Truth Will Out

by A. D. Garrett

  Epilogue

  A week later, Fennimore, Simms and Becky were making the forty-mile journey from Manchester to Garstang, Lancashire, where Suzie was staying with her grandparents. Child protection officers were in the slow, careful process of interviewing Suzie, with a child psychologist based in Lancaster providing therapeutic support.

  Simms was driving. Fennimore, still strapped up after his fall from the plane, fidgeted constantly, adjusting his seatbelt, changing the radio stations, fiddling with the air conditioning. This was the first time since they had returned to England that he would see his daughter. He had been confined to a hospital bed for three days with a dislocated shoulder and concussion, and Suzie’s psychologist had suggested that a week or two alone with her grandparents would give her the opportunity to acclimatize to her new situation. But two days out of the hospital, Fennimore had called the psychologist – he needed to see for himself that his daughter was all right. She had agreed, reluctantly. It was Simms’s idea to go with him and take Becky along, as Suzie’s closest friend.

  ‘So did you have to take any heat from Kieran for clearing off to Paris under false pretences?’ Fennimore asked.

  Simms darted a glance at Becky in the rear-view mirror: she was listening to music on her iPhone and texting simultaneously, oblivious to them.

  ‘I told him that you called for help while I was there.’

  ‘And he believed you?’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. Just not all of it. And here I am again, withholding … ‘Anyway, I’m not sure he cares,’ she added, before she could bite back the words.

  ‘Are you two in trouble?’ Fennimore’s unwavering gaze was so intense it felt like his fingertips had grazed the side of her face.

  Keep your guard up, Kate – now is not the time. ‘I’ll—’ She took a breath. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Is this about me?’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t always have to be about you, Nick,’ she said, intentionally waspish. Don’t talk about it – just don’t. Change the damn subject.

  ‘I hear that Josh’s younger brother, Damon, has confessed to the shooting,’ she said.

  Fennimore nodded.

  Simms glanced at him; his jaw was set, his brows drawn down. She could feel him physically withdraw. Fennimore hadn’t talked about Josh since they’d heard of his death.

  ‘The older brother and the cousin have been charged with murder under the joint enterprise law,’ she added.

  Fennimore turned to her in alarm – a recent high court ruling had put a number of such convictions in question.

  ‘They won’t get away with it, Nick,’ she said. ‘The older brother brought the gun – he put it in his sixteen-year-old brother’s hand. When Josh fought, the cousin subdued him so that Damon could finish the job. Damon will testify to that.’

  Fennimore faced the front again, easing himself back into the seat like a man in pain. ‘Good,’ he said.

  For some minutes he was silent, and then he spoke, hesitantly at first:

  ‘What happened to Josh is my fault,’ he said.

  ‘No – it’s his family’s fault.’

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head.

  ‘He was safe and I placed him in danger.’

  ‘He was never safe,’ Simms said. ‘Not while his family were still out there. And he chose a career that would place him in danger sooner or later.’

  Fennimore sighed. ‘It should have been later.’

  She couldn’t think of an adequate response to that, so she said nothing, concentrating instead on the road ahead.

  After a few minutes, he said, ‘Thanks for doing this – and for bringing Becky. It’ll be good for Suzie to see someone her own age.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Simms asked, with another glance in the mirror at Becky.

  He blew out some air. ‘Hard to say. There’s a lot she can’t remember – or she’s blocking out for now. She didn’t know Rachel was murdered. Branly—’ He stopped for a moment and stared at his hands. ‘He showed Suzie her mother’s body, Kate.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she breathed.

  ‘Rachel was lying on her bed, fully clothed, a scarf around her neck.’

  ‘To hide the bruises …’

  ‘Seems likely,’ he said.

  Rachel had died of strangulation.

  ‘There were pills by her body and an empty bottle of vodka. He told Suzie that—’ Fennimore was struggling. ‘That I didn’t want them back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Branly said Rachel had rung me, begging me to take them back, but I refused. He told Suzie her mother had committed suicide because I told Rachel I didn’t want her or Suzie.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Simms murmured. ‘Does she say that Rachel went willingly?’ Rachel and Suzie were missing for months before Rachel’s body was found yet the pathologist judged that she had only been dead a matter of days.

  He shook his head, at a loss.

  ‘I know you and Rachel hadn’t been getting on before they went missing, and she had every right to be angry with you, but I can’t believe that she would deliberately torment you,’ Simms said. ‘If she could, she would at least have let you know where they were.’

  ‘They’re taking the interviews slowly, getting little snippets of information at each session, but the chronology is all messed up,’ he said. ‘Branly had been feeding her false memories and misinformation for years – it’ll take a while to unscramble the real from the invented – if she ever gets that far. But she does remember Rachel packing bags, telling her they were going on holiday for a few days.’

  ‘That makes sense.’ Suitcases and clothing had been missing from Fennimore and Rachel’s house when police searched.

