The Evidence: A completely unputdownable psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by K. L. Slater

  Simone: Oh! That’s… fine. Go ahead.

  Esme: How much did you see of Peter, during your marriage?

  Simone: How often, you mean?

  Esme: Yes. I know Grant was keen to isolate you from your family, specifically your mother, initially. But I’ve spoken to Peter recently and he strikes me as a determined individual. Quite savvy. I wondered if you kept in touch, if he suspected all was not well in your relationship.

  Simone: We didn’t see much of him. The fact he was Andrew’s only uncle meant nothing to Grant. He exerted full control over me and my son.

  Esme: It’s just that Peter is such a big part of your life now, I find it hard to believe that he so willingly backed off, didn’t question why you were so insular.

  Simone: That’s because you have no comprehension what it was like.

  Esme: I hope I haven’t offended you, Simone. I’m just trying to understand and—

  Simone: I’m trying to help you to understand. But I don’t want Peter involved in this process. He doesn’t agree with me doing it and I think it’s best if you don’t speak to him again. Likewise, I want my son to be afforded the privacy he has chosen. Peter is furious Andrew will have nothing to do with the circus around the case but I completely understand his choice.

  Esme: I see. I apologise again if I’ve annoyed you.

  Simone: I’m not annoyed. It’s just… I think you should leave Peter out of this, OK?

  Esme: OK.

  Esme: Simone, last time we spoke, you told us about the humiliation and abusive treatment Grant Fischer meted out to you on November 13th, 2009. You described how he degraded you in a way no decent person would do. Was that the final straw… Did you just snap?

  Simone: I did just snap, but it wasn’t the degrading treatment that did it. He was in a particularly vicious mood that day. You’ll recall I told you last time he came home early that day and was furious his dinner wasn’t ready. Then he force-fed me raw pastry from the bin and sat laughing. Pathetic as it makes me sound, I was so low, at that point, felt so worthless, I’d have probably just cleaned myself up and got on with making his meal. But then he said something that made me go very quiet inside. Made me sit up and listen.

  Esme: Can you share that with us?

  Simone: He said, ‘I bet you still get upset when you think about your mum’s wedding and engagement rings, don’t you? And your gran’s ruby brooch, too.’ See, we’d had a break-in at the house a couple of months after Mum died. They took a few things including her jewellery. Grant had dealt with the police but they weren’t really that interested. At the time, he convinced me I must have left the back door open when I took Andrew to school, although I was almost certain I’d locked it. I spent months afterwards blaming myself, hopelessly wishing I could turn the clock back and ensure I’d secured it.

  Esme: It must’ve been upsetting to lose your mum’s jewellery.

  Simone: I can’t tell you how gutted I was. Especially after we’d drifted apart before she died. It was all I really had left of her. And my gran’s ruby brooch had been in the family for a few generations. It was the way he said it, you know? Sort of mocking, as if he were amusing himself by talking about it.

  Esme: How did you react?

  Simone: As I said, I felt strange, as if he’d opened up something inside me just by mentioning the jewellery in that mocking tone he was so fond of. I said, ‘Yes, I do still get upset, Grant. I’ll always be upset and I’ll always blame myself.’

  He said, ‘You really shouldn’t blame yourself, you know. It wasn’t your fault.’ Like a fool, I actually thought for a moment he was consoling me.

  But again, something about the way he said it made my throat turn dry. Then he said, ‘You see, the jewellery wasn’t taken in the break-in. That was just kids. They took a few electrical items and some cash I’d left on the mantelpiece. But it was just too good a chance to miss.’

  I remember looking at him, tipping my head this way and that, trying to understand what he was saying and then he just told me. He said, ‘I took the jewellery and sold it. Blamed it on the burglars. I got nearly a grand for it all, not a bad sum back then.’

  He waited for my reaction and all I could do was whisper, ‘You sold it?’

  He laughed. ‘I took a woman at work out, bought us a hotel room on it. Remember Liz Wood, that shapely little redhead? God, we had a good night on your mother’s jewellery.’

  Esme: That must’ve broken your heart.

  Simone: It did break my heart, but it also opened my eyes. It was like someone had shone a spotlight on him, sitting there opposite me, and I could see him for everything he was. A cheat, a liar, an abuser. And all I could think was, I can’t raise Andrew here, with him. I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. I told him I was leaving him, that I’d go to the police and tell them how he treated me. All the time I talked, he laughed. He threw his head back and laughed so hard. He said nobody would believe a thing I said, that the whole neighbourhood knew I was unstable. He said he would kick me out instead and see to it I’d never see my son again.

  Esme: And that’s what did it… You just snapped?

  Simone?

  Simone: Sorry, I was back there for a moment. Yes, I just snapped. He’d been so cruel that day, he’d outdone himself and the thought of Andrew being in his sole care…

  Esme: What happened?

  Simone: It felt like… like the eggshell surrounding me had cracked and I saw, for the first time, the extent of his cruelty, his abusive nature, his complete vileness. Before I knew it, I was across the other side of the kitchen and I saw his face drop. For a moment he stopped laughing. I saw his mouth move but I couldn’t hear anything for the rushing sound in my head. I looked down at my hand and I was holding a knife from the block. A really sharp kitchen knife.

