It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  The wine at lunch on top of the medication, it was entirely predictable. Jo studied her. Painkillers would probably only make things worse. She could see Alison was suffering, but as was often the case there was nothing she could do, nothing either of them could do except wait for it to pass.

  ‘When I joined the Brownies—’

  ‘You can hardly say you joined, Jo. You went for about four weeks then suddenly announced you hated it and refused to go again.’

  Jo gave her mother a wistful smile. ‘Perhaps that was it? Because I think maybe I was in the Pixies – and didn’t Sarah rib me about it?’

  ‘She never bullied you or your brother. I would never have tolerated anything like that in my children.’

  ‘But she did like to tease.’

  ‘That’s quite natural between sisters.’

  ‘You never had a sister. How do you know?’ Jo didn’t intend to be provocative but it slipped out. It was a mistake, she knew it immediately.

  Alison pulled her cardigan around her, went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Her face was tight and pinched.

  Jo wondered if deflection would work. ‘Well, it’s interesting to read all this now.’

  ‘Oh, is it? Is it really? Well, I’m glad it’s interesting for you.’ Alison’s anger was surfacing. She slotted the kettle on to its base and got two mugs from the cupboard.

  ‘Mum, I didn’t mean that as a criticism—’

  ‘Oh, I know you, Jo. Your little zingers! Do you honestly hate me that much?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I don’t hate you at all.’

  ‘Then how could you be so bloody rude? I was so embarrassed.’

  ‘Rude to who? Briony Rowe?’

  ‘There’s no excuse for such behaviour.’

  ‘I think there is.’

  ‘She’s a friend of your sister’s. Someone who is concerned with the truth. Unlike you, it seems.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t think joining the police has done you any good at all. I’ve never thought so. This just proves it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Because I’m a police officer I make judgements based on evidence, not feelings?’

  Alison jabbed her finger in the direction of the piled-up journals. ‘The evidence could be there! Right there.’ She was shouting now. ‘But you don’t want to find it, do you?’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You’re so stuck in your prejudices. Full of your own bloody righteousness. That’s what being in the police has done for you. If you cared the least bit about your sister, about me, you’d be going through and finding every mention of Bruce.’

  ‘And what do you think that would prove?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The kettle was singing. Alison reached for the teabags then changed her mind. Raising the back of her hand she swept the mugs off the worktop and on to the tiled floor. They landed with a resounding crack, the handle snapping off one, the other smashing into pieces. She gazed down at the shattered crockery. ‘But nor do you.’

  Jo put the shiny black book down, went to Alison and drew her into a hug.

  She felt her mother’s bony shoulders and the tears, wet on the side of her neck. ‘Why did this happen to us, Jo? Why couldn’t our lives have stayed normal?’

  ‘What’s normal?’

  Alison was sobbing now. ‘When will this ever be over? I don’t think I can bear it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  22 May 2000

  Nathan is being a total and utter dick! Exams proper start tomorrow with the first sit-down and the Poetry assessment has to be in by 9. He’s probably finished his, competitive little prick that he is, though he didn’t say. Thinks that by coming round and hassling me he’ll put me off my stride. Last essay Haliburton gave me 68% and him 60 and he was livid. So it’s payback time. That’s probably how he sees it. That’s blokes for you.

  Still, once exams are over we can all go home for the summer. Thank God for that! I have so had it with this place. And him. I just want to sit in the garden on a sun lounger and do NOTHING.

  Jo turned over the page. There were tiny red dots at the beginning and end of the passage. This was one of the pieces the prosecution had relied on in court to support their contention that Sarah and Nathan had argued that night. It was also the final entry in her last journal, written possibly only hours before her death.

  Re-reading, Jo started to try and tease out the underlying meaning. Was it written after she’d sent Nathan away? Yes, that was clear enough. He’d been there, they rowed. She sent him packing. She wrote about it in her journal because she was upset. But what happened next? He was angry with her too and he came back. That was the argument presented in court and the one the jury accepted.

  But in the end that was pure speculation. It was equally possible that they rowed and he didn’t come back. There was no conclusive proof to confirm he did.

  Jo was sitting cross-legged on the battered old leather sofa. This was where she’d done her homework in her teenage years. It had an interesting smell – dried milk, red wine, an acrid cleaning product – but familiarity made it comforting. Alison had spent a couple of hours curled up there beside her while they watched some trash television. Finally, and to Jo’s relief, her mother had retreated to bed.

  Looking at the case in detail was what Tania Jones had challenged Jo to do and the main reason she’d resisted was that she knew there would be doubt; there always was. But was it beyond reasonable doubt? That was a judgement for a jury made up of twelve ordinary men and women. They decided, not the police, not the CPS, not the judge. And although Jo was loath to admit it, certainly to Alison, she’d witnessed enough trials where the only explanation for the jury’s decision was their emotional response to the case.

  Under common law and the adversarial system, two competing stories were presented to them in court and they made a choice which to believe. Considerable skill and expertise went into creating those stories. Jo wondered about her sister’s old school friend, Jules. Was Sarah right about her or had she made it through her law degree and inherited her dad’s horsehair wig?

