‘Here’s what I think. After it had happened, Alex rang his mother, probably hysterical, panicking. She told him to come back, to drive his father’s car home and she worked out a way to create an alibi.’
Libby gave a sad smile. ‘Charlie always said she was clever.’
‘Well, when Alex got back they must have rehearsed what to do. Then she rang Valerie. Gave her the story about wanting to catch Charlie out, how he’d told her he was off to the NEC but she thought he was cheating on her, breaking their understanding and going to meet you.’
‘That wasn’t so far from the truth,’ Libby admitted.
‘The best lies run close,’ I said. ‘So, Valerie sees Alex when she calls for Heather. Alex then goes upstairs. He has his games console on. Heather makes a show of calling out goodbye to Charlie or maybe she even goes up and pretends to say goodbye to him. Some gesture to persuade Valerie that Charlie has not left the house, yet. Valerie never sets eyes on Charlie but she’s tricked into thinking he’s there. Then Heather and Valerie wait down the road in Valerie’s car. When Charlie’s car appears exiting the Carters’ drive they follow. It’s easy to keep up as he’s going so slowly; that’s because Alex is driving and he’s still a learner.’
Libby stared at me. ‘The opposite of Charlie, who drove like a maniac.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And she wouldn’t be able to tell it was him because of the tinted windows,’ Libby pointed out.
‘Yes, and don’t forget it was twilight. Now, the women didn’t want Charlie to notice them so Valerie even hung back at one point to let a car get between them. When Charlie’s car turns off towards the cottage, Heather plays the wounded wife. Valerie and Heather drive back home to the house in Hale. It sounds like Alex is still gaming upstairs, making a right racket. Heather complains to her friend and goes up and asks him to turn it down a bit. But he’s not there; it’s all a ploy. Meanwhile, Alex reaches the cottage and parks Charlie’s car in the drive. He locks the car. He has to go inside and leave the car keys. When they are later found there are no fingerprints on them so he must have wiped them clean.’
‘The knife?’ Libby asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It was never found – he must have got rid of it.’
Libby shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand. Distressed, I imagined, at the harrowing thought of Alex in that gruesome situation.
‘Alex walks down the hill, passing Damien. He gets the bus back as close as he can then walks the rest of the way home. He sneaks upstairs and is there when Heather serves dinner. And they wait for the police to call.’
Libby sat there stunned, hands to her temples, gazing in the direction of Rowena, though I don’t think she was actually seeing her daughter or taking anything in from the room, from the present. Finally she moved her hands, straightened up and turned to me. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.
‘It’s hard to credit,’ I agreed.
‘No, not the cover-up: the fight. Charlie wasn’t like that, he was a very patient man. He never lost his temper.’
‘With you,’ I said.
‘In general. Honestly, the only time he got wound up was when he was driving.’
‘Maybe that was it,’ I suggested. ‘Alex was driving out there with him to get some practise. If Alex was going slowly, making mistakes, then Charlie would find it hard to keep calm. He’d be pretty wound up when they got there, then if Alex did something to make it worse . . .’
Libby shook her head. ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘Charlie would never have lost it like that. He’d never lay a finger on that boy.’
‘So, what Heather said about the fight . . .’
‘Bullshit,’ Libby said succinctly.
‘So was it something more sinister? Not an accident.’ But a boy that age. Where would such violence come from? ‘Alex – there was never any suggestion he was disturbed in any way?’ I asked her.
‘No. He was a bit shy. Sensitive. Stuck in his room, Charlie said, always on his computer. He didn’t have many friends; Charlie worried about that. Do you think Alex found out about us?’
‘It’s a helluva leap from that to picking up a knife.’ I imagined Alex, chaotic, confused, the blade in his hand, accusing his father, one fateful move. Talking to his mother, fleeing the scene, shock descending. Then the purgatory of driving back there. The cottage in the dark. Having to open that door. Feel the presence. Gag on the smell of death. The frantic scurry down the hill to the bus, passing Damien on his way up.
