Little Black Lies

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘Oh my God, poor kid,’ Skye mutters.

  Savidge dry-washes his face. His hands come away looking slightly oily. ‘OK, it’s plausible. But that’s all it is. A theory.’

  ‘And one we may never be able to prove.’ Skye, I can see, is still dwelling on the fear of a young boy, abandoned in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if she has too soft a heart to make a really good police officer.

  ‘Talk to George and Bob-Cat. Promise them discretion and I’m sure they’ll admit they were in the shed that afternoon, and that Bob-Cat was parked by Estancia earlier. It’s probably occurred to them already that she was the means of getting little Archie to that shed.’

  ‘They’d have said something, surely?’ Skye isn’t convinced.

  ‘Why would they risk the affair becoming public knowledge? Archie had been found, no harm done. I imagine they thought least said, soonest mended. Oh, and there is this—’ I reach into the pocket of my jeans, pull out the polythene bag. I put it on the table directly between Skye and me. She reaches out; Savidge puts a hand on hers.

  ‘We need an evidence bag for that,’ he says. ‘What is it, Mrs Grimwood?’

  ‘Sand. I scraped it from the back of Bob-Cat’s car on Thursday. I’ll bet it’s the exact sand that can only be found on Estancia beach. And I’ll bet it got into the car on the soles of Archie West’s shoes.’

  ‘Interview suspended at twenty fifteen hours.’ Savidge gets up, finds another clear plastic bag, and puts mine inside it. ‘I’ll send you in a cup of tea, Mrs Grimwood.’

  Skye follows him out, and I’m alone.

  It will take time, a couple of hours or more, to track down Bob-Cat and George. Even if they cooperate, nothing will happen in a hurry. They can look in Bob-Cat’s car, she won’t have cleaned it, but even supposing they find more sand, they can’t prove it came from Estancia without sending it away for analysis. It all depends on the two lovebirds coming clean. I can’t expect to see Catrin for some time.

  A flickering of blue light on the wall opposite the window tells me at least one police car has arrived. I hear it driving slowly around the building.

  My father will turn up soon, demanding to know what’s happening, why I’m being kept so long. He’ll probably be told that I’ve confessed. He’ll demand to see me. I presume I’ll be allowed to refuse, so of course that’s what I’ll do.

  Never having to look my father in the eyes again, never again see myself falling short of whatever standard he’s chosen to hold me up against this time, could be the silver lining I’m looking for.

  All is quiet outside. The police car is gone. So, presumably, is the unruly Catrin-hating crowd they were sent to quell. Soon that crowd will turn their bile from Catrin to me.

  Trying not to listen to the clock’s ticking, I sit and think about my sons, my darling boys, and what it will be like not to watch them growing up. To see them only across a desk, something like this one, a handful of times a year. To look into eyes that are different each visit, trying to find some remnant of love, and see only condemnation and shame.

  A wave of pain hits me so hard I have to stand up, to move around, to lean against cold hard walls. It is silent outside. And yet somehow, the lack of sound feels more ominous than the shouting and running we heard previously.

  The clock ticks out the remaining seconds of the life I’m still clinging to, and I think about Sander, who deserved so much better than me. He is a good man, my husband. Wise, hard-working, loyal. Fiercely protective of his family and so very, very fond of me. I wish I’d tried that bit harder. There is so much to love in that big, ugly Dutchman of mine, why didn’t I see it when I had the chance?

  The ticking of the clock gets louder. I walk laps of the room, stare up at the sky, at what could be the last firework display I ever see. And I think about prison. I will be a child-killer, something no one tolerates. I think about the beatings, the abuse that I’ll suffer, and think that perhaps, in some way, I’ll welcome it.

  I think about the people who were outside earlier, baying for Catrin’s blood. It will be mine they want soon. I have a sense of them coming back. I can’t hear them, but I feel some lurking presence very close.

  I cannot think about Catrin. Every time I try, it is as though there is a barrier keeping the thoughts out. Catrin and I will meet tonight but it’s not a meeting I can prepare for. When she and I do at last come together, I’m going to have to wing it.

