Alison gave her daughter a peevish look. ‘It could be him. Why do you have to be so dogmatic about all this?’
Jo shook her head. ‘Because, Mum, that’s the role they want me to play here.’ She shot an accusing look at Tania. ‘Isn’t it? You want me to be the dogged detective, don’t you? That’s my part in your little tale.’
Tania smiled, she seemed unfazed by her guest’s rudeness. ‘How old were you, Jo, when this terrible thing happened?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Have you ever reviewed the evidence?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘Exactly. But that’s all we’re asking you to do. Have an open mind. After all, you’re the real expert here. You know the police. You know how it works and the huge pressure to make an arrest and get a result. If you look at everything and you tell me that you’re totally satisfied that Nathan Wade murdered your sister, then we’ll go away and leave you in peace. You have my word.’
Tania Jones was a shrewd operator, Jo had to admit that. The subtle flattery, plus the apparent abdication of control, were designed to gently reel her in. But it was still nonsense.
Jo glanced at her mother. Alison was blinking away a tear – she was wallowing in her usual mix of prescription drugs laced with booze and sentimentality.
‘You said two things stand out. What’s the second?’
Harry turned to Briony Rowe. ‘We have here a witness, who, for various reasons, was never interviewed by the police at the time. And it raises the possibility of an alternative suspect.’
‘The stalker theory. Yeah, I’ve heard Briony’s line. And I have to say it sounds to me like a scam. Where’s the proof? Apart from Briony’s say-so, is there any?’
‘Oh yes.’ The lawyer smiled. ‘Your sister’s journal of the time would appear to confirm it.’
‘My sister’s journal?’ Jo glanced at her mother. Journal? Did Sarah keep a journal? No one had ever mentioned this before.
Tania Jones tilted her head. She had the look of a jackal closing in on its prey. ‘I presume you didn’t know about this, Jo?’
Jo took a sip of her drink and lied. ‘I recall she was always scribbling away in some kind of notebook.’
Alison’s eyes began to swim with tears. ‘She wrote such wonderful poetry. Don’t you remember, Jo?’
‘Of course I remember.’ What flashed into Jo’s mind was a filthy limerick that her sister used to chant as the two girls jumped up and down on the bed.
Harry reached into his briefcase. ‘There are short extracts from the journal in the trial transcript but presumably the original was returned to you with all Sarah’s other effects.’
Alison nodded. ‘Oh yes, I’ve kept all her journals.’
All? There were more? The trial had included some kind of testimony from Sarah in her own words? This was a complete shock to Jo. Why didn’t she know this? With Tania Jones’s eagle-eyed gaze fixed on her, she struggled to mask her surprise.
The lawyer was scanning the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Here we go. The date is three days before she died. It’s part of a whole passage full of details about what she’d been doing that day. Sounds innocuous in itself: I walked out of the lecture theatre and there’s bloody Bruce hanging around again! Has he got nothing better to do? Being a postgrad is clearly a doss. Why can’t he just get the message?’
Jo looked across the table at Briony Rowe. The film-maker was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Bruce? What was his surname?’
‘It wasn’t his real name. It’s what she called him.’
Jo continued to stare. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘It was a nickname. He wore a vest to show off his muscles. You know, like Bruce Willis in Die Hard.’
‘Why did the police never search for him?’
Briony shrugged. She was sweating. She dabbed her lip with her napkin. ‘Maybe no one told them about him. I don’t think anyone else knew.’ Her nervous gaze met Jo’s.
‘So this is some other bloke she knew. And you reckon you can turn him into an alternative suspect?’
‘She went out with him at the beginning of the first term. Long before Nathan. And he kept hassling her.’
‘According to you. But it’s taken sixteen years for you to decide this is relevant.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I should’ve spoken up – I’m really sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m doing this because I want to make things right.’
‘Bullshit!’ Jo’s pulse was thumping. Hearing her sister’s words, out of the blue, from the mouth of some poncey lawyer, had sent her emotions into a tailspin. The chandelier above the table glittered; for an instant it seemed to Jo that it was about to come crashing down on their heads. She had to escape.
