My Perfect Sister

by Penny Batchelor

  ‘Do you think Toby could have harmed Gemma?’

  ‘No, as I said, he was with me after school that day until he went home. He said he’d been drunk too at the party and he felt bad for trying to persuade Gemma to do something she didn’t want to do.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘No.’ Fiona takes another long sip of her coffee. ‘Gemma had asked me to keep what happened at the party a secret. She was a virgin. She didn’t want anyone calling her a slag. I thought she’d run off for a bit to clear her head and didn’t think it was relevant. Toby and Mike would never have hurt her. Like I said, we were all good friends back then.’

  I look again at the photo of the four of them in the woods.

  ‘By the way,’ I say, my curiosity piqued, ‘out of interest, can you remember who took this photo? Was it another person in your group of friends?’

  Fiona rubbed her nose as if to think more clearly. ‘No, it was usually just the four of us. That photo, it was probably this boy who kept following Gemma around for a while who took it. She put up with him for a bit, they were in the orchestra together. He’d come to the woods with his camera and take photos then give them to her a few days later.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘He was younger than us, seemed harmless at first but then kept on following us, giving Gemma presents, love notes and things, although she asked him to stop. In the end I think Toby said to him that if he turned up again he’d have him to deal with him. Mike was a bit too cowardly to do that sort of thing.’

  This could be a lead. I lean towards her.

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Um, it began with G I think. Gary, Gareth?’

  It feels in my chest that my heart stops beating for a moment. I taste the acrid thickness of adrenaline in my throat.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Fiona asks.

  I go to my phone and scroll through the pictures saved on there. There’s one of Gareth I took at Ian’s party. Do I really want to know? Before I give myself time to cop out I pass the phone over to her.

  ‘Is that him? That is Gareth Mitchell.’

  Fiona picks up the phone and swipes the screen to home in on the man’s face. ‘Yes, I think so. Obviously he’s a lot older but so are we all! That’s Gareth.’

  I go cold and then flush back straight to hot.

  ‘Do you know him them?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘You could say that,’ I reply.

  She pulls her chair closer to the table conspiratorially.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got any proof of this, but at the time I suspected that it was Gareth who told Mike about Gemma and Toby at the party. He’s the only person I could think of who would have anything to gain from trying to split them up, although I haven’t a clue how he found out himself. Toby was embarrassed about his behaviour – and probably about Gemma turning him down – and wanted to keep it quiet. Mike never said to me who told him. After Gemma went missing our group sort of fell apart. We did our exams then I left to go to secretarial college. Toby went to work at a plumbers’ and Mike stayed on to do A Levels.’

  I feel so angry. I’ve been duped. A fool. That night we met at the pub, Gareth only wanted to get to know me because he wanted to know more about Gemma. He’d been in love with her and used me for information. Was he thinking of her when he slept with me? Did he imagine her face when kissing my lips? I swallow the vomit that’s rising in my throat and gulp down the rest of my coffee.

  ‘Thanks, Fiona, you’ve been really helpful,’ I say.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Your face has gone red, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I do feel a little bit ill. It was a long shift at the hospital. I’d better go. Please give me a call if you think of anything else.’

  We say our goodbyes and I half-run to my car, adamant about where my next stop will be. Then an even worse thought hit me. If Gareth stalked Gemma, could he have killed her?

  27

  I manage to drive into the last space available on the suburban high street, swerving into it about three seconds before an annoyed four by four driver could. Tough luck, there’s no time for me to waste. I’m hot, shivery and furious.

  This time I’m not going to give Mike the chance to hang up on me. His office is above a hairdresser and I run up the stairs two at a time. Each foot stamp on the staircase fuels my determination to make him tell the truth. I’ll sit here all day if I have to.

  Behind a non-descript brown door with a ‘Mike Braithwaite Accountancy Services’ sign on there’s a dingy reception area staffed by an older lady. She smiles when I walk in but her expression changes to one of disconcertion when I refuse her offer to sit on the adjacent stained brown armchair. I tell her I urgently need to speak to Mike and without waiting for her to reply, take my chances and walk to one of the two doors – apart from the entrance – in the room, breezing through when I find it’s unlocked.

