Am I Guilty?

by Jackie Kabler

  The change Karen Ballerton, the therapist, had made in my daughter had lasted precisely eight days, I calculated, trying to give myself something else to think about for a moment, to distract myself – I felt on the verge of joining in with Nell’s hysteria, and that would help nobody.

  Even worse, Rupert would be here shortly to collect her – he normally picked her up from school on a Wednesday, but today he’d been delayed – and the thought of him arriving while she was in this state horrified me.

  I wasn’t even totally sure what had precipitated this outburst – she had come home from school in a perfectly normal mood, drunk a glass of milk and eaten two chocolate chip cookies, and then happily sat down at the dining room table to do her homework. My mobile had rung just as I was about to join her, my solicitor calling to clarify a few small points about my case, and I’d chatted quietly to him, moving away to stand by the window, not wanting to disturb my daughter’s concentration. It was only when I finally sat down, too, muttering that I needed to send a follow-up email, that Nell suddenly began to fly into a rage.

  ‘Do it somewhere else, Mum! That tapping noise is SO ANNOYING!’

  I’d looked down at my keyboard and back at Nell, surprised. I didn’t think I was a particularly heavy-handed typist, and I’d often sat there working while she did her homework across the table from me.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I didn’t realize it irritated you, I can—’

  ‘OH, FORGET IT! I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS STUPID HOMEWORK ANYWAY!’

  She swiped violently at her school books, sending them crashing to the floor, and then the tears began, as my daughter stomped around the room, kicking chairs and howling, before slumping to the floor in a sobbing heap, refusing to let me anywhere near her.

  Now, I stood over her, my gut twisting with misery, fists clenched. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t just grief over her brother’s death, there was something else going on here. I suddenly wondered if it was the call from my solicitor. Had she been listening in, as we’d chatted briefly about the upcoming trial? Was it that that was frightening her? Could she be that scared of me going to prison? I mentally kicked myself. Idiot. Why hadn’t I left the room to take the call?

  We had talked to Nell about the chances of me going to jail, both Rupert and I, regularly over the past few months, tried to reassure her that it was unlikely, but that if the worst happened that it probably wouldn’t be for long (this with crossed fingers – we both knew that if things went wrong, I could get years) and that she would be well looked after by Daddy while I was … while I was away. She’d seemed to take it in her stride, but now I thought that maybe my tough-acting little daughter was more affected by the prospect than we had realized. The thought sent a wave of guilt through me, my chest tightening. I wiped a bead of sweat from my top lip and reached for her again.

  ‘Nell, darling, please … come here.’

  She lifted her face from her knees, and the pain in her eyes was almost more than I could stand.

  ‘Mummy, I’m scared …’

  ‘Oh Nell. My darling, darling Nell. What is it? What are you frightened of?’

  She gulped, and swallowed, wiping a hand across her face.

  ‘I don’t want you to go to jail.’

  Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, and my chest tightened further, a physical pain now. I’d been right, and it was unbearable. I sank to the floor and pulled her towards me, wrapping her tightly in my arms, and now she wasn’t resisting, her body shaking with fresh sobs, her face buried in my neck. I rocked gently back and forth, stroking her soft curls, murmuring in her ear.

  ‘Everything will be all right, Nell, I promise you. Everything’s going to work out just fine. Don’t cry, baby, please. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It will all be OK, Nell …’

  But would it, really? As I tried to comfort my trembling daughter, anger began to rise inside me, a hot rush of rage mixed with fear and, now, something akin to despair. Why had I said what I’d said to Annabelle earlier? We weren’t even close, so why on earth had I told her what I was increasingly thinking – that someone else, not me, was responsible for all this pain, this grief? She must have thought I was barking mad, and who would blame her, maybe I was. And if I doubted myself – if even I didn’t entirely believe what I was saying about what happened the day Zander died, then how on earth could I expect anyone else to? I knew, though, that now I’d come this far, in my thought process if nothing else, I had to keep going. I had to think, logically, about that day, about the timescale, timeline, whatever it was called in those TV cop dramas. I had to work out if Rupert would have had time …

  ‘Mummy? Mum? I’m OK now. You’re squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe!’

