They sat in silence for a few more minutes until Carla stood. ‘I have to go now.’
‘I know.’
‘I lied to my team for you, Gerry. I put myself between you and them because you mattered so much to me and I refused to believe you could be anything other than a good man. And then you lied to me and manipulated me.’ Her heart pounded with each word. ‘That’s the worst bit. You used me to protect yourself.’
Gerry tried to reach out for her hand. She pulled it back and shook her head, emotion getting in the way of words she wanted to say.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
They sat for a few seconds, listening to the beeping of machines and the chatter of the nurses. She took his hand.
‘I know you are.’
He pulled her hand to his face and held it to his cheek. ‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself?’
‘I promise.’
He smiled, and she returned it.
‘I have to go.’
Gerry let go of her hand and nodded. She tried to ignore the tears in the corners of his eyes.
‘Bye, Gerry.’
‘Bye, Carla.’
She gave him the biggest smile she could manage and then, desperately fighting the urge to cry, turned and left.
Sixty-seven
Nell woke to find Paul asleep in the chair by her bed. She couldn’t decide if that was a welcome sight or not. Her shoulder ached but the pain was bearable, thanks, she assumed, to the morphine drip in her arm. She lay still, listening to the regular beep of the machine next to her, and tried not to picture Joanne’s eyes as she died.
Nell put her hand to the bandages wrapped across one shoulder and thought instead of the flashing images: the ambulance siren as the medic worked on her, the fluorescence of the hospital lights as they rushed her to theatre, the urgency of the doctors’ voices.
The heart monitor beside her quickened its beat. She remembered the hand of the anaesthetist pressing down on her throat so she wouldn’t vomit and then choke on it. The look on their face as they pushed the anaesthetic into her veins until they faded out of view.
She couldn’t breathe. She grabbed at the bedcovers, desperate for air, but the panic was crushing it out of her. Shit. Breathe. She tried to sit and reach the phone on the table by the foot of her bed, but the heaviness of her shoulder pulled her back. She still couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to die. She’d survived. Don’t let me die.
‘Shit, Nell.’ Paul was by the side of her bed, his face close to hers, before he was swallowed up by darkness.
Bremer was staring at her when she next came round. He smiled. ‘You scared us there for a minute.’
‘What happened?’
‘Panic attack.’
Jesus, was that all? ‘I thought I was dying.’
‘Serious things, panic attacks,’ he said, studying her. ‘But we can help. I’ll call the force counsellor as a starting point and—’
‘I’m not going,’ she interrupted.
Bremer put his arm on her hand. ‘Yes, you are, Nell. You’re a good cop and I want you back on the team as soon as possible. And if that means you’re going to have to suffer a few sessions with a shrink, so be it.’ He pulled back and glanced at the door. ‘Carla’s almost here with grapes. Be nice to her. She’s just seen Gerry and is a bit tearful.’
‘I’m always nice and why the hell did she bother doing that?’
‘Closure, Nell. It’s what emotionally intelligent people do.’
Nell rolled her eyes. At least that didn’t hurt. She clicked for a hit of morphine, then looked at her bandages. ‘Will it get better? I mean, will I be able to work again?’ It suddenly occurred to her she didn’t know the extent of the damage. What if she was retired on health reasons – what the hell would she do?
‘You’ll be fine. I’ve grilled the nurses within an inch of their lives and they have repeatedly confirmed you’ll be fine. You’ll just be a DS with a dodgy shoulder.’
She leaned back in relief as Carla appeared holding a bag of grapes, followed by Paul carrying a tray of three coffees.
‘None for me?’ Nell asked.
‘Caffeine and morphine will make you high as a kite.’
He wouldn’t catch her eye. She remembered pulling rank on him. Clearly he wasn’t going to let that one go anytime soon. Shit. She was going to have to apologise. Not her forte.
‘Sorry.’
Paul glanced at her. ‘Forgotten.’
Bremer looked between them. ‘Very touching,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s have a quick debrief before we let Nell rest?’
Carla sat on the end of Nell’s bed. Paul took a seat by the window.
‘The biggest thing we’re going to have to manage is the press. They will crucify us for this and we probably deserve it. So brace yourselves and don’t give any comments.’ He looked pointedly at Nell. ‘Don’t bite.’
‘I’d never bite a journalist, leaves a nasty taste.’
‘And then we’ll have the court case. Eve will obviously remain in prison until then.’
‘Will she and Gerry be tried together?’ Carla asked.
‘Doubt it. There’ll be multiple charges brought, so I imagine they’ll keep it simple to avoid overloading a jury.’
