‘The thing is,’ Deeley said slowly, ‘I don’t think she actually did go through it.’
She must have been mulling this over subconsciously, ever since she had been back to Riseholme; or maybe even before. Because why had she been to Riseholme in the first place? Why had she brought back all those memories of the worst moment of her entire life? She wasn’t a masochist. She had come back to the UK after years away, and she had started to think, once again, about those events when she was nine years old. She had remembered Bill, and her memories of him hadn’t been anything but kind and good and loving.
And she had realized that she simply didn’t believe that Bill had abused Maxie.
‘What do you mean, Deels?’ Devon stared at her over the counter, completely taken aback.
‘I was thinking about Bill,’ Deeley said. ‘Remembering what it was like to live in his house.’
Both Matt and Devon were staring at her now, and it was as if she were being taken over by a force stronger than her, that was speaking through her. No, she realized. This is me. This is the grownup Deeley, the person who wants to tell the truth. To trust her own instincts, instead of being told what to think and say by her eldest sister.
‘We had all sorts of weird “uncles” who came and went with Mum,’ she said directly to Devon. ‘Didn’t we? We knew which ones were dodgy. We were careful to keep out of their way, not to be alone with them. But Bill? We never thought that, you and me. You know we didn’t. We were absolutely amazed when Maxie told us what he’d been up to.’ She swallowed. ‘I felt I had to believe Maxie. She’d always looked after us, kept us safe. I couldn’t admit that I didn’t believe her. Because without Maxie, we wouldn’t have anyone. But I never did believe her. I never did.’
She stared back at Devon, willing her to admit the truth.
‘And Dev, I don’t think you did either,’ she said quietly.
There was a long pause.
‘No,’ Devon said finally, in a tiny voice. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t.’
‘But I don’t understand!’ Matt shifted on the bar stool. ‘Why would she make up something that horrible? It doesn’t make sense!’
His handsome face was contorted with confusion. Matt’s so sweet, Deeley thought. He can’t understand why anyone would lie, or make up an awful story about someone.
Matt’s awkward movement had knocked his crutch, lying on the floor. Alice had crawled to the rubber end and started to chew on it; distracted, Deeley hadn’t seen what her niece was up to. Alice, bumped by the crutch, started to wail, and Deeley picked her up, rocking her.
‘I think she’s tired,’ she said. ‘She hardly had a nap today.’
‘Deels, tell me everything that happened with the police this morning,’ Devon said, leaning intently towards her sister.
Dark had fallen, but no one had drawn the heavy curtains yet. Beyond Devon, Deeley could see the shadows of the trees in Devon and Matt’s garden, tall and strangely menacing against the deep violet pink of the London night sky. Trees. Oak, ash . . . sycamore. She saw again the sycamore in the back garden of the Thompson Road semi; she remembered the sight of Bill, lying on the carpet. Of Devon, bringing down the vase over his head. Deeley closed her eyes for a moment, hoping to make the awful memories fade.
It didn’t work. She opened them, looking at her sister, and recited everything the police had said to her and Maxie that morning in a dull monotone. A horrible suspicion was running through her, sweeping over her. It was the idea that the worst thing she had ever done was based on a lie she had been told – a lie that she hadn’t even really believed. Deeley could see, from Devon’s frozen expression, that the exact same emotion was sweeping through her. She was almost at the end of her narrative when Devon interrupted her.
‘The bag the money was in,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘They said it was green?’
‘With white handles. And a white stripe, I think,’ Deeley agreed.
‘I saw a bag like that at Thompson Road,’ Devon said.
She was naturally pale – all the McKennas were, with their white Irish skin. But there was a difference between having a pale colouring, and being as white as a sheet. All the blood seemed to have drained from Devon’s face. She had come back from Italy that afternoon glowing, so beautiful and full of life that Deeley had caught her breath to see her sister looking so stunning, only a short time after that debacle on live TV. Tuscany, it seemed, had been better than a rest cure, lighting Devon up like a firework. Heads had turned in the airport, not to gawk at Devon McKenna, who’d made an idiot of herself on a cooking show, but in dumbstruck appreciation of her beauty.
