If You Knew My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  ‘That’s OK. Anything to help.’ DC Forrester nods, once. Sharp and definite, as if she expected nothing less. ‘I want to clear this up, find Elle.’

  ‘I take it that Eleanor hasn’t been in touch.’ I shake my head, sip my coffee. ‘Did you try and get in touch with her?’ She waits for a response, but when nothing comes, she looks down disappointedly at the file in front of her, lets go of a toxic breath. As she rustles through the contents, I see Elle’s face staring back at us.

  ‘I did call the Guardians and a few shelters,’ I say quickly. ‘Plus I checked the responses to DC McGuire’s Facebook messages. Don’t think there was anything useful, though.’

  She looks up, her head resting on her hand. ‘Send any of your own?’ I shake my head and she looks back down at the file. ‘Well, let’s see what we’ve got so far.’

  She spends the next five minutes recapping what we already know. Elle’s reported mental illness. The death of my mother. My father. Our trips to the gym, shopping, drinks, disappearances. She scratches her fingers against the table with every new fact, as if carving them in stone like the ancient Athenians.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a little bit more about the night before your father’s death. Is that OK with you?’ I nod my head agreeably. ‘Good. You told me that you and Elle had spent your days doing normal stuff. Everyday, average stuff.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ I sit on my hands to stop myself fidgeting.

  ‘So what is normal for you? What counts as everyday? What kind of things do you do in your life?’

  ‘With Antonio?’ She nods, drums her fingers against the table. I can feel her foot shaking. ‘We hang out. We go out to eat. Maybe the movies. Normal stuff.’

  ‘Ever lost anybody close to you before, Dr Harringford?’

  I find the question insulting, because I have pretty much lost everything since I was born. But I get where she is going with this, and so I go along with it. ‘Not through death.’ Anybody with any positive connotations to my life is still alive. Uncle Marcus died a few years back, before I lost touch with Aunt Jemima, but that doesn’t really count. I didn’t even go to his funeral. I was anxious that my actual parents would be there, or even worse, Elle. No wonder Aunt Jemima doesn’t call me any more. No wonder she didn’t answer my call after Elle vanished.

  ‘I have,’ says Forrester. ‘Lost my father last year. Took three weeks off work. Took it hard. And I don’t have a husband or kids to look after. Just myself.’ That doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘My point, Dr Harringford, is that losing somebody you care about is tough. It’s a challenge to get past it. Your parents’ deaths could be a good enough reason to go missing.’

  ‘We don’t know why Elle has gone missing. This is just speculation.’

  She picks up her coffee and looks at me, stares into my eyes, searching. It is me who looks away. ‘I am simply trying to understand her actions in the days after the death of your mother, and immediately prior to your father’s suicide.’ She hates me, I can feel it. Every time she makes eye contact, the corners of her mouth turn down, like I’m a bad taste. ‘I am trying to understand her character.’

  ‘How long have you got?’ I say, realising immediately that what I’ve just said makes me look snippy, like I have got something against Elle, a cross to bear. Nobody needs to have something against a missing person. As if to confirm what I was thinking, Forrester pulls a dissatisfied face, lips all puckered, her wrinkle-set eyes stretched as she arches her brows. ‘Sorry about that, it’s just … Elle is kind of complicated. If you knew her—’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’ She ignores my apology and says, ‘So, you went to the gym.’ My hands feel sweaty, hot like fire tucked underneath my legs. The left one has offset my hip and it has started to ache. I pull them out, try to relax.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, wiping my palms on my jeans.

