And I found myself telling her, about escaping a violent man, falling in love for the first time, having a baby, and how they were both taken away from me in the cruellest of ways. And now I was left with nothing while Libby had everything. Everything that should have – could have – been mine. Her pale-blue eyes smarted with tears and she gripped my hands in her knotted ones. ‘Oh my love,’ she said, and her face was so full of sympathy and kindness that I felt tears prick my eyes too. ‘And Libby knows nothing about this?’
‘We … er … fell out before then. When we were young. Over a boy. A silly argument.’ I shrugged. ‘You know how these things can escalate.’
She sat back in her chair and picked up her knitting. I watched, mesmerised, as her needles flew back and forth, the soft lemon wool dangling onto her lap in a ball. And then I noticed what she was knitting. Tiny little booties.
‘Is somebody having a baby?’ I said, thinking of my own stillborn baby, the pain in Matteo’s eyes as realisation dawned that we wouldn’t be playing happy families after all. My dad’s voice in my ear telling me this was God’s punishment for being wicked.
Her eyes lit up. ‘They’re for Libby.’
‘Libby?’ The words stuck in my throat and I placed the cup and saucer down on the side table with a shaky hand.
She nodded. ‘She hasn’t told me, officially. But I know.’ She smiled enigmatically. ‘I can tell when a woman is pregnant. I was a midwife, you know, a long, long time ago.’ She gave a girlish giggle but my whole body was rigid with shock, fury inching its way through my veins. She must have noticed, as she added hurriedly, ‘Oh my love, I’m so sorry, that was insensitive of me after your loss.’
I stood up hurriedly, knocking the side table over in my haste. My tea cup clattered to the ground, sending cold tea down the legs of the table and puddling onto the wood flooring. Evelyn dropped her knitting at her feet, the wool unravelling.
‘Oh my love, it’s a shock … I’m sorry …’
‘I need to go. I can’t do this …’ I stumbled away, blinded by tears. It wasn’t fair. Karen didn’t deserve any of this. She had everything I wanted.
Just as I was about to leave the room I heard a groan. I turned back to see Evelyn clutching her heart, her face a strange colour, like putty. ‘Evelyn. Evelyn!’ I ran over to her but she slumped forward, a gurgle coming from her lips. I gently lifted her head, but her eyes were already lifeless. Just like Sean’s. A cold feeling crept into my heart and I slumped to the floor next to her chair. The only person in months to show me kindness was dead.
I sat with her until it grew dark, then sneaked out of her flat by the back door.
My dad had been right about me. I was bad through and through. I had the devil in me. I destroyed everything I touched.
Part Three
* * *
BATH
31
Hartley’s expression is smug as he slaps a photograph on the table in front of me. It’s a black-and-white print of the man from Lizard Point, but taken years ago when his face was less ravaged and he’d looked attractive. So this was Sean Elliot. Beth’s ex. In all the time we were travelling together she never once mentioned that she was married to him, or even what he was called. She’d drip-fed me information about him so that I was aware he was abusive and that he’d put her in hospital, but that was all. I could understand why she’d never said more about him. Thailand had been her escape, as it had been mine; a place where our pasts hadn’t mattered. Or so I had thought.
Beth. I’d tried not to think about her over the years because to do so would cause my stomach to flip with guilt.
When I first met Beth I’d really liked her; I thought she was sparky and I admired her courage. When she said she had a place at teacher-training college I have to admit it shocked me. I couldn’t see her as a teacher. She seemed so tough and streetwise, with her hard face and her foul tongue, but it was obvious she had a bit of a chip on her shoulder. She didn’t take any shit and I’d felt safe travelling with her. She could be manipulative, I cottoned on to that quite early on. But then the business with Harry and what came afterwards made me realise that she was actually a nasty piece of work.
What had her husband been doing in my flat? He was obviously the one who had arranged the house swap. DS Byrnes said he was a builder working on The Hideaway, so he would have had access to keys and must have cut one for himself. But why go to all that trouble?