  ‘And she seems clear about being in an isolated cottage the weekend they disappeared.’

  ‘So, Rachel and Branly were embarking on an affair, then something went wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know … maybe.’

  ‘Does Suzie have any idea where this cottage was?’

  ‘She says it was a long drive. There was a storm—’

  ‘That should be easy to check,’ Simms said.

  He nodded. ‘According to the Met Office, there were severe storms in the south-east that weekend. Suzie keeps telling them that a tree fell on Rachel’s car – she says they got lost in the storm and Branly rescued them.’ He shook his head and exhaled shakily. ‘She keeps asking after him, Kate.’

  ‘She’s—’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘she’s Stockholming. But it’s … hard to take.’

  Simms ached to touch his arm, to offer him some comfort, but was afraid that Becky might misinterpret the action.

  ‘She doesn’t remember much about the weeks and months after her mother’s death,’ Fennimore said. ‘The medics say it’s likely he drugged her.’

  Simms nodded, it made sense: Suzie had been heavily doped with phenobarbital during Branly’s attempt to escape.

  ‘Right up to the day we found her, he kept Suzie a virtual prisoner. He rarely let her set foot outside – and never alone. He home-schooled her; she had no friends, no company except his business associates and a succession of hired tutors. She wasn’t allowed TV, a mobile phone or computer access.’

  ‘So she never knew you were looking for her.’

  He shook his head. ‘He controlled every aspect of her life: how she dressed, the way she wore her hair, what she read, the music she listened to and played – he even made her speak exclusively in French.’

  Simms checked again on Becky. Her head was nodding to the music on her phone, as she stared out of the window at the rolling fields and wooded hills off the motorway.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Why did he keep her? I mean, after …’

  They both knew that the safest thing Branly could have done was to dispose of mother and daughter at the same time. The fact that he had kept a young girl, and isolated her from all contact with her peers, had obvious and terrible connotations.<
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  Fennimore glanced across at her. ‘That question has haunted me,’ he said. ‘He was controlling, psychologically manipulative and occasionally violent, but the medics say there are no signs of sexual abuse.’

  ‘What does Suzie say?’ she asked, dreading the answer, but feeling she had to know for sure.

  ‘That Branly was only ever a father to her.’ Fennimore rubbed his good hand over his chin. ‘That should make me happy, I know,’ he said. ‘But you know what? I wish I could bring him back so I could kill him all over again.’

  ‘You and me both,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t make sense, though. Why keep her all these years – why risk it?’

  ‘Branly has a long history of obsessive and controlling behaviour – and he didn’t take rejection well. Two ex-partners took out restraining orders against him – one of them ended up in hospital.’

  ‘He never meant to kill Rachel,’ Simms said. ‘He just couldn’t stand to see her leave.’

  Fennimore nodded. ‘He had Suzie believing that he’s always done what was best for her – looked after her when I rejected her, did right by Rachel. Respected her memory.’

  ‘So this was some kind of guilt trip – making amends for murdering Rachel?’

  ‘Who knows what kind of justification a twisted mentality like Branly’s would come up with?’ he said.

  ‘But if he was intending a cosy weekend away with Rachel, why would he take Suzie along in the first place – and why would Rachel take Suzie with her?’

  Fennimore sighed, rubbing his right temple with his thumb. ‘You remember just after they vanished, the police discovered that Rachel had asked a friend to take Suzie for the weekend?’

  Simms nodded grimly. ‘But the friend fell ill with some kind of bug, so Rachel came to my house. Kieran told her I was presenting evidence in a court case.’ Simms was, in fact sneaking off to meet Fennimore at a hotel that weekend. She hadn’t gone through with it, but she hated herself for it, and now, knowing what it meant to Suzie – how it had affected her life – the burden of guilt was even heavier. ‘You think Rachel decided to take Suzie, rather than cancel her weekend away with Branly?’

  ‘I do,’ Fennimore said. ‘And something bad happened that weekend. Something that prevented Rachel from contacting me.’

  By now they were on the A6, approaching Garstang, passing a mixture of red-brick and stone-built houses. Rachel’s parents lived in a Victorian semi at the far end of the town. They drove the last few miles in silence, though the fingers of Fennimore’s free hand, tapping his leg restlessly, spoke freely of his anxiety and nervous anticipation at the meeting.

  Rachel’s parents greeted him warmly and Simms thought they seemed somewhat chastened. She knew they had accused Fennimore of tormenting them with his constant appeals. They’d wanted to be left alone to grieve the loss of their daughter and granddaughter, but every time Fennimore made the news they were dragged back into the media spotlight.

  Rachel’s grandfather showed them through to the garden, where Suzie was reading a book at a table, under the shade of a patio parasol. She wore heeled sandals and a fitted dress with a flared skirt in pink, yellow and shades of red. Her dark hair was beautifully swept up into a chignon. Branly would no doubt approve, Simms thought, but compared with her own daughter, relaxed in jeans and a soft-drape T-shirt, Suzie looked stiff and uncomfortable.