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I have a statement from the owner of Sportswear For You.’ I must look confused, because she goes on to confirm for me, ‘You shopped there on your first day with Eleanor. I’ll read it to you.’ She holds up a piece of paper from the file. ‘Two women came into the shop sometime after eleven. I remember them because the tall one was very pretty and had nice hair. She was wearing a pink sports fleece, and I remember thinking it was high-quality sweat-wicking fabric. I wondered who else was selling it in the local area.’ She says all this without stopping for breath. Irrelevant facts just setting the scene. Then she slows down, which is how I know that what is coming is more important. ‘The tall one was in high spirits, kept saying how she wanted to treat her sister. The short one had a hobble, looked upset about something. Everything I suggested was no good, and slowly the tall one, the pretty one, got disappointed. She kept saying, “All I want is for us to be able to do something together.” The short one got tired of her begging, even after picking out a high-end pair of trainers, and in the end grabbed a pair of leggings and a racer bra, which the pretty one went on to buy.’

  DC Forrester glances up, looking for clarification about what happened in Sportswear For You. It’s because it doesn’t suit me, the idea of a racer bra. It’s the hobble, which I thought was less noticeable. But it seems that even random people in sport shops notice it. I use my fingers to mark the outline of a crop top, and she nods as if she understood all along.

  ‘Shall I continue?’ She waits for me to agree, and after clearing her throat and taking a sip of coffee, she picks up the statement where she left off. ‘They had caused quite a scene, and I had seen several customers leave. So when they eventually came to buy something, I didn’t question it when I realised that they were buying the wrong size. I was just happy that they were leaving.’

  She rocks back in her chair, eyes me up over the page before setting it back down on the desk. ‘And?’ I ask. I am so used to my relationship with Elle being like this, there is nothing that seems out of the ordinary. She might as well have read, Woman goes to shop and buys sportswear. Although I don’t remember being the one who selected the leggings or the racer bra. I guess I can’t blame Elle for that poor choice.

  ‘Doesn’t sound much like you were having a nice time. Her begging you. You being … what did he say?’ She looks back down at the statement and smiles when she finds it. ‘Oh, that’s it. Tired of Eleanor’s begging.’

  ‘But that’s Elle. She forces stuff on people, pushes them. I didn’t want to go to the gym.’

  ‘But you told me you had a nice time there.’

  ‘Yes. It was OK. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to go. If I had wanted to go to the gym in those few days, I would have taken sportswear with me, right?’

  She shuffles through the file and produces another sheet of paper without giving away any opinion. ‘I’ll read another statement for you. From the gym: Everybody knows Elle. She is a happy-go-lucky type. She gets involved in lots of activities and charity events. She is a bit socially awkward, but her heart is always in the right place. I think she is lonely because she seems to want to latch on to men. I think she is looking for a boyfriend. Must be hard living with your folks. I heard she was trying for a baby at one point but her boyfriend at the time backed up. Weird, she has a lot going for her.’ Forrester sips her coffee without looking at me. I reach for mine and bring it to my lips, but it is cold so I set it back down without drinking. ‘You want another one?’ Forrester asks, pointing at the cup. I shake my head. ‘So, does that sound like Eleanor to you?’

  ‘Not much,’ I say.

  ‘Not to me either. But only if I believe the version of Eleanor that you have described. Here’s another. Now this one is from a psychiatrist,’ she says as she slides another piece of paper from the file. ‘You will want to listen to this one.’ I nod my head energetically, certain that she is right. If anyone can shed light on Elle it will be a psychiatrist. I edge forward in my seat. ‘It says: I have known Elle in the capa
city of her doctor since last year. She first came to visit me because she was struggling with the idea that she would never have a child. She was moving from one meaningless relationship to the next, looking for somebody to love her. I concluded that her relationship with her mother was poor, but that she adored her father and was in many ways looking for a replacement. She was doing well in life, socialising at her local gym and working as a volunteer at the local cat and dog sanctuary. She was financially secure, her income coming from the family estate. She required minimal assistance and guidance with understanding that not every man was a potential candidate to be the father of her child. Her biggest issue, besides the poor relationship with her mother,’ and this is the point that Forrester looks up at me, ‘was her sister.’

  I must look dumbfounded, because she gives me a moment to take that in before she continues.

