‘Yes, I’m afraid we did, Kelly-Anne. This morning we found Connor in a flat.’
Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘How did he die?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know that yet.’
‘But …’
Nell knew what she was asking. ‘We’re treating his death as murder.’
Kelly-Anne froze. ‘Why murder? Why do you think that?’
Nell pictured Connor’s head smashed in, the letters ‘A W’ carved into his chest. She chose her words carefully.
‘We believe Connor was struck on the back of the head with an object, which caused massive bleeding. It is probable the strike caused his death.’
Kelly-Anne watched Nell speak. Her eyes – free now from all make-up – looked painfully young and shone with an intensity that made Nell want to look away. Either Kelly-Anne was a great actor or there was no way this woman killed Connor. Hard to fake pain like that.
‘Do you know who did it?’ Kelly-Anne asked.
When Nell didn’t reply immediately, Kelly-Anne put her hand to her mouth. ‘My God, you think it’s me, don’t you? But I didn’t – I couldn’t. I love him, so why would I?’ Before Nell could speak, Kelly-Anne continued, words forming before thoughts.
‘Because you think he killed the baby and I wanted revenge? But he didn’t, he didn’t kill my baby.’
Nell took a breath. ‘But someone killed your baby, Kelly-Anne. So if it wasn’t Connor …’ She let the words settle, watched realisation dawn.
‘I didn’t kill Georgie.’ She said it with such certainty Nell was in no doubt she meant it. And in truth, Nell had never believed she had, regardless of Eve’s conclusion. That thought unsettled her for a second.
‘Kelly-Anne, do you know why Connor was at flat 2, 34 Rose Way?’ She watched the woman’s jaw clench, her shoulders rise.
‘It would be really helpful if you could have a think, let us know if Connor went there regularly.’ Paul’s voice was silky smooth and Kelly-Anne immediately relaxed at the sound of it.
‘I never saw him go there. But people told me he did.’ She looked ashamed. ‘But I sort of just ignored it, you know?’
Paul nodded. ‘Yeah, I get it.’
She gave a small smile. ‘Like, if I said I knew, it would make it real and I didn’t want it to be.’
Paul nodded. ‘I get that too. Been there, done that.’ He rolled his eyes, only slightly, just enough to let her know he was on her side. Man, he was good.
‘So, what had people told you?’
‘That he was seen going to the betting shop and then going up to the flat after.’ She paused. ‘They said it was his ex-girlfriend’s flat.’ She looked Paul in the eye. ‘They said she was a prostitute.’
Paul took his time to reply. ‘How did you feel about that?’
Kelly-Anne thought. ‘Angry. Like, why go to a prostitute when you have me.’ It wasn’t said with arrogance, nor was it posed as a question, because she obviously had no desire to hear the answer.
‘Have you ever met Gloria?’
Kelly-Anne tensed. ‘Once. She came to our flat screaming about money he owed her. But I didn’t speak to her. I just watched from the balcony while Connor talked to her.’
‘And how did that end?’
‘She went away. And that was that.’
‘You didn’t think of confronting her when you heard Connor had been visiting her flat?’
Kelly-Anne wrapped her arms around herself again. ‘What would be the point?’
‘Well,’ Paul’s tone was reasonable, ‘to ask her to back off from your boyfriend?’
‘No. I never talked to her. Connor said not to, so I wouldn’t have.’
Nell thought that was probably right. Kelly-Anne seemed the type to do whatever Connor told her.
‘Do the initials “A W” mean anything to you?’ Nell asked.
‘No, why?’
‘It’s just something we found at the flat where Connor died. We think it might be important. So, can you have another think?’
‘I don’t need to. I don’t know anyone with those initials.’
‘Not even from the pub?’ Paul pressed. ‘Not someone who told you about Connor going to the flat?’
Kelly-Anne shook her head, hugging herself more tightly. ‘No.’
They were losing her, Nell could tell. She gave it one last shot.
‘Do you know anyone called Mary?’
Kelly-Anne eyed her carefully. ‘No. Why?’