  I’m in luck. Instead of walking into the loo or cleaning cupboard, I’m in Mike’s office. He looks up over his computer monitor at me when he hears the noise of the door and the receptionist flapping about, pointlessly telling me Mike is busy and can’t see me without an appointment.

  Ignoring her, I look Mike straight in the eye and say, ‘I’m Gemma Towcester’s sister, Annie. You need to talk to me, I know what happened on the day she went missing.’

  His pale face morphs into an even whiter shade. He dismisses the receptionist with a line about being able to see me and gestures at the seat opposite his desk. I’m not sitting down and letting him take the authority here.

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time if you tell me the truth,’ I say. ‘Please, for Gemma’s sake.’

  To my surprise, in contrast to his belligerence during our previous phone call, his attitude changes to that of a wounded man. He rubs his chin where the stubble would have been at half past seven this morning, casts his eyes down then asks, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘On the day she went missing you rowed with Gemma and didn’t tell the police. You thought she’d slept with Toby at a party.’

  Mike won’t catch my eye. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ I’m standing right by him with my palms flat on his desk.

  ‘It was private, between the two of us. At first I thought Gemma must be with Fiona, or she’d gone off with Toby, but after a few days when I knew that wasn’t true I thought she’d run away because of what I’d said. I didn’t want people to find out or my mum and dad to know. I was ashamed. OK? Is that enough for you? Who told you?’

  ‘Your old friend, Fiona. She also told me that Gemma and Toby had kept their drunken snog at the party quiet but that, on the day she went missing, someone told you they’d had sex at the party. Who told you?’

  ‘Why is this relevant now?’ he whines.

  ‘Because she’s my sister and I deserve to know everything I can about what happened that day. Did you hurt her?’

  There’s a pause. Oh God, was it Mike? Did this supposedly mild-mannered boy kill Gemma because he thought she’d had sex with his best friend? I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and am glad that behind the desk he can’t see my knees wobbling.

  He speaks softly. ‘I pushed her, that’s all, nothing more.’

  ‘Where?’ I shout.

  ‘I pushed her by her shoulders and she fell over.’

  ‘What! No, I mean where were you?’

  ‘We argued during the lunch break and I stormed off into the woods behind the school. She followed me and kept saying that she only kissed Toby and it meant nothing.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then I called her a slag again and pushed her. She fell backwards. I waited until she got up and I knew she wasn’t hurt then ran back to school. That was the last time I spoke to her. I’ve regretted it ever since.’

  Vile, cowardly man. I jump to my sister’s defence. ‘She didn’t sleep with Toby.’

  ‘Really? He said s
he didn’t but then of course he would. Ever since I heard that Toby was convicted of attempted murder I’ve wondered if he’d tried to rape her. That bastard. I’m so sorry. I should have said something at the time.’

  At that he starts to cry, little yelps he tries to bite down on and unsuccessfully contain. What a pathetic figure. My eye catches a photograph on his desk of him in a family portrait with a woman of around the same age and two boys whom I’d guess are about fifteen and twelve. I wonder if his wife knows how spineless he is? I hope she’s a decent person or their children stand no chance in life.

  ‘Who told you, Mike? Who told you about the party?’

  ‘This boy who had a crush on Gemma, he kept hanging around us for a while. He said I had a right to know what my girlfriend had been up to. His sister had been at the party.’

  ‘His name, do you remember it?’ He pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Gareth, I think. A Welsh name but he was as Yorkshire as the rest of us.’

  My knees give way and I hold myself upright with my palms on the table, locking my elbows to take the weight.

  ‘She wasn’t raped and didn’t sleep with Toby. It was a drunken kiss and fumble at the party that Gemma put a stop to.’ Mike nods in thanks.

  ‘I should have believed her.’