  ‘Elle describes her sister as a loner, not keen on family bonds. She has made several attempts at forming a relationship with her, and has spent the last six years trying to reach her, to no avail. She blames her mother for this loss. She describes her sister as bitter, spiteful and crazy.’

  I can feel a bead of sweat forming on my brow, and I reach up to wipe it away. Elle has made me out to be something I’m not, and these idiots who have made statements are providing the foundations for her imaginary world. Of course she would be able to fool a psychiatrist. It’s so obvious, yet I never imagined it. Never saw it coming. This was her plan all along. She’s fucking set me up.

  ‘I’ll have another coffee,’ I say.

  29

  Listening to Forrester read out the statements makes me feel ill. I want to run. I want to be sick. I want to scream at her that she couldn’t be any more wrong. I do none of those things. I am wrapped up in Elle’s web of lies, so much so that I am starting to wonder if they are my own.

  ‘Now that doesn’t sound much like Eleanor either, does it?’ She ignores my request for a coffee and pushes a photo of Elle towards me, taps out each word with her finger. ‘At least not according to you.’ The tall pretty one runs around in my head. She describes her sister as bitter, spiteful and crazy.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Plus there is no record of her ever having received treatment for mental health issues in the past. We have a full disclosure of her medical history and there is nothing in there except a couple of visits to her GP, and this doctor who made the statement. He saw her privately, and essentially concluded that she was fine.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I say, remembering her telling me herself that our parents had placed her in a clinic. ‘She has had treatment. Must have. I know she has.’

  ‘How can you be so certain? You haven’t seen her in years, according to this. Even now, when she is missing, you haven’t tried to call her. Have you called anybody else?’

  ‘Yes.’ I jump, pointing a finger at her, which looks a bit too accusatory. She holds her hands up in a way that suggests I back off, as if I was about to attack. I sit back down, calm myself. ‘Witherrington. I know who he is. He’s the lawyer dealing with my father’s estate. I spoke to him.’

  ‘We know very well who he is, Dr Harringford.’ She pulls out a photocopy of what looks like my father’s will, highlighted with yellow and pink lines, little sticky Post-it notes marking important and interesting segments. I spot that Article 4 has been both highlighted and emphasised by a Post-it note. ‘The reason we know of him is because of this, a will signed by your father the day you arrived in Horton. It was found at your parents’ home. Now your home, right? I presume you have seen it before.’

  I consider lying, but figure there is little point. It could do me more harm than good. ‘I have seen it, yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell us? It cuts Eleanor out, doesn’t it? I can’t imagine a better reason to be upset and feel vulnerable.’ There’s that word again, the word that reminds me how far they are from the truth. ‘After losing both her parents, she finds out that your father has cut her off financially. And we have just heard how she was financially secure because of your family. This is like a smack in the face, isn’t it, after everything that happened? Can you see this?’ she asks, pointing to a section with a pink Post-it note next to it. ‘Maybe you can’t because this is a copy, but there are wrinkles in the page. Watermarks. We had them analysed and found that they were tears, Dr Harringford. No doubt your sister’s. On the will made by your father, whom she adored, and with whom she had a good relationship. All backed up by a statement from Eleanor’s psychiatrist. Yet right after you turn up, he cuts her out. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She slides the statements back into the file and sips her cold coffee. Her tired, birdlike eyes stare at me as she sits back and folds her arms like a fat Texan sheriff. ‘Why did you change your flight home on the night before your father’s death?’

  ‘I didn’t change it. I missed it.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ She pulls out another sheet of paper and I feel myself flush, because even though I know that what I have said is the truth, I have a horrible feeling that she is about to prove me wrong. ‘We got this from the airline.’ It looks like a screenshot, topped with a logo declaring: Internal Air, a flight in the right direction! She pushes it my way. I see the words Manage My Booking. I read on and see that apparently I changed my flight to the following day. Did I do this? I don’t remember doing it, but there is a lot I don’t remember doing that night.

