by Anne Cassidy
“I’ll give you mine, if you like.”
She couldn’t be unkind. She got her phone out of her bag and handed it to him. He took a moment to do it and stood up to hand it back. He was wearing boxers and she must have been looking at them oddly.
“We didn’t… you know … last night,” he said.
“Oh.”
“You were pretty drunk. You needed a long sleep. But I did undress you. Just your top things. I thought you’d be more comfortable. That was all right, wasn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Got a hangover?”
“Not really. Well. A little bit.”
“You could come and lie down again. It’s early yet.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I told you. I’ve got to go.”
“See you, Kate.”
She nodded.
“You don’t even know my name, do you?”
“I do!” she said.
“What is it?”
He was calling her bluff. She simply couldn’t remember it. She picked her phone out of her pocket and looked down her list of contacts and came across the most recently entered name.
“Jimmy Fuller.”
He smiled. “Remember me, now.”
“See you,” she said.
She walked out of the room and out of the house. It took her a moment to work out where she was. The street was unfamiliar so she walked along it until she came to a junction. Then she saw the pub she’d been in the previous evening. She went on. It was another sunny day and she screwed her eyes up as she went.
When she got closer to the beach she listened for any sirens but it was silent. She was still thirsty so she went into a shop and bought a bottle of water. The woman who served her was talking on her phone and Kate waited patiently until she’d finished her conversation, then handed over her money.
“Any news on the girl who drowned?” she said.
The woman nodded but made a face. “They found her late last night. Only she didn’t drown. She was murdered.”
Five
Kate went straight up to her bedroom. Her mind was racing. The little girl’s body had been found. Not drowned but murdered. The news made her feel wretched.
Her room was messy from the night before when she had rushed out. Her work skirt was sitting on the floor where she had dropped it. She picked it up and brushed it down. There was a pile of ironing there, waiting for her to work her way through it. She sighed. The house was quiet. There was no sound from Ruth’s room. No doubt Robbie was with her. It was gone eleven and the pair didn’t usually surface till the afternoon on Sundays. She couldn’t hear anything from Sally’s room either.
She noticed a large padded envelope on her bedside table with a Post-it stuck to it. It was Sally’s handwriting.
This came for you today. You must have missed it on the hall table XXX
She picked the envelope up and opened it. A piece of paper came out, and a paperback book. She held onto the paper but her eyes were drawn to the book. Children Who Kill, by Sara Wright. The words underneath the title made her breath catch in her throat. The Case of Jennifer Jones.
She sat down on the bed, shaken. Sara Wright. She recognised the name. Sara Wright was the journalist who had tricked her way into her life. Kate flicked through the book. One hundred and ninety-two pages. How could anyone write that much about her and what she had done?
She unfolded the paper. It was a letter from Jill Newton, her first probation officer.
Dear Kate,
I hope you are well. This was sent to me a couple of weeks ago to be passed onto you. It is just being published, I understand. I kept it because I honestly didn’t know whether to forward it or not. I know it will upset you. However, I read it myself and I have to say it is a well-written and sympathetic piece of work. Sara Wright, for all her questionable methods, has written a decent book and I doubt that it will do you any harm. Of course, the media will be reviewing this book or writing about its publication and I would guess that you might be upset if those kind of articles surface again. But the book itself is well meaning, I believe. This is why I’ve sent it to you. I hope you are enjoying your degree.
Yours,
Jill Newton
Kate opened the book. There was a foreword. She read it over.
A year or so ago, while working as a newspaper reporter, I followed up a story about the release of Jennifer Jones, the child who had killed her friend at a nature park six years before. I had information that this girl was living in Croydon with a carer. In order to find out how she was adjusting to life, living with a false identity, I worked undercover, befriending the girl’s carer and observing the girl living an ordinary life. My aim had been to eventually persuade the girl to trust me and be interviewed by our newspaper, to let the public see the human side of this girl. I also intended to write a book about the case. Unfortunately before this could take place her identity was compromised and she had to relocate. I never did interview Jennifer Jones, but my account of her early days of freedom in Croydon is based on my personal experience. I have done extensive investigation into the killing at Berwick Waters, the families concerned and the immediate aftermath.
My aim for this book is to add to the sum of human understanding about children and crime.
Sara Wright
Kate let the book drop onto the bed. Then she picked it up and walked across to the chest of drawers. She placed it in a drawer, covering it with a tangle of clothes. Not now. She did not want to read it now. She might never want to read it.
She had a shower and put on fresh clothes. Then she went downstairs to the kitchen. It was a complete contrast to the one she had just left in the student house. It was clean and tidy, the surfaces clear apart from a few jars and a toaster. The dishes were stacked away, the cutlery was in the right compartments in the right drawers, the mugs were hanging on hooks and the tea towel was folded over the rack. The orderliness of it made her feel calm.