  Suzie stood gracefully, however, moving around the patio table and embracing her father, then she turned and offered Simms her hand. It felt cool and a little clammy. Poor kid’s terrified, Simms thought.

  ‘How are you, Suzie?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay …’ She tilted her head. ‘Confused.’ She spoke with a slight French accent.

  She glanced past them both to Becky, who stood a little apart from Rachel’s grandparents, near the French doors into the house, a sports bag slung over one shoulder.

  ‘You remember Becky, don’t you?’ Fennimore said. He spoke softly, as though afraid of startling the girl.

  Suzie nodded solemnly, eyeing Becky’s clothes.

  ‘Ça va?’ Becky said, and Suzie brightened a little, and though she didn’t speak, she raised one shoulder in an expressive shrug and the corners of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a shy smile.

  Becky said something in French that Simms didn’t catch, but she heard the word putain, and Suzie’s eyes widened as she glanced nervously from one adult to another.

  ‘English please, Becky,’ Simms said.

  Becky gave her a mischievous look. ‘You know your Facebook page has about twenty kazillion likes?’

  ‘Facebook?’ Suzie said.

  ‘It’s an Internet thing,’ Simms explained. The social media phenomenon had been in its infancy when Suzie disappeared.

  ‘Haven’t you got a computer?’ Becky said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A tablet, then?’

  ‘Médicin?’ she said, looking to her father for help.

  ‘Electronic tablet,’ he said. ‘It’s a new thing.’

  ‘I got my first one three years ago, Uncle Nick,’ Becky said, laughing.

  Suzie gave a single shake of her head, her brown eyes fixed on Becky.

  ‘So you don’t have a Twitter account?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Instagram? Snapchat? Tumblr?’ At every negative, Becky’s eyes grew wider. ‘Ohmigod, you are so lucky!’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Well, yeah – ’cos I’m going to show you how it all works, so you don’t get to make the stupid mistakes I did.’

  ‘What mistakes?’ Simms said, a hundred awful scenarios instantly crowding her brain.

  Becky grinned. ‘Chill, Mum – just teen stuff.’

  Suzie didn’t respond. Instead, she tucked one forearm tight across her waist and gripped her elbow.

  Becky pretended not to notice, but Simms knew her daughter well enough to see that it was a pretence. She strode to where Suzie was standing, swung the bag off her shoulder and dropped it at her feet. ‘I brought you a few things,’ she said.

  Fennimore looked to Simms. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are,’ she said.

  Her daughter drew out a pair of elbow- and knee-pads, then dived back in and stacked them on top of a pair of trainers and jeans on the patio table next to Suzie.

  Suzie looked at Becky as if she were slightly mad. ‘What are these for?’

  ‘Keys please, Mum.’ Simms handed them to her.

  ‘Becky, what on earth—?’

  Becky yelled, ‘Wait a sec!’ as she darted past Suzie’s grandparents into the house. She reappeared a moment later with two skateboards, one tucked under each arm.

  ‘Pick your board,’ she said, smiling at Suzie.

  The perplexed expression on Suzie’s face turned to recognition and she laughed, pointing to the board decorated with flames. She took the board and as Becky moved in for a hug, the two of them burst into tears. Becky said something in French, which set Suzie laughing again.

  Simms looked over their heads to Fennimore; she read a tentative relief in his expression. He met her eye and gave a brief smile.

  Simms decided at that moment that she would be there for Fennimore as Suzie worked through the pain of what had happened to her. It wouldn’t be easy, but watching the two girls renew the bonds of friendship that had been so cruelly broken, she thought that there was a chance – slight, and shaky perhaps, but worth every possible effort – that Suzie would come out of it all right.

  Acknowledgements

  No book is ever truly a one-person effort. The lonely writer, wrangling words at his or her desk, can feel disconnected from the arcane machinations of their publishing house. But writing a novel is not the same as making a book: agents; editors, contracts and rights specialists; copy editors; proofreaders and cover designers; all play a role in the alchemy of book-making – and I am in awe of the energy and enthusiasm of the publicity and marketing team – not forgetting the reps, without whom booksellers would not even be aware that
the books exist. So, a huge thank you to all at Curtis Brown, and Corsair Books for everything that you do.

  I am deeply grateful for the editorial brilliance of my agent, Felicity Blunt, and publisher, James Gurbutt, whose painstaking reading, and attention to detail, help me to craft sleeker, more tense stories from the sometimes tortuous workings of my creative mind.

  To Ann Cleeves, Mo Hayder and Jeffery Deaver: thanks for your inspiration and support. And, as always, my love and gratitude to Murf, my own superhero, and Ben, my little life-saver.