by K. L. Slater
I put down my fork and dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. That told me then. There I was, believing the doctors when they said that Zachary’s mood changes and difficult behaviour were as a result of the accident when it had been my fault all along.
I glared at her and she held my stare as if daring me to challenge her. But I didn’t want Zachary witnessing more tension and harsh words at the table, so Brooke won again.
After tea, Brooke started clearing the table. I went to clear the plates and she put her hand up in a stop sign.
‘Pop upstairs and change your T-shirt, darling,’ Brooke told Zachary, indicating the gravy mark on his top. ‘Bring that one down and I’ll get it soaking so it doesn’t stain.’
Nothing fazed this woman; nothing was left to chance. Zachary got up from the table and headed for the stairs to follow his grandma’s instructions without any drama.
‘I’m going upstairs to have a lie down, Brooke,’ I told her. ‘First, I want to call the police station to see if there’s any news on Owen.’
‘Don’t bother with the police station – Eric has all that in hand,’ she said dismissively.
I still felt annoyed the police were speaking to Eric at all, but there was nothing I could do about that. Despite our separation, I felt undermined. I opened my mouth to say as much when the doorbell rang.
‘Expecting anyone?’ Brooke said airily.
I shook my head, my heart thudding in anticipation of more bad news. Then, with a sinking heart, I remembered it could be journalists after a story. I walked out into the hallway and stopped when I saw the two familiar-looking male figures through the patterned glass.
With a fresh numbness gripping me, I began to move towards the door.
Forty-Five
‘Who is it, Mum?’ Zachary stood at the top of the stairs and began hitting the bannister with a rolled-up comic. ‘When is Dad coming home?’
‘It’s OK, Zachary. Just stay in your room a bit and I’ll pop up shortly.’ I felt so exhausted with it all. I held on to the bannister for a moment while I summoned the strength to deal with this next unwelcome instalment.
Zachary belted the comic harder on the wall. ‘Is it those detectives again? Why are they here? Where’s my dad?’
My bones felt so heavy with it all. ‘Go to your room,’ I shouted, too sharply.
‘Patience, Esme. The boy’s only asking,’ Brooke called from the next room.
I opened the front door and looked steadily at the two detectives.
‘I wonder if we might have a word?’ DI Sharpe asked.
‘Hello, Zachary,’ DS Lewis called up the stairs, as they stepped inside. He raised a hand by way of a greeting.
The next moment, the rolled-up comic sailed downstairs and just missed the detective’s head.
‘Zachary!’ I yelled, just as his bedroom door slammed shut.
‘It’s fine.’ Lewis dismissed my concern with a hand gesture. ‘I’m sure he’s heartily sick of the sight of us.’
He wasn’t the only one.
I led them both through to the living room. Before I could introduce Brooke, she stood up, heels back on.
‘I’m Brooke Painter, Owen’s mother,’ she said imperiously. ‘What’s happening at the station with my son?’
‘Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about,’ Sharpe said in an affable manner.
Brooke’s nostrils flared. ‘You’re here to talk about what, precisely?’
‘Brooke, I think they’re here to speak with me,’ I intervened, rolling my eyes at the two detectives.
‘It’s fine for Mrs Painter to stay,’ Lewis said, scuppering my attempt to get rid of her.
‘That’s if you’re happy for her to stay,’ his boss added pointedly, noticing my irritation.
‘Perhaps you could make some tea for us, Brooke,’ I suggested, gaining satisfaction from the flush of indignation that spread over her face.
Of course, she refused to be dismissed so easily. ‘I could and will make tea for the officers… after I’ve heard what they’ve got to say.’
We both sat side by side on the sofa and waited. Sharpe’s pleasant demeanour seemed to have dissipated and now the detectives seemed uneasy, glancing at each other. I held my breath. Were they here to tell me they’d arrested and charged Owen for the attack on Michelle? It couldn’t be so. It just couldn’t. My fingernails dug down hard into my palms.