Kate knew how lucky she had been to get a room in this house. Both Sally and Ruth were older than her, both working in local jobs. Each of them was reasonably tidy and neither of them had ever taken any of her stuff without asking. She’d met them four months before when her previous rental agreement ran out. She’d been keen to move out of Exeter, away from the student world she’d lived exclusively in for two years. Julia Masters had been helpful, for a change. She’d told her that a friend of a friend was moving out of her house and so there was a place free. Don’t worry, Julia had said. It’s not a work friend of mine so they know nothing about who you are. Kate had seen the house, noted the sea view and the fact that Sally and Ruth were so mature and yet friendly. She’d been tired of living in student houses and wanted the room straight away but she sensed they weren’t sure. She still had another year of university left to do and she wondered if they thought she’d be inviting lots of friends around and having parties. When she phoned, Sally said that there were other people who had to look at it first. She felt it slipping away from her so one evening she’d gone round and knocked on the door and presented Ruth with a tin of homemade biscuits that she’d cooked that afternoon. I’m not trying to influence your decision, she’d said, this is just a gift. The next day Sally called and said she could have the room. One night when they’d had a few drinks Sally told her that it wasn’t to do with the biscuits as such; it was the fact that she wanted the room that much.
Kate opened the cupboard with her name on it and took out some bread and a pot of jam. She unhooked a mug and put the kettle on. When she’d made her toast she sat down at the table. The arrival of the book came into her head and she tried to shake it away. The sound of footsteps on the stairs distracted her. A few moments later Sally came into the kitchen. She had a long dressing gown on, and her hair was tousled.
“Morning,” she said, her voice scratchy.
“Hi,” Kate said. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
Sally shook her head. “Been awake for a while. In any case I’m
going to see Mum and Dad today. Get your parcel?”
Kate nodded and drank her tea. Sally seemed a little brusque.
“Anything wrong?” Kate said, but as she spoke she remembered rushing out the previous evening, even though Sally had offered to cook.
“Where were you last night? Remember, last time, when you stayed out? You said you’d send a text if you weren’t coming home?”
“Sorry.”
“God! No, I’m sorry. I feel like a mother hen,” Sally said.
“You fed up with me?”
Kate frowned. She liked Sally worrying about her. It reminded her of when she lived with Rosie, in Croydon, after she was first released.
“Course not. Well, only when you’re being a kitchen freak. Crumbs on the work surface is not a hanging offence, Kate. Putting the pots back in the cupboard in the wrong order won’t bring about the end of the world. Loosen up!”
“Ouch.”
“I’m joking. I like having you around.”
“Is Robbie upstairs with Ruth?”
“Does the night follow day? Course he is. Are you going to make me some tea?”
“Toast?”
“Only with your jam, not that horrible shop stuff.”
“It’s not so bad me being a kitchen freak then?”
“I suppose not. Just send a text next time you stay out all night, OK? Who was he?”
“Who?”
“The guy.”
“No one you know.”
“Question is, did you know him?”
Kate didn’t answer.
Later, when Sally had gone upstairs to get dressed, Kate washed the breakfast things up at the sink. While she did so she looked out at the tiny back garden, just a square of grass with some pot plants around the edge. The garden next door was bigger and had a child’s climbing frame in it. Kate craned her neck to see if any of the neighbour’s children were out in the garden, but they weren’t. Then she saw the pink ball that had come over the fence and was perched like a boiled egg on top of one of Sally’s pots.
Lucy Bussell came into her head again. Kate wondered if Lucy was mentioned in the book. Lucy would be sixteen now but Kate only had an image of a small, thin, grubby child. Lucy Bussell’s clothes had always been too big for her and she had worn the same things day after day. Kate wondered what she was like now. When Kate was ten, that summer (when she was Jennifer), she had called her Mouse. It had been an unkind thing to do.
She dried her hands and folded the tea towel up again. She went back up to her room and stood by the window looking out to the sea. She wondered how Lucy had received the letter she had sent her. She tried to picture the girl; a college student, tall, still thin, her hair longer perhaps. She only knew the child though so it was hard for her to get a face in her head.
Kate remembered the day she found Lucy’s address.
It was weeks before during a session in Julia Masters’ office. Julia was not there and Kate was being interviewed by a woman from Bristol University, someone who Julia knew. The woman’s name was Barbara something and she was researching The Consequences of Crime for her PhD in Criminology. Barbara was working with a number of people, offenders and victims. None of them would be identified in the study.
They were sitting either side of Julia’s desk. Barbara had a book open on the work surface and was writing Kate’s answers down. She was doing it slowly as if recording every single word. Kate had to repeat herself a couple of times. From time to time Barbara glanced at her phone which was alongside the book.
It rang and she jumped slightly, as though it was the last thing she expected.
“I’m so sorry, Kate. I absolutely have to get this. It’s my son’s school. I’ll take it outside.”
She pulled a diary from her bag and left the office.
