Over burger and chips at a greasy spoon round the corner she’d presented him with a brand-new smartphone. This was to celebrate his release, she said. Presumably Tania had provided it but, as with everything, there was an ulterior motive; they needed him to be contactable.
During his incarceration black-market phones had been readily available. He’d never bothered with them because he’d had no one to call. The bloke in the next cell at Ford, a fraudster called Nwabueze, who preferred to be known as Ned, did a roaring trade in smuggled mobiles. His USP was that all his devices were ‘confectionary jobs’ – they were especially small devices, which had been brought in concealed in hollowed-out Mars Bars. They sold at a premium because they came with a guarantee that they’d never been wrapped in clingfilm and hidden in any bodily orifice. More discerning clients were prepared to pay for this luxury.
The hostel room was basic but that suited Nathan. Attachment to things created suffering, that was the philosophy he’d espoused. It had proved a successful survival mechanism in jail because it meant that the prison regime, which could turn over your cell or move you at the drop of a hat, had no psychological leverage. Nor did the contraband gangs, who wanted to get you in their debt. On the inside, emotional detachment was the only freedom available. But that was then.
As he sat in his new room that evening, curtains drawn to keep him snug, trying out the many elaborate functions of his phone, he’d begun to contemplate the possibility of a different future. He accidentally clicked a button and took a picture of his left foot complete with its tatty trainer. It made him smile.
The new outfit bought on his shopping trip with Briony was hanging in the tiny wardrobe. She hadn’t wanted him to wear it for the initial filming. Her explanation was that his narrative arc had to be reflected in the visual image. As he journeyed towards freedom and the clearing of his name, so his appearance could gradually improve. Optimism symbolized by a colourful new shirt.
This had started him thinking about all the frivolous preoccupations of his youth. Hairstyles, the image you wanted to project, these were things that had once taken up much time and attention. He remembered his obsession with sunglasses. He would definitely need a new pair. Ray-Bans were his favourite. In prison it was easy to not care about how you looked. In fact being unremarkable was safer.
But spending a day having a camera shoved in his face had made him realize he was not without vanity. Did he want to appear on film looking like a defeated old lag, a man of thirty-five going on fifty? Was that actually necessary?
Briony had been brimming with enthusiasm all day and was more than happy to explain the tricks of the trade. Learning from her shtick was easy, he’d plied her with questions and found out loads. She loved displaying her expertise. In the end what she was doing didn’t seem that hard to Nathan.
This raised the question: did he even need her? Probably not. Kayleigh could handle the camera well enough. The relationship with Tania and Gordon’s production company was the one that mattered. Harry could deal with the legal bit. He’d seen enough of Tania to guess she wouldn’t be too bothered if Briony was cut out of the loop. She might even prefer it. All he had to do was bide his time and wait for an opportunity to make his move. After all, this was his story, not Briony’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Alison Boden owned an ancient Vauxhall Astra, which she kept in a rented mews garage two streets away from the house. She never used it in London and rarely went anywhere else. Jo borrowed the car whenever she needed to drive and arranged for it to be regularly serviced, which her mother considered an extraneous expense. She also kept it taxed and insured.
On Monday morning Jo had been in touch with Sandra at the office. Ivan Rossi’s boat had been traced and a full surveillance operation was being put in place. There wasn’t anything particular for Jo to do. She’d bypassed Foley and emailed admin support to ask Vaizey for a day off for family reasons. It wasn’t a complete lie.
They drove along Shooters Hill Road against the flow of morning rush-hour traffic and headed out of town on the A2 to pick up the M25 for the journey south.
Jo was behind the wheel. They stopped for a tank of petrol and takeaway coffees. Alison’s mood was despondent but improved as they began to clock up the miles. The sky had cleared, the wintery sun was out and they were going to the seaside.
Glancing across at her mother, Jo hoped she’d made the right decision. She’d communicated with Briony Rowe by text because she’d wanted to avoid any discussion on the phone. The reply she’d received was bursting with grinning emojis, a gesture confirming her view that the film-maker was an unrestrained halfwit.
Briony had also emailed her the full transcript of Nathan Wade’s trial. An evening had been just about enough for Jo to skim through it, but not to study it in detail. She’d evaded Alison’s questions and insisted that she hadn’t had a change of heart. Bruce did clearly exist, although in itself this proved nothing.
The decision to confront her sister’s convicted killer face-to-face was a considered one; this was what Jo had told herself. She’d offered to do it alone, which would’ve been her preference. But Alison wouldn’t hear of it.
The postcode that Briony had provided for the TomTom turned out to be a caravan park on the outskirts of Littlehampton. Jo drove through the gates and pulled up outside the office. This was even more bizarre than she’d expected. At first sight it looked to be shut up for the winter, but a woman in a woolly hat emerged and gave them directions. Apparently the caravanning community were hardier than expected. Following the serpentine concrete road past mainly empty pitches they passed half a dozen caravans and motorhomes until they finally arrived at Briony’s. An awning had been erected on one side of the VW campervan and Briony Rowe sat under it wrapped in a tartan rug. There was no sign of Nathan Wade.
As the Astra drew up, Briony leapt to her feet and waved. Jo shot her mother an anxious glance as she got out of the car. For the last ten miles she’d had the creeping realization that they were about to make a huge mistake. Behind the seemingly calm and capable exterior of the police officer, Jo had a tendency to act rashly, she did know this about herself. If the choice was do nothing or act then action always won out, which was why she’d contacted Briony.
