I hear footsteps outside. Slow and sloppy. The door opens. A man in his twenties steps in and gives me a weak smile.
‘Mrs Archer? I’m Detective Sergeant Earnshaw.’ He sits opposite me and puts his hands on the table. ‘I understand you want to report a murder.’ His voice is flat, bored, and his eyes are dull and sleepy.
He’s too young, too dozy to get me justice. Esme will run rings round him. But he’s all I’ve got for now.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say, pulling my chair closer to the table. ‘Murder. Incest. Child abuse. Fraud. Withholding evidence.’ I jab my finger at him on every word, just to make sure he doesn’t miss one.
His eyes widen. I take the USB stick from my pocket and slide it across the table.
‘It’s all here,’ I say.
He takes the stick and turns it in his palm.
‘Let me get this right.’ He coughs. ‘This is your confession? To murder?’
He’s closer to the truth than he knows.
‘Of course not!’ I cry. ‘Are you in charge here? I need a detective, not a clown.’
‘Mrs Archer, I—’
I slam my hand on the table.
‘Help me! Please. You’ve got to.’
‘I can’t help you until you tell me what this is all about.’
I sob through gritted teeth.
‘It’s about two ten-year-old girls being raped. Over and over again. It’s about the murder of my daughter, Amy. Remember her? Amy Archer? No. Because you’re too bloody young to know anything, let alone forget it. I want to speak to someone who knows what they’re doing. About Amy coming back from the dead. About the police letting murderers walk free.’ I stand up quickly. My chair falls and clatters noisily on the floor. ‘Do something!’
The door opens.
‘Everything all right in here?’
He’s older, grizzled, his eyes darkened by late shift rings. Earnshaw shrugs and stands up.
‘This is Mrs Archer, guv,’ he says. ‘As in Amy Archer. You know, the little girl who—’
‘You don’t need to tell me who she is, Earnshaw.’
I’m reassured by the burly authority in the older man’s voice. He steps into the room and closes the door. When he walks behind me to pick up my chair, I smell cigarettes and chip fat. He gestures towards the chair, then sits down next to Earnshaw.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Harding, Mrs Archer. How can I help?’
I sit down again, take a deep breath.
I’m encouraged by his familiarity with Amy’s case, the jolt of surprise when I run through Libby’s ruse, Ian Poynton’s predictions and Esme’s performance.
‘A star-spangled Spice Girl, bounced backwards and forwards between heaven and earth?’ I say. ‘Who sees into the past through a series of seizures with the voice of my angel in her ears? She must think I’m fucking stupid. Or mad. Or hoping to drive me mad. Like she did Dana. I wasn’t born yesterday, detective. And I don’t believe you were either.’
‘It’s a new one on me, I admit,’ Harding says, puffing out his cheeks.
‘It’s a tricky one to pull off, too,’ says Earnshaw. ‘For anyone, let alone a ten-year-old girl.’
‘Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. Delivered her lines on cue and with feeling. And her fit was a work of art. She’s been paying attention at her drama class all right. Like a born-to-it pro. With a pushy stage mum behind her, feeding her lines.’
‘Maybe Dana put them up to it?’ Earnshaw says.
I remember how Dana’s clumsy hands sent the marbles tumbling in Kerplunk!, kicked off the spring in Buckaroo. She was too slow for snap, hadn’t the logic for Cluedo, couldn’t plan a move ahead in draughts.
‘No.’
‘You can’t be sure,’ Earnshaw says. ‘Clearly it’s too complicated a plan for a child to dream up.’
‘Once you’ve listened to Dana’s story yourself, you’ll realise she wasn’t involved in any scam. Besides, you didn’t know Dana. This is too complex for her. Way beyond the likes of Dana Bishop.’
‘Then Libby would need a good reason to go to all this trouble,’ Harding says.
‘She’s got a hundred thousand of them.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The reward,’ I say emphatically. ‘Not much for my daughter’s life, but more than we could afford. Enough for Libby to live it up a bit and keep Esme in private school, that’s for sure. Then there’s the matter of my will. She would have looked at me and seen a relatively wealthy woman with no husband and no kids – not even a dog as a substitute. Rich pickings for a single mum getting by on part-time wages and handouts, wouldn’t you say?’