  But, whichever way you looked at it, the system wasn’t foolproof and juries were fickle. Anyone who’d spent any time in court knew that.

  Jo flicked back the pages to an earlier passage, also marked with dots. This was the piece Harry the hot-shot lawyer had quoted from. He’d obtained a set of legal documents relating to the case, which included a full transcript of the trial. There would’ve been boxes and boxes of that too.

  19 May 2000

  Such a glorious day! We sunbathed on the grass for a bit. But then I forced myself to go to the library. Saw that dick-head director who wanted me to strip off – for purely creative reasons, I don’t think! – in his wanky play. Next year I’m going to DramaSoc with my own proposal. All these silly boys think they know so much better how to do these things. But I’ve come to the conclusion they don’t. It’s all testosterone-driven bullshit! All you need is a bit of confidence to stand up and say your piece. And I think I’ve got that now. So all the stupid crap that happened last year hasn’t been a total waste. But I’m not dwelling on that. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! Nietzsche was right. I only managed a few pages of Ecco Homo. Strikes me he was a bit of a twat.

  I’m still finding it hard to keep all the balls in the air – work, socializing, acting. But this term I have done better on the work front. Haven’t missed any seminars. Haven’t got drunk in the week. Have made it to most of my lectures. Well, except the ones at 9 o’clock! I mean, I’m not a medic or an engineer!

  The last two lectures were yesterday morning and I made both. Unlike Nathan. I’m beginning to think I should dump him. He wants us to go interrailing together this summer. Dire or what? 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?

  Had
this boy stalked her sister? She sounded more annoyed than scared of him. But: all the stupid crap that happened last year – what did that mean? The usual melodramas of student life or something more serious?

  Going back to the books she’d stacked into five neat piles, Jo sorted through until she found the second journal that covered the period from mid October through November and December 1999, the autumn and her sister’s first term at university. Had the murder investigation examined these? Possibly. She’d have to check the trial transcript to find out if any extracts were submitted in evidence. Although, if there were no red dots marking the original, it was probably a fair assumption that they weren’t.

  She got a notebook and pen from her bag. The process that would’ve been carried out by the enquiry was familiar enough. A couple of DCs would have been given the task of trawling through the stack of journals for clues. The pressure would have been on to skim through and abstract anything of relevance as quickly as possible. Working with the knowledge that seven months later this young woman would be dead, brutally murdered, hopes and dreams extinguished, shouldn’t have affected their attitude or the professionalism with which they approached the task. But Jo knew from her own experience that it would have. Inexperience, a lack of empathy for the victim, or too much, could have all resulted in potentially significant things being skated over.

  Jo began her search in the first week of term. And there he was at a Freshers’ club night. He’s hot even though he dances like Bruce Willis on speed. There were no red dots. Sifting rapidly through the text she came up with six mentions in October and two in early November. No red dots on any of those either. Her colleagues hadn’t been interested in Bruce. Maybe Nathan Wade was already in custody by the time they looked at this. If so, it would have taken something very obvious to prompt going to the SIO and suggesting a different line of enquiry.

  Searching for further entries on Bruce she discovered an odd thing. Towards the end of the first book, five pages had been removed. It looked as though scissors had been used to cut them out. Only narrow stubs remained close to the spine.

  Was this Sarah’s handiwork? It must be. Jo rubbed her finger along the jagged edge, all that remained of the excised pages. What had Sarah written about at the end of November in that first term that she felt she had to remove? And remove with some care. There were crossings out and revisions in earlier passages. But this was something more. All the stupid crap that happened last year. Did Sarah have a secret she wanted to hide?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  On Sunday morning Alison Boden didn’t get out of bed. Her daughter took her a cup of tea, which, when she came back half an hour later, was untouched. Jo had witnessed this before, her mother’s descent into some dark private place of torment. There was nothing to be done, except keep a watchful eye on her.

  Jo had woken up on the sofa chilled to the bone and with a stiff neck. She’d sat up most of the night, reading and re-reading passages in the journals. As a result she had a list of questions, no answers and a dilemma about what to do next. Maybe she should do nothing. But she wasn’t good at that. Her head was buzzing and she was wired even before she drank a cafetière of coffee.

  She found Briony Rowe impossible to like. If Sarah really had been a close friend then her failure to speak up at the time of her murder was, to Jo’s mind, unforgivable. On top of that was the undeniable self-interest in her attempt to raise the issue now. The combination of her and Tania Jones left a bad taste. They were like vultures wheeling high above a carcass, waiting for the chance to swoop in and scavenge the remains.

  With the day stretching out before her, and Alison sequestered in her room, Jo had time to herself and a chance to take stock. She wanted to go for a walk. A glance out of the window told her it was bright and frosty. But some instinct made her hesitate.

  Jabreel Khan had assured her that she had nothing more to worry about. Did she believe him? He was a man at the end of his tether on an operation stretched to breaking point. Meaning well was not the same as delivering a result. In her view, Hollingsworth was old-fashioned, inefficient and by the book. Could he be relied on to act swiftly and decisively, or would he worry more about how it looked and his overtime bill? Jo had never rated him, especially when she compared him to her new boss, Steve Vaizey.