Ice froze in my veins; my heart grew heavy, a weight solid in my chest. ‘Oh, God.’
‘What?’ Libby sat forward, alert to the urgency in my voice.
‘He can’t have taken the bus home,’ I said. ‘They’re only every half hour and Damien had just got off the bus. Damien ran back to the bus stop after he’d stolen Charlie’s wallet. He waited for the next bus and he was alone at the bus stop.’
Libby shook her head, slowly. ‘More lies? What’s going on, Sal?’
‘I don’t know. Damien heard a car start up. Maybe Alex drove another car home.’
‘But you said he drove Charlie’s car; he couldn’t drive two cars.’
There was hammering on the front door.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Libby. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
It was Alex Carter, his clothes drenched with rain, his hair plastered to his head, shivering, looking younger than his years, hunted, haunted.
TWENTY
‘S he came to see you?’ he asked. His voice shook.
I swallowed. ‘Come in,’ I told him.
He stepped into the hall, his hands rammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Shivering still, his face red from the weather. ‘She won’t tell me what’s happening. But I know she came to see you: the number was on the phone.’
‘You should go home,’ I said gently, ‘talk to your mum.’
‘I asked her.’ He raised his voice in frustration. ‘She won’t talk to me! Is she in trouble?’
Oh, Alex. The naivety of the question was hard to fathom. He’d obviously no idea how much I already knew. I formulated a neutral reply; the last thing I wanted was him freaking out on me. ‘It’s likely that the conviction of Damien Beswick was unsound. The police will be examining new evidence; they may reopen the investigation.’
‘They can’t!’ he breathed, his eyes fixed on me.
I didn’t speak.
‘I can’t bear it,’ he said. He slid down the wall put his head in his hands, his knees bent up.
‘Shall I ring her, Alex?’ I asked. ‘She can come and pick you up?’
The reedy wail of Rowena crying came from below. Alex frowned, looking confused, and shook his head at my offer. ‘No,’ he mumbled. He circled his knees with his arms, his head buried.
‘It was an accident,’ I said.
He raised his head to look at me, his face twisted in disbelief. ‘She told you?’
I nodded.
‘Why?’ he said with horror. ‘Why did she tell you? We promised—’ he was too distraught to continue.
I rushed to calm him. ‘She wanted to explain, I think, that it had been an accident.’
‘She said no one would believe her,’ Alex whispered. His lips were swollen and red, the skin flaking. ‘That she’d be in prison for years. I don’t want her to go to prison!’
My skin crawled and adrenalin coursed through me like toxin. I crouched down. ‘For lying?’ I asked softly. I could feel my heart in my throat.
He stared at me, misery on his face, dull confusion. ‘No, for what she did.’
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I tried to swallow. ‘The accident?’
The stairs creaked and Libby appeared, Rowena in her arms. Alex glanced over at her, almost indifferent. I stood, crossing to her to try and prevent the encounter but I hadn’t reckoned on Libby’s determination.
‘Alex?’ she said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Libby.’
/> He froze, the colour draining from his face. ‘That was why they were arguing,’ he said, ‘because of you.’
‘Arguing?’ asked Libby.
‘If you hadn’t been—’
‘The accident,’ I interrupted, catching Libby’s eye, signalling this was important. ‘It was Heather.’
Alex looked at Libby, then back to me. ‘What are you on about?’ His eyes glittered. Drops of rain trickled from the ends of his hair.
‘Heather told Sal it was you.’ Libby was trembling slightly; it was just possible to see. ‘You were with Charlie, there was an argument, Charlie went for you, you were scared, you picked up the knife. Charlie stumbled, he fell on the knife.’
‘You’re lying.’ He scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting wildly, seeking escape.
‘Alex,’ I put out an arm, trying to still him.
‘She’d never do that,’ he shouted. But the truth had already hit him. He turned suddenly, howling, slapped his palms against the wall then slammed his head against it. The sound was sickening. He did it again. I grabbed his arms, shocked at how skinny they were and the feel of his bones, and pulled him away, turned him to face me. Keeping my voice steady, I said, ‘Alex, sit down, sit down.’
