The Murder of Graham Catton

by Katie Lowe

  ‘And so … I went back to look at the case.’

  I open my laptop and click to Conviction’s website. I see her, there, with the other woman: the one whose voice I hadn’t recognized at first, though when I did, I felt – as I should have – guilt.

  I remembered her, weeping in the courtroom, bent double as her son was led away in ringing chains. Mina Philips. The mother of the boy charged with my husband’s murder.

  ‘My son is a good boy,’ she’d said, describing her response to Marianne’s message. ‘He’d do anything for anyone. He’d help his worst enemy, if they asked him to. So … I tried to be like him. To do what he would do.’

  ‘If this can be described as a case that’s defined by its twists and turns,’ Anna Byers had said, ‘this has to be one of the biggest. The actions of the victim’s wife, after the trial ended, led his mother to join forces with the mother of the man charged with his death – with Marianne becoming one of the most vocal supporters in the drive to reopen the case, and have his conviction overturned.’

  Byers had played out the conversation between them skilfully: their voices, their tones, their manners juxtaposed. Two women joined together in a grief only truly understood by the other, though they’re from different worlds. Have led utterly different lives.

  But I know Marianne. I can see it: the way she’d act out her good will, her supposed selflessness. I’ve been on the receiving end of her condescending glances, her curious enquiries about my background, the disgust masked behind an overblown charity.

  There’s no way Mike’s mother hasn’t noticed it, too. It’s one of the lies that makes society function: that the poor appreciate the interest of the wealthy; that we’re not simply indulging them when they choose to take an interest. But I understand why she chooses to overlook it. It plays too well to resist. The victim’s mother on her son’s side. It’s worth every patronizing second.

  ‘I just wish,’ Marianne had said as the episode drew to a close, ‘that I’d said something earlier. I knew, before they got married, that things weren’t right. I knew it. But I loved him so much that I couldn’t bring myself to say it. And so I looked at her, in her dress, that day, and I decided to love her instead. And because of that, my son is dead, and another boy’s life has been ruined. And all the while, that evil woman is out there, happy and free.’

  Happy and free, I think as I pull the curtains shut. Outside, a stranger takes a photo of me, ruefully smiling, on his phone.

  It’s on Twitter, five minutes later.

  Look at her, the replies say. That smug, self-satisfied bitch.

  36

  London, 2005

  Lucie eyes me suspiciously. ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There has to be something. People don’t just smile like that.’

  She’s right, of course. It was an involuntary smile, after forty-five minutes of stony silence on her part. I’d lost concentration. My mind had wandered to Evie, that morning, giggling with pleasure as Graham tickled her belly. I’ve been replaying it all day, drifting back to it: a moment of pure elation, our family, for once, utterly perfect.

  ‘I was just thinking how nice it is to get paid to do absolutely nothing. I get paid quite a bit, you know.’

  Her brow crinkles. ‘That doesn’t seem like something you’re supposed to say.’

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s better than saying nothing at all.’

  This is a dice-roll approach. I don’t know if it’ll work. If anything, it’s more likely to make things worse. But she is talking to me now. That’s an improvement.

  ‘How much do you get paid?’

  ‘Loads. You see how many clients there are here, and how much all of your parents are paying … Imagine that, split between us. After overheads, obviously.’

  ‘Is that why you went into it? For the money?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘So why, then?’

  ‘Because I’m good at it.’

  I’ve never heard her laugh before, and I cling to it. It’s a little sharp, as though it’s been held in for too long.

  ‘See? You weren’t laughing when you came in. Now, you’re basically cured.’

  ‘You’re really annoying,’ she says, though she’s still smiling.

  ‘I know. But it works.’

  There’s a lull; she purses her lips, and then smiles again. ‘Fine. I’ll talk.’

  I glance at the clock. ‘I’m afraid not. We’re done here.’

  A flicker of disappointment crosses her face. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Next time, though – OK?’

  She nods. ‘All right, doc. Next time.’

  On the way home, I think about her. I wonder if I did the right thing in ending our session like that; I wonder if I ought to have stayed, while she was in the mood to talk.