Nell felt a spark of adrenalin at her wariness. ‘We think a woman called Mary may be linked to Connor’s death.’
‘How?’
‘We don’t know. That’s why we’d like to find her.’
Kelly-Anne paled.
‘Do you know someone called Mary?’ Nell repeated.
‘No. I don’t know anyone called Mary.’
But the way she stressed the ‘know’ made Nell want to keep pushing.
‘Have you heard of anyone called Mary? Anyone spoken about her in your group of friends?’
‘No.’ She was staring at the table now, her tone almost sullen. Like a teenager, which, of course, she was.
‘Kelly-Anne.’ Nell waited until she looked up before continuing. ‘If you know something and aren’t telling us, that’s perverting the course of justice. If we find out, and we will, that charge carries almost as high a sentence as murder.’ She let the words sink in, watched Kelly-Anne struggle to decide – tell the cop what you know and potentially land someone else in it, or keep quiet and throw herself head first into a pile of shit. Nell knew which she’d choose – shit over a murderer any day – but then the workings of the criminal mind still managed to surprise her.
‘I got a note.’ Kelly-Anne looked at the floor and spoke so quietly Nell wasn’t sure she’d heard right.
‘A note?’
Kelly-Anne nodded.
‘Who from?’
‘I don’t know her,’ she started to say animatedly, ‘it was just a note put through the door after Georgie died. I didn’t see who posted it and you can’t say I did, because I don’t know her.’ She looked at Nell almost triumphantly.
‘Who was it from?’ Nell repeated.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then why did you mention it when I asked about a woman called Mary?’
Kelly-Anne blinked, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.
‘Well?’
Kelly-Anne sighed. ‘It was signed with an “M”. I don’t know if that means Mary, but it made me think of the note when you said the name.’
Nell sat back in her chair. Well, that wasn’t going to be a coincidence, was it? So it was probably safe to conclude that a woman called Mary had written to Eve and Kelly-Anne. That linked Connor’s case to the letter writer, which she supposed was something, but Mary had been writing to Eve long before his case came along, so even though there was a link, what did it mean?
Frustrated, she listened as Paul took over.
‘What did the note say?’ he asked.
‘She said that the woman with the white hair in our flat wasn’t to be trusted and she’d say I killed Georgie when I didn’t.’
Nell was starting to worry that was a pretty accurate statement of the facts.
‘Anything else?’
Kelly-Anne frowned. ‘I can’t remember. I was dead upset when I got it.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘I was thinking about Georgie and all, and I didn’t understand why someone would send it, so I just put it in a drawer.’
‘So you kept it?’
‘Yeah, it’s in the flat,’
Nell leaned forward. ‘We’ll need to get that.’
Kelly-Anne nodded. ‘But it’s proof, yeah, that I didn’t kill Georgie?’
Nell didn’t think she’d ever heard less proof in her life, but she let it go. ‘Thank you, Kelly-Anne, you’ve been really helpful.’ She pushed her chair back.
‘So I can go home now?’
The hope in Kelly-Anne’s eyes almost made Nell wince. She never cou
ld decide which was worse – dealing with people so clever they ran rings round you, or with people so stupid they ran rings round themselves.
‘Not yet.’ She tried to sound gentle. ‘We’ll need to ask you a few more questions when we’ve seen the note.’ And ignoring Kelly-Anne’s disappointment, she nodded to Paul it was time to leave.
‘Poor kid,’ Paul muttered as they walked back to the office.
‘That “kid” watched as her boyfriend killed their baby.’
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘No, we know it, we just haven’t got proof. Yet.’
‘Still got to feel a bit sorry for her.’
‘No, I really don’t have to at all.’
Back in the office, Nell went over to the wipe board. ‘Right,’ she said, then wrote Mary, Eve and Joanne on the board under the names of Kelly-Anne and O’Brian.
‘We’ve got Joanne accused of writing letters to Eve.’ She drew a line between their names. ‘And Mary has written to Eve.’ She drew another line. ‘Are two people writing to Eve, and if so, what links them?’ She stood back to look at the board. ‘Is the answer on here or haven’t we found it yet?’