Nell watched Carla process this. Was she picturing Gerry alone in the box, worrying for him? Or hoping he got everything coming to him? She concluded it was probably a bit of both.
‘But with Eve,’ Paul said, ‘who exactly will be in the dock, if you know what I mean?’
‘Eve or Mary?’ Bremer asked.
‘Yeah. Are we charging her as Eve or as Mary?’
‘Mary. That’s who she is. Eve never existed.’
Nell pitied the jury having to untangle it all. She still didn’t get it and she’d met both Mary and Eve, but as the former had left Nell with a permanent reminder of herself, it suited Nell just fine that it would be Mary who got to spend her remaining years in jail.
Joanne’s face flashed up again. Nell felt the breath catch in her throat.
‘You OK?’ Bremer was looking at her, his face full of concern.
She nodded. Took a breath, grateful for the feeling of air down her throat.
‘Let’s leave the debrief.’ He picked up his coffee. ‘Rest. Don’t think too much. And if you start to panic, pull on the cord for a nurse.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t be belligerent, Nell.’
She laughed. ‘I called you sir.’
‘Exactly.’ He beckoned for Paul to follow. ‘See you shortly, Sergeant.’
Carla remained on the bed.
‘God, give us a sip.’ Nell pointed to the coffee cup.
‘No. You don’t need any more adrenalin in you.’
Carla looked pale. Tired. The red lipstick was on, but rather than hide her fatigue, it just served to highlight it.
‘You OK?’
‘Mostly, yeah.’
‘What’s happening with Baz?’ Nell asked.
Carla looked out of the window. ‘He left me a note.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t read it yet. What with everything that’s happened, I just haven’t wanted to.’
Nell pushed herself up in the bed. ‘You got it on you?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Hand it over.’
‘Nell, now really isn’t the time.’
Nell held out her hand. ‘Give it.’
Carla hesitated before reaching down and taking the letter from her bag. Passing it over, she then cradled her coffee in her hands, watching as Nell took the page from its envelope.
Nell looked at her. ‘Ready?’
Carla nodded, so Nell began to read.
Dear Carla,
I know I left abruptly and that must have upset you. I’m sorry for that. I haven’t gone for good, but I need time to get my head together and I felt if all my stuff was still in our flat I wouldn’t have space to do that.
I think, by now, you will know
if you want children and if you want them with me. We have been together for over ten years now: we left school together, went to university together, and now live together. I can’t understand a reason why you don’t know yet whether you want children. Is it because you want a career? If so, you can still have that. Is it because you feel you want to explore the world a bit? If so, we can do that too.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is, we can fit the baby around whatever you want to do, but I don’t think I can compromise about having one.
Will you read this and think hard about what you want and then let me know? I don’t imagine it will take long to decide, so I would really appreciate hearing from you as soon as possible.
All my love to you, my lovely,
Baz
Nell put the letter down and rested her head on the pillow. ‘That’s good, yeah?’
Carla, staring out of the window, gave the smallest shrug.
‘Come on! Give the man a break. It was a sweet letter. Hell, it almost brought a tear to my eye.’
Carla smiled at her. That was better. God, Nell wanted a cigarette. Spotting a wheelchair in the corner of the ward, she nudged Carla’s arm.
‘Hey, Brown, fancy recreating The Great Escape?’
Carla followed her nod. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
Carla glanced at the corridor, then back at the chair. ‘OK, Jackson, you’re on.’
Outside, Carla rolled them each a cigarette, lighting Nell’s before handing it to her.
‘Do you think Bremer’s going to hang around?’ she asked.
Nell took a long drag, enjoying the sudden rush to her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, now he’s got a good result under his belt, do you think he’ll move on up?’
‘Maybe, but I think he’ll want one more case with us, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.’
‘Do you want him to go?’ Carla asked.
‘A week ago, I probably would have said yes, but now …’ Nell shrugged. ‘I don’t think I do.’
‘Me neither.’
She watched Carla look around at the other smokers, huddled in their groups. ‘What’s up?’
‘There was a journalist here when I arrived. Just didn’t fancy bumping into him again.’
‘What did he want?’
‘A quote.’
‘Well maybe it would be useful to have a pet journo. Save us getting a kicking in the press every day.’
‘Maybe we’ll become famous and they’ll make films about us – the next Cagney and Lacey!’
Nell’s laugh turned into a cough and when she’d finished, she found Carla’s face full of concern.
‘You had me worried back there for a minute, you know,’ she said.