  ‘Yes you should have. And you should not have pushed her. Is there anything else you didn’t tell the police? Do you have any idea what could have happened to Gemma?’

  He shakes his head forlornly. ‘No. Like I said, I thought she might have run off because of what I did. She was so lovely, nobody would ever want to hurt her.’

  Apart from you, I thought. You weren’t averse to giving her a good shove when your heckles were high.

  ‘I’ll call the police and tell them,’ he says, as if he’s doing me a favour.

  ‘You do that. About time,’ I reply and waltz straight out of his office as quickly as I came in.

  The school and work traffic has subsided by now meaning that it only takes me about twenty minutes to drive to my next destination, the warehouse-like supermarket that nearly every town and city has in its environs. It’s the first time I’ve visited but the layout is practically the same as every other one of its ilk.

  I just miss hitting a bollard when I swerve into an empty parking space. My forehead feels like it’s burning up and I’m finding it difficult to get my brain to action my thoughts. Get out of the car. Lock the door. Walk to the entrance. My legs feel heavy and putting one foot in front of the other takes all my concentration.

  I head for the customer service counter and queue behind a woman who is trying to return a half-eaten packet of ham. Everything seems too loud and yet the noises are blurring into one making it difficult for me to hear what’s being said. I only catch the odd word such as ‘salmonella’, ‘off’ and ‘inedible’. Eventually she accepts a voucher and leaves. It’s my turn, but before I can speak, the man behind the counter announces a two for one deal on pizzas over the loudspeaker.

  ‘I need to speak to Gareth Mitchell, he works here. It’s urgent,’ I tell him as soon as his broadcast is finished. He replies that he’ll call the office and see if Mr Mitchell is free. After a short conversation the man, whose name badge informs me is called Ronnie, says Gareth will be out in a minute.

  It’s a few minutes before Gareth turns up.

  ‘Annie! What a lovely surprise! How was your shift?’ He leans towards me to kiss me on the cheek but I jerk back instinctively and he smooches thin air.

  I sneeze loudly and Gareth looks concerned. ‘Are you OK?’ he says having quickly recovered his composure following my kiss dodge.

  The urge to slap both of his two faces nearly overwhelms me but I remember Mike confessing he shoved Gemma and swear not to stoop to his lowlife level.

  ‘We have to talk. We can do it here or in private. Your choice.’

  He looks confused. ‘I share an office. Where’s your car? Perhaps we can talk in there?’

  I stride ahead of him to my old banger, unlock the door, get in myself and wait until he gets into the passenger seat.

  ‘What’s wrong? Have you heard something more from the police?’

  I let out a croaky ironic laugh. ‘It’s rather a case of me having something to tell them. You’re a liar and a sick bastard. Are you a murderer too? Don’t even think of laying a finger on me. There’s CCTV all round the car park.’ I hold my keys in my fist with the most pointed one ready in case I need it for a weapon.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Is it my head or had he hesitated a bit too long before he answered me?

  ‘Don’t bother telling more lies. I know you stalked Gemma at school and Toby had to warn you off. I know you told Mike that Gemma slept with Toby at a party. Did you hurt my sister? Did you kill her?’

  Gareth’s composure has now well and truly slipped. ‘No! I swear I know nothing about what happened to her. I thought I’d find out from you. Look, Annie, I can explain, please let me explain, what you’ve been told, it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No! You lied to me, you used me, you slept with me, and I’m not happy about it. At all. Why should I believe a single word you say? I’m going to the police, Gareth, and telling them what I know. They can find out who you really are.’ A coughing fit overtakes me and I take a gulp from the bottle of water I keep in the driver side door compartment.

  Gareth holds his hands up in the air then loosens his collar. ‘I’m telling the truth, Annie. Yes, I did have a crush on Gemma at school and it was why I first approached you in the pub but I swear, everything else between us is real. I’m with you because I want to be, not because of Gemma. I didn’t kill Gemma, I had a schoolboy crush on her, I’d never have harmed her.’

  Was he spinning me more lies?