  Nell was trying to wriggle out of my arms, eyes puffy and red but a hint of a smile back on her face.

  ‘Oh darling, I’m sorry, I was miles away! Are you sure …?’

  She was standing up now, straightening the tunic of her school uniform, looking down at me and nodding.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Shall I finish my homework and then can we watch Friends? Please?’

  I clambered to my feet and laughed, massively relieved at this sudden return to normality. Nell had only recently discovered Friends, and would sit, captivated and giggling, in front of the endless reruns on one of the satellite TV channels for hours if I let her. I didn’t mind too much to be honest – I was quite a fan myself, and often joined her if I needed an hour of escapism.

  ‘Of course. I’d love a Friends binge actually. I’ll take my laptop into the kitchen so you have some peace while you finish off, and then we can eat in front of the telly. Lasagne for dinner? I think there’s some garlic bread in the freezer too.’

  Nell nodded happily, her outburst seemingly forgotten. She gathered her books from where she’d flung them onto the floor and arranged them neatly back on the dining table, even humming to herself now, and I picked up my laptop and files and left her to it, marvelling at how children could switch from extreme distress to placidity so seamlessly.

  As I settled down in the kitchen, though, I wondered if I needed to book another session with Karen Ballerton, and scribbled it on my to-do list. Maybe she could help Nell come to terms with the idea of me potentially going to prison, help her with some sort of extra coping strategies. A shiver ran through me. And maybe Nell could share them with me …

  Stop it. Stop it. Don’t think about going to prison, try to find a way of staying out of it, I berated myself. Right, Thea, think. I leafed through the file of legal paperwork until I found the document that included the timeline Bernard Gilchrist, my solicitor, had drawn out for me when I was trying to get the events of the fourth of September clear in my head. He’d put it together based on the timings given in all the statements the police had taken from me and the others, and now I studied it carefully, running my finger down the page, reading the notes attached to each of the marked times.

  Approx. 3 p.m. – Thea Ashfield, Nell Ashfield, Zander Ashfield (deceased) and Isla Laird return to Montpellier Terrace.

  That had come from Isla’s statement, of course, and had probably been verified by Flora, who was the only person in the house when we got back, and the time seemed accurate enough.

  Approx. 3.30 p.m. – Flora Applegate enters sitting room to find Thea Ashfield and Isla Laird asleep. Takes Nell Ashfield upstairs to play, returns to work in her room, does not check on Zander Ashfield as hears no noise and assumes is asleep in pram in corner of room.

  My stomach flipped, as it had the first time Bernard went through this with me in his office. I knew that Nell had been able to verify to the police that this was what had happened – that she and Flora had gone upstairs together, but that neither of them had checked on her little brother. My first anguished reaction, in those early days, had been tears and rage – why hadn’t Flora looked in the pram? Why? If Flora had checked, at that point when she was taking Nell upstairs, if she had looked and reali
zed Zander wasn’t there, she would have raised the alarm immediately, and it would have meant that my baby would only have been in the car alone for half an hour, and that would have meant … well, that might have meant … that he would still be alive. If only Flora had looked, had taken those few seconds to walk to the pram and peer in, everything would have been different. Everything.

  Even so, I never confronted her about it, because I knew I couldn’t. I knew it wasn’t fair, or right. She wasn’t a nanny, she was my PA, and although she helped out with the children now and again, it wasn’t her job to take charge of them. And I knew how much pain she was in, how much she was suffering, as we all were, and how dreadful it would be to try to shift any of the blame onto her when what had happened was entirely down to me. The baby wasn’t her responsibility, he was mine, and mine only, but the agony of that terrible what if had haunted my dreams for weeks.

