Say it was me.
Ginny nodding, agreeing with Mother. Telling Charlotte it was for the best. Mother’s hand on Charlotte’s arm. Fingers gripping tight.
They can never know.
Because Mother couldn’t bear the shame of it. Would rather everyone thought she’d done it herself. Less questions, that way. Less chance of anyone prying underneath the veneer and revealing the truth of what she was really like.
A spasm shot through her, pain that obliterated everything else. She cried out, clasped her arms around her body in a pathetic, futile attempt to stop it happening again. She lay down on the lumpy bed, curled into a ball and waited for the worst of it to pass.
Later – seconds, minutes, hours? – she opened her eyes. The cold was still with her. And the images. But the pain had passed. In its absence, the fear was stronger. The growing realisation that this was real. Not some crazy nightmare. She was lying on her side, facing the wall, her body curled up so tight the muscles in her neck, arms and legs ached. She rolled onto her back, stared up at the grey-white ceiling and unfolded her limbs. Pin-pricks of needles stabbed into toes and fingers as the circulation returned.
She sat up.
She was locked inside a cell inside the police station. Keeping her in overnight, they’d told her. She’d panicked then, really lost it. Screaming and lashing out at that useless solicitor. None of it made any difference. It had taken two men to drag her in here and hold her down while the nurse injected her with something that was meant to make her feel better.
She’d slept for a while after that. When she’d woken again, the last traces of the sanity-sustaining wine had left her system and she found herself alone with the early stages of DTs kicking in.
Fear crawled across her stomach, crept up her throat, erupted from her in one great scream. She threw herself from the bed and flung herself against the door, fists banging on the unyielding metal. Screaming and banging until she had nothing left. Exhausted, she slumped to the ground, tears of rage and grief and fear rolling down her cheeks, pooling in the deep hollows behind her collarbone.
They thought she’d killed Kieran.
She shut her eyes, tried to concentrate on the butterfly-fragile memories of that night. Cocktails, sushi, more cocktails. The compulsion to tell Ginny what had happened. Something else as well. The sudden, drunken urge to fuck him.
She’d hated him.
So why, the night of her party, had she wanted him so badly? What was wrong with her?
Maybe she should have told the truth. She tried to picture how that would play out. The look of shock, followed by sympathy on the two detectives’ faces. She imagined them later, in their team briefing or whatever they called it, telling the rest of the detectives what she’d done. Laughing when they heard about it. Worse than the laughter, she imagined what they’d say.
Sad old slut.
Randy lush.
Pathetic, middle-aged bitch.
She could never tell them.
She should tell them.
Maybe she could make them promise not to tell Freya or Nick.
Her stomach twisted and spasmed. Thin trickles of bitter vomit burned the back of her throat. She spat it out onto the floor, too tired and sick to make it as far as the toilet in the corner.
Kieran had done it on purpose. He’d deliberately got her drunk and then, when she was too twisted to know what she was doing, he’d … what?
Her mind skittered back again to that afternoon. Kieran calling over on the pretence that he was looking for Freya. A combination of loneliness and good manners made her invite him in. They’d sat in the kitchen drinking wine and making small-talk. He’d been solicitous and interested, asking about her, pretending he was interested when all the time … She remembered thinking maybe she’d got him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t half as bad as she’d made him out to be.
And midway through the third bottle of wine, he’d made his move and she did nothing to stop him. Worse, she’d wanted it. She remembered lying on the white-and-black tiled floor, groaning when he touched her somewhere she hadn’t been touched for so long, wrapping her legs around him and begging him not to stop.
She’d thought he was interested. Thought maybe he had some kinky thing about older women.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He hadn’t called around looking for Freya. Let’s face it, Charlotte’s house was the last place in the world Kieran was likely to find his girlfriend hanging out.
No.