‘You know what I think? I think you read the transcript, saw something you could home in on and made up a story to fit it.’
‘That’s not true, Jo—’ Briony’s chin quivered.
‘You don’t even know his name.’
‘Sarah gave everyone nicknames. It was her thing.’
‘You were no friend of my sister.’ Standing up, Jo threw her napkin on the table. ‘I’ve met some con artists in my time, but you lot take the biscuit.’ She held out her hand to Alison. ‘Come on, Mum. You asked me to listen to them, well, I’ve listened.’
‘But, Jo—’ Alison’s eyes were brimming with tears.
‘An angry, controlling boyfriend attacked her, probably because she wouldn’t do or give him what he wanted. Or he was drunk. Or she made him feel inadequate. Or jealous. Or all those things. Happens all the time, Mum. Nathan Wade killed Sarah. That’s the banal truth. But that’s no good to them because they can’t make a film out of that.’
Tania dabbed the corners of her mouth with her own napkin. ‘That’s a very good analysis, Jo. And probably true in many ways. But what if Nathan was on that train and they simply got the wrong boyfriend?’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Balancing on the top bar of the short stepladder, Jo slid back the hatch to the loft. Alison held the ladder.
‘I think maybe it’s all on the right-hand side.’
‘Yeah, but where’s the light, Mum?’
‘The bulb went ages ago. I’ve never replaced it.’
Jo stuck her head and shoulders up into the dark loft space and used her arms to hoist herself into a sitting position, legs dangling down through the hatch.
‘Give me the torch.’
Alison handed it up to her. ‘Can you see them?’
Jo shone the beam of the flashlight around the loft. It smelt musty, a combination of dry wood, decaying cardboard and fibreglass insulation, which scratched her hand. More than a dozen boxes were heaped in a jumble on the narrow boarding that spanned the roof joists.
‘It’s a bit of a mess up here. Did you write anything on the boxes?’
‘I can’t remember. Your father put it all up there for me.’
Jo had little recollection of her father ever doing anything for them, especially after the divorce. To her mind, he’d simply disappeared.
She trained the torch beam on the sides of the boxes. She could make out a few random letters in faded felt-tip. With effort she could just reach some of the boxes if she stretched out her arm. It made her realize that to retrieve any of them she would have to stand up. She reached out and grabbed one of the cross beams to haul herself up.
‘Be careful, Jo.’ Her mother’s anxious voice drifted up from below. Careful? That was a bit rich.
The whole way home Alison had alternated between dry sobs and sulking. When she was thwarted it was like dealing with a petulant child. On the Jubilee Line to North Greenwich they’d attracted some critical glances. But the restaurant encounter had made Jo too angry to care.
Did her eleven-year-old self know that her sister had been such a prolific diarist? She’d lied to rebuff Tania Jones, but like so many other things about Sarah, Jo simply couldn’t remember.
For years Alison had
been the jealous guardian of her murdered daughter’s memory, shutting everyone else out. Jo had grown up immersed in her mother’s version of Sarah to the extent that her own fragmented recollections and Alison’s stories had melded in her mind. But since she’d learnt of the existence of the journals her brain had been nattering with questions. Now suddenly here was an opportunity to get a glimpse of the real Sarah for herself.
It took the best part of half an hour to locate all the relevant boxes and to lower them through the hatch. Jo climbed down after them, hands and face filmed in dust. The crumpled cartons completely filled the narrow upstairs landing.
Each box was wound tightly with brown tape and had numbers: S1, S2 all the way up to S12 scrawled on the side. It didn’t look like her mother’s handwriting. As she heaved and hauled them downstairs, one by one, Jo concluded that her father had efficiently boxed up his daughter’s effects along with his feelings, his marriage and everything else.