  But I couldn’t have, even if I’d been sure it would help. I have to get home to my child.

  The tube rattles around me, the flash of light and sound oppressive, and exhausting.

  The train comes to a halt in a tunnel, and the conductor announces a delay.

  I glance at my watch.

  Louise is there, I tell myself. She’ll wait.

  And that’s true. Our new nanny is reliable, effortlessly so – perhaps the fifteenth or sixteenth we’d interviewed, the only one that fit. We’d had to outbid another family to get her, but it was worth it. She’s the best. She’d never leave before one of us got home. Usually, that’s me.

  I look at my watch, uselessly, again. The clench of foreboding in my throat tightens. It tightens, still, as the train begins to move. By the time I reach our house, I can barely breathe with it, my heart racing at the sight of his bike propped in the hall, a rangy shadow through the glass.

  I turn my key in the lock and push the door. It catches, the jolt taking me aback. The silver knot of the chain rattles in the gap.

  ‘Louise?’ I call, though I know she isn’t there. It’s an act; I’m pretending, for the neighbours, and myself, that there’s no way my husband would lock me out of my own home. ‘I got held up – nightmare on the tube. Can you let me in?’

  There’s no answer. I ring the bell. My pulse begins to rise, a cold sweat licking at the curve of my neck. ‘Hello?’

  He can’t hear me, I tell myself, ringing again. He’s got the TV up too loud, or his headphones on. That’s all this is.

  I’m rationalizing, and I know it. I am lying to myself. I’m trying to stay calm, though my baby’s inside, and I’m locked out in the street. The longing I feel is physical, a claw in the pit of my chest.

  I squeeze my hand through the crack and tug, uselessly, at the chain. ‘Hello? Graham?’

  With every passing second, my rationalizations slip. In my mind, I see him inside, with a woman, perhaps – with Louise, thin and blonde, absolutely his type. Why didn’t I think of that before? Or did I think of it and let it go – friends close, and enemies closer?

  ‘Let me in, Graham,’ I shout through the crack. ‘I know you’re in there. Open the door.’

  I imagine him, alone, with my little girl. Packing a bag, perhaps; his hands tugging socks onto tiny feet, then shoes. Telling her this is for the best. Telling her they’ll be better off without me. I begin to panic.

  ‘Graham!’ I beat the door with both hands. I hear a window open, above and to the right. The neighbours are watching. ‘For Christ’s sake, Graham. Let me in. Let. Me. In.’

  I sound like a madwoman, punctuating each word with a thud, the chain rattling against the door. But I no longer care. I pound harder, imagining the wood splintering into my palms.

  Finally, I see him. He takes the stairs slowly – deliberately – his eyes fixed on mine, and when he opens the door, he smiles.

  I know what this is: it’s for the benefit of the passers-by who’ve heard me, the neighbours watching on. He gives a vague apology I know he doesn’t mean – he says he didn’t hear me over Evie’s cries, though she’s silent now, and has be
en, this whole time. He lets me in.

  I feel him there, behind me, as I climb the stairs. I don’t look back at him, although I want to. All the rage I’d felt, on the other side of the door, has evaporated; the look in his eyes when he opened the door saw to that.

  Now, for the first time, I’m afraid.

  I am scared of my husband.

  Of what he might do; what he might have already done.

  You’re being irrational, I tell myself. He isn’t like that. He’s a cheat and a liar, yes, but he’s no worse than the rest of them. That’s what I tell myself. But I can’t help the feeling – an intuition, a terrible pang – that I’m wrong.

  Because the anger seems to radiate from him. I feel his eyes, there, in my back; the sense of a hand reaching for my throat, pulling at my hair. I imagine myself falling, skull cracked on the staircase, before I get to see my girl.

  None of this happens, of course. But I can feel him thinking about it. About what he could do, though he won’t. About what I’ve driven him to, by being such a terrible wife.

  I don’t look back as I speak. I’m afraid to meet his eye. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, the words pathetic, reed-thin. ‘There was a signal failure on the tube, and I—’

  ‘I knew this would happen.’