I beat down the urge to ask searching questions about the information they were trying to get from Owen. I had to consider Zachary in this; I had to maintain my faith in Owen and not doubt him. The alternative terrified me.
‘Have you found out something about Michelle’s attacker?’ I asked, desperate to hear if progress was being made in another area.
Sharpe hesitated. ‘Investigations are still ongoing but I’m afraid we’ve nothing to report at this moment in time.’
‘Nothing to report and yet here you are. How long are you intending to detain my son for?’ Brooke demanded.
‘We’re entitled to hold Mr Painter for up to forty-eight hours.’ Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘We’ve asked him a number of key questions and I’m pleased to say he’s answered most of them.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have done so without his lawyer present,’ Brooke snapped. ‘At least that won’t be happening now Bruce is on the scene.’
I glared at her and she pressed her lips together.
‘He’s still at the station?’ I felt a bit lightheaded, wondering what was coming.
The detective nodded and took a breath, seeming to brace himself. ‘As part of the investigation, we asked Owen, when he arrived at the station, if he’d be willing to give a voluntary DNA sample to assist us and he agreed. We are also checking a hair sample he gave but results will take a little longer for that to come back.’
‘What?’ Brooke stood up, outraged. ‘I think that was way out of order, if I might say so, and—’
‘It’s standard practice where we deem it necessary, Mrs Painter. We were well within our rights to ask. Your son could have refused but he did not.’
Brooke sat down again, looking deflated. ‘But then he’d look like he had something to hide, wouldn’t he? He can’t win.’
‘Brooke, please. It might be a good time for you to make the tea because I want to hear what they’re here to say without any further interruptions.’
She ignored me and looked down, her face crumpling. Mercifully, she fell silent.
‘Because of the severity of the attack, we were able to get his DNA sample fast-tracked and when we compared it to samples found on Michelle…’ I felt myself fading out, preparing for him to say it was a match. If Owen had to go to prison, Zachary would be utterly devastated, he’d never recover. ‘There was no match with that sample.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Brooke blew out air and my shoulders dropped.
Thank you, God. I whispered my own silent prayer. Now they could focus on finding Michelle’s real attacker.
‘However,’ Lewis continued, looking straight at me. ‘Your husband’s DNA did match another historical sample on our system.’
‘What?’ I said faintly. It didn’t make sense.
‘The Forensic Information Database keeps all biometric information, such as DNA evidence, gathered at the scenes of crimes, including unidentified ones. Any new DNA sample is automatically checked against these and in this case, there is an unexpected match for Owen’s DNA.’
Were they saying Owen had committed a crime in the past? Previous news stories I’d read whirred though my mind: people arrested for historical crimes like murder and rape that had happened when they were younger and that their families knew nothing about…
‘Should you be divulging Owen’s personal data to Esme like this when they’ve separated?’ Brooke bristled and I couldn’t help but marvel at her instant maternal defence mechanism before she even knew what Owen was accused of doing.
Creeping cold fingers worked their way up my spine. I didn’t think I w
anted to know. Whatever my feelings about Owen, he was Zachary’s father, and my son would have to live with any fallout for the rest of his life. It took all my resolve not to run out of the room.
There was something about the detectives’ expressions that chilled me. A tendril of fear wound its way around my throat and pulled tight. The odd look on their faces, the way they kept shifting in their seats… it all pointed to the fact that this was going to be big.
Even Brooke fell quiet and knotted her fingers together as if she was bracing herself.
Sharpe continued, looking at me. ‘Eighteen months ago, your son was involved in a car accident, a hit and run.’
I nodded, unable to speak. Why would they bring that up now?
‘Evidence-wise there was a handkerchief found close to the scene with Zachary’s blood on it. There was also fresh blood from another source on the handkerchief, believed to be the driver’s. The DNA from that piece of evidence was logged onto the database. The driver of the vehicle that hit your son was never found.’
