by Emma Rowley
They didn’t react; Nadia had said that people facing a murder charge almost never gave an account under questioning at this stage.
“Now, Olivia, no decisions have yet been made as to whether you will be charged,” said Moran evenly. “Of course, as you know, we have not found a body yet.”
“So if you do have any idea where Nicky is, now is your chance to tell us,” said Barnett, picking up the baton smoothly. “We need to understand your role in all this. We need you to give us your side of the story, Olivia.”
They had started using my name a lot. I didn’t take that as a good sign.
Then Moran began.
“Do you know where Nicky Wilson is now?”
“Can you tell us what happened to Nicky?”
“You are one of the last people to see her, if not the last. Did you speak to Nicky after your party?”
“Did you have an argument about what she was writing about you?”
No comment, I said, no comment. I kept my expression polite but interested, meeting their eyes when they spoke to me. I just had to get through this, I told myself.
“I’m suggesting to you,” said Moran then, measured as ever, “that Nicky left her car at your house because she had died, she had been killed, in your house. Is that right? You tell me.”
So that really was where they were going. I looked from him to Barnett, taking in their serious expressions, and felt my lawyer move in the seat beside me, reminding me:
No comment.
* * *
I thought they might stop soon, if I didn’t say anything. But then Barnett started to ask about Josh.
“Your husband told us he has been very concerned about your behavior recently. Is that fair, Olivia?”
No comment. The trick, I’d always found, is to just let the words wash over you; don’t react and they can’t hurt you.
“Josh says you’ve been arguing a lot recently—and you’ve had a lot to argue about, haven’t you?”
No comment. And Nadia had said this could be helpful, I reminded myself, we could find out their line of thinking. Still, it was harder than I could have imagined to hear these things said out loud.
“We recovered a shotgun from your lake this week. An old-fashioned one, but potentially lethal. Do you know anything about how it might have got there, Olivia?”
No comment. I’d stopped looking at who was talking and fixed my gaze on the table, my head inclined to signal I was still listening.
“You’re a good shot, we hear. Would you know how to handle a gun like that, I wonder?”
Focus on other things. Josh must have spoken to them again yesterday, if they had all this. When he went out, he must have come here and given a statement, I decided.
“Would you say you have a temper, Olivia? Your husband says you’re wound very tight, at times.”
Josh, I reflected, was someone who would always take the easiest route: he had thought saying we were together that night was the quickest way to make any unpleasantness go away.
“Now, you told your husband, years ago, that something bad happened that night of the fire, the night your father died. Isn’t that right, Olivia?”
I didn’t want to think about that night.
“It was bad enough, I am sure, that your family suffered such a tragedy. But was that all you meant by that, Olivia?”
But then Josh got scared and talked too much; and now they were putting it together with other things.
“I’m suggesting to you, Olivia, that something else happened that night. Is that right?” asked Barnett, in far too chummy a tone.
I wondered what she’d say if I asked her, which night do you mean, then or now? And I looked up at her, an impulse I couldn’t stop.
She looked back at me. “Did anything else happen that night, Olivia. Something bad?”
Nadia spoke then, her tone reproving: “I don’t need to remind you that putting the same question to my client could be seen as intimidation.”
There was a pause in the room.
“No comment,” I said again.
* * *
I was glad when, after that, they moved on. They asked me everything from when I had last seen Nicky’s laptop, to when I had last been down in the cellar. And they kept circling back to the party, asking me how I had felt, seeing Josh and his mistress in the same room. It must have been very upsetting for me, they said. They were trying to push me into reacting, unsure whether I already knew about the affair.
It was not, in any possible sense of the word, enjoyable. But I was starting to suspect something, taking in my lawyer’s slightly more relaxed demeanor—she had stopped making notes—and Moran’s faint air of frustration. The police could not quite connect the dots. Crucially, they seemed to have no coherent theory to explain the night of the fire, despite their questions about the gun found in the lake.
They were dogged, I will give them that. In the end, I broke first, for the most practical of reasons. I requested a toilet break.
Afterward, I wasn’t taken back to the interview room; there was some sort of delay, and I was put in my cell again, for what felt like ages. It was another warm day and I could still smell the ready meal they’d given me for lunch earlier. I was feeling a little sick by the time they hauled me out again to see my lawyer.
“Keep doing what you’re doing—don’t give them anything,” Nadia told me. “But I reckon they’ll wrap up soon. They’re just keeping us waiting now because they can. I’m going to go and give them a nudge.”
“OK.” I nodded at her, letting myself feel a modicum of relief, as she swung open the door of the room we were in. That was the only reason I happened to glance past her and see it: a door down the corridor closing on the backs of two people. It was a uniformed officer with someone else, in another regulation gray tracksuit, but there was something familiar about that tall gangling figure . . .
I frowned, trying to place him, then I did. Joe Crompton.