  And so, finally, I think about my youngest son. He should have been the most precious of all, the beloved last child, the one I kept a baby long after the age I let his brothers gain their independence. He should have been my favourite, my pet. Instead he was the intruder, the changeling, a constant reminder of the most dreadful act I could possibly have committed. He was the living embodiment of my guilt.

  I think about his skin, turning the ivory colour of cheap wax. I think about him being so cold, so alone, out there in the dark. I see his body rotting and his soul crying out for me, for the love I denied him when he was alive.

  I can’t see the clock any more. I can’t see the walls of the room. I can see nothing but the shining drops of water falling from my eyes on to the table.

  * * *

  When the door opens again, I’m calmer. My head is resting on the tabletop, sore from where I think I might have been banging it, damp with tears or sweat. Not blood, I hope, that will just result in more delay. It’s the desk sergeant. He’s brought me tea.

  ‘Your husband’s here.’ As he puts the mug down, keeping his distance, I meet his eyes. He knows. His body doesn’t move but I can see his mind recoiling from the monstrosity in front of him.

  Get used to it. This is how the world will react from now on. He’s said something. Focus. Sander. He managed to get a flight.

  ‘He’s here? In the station?’

  A single, short nod of the head. Unnecessary words are not for the likes of me.

  ‘Is he asking to see me?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  He shrugs. Were it in his power, I think he would force me to come face to face with my husband. And be there to watch while I’m doing so. ‘Up to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him. Tell him the boys are at their grandparents.’

  ‘I’ll tell him two of your boys are.’

  The door closes and the lock is turned. I drink tea. I wait.

  * * *

  The next time I hear the door, I’m standing by the window, my hands clutching the bars. A breeze is making its way in through an ill-fitting pane of glass, bringing with it the smell of peat-smoke and burning salt that always fills the air on Bonfire Night. We have few trees here, and wood is always at a premium, so we burn driftwood, and keep the fire going with peat. I’ve been watching the fireworks fly towards the stars they aspire to be, and thinking that, in a parallel world, I could have been at home, huddled in a chair by the window, my youngest son on my lap. At a distance, the fireworks wouldn’t have frightened him. At a distance, in my arms, he’d have fallen in love with the strange, transient beauty of fire flying through the sky.

  The upper air burst into life!

  And a hundred fire-flags sheen

  ‘Your husband was here, Rachel.’ Skye’s voice.

  ‘I know.’ The firework display is building to a climax. The explosions have increased in intensity. The revelry will go on, of course, long into the night, but the celebrations will be private ones. On clear nights here, you can climb to high ground and watch firework parties taking place all over the Falklands.

  ‘And to and fro, and in and out,

  The wan stars danced between.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Samuel Coleridge.’ I’m still looking at the sky. ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The fireworks made me think of it. What were you saying about my husband?’

  ‘He’s gone to look for Christopher and Michael. He’ll take them home.’

  I send a silent message of thanks to my husband
for making it home tonight, for ensuring the boys aren’t alone.

  Skye and Savidge are standing either side of the door. A uniformed constable is in the doorway. The three of them look like an execution squad.

  ‘We’ve spoken to George Barrell and Roberta Catton.’ Savidge speaks first. ‘Both admit to the affair, to being at the food shed on the afternoon in question. They’re going to come in separately tomorrow to give official statements. Both deny any knowledge of the boy being with them, of course, although—’

  ‘You’ll never prove it, so don’t try,’ I interrupt.

  Savidge looks as though he wants to slap me and I make a note not to provoke him any more. We need to get on with it.

  ‘Come on.’ He gestures to the door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I don’t move. ‘I want to see Catrin.’

  ‘And much to my amazement, she’s agreed. We’re all in the boardroom. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.’

  I couldn’t agree more. So I follow as quickly as I can. We turn at the bottom of the corridor and another constable is holding open the door of the boardroom. Catrin will be waiting inside. I picture her looking out of the window, her long hair streaming down her back, turning to face me at the last moment.