  Now though, reading the 3.30 p.m. note again, I was thinking something entirely different. Because now, I believed that at 3.30 p.m., Zander was in his pram. He was in his pram, safely sleeping, just like Flora assumed he was. He was, because now I remembered bringing him in from the car, laying him there, dropping a kiss on his warm, soft cheek before sinking onto the sofa, The rest of the afternoon was still a blur but that bit, that crucial part, was so clear. So real. And now, I still wished that Flora had checked on him, but for a totally different reason. Now, I wished she’d checked, because then she would know too. She would know that at 3.30 p.m., my baby was safe. And yet …

  And yet he was still dead, wasn’t he? I thought for another moment. What else could have happened during this time period? Isla could have woken up, and taken Zander back outside. But why? Why would she? OK, she didn’t coo over him like others did, but we’d just had a lovely afternoon out when, as far as I knew, he’d been no trouble at all. If she ever had an urge to hurt him, it was unlikely to have been then. OK, what else? Flora could have come back downstairs, while we were both asleep, and put him outside. But again, why on earth would she? She just had no motive whatsoever. Those two simply didn’t make any sense to me as suspects, but I had to consider them, didn’t I? I couldn’t trust anyone, believe anyone’s story, not while I was doing this. I took a deep breath and read on.

  Approx. 5 p.m. – Rupert Ashfield returns home. Flora Applegate calls down to suggest he be quiet as Isla Laird and Thea and Zander Ashfield are sleeping. Checks on his daughter Nell Ashfield in her room and retires to garden.

  I read the entry again and swallowed, hard. This was from Rupert’s statement. At this point Nell was upstairs playing alone in her room, and Flora was up there too, working. Isla and I were still asleep. Who would see, then, if Rupert had slipped into the sitting room, taken Zander from his pram and carried him out to the car? Nell’s and Flora’s rooms were both at the back of the house, the car at the front. It would be risky, yes – it wasn’t the quietest road, always traffic and pedestrians, and there were houses all the way along, but if he’d thrown a blanket over Zander, if he’d covered him and moved quickly …

  I pushed the sheet of paper away, suddenly feeling dizzy. This was crazy. I was ill, I had to be, to even think like this, to think my husband, my friends, capable … then I took a deep breath. No. Come on, play the game. This wouldn’t work if I was going to start bringing emotion into it. I wasn’t accusing Rupert. I wasn’t accusing anybody. I was just looking at alternatives, at possibilities, that was all. There was no need to get upset. I needed to do this calmly, dispassionately. Simply look at the timeline, and think about different scenarios, different ways this could have played out, as if I had no connection with the case.

  I inhaled again and reached for the list, forcing my body to relax. So, logically then … logically, if Rupert had returned Zander to the car at around 5 p.m., and Zander’s body had been found at … I ran my finger down the page … approximately 6.15 p.m., that was an hour and fifteen minutes. Was that long enough? It was. I’d learned far, far too much in recent months about the horrors of leaving anyone, animal or human, in a hot car. The temperature on a day like that would have risen to fatal levels inside an hour. It was long enough.

  The light-headedness was returning, but I made myself read on.

  Approx. 5.30 p.m. – Greg and Millie Garrington arrive, let into house by Rupert Ashfield and seen briefly by Flora Applegate who comes downstairs to collect some files. Millie joins Nell upstairs in her bedroom. Greg joins Rupert Ashfield in garden where they remain.

  Greg’s and Rupert’s statements agreed on this sequence of events. But … I thought for a moment, trying to keep an open mind, to remain impartial, like an outsider. One of them could have been lying. Both of them could have been lying. Greg might not have gone straight out to the garden, could have said he needed the bathroom maybe, could have slipped into the sitting room before joining Rupert out back, and taken Zander … it was still about forty-five minutes before his body was found, would that be long enough? Maybe. I couldn’t rule Greg out, not yet. And Rupert could have left the garden at any point … but why would those two cover for each other, if either of those scenarios were true? Rupert certainly wouldn’t cover for Greg, would he? Not if he suspected, as I was positive he did, that Greg might be Zander’s father. He’d do anything, surely, to get revenge on him for that, not protect him? Although … oh God. What about the reverse? Would Greg cover for Rupert? He might, if he felt guilty enough. He might, if he thought it was better for everyone if Zander was no longer around …

  A shiver ran down my spine. Rupert. It all kept coming back to Rupert. Suddenly struggling to fight back tears, I read the final note.

  Approx. 6.15 p.m. – Flora Applegate comes downstairs to dining room to file paperwork, hears commotion on street. Rushes outside, finds Zander Ashfield dead in car.