  The words are a growl, a jolt. I push open the door to Evie’s room. Her breath is low and lovely; she’s sleeping, hands curled around Maggie, her bear. The relief spreads through me, a morphine warmth. I cling to the handle to disguise my buckling knees.

  He sees this, I know. He sees everything.

  I turn and close the door. ‘I’ll put dinner on,’ I say. He follows, inches behind, without saying a word. He remains there, behind me, as I boil the water and pour the pasta, with a deafening rattle, into the pan. Every step I take, he takes, too. I can feel him, hear his breath in my ear.

  I know I could turn around. I could tell him to back off; to stop being so aggressive. God, I could take this bubbling pan and drown him in it.

  I could do any of those things. But I won’t.

  I drop the steaming pasta on to plates, and hand him the largest. He takes it, and sits. He beckons me to join him, and I do. He picks up a fork and jams it, deliberately, into the pasta. He turns it around, again and again, his knuckles pale, fist clenched. I try to do the same – to echo him, to show him we’re on the same page. A unit.

  My own knuckles whiten as I try to contain an involuntary shiver.

  I hate myself for this. For how weak I am, for being afraid.

  ‘Where were you?’ His voice is low, soft. He doesn’t want to wake Evie. He’s a good father. He’s always sure of that.

  ‘I told you. There was a signal failure on the tube. I was stuck in a tunnel for twenty minutes.’

  He swallows, his eyes still on mine. ‘Where were you, Hannah?’

  My throat contracts. I feel tears sting behind my eyes. ‘I was on the tube. On the Central line. There was a—’

  The table rattles beneath me. ‘Where the fuck were you?’

  ‘I’m telling you. It’s the truth. I was on the—’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  I look down at my plate, my uneaten food. I don’t know what to do; how to fix this. I know I’m telling the truth. But it isn’t enough. I close my eyes. ‘Graham—’

  I hear the shatter of the plate, my eyes still closed, tight. I hear the slow, wet slide of the food, slick against the wall.

  ‘Look at me,’ he hisses. And I do. He’s standing now. I see his hands balled into fists, veins rivering his arms. I feel my muscles turn soft, weaken. ‘You’re a liar, Hannah. You always have been. You’re a selfish bitch.’

  He steps towards me. Passes me, and stands at the back of my chair. I imagine myself running. Scrambling away. Dragged back.

  I feel his hands on my shoulders, the warmth seeping through my shirt. ‘And you’re fucking pathetic,’ he whispers into my ear. He stays there, for what feels like minutes.

  And then, he walks away. He leaves the front door wide open, the evening air licking, cold, at my neck.

  37

  Derbyshire, 2018

  ‘Hannah? Can you let me in?’

  I sit up, a strand of spit still clinging to the pool on the back of my hand.

  Dan peers through the glass. He smiles, but there’s sadness in it. I see why: me, asleep at the kitchen table, the remains of a bottle of wine beside me.

  I stagger up and slide the bolt across. I hear voices outside, a chatter of flashes and clicks. Dan slides through the gap and slams the door.

  I step back, and stumble. This time, Graham isn’t there to catch me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I hear the slur in my voice. ‘Where’s Evie?’

  He drops his bag beside the table, and pours the rest of the wine into my glass. ‘I’ve just dropped her at Lissa’s to do some revision for a bit. Her mum knows what’s going on, so …’ He takes a long – too long – sip, as though trying to drain it. Presumably because I’m already drunk. I see his lips purse at the tang. ‘I’m guessing you’ve seen the news.’

  I try to parse the words: wonder, briefly, if I’m misunderstanding him. If he’s talking about Conviction. But he wouldn’t word it like that. It doesn’t make sense. ‘What do you mean?’

  Something crosses his face, a mixture of surprise and disappointment – that I don’t know, but I’m drinking anyway. And then, he pales. It’s bad news, whatever it is, and he’s the one who has to tell me.

