If You Knew My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  ‘Do you think I’ve hurt my sister?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. This is not an interview under caution. You are here voluntarily.’

  I am so frantic, I am barely listening, but I do just about hear the word voluntarily, which calms me a little. I could leave, in theory, and that helps. I need to change direction. ‘Joyce, the housekeeper, was there when I left. She can vouch for me that Elle was still alive. And she made it pretty clear that Elle was the one with the problems. She’ll be able to tell you. She knows everything that happened in that house. If you are accusing me of something, I want to know whether I need a lawyer.’

  ‘Do you think you need a lawyer?’ Forrester asks me, as if such a need would prove my guilt. She is just waiting for me to make the request.

  ‘No,’ I plead, lifting myself up. Before I know it, I am on my feet, and I hear the chair crash to the floor behind me. ‘But you are making out like I planned this whole thing. That I planned my parents’ deaths and then did away with my sister in an effort to get my hands on their money. But my mother died before I even saw her. Plus my father killed himself, and nobody knows what has happened to Elle.’

  ‘Somebody knows what happened to Elle. And you know how I know that? Because somebody always does.’ After a pause in which she shuffles her papers back and forth, putting them into an unnecessary order, she looks up at me, motions for me to relax. ‘But no, I don’t think you are involved in your sister’s disappearance. The team in Edinburgh have spoken to Joyce. She told them that you left straight away. Seems quite taken by you, in fact. Plus we have a definitive sighting of Eleanor after you left Horton.’ When I don’t sit down straight away, she motions again for me to relax. ‘I personally spoke to Joseph Witherrington, and he also seems to back you up on knowing nothing about the changes to the will. But this situation doesn’t make much sense to me, and I don’t think you are telling me the truth. You know more than you’re letting on. That makes me suspicious because that’s what I am trained to be. So start being straight with me so that I can be straight with you. Why did you go there?’

  I take a long breath in and reach for the chair. I pick it up and take a seat. I begin slowly, painfully, hate for this woman oozing out of me for making me admit the truth. ‘Because I wanted to see my mother. Dead or alive. I couldn’t remember her face and it was my last chance. Curiosity, I guess.’ DC Forrester seems to relax a little. ‘I wanted to know why I was given away. I have never known the truth.’

  This she seems to accept, tracing a finger along the edge of the file. ‘You look a lot like her, you know.’

  ‘Yes, that’s not the first time somebody has told me that.’

  She is softer now, leans across the table. ‘What am I missing, Dr Harringford? Tell me what is going on. Do you care about your sister?’

  I think about all the times Elle has done something randomly weird to which I once aspired. Done something outright crazy when I was older that pushed me away. I think of all the times I have cut her out and then felt miserable because she wasn’t around. I think of how I still have the prepaid phone, just in case she calls. I get it out and show Forrester, setting it down on the table.

  ‘I threw this away so she couldn’t contact me. I retrieved it from the bin because I changed my mind. I care about Elle, I want the best for her,’ I say, repeating my father’s words. ‘I just don’t know how to let her be my sister. These people who have been describing her, they don’t know her like I do. I know her differently. She isn’t normal, DC Forrester. When I went there, I wasn’t myself. I did and said things that aren’t like me.’

  ‘Like the man in the hotel?’

  I take a shot of air, desperately feeling like I need it. ‘I guess so. Do you know that she drugged me that night? You can ask Mr Guthrie, he heard her admit to it. I struggle to have Elle in my life and I push her away. I push everybody away. I guess it’s what I am trained to do.’ She eyes me in a way that suggests I watch my smart mouth, but she lets it go. I think in this moment that maybe she likes me a little bit more. ‘I want you to find her. I do. I don’t want anything from my family’s estate. It’s like it isn’t anything to do with me. I want to know she is OK, and then go back to avoiding her. I know that makes me sound like a bitch, but it’s how it has to be. I can’t live with her, but I—’

  ‘Can’t live without her either?’ Her tone is different. She has dropped the asshole cop routine. ‘You’re right, it does make you sound like a bitch. But that’s not a crime, and neither is fucking a stranger behind your partner’s back. Drugged or not.’ There is a sharp twang to that last note, just enough so that I understand she doesn’t quite trust me yet. ‘Now, tell me something else, now that you are being honest. What have you really been doing since you got back?’