She’d been radiant. And now, just a few hours later, all that luminosity had drained from Devon; her face was like a greyish mask, her eyes two dark holes punched through it.
‘In Bill’s room?’ Deeley asked in a tiny voice. She already knew the answer.
‘No,’ Devon said. It seemed as if she could barely move her lips, as if her body was resisting her getting the next two words out. ‘In Maxie’s.’
Devon
It was deathly quiet in Maxie’s living room. You could almost have heard a pin drop, though its sound would probably have been muffled by the denseness of the draperies. There were two sets of curtains, heavy taffeta ones looped back with big draping tassels, and lighter silk ones, now drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced onto the back garden. A thick wool carpet, scattered with Persian rugs inherited from Olly’s family, covered the floor, and in the centre two long sofas, upholstered in slub silk, faced each other elegantly, a glass coffee table between them, on which Devon’s soft suede bag lay, next to a couple of untouched glasses of water. Everywhere you turned, there were straight-back chairs, placed next to occasional tables holding ornamental vases filled with fresh flowers. It was done in perfect taste, in shades of pale yellow, pale green and cream that complemented the polished wood tables, ready for a photographer from The World of Interiors to appear at any moment and start snapping away.
The only discordant notes were Deeley and Devon, in their jeans and dark tops, looking much too casual for the smart, cocktail-party decor. Deeley had kicked off her flats and curled up in the corner of one of the sofas, trying to get comfortable, but the hard sofa, its fabric caught at regular intervals with a series of small, silk-covered buttons, defeated her. It wasn’t a sofa to curl up on; it was for sitting up straight, knees together, a cup of tea or martini in hand, as you made polite conversation with an MP or an influential party donor.
Alice, exhausted from a long day, had been fed and put to bed some time ago, and had fallen asleep with barely a whimper of protest. Olly was in the House, which was sitting late, and Maxie was still in a meeting with her solicitor. Devon and Deeley couldn’t even look at each other; they felt like conspirators, utterly disloyal, turning on their leader. To disbelieve Maxie, to challenge her, was like lèsemajesté, the crime of disrespecting a reigning monarch. They both felt shocked at their daring and when Maxie’s key finally sounded in the front door, they jumped like naughty schoolgirls caught in their older sister’s room, trying on her clothes and make-up.
It’s ridiculous, Devon thought dryly, bracing herself for battle. Maxie still has us feeling as if we’re barely teenagers.
She shot a glance at Deeley, encouraging her to keep their resolve. Deeley’s eyes were as big as saucers: she looked like a terrified puppy. Come on, Deels, it’s time to grow up. Be a big girl.
‘Great, you’re both here!’ Maxie called from the hallway, glancing into the living room, unbelting her raincoat and hanging it in the cupboard. Maxie had always been meticulous about her possessions. She kicked off her heels and walked into the living room to join her sisters, crossing to the built-in bar at the far end of the room, which was set into a recess where a bookcase had once been. ‘God, I’m dying for a drink! You two have one already?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just poured herself a very stiff vodka and slimline tonic, gulping half of it down in
one practised swallow.
‘Well!’ she continued, turning to face her sisters, propping her skinny bottom against the wooden edge of the bar, swirling her drink as she looked from Devon to Deeley. In a slim navy coat-dress, cinched at the waist with a shiny leather Bilberry belt, her hair as smooth and groomed as ever despite the drama of the day, Maxie was definitely intimidating. Devon felt as if she were an erring student in a posh girls’ school, summoned to see the headmistress.
‘You changed your outfit,’ Deeley said, quite unexpectedly.
Maxie’s body jerked back against the bar; if she hadn’t drunk so much of her V & T, it would have slopped out onto the carpet.
‘What?’ she said, her plucked eyebrows shooting up.
‘I saw what you were wearing earlier,’ Deeley said bravely. ‘It looked like a white shiny skirt. White and red. Like a nurse’s outfit.’
Maxie opened her mouth, gaped at her youngest sister like a fish, and finally said, ‘Nonsense! You’ve had a very hard day. We all have. You were seeing things.’
She swivelled to top up her drink with more vodka, her narrow shoulder blades poking through the navy fabric. Devon looked at Deeley, who shook her head firmly and swung her legs down, sitting up straight, her jaw set resolutely.