He knew she would be home alone. Knew how lonely she was. Knew she’d be happy – sad, pathetic creature – for an excuse to have a drink with someone. He’d orchestrated the whole thing. Flattered her, got her drunk and seduced her. All so he could use it whenever he needed to.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He told Nick. She was certain of it. Because of that, Nick killed him. And now he was trying to make it look as if Charlotte had done it. Getting his revenge on both of them for what they’d done. Kieran and Nick, both using her to get what they wanted. She’d had enough. Now it was her turn to use them.
Friday
One
Ellen got into work early and made a start on the extensive store of photos from Kieran’s phone. WPC McKeown had already gone through them once and hadn’t found anything. Ellen wanted to check herself, afraid McKeown might have missed something important.
Image after moody image, mainly black-and-white and almost all different scenes of the city. Not one of Freya and not one that gave Ellen any clue as to who might have killed him. The most recent batch were taken along the river, mostly down on the Peninsula. In some of these, Kieran had captured people as well as inanimate objects. The camera used to take the photos was obviously good quality but the photos themselves lacked anything special.
‘Found anything?’
Abby came and stood behind her, looking at Ellen’s computer screen.
‘Nothing interesting so far.’ Ellen stood up and stretched. ‘Certainly no pictures of the ring he was supposedly buying.’
‘Briefing’s about to start,’ Abby said. ‘You coming?’
Ellen checked the time. She’d been trawling through the images for an hour already. No wonder her neck and shoulders hurt so much.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
In the incident room, Ellen sat at the back, listening as Ger summarised the developments in the case so far.
‘We won’t have any results back from Forensics until after the weekend,’ Ger said. ‘But I’m hopeful the blood found on the knife will be a match. We already know the blade matches the type Pritchard believes caused the wounds. Malcolm, anything else?’
‘The knife was wrapped in a lady’s blouse,’ Malcolm said. ‘No traces of blood on it. Which means it was wrapped around the knife some time after the attack.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Ellen said. ‘Why would Charlotte kill Kieran then hide the knife in her own bedroom?’
‘Maybe she was planning to get rid of it,’ Abby said. ‘Only she never got around to it.’
‘Kieran was killed outside,’ Ellen said. ‘It would have been easier to dump the knife before coming back to the house. And what about the jacket? The one with the orange logo. Why didn’t we find that at the house?’
‘We don’t know the jacket belonged to the killer,’ Alastair said. ‘Could have been someone else walking down there. Someone with no connection to the killer or the victim.’
Ellen didn’t buy that. She knew St Joseph’s Vale. Knew how dark and unappealing it would have been at that time of night. Knew too how improbable it was that someone could have been passing the lane around the same time a person was being stabbed to death and not noticed a thing out of place.
‘She swears she doesn’t know how the knife got there,’ Abby said.
Ellen sensed Abby’s pride at being able to give a first-hand account of last night’s interview. Strangely, she didn’t resent Abby for it. Maybe she was finally discovering som
e balance in her life.
‘So how does she explain it?’ Ellen asked.
‘She blames her husband,’ Abby said. ‘But so far she hasn’t given us a decent reason why her husband would want to kill Burton.’
Several ideas were jostling for attention in Ellen’s head. She tried to sort her way through them, work out which was most important and which she could put aside until later.
‘Maybe Charlotte was telling the truth,’ Alastair said. ‘About someone being in the house. What if the killer sneaked in to plant the knife and Charlotte startled them by coming home earlier than expected?’
‘Someone who knew Charlotte had a motive of her own for wanting Burton dead,’ Ellen said, the chaos in her head clearing as she got her thoughts in order.
‘We need to speak to Charlotte again,’ Ger said. ‘Ellen and Abby, can you lead on that? Maybe a night in the cells will have made her more co-operative.’
Ellen stood up. ‘We’ll go now.’
She waited for Abby and the two women left the room.
* * *
It was the same lawyer who’d been with her yesterday. Charlotte wanted to protest, ask for someone else, but she didn’t know if she was allowed to do that. Besides, she didn’t have the energy to make a fuss. She asked timidly if Jeremy Lawlor had been able to track down Nick. The last, lingering flicker of hope died inside her as the lawyer shook his head and gave her a smile so thick with sympathy she had to clench her hands tight behind her back to stop her hitting him.