Harding nods his head and leans forward.
‘And if Dana believed that Esme was Amy,’ he says, ‘there was a good chance you’d believe it too.’
‘Exactly. Let’s face it, I was easy prey. Old before my time, mad with grief, crawling to psychics for any crumb of comfort. I was soft. Suggestible. I thought for a while Ian Poynton might have been genuine, and maybe he is, but . . . if he’s not, he wouldn’t need second sight to know I’d be easy to break. The only voice he heard was Dana’s – not from the other side, but from inside Esme’s computer.’
I point at the USB stick.
‘Dana’s A to Z just became an instruction manual to work me,’ I say. ‘Instead of bringing it to you, they all kept quiet and hatched a plan. Kept a murderer and a paedophile gang from justice.’
Harding picks up the stick.
‘We need to listen to this,’ he says. ‘Get a transcript done.’
‘I’ll wait.’
He nods and stands up. Earnshaw follows him to the door.
‘I’ll have some tea brought in for you,’ Earnshaw says.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
The door closes and their footsteps retreat. I can’t make out their words in the low murmurs from the corridor, but I don’t think they’re laughing at me or my story. I’m satisfied I made my case as well as I could, but as I run through all that I’ve told them, I realise there is one charge I didn’t make against Libby and Esme.
There is no specific law against it, but breaking my heart is their biggest crime of all. It’s an invisible crime, like embezzlement, robbing my soul blind. I have been plundered, assaulted and mugged of my memories. It’s a sentence without reprieve or release. I’m a lifer. Condemned till the day I die.
Harding and Earnshaw can do nothing about that, but they can set the wheels of justice moving. It’s their chance to be stars. To grab the glory. Shine as Amy’s redeemer. Their chance to be my heroes.
For although Dana has told me what the Grey Wolf did to Amy, I still don’t know what he did with her body. My heart has been her grave for the last ten years. She deserves to be somewhere better.
Somewhere less remote and forbidding.
They have to find her. They have to let me lay my girl to rest and put the past to sleep.
They have to.
Harding’s expression is inscrutable when he comes back into the room. Earnshaw looks puzzled.
‘Well?’ I say.
They sit down and put the USB stick and a folder on the desk.
‘It’s very credible evidence,’ Harding says, ‘as long as it is genuine. We’ve passed a copy of the transcript on to the Met to see what they make of it.’
‘But you’ve got enough to get Bishop, surely?’ I say, impatiently.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Earnshaw says. ‘We have a suspect, that’s all.’
‘That’s more than you’ve had in the last ten years! And you’ve got it there,’ I say, pointing to the folder, ‘in black and white.’
‘We need to verify things before we can go accusing people, Mrs Archer.’ Earnshaw opens the folder. ‘We had to check you are who you say you are too.’
He holds up a picture taken at one of the press conferences. I am pale and pinched, weepy-eyed. Like I am now.
‘What are you investigating me for? I’ve not don
e anything wrong.’
‘No, but we have to check details,’ Harding says. ‘Like making sure everybody’s who they claim to be. You’d understand that better than most, given the circumstances, surely?’
I drop my chin and concede his point.
‘So have you found anything else?’
‘Not much. Yet,’ Earnshaw says. ‘We’re waiting to see if the sex offenders register comes up with anything. There can’t be too many people on there with half a finger missing.’
The quick look between Earnshaw and Harding unnerves me. Like there’s a joke I can’t see, let alone laugh along with.
‘There is one thing that’s come up, though,’ Harding says, turning a page in his folder. ‘About the reward.’
‘What about it?’
‘One hundred thousand pounds, you said.’
‘That’s right. My ex-husband sold some of his shares in his business to raise it.’
‘Ah,’ Harding says, quietly. ‘That might explain it.’
‘Explain what?’