  Dead. Dead in car. My baby. My baby, my love, my life. I stood up, pushing the piece of paper fiercely across the polished wood. It slid off the edge, fluttering to the carpet, and I stared at it. Nothing I could do, nothing I could say, would bring Zander back. But it was time to start asking questions. It was time to start confronting these people, my friends, my family. It was time to get to the truth. And if the truth was that I was insane, that it had been me after all who left Zander in the car to die, then so be it. But right now, I was fighting for my life. For my freedom, for my sanity, for my daughter’s happiness. It was time to speak up, to tell everyone what I was thinking. To tell everyone what I remembered. And I was going to start right now.

  PART TWO

  29

  THEA

  I started with Isla. She’d been calling me, leaving messages I’d ignored, for days, since I’d told her I couldn’t see her last weekend. So the next morning, Thursday, the morning after I’d gone through the police timeline, I gave her a call at work.

  ‘Isla, I’m sorry. I’ve had a few tough days, and I shouldn’t have cut you out. Are you coming down to Cheltenham this weekend? Please say you are?’

  There was a pause on the line, but Isla could never be angry at me for long. She was coming, of course she was, she hated staying in London at weekends, and she’d love to come round tomorrow evening. Nell would be there – Rupert was away again, I hadn’t asked where or with whom – but that would be fine. We could eat early, watch some TV, and then chat properly once Nell was in bed.

  I was nervous on Friday evening, wandering distractedly from room to room, straightening cushions, lining up the wine glasses on the coffee table, lighting candles and then blowing them out again as Nell watched from her perch on the end of the living room sofa, a rather bemused look on her face.

  ‘You’d think someone really important was coming. It’s only Isla, Mum. Not Kate Middleton,’ she said, as I passed through the room once again, cloth in hand, swiping at imaginary particles of dust. I stopped dead and threw the cloth at her, and she yelped and ducked, then flung it back at me, both of us laughing now, the tension I was feeling ebbing away a little.

  It eas
ed further when Isla finally arrived, half an hour later than expected (‘bloody Friday night traffic, the 417 was just crawling, I almost cracked the wine open in the car I got so desperate’), engulfing me in an enormous hug and brandishing Sauvignon Blanc and – to Nell’s immense delight – a bag full of chocolate creme eggs.

  ‘Creme eggs? In February? It’s not Easter for yonks, where did those come from? After dinner, Nell,’ I said, as my daughter tried to slip a surreptitious hand into the bag.

  She groaned theatrically.

  ‘They’ve been in the shops practically since Christmas,’ Isla said, wriggling out of her tan-coloured knitted poncho with its dangling pompoms. ‘Right, where are the glasses? Ahh, very organized. Well done, Thea. I’ll do the drinks, you order the takeaway. I’d kill for Indian tonight, what do you think?’

  She poured us two large glasses and joined Nell on the sofa, and as I headed out to pull the Indian restaurant menu from its drawer in the hall cabinet, I listened to their casual chitchat, suddenly wondering how on earth I could ask Isla what I wanted to ask her tonight. Yes, she’d struggled with the fact I’d chosen motherhood, disliked my children, ignored them even, but that had been in the past, in the early days. She and Nell got on fine now – in fact, Isla had made such an effort with Nell since Zander’s death that I’d go as far as to say that they were actually quite fond of each other even – and as for Zander … well, she hadn’t exactly been all over him, but … oh, this was ludicrous! How could I ask Isla – my oldest friend, my closest friend, the friend who knew all my secrets, who knew more about me than anyone, than my own husband – how could I ask her if she’d callously put my baby back into a hot car, one terrible afternoon back in September, and let him die? How?

  And yet, I had to. I had to, even though it was highly likely, now I had decided to plead not guilty, that she, and Rupert too, maybe others, would be called as prosecution witnesses in my trial. I’d been shocked when Bernard Gilchrist had told me that, had warned me that the prosecution would want to establish my state of mind before Zander died, the extent of my depression and alcohol abuse, would use my friends and family to try to prove that I was a bad mother, neglectful, uncaring. Could I afford to alienate any of them now, with so much at stake? No matter the consequences, though, I had to ask Isla, had to ask all of them, one by one. Had to judge their reactions, had to see if there were any cracks in their stories. I had no choice, not anymore.