‘The police want to interview you again this morning,’ Jeremy said. ‘They’ll be ready for us in a few minutes. Before that, are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like to tell me, Charlotte?’
He had a kind voice and a kind face but it wasn’t kindness she needed right now. It was one of Nick’s ruthless associates, the sort of high-paid legal sleaze he schmoozed on the golf course and drank expensive wines with late at night. Not this tuppeny-ha’penny Legal Aid do-gooder.
‘I’ve already told you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t kill Kieran and I have no idea how that knife ended up in my bedroom or why there was blood on my trainers. Okay?’
‘You’re sure about that?’ Jeremy said. ‘This is your last chance to let me help you.’
He meant well, she could see that. And maybe he was right. This was her chance.
‘This is all Nick’s doing,’ she whispered.
‘You really believe that?’
She heard the weary resignation in his voice and felt a brief, triumphant thrill, knowing she was about to knock that right out of him.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, voice strong now she’d made the decision. ‘He’s doing it to get back at me.’
‘And why would he want to do that?’ Jeremy asked.
She waited until he was looking right at her before she replied.
‘Something terrible happened,’ she began.
Two
The atmosphere in the small interview room was different this morning. Abby felt it the moment she stepped inside. There was an energy, a sense of anticipation that things were moving forward. A sense that, finally, Charlotte was ready to talk.
Abby and Ellen sat on one side of the table, opposite Charlotte and her lawyer. Ellen set up the CD-recorder, gave the necessary information – time, date, the names of those present in the room – and began the interview.
‘My client has some information she’d like to share with you,’ Jeremy said.
‘First, a question,’ Ellen said. ‘Mrs Gleeson, did you kill Kieran Burton?’
‘No,’ Charlotte said. Her voice was clear and calm, no trace of last night’s nerves and uncertainty. ‘I didn’t kill him. On my daughter’s life. But I know who did.’
Abby leaned towards Charlotte, sensing they were getting closer to the truth.
‘It was Nick,’ Charlotte said. ‘You see, he … this is difficult, I’m sorry. Something happened and Nick found out about it. I think. Well, I’m certain actually. He killed Kieran and made it look as if I’d done it. That way he was getting his revenge on both of us.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Ellen asked.
‘Kieran raped me,’ Charlotte said. ‘In my kitchen, if you must know. He called over one afternoon, said he was looking for Freya. Naturally, she wasn’t with me but I invited him in. I offered him a glass of wine, we got chatting … I’m sorry. This isn’t easy.’
‘It’s okay,’ Ellen said. ‘Take your time.’
She’s lying. The certainty lodged its way into Abby’s head and stayed there, even though she hated herself for thinking it.
‘I was drunk,’ Charlotte said. ‘No excuse, I know. And I’m not using it as an excuse, just telling you how it was. I didn’t like Kieran. Hated him, in fact.’
‘Why did you invite him in?’ Abby asked.
Charlotte shrugged. ‘Loneliness? Good manners? I don’t know. Some combination of both, maybe. He was so different at first. Up until then, he’d always seemed so … combative, I guess. We didn’t approve, of course, and he knew that. Truth be told, I think he quite liked the fact we disapproved. I sometimes suspected he acted in a particular way just to get at us. To make us like him even less, if you know what I mean?’
‘But not that afternoon,’ Ellen said.
‘No.’ She said it like a sigh. The sigh of a woman so disappointed by life she had nothing left to lose. Charlotte Gleeson was a lesson in how not to waste a life, Abby thought.
‘He was charming,’ Charlotte said. ‘I remember thinking I’d misjudged him terribly. I actually felt bad about it. I may have even told him something to that effect. It was only later, we’d had quite a bit to drink by then, that I realised he was flirting with me. I thought it was the drink, at first. I didn’t take it seriously. But then he … well, maybe I should have tried harder not to let him.’
