, numb, the hurt in her voice echoing inside my head; and Mum’s hurt, too, as she got into that taxi. I’ll have these moments with me forever, undiminished. And for what? Dec’s still out there, on the run. I’m no closer to knowing who really killed Arty Robbins.
I go inside. Chairman is curled on the bed. I sink beside him and start to cry.
20
Wednesday 12th February 2020, 8.00 p.m.
Hi, this is the answering service for Kat and Gary. We’re sorry we can’t take your call right now, but we’re either out stuffing our faces or too busy getting naughty to be answering questions about double glazing we don’t need or the accident in which we were innocent – in which, frankly, we probably weren’t even involved. If you’re a real person, then call my mobile. The message ends with a giggle.
I’m lying on my bed with Chairman curled beside me, fast asleep. I envy him. I’ve tried Kat’s mobile half a dozen times and left three messages telling her how sorry I am, but she doesn’t want to talk to me. I have three missed calls on my mobile from work. The police haven’t come to talk to me about the break-in and I won’t sleep a wink here tonight, but Mum doesn’t want me and I doubt Kat’s invitation still stands.
I suppose Gary could have lied to Kat about being in the office all morning, but I don’t see how he could fool the police. I suppose Kat could be lying about that night at the Shelley, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t have spent the whole night with him. Mrs Clarke obviously didn’t believe our story about being out in the park, but it would have been all-out nuclear war if Kat hadn’t come home until the morning. Gary could have gone back later, found Arty Robbins and …
But then I could say the same for Dec, or for Dad, or for anyone; and it’s Dec’s DNA under Arty Robbins’ fingernails, and I’m right back to Kat’s question: where did Arty Robbins go for all that time?
What can be in those photos that someone doesn’t want me to see? Yet there must be something, otherwise why steal them? It doesn’t make sense.
I need to see that fourth film of photographs. I need to know what happened to them – why Mum only came with three. Someone had to have taken them last night, and that means it was Mum or Kat or Chloe Clarke. It must be Kat protecting Gary, or Mum protecting Dad, or Chloe Clarke protecting … I don’t know.
I get up, put on a coat and jumper, take my keys and head out. The street outside is dark. I walk quickly, looking back over my shoulder every few seconds in case there’s someone following me. There isn’t, of course, but I only relax when I reach the lights of the High Street and the bus station. I should have called a taxi.
There’s a minicab office by the station. Ten minutes later, I’m in the back of an old Ford that smells of stale cigarette smoke. A week ago I wouldn’t have touched a taxi like this with a bargepole – not with all the stories you hear – but now … now this feels safer than going by bus.
I call Mum.
‘Nicola?’ I hear the sigh in her voice. She sounds drained.
‘I’m sorry about earlier.’
‘Yes, well.’ Which is Mum’s way of saying she’ll pretend it’s all forgiven and forgotten, because that’s what’s expected of mothers; but actually it isn’t either of those things.
Half an hour later, my taxi stops at the end of Byron Road. I pay the driver, then get out my phone and pretend to make a call until he pulls away. Once he’s gone, I knock on Chloe Clarke’s door; but there are no lights on inside the house, and no one answers.
Now what?
I can remember the number for the house-
phone, but I’ve never known the number for her mobile. Kat would know it, but Kat won’t talk to me. Mum probably knows it too, but I don’t want to bother her again. Besides, I know Mum. She writes all her phone numbers on the old Rolodex she’s had since before Dad died, which she keeps on the desk in the conservatory …
I walk to the alley that runs behind our house and duck inside. It’s pitch-black and I have to use the light from my phone to see where I’m going. I half expect an impassable mess of brambles and rubbish – a few more decades of accumulated neglect – but it’s no worse than it ever was. There’s still a shopping trolley and an old bicycle, just not the ones I remember.
I pick my way to the gate into our back garden, reach over and fumble for the latch. The bolt slides back, creaking a little but not rusted solid. One good shove and I slip through. It’s been a long time since I was out here: the lawn is smaller, half devoured by Mum’s conservatory, and Dad’s vegetable patch has been replaced by flower beds and a rockery. The garage is where it always was, with its collection of ancient plant pots tucked behind it. Most of them are empty. A couple are filled with earth and the dead stems of some shrub or other.
The flowerpot I remember is long gone, replaced and renewed, but I’m guessing Mum’s habits haven’t changed. And I’m right: under the third pot, I find a key.
I check the time. Five past nine, which means I probably have a good hour or so before Mum and Dave come back from wherever they’ve gone. I could wait, I suppose, but I don’t want to.
I open the back door and tiptoe inside, creeping like a mouse even though I know there’s no one at home. I force myself to relax and turn on the kitchen light, which makes me feel a lot less like a burglar. I head to the dining room and through into the conservatory, and there it is: Mum’s Rolodex, right there on the desk in the same place it’s always been.
I flip through until I find Chloe Clarke, but Mum only has the number for her house-phone.
Shit!
And now I don’t know what to do, so I go into the lounge to sit down and think, and probably to wait for Mum and Dave to come home; and there they are, on the coffee table, the wallets of Chloe Clarke’s photographs. One, two, three, four!