  ‘Someone’s come forward,’ he says, finally. ‘An alibi for the night Mike Philips was …’ He catches himself; tries again. ‘Someone’s confirmed he was at the bar, like Conviction said he was. It’s been confirmed. Apparently, it’s rock solid. So …’

  I feel my breath catch in my throat, and I sit. I can’t speak.

  He doesn’t want to say it, I know. But I need him to. Otherwise, it’ll never be real.

  He sighs. ‘He’s been cleared of all charges. They’re letting him go.’

  We sit in silence for a while, on our phones, faces lit by our respective screens.

  I watch the cottage on the news, journalists waiting for a statement I have no intention of giving.

  Anything you say can and will be used against you, the police on TV say. So I, for now, am saying nothing at all.

  Even though there are thousands of people, braying cheerfully, calling my name:

  the bitch did it

  Why don’t we have the electric chair here, she should die for what she did to Mike alone

  mad-eyed psycho cunt

  Even though I am guilty, I know – of hating my husband. I know that much is true. Of wanting to protect my daughter, no matter what. And of letting myself believe the explanation that was presented to me; of taking the easy way out.

  Some part of me knew Mike Philips wasn’t in my house in my house, that night. But I wanted him to be. So I believed it – just like all these strangers who want to think I killed my husband. They’ve as little proof as I do, but believing, for them, is enough.

  I look over at Dan, staring intently at his screen. ‘I think … I should probably call my solicitor. If they’re reopening the case, I should …’

  He looks up. His face is pale, his expression wounded. I don’t wait for him to reply.

  I stand and plug my phone in to charge. I feel sober, now, a horrible clarity sharpening my senses. ‘Did you listen to the new episode already?’ I know the answer to this. I just need to see his reaction. I need to see that he still believes me.

  But his face is a mask. ‘Yeah, I … I did. I’m sorry. We can listen to it now, if you want?’

  ‘I’ve heard it,’ I say, a little more viciously than I mean to. I turn away, pretending to tidy the table. My foot catches on the strap of his bag, the contents spilling over the floor. ‘Shit,’ I mutter, losing my balance as I bend to scoop up the papers. ‘Could you not leave this here? We have a whole rack in the hallway for bags and stuff.’

  He stands,
and bends to help. ‘OK. Don’t worry.’ His voice is cool, gentle: like a tamer approaching an animal. Somehow, it makes the anger I feel thicken, grow to a hard mass in my chest. ‘I’ll move it. Here.’ He reaches for sheaf of pages just out of reach. ‘I’ll sort them out now.’

  I hand them to him, roughly, and curse as a page slips out. I pick it up, the room lurching, a little. A familiar photograph at the top of the page, familiar words typed beneath. Hawkwood House, 1955.

  ‘What’s this?’ My throat tightens a little.

  ‘It’s nothing. I just …’ He looks down at the pages again, almost as though he doesn’t recognize them at all. ‘I had this idea about writing a book. A history of Hawkwood,’ he adds quickly. Too quickly.

  I think about what Sarah had said about offers to divulge secrets about me for cash. I wonder what a book would be worth, now, after The Wife. What value they’d place on the story of seven years by the side of a killer, by a journalist who had no idea who’d been lying beside him in bed.

  I remember the cracked spine of a paperback passed among friends, at university: about a woman who’d had a friendship with Ted Bundy without ever seeing who he really was. A fascinating psychological study, one blurb had said, enough for us to justify our morbid curiosity.

  ‘Do you think I did it?’ I hear myself say, though I don’t think I want to know the answer. I think if he says yes, it will split me in two. His mouth opens, a little. The pause is at once brief, and yet too long. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Dan. I just want to know. Do you think any of what they’re saying is true?’

  ‘Hannah, this isn’t the—’

  ‘Yes or no, Dan. Do you think I killed Graham, or not?’

  He closes his eyes. He’s like a man losing patience with a petulant child. And I understand why. I’m acting like one.

  ‘I don’t think it’s that simple. I think there are probably parts of what they’re saying that are rooted in fact, but I know you. I know you aren’t the person they’re making you out to be. So if you …’