‘Do you recognise this man?’ asks Hartley in an impatient tone, bringing me back to the present. Another detective – a woman this time – sits next to him. She’s young, in her early thirties, and has very straight, glossy blonde hair in a bob. She doesn’t speak.
I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes, mumbling ‘No comment’ like my duty solicitor advised me to do. He sits next to me, reassuring in his suit, his briefcase open on the table.
I am in too deep. I took Beth’s identity without a thought for her past or the future repercussions it would cause.
How can I ever tell them the truth without losing everything?
My life as Karen Fisher had been bleak. When my mum died I was left with my dad – a raging alcoholic. He never hit us, he wasn’t a violent drunk, alcohol just heightened his emotions. I believe he really did love my mum, in his own way. They rowed, usually about his drinking, and once an affair with the local barmaid, but when he was sober – and he could be, for long stretches at a time, before relapsing again – he was the loveliest man in the world. He’d surprise her with flowers, or trips to Scarborough or Whitby. She loved it by the sea. He made her laugh and would sneak up on her while she was chopping vegetables in the kitchen and snake his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. She would bat him away with a ‘get off, you silly bugger,’ but I could tell by the way her eyes lit up that she enjoyed it. They never had much money and my dad was forever in and out of jobs due to his drinking. We lived in a small village in a two-up two-down. It wasn’t much but Mum kept it clean and tidy and it was furnished with little knick-knacks and cushions that she had made. That’s why I’d always loved being at Evelyn’s place – its warmth and clutter reminded me of home.
But then my mum died and everything changed. My dad was desperate without her. He’d go out most evenings, drinking, rolling in late and collapsing onto the sofa, a big, heavy mass, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. I tried to keep our home looking nice, as my mum had done, but when Dad was on a bender he’d come in drunk and smash things up. He never threw anything away, so empty cans, fag butts and half-eaten crisp packets would be strewn all over the floor. I was forever clearing up after him. I ended up missing school to nurse him as the drink took its toll on his health. I loved him and I wanted him to get better, I couldn’t bear to lose both my parents. Even though I did well in my GCSEs – especially considering I’d missed so much school – I knew A levels and university were out of the question. Dad was on benefits but they didn’t stretch very far and I needed to work. So I left school at sixteen and took any job I could find. The pay was terrible as I wasn’t qualified for anything. I had no choice but to watch my friends leave our small village for the big cities and universities like Manchester, Leeds, Bristol and Cardiff, places I could only dream of going to, and I soon lost touch with them all.
Then, when I was twenty, my dad’s liver finally gave out. He was only fifty-three when he died. I had no other family; my parents hadn’t kept in touch with their own families – I sensed there was a rift when they got married – so I’d never known any aunts or uncles or grandparents. The house I’d grown up in was put on the market, but my dad owed so much money in unpaid mortgage fees that I only got a few thousand out of the sale. Not knowing what to do with my life I decided I needed to get away from the place where everyone knew my sad history. I had nothing and nobody to keep me in Yorkshire. I’d always been a loner, slinking through life hoping nobody would notice me, or feel sorry for me.
I bought the first available flight, which happened to be to
Thailand.
On the night of the fire I’d watched, rigid with shock, as flames licked the hostel and gusts of smoke surged out of the windows, knowing that Beth was trapped in there. It was chaos; fire engines and an ambulance wailed to the scene, then came shouts from the firemen as they darted in and out of the building, or tried to put out the fire with huge hoses. The air was scorching; black smoke drifted up my nostrils and down my throat. I felt sick. Where was Beth? She must still be in bed – she had been out of it when I left. I grabbed a fireman, screamed at him that my friend was still in there, but he just shook his head sadly.
I staggered away, unable to witness it any longer, and found another hostel to stay in. But I couldn’t sleep; I just lay there, too horrified even to cry.