‘You haven’t put Gloria on there.’
Nell unclicked the pen lid. ‘OK, but even so …’ she wrote the name next to Joanne’s, ‘… Gloria is only linked to Connor, not Eve, as far as we know,’ she added over her shoulder.
Paul was staring at the board, looking as frustrated as she felt.
‘Ever get the feeling this case is becoming less about Connor and more about Eve?’ he asked.
She did. Turning back to the board, she searched it for answers. Maybe Carla and Bremer would come back with something from Gloria, but something told her they wouldn’t. No, it was here, she just had to see it.
‘What about Joanne?’
She turned to Paul. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if she’s writing to Eve – she could have written to Kelly-Anne. The case is similar to the one that saw her chucked in prison.’ Clocking her doubt he held up his hands. ‘I know, it doesn’t help us find out how this M fits in, but one tenuous link, is still a link.’
He had a point. It did link Joanne to both Kelly-Anne and Eve. Wouldn’t stand up in court, mind, but they’d only just started and as it looked like it was the only lead they had, it must be worth a go.
‘OK. We’ll wait for Bremer to get back, see what they’ve got, then tell them our theory.’
‘Our theory?’ Paul looked amused.
‘OK, your theory. I’m fine with that. If you’re right I’ll still get the glory, but if you’re wrong I’ll just sit and shake my head knowingly from the sidelines.’
‘Such a supportive sergeant.’
‘Always, Paul, always.’
Twenty-two
Then
‘MARY!’
I am late to the café so Aoife greets me with a massive hug when I walk through the door. I smell wine on her breath and look over at Alf, who is smiling at us. A bottle sits on the table, between two glasses.
I’m unsure what to do, knowing I don’t want to be here but unable to think of a way to leave. He’s looking at Aoife like he wants to strip her of her red dress, and the look he gives me is more of the same.
‘Come and join us,’ he says, his arm over the back of Aoife’s chair. She smiles at me, her eyes glassy, and I wonder how much she’s had.
I hesitate. He frowns.
‘What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?’
I move to the table, programmed to please. He pats a chair next to him and pours me a glass of wine before lighting a cigarette and leaning back, watching me drink. It tastes sour – dry – coating my tongue, stinging my throat.
I try to catch Aoife’s eyes, to let her know we need to get out of here, but her head is leaning to one side, lids half closed. I start to panic. How will I get her home if she can’t stand? We’re on our last warning at the care home as it is.
Alf taps my glass. ‘Drink up.’
I swallow one mouthful, then another and another until the room begins to sway away from me, or I from it. Alf is speaking to Aoife, but all I can think about is his hand on my bare leg, slowly moving upwards, the roughness of his hands grating my skin.
That night smells of onions and cigarettes, blood and semen, warm rubber discarded on a café floor. I don’t say no. I lie there and hope the pain will pass, curled in on myself and waiting for it to end, knowing any move I make will only make it worse.
It doesn’t take long to get used to the way things are. That’s not to say we like it. We accept that our role in life amounts to this, having never been gifted the aspiration to make it otherwise. Besides, the treats improve – cake becomes drugs; hot chocolate, whisky – and thanks to the clothes Alf buys us, neither of us has ever been better dressed.
And I think we’re grateful. We play the game to keep him happy, because what else is there? Back to a life of hand-me-downs and rumbling stomachs, of pitying glances from our fellow pupils at best, sneering looks at worst?
But tonight Aoife isn’t playing ball. She’s been odd all day, spending longer than normal in the bathroom and baulking at food she’d normally devour.
I’m on the sofa. We’ve long since moved on from the café to his flat, and the room is the usual blur of cigarette smoke and alcohol. My head is spinning and I grab at the frayed brown corduroy with the hope of steadying myself. Aoife is alone in the corner of the room. Even through the blur I can see her willing Alf to give her a break; her sudden realisation that all the new clothes in the world can’t make up for how she’s feeling right now.