  She was making some toast and giving herself a stern lecture on how irrational she was being – it was Greenwich on a Sunday morning and she was a police officer, of course she should go out – when the doorbell rang, making her start. Her immediate reaction was to ignore it. This, she told herself, was gutless. She was turning into Alison.

  Through the spyhole in the door she discovered Mr Sampson, their neighbour, on the doorstep with a bunch of tulips. Feeling a fool, she opened the door.

  The old man was leaning heavily on his stick and refused an invitation to come in. The flowers were to thank Jo and her mother for seeing to poor Marmalade.

  ‘Raised in a hot house, but they’re a bit of spring. Always heartening.’ He gave Jo a raffish grin.

  According to Alison, he was well over ninety. It was hard not to feel guilty for lying about the cat. Jo smiled, accepted the flowers and watched him totter down the path skilfully avoiding an icy patch. He was rheumy-eyed and stooped but bright as a button and she found his cheerfulness chastening. How could anyone manage to reach such an age with their optimism intact? But maybe her mother was right, some people were luckier, their lives more normal.

  She ate the buttered toast while pacing the room then went up to check on Alison and found her fast asleep. Watching her papery eyelids flutter, Jo hoped her dreams were peaceful. When her mother was on a downer she often stayed in bed for days at a time.

  Too antsy to remain in the house Jo grabbed her jacket and scarf and headed out. Reading her sister’s journals had been disturbing, as she’d known it would be. She’d tried to be cautious but the more she delved, the more emotionally entangled she’d become. The big sister she’d both loved and hated at times was back in her life with a vengeance.

  Avoiding Greenwich Park, awash with Sunday tourists, she headed up the hill on to Blackheath. The frost-laden turf crunched underfoot as she marched across it, the exertion calming her febrile brain.

  She walked for the best part of an hour, did a circuit of the heath and felt better. Returning to the house she piled kindling and fire-lighters in the wood burner and lit it. As she watched the dry sticks crackle and catch, she came to a decision.

  Her mother’s handbag was a Prada knock-off she’d bought years ago in the market. When she was at home it lived at the foot of the stairs.

  Jo picked it up and rifled through it until she found what she’d guessed would be there: Briony Rowe’s business card. She sent the film-maker a curt text. She made no apology for her earlier hostility, she didn’t think Rowe deserved any encouragement. The truth was she hadn’t changed her opinion that much. Nathan Wade still seemed to be the most likely culprit for her sister’s murder. But the detective in her couldn’t let this rest. Doing nothing didn’t feel like an option. She needed to find out more and there seemed to be only one way to do that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Nathan Wade had spent the weekend alone in his cell, apart from mealtimes and a visit to the medical centre to be checked over prior to his release. This was scheduled for Monday morning. And he’d been glad of the solitude; he’d needed it to compose himself and to deal with the fear. After the long years of loneliness and the daily battle to resist the drugs and stay clean, his dream was finally becoming reality: he was being granted his freedom. But like all dreams and desires, its fulfilment was unlikely to bring him satisfaction. That was simply the nature of desire. He needed to manage his expectations. Change was difficult, he also knew his limbic brain would resist and rebel. Things could get hairy. He had to stay mindful. But at the same time he had to be practical and find a way to ensure that he didn’t end up like most lifers on release: a zero-hours contract if he was
lucky and the choice of living in a hostel or on the streets.

  Briony Rowe had come to meet him. She was waiting at the prison gate with a camera, a tripod and her assistant, Kayleigh, whom she’d introduced. He’d walked out, with a small holdall and a plastic carrier, then gone back and repeated the action three times so Briony could get the angles she needed and a close-up of his face.

  By the time they’d loaded the gear and all piled into Briony’s Mini he’d started to find some amusement in the absurdity of the situation.

  Briony drove him to the hostel in Littlehampton and there was more of the same palaver: filming him going in from behind, then resetting, placing the camera inside and getting a shot of him opening the door. The manager greeted him; he seemed awkwardly polite. They shook hands, twice. Did he roll out the welcome mat like this for all new arrivals? Nathan doubted it. It took nearly twenty minutes to get up the stairs, down the corridor and into his new room.

  What seemed a mystery to Nathan was why anyone would choose to be an actor. To spend your days on this continual rinse-and-repeat cycle struck him as totally boring. Briony explained that it all had to look natural and seamless, although it was a complete pretence. Smiling at the sight of his new room had become hard work after the fourth take. Kayleigh was scurrying around and standing on the bed with a reflector to balance out the poor light from the window.

  As he’d unpacked his possessions from the holdall Briony wanted him to place the photograph of his parents beside the bed. He argued that he wouldn’t do this because it would be in the way and could easily get knocked off and broken. But Briony wanted to create the impression that he woke up every morning and gazed at it. He’d replied that he kept the photograph in a drawer and looked at it rarely. At this point the film-maker had declared it was time to wrap for lunch. She didn’t want an argument and was trying to be sensitive to his feelings, which, Nathan reflected, had to be a step in the right direction.