I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  ‘No.’ I search for something to say, but there is nothing. I hold the photograph towards Anya, who shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t need it,’ she says. ‘I carry his face in here.’ She places the flat of her palm against her chest. ‘But you,’ there is the briefest of pauses, ‘you, I think, must remember. You must remember that he was a boy. That he had a mother. And that her heart is breaking.’

  She turns and ducks under the barrier, disappearing into the crowd, and I draw in air as though I’ve been held under water.

  My barrister is a woman in her forties. She looks at me with calculated interest as she sweeps into the small consultation room, where a security officer stands outside the door.

  ‘Ruth Jefferson,’ she says, holding out a firm hand. ‘It’s a simple process today, Ms Gray. You’ve already entered a plea, so today’s hearing is merely for sentencing. We’re first up after lunch, and I’m afraid you’ve got Judge King.’ She sits opposite me at the table.

  ‘What’s wrong with Judge King?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s not known for his leniency,’ Ruth replies, with a humourless laugh that shows perfect white teeth.

  ‘What will I get?’ I ask before I can stop myself. It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is doing the right thing.

  ‘It’s hard to say. Failing to stop and report an accident is a straightforward driving ban, but since the minimum ban for death by dangerous driving is two years, that’s irrelevant. It’s the prison sentence that could go either way. Death by dangerous carries up to fourteen years; guidelines would suggest between two and six years. Judge King will be looking at the upper end, and it’s my job to convince him two years would be more appropriate.’ She takes the lid off a black fountain pen. ‘Any history of mental illness?’

  I shake my head and catch the flash of disappointment in the barrister’s face.

  ‘Let’s talk about the incident, then. I understand conditions made visibility very poor – did you see the boy before the point of impact?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any chronic medical conditions?’ Ruth asks. ‘They’re useful in these cases. Or perhaps you were feeling unwell that particular day?’

  I look at her blankly and the barrister tuts.

  ‘You’re making this very hard, Ms Gray. Do you have any allergies? Did you suffer from a fit of sneezes prior to the point of impact, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Ruth sighs and speaks slowly, as though to a child. ‘Judge King will have already looked at your pre-sentence report and have a sentence in mind. My job is to present this as nothing more than an unfortunate accident. An accident that couldn’t be avoided, and for which you are extremely sorry. Now, I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but if for example’ – she looks pointedly at me – ‘you were overcome by a sneezing fit—’

  ‘But I wasn’t.’ Is this how it works? Lies upon lies upon lies, all designed to get the lowest possible punishment. Is our justice system so flawed? It sickens me.

  Ruth Jefferson scans her notes and looks up suddenly. ‘Did the boy run out in front of you with no warning? According to the mother’s statement, she released his hand as they approached the road, so—’

  ‘It’s not her fault!’

  The barrister raises carefully groomed eyebrows. ‘Ms Gray,’ she says smoothly, ‘we’re not here to agree whose fault this is. We’re here to discuss the extenuating circumstances that led to this unfortunate accident. Please try not to get emotional.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But there are no extenuating circumstances.’

  ‘It’s my job to find them,’ Ruth replies. She puts down her file and leans forward. ‘Believe me, Ms Gray, there’s a big difference between two years in prison and six, and if there’s anything at all that justifies you killing a five-year-old boy and driving away without stopping, you need to tell me now.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘I wish there was,’ I say.

  44

  Not stopping to take off his coat, Ray marched into CID and found Kate scrolling through the overnight jobs. ‘My office, now.’

  She stood up and followed him. ‘What’s up?’

  Ray didn’t answer. He turned on his computer and put the blue business card on his desk. ‘Remind me who had this card.’

  ‘Dominica Letts. The partner of one of our targets.’

  ‘Did she talk?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Ray folded his arms. ‘It’s a women’s refuge.’

  Kate looked at him, confused.