I returned the next morning. The hostel was a burnt-out shell. I was told that eight had died. They couldn’t tell me if Beth was among them. Not yet, said a policeman in halting English, not until their bodies have been identified. I rang around a few hospitals, asked if an Elizabeth Elliot had been admitted, but nothing. It wasn’t until I was ensconced in a hotel room a few streets away, shocked and nauseous, the smell of smoke still strong in my nostrils, that I realised, in my hurry to flee the hostel, I’d picked up Beth’s backpack instead of my own.
It had been a snap decision. When I saw everything that was in her bag – her wallet stuffed with cash, her passport and her National Insurance card – I thought about using them as a means to keep travelling, rather than having to hang around waiting for the embassy to issue me another passport. I had no doubt that my possessions had been destroyed in the fire.
I sat on the bed, my head reeling, wondering what to do, her stuff laid out in front of me on the orange blanket. And then I saw it, the Buddha that Harry had given me. What was it doing among her things?
Then my eye went to the letter.
It was from the teacher-training college, offering Beth a place on their one-year PGCE course in English. They had included all the information about the course, and details on placements and funding for the £9,000 fees. How hard could it be? English was my best subject at school. But I hadn’t been to university, I hadn’t coped with doing a degree. Beth had scribbled on the letter in pen, reminding herself to ring them to defer. Had she done it?
I pushed the thought from my mind, telling myself I’d never get away with it. They would have met Beth for an interview. But how long ago? We didn’t look dissimilar. And if I cut my hair and dyed it darker then I could pass for her, couldn’t I? They would only have met her once. A passing resemblance, that was all it needed to be. We both came from Yorkshire, so had similar accents.
No, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t brave enough. I dismissed the idea and tried to sleep. But a little voice in my head kept probing and prodding, telling me that I had to do it. What were the options otherwise? Go back to university and do a degree myself? But that would take years, and by the end of it I’d be in so much debt that I’d forever be trying to pay it off. I thought of my parents, of the life they’d lived. I wanted more.
The next day I rang the college and said I was interested in starting in September after all. Then I went to a local salon and had my long hair dyed a rich chocolate brown and chopped into a pixie cut so that I resembled Beth’s passport photograph. I liked my new haircut; it showed off my big eyes and accentuated my cheekbones, so as the years went by I ended up keeping the style.
Every now and again I’d experience bouts of doubt that would make me stop in my tracks, my heart pounding, my mind whirling. What was I thinking? What if I got caught? What if Beth had survived the fire and took the place on the course herself? And then I’d convince myself that she was dead. She had to be. There was no way she could have survived. And if she had, by some miracle, managed to escape, then she would have continued to travel up north. She couldn’t leave the country until she had a new passport. She was having doubts about being a teacher, she’d told me so herself. And the course was only a year. Not long to pretend to be someone else.
Now that the idea had formed in my mind I knew I couldn’t dismiss it. I had to go through with it. The prospect of being a teacher, of working with kids, excited me. I’d have a future, something to look forward to.
It was so risky but at the same time I felt compelled to do it. As if this was my one chance. What was the worst that could happen? I asked myself. If they found out that I wasn’t really Elizabeth Elliot I’d get chucked off the course. But I had to try. I had to find a way to scrape back some semblance of a future because I couldn’t afford to continue travelling for ever. And then what? What awaited me back at home? Factory jobs and stacking shelves, minimum wage and no career prospects? I couldn’t even type. Whatever Beth’s background, and she hadn’t told me much, at least she’d had the sense – or luck – to get some qualifications. I would work hard, I promised myself. I would keep my head down. It was a year – less, really, if you thought about holidays.
And so I did it. I became Elizabeth Elliot. Libby. And then I met and fell in love with Jamie, and after a while I began to forget that I was ever called Karen Fisher.
32
When I’m eventually released from the police station I’m relieved to see that Jamie has hung around for me. His whole body is tense and rigid as he sits bolt upright on a grey plastic chair in the airless waiting room, and he looks like he hasn’t slept for a week. He’s unshaven and his hair is a tangled mop, as though he’s been frantically raking his fingers through it. He has bags under his eyes and his white T-shirt is stained. As soon as he sees me he’s up on his feet, rushing towards me.