‘Maxie,’ Devon said, clearing her throat. She settled her suede bag on the arm of the sofa. ‘We need to talk to you.’
‘Of course we need to talk!’ Maxie turned back, pulling a face. ‘We need to have a bloody summit meeting! I’ve got all the gen from the solicitor. She’s coming round here tomorrow and we’ll go over everything with her before we give our statements. She’s arranging for the police to come here at one – that should give us plenty of time.’
‘I thought we had to go to the police station,’ Deeley said.
‘Oh God no!’ Maxie laughed. ‘That’s for the riff-raff, darling. We’re People Who Matter. We make them come to us.’
When did she turn into this person? Devon wondered, staring at her older sister. This awful, entitled, braying Sloane? I know we all really tried to lose our accents, but Maxie’s gone much further than us – she sounds like she was born and bred in the Home Counties with a silver spoon in her mouth. And she thinks like them too – Olly and all his friends. It’s as if she’s completely forgotten where she comes from.
‘We’re riff-raff, Maxie,’ Devon said. She was dying for a drink, but she wouldn’t have one; she needed to be utterly clear-headed for this.
‘Yes,’ Deeley chimed in unexpectedly. ‘We are.’
‘Not any more!’ Maxie snapped, her dark eyes flashing. ‘Not any more! I made bloody sure of that, didn’t I? I pulled us up out of there with my bare hands! Look at all of this!’
She gestured around her with the cut-glass tumbler, a sweeping motion that encompassed not only the living room, with its swags of pale golden brocade curtains and its family antiques, but her entire house, her entire existence, her brilliant career, and her husband, junior minister and baronet’s son.
‘That’s what we have to talk about, Maxie,’ Devon said, fixing her sister with a stare. It was even harder than she had thought to stand up to Maxie; it went against the ingrained habit of her whole life. Maxie knows best. Mum’s a train wreck, but Maxie will look after us.
Do what Maxie says, and we’ll be safe.
‘What do you mean?’ Maxie said impatiently. ‘We don’t have anything to talk about! I’ll tell you what we’re going to say to the police tomorrow, we’ll rehearse it tonight and go over it again tomorrow morning, and then this whole bloody mess will be over! There’s nothing to discuss!’
‘Yes, there is,’ Devon said bravely, her heart pounding. ‘We have to talk about the money. The thirty grand that was in the canvas bag.’
An absolute silence fell after those words. Standing by the bar, Maxie froze as if they were playing a game of Musical Statues. Devon held her breath; she shot an agonized look at Deeley, and saw that she was doing the same. It was terrifying to finally confront the person who had always been your authority figure. I’ve never done this before, Devon realized. Never stood up to Maxie, never disagreed with her, not once.
It wouldn’t have been safe.
Even now, I don’t feel safe. Thank God Deeley’s here as well.
‘What are you talking about?’ Maxie eventually said, pinning Devon with a hard glare. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘The money, Maxie,’ Deeley piped up. ‘The police told us about it this morning. They said Bill was holding it for Linda and Mum while they were in the nick – in prison,’ she corrected herself swiftly. ‘But then it would still have been in the house when we left. And no one ever found it.’
‘Someone else must have taken it,’ Maxie said, shrugging. ‘When we moved out to Aunt Sandra’s, and the house was empty. One of Linda’s lot. They weren’t all in prison, were they?’
‘But they could have taken it any time,’ Devon said quietly. ‘When we were out at school and Bill was at work. Any weekday. They wouldn’t have waited till Bill went missing and we were gone, would they?’
There was a pause. Then Maxie said curtly, ‘I really don’t know. What difference does it make? Bill’s dead, and we have to make sure that no one suspects we had anything to do with it. The solicitor said—’
‘Maxie, that’s not good enough,’ Devon said as steadily as she could manage. ‘We need to know what really happened. I saw that bag in your room, after Bill . . .went missing. Under your bed. We were getting our stuff together to pack, and I thought you’d borrowed my trainers. I was looking for them. I remember the bag. I hadn’t seen it before.’ She grimaced. ‘And we didn’t have much, you know? You couldn’t help noticing anything new.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Maxie said dismissively, finishing her vodka and tonic and setting the glass down on the bar with a smack. ‘That was over eighteen years ago! How can you possibly remember something like that?’