He obeyed. Sat on the floor again.
Libby was fighting back tears, her face raised, neck stretched, eyes blinking. One hand rhythmically patting Rowena’s back, keeping the baby quiet.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told him.
‘You believed her?’ he asked, injured, his voice breaking.
I didn’t answer him but asked a question of my own. ‘After you drove back to the cottage, you left your dad’s car on the drive. How did you get home?’
‘In mum’s,’ he said quietly. ‘She’d parked on the hill.’ He was crying now, silently, the tears coursing down his cheeks.
‘A Mondeo?’ I asked. He dipped his head. The car Damien had passed going up the hill, casing it for easy access to valuables, and the engine he’d heard starting up. And Alex was the man he’d passed, the one out of breath, carrying a rucksack. I recalled the shift in Sinclair’s face when I’d mentioned the cars. He must have made the connection, then. Known it was the same make as Heather Carter’s. But he’d said nothing. Did he dismiss it as a coincidence or was he past caring? Unwilling to contemplate the miscarriage of justice that had occurred.
‘Were you carrying anything?’ I said.
‘Dad’s rucksack,’ he said with difficulty. ‘She’d put the knife in an old curtain. I had to leave it in one of those bins at the supermarket. I can’t go home,’ he blurted out, fear making his voice squeak. ‘I’m scared.’ His mouth trembled. ‘I’m so scared.’ He began to rock, a desperate feral motion and he bit at his hand. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to ease his panic.
Heather had driven out there to confront her husband about his affair. They argued, she stabbed him, either intentionally or accidentally, then drove his car home and forced her son to help create the alibi. Now that the truth was bubbling to the surface she was prepared to name Alex as the killer. Ruthless, that’s how Nick Dryden had described Heather, something I’d dismissed at the time, but a label she certainly deserved. Not only had she destroyed her son by pressing him to enact the ghastly pantomime to save her skin, but as the cover-up threatened to unravel she had no qualms at betraying her only child. Of course, she still probably clung to the hope that nothing would change, that I couldn’t prove anything and that none of the authorities would take an interest in pursuing things any further.
But she hadn’t reckoned on Alex, driven by terror and desperate to know why his mother had contacted me. Alex, driven to breaking point and finally revealing a much more plausible version of events.
‘Alex,’ said Libby, ‘Heather claimed Charlie used to lose his temper. That he was violent. That he hit you. He never did that, did he?’
Alex shook his head slightly. ‘I miss him,’ he sobbed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
‘He was a good man,’ said Libby.
‘He was leaving us, though,’ Alex cried.
‘He was leaving her, not you,’ said Libby. ‘He loved you.’
Alex moaned, rolled his head back against the wall, his mouth stretching with tears.
‘He’d agreed to stop seeing me,’ Libby went on, ‘until you’d done your exams. We didn’t want to make it hard for you. And after that we hoped that you’d stay with us some of the time. He really loved you. It was my fault he lied to your mum that day. I wanted to meet up, to tell him I was pregnant. I’m so sorry.’
Alex stared at her.
‘This is your sister,’ Libby said, ‘Rowena.’
Alex looked away, weeping now, his shoulders shuddering.
When he sounded a little calmer, I spoke. ‘You need to talk to the police, tell them everything. OK?’
He nodded numbly. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but Mum said we had no choice—’
‘She was your mother. People will understand. Just tell the truth.’
‘I don’t want to see her.’ He grabbed my wrist, shivering. ‘Don’t let her near me. Please.’
‘I promise.’
Alex’s face glazed over, an expression of blank defeat, of desolation on it. He continued to rock, making a little moaning sound in the back of his throat. Whimpering. The sound of someone broken.
I hung on the phone until someone agreed to interrupt Dave Pirelli in one of his meetings. Then I gave him the option: did he want to come and arrest Alex Carter or should I call 999? I also warned him the boy was traumatized and would need medical attention and that on no account should his mother have any access to him.