‘Libby, thank goodness. Are you OK? Have they charged you with anything?’
I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes at the look of concern, of love, on his face. He thinks I’m a bigamist but he’s still here, standing by me. I don’t deserve it. He slings an arm over my shoulder and steers me outside to where the car is parked. I’m surprised to see that the sun is going down already, although the air is still humid. I must have been in the station for hours.
I slide into the passenger seat and my body starts to shake in delayed shock. I need to tell Jamie everything, but will he ever forgive me? He sees everything in black and white and I’ve lied to him since the day I first met him. I married him under a false name. Thanks to the duty solicitor I’ve not had to reveal anything to the police yet, but it will only be a matter of time.
I study Jamie’s profile as he drives, his straight nose, his full mouth, his left ear with the kink at the top. He’s a funny, messy geek. And I can’t lose him. He must have a million questions swirling around in his brain but he hasn’t asked me any. His mouth is set in a grim line and I reach out and touch his thigh, the denim rough against my fingertips. ‘I really love you, Jamie. You need to know that.’
He stiffens, and when he speaks it’s as though his throat is restricted. ‘You’re scaring me, Libby.’
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ I take my hand away and fold it into my lap.
His chin crumples and I can tell he’s trying not to break down. He’s thinking the worst, I know it. He’s thinking I married a man and never told him. Does he also think I’m a killer?
When we get back to Sylvia’s, she fusses around me, making sure I’m comfortable on the sofa, offering to make tea, her bangles jangling as she positions a cushion behind my back as though I’m a patient and not a murder suspect. I can tell she’s desperate to know what’s going on, it’s written all over her face. Jamie sits motionless by the window, looking out onto the street. He hasn’t said a word since we got back from the police station. Ziggy is sprawled at my feet and I reach down to stroke him, reassured by his presence.
What will the Hall family do when they find out the truth? Will they chuck me out? Where would I go? The worry of it makes me feel sick.
‘Where’s Katie?’ I ask Sylvia as she moves towards the doorway.
‘Oh, she’s out. With friends.’ Sylvia gives an unconcerned shrug and I f
eel lighter knowing Katie isn’t here, with her probing, judgemental attitude. I wait until Sylvia has disappeared into the kitchen before turning to Jamie.
‘We need to talk.’
He doesn’t look at me but continues gazing out of the window. The street beyond is empty, the trees shadowy and moving slightly in the breeze, the last of the sunlight filtering through the branches, bright, like a flash torch. It’s so quiet I can hear a bird tweeting outside.
‘Jay …?’ I try.
‘I know,’ he says coldly, his head snapping around so that he’s facing me. ‘I know we need to talk. But I don’t know if I’m ready to hear what you’ve got to say. It’s going to change everything. Christ, Libs. You’re already married? To that … that man?’ He runs a hand over his face in exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you say? In Cornwall? You must have recognised him. How could you have married me when you knew you were already married to him? My God, is our marriage even legal? Are you even my wife?’
I lean forward. ‘Listen. I can honestly tell you that I’ve never seen that man before our holiday in Cornwall.’ He makes a disbelieving sound through his teeth but I hurry on. ‘It’s true, he was married to Elizabeth Elliot. But that’s not me.’
Jamie stares at me.
‘Elizabeth Elliot is not my real name. My name is Karen Fisher.’
His eyes grow rounder with every word I tell him so that by the time I’ve finished the whole story they look like they are going to pop out of his face.
There is a stunned silence. Eventually he says, ‘You’re telling me that you stole another person’s identity and used it to get out of Thailand and start teacher-training college?’
I nod.
‘And the real Elizabeth Elliot?’
‘She’s dead.’
He looks like he’s about to throw up. ‘How?’
‘When we were in Bangkok, there was a hostel fire. I –’ I hesitate, twisting a tissue in my hands ‘– I managed to get out. But she was still in bed.’
Last Seen Alive Page 21