‘For what, coughing?’ But Nell knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. ‘Look, if it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have even known there was a firearm. You had my back and I won’t forget it.’ Nell stubbed the cigarette out without finishing it. ‘You’re a good cop, Brown.’
‘I’m not a cop, Jackson.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do,’ Carla said, and Nell watched as she blew smoke up into the crisp night air.
Epilogue
The judge is summing up. I am sitting in the wooden box they have assigned me and I’m waiting for the jury to assign me another. My husband is in the gallery, leaning forward. He clutches his hands between his legs as his eyes flick between the jury and me. The bandage is still on his head and whilst he has explained to me why he has it – why he may not be able to visit me for a while – I still struggle to understand anything other than that Mary hurt him, but why she did I still don’t know.
‘Mary Balcombe has been accused of a crime of the worst sort, murder,’ the judge is saying, and it takes me a moment to remember they mean me. I have given up explaining their mistake and instead have resolved to suffer their foolishness until I am able to prove otherwise.
It takes four hours for the jury to decide my fate and the look on my barrister’s face tells me this is not a good thing. Hushed conversations follow, between my husband and her, before I am escorted back to the courtroom between two blank-faced prison officers, both of whom smell of sweat.
I am reminded to stand as I wait for the jury to inform me of their judgment on me. I think of Joanne. She was never as I imagined, far too delicate to have come from such hate, and as I picture her I feel a deep sense of pain; she had hardly begun her life – for what age is thirty-five? – and I was never able to love her like a child should be loved. If the jury want remorse, they’ve got it, because I could not regret more my inability to mother her. But how can a child who hasn’t been mothered learn to do so herself? It sounds like an excuse, I decide, but a fire rages in me to tell me I’m wrong – it’s not an excuse if it’s the truth.
The foreman of the jury stands. The judge asks him if I am guilty of killing Joanne Fowler.
Aoife’s child.
I hold my breath, begging them to understand it wasn’t me, that I would never kill the only child who lived to draw breath after so many others tried and failed.
‘Guilty, Your Honour.’
Someone shouts from the gallery, someone cheers, and the jury’s faces merge to become one giant blinking eye with a finger below that jabs at my chest, pushing all the air from my lungs. I grasp the sides of the box and bow my head, sucking in the lost air until I am fit to burst with it. Then I stand and let it back into the room.
‘I DID NOT KILL OUR BABY.’
Acknowledgments
As it’s taken eight years to get here, I have a lot of people to thank, so brace yourselves for a Gwyneth style Oscar acceptance speech.
Clare Mac. Can you believe it? Turns out all those years of ranting over email about ChipLitFest was worth it. Long may our rantings continue. Fanny Blake, I honestly don’t think I’d have made it here if it weren’t for you and Womentoring. I’m endlessly thankful for all you taught me. To the first crime writers I ever really met – Steve Mosby, Eva Dolan, Mark Edwards, Chris Ewan, Stav Sherez, Martyn Waites – thank you for your constant support, and to Mark Billingham for being the legendary quiz master. Thanks to Rosy, Emily, Jessica and Laura (don’t argue about the order) for always pushing me forward and believing in me. Thank you to my Wilkes family and the Gordon-Browns for being almost as excited about this as me. To the Hanborough Massive for your encouragement (and drinking abilities), and the women at Ox City Council, and Mike, for making the job so much fun. Thanks also to Dom for the last minute name steal (Roger this is my atonement for all the Ox Mail articles). I often write in pubs so I also need to thank The Yeoman in Freeland, The George and Dragon in Hanborough, The Chequers in Cassington and The Kings Arms in Woodstock, and thank you to The Three Horse Shoes in Hanborough for your late night whiskey when it all got a bit much. To the residents of Freeland and Hanborough, thank you for electing a crime writer to represent you; it’s an absolute privilege.
Almost finally (but not quite) thank you to Becky for taking me on and believing in me. You’ll never know how much the words ‘oh yes, the admin bit? I’ll send you over a contract,’ meant to me! To Emily and Sonny, editing with you has been the most exciting part of this whole journey. I’ve learnt so much and enjoyed it all – except the copy-edit bit (thanks for bearing with me over my ‘that’ breakdown) but I’m thankful for the copy-editor’s thoughtful comments, as well as to the designer of my cover, which is brilliant.
And my real final thanks go to Nell, Abe and Betty, for eating cereal when I was on a deadline and to Martin for clearing up the crumbs when they did. This book is as much all yours as it is mine.
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Copyright © Merilyn Davies 2019
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First published by Arrow Books in 2019
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ISBN 9781473562226
Dedication
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When I Lost You Page 26