  She isn’t, of course, Catrin never does anything for effect and wouldn’t dream of playing to the gallery. She is still the most unassuming person I’ve ever met. She is sitting quietly at the table and doesn’t look up as I come in.

  I’m steered into the seat directly opposite hers. She’s wearing clothes that are far too big. Cotton trousers pulled tight at the waist. A shirt that drowns her slim form. Her hair has been tied back with an elastic band. Her arms are folded on the table in front of her and she’s looking down at them. She is the picture of stillness, except that the fingers of her right hand are shaking. Her face looks thin, drawn. The lines I remember are more pronounced than they were three years ago. They are lines of grief, now, not merely creases caused by wind and sun.

  Around the room people are taking their seats. Skye on my right, Savidge to my left. The other two flank Catrin. We are two opposing armies, except there is only one enemy here and that is me. The recording equipment is switched on and we all give our names for the record. When it is Catrin’s turn her voice breaks, as though she hasn’t used it in a while. She coughs and tries again.

  ‘Right.’ Savidge tries to take control. ‘Mrs Grimwood, you asked to speak to Mrs Quinn and she’s agreed. Mrs Quinn, I have to inform you that if, at any time, you wish this interview to end, you only have to say. You are under no obligation to speak to Mrs Grimwood. Can I remind you both that you are still under caution?’

  There is scuffling outside and what sounds like a football being kicked against the wall. One of the uniformed constables stands up and speaks softly into a wall phone. I can’t take my eyes off Catrin’s face. She can’t take hers off the sleeve of her shirt.

  ‘OK, Mrs Grimwood, you’ve got what you asked for. Now, please can you tell us what you did with Peter’s body?’

  She looks up then. Calm grey eyes. They stare into mine and I know they won’t look away until we leave this room. ‘I want to hear Rachel tell me what she told you.’ Her voice is the same. A little shaky perhaps, but basically the same.

  ‘We’ve been through that.’ Savidge is speaking softly, as though Catrin’s calm is rubbing off on him. ‘We filled you in with everything she said. We don’t need to go through it again.’

  ‘I need to hear it in her own words.’ Catrin is speaking to him, looking at me. ‘I want her to tell me how she killed her son.’

  I expected this. I’m ready for it. I tell her, exactly as I told Josh and Skye earlier, about my seeing her car stop outside my house, my watching her pick up Peter and lift him back into the garden.

  Her brow lifts; she doesn’t take her eyes off mine.

  I tell her I saw her drive away down the hill, effectively clearing her of any involvement in my son’s disappearance. Still she doesn’t speak. I give her back her liberty, absolve her of all blame, open up the possibility of a future with the man she loves. I take my life in both hands and give it to her and she offers me nothing in return. Except her undivided attention.

  I leave nothing out. I repeat, almost word for word, the confession I made to Skye and Josh. The two constables, who haven’t heard any of this before, are shocked – I can tell from sharp intakes of breath, from furtive glances at each other – but Catrin is unmoved.

  ‘I put him in the boot of my car.’ I can’t bring myself to say his body. ‘I knew there’d be a huge fuss. People looking for him. So I hid him, to deal with him later.’

  Grey eyes blink and moisten. Blink again. Their focus doesn’t shift.

  ‘And that’s all,’ I finish. ‘That’s how, and why, I killed my son.’

  Everyone is waiting for Catrin. For a moment, she does nothing. And then, her hands lift and clap together, once, twice, three times. A slow handclap, cutting through the otherwise silent room. No one else moves. It is as though she holds a spell over us. I can’t break eye contact. We’re playing that game we loved as kids, the one where we tried to outstare each other. The first one to look away was the loser. She always beat me. She won’t this time.

  Outside fireworks explode. Someone has set them off right next to the building. On the wall behind Catrin I can see reflections of red, blue and lilac sparks. A ribbon of silver stars. The pops and bangs continue for the better part of a minute then silence falls again. And with it, the spell is broken.