* * *
I sat up in my seat. I knew he’d been talking to them already. But what was he doing here? Hadn’t he told them everything he knew, days ago?
Only prisoners were interviewed in this block, Nadia said. So he had been arrested, too? That was a good thing, surely—it wasn’t only me they were looking at.
But I couldn’t mull it over much longer, because Nadia came to collect me. Barnett and Moran were right behind her, looking more refreshed by the break than I felt.
But it was nearly over. I knew what to expect now, and I could do it, I told myself, as we all filed into the interview room and sat down. Moran started the camera again, reminded me the caution was still in effect. I was trying to concentrate, but I kept seeing the Crompton boy. Now the detective was pulling something out of a beige folder to place on the table: a few sheets of paper stapled together, covered in small black type.
“I’m showing you a printed document,” he said for the benefit of the recording. “We believe Nicky e-mailed this shortly before she went missing. Have you read it before?”
There was a sudden noise in my ears; I shook my head to clear it, and swallowed. “I don’t know . . .”
“As I said, my client will not be commenting,” Nadia said sharply.
“Do you recognize this, Olivia?” said Moran, as if she hadn’t spoken.
In front of me, the type blurred on the page—I couldn’t seem to focus.
“It was e-mailed to Joe Crompton in the early hours of Saturday. 3:13 a.m., to be exact.”
And then the words resolved again in front of me, in all their hideous clarity. The first were in capitals:
OLIVIA HAYES
MY STORY
“You should have disclosed this,” I heard my lawyer say, irritated.
“New evidence,” said Barnett, her tone chirpy. “It went to his junk mail. He didn’t see it until yesterday. And we became aware of it today.”
“It’s what Nicky was working on before she disappeared,” Moran said, as if he was helping m
e to understand. “Your book, Olivia.”
Chapter 59
I wanted to write this book to let my fans into my life. I’m someone who believes that if you put your mind to something, you can achieve it. And I want every woman to take charge of her life and
That was how the text began, as Barnett read it aloud, her voice clear and agonizingly slow. She had to for the recording, they said.
But then Nicky had stopped, and started again:
I loved growing up here, all the space to run about in. Swimming in the lake, playing hide-and-seek in the meadow. That’s what I like to remember.
Did I tell her that, too? I must have . . . No wonder Nicky hadn’t had anything to show me yet: she had clearly been struggling to even make a start.
I’m not perfect. But perfect gives you something to aim for
“That wasn’t—” I stopped myself. I’d said that jokingly; it felt different when read by the detective in her flat, neutral tone.
“I believe my client’s signaling that she wants to speak to me privately,” said Nadia.
“No, it’s fine—keep going.”
* * *
I kept listening, recognizing other phrases as my own, from my interviews with Nicky, until Barnett reached the end of the page and turned it over.
On the next, I could see the scrappy attempts finally turned into something more coherent. So Nicky had started writing properly . . .
One terrible night would mark the threshold between before and after, when our happy family became shattered by tragedy. I know now that it took six fire crews to contain the flames.
I tried to keep my face calm as she read on, but the weight on me started to lift.
At first, the police just wanted to get in touch to tell us what had happened to our house. It was only later on that it became a missing persons search—and we learned that my father had died there.
In the weeks that followed, I went to live with my grandmother in London, to whom I owe so much. She is no longer with us today. My school was also wonderful: a second family for me.
The main thing I want you to know is that you can get through hard times—tragedy, even. If I can, you can, too. You can overcome adversity. You can rely on yourself. You can endure, like me.
That is the woman I am.
Barnett looked up then, signaling she had reached the end of the page.
I felt weak with relief. It was fine. Better than fine. Because, after everything, this wasn’t so far off what I had thought Nicky was here to write in the first place, after all. She must have written this last chunk after our final session, but before—
“Do you recognize that, Olivia?” said Barnett.
“I’d advise you not to answer that,” said Nadia.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I’m guessing they will be able to check the e-mail is Nicky’s.”
“Oh?” Barnett smiled at me, like she was pleased with me for being sensible. “So you agree this is what you told Nicky? These are your words?”
“Well,” I said drily. “I don’t love what she’s done with it—it gets a bit maudlin with this last bit. But yes, it’s basically what I said.”
I was having to stop myself from smiling. This was not a disaster for me, no, not at all: she really had captured the essence of what I intended to say.
The detective nodded. “OK. There’s just a bit more overleaf I’d like to read to you.”
I sighed, like I was already a little bored of the whole exercise, as she turned the page again. Under the table, I was kicking one foot, ready to get out of there.
I could see there was just another small chunk of text left. At first, as the detective began to read aloud once more, I thought it simply repeated the previous page; that Nicky had mistakenly cut and pasted those few paragraphs again.
And then my heart started to pound in my chest.
One terrible night would mark the threshold between before and after, when our happy family became shattered by tragedy. I know now that it took six fire crews to contain the flames.