‘Well, I do,’ Devon said simply. ‘And I don’t want to.’
Those words hit home. Maxie walked over to the mantelpiece and looked into the Venetian glass mirror, making a show of smoothing down her hair, avoiding her sisters’ eyes.
‘And then I remembered, when you went off to Oxford,’ Devon continued, ‘you came back with all these new clothes. Your hair was done, your nails, everything.’
‘You looked really rich,’ Deeley added.
‘You said it was your boyfriend, that he was buying all this stuff for you,’ Devon said. ‘But you didn’t meet Olly for ages after that. And you had those clothes almost from the beginning.’
‘I worked,’ Maxie said, still to the mirror. ‘I got a job straight away.’
‘Oh, come on, Maxie!’ Devon burst out, beginning to lose her self-control. ‘That’s bollocks! You couldn’t have afforded all those things working in a tea room!’
‘You had jewellery too,’ Deeley said. ‘That pearl necklace and the earrings. Just like all those posh girls on TV.’
‘And dyeing your hair blonde,’ Devon said, fingering her own dark locks. ‘It looked really natural. That costs a fortune. I never even saw any roots.’
‘What is this?’ Maxie clearly decided that attack was the best form of defence. She swung round furiously, propping her elbows behind her on the mantelpiece, looking down on her two younger sisters, as she had always done. It was the old-fashioned man’s position, the power pose: in front of the fire, dominating the room.
‘Are you two picking this moment to gang up on me?’ she demanded, looking from one to the other of her sisters. ‘You must be insane! Don’t you realize we need to stand together – like we’ve always done? It was always us against the world, wasn’t it? We have to keep going, don’t you realize that? We have to be strong – the McKenna sisters against the world! We can’t let them drag us down!’
It was a passionate, fervent plea. Maxie’s eyes were sparkling; she leaned forward, her demeanour utterly convincing, totally authoritative, even in he
r stockinged feet. Devon and Deeley looked up at her, and then at each other; Deeley’s pretty, Bambi-face was a picture of confusion.
‘Oh no,’ Deeley moaned, bringing her hands up to her face. ‘I’m so messed up – I don’t know what to think . . .’
‘You do, Deels!’ Devon said urgently. ‘It was you who started it when you said you didn’t believe what Maxie said Bill did to her—’
‘What?’ Maxie rounded on Deeley, coming off the mantelpiece in a lunge towards her youngest sister, striding towards the sofa. ‘You said what?’
Deeley’s hands were still over her face. Devon willed her to stay honest, to push for the truth. Finally, Deeley said in a tiny voice, ‘But I don’t, Maxie.’
Her hands came down. Maxie was standing next to the arm of the sofa, arms folded, glaring intimidatingly. Deeley turned to look at her, swallowing hard.
‘I don’t,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking, ever since I got back to London. I’ve been asking myself why I feel so weird – confused, really. That’s why I went back to Riseholme. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s why.’ Her big dark eyes were huge and haunted. ‘I feel like I’m torn between you and Bill. I look back, and I just don’t remember him the way you said he was. Grooming us, being nice to us to get what he wanted, when he was secretly really creepy – he wasn’t like that. He was like a dad. He ticked us off and worried about us and got cross when we didn’t do our homework.’ She drew a long, juddering breath. ‘I felt safe in his house,’ she finished simply.
‘I did too,’ Devon said, equally simply.
‘So what are you saying?’ Maxie glared from Devon to Deeley. ‘What are you saying? That I made it all up? Why would I do that?’
Deeley stammered; she’d just shot her bolt, and had no courage left.
I’ll have to say it. Devon gathered up her resolve, bit her lip, and said, ‘To keep the money, Max. That’s what we think. You wanted to keep that thirty grand, so you could go to university and make a big splash, buy your way into the posh people’s parties. And Bill didn’t agree with you. He was going to give it back when Mum and Linda got out. We think that’s what you and Bill were arguing about, the night before you got us to kill him.’
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