‘I said, come here, Aoife.’ Alf is angry and it’s the third time he’s demanded it. I worry for a moment I’ll have to do the work for both of us, but I can tell he’s bored of me by now; he’s turned his attention back to her. Through the smoke I can see she’s frightened, and I know why: the red dress pulls around her middle, the tiniest bulge protruding over the edge of a black lace belt, threatening to reveal her secret.
I try to pull at Alf, to stop him moving towards her, but miss and fall in a heap on the floor. The threadbare carpet scratches at my skin and I shiver, suddenly aware of my nakedness. I curl up into myself as Alf reaches Aoife and shut my eyes, refusing to acknowledge her begging words.
Play the game, Aoife, I want to say, just play the goddamn game.
But it doesn’t work, playing the game, does it? How stupid we both are: so convinced we’re the captains of our own ship, we haven’t seen the rocks in the dark. We haven’t even bothered to look for them.
A week later Aoife joins me in bed. She pulls the covers up to her chin, her big eyes and red hair the only thing I can see.
‘I haven’t had my period.’
I have a vague understanding this isn’t good.
‘So I need to do a test.’
I nod. ‘OK. That’s what we’ll do,’ though I’m not sure of where to get one or how to get the money. ‘Then—’ I stop. Then what?
Aoife stares at me. The bedroom floor is surrounded by discarded clothes and cassettes, their boxes long since lost, but all I notice is that her eyes are desperate pools of hope.
‘And what then?’ she prompts.
I don’t know, but I sense it’s up to me to find out. Our relationship seems to have shifted and now I’m the one with the power. A guilty little bit of me likes it.
‘We could tell the home staff?’ I quickly take it back when Aoife looks ready to cry.
‘Or a social worker.’ I let that sit in the air before we laugh. Telling a social worker would be as bad as confiding in Alf; both options would see us kicked onto the street the second we turned sixteen, without a penny to our names and a baby in tow.
‘We’ll do a test and see after that.’ My tone far exceeds the confidence I feel.
‘How will we get the money?’
I look around the room, deciding what’s best to sell, before realising there is a far better option.
Aoife looks scared, but nods anyway, because what other option do we have? That thing’s going to grow in her whatever we do, so better to run the risk of Alf’s anger now instead of when it comes kicking and screaming into the world.
That night we fall asleep together, just as we did the night Aoife arrived. While she sleeps I lay my hand on her stomach and think of what our lives might become. We could run away together, I think. I’d get a job while Aoife stayed with the baby and we’d have a tiny flat far away from any sea: I picture faded pink wallpaper, against which sits a cot, a white mobile swaying gently above it. Yet when I look, the baby isn’t soft and pink but red and cross, bringing with her the wrath of Alf, and as she screams I know we won’t ever be free of him, however far we go.
I remove my hand and slide it under my neck. She stirs, eyes flickering, confused.
‘Hold me, please?’ She turns and I wrap my arm across her stomach, imagining a baby curled up inside her.
I realise I’m jealous. That baby is guaranteed Aoife’s forever love, regardless of what it does or how it behaves. I’ve always assumed that was my role, that Aoife came to fill the gap left by my mum, but now she is going to love something more than she loves me. And in that instant, a crack appears in our bond, a tiny fissure that worms its way through my chest and into my heart, where it settles to grow in time with Aoife’s baby.
Twenty-three
Opening the door, Gloria welcomed Carla and Bremer with a look of doubt. The years hadn’t been kind to her. Thick foundation exaggerated the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and her skin, once young and plump, was now dry and blotchy.
‘Come through.’ Gloria gestured towards the room at the end of the narrow hallway. As Bremer walked on in front, she glanced at Carla, who gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
As they sat in the cramped front room – filled with toys, and knick-knacks that Carla assumed belonged to Gloria’s mum – Gloria asked her, ‘Do I know you?’
Carla froze. Could she mention the previous court case? Was that allowed or would she be breaking some law she didn’t know existed?
When I Lost You Page 11