  ‘OK.’ Savidge is determined now. ‘That’s it then. We’ve done what you asked, Mrs Grimwood, we’ve done what you asked, Mrs Quinn. Now I want to know where the child is.’

  I’m waiting for Catrin to speak. She’s waiting for me.

  ‘Mrs Grimwood. Rachel.’ Savidge knows he’s taken a risk, allowing Catrin and me to talk, he’s panicking it hasn’t paid off. ‘For your family’s sake, for everyone’s sake, including your own, tell us where we can find Peter.’

  ‘She can’t.’ Catrin seems to have spoken without moving her lips, or maybe I’m so fixated on her eyes that I can see nothing else. ‘She doesn’t know. She’s lying to you.’

  ‘What?’ Skye whimpers at my side. The men are looking at each other. Catrin and I are still locked in our weird staring competition, and I am praying as I’ve never prayed in my life before. I see her lips soften, twist.

  ‘She always was a manipulative cow.’

  All four officers stiffen in their seats, either nudge their chairs back or think about doing so. They look from Catrin to me, as though expecting one of us to leap at the other any second now.

  Oh, please God, please God, please God.

  Catrin sits more upright, before taking her eyes from me and fixing them on Savidge.

  I’m not sure I can breathe again. Not until …

  ‘Rachel didn’t kill Peter.’ Her tone is disparaging, verging on incredulous. ‘Shame on you for even entertaining the thought, Josh Savidge. You’ve known her since she was five, what were you thinking of?’

  ‘She confessed.’ Skye looks a little afraid of Catrin. ‘We have it on record.’

  People are running around outside again. We ignore them.

  ‘She confessed because she thinks I killed him.’ Catrin is looking at me once more. ‘She thinks she owes me. She destroyed my life, so she’s giving me hers in return. She’s going to let me get away with killing her son, and she’s going to serve the prison time that is rightfully mine, because that’s the only way she thinks she can make it up to me.’

  ‘I don’t—’ Savidge sounds as though he’s going to burst into tears. I can’t look at him. I can’t take my eyes off the woman who holds the rest of my life in her hands.

  That woman sits back, she might be completely at ease. ‘She may have seen me pick Peter up from the road but she couldn’t possibly have seen me putting him in the garden. You can’t see the garden gate from her bedroom window.’ She lo
oks round in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, I’ve been in that room dozens of times. I know what you can and can’t see from the window. She saw me pick her son up, she panicked and came racing downstairs to protect him, but by the time she reached the garden I was gone. And so was he.’

  ‘Rachel, is this true?’

  My hands are clutching the tabletop. If I let go, I’ll fall.

  Catrin hasn’t finished. ‘Except, my former best friend is a bit more cunning even than that. She’s gambling on me not letting her go through with it. That I’ll relent at the last minute and make my own confession, tell you what I did with Peter and where he is. She’s willing to risk going to prison, just to get her son’s body back. That’s how much she loves this little boy she’s just told you she killed.’ She shakes her head, and something in her cold, stern face softens. ‘You poor, poor, stupid cow.’

  I don’t mean to wail, I simply can’t help it. It comes from nowhere and suddenly both Skye and Josh are holding me, trying to stop me from banging my head on the hard surface of the table. Finally, after what feels like for ever, but is probably only a couple of minutes, I’m being held in my chair. Skye’s arms are around me, but it feels more like a big hug than a restraint. Josh is crouched at my side, panting heavily.

  ‘I’m telling you, I’ll bloody well charge the pair of you if I don’t get some answers.’ He doesn’t mean it, I can tell. He’s as confused and unhappy and bewildered as the rest of us are. Except, perhaps …

  Catrin waits for me to calm down, to stop sobbing, to look her in the eyes again.

  ‘Please,’ I say, knowing that I will beg, get down on my hands and knees if I have to. I will do anything to see my little boy one last time. I feel my face collapsing and know I’m about to start crying again.