  ‘The house in Grantham Street,’ Ray said, ‘and this one here.’ He nodded at the pale-blue card. ‘I think they’re refuges for victims of domestic violence.’ He sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘Dominica Letts is a known victim of domestic abuse – it’s what nearly put Operation Falcon in jeopardy. I drove by the address on this card on my way into work and it’s exactly the same as Grantham Street: motion sensors at the front; nets up at all the windows; no letter box at the door.’

  ‘You think Jenna Gray’s a victim too?’

  Ray nodded slowly. ‘Have you noticed how she won’t make eye contact? She’s got that jumpy, nervous look about her, and she clams up whenever she’s challenged.’

  Before he could continue with his theory, his phone rang and the screen flashed with the extension for the front desk.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, sir,’ Rachel told him. ‘A guy called Patrick Mathews.’

  The name didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘I’m not expecting anyone, Rach. Can you take a message and get rid of him?’

  ‘I’ve tried, sir, but he’s insistent. Says he needs to talk to you about his girlfriend – Jenna Gray.’

  Ray widened his eyes at Kate. Jenna’s boyfriend. The checks Ray had done into his background hadn’t revealed more than a caution for drunk and disorderly as a student, but was there more to him than met the eye?

  ‘Bring him up,’ he said. He filled Kate in while they waited.

  ‘Do you think he’s the abusive partner?’ she said.

  Ray shook his head. ‘He doesn’t look the type.’

  ‘They never do,’ Kate said. She stopped abruptly as Rachel arrived with Patrick Mathews. He wore a battered waxed jacket and carried a rucksack over one shoulder. Ray gestured to the chair next to Kate, and he sat down, perching on the edge as though he might stand up again at any time.

  ‘I believe you have some information about Jenna Gray,’ Ray said.

  ‘Well, not information, really,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s more of a feeling.’

  Ray glanced at his watch. Jenna’s case was listed for immediately after lunch and Ray wanted to be in court when she was sentenced. ‘What sort of feeling, Mr Mathews?’ He looked at Kate, who gave a barely noticeable shrug. Patrick Mathews wasn’t the man Jenna was afraid of. But who was?

  ‘Call me Patrick, please. Look, I know you’ll think I’m bound to say this, but I don’t think Jenna’s guilty.’

  Ray felt a spark of interest.

  ‘There’s something she’s not telling me about what happened the night of the accident,’ Patrick said. ‘Something she’s not telling anyone.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I honestly thought there might be a future for us, but if she won’t talk to me, how can there be?’ He held up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, and Ray was reminded of Mags. You never talk to me, she’d said.

  ‘What do you think she’s hiding from you?’ Ray asked, with more sharpness than he intended. Did every relationship have secrets, he wondered?

  ‘Jenna keeps a box under her bed.’ Patrick looked uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t have dreamed of going through her things, only she wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened, and then when I touched the box she snapped at me to leave it alone … I hoped it might give me some answers.’

  ‘So you took a look.’ Ray eyed Patrick thoughtfully. He didn’t seem to be an aggressive man, b
ut snooping through someone’s possessions was the act of someone wanting control.

  Patrick nodded. ‘I have a key to the cottage: we agreed I’d go and pick up her dog this morning, after she left for court.’ He sighed. ‘I half wish I hadn’t.’ He handed Ray an envelope. ‘Look inside.’

  Ray opened the envelope and saw the distinctive red cover of a British passport. Inside, a younger Jenna looked back at him, unsmiling, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. To the right, he saw a name: Jennifer Petersen.

  ‘She’s married.’ Ray glanced at Kate. How had they missed that? Intelligence checks were run on anyone coming into custody – surely they wouldn’t have missed something as basic as a name change? He looked at Patrick. ‘Did you know?’

  Court would be sitting in the next ten minutes. Ray drummed his fingers on his desk. Something about the name Petersen was nagging him. It felt familiar.

  ‘She told me she was married once: I assumed she was divorced.’

  Ray and Kate exchanged glances. Ray picked up the phone and called the court. ‘Has R v Gray been called yet?’ He waited while the desk clerk checked the court list.

