When she was finished with the news, she called Leonard. She got his voicemail and left a message asking him to call her back. ‘It’s about Roxanne Reed,’ she added. ‘One of the witnesses at the trial. I need to know how she died.’
She hung up and opened her laptop. She’d spent too long the previous evening trying to track down Ella Tate. And coming up with precisely nothing. If Ella Tate was a real person, she was a real person who managed to exist in the twenty-first century without any digital footprint. In Dee’s experience, the only people who lived like that were those with something to hide.
She had also searched Facebook for Bristol University graduates. She’d found groups for each graduation year and posted a message on the page of every group from 2011 through to 2015, thinking those years had to cover Ella’s time at the university. She said she was trying to contact her old friend Ella Tate, and asked for anyone with information to get in touch.
A few people had replied on the ‘Class of 2013’ page. Several people remembered Ella, but no one was able to tell Dee where she was now. She shut down the page and opened Facebook Messenger. She had one new message from someone called Brian Higgins.
Ella was my pal Tom Doyle’s girlfriend. No idea what happened to her but I can put you in touch with Tom if you’d like? Send me a DM for more details.
Bingo! She sent Brian a message with her phone number and email. Told him it was urgent and asked him to get in touch as quickly as possible. Next, she did a Google search for the Railway Tavern in Hither Green. The pub didn’t seem to have its own website, but there were plenty of mentions on sites like TripAdvisor and Londonist.com. Time Out gave it a five-star review, calling it one of the last authentic pubs in south-east London. There was no mention anywhere of its tragic history.
When she’d finished reading about the pub, Dee tried Leonard again, but with no luck. She didn’t bother leaving a second message. Instead, she sent him an email, telling him she needed to speak to him urgently. She checked Facebook Messenger and her emails, but Brian Higgins hadn’t got back to her yet.
The sense of nothing happening made her restless. She needed to talk to someone. When she’d been working as a journalist, she always had people to bounce ideas off – colleagues, her boss, Billy. She had Louise and Alex, she supposed. But Lou was always so busy with her kids and her job, Dee didn’t feel she could call her for a chat whenever she needed to. As for Alex, she hadn’t seen him since that awkward morning when Ed had practically accused them of having an affair.
The rest of the day dragged past. Dee spoke to Louise around lunchtime, but her cousin had no further news about Katie and Jake. Twice she considered going to see Alex. Both times she talked herself out of it. In the late afternoon, she took the key for the mobile home and walked the short distance along the beach to Katie’s house.
The police tape had been removed earlier in the week, but so far, Dee had resisted going inside. It felt wrong somehow. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that there might be some clue that the police had missed.
She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the front door and stepped inside. The memories assailed her as she walked into the living area. Jake’s drawings on the fridge; the high chair where he ate his meals; the box in the corner with the toy trains that he loved to play with. Each item a reminder of happier times – helping him with his drawing, cutting his food into slices that he could pick up with his little fingers, sitting on the ground while she connected plastic pieces of train track together.
After a moment, she moved around the small house, searching for the elusive clue that would help her find Katie and Jake. Within five minutes, she knew that coming here had been pointless. The police had already gone through everything and taken anything they considered useful. In Katie’s bedroom, drawers had been pulled open, the mattress had been turned over and not turned back, and the bathroom looked like a tornado had ripped through it.
For want of anything better to do, Dee set about tidying up. Katie hated a mess. If she was ever coming back, Dee wanted her to find the house as she’d left it. By the time she’d finished, it had grown dark outside. She’d switched lights on as she’d worked, and now she moved around the house turning them off again before she left. In the sitting room, her gaze fell on the photo Katie kept on the mantelpiece over the gas fire.
It showed Katie and two of her friends standing at the top of a hill somewhere rural. Katie was wearing her hair in a plait that hung down over her left shoulder. Dee had noticed the photo before but never paid it much attention. Now, she found herself crossing the room and picking it up, her eyes drawn to the sweatshirt Katie was wearing. Red, with a hood, and what Dee had always thought was a logo across the front. Only looking at it more closely now, she saw it was text, not a logo. Property of Bristol University. The word Bristol in bigger typeface than the rest of it.
Bristol University. Katie had been living in Bristol when she worked for Hexagon. So she could have gone to university there too. She’d never mentioned university, but Dee was quickly learning there was a lot about Katie’s past that she had never spoken about.
Ella Tate had graduated from Bristol University in 2013. Before that, she had been a witness at the trial of Katie’s father’s killer. Which meant the two girls knew each other. Maybe even became such close friends that they attended university together.
Dee locked up the mobile home and hurried back to her own house. On her laptop, she opened Facebook Messenger. Still no reply from Brian Higgins. She sent him another message, asking him if he remembered Katie. She was a friend of Ella’s, she typed. They’re both from London originally. I think they may have been at uni together. She offered a quick plea to whatever higher power was up there to make Brian Higgins check his messages and get back to her.
Right then, her front doorbell rang. Thinking it was Alex, she hurried to answer it.