  ‘Hiding out. Staying in. Watching TV.’ I think about leaving it out, but I consider that adding it in makes me look more pathetic, and right now, that is a good thing because I’m still concerned that she thinks I arranged this whole thing. ‘Getting drunk at home.’

  ‘With Antonio?’ she asks. I catch a sly glint in her eye and wonder how this woman ever solved a crime with such a poor poker face.

  ‘No,’ I say, because I know that somehow she already knows. ‘We argued when I got back. I think it was partly the guilt that I had cheated on him, and partly the fact that I felt like I had let Elle down.’ That is the truth. ‘Plus, the whole deal with the will, realising I had inherited everything, upset me. I didn’t want it. I wanted to move on, leave the past behind. We argued, he smashed a couple of wine glasses, left at some point during the night. Or the next morning. I don’t know. I woke up and he was gone.’

  ‘So it would be fair to say that your relationship is strained. That things aren’t going well.’

  ‘That would be fair.’

  ‘So where’d he go?’

  ‘Italy. He withdrew money from my account and left. Came back the night before you knocked on the door.’

  ‘For four days?’ I shrug, confirming the duration of his absence. ‘And he is planning to open a restaurant soon, right? He applied for a bank loan. A pretty sizeable one at that.’

  How does she know about that? ‘It’s a dream of his. He always wanted to open a bistro. Now he has the money I’m sure he will do it. He has some savings, I think.’ Most of which I assume has been siphoned off from me.

  ‘Hm, really,’ says Forrester. She pulls out another sheet of paper, thick, like the photographs from the CCTV footage. I can’t quite make out the details. She ponders it and then looks at me. ‘Will it be a joint venture?’

  ‘No. I didn’t even know about the bank loan. He organised it while I was away. We’d had another fight, and I think we both thought it was over.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I have to ask you, does Antonio Molinaro know your sister?’

  ‘No. They have never met.’

  She is silent for a moment, and then asks me, ‘You sure about that?’ She slides a grainy image across the plastic desk. I see Elle’s unmistakable blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Even in greyscale she is stunning. Good bone structure. She is in a bar, clutching a drink. It’s the same bar where we went together in Hawick. Next to her is a man, a face I recognise. At first I think it’s Greg, the mind playing tricks on me. Showing me what I expect to see. But it is Antonio’s face huddled in close to her ear. ‘I got this through just before you arrived.’

  ‘When was this taken?’ I ask.

  ‘The day she went missing,’ says DC Forrester. She almost looks sad for me as she goes on, ‘Antonio, it seems, was the last person to see her before she disappeared.’

  30

  The last thing I ask before I leave the station is whether they are going to arrest Antonio. All DC Forrester says is that there’d be little point in me trying to warn him. It gives me the impression that maybe they are watching him already, or waiting for a vital piece of evidence before they strike. Maybe for me to implicate myself as an accomplice so
they can finger us both. Whatever DC Forrester is planning, by the time I leave the police station, the air thick and muggy, all I can think about is how I am returning to a life that doesn’t mean what I thought it did. A life that’s over.

  Let’s start with the facts. Number one: Antonio is a liar. He hasn’t been in Italy. He has been with her. In a bar. And let’s not pretend that he wasn’t huddled in close enough to lick the sweat from her skin. He was nestled into her neck, whispering in her ear. It could have been the briefest of moments. It’s possible that DC Forrester printed off that specific snapshot to make him look bad, like a hot-off-the-press celebrity exposé. Maybe she thought it would introduce doubt, that I would feel betrayed, reveal a damning truth and solve her little mystery by confessing. After all, that’s why she got me there first, right? See if I’d give him up like a woman scorned, fire-angry, willing to ruin herself if she can take her cheating man down with her. That’s the problem with a photograph: it’s so momentary that your mind takes the luxury of filling in the hours before and after until you have got yourself a whole story. And in my story Antonio is a liar. He has been meeting with my sister. He hasn’t been to Italy. He’s going to be taken in for questioning. Antonio is a fucking liar.