  Petersen, not Gray. What a cock-up.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ He replaced the handset. ‘Judge King’s been delayed – we’ve got half an hour.’

  Kate sat forward. ‘That report I gave you the other day – after you sent me to deal with the woman at the front counter. Where is it?’

  ‘Somewhere in my in-tray,’ Ray said.

  Kate began rifling through the paperwork on his desk. She picked up three files from the top of Ray’s in-tray and, finding herself with no free space on the desk, dumped them on the floor. She leafed quickly through the remaining paperwork, discarding each unwanted page and picking up the next in seconds.

  ‘That’s it!’ she said triumphantly. She pulled out the report from its plastic wallet and dropped it on to Ray’s desk. A handful of torn photo pieces fluttered on top of it and Patrick picked one up. He looked at it curiously, then glanced up at Ray.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Ray said, not completely clear what he was giving permission for.

  Patrick gathered up the sections of photograph and began piecing them together. As the photo of Penfach Bay took shape in front of them, Ray let out a low whistle. ‘So Jenna Gray is the sister Eve Manning is so worried about.’

  He sprang into action. ‘Mr Mathews, thank you for bringing the passport. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait for us at the court. Rachel at the front desk will direct you. We’ll be there as fast as we can. Kate, meet me at DAU in five minutes.’

  As Kate escorted Patrick downstairs, Ray picked up the phone. ‘Natalie, it’s Ray Stevens from CID. Can you see what you’ve got on an Ian Petersen? White male, late forties…’

  Ray ran down a flight of stairs and along a corridor through a door marked Protective Services. A moment later Kate joined him, and together they rang a buzzer for the Domestic Abuse Unit. A cheery-looking woman with cropped black hair and chunky jewellery opened the door.

  ‘Did you find anything, Nat?’

  She showed them in and swivelled her computer screen to face them. ‘Ian Francis Petersen,’ she said, ‘born twelfth April 1965. Previous for drink drive, aggravated assault and currently the subject of a restraining order.’

  ‘Against a woman called Jennifer, by any chance?’ Kate said, but Natalie shook her head.

  ‘Marie Walker. We supported her to leave Petersen after six years of systematic abuse. She pressed charges, but he got off. The restraining order was granted at civil court and is still in place.’

  ‘Any history prior to Marie?’

  ‘Not with partners, no, but ten years ago he was cautioned for common assault. On his mother.’

  Ray felt bile rise in his throat. ‘We think Petersen is married to the woman involved in the Jacob Jordan hit-and-run,’ he said. Natalie stood up and walked towards a wall full of grey metal filing cabinets. She pulled out a drawer and flicked through the contents.

  ‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘This is everything we’ve got on Jennifer and Ian Petersen, and it doesn’t make pleasant reading.’

  45

  The exhibitions you held were tedious. The venues were different: converted warehouses; studios; shop floors, but the people were always the same: ranting liberals in coloured scarves. The women were hairy and opinionated; the men insipid and under the thumb. Even the wine lacked personality.

  During the week of your November exhibition you were particularly difficult. I helped you take your pieces to the warehouse three days early, and you spent the rest of the week there, getting ready.

  ‘How long does it take to set out a few sculptures?’ I said, when you came in late for the second night in a row.

  ‘We’re telling a story,’ you said. ‘The guests will move through the room from one sculpture to another, and the pieces have to speak in the right way to them.’

  I laughed. ‘You should hear yourself! What a load of rubbish. Just make sure the price tag is nice and easy to read, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t you want me there?’ I eyed you suspiciously. Your eyes were a little too bright; your chin a little too defiant. I wondered what had caused such sudden joie de vivre.

  ‘I just don’t want you to be bored. We can manage.’

  There it was: the flash of something unreadable in your eyes.

  ‘We?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

  You were flustered. You turned away and pretended to busy yourself with the washing-up. ‘Philip. From the exhibition. He’s the curator.’