‘There isn’t a reward, Mrs Archer,’ Earnshaw says. ‘Not any more. I noticed it on the case details on the computer.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I was there when it was announced. Yet another bloody press conference.’ I wring my hands. ‘And the money’s certainly not been paid out.’
‘No, but it has been withdrawn,’ Earnshaw says with a little shrug.
‘Withdrawn?’
‘That’s right,’ Earnshaw says. ‘About five years ago.’
‘On whose say-so?’
‘It could only have been your husband, Mrs Archer.’ Harding coughs. ‘Your ex-husband.’
I can’t believe Brian could do that without telling me. That he could do it at all. He wanted Amy found as much as I did, and got rid of the shares for less than they were worth just for a quick sale. It doesn’t make sense.
Unless he knew something I didn’t. Something he wanted to hide. That disgusting picture of Jesus flashes into my mind.
HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER.
Our Father, who art in Heaven. Her father, in her bed.
An awful dread creeps through me, sucking out what’s left of my soul and snapping every sinew of trust and hope, of my faith in anything good. I can scarcely believe I’m even thinking that Brian was one of the pack. It’s revolting. Horrific. Ridiculous. The man I loved, capable of that?
Instinct flutters, tells me it’s not true – but I’m no longer sure my instincts can be trusted, not now. They have proved so faulty, so unreliable and misguided. Now that the idea of Brian being involved has taken hold, it’s shaking me and won’t let go.
Dana didn’t mention him in her A to Z, but then she didn’t name any of the pack, other than her grandfather. And Brian certainly had the opportunity, given that he spent more time with Amy and Dana than I did.
Trips to Dulwich Park on Sunday mornings while I lay in bed with the papers. Matinees at the Brixton Ritzy followed by a Pizza Hut tea. He even bought Dana’s roller blades. And he suggested getting her a guinea pig that she could keep alongside Amy’s, ensuring that Dana was often in our garden. He was always quick to defend her too.
I tell Harding I need some air. He says to take as long as I like.
‘There’s not much more you can help us with just yet. Best if you take it easy, although it’s probably better that you don’t go back to the flat.’
‘Are Libby and Esme still there?’
‘We’re going to get them in a while,’ Earnshaw says.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, standing up.
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘I just want to get my things,’ I say. ‘That’s all. I’ll stay out of the way.’
Harding looks doubtful.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘there’s nothing I’d like more than to rip them to bits. But I don’t want to give them any way to wriggle out of this. Like me assaulting them and gifting them a sob story to run out for the judge. Trust me. I don’t even want to see them.’
We go in separate cars, the sirens silent. The woman driving me is under instructions to wait around the corner until Earnshaw and Harding have picked up Esme and Libby. I’m under instructions only to take the stuff I brought along for my trip – and nothing else.
I’m not after souvenirs. I could have left everything there really. It was only clothes, toiletries and make-up. Nothing I wouldn’t miss or couldn’t replace – other than my talismanic stone that led me to the truth.
I ask the driver to stop at a parade of shops.
‘There’s something I have to do.’
‘No problem,’ she says. ‘It’s not a bad idea to be a few minutes behind the others. It’ll make sure your paths don’t cross.’
I walk to a mini-market and take the last bunch of daffodils from a bucket outside. They are merely green stalks, slightly thicker at one end, shot through with a bolt of yellow. Like pencils in need of sharpening.
They aren’t my favourite flowers and wouldn’t have been my first choice. But as I place them at the foot of Libby’s block, they seem exactly right. They are the first burst of spring after a long, colourless winter. And on one occasion when Jill used them in an arrangement in the church, she told me that daffodils are the symbol of friendship.
Friends. Solid and true. Like Amy and Dana. Unlike Dana and me. I lay the flowers on the ground and bow my head to Dana’s memory.
The flat smells of toast and toothpaste. Libby’s mug is on the table, half full with still steaming tea. A spoon is marooned in Esme’s bowl of soggy Coco Pops. I get a whiff of Libby’s deodorant as I grab my make-up from the bathroom window.