At first, the police just wanted to get in touch to tell us what had happened to our house. It was only later on that it became a missing persons search—and we learned that my father had died there.
That’s one version. Here’s another.
I could give you reasons for what happened. He said I was a thief. He said I kept bad company. He was going to send me away to my grandmother’s.
I argued with him. I was so angry. I lost my temper.
And then there was nothing else to be done. Why ruin all our lives? The fire hid everything.
Afterward, when they had stopped watching, my mother never spoke to me again. She lost a husband. I lost a family.
I have lived with my secret for a long time. But now it is time to tell my story.
Because I took the gun down from the wall. I shot him. I did it.
That is the woman I am.
The room was very quiet as she finished reading. Everyone’s eyes were on me. Finally, I found my voice.
“That isn’t right.” I made an effort to control my volume. “Nicky’s made that up.”
Moran nodded. “OK.” He didn’t seem surprised. “That’s got to be quite a shock to you, then. Given that she was your ghostwriter, here to write your story.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell her that—it isn’t true. She’s put words in my mouth.”
I had to make them understand, but my thoughts were a tangle. Nicky must have written these last few paragraphs after dinner, after I saw her looking at me as the fireworks went off, and I knew then that she was dangerous...
“It’s certainly quite a tale. Have you any idea why Nicky might have written that, Olivia?” said Barnett. “What could have been going through her head?”
“I don’t know—I . . .”
Nadia began: “I’d advise—”
“But Nicky’s made it all up,” I spoke over her, desperate to convince them. “She’s a fantasist.” I forced out a laugh, but my heart was pounding. “It’s really disturbing, the way her mind works.”
“OK,” said Barnett reasonably, “but just so we understand this right, the other quotes, before that final page—all those are accurate?”
“No—I mean, I—no. I don’t remember saying all of that.” The lie rang hollow in my ears. I saw Moran glance swiftly at his colleague and forced myself to continue.
“I mean, this woman seems to think she’s cracked some mystery,” I sat back, trying to look more relaxed. “But it’s laughable, it really is. She was—she is, I mean—clearly disturbed. And that’s who you should be focusing on, now that she’s missing. Not me.”
“Absolutely, we’re focused on Nicky,” said Barnett. “So can you tell us anything else, Olivia, anything at all, that might help us find out what’s happened to her?”
“I told you, I don’t know anything.” At that my frustration spilled out. “Why do you keep asking me? I don’t even know her. Ask her friends, her family!”
“We’ve spoken to her friends. And yes, you did tell us that you don’t know. And yet, Olivia, you’ve never seemed to wonder where she is. Is there any reason for that?”
“Of course not,” I said, suddenly seeing the scale of my mistake there: what my lack of curiosity could signal to them. “I’ve just had a lot going on—my marriage. . .”
“Because it seems to us, Olivia, that Nicky was very afraid that night she disappeared: that she wrote down what was on her mind, and sent it to the one person who would understand—who would believe her. In case anything happened to her.”
There was a beat. “No. No comment,” I added, finally remembering what I was supposed to say. I looked to the side and caught my lawyer’s expression: she looked stunned at how quickly this had just unraveled. This was a catastrophe.
She collected herself. “If you have any further offenses you wish to put to my client, we need to stop this interview right now, and you need to provide full disclosure. So I can properly advi
se her.”
Moran put up a palm. “She’s not being held accused of anything other than what we’ve already explained. We’re only trying to understand what’s happened to Nicky.”
“Olivia,” said Barnett slowly, ignoring their exchange, “you need to tell us the truth now. Did Nicky discover something bad about you—is that why she had to disappear?”
“No comment,” I said. I felt like I was in a nightmare.
“Did you kill Nicky deliberately, so she couldn’t tell anyone? Or was it a mistake, did you just lose control?
“Is that what happened, Olivia, after you’d all been drinking at that party, things got out of hand? You killed her and you have been covering up ever since?
“If that’s what’s happened, if it was an accident, a row that just got out of hand, you need to let us know, Olivia. Do you understand? You need to tell us what happened.”
She leaned toward me: “Because Josh is very worried, Olivia. Your husband thinks you might have done something very bad, a long time ago. And that you tried to stop Nicky from finding out what. He always feared you’d let your past catch up with you.”
It was too much: I could feel the emotion build in my throat, a telltale burning.
“No comment,” I forced out once more.
There was a long pause, then Barnett spoke again.
“I’ve no further questions for you. I’m going to ask my colleague now . . .” Moran shook his head, anticipating her, his eyes still on me. “Is there anything you wish to add, Olivia, before I conclude this interview?”
“No.”
“Right then.” She checked the clock on the wall. “This interview concludes at . . .’
Chapter 60
They let me go after that, having left me a few more hours in my cell. It was a breathing space, that was all: I was released under investigation. An officer gave me my handbag back, without my phone; Nadia said she would give me a lift home.