They ended up with a large cardboard pyramid at one end of the sitting room. Mother and daughter stood side by side, staring at the stack. Then Alison went to fetch a Stanley knife from the kitchen.
Kneeling down beside S1, Jo glanced up at her mother. Her temper had had time to cool. ‘You sure you’re going to be okay with this?’
‘Just open them.’ Alison handed her the knife.
Slicing through the tape and ripping back the lid, Jo found the contents all neatly wrapped in layers of soft tissue paper.
Alison put her hand to her mouth as the tears welled up. Jo shot her a concerned look.
Wiping her nose on her cardigan sleeve, she shook her head. ‘It’s okay.’
It clearly wasn’t.
‘I was remembering how your dad took such care wrapping everything up. It was like he was wrapping her up, making his little girl safe and cosy again.’
Jo sat back on her heels. ‘I can do this on my own if you like.’
Her mother sank down on the sofa. ‘No, I’ll be fine. We need to find out about Bruce.’
Jo still didn’t buy Briony Rowe’s ludicrous tale but she wasn’t about to argue the point. She had a mission of her own: to find out all she could about the real Sarah.
Lifting out each individual item, Jo placed them in order on the floor until she’d unpacked the first box.
It was a random selection of articles, many of which could’ve been found in any teenage girl’s bedroom.
Alison picked up two cuddly toys – a black sheep and a white sheep. ‘Remember these two?’
Jo found herself smiling. ‘Oh yeah. Ebb and Flo!’ They’d sat on her sister’s bed ever since she could remember.
‘You see, she was so clever with words, even as a kid.’
Jo started to unwrap the first few journals. There were half a dozen in the box. The one at the top was different to the rest – a shiny hardback and black. The others were multicoloured with embossed covers, some even had metal clasps. Alison reached down and picked up the black book. ‘This is the one the police took. The last one from uni.’
Jo opened it. The paper smelt fusty but her sister’s large rounded girly handwriting crossed the unlined pages in mainly straight lines. Each entry was preceded by the date in capital letters. It was about two thirds full, the remaining pages were blank.
‘They weren’t interested in any of these others?’
Alison picked up a fancy gold and red book with a wrap-over flap. She stroked the moulded surface with her fingertips. ‘These go right back to her early teens. All the years when she was at school. You probably don’t remember, she always used to ask for a new book for Christmas or birthdays. When she was younger, she preferred the elaborate ones and bright colours.’
She was right, Jo didn’t remember.
‘I think your father must have slipped this one in later. It was months before we got it back. She decided all the other colours she’d had before weren’t cool. She wanted plain black to go to uni.’ Alison swallowed hard. ‘We even bought her a black duvet cover, but we never got that back.’
Reaching out Jo patted her hand. ‘This is going to be a long job. Why don’t you go and make us a nice cup of tea, eh?’
Alison nodded and after they’d drunk the tea she went upstairs to lie down. For the next half hour Jo unpacked the boxes and separated the journals from the toys, teddies and other items, including a random selection of coloured markers, watercolour paints and a zipped make-up pouch full of crumbling eyeshadows and dried up mascara. She returned these items to the boxes.
This left her with five neat stacks, each over a foot high, books of varying thicknesses and dimensions arranged in chronological order. They covered an eight-year period. These were her sister’s journals. All handwritten, some sketches, a few photos and pictures cut out from magazines. She hadn’t known of their existence, or if she once did, that memory had been wiped by a combination of shock, grief and time. But now here it was: Sarah’s testament in her own words.
As Jo looked at the careful arrangement she’d created, a shiver ran up her spine. Did she even want to go there? How much pain would be involved? The fact the journals existed had been enough of a bombshell. Digging up the past was something she’d always resisted. No good would come of it, that was her intuition.
Her life worked, after a fashion. She battled with frustrations and regrets, but didn’t everyone? She prided herself on being a realist. She’d never win the lottery or get swept off her feet by a passing billionaire on a white charger. But that didn’t matter. The woes of Alison’s existence provided an object lesson in the perils of self-delusion.