The policewoman follows me around the flat as I collect my belongings. Esme’s laptop, I notice, isn’t in the front room where I left it. The stone is still in my suitcase. The rattle it gives as I open the case is an echo of the thrill inside me – the clatter of hope, of a rolling stone with an unstoppable, vengeful momentum.
I slip the stone into my coat pocket. As we drive away, my fingers flex and curl around it, like petals opening around a bud.
13
I bend my head beneath hot, hard jets of water and reach for the tap to turn the heat up even further. Steam smothers me. Citrus-scented suds froth around my feet.
None of it makes me feel any cleaner. Just raw. I wrap a fluffy white towelling gown around me and slump on to the bed. My skin feels so thin my pulse could puncture it.
The hotel is a good one, Harding told me. The choice of delegates and pop stars at the conferences and concerts in the nearby G-Mex Centre, and divas and conductors from the Bridgewater Hall. More importantly, it’s only a short tram ride from the police station.
The clock on the DVD player says half past twelve. Libby’s been in custody now for over four hours. Time enough for her to come clean and for the Met to bring in the Grey Wolf. The noose is tightening; Amy’s body will soon be found. It has to be.
I pick up my phone from the bedside table. Brian’s number isn’t in my contacts, of course, so I take it from the ad agency’s website. The digits themselves are unfamiliar but the tune they make as I dial is etched into my mind.
The rhythm is the tempo of dependence, the sequence of notes the order of need. A code from the past I’ve tried so hard to forget. Now it’s a clarion for truth.
The phone is answered after three rings by his PA, her voice briskly cheerful. Brian’s out, she tells me, in meetings all day, could she take a message.
‘No, you can’t,’ I say. ‘Just get him out of his bloody meeting and on to the phone.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘Yes you can. Tell him it’s about his daughter.’
‘Oh God, no. Is she okay?’
‘Dead.’
Her gasp rasps down the line.
‘I’ll get him to call you back right away.’
‘No. Just get him. I’ll hold.’
My mouth is sour and dry, my lips tacky. Moments later I hear
hurried footsteps on the other end of the line.
‘Hello! Who is this? What’s happened?’ His voice is choked with fear. ‘Tell me my girls are okay.’
‘They’re not your girls. Not really. Amy was, though. You didn’t even think it might be about her, did you?’
‘What? Beth? Is that you?’ His voice becomes a growl. ‘What the fuck are you playing at? Have you any idea what you just put me through?’
‘I’ve an inkling, yes. I lost a daughter too, remember.’
‘Oh shit, Beth, give it up, will you! You’re sick. You need help.’
‘The police don’t think so,’ I say, tossing my head triumphantly.
‘What?’
‘The police. They believe me. You’re going to have to as well.’
I tell him about Ian’s prediction, Libby and Esme turning up, the claims they made.
‘But it’s ridiculous, Beth,’ he says. ‘Why on earth would they make up a . . . daft, vicious story like that?’
‘Money, maybe?’ My tone is solicitous. Perhaps now he’ll tell me the truth about the reward.
‘Money?’
‘Yes, you know. The reward?’
Brian catches his breath.
‘You’re a spineless little shit, Brian!’ I yell. ‘Even now you haven’t got the guts to tell me about withdrawing it.’
He goes to say something but stops. The aborted words come out in a rush of empty air. I wait.
‘Look, Beth, no one had come forward after five years. No one was likely to. It was time to let go . . . for both of us. So I did – quietly.’
‘You should have told me!’ I scream. ‘No, fuck that. You should have asked me!’
‘You’d never have agreed to it.’
‘Too right,’ I say, nodding vigorously. ‘You gave up too soon. You always did.’
I can’t hold back the gloat in my voice.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Beth,’ he says. ‘I thought it was for the best.’
‘You thought wrong.’
‘And the police think you’re right, do they?’ His voice rises with indignation. ‘What the hell are they doing taking this reincarnation lark seriously anyway? It’s beyond farcical.’
‘Esme knew things, Brian. Little things. Important things. Things she just couldn’t have known.’
The Second Life of Amy Archer Page 24