They all stared at me, even Brooke.
‘Ms Fox, I’m sorry to have to tell you today that Owen Painter’s DNA is a match for that sample.’
‘What on earth are you saying?’ I heard Brooke demand.
Lewis answered. ‘Mr Painter knocked his own son down and then he left the scene of the accident.’
I gripped the seat cushion. I felt like I was wading through thick fog, looking for clues to make sense of his words.
‘Perhaps Zachary had his father’s handkerchief on him when he was knocked over.’ Brooke’s voice sounded strained and high. She stood up, then sat down again. ‘Perhaps it was—’
‘Are you trying to say that… Owen was there, when Zach was knocked over by the car?’ I said, still unable to put the pieces together. He’d been driving back from a course in Newcastle that day.
‘Owen was the driver who knocked down your son,’ Lewis said regretfully.
Old images hit me in a rush. Owen’s injured hand the day of the accident. The fact that following the accident, he’d instantly stopped driving and insisted on getting rid of the family car, reducing his working hours so he could care for Zachary. His all-consuming guilt for supposedly not being there to protect his son… but no! It was still impossible – wasn’t it?
Brooke was in full swing now, pacing around the room. ‘This is outrageous. Completely ridiculous! There has to be some mistake…’
Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘There’s no mistake, Mrs Painter. Your son has made a full confession.’
A small noise escaped my throat. This… this was the stuff of nightmares. My mind was struggling to cope with it, trying desperately to find a logical reason why it couldn’t possibly be true. It was a fruitless exercise because deep down, I know there was no mistake. It was real. Everything fitted and I’d chosen to ignore it. If I’d seen these clues play out in someone else’s life, my journalist’s nose for a story would have kicked in. I’d have started asking questions. But I’d been so blinded by my efforts to protect Zachary from any more trauma that I’d failed him in the worst way possible.
Owen was a liar. He’d nearly killed our boy. And the worst of it all was that he’d consistently covered it up. He’d accused me of being a bad mother. He’d let me think, all this time, that there was a person, a monster out there, walking around, living their life, getting away with what they did to our son. And all that time that person was him.
My beloved Zachary, constantly left in his father’s sole care… with my blessing.
And then Michelle’s injured face and broken body flashed into my mind and another thing occurred to me.
What else might Owen be capable of?
Forty-Six
When the detectives left, Zachary ran downstairs.
‘What did they say?’ he demanded, jumping on the sofa. ‘When’s Dad coming home?’
‘They had some questions for me and Grandma,’ I said weakly.
‘Questions, questions, questions!’ Zachary screeched, thumping the seat cushion in time with each word. ‘I’ve got a question: where’s my dad?’
‘We’ll have the answer for you very soon, Zachary,’ Brooke said smoothly, and handed him the TV remote control. ‘Put something on to watch and I’ll bring you in a dish of fruit and ice cream, how’s that?’
‘Ice cream… yum! Fruit… yuk!’ Zachary said cheekily, pointing the remote at the television.
In the kitchen, Brooke seemed unexpectedly concerned about me.
‘Eric and Bruce will deal with Owen’s case. I’ll stop here at the house to support you and look after Zachary. You must rest, Esme, and gather your strength. It’s a shock but we’ll get through this terrible mess together, as a family. They can’t pin such a terrible thing on Owen.’
‘Owen has confessed,’ I pointed out quietly. ‘It’s more than just a mess that can be neatly swept away.’
Brooke made a noise of disbelief. ‘Owen is clearly under enormous pressure in that police station. He’ll be tired and confused. I wouldn’t put it past them to put the words into his mouth.’ She laid a hand on my back as she passed me en route to the fridge freezer. ‘Owen thinks the world of Zachary, you know that. He’d never do anything to hurt his own son. The very thought of it is laughable.’