  Another fact: my father left me the best part of the family inheritance. The money, save a small fund so that Elle doesn’t starve, and the house. All my mother’s jewellery, which, considering the fancy necklace I spotted on her stiff dead neck, is probably a sizeable collection. All the time I wanted something more from my family, and now I’ve got it. What a haul. Problem is, I don’t want it any more. I wish he hadn’t bothered.

  Because my final fact, the cherry on top, the real kicker of the story, is that I look like a liar. Everything that has happened, from me going there in the first place in a reckless attempt to uncover the truth, to my decision to leave right after my father’s death, makes me look like I planned this whole thing. DC Forrester has managed to interpret every action since the moment my mother died as an attempt to secure the family inheritance. Despite the fact that she told me she doesn’t think me responsible, I know that all she is waiting for is the evidence. Like I’m some kind of kingpin, able to manipulate lives and deaths from a distance and really cash in. Ker-ching! I hit the fucking jackpot.

  I sit in my car, look down at the prepaid phone, my only connection left to Elle. I pick it up, dial her number and listen as it begins ringing. DC Forrester is right about one thing. I really should have called her already. The voicemail picks it up and I start to leave a message.

  ‘Elle, hi. It’s me,’ I say, voice sweet, kind, like I am trying to coax a kitten down from a tree. The victim. I can play that role if it makes her show her face. ‘Everybody is really worried about you. The police are searching for you. I’m worried too. I need you to get in touch. I…’ I pause a bit while I think of what else to say. When the words don’t come, I hang up.

  I throw the phone back down on to the passenger seat and grab the wheel with both hands, tighten my grip. It has started to rain, and as I pull on to Brixton Road, I can feel the car slipping, the ground slick with late-summer drizzle and dust. The wipers bat left and right, and for the briefest of moments I can barely see a metre ahead of me as the rain buckets down. I pull over into the bus lane and reach for the phone. I punch the keys until I am dialling Elle’s number again, and when I hear the voicemail pick up I leave the message I really wanted to leave the first time.

  ‘Elle, where the fucking hell are you? It looks like I set this whole thing up. Don’t you dare disappear on me now.’ I slam the phone down on the seat and pull back on to the road, feeling better.

  I park and run through the rain to Starbucks, nestled just alongside the tube station. I order an espresso and take a seat at the bar in the overcrowded coffee shop, which smells like a combination of hot cinnamon and vanilla. From my seat at the window I watch people passing by, staring through the condensation-drenched windows. A street florist opposite hurries to rearrange pots of daffodils and tulips and sprays of gypsophila. People are rushing and dashing; everyone has somewhere they should be. Some hurry inside to escape the downpour, laden with shopping bags, bringing with them the scent of summer rain. One of them is a mother with a child in a buggy. Some people help by clearing a path, shuffling their chairs out of the way. But the kid is crying, screaming out as if it is in pain. I watch the woman as she buys a drink, a cookie for the kid, which he proceeds to smash against the table, sending crumbs high in the air like wedding confetti. She looks close to tears, beyond hassled. Yet she scoops that kid up, bounces him on her knee. Such a simple thing. A few minutes later he is asleep. She catches me watching her, smiles awkwardly in my direction. How hard can it be? I turn away, stare instead at the mottled reflection of my face in the window, not sure I even recognise who I am.

  An hour passes like this before the rain eases off. The café empties gradually, the mother and child among the first to leave. I try a smile as she is on her way out, but the moment for friendship has gone and I end up turning back to my reflection, feeling awkward. I’ve never been very good at making friends, which is why I suppose I don’t have anybody to turn to now. I guess I never did learn how to integrate, despite Aunt Jemima’s best efforts.