  You began wiping a cloth around the inside of a pan I had left to soak. I moved to stand behind you, pressing you between my body and the sink so my mouth was level with your ear. ‘Oh, he’s the curator, is he? Is that what you call him when he’s fucking you?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ you said. Ever since your pregnancy you had adopted a particular tone of voice when I spoke to you. It was excessively calm; the sort of voice you might use when talking to a screaming child, or the clinically insane. I hated it. I moved a fraction backwards, and felt you breathe out, then I pushed you forward again. I guessed from the sound you made that you were winded, and you put both hands on the edge of the sink to get your breath back.

  ‘You’re not fucking Philip?’ I spat the words out on to the back of your neck.

  ‘I’m not fucking anyone.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not fucking me,’ I said, ‘not lately, anyway.’ I felt you tense, and I knew you expected me to slide a hand between your legs; wanted it, even. I was almost sorry to disappoint, but your skinny backside held little attraction for me by then.

  On the day of the exhibition I was in our bedroom when you came upstairs to get changed. You hesitated.

  ‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,’ I said. I found a clean shirt and hung it on the back of the wardrobe door; you laid your outfit out on the bed. I watched you shrug off your tracksuit bottoms and fold up your sweatshirt for the next day. You wore a white bra and matching pants, and I wondered if you had chosen the colour deliberately to contrast with the bruise on your hip. The swelling was still noticeable, and when you sat on the bed you winced, as though making a point. You put on wide linen trousers and a voluminous top in the same fabric, which hung off your bony shoulders. I chose a necklace of fat green beads from the jewellery tree on your dressing table.

  ‘Shall I put this on for you?’

  You hesitated, then sat on the little stool. I put my arms over your head and held the necklace in front of you, and you lifted your hair out of the way. I moved my hands to the back of your neck, tightening the pressure of the necklace against your throat for a split-second, and feeling you tense in front of me. I laughed and fastened the clasp. ‘Beautiful,’ I said. I bent down and looked at you in the mirror. ‘Try not to make a fool of yourself today
, Jennifer. You always humiliate yourself at these things by drinking too much and fawning over the guests.’

  I stood up to put on my shirt, choosing a pale pink tie to go with it. I slipped on my jacket and looked in the mirror, satisfied with what I saw. ‘You may as well drive,’ I said, ‘as you won’t be drinking.’

  I had offered on several occasions to buy a new car for you, but you had insisted on keeping your battered old Fiesta. I went in it as little as possible, but I had no intention of letting you drive my Audi after you dented it trying to park, so I sat in the passenger seat of your filthy car and let you drive me to the exhibition.

  When we arrived, there was already a crowd of people around the bar, and as we walked through the room there was a murmur of appreciation. Someone clapped and the others joined in, although there were too few people for it to be applause, and the resulting sound was embarrassing.

  You handed me a glass of champagne and took one for yourself. A man with dark wavy hair approached us, and I knew from the way your eyes lit up that this was Philip.

  ‘Jenna!’ He kissed you on both cheeks and I saw your hand touch his so briefly you might have thought I wouldn’t notice. So briefly it might almost have been by accident. But I knew it wasn’t.

  You introduced me, and Philip shook my hand. ‘You must be very proud of her.’

  ‘My wife is immensely gifted,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m proud of her.’

  There was a pause before Philip spoke again. ‘I’m sorry to steal Jenna away from you, but I really must introduce her to a few people. There’s been a lot of interest in her work, and…’ He stopped talking and rubbed his thumb and fingers together, winking at me.

  ‘Far be it from me to stand in the way of possible sales,’ I said.

  I watched you work the room together, Philip’s hand never leaving the small of your back, and I knew then you were having an affair. I don’t know how I got through the rest of the exhibition, but my eyes never left you. When the champagne was finished, I drank wine, and I stood next to the bar to save the need to return. And all the time I watched you. You had a smile on your face I never saw any more, and I had a brief glimpse of the girl I saw in the Student Union all those years ago, laughing with her friends. You never seemed to laugh any more.