The faintest glow of hope stirred within me. I wanted to believe her, I did. It was what I’d always told myself about Owen: he’d never do this, he’d never do that. He’d never hurt Michelle.
Was I deluding myself, always looking for the good in Owen… just like Simone had done for years with her husband? I shake my head, trying to break my thought pattern. Owen was not Grant Fischer. He was not abusive. He’d never hurt me or Zachary. He wouldn’t.
And yet… there seemed to be rock-solid evidence that he had. He’d physically hurt Zachary very badly.
I couldn’t stop my instincts now. I wanted to know the whole truth, no matter how awful. I could help and support my son through anything, but I had to satisfy myself it was the truth.
The day of the accident, the weather had been awful, most of the country lashed by torrential rain and howling storms. When the bad weather hit, Owen was in the middle of a pre-booked two-day fitness expo up in Newcastle. He’d stayed the night at his parents’ house and, on the second day, was due to be back home about eight that evening.
The storm had continued and a short time after leaving Newcastle, a fallen tree had narrowly missed flattening the car, mercifully just grazing the bumper. Owen had cut his hand quite badly, helping another driver pull it out of the road. That’s what he’d told me.
There had been a mix-up at school with a supply teacher and the children were inadvertently dismissed from their after-school club ten minutes earlier than usual. Most of them hung around and waited for their lift, but Zachary knew I’d be walking to pick him up and so, keen to get home and watch his favourite programme, even though he knew not to walk home alone, he slipped past the teacher, took a shortcut through the houses surrounding the school, and emerged on a quiet road he knew I’d be passing.
I breathed in and nothing happened… I couldn’t get enough air in. My lungs started burning as a forgotten memory played out before me…
I’m three streets away from the school and, as I draw closer to the road, I hear sirens approaching. Not just one but two or three. Deafening. Then emergency vehicles whizz by me, one after the other, and I get this awful dark feeling that starts to rise up from my solar plexus.
I turn into the road as the vehicles all grind to a halt in front of me and before they have a chance to cordon off the area, I spot a small shape in the road. Despite the cold weather, I grow suddenly hot, as if a fever is rising up from the depths of my insides.
It’s the lunchbox that catches my eye.
Several metres away from him. I see the logo on the front. Owen had ordered it on Amazon. It had taken a couple of weeks for it to get here because it came from China.
A police officer approach
es me and says something about me moving back.
I sink to my knees in the road and start shaking…
‘Esme? Can you hear me?’ Brooke tugged my arm gently, looking alarmed. ‘Are you alright? You’ve gone a funny colour.’
‘I’m fine, I just… oh God, I can’t stand it. I remember everything about that day, the accident…’
I went through it again, silently in my mind. How could Owen do that to his own son, to our boy? How could he be cold enough to act the devastated father so convincingly, for all this time?
‘Come on. Let’s get you upstairs for a lie down,’ she said, slipping her arm around my shoulders. ‘You’re in shock. It’s entirely understandable, the officers just blurting out a terrible accusation like that. We should consider making a complaint to the police commissioner!’
I allowed her to steer me to the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t an accusation. Owen had confessed to being the hit-and-run driver. He’d maimed his own son. Even Brooke and Eric couldn’t smooth that over with their powerful contacts.
Brooke followed me up the stairs to my bedroom. I found myself wondering which scenario was worse: if Owen’s DNA had matched Michelle’s attacker or his admission of ploughing into our son and driving off like the most callous stranger imaginable.
After the accident, I became severely anxious, terrified of any of us stepping outside the house. Zachary wasn’t even mobile at that point and the fear was completely irrational. I obsessed about all the things that could go wrong, things that could hurt him: intruders, cars driving into the house when we were watching television, a plane crashing into the house while we slept.
Owen sat with me for hours, holding my hand when one of my panic attacks struck yet again. He called the doctor out to the house and they spoke in hushed voices downstairs. The GP prescribed various medications to treat the anxiety disorder he diagnosed.