She paused, as if she wanted Ellen or Abby to reassure her. When they said nothing, she continued speaking.
‘I barely knew what was happening,’ she said. ‘Before I could stop it, he was on top of me, pawing me like an animal. I was begging him to stop but he wouldn’t. And I tried, I mean I really did try to fight him off but he was so strong. And afterwards, when he’d finished, he acted like it was what we’d both wanted. I was crying and telling him to go but he wouldn’t. Kept telling me how much I’d enjoyed it.’
Abby felt sick. The sordid picture of Kieran Burton forcing himself on his girlfriend’s mother repulsed her. The fact she couldn’t find it in herself to feel any sympathy for Charlotte only made it worse.
A single tear rolled down Charlotte’s orange cheek, reminding Abby of the last trace of water in a dried-out riverbed. Charlotte caught Abby looking at her and stared back, her face twisted into an expression of pained self-pity. Mixed with something else, less obvious at first but the longer Abby looked, the more certain she became. The other emotion she saw behind Charlotte Gleeson’s dark blue eyes was cunning.
* * *
‘Do you believe her, Abby?’ Ger asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Abby said. ‘I mean, it’s a serious allegation. I think maybe they slept together but it was consensual. But why would he sleep with his girlfriend’s mother? That’s sick.’
The two women were in Ger’s office, discussing Charlotte’s statement.
‘People do all sorts of sick and strange things,’ Ger said. ‘And for all we know she’s telling the truth. Either way, with Kieran not here to give his side of the story, Charlotte’s version is the only one we have and now she’s said it, I doubt she’ll retract it.’
‘Isn’t it wrong to assume that she’s making it up?’ Abby said. ‘I mean, if it’s true and we don’t believe her, what does that say about us?’
Ger smiled. ‘A good question. The way I see it is this. If something did happen, even if it was consensual, she was probably drunk. So you’ve got to ask yourself: if she did agree to have sex with him, would she have done so if she was sober? If you think the answer to that question is no, the
n I guess you might want to wonder what sort of man would take advantage of a woman that drunk?’
‘Unless she’s making the whole thing up and nothing happened at all,’ Abby said.
‘There is that, of course,’ Ger said.
‘Okay. I need you to talk to Freya. Find out what she knew about her mother and Kieran. She’s already told us Charlotte flirted with him. Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on. If she thinks something happened between them, there’s our motive.’
On the way down to the car park, Abby’s mind kept returning to the image of Kieran Burton forcing himself on Charlotte. By the time she got into the pool car and was driving across to Greenwich, she felt as if a dark cloud had settled over her, turning everything grey and draining her world of colour and light.
Three
Ellen drove to Greenwich. A wasted journey. Nick wasn’t at work and none of his staff seemed to know where he was. There was no sign of Loretta, either. She called both of them but her calls were diverted to voicemail. She left short messages on each phone. Frustrated, she decided to go and see Mark. The PM report on Virginia Rau wasn’t back yet and she hoped he might have an update for her.
At the morgue, the door to Mark’s office was closed. Ellen knocked and went straight in. He was sitting at his desk, tapping something on his computer keyboard. When he saw Ellen, a smile lit up his face. He was wearing glasses and they suited him. Sometimes, he looked too boyish, like someone had plastered a child’s face onto an adult head. The glasses sorted that out.
‘Ellen!’ He stood and embraced her in a warm hug. ‘What a lovely surprise. How are you? And don’t give me the usual pat answer. I mean how are you really?’
‘I’m good,’ Ellen said. ‘Really.’
‘How’s Pat?’
‘He’s okay,’ Ellen said. She thought about this for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. He is.’
And then, maybe because she hadn’t told anyone else, maybe because she felt more comfortable with Mark than most people she knew, she told him more. She spoke about the therapy sessions and how they really seemed to be working. How he was doing well at school. Best of all, she said, he’d recently started sleeping in his own bed again.
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