  ‘Did you or did you not tell Mike that Gemma had slept with Toby?’

  At least he has the decency to look guilty when I say this. He looks down at the floor where there are a few used tissues and an empty crisp packet.

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbles.

  ‘What was that? Speak up!’

  ‘I did, but I was only fourteen. I made a stupid mistake…’

  ‘A stupid mistake? Like those you made as a grown man lying to me about your relationship with my sister? Lying about how you knew her friends? You know that the day you lied to Mike about Gemma sleeping with Toby was the last day she was seen alive? Maybe she went missing because of you! Maybe she’s dead because of you!’

  ‘I didn’t lie about the party. My sister told me Gemma was locked away with Toby in the bedroom for ages.’

  As if that makes a difference to me.

  ‘That doesn’t mean they had sex!’ I interrupt. ‘Don’t try and wheedle your way out of it!’

  ‘Annie, please,’ he begs, ‘believe me when I say I do really like you; ever since our first date I’ve wanted to be with you…’

  ‘Then you should have been honest with me, Gareth.’ Exhaustion floods over me. I don’t have enough energy left to shout. ‘I’m going to go to the police and tell them what I know. Get out of the car and stay away from me.’

  He doesn’t need telling twice. Gareth speedily opens the passenger door, says that he’s sorry, and half-runs back into the store.

  My fist unclenches around my keys and somehow, in between the angry sobs I find coming out of my mouth, I start the engine and leave the car park without hitting anything. The drive home is a blur of elation, fuzziness and gut-gnawing sadness.

  I had liked Gareth. I had believed him. I had slept with the man who had stalked and betrayed my sister all those years ago, even imagined living in his house and sharing his bed every night. He may even be lying and have something to do with Gemma going missing. How stupid does that make me?

  28

  It is hot, so hot. I wind the front windows down in the hope that the breeze will cool my aching head. The drive home feels unreal, as if I’m riding on a dodgem or playing a boring computer game that involves g
etting from A to B without ploughing down a pedestrian. I’m on autopilot, my feet and hands are taking me where I want to go, cutting my conscious thought out of the equation. There’s so much going around in my head that each thought is jumbling, swirling, fighting the others for attention meaning that I can’t concentrate on anything at all.

  All I want to do is lay my head down on my pillow and sleep.

  After a moment, or three, of nothingness, I realise that my car is parked a couple of doors down from Mother’s house. I don’t remember searching for the space or parallel parking. Despite the breezes blowing in the car, and the autumnal weather, I’m still burning up. I twist the car key in the ignition to turn on the electrics, press the buttons to shut the front windows and will my body to get out. What’s next? I shut my eyes and try to think in sequence. That’s it, lock the car and put one foot in front of the other, unlock the front door then keep going up the stairs until I make it to my bed and oblivion.

  A beep on my phone interrupts me after I’ve successfully completed step one. It’s a message from Priti. I must have texted her this morning after confronting Mike.

  What’s happened? Please call, I’m v worried.

  The screen also tells me there’s a missed call from Gareth and a voicemail message. I plunge my mobile into my trouser pocket and pull out a used tissue to blow my nose with. That’s the moment I notice, whilst trying to avoid getting a snot waterfall on my fingers, that there’s loud music coming from next door and the front door is ajar. Bloody Reg. I need to phone the police, my pillows and duvet are calling me, I want the loo and the last thing I wish to do is have a confrontation with that creepy git; but then I think of how the music will be disturbing Mother and will put the kibosh on my wish for a peaceful slumber. Aunty Lena’s words, about how we should show Reg kindness, battle with everything else in my head for top priority. They win. A quick minute and a polite request to turn the music down won’t hurt.

  I knock on the front door, not that he’s likely to hear it above the 1970s rock blaring out (even his country and western music would be preferable to that headache-inducing cacophony of screaming and bass) and shout his name. No answer, so I gingerly walk into the hall, past the pile of old newspapers and empty bottles that have yet to make it into the recycling box and push the open door into what I presume is his lounge.