  And then he was smiling again, his mouth stretched wide. He held out his hand for the knife and I just rushed forward and plunged it at his head. He turned as I went for him and it entered the soft bit behind his ear and the start of his neck.

  Esme: There’s no rush, Simone. In your own time, whatever you can remember.

  Simone: I remember the blood. I still dream about it. Lots of blood spurting everywhere. My hand just kept going with the knife like it had a life of its own… in, out, in, out. I had to make sure, you see, make sure he couldn’t get up, because he would have killed me. He’d have killed me.

  When I looked down, he was slumped over the kitchen table, his eyes still open, a horrible gurgling noise in his throat.

  Esme: When you realised you’d killed him, what did you do? Were you in shock? Did you panic?

  Simone: I remember exactly what I did. I pulled some cloths out of the cupboard under the sink and I started cleaning up the mess.

  END OF EXTRACT

  Forty-Nine

  HMP BRONZEFIELD

  ESME

  As always, on the journey home, I thought through my conversation with Simone. But it was the part before I started rolling the tape that was on my mind this time. The part about me.

  When I’d entered the small room where we talked, I didn’t know whether it was her smile, her welcome, her instant compassion when she saw I wasn’t myself, but instantly, my eyes began to swim. Simone immediately gave me a clean tissue and reached for my hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ I’d said. ‘This is unprofessional of me, I—’

  ‘We all have bad days, Esme. I could see you looked a little low as soon as you walked in. How’s your sister, is there any progress?’

  ‘Michelle is just the same. Stable, at least but… it’s not that. Last night… the police came over to the house and…’

  I tried to fight the tears and keep my mouth shut but I’d been holding this stuff in, with nobody to talk to, for too long and I was really struggling.

  Simone’s voice was calming. She put me at ease. ‘Take your time, Esme. Just let the tears come. That’s it. I found out a long time ago it’s better to let it all go. Scream and rant if you ne
ed to. It’s OK. All those years with Grant, I did myself a disservice remaining quiet and compliant. It’s what he wanted. I just played into his hands and it allowed him to continue.’

  We sat quietly for a few moments, Simone stroking the top of my hand and me unable to cease snivelling.

  Could I trust her? I felt I could. How open could I be with her? I was veering off the professional path…

  Also, I was mindful I only had half an hour with her and I was wasting precious time. But once I opened up I couldn’t seem to pull it back.

  ‘You don’t have to say a thing, if you don’t want to,’ she said, waiting.

  ‘It’s Owen,’ I said quickly. ‘I found out… I…’ I dragged a big breath in and then just said it. ‘He was the driver of the hit and run I told you about. Eighteen months ago, it was him who nearly killed Zachary.’

  ‘What?’ She was genuinely shocked, I could see it.

  ‘He confessed to the police when they accidentally found an old DNA match with the hit-and-run driver’s blood. All this time, I’ve blamed myself for being late to collect Zachary. And all this time Owen has looked me in the eye and accused me of falling short as a mother.’

  ‘He’s lied to you,’ she said faintly. ‘He’s made you feel like the one with a problem.’

  I nodded. ‘He told me time and time again that any decent mother would be less worried about building the business and more interested in spending every minute with Zachary that day. But the reason I couldn’t be there all the time is that I wanted to build a better life for my son.’

  ‘Esme, you don’t need to justify yourself to me. I, more than anyone, now understand that everybody has an agenda.’

  ‘I never would have said Owen was a bully or tried to control me… he didn’t “fit” my definition of a controlling man. I’ve always considered myself an independent woman, strong in my own way. Stronger before Zachary’s accident, which knocked me sideways. Was it so wrong to have believed Owen was equally devastated when Zachary was injured?’

  ‘There are a thousand ways to control or be controlled.’ Simone gave a sad smile. ‘We put our faith in our partner, our friend, a close relative. We want to believe they are good and true and so we do. We run with that. Then suddenly we can’t see what’s around us anymore; we can’t spot the signs. We’re blind to anything other than what they place right in front of our eyes and tell us is the truth.’

  ‘I did just that! I believed him. I never had an inkling…’

  ‘Afterwards, I used to think, “Why didn’t I see what Grant was up to? Why did I let him treat me that way?” But then I realised that all the time I was taking the accountability that belonged to him and then carrying the weight of it on my own back. Mistrusting myself rather than him… every single time.’

  It was exactly what I’d been doing since discovering the truth about the accident. Telling myself I should have seen through Owen’s lies, I should have been sharper and smarter and realised what he’d done when, in fact, it was nothing to do with me at all.

  All this time I’d shouldered the grief, the anger and the burden of easing a difficult future for my son. Effectively taking on the responsibility, and the blame of what happened, when it was Owen’s doing all along.

  Fifty

  JUSTINE

  Justine came out of her meeting and read the text message from Esme asking for a meeting at the office.

  Hi Justine,

  Would you be free for half an hour this afternoon? I can come to the office if Mo’s out? I need to speak to you alone.