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ I say, not sounding certain. I bring my fingers up to my nose, sniff at the nicotine. ‘Elle must have changed it.’

  ‘You have to have the booking details in order to change the flight. Could she have had access to those?’

  I think about the bag sitting in my room with everything in it. She could have dug out the flight details. But she could also have got them from the study, where I left them during my mother’s wake. I got sloppy, forgot how to play the game. I look down at the page and scan the information. Time of amendment: 16.35.

  ‘Elle did this.’ I rub my fingers on the desk, scratch at my head. I’m falling apart, unravelling stitch by stitch. ‘She must have gained access to my things and made the changes. Online you can be anybody, you must know that. At this time we were together at the house.’

  ‘But you didn’t remain at the house all night, right? You were at a hotel with a man named Matthew.’ She slides an image taken from some grainy CCTV footage across the desk. There is no doubt it is me; my face attached to his, him holding me up as if I am about to slump to the ground. ‘You were seen kissing him in the foyer, and then, a little later on, you were caught on the third-floor landing doing other things that involved your mouth. I can prove that too if you would like?’ I bring my hand to my mouth, cover it as if I’m about to be sick. Perhaps trying to conceal the evidence. She holds up another photograph, turns it away from me so that I can’t see the image. ‘But I’d much rather you just admitted it. Save us both the embarrassment.’

  Elle has planned it perfectly. By screwing Matt, all I have done is reinforce my guilt, polish her innocence. I’ve played straight into her hands. I have to make out that it wasn’t important. ‘Admit what? That I screwed another guy when I was away from home. I wouldn’t be the first to do that. It doesn’t mean that I had anything to do with the will or my father rewriting it. It doesn’t prove that I was the one who changed my flight. I paid for another ticket the next day. Why would I have done that if I knew I had changed my flight?’ I try to sound defiant, but being caught out, hand in the cookie jar, never feels good.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t be the first. And to be quite honest, I don’t care who you fuck. What I do care about is this. Let’s assume that what you’ve told me is the truth. I’ll recap.’ She stands up, starts circling the room. ‘You have no feelings for your mother, yet you rush to fly up there when she dies. You say it was to support your sister, yet this is the same sister that you refused to have a
relationship with for years before that. You spend the next few days bitching at her as she tries to spend time with you. You act like nothing important has happened, visiting the gym, going out for drinks. Then, after your father alters his will and subsequently commits suicide, you change your flight home and end up blowing a stranger in the corridor of a hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t change the flight,’ I shout. I slip down in the chair, seeing how badly this whole thing is playing out before me. She doesn’t pay me any attention. Instead she continues recounting the facts as she knows them.

  ‘Your father kills himself with a Valium overdose, something he doesn’t have a prescription for and for which we cannot find a box or bottle. Not even a shred of foil from a blister pack. And you know what, your sister with the psychiatrist, even she doesn’t have a prescription for it. But you’re a doctor. Anaesthetist, isn’t it?’

  I nod, and she leans in, the smell of coffee pungent on her breath. I am wondering if this was Elle’s plan all along, to screw me over right from the word go. Perhaps she’s been trying to wrap me up in trouble since the days with Margot Wolfe and Robert Kneel. Maybe she got our father to change the will just to set me up.

  ‘You have access to medication like that, I presume? I could look at the controlled drugs records at Queen’s, if you like. That’s where you work, isn’t it? Queen’s College Hospital?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Then your sister disappears, something you seem to want to explain in terms of mental illness, yet other than seeing a shrink for a few months last year because she wasn’t handling the idea that she might not become a mother, there is no history of mental illness recorded in any of her hospital documents. And oh, surprise, surprise,’ she holds up her hands, ‘the missing sister is the only relative who could possibly contest the will. A will that was written days before your father died, leaving you, the daughter he kicked out when you were three years old, with everything. Something doesn’t add up, Dr Harringford. Explain it to me.’