Kate looked at Barbara’s bag. It was spilling its contents out on Julia’s neat desk. She had an urge to right it, tidy it, but then saw the corner of a piece of paper sticking out of a file. The name Lucy Alexander (Bussell) was printed on it. It gave her a jolt. She pulled it out of the bag and read the name again and saw that there was also an address in London and an email address.
She stared at the piece of paper in her hand.
It was like a window opening onto her past.
From outside the door she heard the sound of Barbara’s voice. She could come back in any minute and see Kate with the piece of paper and it might look as though she had been rifling through her things. Kate felt a moment’s panic. She should put it back, tuck it into the file from which it had slipped. Close it off.
She took a pen out of her bag and grabbed a Post-it from Julia’s desk. She quickly copied the address down. Then she replaced the piece of paper in the file.
Barbara came back into the room
“Sorry about that, Kate. Where were we?”
The interview continued. The Post-it sat in Kate’s pocket like a tiny ticking bomb.
Lucy Bussell’s address; like a hand reaching out to her.
Six
On Monday Kate had the afternoon off work. She spent it ironing and making some bread. While she kneaded the dough she had her phone on the side and found herself looking at it from time to time. She’d half expected a message from Jimmy Fuller, a quick text that said something like, Fancy a drink? Or Come round to ours? Or Good to meet you on Saturday. It had happened before. Boys who she’d hooked up with, spent the night with, they were often keen to see her again. She knew why, she knew they thought her an easy conquest.
In the last two years there had been many such boys. She’d even spent a bit of time with some of them. Boys who followed football teams, who wore this year’s football shirt and talked about their players like gods or devils. There were also the boys who loved to be fit; who spent the week running or cycling and then spent the weekend in the university bar. She’d even liked the studious boys, who read books while they were having their lunch and talked about poetry and culture.
She liked the feel of these boys, the hardness of their backs and their shoulders. She liked the heat of them, the fervour of their kisses, the excited rush they always seemed to be in. She smiled at their untidy rooms and tiptoed across a sea of clothes and books, taking care not to kick over a cup or glass that had been discarded earlier. She slipped into their unmade beds and didn’t mind the crumbs and the socks that sometimes surfaced. She gave over her packet of condoms and in return she held onto these boys and felt them shiver and stiffen. Afterwards they fell into a deep sleep and woke up full of passion again. But she always stole away, gathering her clothes up in handfuls, searching for her bag and her shoes, getting dressed in the corner of the room or the bathroom.
When she saw them in college she was amazed at their shyness or embarrassment. They didn’t make eye contact and mumbled that they’d meant to ring her and she smiled and tried to put them at their ease. Then there were those who acted differently, with cockiness. It was as if they had conned her in some way and when she saw them they seemed to whisper to their friends and eye her warily as if she’d loaned them some money and was looking for payment. But she’d had what she wanted from them and she gave them a wave and moved on.
There were a few she’d seen over and over but it was always on a casual basis. She didn’t like making arrangements. It was always better to bump into them in the university bar or one of the pubs near the student houses that she’d lived in. Then it was up to her whether or not she stayed with them.
Sometimes, after one of these nights, she thought of Frankie, her first boyfriend. He’d been a college student in Croydon and one evening, after leaving work, she’d been amazed to see him standing in the street waiting for her. He’d walked along the road with her and told her about himself and asked her what she was doing serving people cups of coffee all day. She’d told him she was on a gap year; that had been her backstory, the explanation for her lifestyle. I thought people were supposed to do their gap year in Africa, not Croydon! he’d joked and somehow hi
s arm had crept round her shoulder. When they got to the door of Rosie’s flat he’d kissed her so hard it had made her head spin. After that they were together and she’d loved being with him. He was big and muscular and she felt safe with him. He had told her he loved her but when things got difficult he hadn’t loved her enough. So it was easier to spend time with frivolous boys who didn’t make any demands on her; nice boys with soft hands and a pocket full of chatter. These boys were easy to find. Jimmy Fuller was one such boy.
The front doorbell sounded. The harsh ring broke into her thoughts. She quickly plonked the mass of dough into a bowl and laid a damp cloth across it.
“Coming,” she shouted, walking along the hall, drying her fingers with a tea towel.
A man and woman, smartly dressed, were standing at the front door. The man was moving from one foot to the other as if nervous about something.
“Kate Rickman?” he said.
Kate nodded.
“You’re Kate Rickman?” he said. “I thought you’d be taller.”
“Get on with it, Simon,” the woman said.
Kate frowned. She had a bad feeling about these people.
“Right. Kate,” he said, enunciating her name so that it sounded odd. “I am Detective Constable Simon Kelsey and this is Detective Constable Pat Knight.”
They both showed ID cards.
“We would like you to come with us to Exeter police station to answer some questions regarding the disappearance of Jodie Mills.”
“Jodie Mills?”
For a second Kate had no idea what they were talking about. Then the name rang a bell. Jodie Mills. The nine-year-old-girl who everyone thought had drowned. She’d been murdered though; the woman in the shop had told her.
“There are just a few things that we’d like to clear up.”