They came with lights and sirens on. Some of the neighbours braved the rain to gawp and whisper as Alex was taken from the house and put into the patrol car. Dave Pirelli had the gist of the story from me and another car had been despatched to arrest Heather. I would be contacted in due time to make a full statement, as would Libby.
When they had gone, I turned to Libby. I felt drained, hollowed out, my blood too thin, my bones weak. ‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I could do with a proper drink.’
She nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
Downstairs again with Libby and Rowena I poured two generous measures. The brandy scorched my throat and belly and I felt my neck loosen, a sensation of heat spread along my limbs.
‘Do you think it was an accident?’ Libby asked me.
‘No,’ I said quietly.
She tilted her head, inviting me to elaborate.
‘Heather would have tried to get help, dialled 999. You just would. She’s not stupid. If it had been an accident the evidence would have backed her up but she knew it wouldn’t. I don’t think she set off for the cottage intending to harm Charlie. If she’d planned his death she could have come up with something less messy. She went to challenge him and she lost her temper, a moment’s madness, a single blow.’
Libby drained her glass. ‘How did the pair of them cope with it? Murdering someone. Knowing that they’d done that day after day, week after week. It must have been hell.’
‘Yes. Well, you saw the state of Alex.’
Libby snorted, disgusted. ‘She’ll get life?’
‘God, I hope so.’
‘And Alex?’ She pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair.
‘Who knows? His age will work in his favour, and his cooperation now.’ I twisted my glass, watched the amber liquid spin and shimmer. ‘It’s too late for Damien, though.’
‘What a mess.’ She refastened her hair. ‘You’ll tell Chloe?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your report,’ Libby referred to the document I had promised her, ‘will you put in how it all happened, as far as you can tell, all the stuff that Damien told you, the times and everything?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
‘It’s like I need to go over it, get it all fixed in my mind. I did that before when they convict
ed Damien. Does that sound weird, creepy?’
‘No, I understand.’ I’d had the same reaction to traumas in my own life. Absorbing the facts, revisiting them again and again, was a way of coming to terms with the emotions.
Libby and Rowena had gone. I’d be expected home but I wasn’t fit company. The light was fading, the sky turning charcoal. A new moon, blurred by cloud, glowed above. The park was deserted. The football pitch was waterlogged already and some of the footpaths flooded. I walked at first, my legs stiff and aching from the bruises, then began to speed up until I was running at full pelt, fighting through the pain. The rain stung my face and hands, creeping down the back of my neck, soaking through my trousers. I increased my stride, felt the stretch in my calves and thighs, and the cold, damp air suck in and out of my lungs until my windpipe felt raw and my heart pounded in my skull. Running because I was sad and sickened and because I was alive with blood coursing through my veins and love and fear and hope in my heart.
Chloe’s house was busy again when I called round early the following day. The funeral was set for that Friday and half the neighbourhood seemed to be involved in planning the arrangements.
‘Can we talk in private?’ I asked her.
‘Upstairs.’
We went into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and pointed me to a wicker chair.
‘Have you heard from the police?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Why?’
‘They’ll be reopening the investigation.’
‘Honest? How come?’ Her brow creased.
I told her. As she listened, she played with a teddy bear, bending its limbs, positioning it; something to keep her hands busy, her face mobile with emotion.
When I was done, she shook her head and put the bear down on the bed beside her. ‘That bitch,’ she said, her eyes glittery with tears. ‘That bloody bitch.’
I couldn’t disagree.
I tried letting Geoff Sinclair know what I’d found out, maybe wanting a little recognition that I hadn’t been completely barking. But whenever I called, his answerphone was on. It’s not the sort of information you leave on voicemail. Later, I learnt he’d gone into a hospice and died very soon after. I don’t know if he ever heard that Heather Carter had been charged with murder or that her son Alex had been taken into psychiatric care, unfit to plead to charges of being an accessory.
Crying Out Loud Page 19