  I drive home, reminding myself on every corner of exactly where that is. Home. Home. Turn left towards home. I check the prepaid phone before I step from the car, but there is no reply from Elle. To fill the time, I call the number left by Miss Endicott.

  ‘Yes, hello?’ She answers in her very best telephone voice, a softening of her Scottish accent. She sounds so different that at first I’m not sure it’s her.

  ‘Hello, Miss Endicott? This is Mrs Jackson.’ Confusion on the end of the line as I keep up the pretence. ‘We met at the school a couple of weeks ago.’ There is silence while she thinks, so I try to jog her memory. ‘I was searching for a placement for my child.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says slowly, as if the parts of the jigsaw are starting to move into place. ‘I wasn’t sure you would return my call.’

  ‘Your message sounded important. You told me there was some information I should know.’ I’m not sure why I am skirting around the subject. I would love to just blurt it out, tell her that I saw her at the funeral, that really I am related to the family from Mam Tor, the place that is not for sale. But I remember just how strange Elle’s reaction was when she saw Miss Endicott arrive in the church, so I stick to my false identity, wear it like a bulletproof vest.

  ‘Yes, I did, Mrs Jackson. It is regarding that house you mentioned during your visit. It has become vacant, but,’ and she pauses, a last breath before she lets herself fall without a net for safety, ‘I think we both know that already. I wanted to warn you in advance that pursuing that house could be very difficult.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, feigning surprise, clinging on to my own lies even though I am sure she has all but admitted she knows who I am. ‘Well, I will bear your advice in mind. Have the residents moved on?’

  ‘The residents have indeed moved on. Before their time. There is a daughter in the picture, but rumour has it she is not set to inherit the house.’ She whispers this last part as if it is hot news, salacious gossip burning her tongue, steam coming off her sizzling words. I can hear voices and laughter in the background and I realise I have lost track of the days. I glance at the clock and see that it is Tuesday.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Endicott, but are you working at the moment? Perhaps there are people there and you can’t talk?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, my dear. Now listen. The house is empty, but might not go forward for immediate sale. I believe somebody else is set to inherit it,’ she continues, ignoring my question but somehow also answering it. I go along with her coded conversation.

  ‘Who will inherit the house?’

  ‘Mrs Jackson, I am good friends with Mr Witherrington. Just friends, mind. I don’t want there to be any confusion.’ There is no confusion. ‘Mr Wittherington is t
he lawyer who has been charged with handling the estate. But you might already know that,’ she murmurs. I imagine her turning away, her usual brusque, overbearing nature reduced to huddling in a corner with her hand cupped over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Yes, I do know that.’ I am losing my patience and can’t keep up the pretence any longer. ‘Please, Miss Endicott, you known damn well who I am,’ I snap. ‘That’s why you called me. Get to the point.’

  Silence for a minute, save the background voices still joking around. I wonder if I have blown it, whether I misread the conversation and have given myself away. But then Miss Endicott chuckles as if we have just shared a joke. I pull out a cigarette and light it quickly, cracking open the window. Breathe in. Breathe out. Water drizzles in, chilling my leg as it falls. ‘Oh yes. Of course, Mrs Jackson. You gave me all the details when you came to see me at the school. I understood perfectly.’

  ‘So,’ I say, happy to be on the same page, ‘if you know who I am, tell me what is going on. You must know that my sister has gone missing.’ I puff hard on the cigarette, close the window a little to stop the rain from falling inside the car.

  ‘Why yes, dear. Of course. And that is why I had no choice but to call you. Mr Witherrington is dealing with the transaction, but I must stress that I would advise you against following it up. You see, there is an issue regarding the inheritance of their firstborn daughter.’

  ‘Miss Endicott, be straight with me. What are you trying to tell me?’ I stub the remains of my cigarette out. I don’t understand. In one breath she is trying to help me, but in the next she is being so cryptic. At the funeral she didn’t even speak to my father, so why is she so concerned to help me now? Does she know something about Elle that I don’t? About her disappearance? Why would she hide it if she did?