‘You’d better have brought some wine,’ she said as she pulled the door open, the end of her sentence fading to nothing when she saw who was standing in her porch.
‘How’s it going, Dee?’
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
‘You going to invite me in?’ Billy Morrison lifted a bottle of champagne from the plastic carrier bag he was holding. ‘Only I’ve got a bit of news. Thought you’d like to hear it in person.’ He grinned. That wide-open smile that had attracted her to him the very first moment she’d met him, and kept her with him longer than she ever should have stayed.
‘What news?’ she managed.
‘Come on, Dee,’ Billy said. ‘You know me, I love a sense of occasion. It’s good news and I want to tell you properly.’
She should have said no. Told him to get lost, get away from here; that she never wanted to see him again. But she’d never been very good at saying no to Billy, so she stood back and invited him in, letting that big grin of his get him what he wanted, just like she’d always done.
Twenty-Five
Dee
‘We’ve had an offer,’ Billy said.
He’d already popped open the champagne and poured them each a glass. He knocked back half of his and refilled his glass before handing hers over.
‘Means you can finally be free of me.’ He smiled, but Dee could see there was no feeling behind it.
‘Good.’ She took a sip of the champagne so she could avoid having to look at his face and be reminded of all the good times they’d shared before the relationship turned sour.
‘Seven fifty,’ he said. ‘More than we said we’d sell it for. I’ve accepted. Hope that’s okay with you?’
Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds for an unremarkable two-bed town house in Greenwich. The price was crazy. But London prices were crazy and the two of them were lucky. Buying a house in the right location at the right time was one of the few sensible things they’d done as a couple.
‘So.’ Billy settled himself in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. ‘How’ve you been, Dee?’
She sat opposite him, told him she was doing very well, thanks.
‘I met your girlfriend last week,’ she said. ‘Did she tell you?’
‘Mel.’ Billy smiled. ‘She told me you weren’t exactly welcoming.’
‘She told me you were about to get fired from your job.’
Billy flinched, as if she’d slapped him. ‘She’s exaggerating,’ he said. ‘Mel’s a worrier, that’s all. You know me, Dee. I’m a survivor. Whatever happens at the Post, things will work out. And now we’ve got a firm offer on the house, it’s not like I’ll need that shitty job anyway.’
‘You love that job,’ Dee said. ‘Or you did. What’s happened to change your mind?’
He would have an excuse, of course. A whole suitcase full of them, but not one of them would be the truth, which was that Billy Morrison was a drunk, and everything that was wrong in his life always came back to that single, undisputable fact.
Dee remembered the first time she heard the phrase ‘functioning alcoholic’. Immediately, she knew it perfectly described the man she’d married. The sort of drinker who covered it with a combination of brains, wit and charm. Everyone knew Billy Morrison liked a drink. But he was a journalist, after all. One of the best. And what true-blooded hack didn’t enjoy a good old booze-up?
When Dee started at the Daily Post, everyone drank. It was as much a part of the paper’s culture as the open misogyny in the newsroom, the easy acceptance of bad behaviour from the established hacks and the long hours every single person put into making the paper the success it was.
It was the perfect environment for Billy. A man who could write copy quicker and better than anyone else. A man who liked to live fast and take risks. A man who, on more days than Dee cared to remember, started his day with a coffee laced with whisky. And continued drinking, on and off, throughout the rest of his waking hours. Day after booze-fuelled day. His body so accustomed to the levels of alcohol he poured into it that only those closest to him noticed he was rarely completely sober.
By the time he had the affair, his drinking had already affected every aspect of their relationship. In some ways, it was a relief. Dee had tried so hard to ignore his drinking and the damage it was doing. Because she was scared. Scared of admitting he had a problem, scared of confronting him, scared of losing him. In the end, she’d lost him anyway, and it was only when it was all over that she realised she had always been the second love in his life. Booze first, everything else after that.
‘New editor’s a cunt,’ he said.
Dee frowned at his choice of words, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.
‘On my case the whole time. Some jumped-up child who thinks she understands the job because she’s got a fucking master’s degree. One of Nigel’s prodigies. You know the type, right?’
Nigel Blackman was a media mogul who owned a string of TV and radio companies as well as the Daily Post, one of the UK’s major broadsheets. His company, Blackman Communications, also owned half the local newspapers in the UK, including the Eastbourne Recorder where Louise worked. Until recently, Billy had been one of his golden boys. The edgy, successful journalist who got more front-page exclusives than anyone else. Nigel’s affection for Billy, and his seemingly endless tolerance for his excesses, had given Billy a job security that was unheard of in today’s newspaper industry.
‘I thought you and Nigel were mates,’ Dee said.
‘Yeah, well,’ Billy said. ‘Turns out he’s no sort of friend after all. I thought it was going to be okay, you know? After Rob left.’ He grinned. ‘That email you sent was the beginning of the end for Rob. He wasn’t able to handle the pressure. But then Nigel got this new editor in, and we’ve gone from bad to worse. You know, Dee, there are some days I don’t know if I can trust anyone any more.’