Walking away from trouble was common sense. And in terms of Sarah, she’d always tried to be sensible. At the very least, reading the journals would be disturbing.
Had a full account of what had led to her sister’s death come out in court? Probably not. A court case was a joust between competing and partial versions of the truth. Wade killed Sarah, she was convinced of that. But it wouldn’t be the whole story. Getting inside her sister’s head might be alarming. Did she really need to do it? The smart choice would be to leave well alone. Jo knew that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
26 September 1999
Only a week to go now! I can hardly wait!!! The pixie is being especially annoying, keeps asking when she can come and stay. It’ll be such a relief to get away from her, the parents and Mowgli – I swear that boy never washes. This family shit is doing my head in. They are all sooo boring! So predictable! Mum insists we have a family picnic before I go. It will undoubtedly rain. Pix and Mowgli will fight over the Frisbee. And I wonder why I can’t wait to leave. Feels like I’ll finally be FREE and my life can actually begin.
Everything will be different now, I just know it. But I’m not going to go crazy and get wasted every night. That’s stupid. University offers so many opportunities. You succeed there, you can succeed anywhere. I read that in Cosmo. You CAN HAVE IT ALL, if you’re smart enough.
Some girls, Becky T for instance, seem to regard uni as a place to hang out and find the right husband. But then she always has been something of a moron. All that extra private tuition and she still only got two Bs and a C! Jules and I watched her old man’s face when she opened her results. He looked like he might have a coronary there and then, poor old sod. She ended up having to go through clearing. If that had happened to me I’d be mortified!
I’ll miss Jules, of course. I’m sure we’ll always be friends. In twenty years’ time we’ll be middle-aged ladies who lunch and bitch about our boring (but rich, obviously) husbands. I’m not sure about her doing law. Of course it’s great that she got into King’s and all that. But I can’t help feeling she’s only doing it because it’s what her dad expects. Just because he’s a QC etc doesn’t mean it’ll suit her. I don’t think it will. Only time will tell.
Only time will tell? It was this banal assumption of a future that tipped Jo over the edge. As she read she’d been telling herself it was okay, she could do this. Now, sud
denly and from nowhere it seemed, the tears were coursing down her cheeks.
She was reading by the light of an anglepoise lamp positioned on the coffee table. It was past four o’clock and winter darkness had descended. Out of the back window a sliver of orange from the streetlamp bisected the garden. She wiped her face with her sleeve.
The thing that struck her was how young her sister sounded – eighteen, ten years younger than Jo was now – such a mixture of arrogance and naivety. By the time Jo had reached her eighteenth birthday all that middle-class privilege had been stripped from her life. Her parents were divorced, she had a part-time job in a burger bar and a full-time occupation taking care of her mother.
Should she be jealous of her sister? Ridiculous in the circumstances. But for all their adolescent immaturity, Sarah’s words were compelling. They called up her ghost and for the first time since her death, she was a presence that Jo could imagine, standing there in the room, speaking in her own voice.
It would take hours and hours to do it properly but Jo already knew she would have to read the lot, every word. She was still adjusting to the impact of it, to the raw emotion that had risen up and ambushed her, when Alison came down the stairs. Her mother was wearing bed-socks and her favourite cardigan but she didn’t seem at all rested.
‘Jo! People can see in.’ The tone was peevish as she headed straight for the front window and pulled the curtains. ‘Have you found him yet?’
Fortunately, Alison was too preoccupied to notice she was upset.
‘No. I got a bit carried away reading.’
‘Couldn’t you flick through until you find his name? You don’t have to read everything.’
‘Have you read any of it?’
‘No. I started to. But . . . I just . . .’ She sighed. ‘Your dad said we shouldn’t upset ourselves more than we had to. So we put it all away.’
‘I’d forgotten that she used to call me Pixie.’
‘It was a silly nickname.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Oh God, I don’t remember.’ Alison pressed her fingers into the sides of her temples. ‘I’ve got an awful headache.’
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