  Did Esme know? Was she planning to confront her?

  With heat rising from her solar plexus, she tapped out a hasty reply that belied the squirming sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  Sure. I’m in the office all afternoon.

  This day was always going to come, she’d known that. But she’d never considered she wouldn’t be the one to tell all in her own time, when she felt completely ready and had her story straight.

  Now, it looked as if the unthinkable had happened. Esme had already realised exactly what was happening.

  Fifty-One

  ESME

  When I left the prison, I didn’t mention to Simone what I planned to do. I didn’t want her to feel anxious or to try and dissuade me.

  The unauthorised Facebook page loomed large in my mind and I felt I had to do something. It was no good speaking to Simone about the matter because, if she was as nervous of Peter as I believed to be the case, I probably wouldn’t get anywhere. Rather than sit around waiting for the police to call me back, I could make myself useful by acting on my gut feeling.

  I’d telephoned The Spindles care home after leaving Melton Mowbray when I was on my way down to Bronzefield Prison. Andrew Fischer had already told me during our phone conversation that he lived on-site, so I knew there was a fair chance he might be in. When I explained I needed to speak to him as a matter of urgency, that Andrew knew me, the carer who answered the phone confirmed he was working.

  From the A606, I followed signs for the village of Nether Broughton. I made a right turn on to Chapel Lane and turned again into a leafy driveway, parking the car outside The Spindles, which turned out to be a large detached Victorian house in its own substantial gardens.

  I buzzed at the door and heard a click admitting me. In the large foyer with its parquet flooring and polished mahogany banister rail, a middle-aged lady with permed red hair and wearing a navy tabard walked towards me, wiping her hands on a cloth.

  ‘I’m here to see Andrew Fischer if possible,’ I said, silently praying she wouldn’t present me with a reason I couldn’t speak to him. ‘I rang ahead.’

  ‘He’s in the main lounge, love. That door there.’

  I walked into a large room filled with comfy seats and mismatched hardbacked chairs. The inside of the place was shabby but clean and ordered. The flatscreen television on the wall was on but the volume was low and I doubted whether any of the handful of young people in there who were staring at their phones could actually hear the daytime talk show.

  I spotted Andrew right away. He was the only carer in the lounge. Tall with light-brown hair and slow, considered movements. He wore black trousers, trainers and a grey tabard top with short sleeves.

  He was over in the corner helping a young woman out of a wheelchair and into a seat. His movements were careful, his touch light. He said something to her and she nodded, gave him a weak smile.

  Andrew straightened up, turned and spotted me. He strode over, friendly and bright. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to just drop in on you, Andrew, but I’m Esme Fox. We spoke yesterday.’

  He took a step back, surprised. ‘Oh wow, and now you’re here! Full marks for the detective work finding this place. We’re somewhat tucked away.’

  ‘You told me you worked at a place called The Spindles and… well, it wasn’t too difficult…’

  Andrew gave a small smile but I felt he was a little unnerved. I represented his mother’s traumatic past. His past, too, and here I was, invading his ‘normal’ life. ‘Now I know why you’re a successful investigative journalist,’ he said.

  ‘I’m taking a chance, but there’s something I need to ask you, something important. That’s why I’ve come here. Is there somewhere quiet we could chat, just for five minutes?’

  ‘Sure. We can sit in the staff room; everyone’s had their break now so it should be quiet in there.’

  He led me out of the lounge and down a short, carpeted hallway into a small, functional room that was two-thirds comfy seating and one third kitchenette. ‘Coffee?’ He asked, reaching into an overhead cupboard for mugs.

  ‘Thanks. Milk, no sugar,’ I said, the knot in my stomach growing by the second. Andrew seemed to think it was a nice thing I’d popped by, when in fact I was probably about to annoy him.

  He brought the coffees over and sat across from me at the small, Formica-topped table. ‘So. To what do I owe this pleasure? Not very often anyo
ne visits me full stop, never mind here at work.’

  I picked up my mug and sipped the strong, bitter drink.

  ‘I want to apologise in advance, Andrew. There’s something I’d like to ask you and it’s rather awkward—’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Just shoot. I’ll help if I can.’

  So I told him about the ‘Pray for Michelle Fox’ Facebook page. ‘I’ve established the photographs on it are publicly available, so there’s no question of anything being hacked into or stolen as such. It’s just… well, frankly weird, and it feels really wrong. Invasive. That someone would be interested enough to go to the bother of doing this, you know?’

  ‘God, yes, I do know. Even now when I see articles about my mother quoting an “anonymous source” which is so lazy, basically giving them a licence to more or less make lies up. And saying stuff about my dad who, whatever he did, isn’t here to defend himself. It feels exactly that. Invasive.’

  I nodded. He got it.

  ‘The thing is… I didn’t know anything about the page until your uncle told me about it.’

  ‘Peter knew about it before you did?’

  ‘Yes. He’d made reference to my sister being in hospital and it just struck me he seemed to know details that he must have gone to the trouble of finding. But it turns out he’d seen the Facebook page.’