‘I know what that feels like,’ Dee said. Pointlessly, because the irony was lost on Billy. His glass was already empty, and when he stood to refill it, he swayed slightly. He’d probably been drinking all day.
Dee watched him empty the bottle, forgetting to ask if she wanted any more.
‘So,’ he said, voice too loud as he sat back down. ‘Are you doing okay, Dee? Only I was a bit worried, you know, that nasty business with your neighbour. Must have been quite a shock. Friend of yours, isn’t she?’
The room stank of champagne, the stench making Dee’s stomach roll. She put her glass on the floor, but the smell was still too strong. She knew it wasn’t real. Her mind was creating it so she would have a valid reason for the nausea.
Of course that was why he’d come to see her. What was wrong with her that she could have thought for a single second that he wanted to be with her to celebrate the sale of their one-time home, or – God forbid – that maybe, after all they’d once shared, he still felt something for her?
‘I barely know her,’ she said.
‘You’re a rubbish liar,’ Billy said. ‘Always have been.’
‘One of us has to be,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know her. She’s my friend. And I’d like to keep it that way, which means I’m not going to tell you anything about her.’
Billy drained his glass and belched loudly. ‘Wouldn’t dream of asking,’ he said. ‘Guess this business is the last thing you needed. It hasn’t been easy for you, I get that. Us, your job, poor old Brenda. A lot of shit in a short amount of time. This place doesn’t seem the same without her. We had some good times with your folks, didn’t we?’
He looked around the room as if he was only now seeing it. Dee wondered if he was remembering the nights the four of them had sat here playing Scrabble or rummy, drinking wine late into the evening and talking about life, love and the universe. Dee’s mother, like her daughter, had always had a soft spot for Billy. Even after they’d split up, she’d wanted her to give the marriage another chance.
‘Why are you so interested in Katie?’ Dee said.
‘She’s an interesting kid. Did she tell you what happened to her dad?’
‘She never spoke about her family.’
‘I was wondering,’ Billy said, ‘how she came to be living down here. A bit out of the way for a young woman with a child, isn’t it?’
‘What do you know that you’re not telling me?’ Dee asked.
‘I know her dad was killed. And that the wrong person was convicted. Come on, Dee. Tell me what she was like. I’d already worked out you had to be friends. She has a kiddie, and you bloody love kids. You must be pretty cut up right now, wondering where he is.’
‘Why do you think he was the wrong person?’ Dee asked.
‘When I saw she’d done a runner,’ Billy said, ‘I got curious. I did a bit of research. Wanted to see if she’d done anything like this before.’
‘Anything like what?’
‘Killing someone,’ Billy said. ‘And when I looked her up, I found out about her old man.’
‘And?’
‘And a whole lot more about what really happened,’ Billy said. ‘Tell you what, Dee. Let’s go over there now, take a look inside the house.’
‘Why?’
‘Might give me a bit of insight. See, I’ve got good reason to believe your neighbour was hiding a big secret. But right now, I’ve got no proof. If I could get that, then I’m on to a big story.’
‘Why should I help you?’ Dee said.
Billy smiled. Or tried to. His face was lopsided, as if he was struggling to control his facial muscles.
‘Old times’ sake.’ He lifted the empty champagne bottle. ‘You got anything else? I was thinking maybe I could crash here for the night. Only I got the train down and it’s a bit of a trek back to the station at this time. On the sofa, I
mean. Obviously.’
She couldn’t bear for him to be here a moment longer. It didn’t matter what information he might have on Katie and Jake, or the trial or anything else. Dee didn’t care. All she cared about was getting him out of her house and out of her life. For good, this time. With blinding clarity, she saw the years she’d wasted on this self-centred addict. Years when she could have had children, created a family, built a life for herself with someone who loved her the way she loved them.
‘You can’t stay,’ she said. ‘And I have nothing else to drink, either.’
Somehow she found the energy to stand up, walk over to him and take the bottle from his hand.
‘I know this is only a story to you, Billy. But it means a lot more to me. Katie’s little boy is missing and no one knows where he is. Don’t you even care about that?’
He frowned, looking confused, as if he couldn’t work out what was going on.
‘Goodbye, Billy.’
‘You’re kicking me out?’
‘I’m going outside,’ she said. ‘And I’m taking my phone with me. If you’re not gone in two minutes, I’m calling the police.’
He started to say something else, so she spoke again, fast, before he could talk her round.
‘I mean it, Billy. Get out. Now.’
She turned her back on him and walked stiffly across the room to the sliding doors.
‘Bitch.’ His voice low and slurred and thick with anger.
Dee ignored him.
When she heard him move, she tensed. But he was moving away from her, staggering towards the front door, which he managed to open. It slammed shut, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He was gone.
She lifted her face to the cool breeze, looked at the pale moon and the pinpricks of light from the millions of stars that speckled the night sky. It was only when the moon and stars started to blur that Dee noticed her face was wet and realised she was crying.
Twenty-Six
Katie
I Could Be You Page 14