The result was a stupid decision. Standing in the middle of a freezing caravan park and watching the film-maker erupting in glee, made that clear to her. On top of this she should never have brought Alison. Her mother was fragile enough before. Who knew what this would do to her.
Briony launched into an enthusiastic welcome explaining that the VW wasn’t hers, it was borrowed, it was the ideal base when she was on the road filming, hotels were expensive and self-catering was a better option.
Jo cut her short. ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘He should be here shortly. My assistant, Kayleigh, has gone to collect him.’
‘We agreed one o’clock.’
‘Can I get you some hot chocolate?’ Briony held up her mug. ‘It’s rather good.’
Jo was seething, though her anger was mainly with herself. ‘We’re not hanging around.’
Alison had got out of the car and was wandering aimlessly.
‘Perhaps your mother would like to sit down?’ Briony offered Alison her rug. ‘It is a bit chilly.’
Jo checked her watch. ‘This is ridiculous. We should never’ve come. Get back in the car, Mum.’
‘Please, Jo. He’ll be here. But you have to understand, it’s hard for him too.’
‘Is it? Have you ever considered just how full of shite you sound?’
A flicker of amusement crossed Briony’s face. ‘Yeah, it’s been mentioned before. I do gush a bit, I know. Mainly it’s nerves.’
Jo shook her head in disbelief. The last thing she needed was to feel sorry for Briony Rowe. But as she opened the door of the Astra to leave, a bright orange Mini Clubman, driven by Kayleigh, appeared round the bend.
It pulled up in front of them and Jo got
her first look at Nathan Wade. He was nothing like the startled boy in his police mugshot but she’d hardly expected him to be.
Tall, he uncoiled himself from the low passenger seat and climbed out.
The smile was nervous. His eyes flicked from Jo to Alison and back. ‘I’m sorry. I went to the barber’s. Trying to smarten myself up. I didn’t know there’d be such a queue.’
Jo looked him up and down. His greying hair had been neatly clipped but he had the weak, hangdog, pity-me manner of every criminal she’d seen shuffle through the custody suite.
Then abruptly the expression changed. Before their eyes the convict morphed into someone else. He pulled back his shoulders, straightened his spine and held out his hand to shake.
Tilting his head, he gave Jo a sly smile. ‘I don’t expect you remember me. But I remember you, Pixie.’
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Oh, Jo Boden. What exactly do I want from you? I’ve spent quite a few sleepless nights asking myself this question. We can’t bring Sarah back, however much we’d like to, however much we miss her. And I do miss her. I don’t want to. I thought I’d dealt with it all years ago. Maybe you feel like that too. But meeting you, it’s stirred it all up for me again. Memories and pain that I’d rather forget.
I suppose the first thing I need you to know is that I am not to blame. I never meant to hurt her. You thought she was great, your amazing big sister, and she was. Of course she was. But it wasn’t the whole story. I’m not suggesting she deserved to die, I’d never say that. But sometimes situations develop, relationships develop – and we understand this once we become fully adult – which are fated to lead to tragedy.
Once the wheels start turning and gather speed, the momentum becomes unstoppable, the crash inevitable. No one person alone is to blame, but we must all take some responsibility. It was like that with me and Sarah. Rows and reconciliations. And great sex. But you probably don’t want to know about that.
What you need to know is I loved her. And that’s never really stopped with her death. It just becomes a different sort of love, a love that’s always tinged with pain and regret.
I don’t mean to sound flowery. How Sarah would laugh at that. She had a built-in bullshit detector, your sister. It was one of the many things I admired about her.
Seeing you, imagine how that feels. You must know how much you look like her. I’m sure plenty of people have told you and I’m sure it’s deeply annoying. But there it is. Fate, yet again.
How old are you now? Twenty-eight, maybe? When I look at you, the thing that strikes me immediately is this: Sarah was still a girl when she died. A teenager. Not quite nineteen. All that promise unfulfilled. But here’s the woman she could’ve become. A grown-up version of Sarah. And even more beautiful. I can’t stop thinking about you, Jo. You’re my second chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In Jo Boden’s experience as a police officer the average villain was stupid, drug- or alcohol-dependent or mentally ill to some degree. Chaotic lives and poor coping skills led to bad choices and violence. Then there was organized crime and that was a business, which attracted a totally different class of rule-breaker. These two categories posed different challenges for law enforcement and she knew which she found easier to deal with emotionally. The professional criminal was harder to catch but less disruptive personally. At least this had been her belief until she came up against the Kelmendis.
She’d done her time on the streets dealing with the outcasts and casualties who took up so much police time. Promoted to detective, she’d served in various specialist squads and had a broad range of experience including some high-profile murder investigations. But as she watched Nathan Wade she was puzzled. He didn’t remind her of anything she’d encountered before, which, in itself, was disturbing.
There was an air of plausibility about him. He could manage eye contact but not all the time. His anxiety was under control, but only just. The tale he told was not without gaps and contradictions. If this was a performance aimed at deceiving them he was very good. But then some psychopaths were clever, they’d got appearing normal down to a fine art.
Little Jo had finally got her wish and visited her sister at February half-term. And Wade was right, she didn’t remember meeting him back then. Sarah’s group of friends had seemed universally cool to eleven-year-old Jo. In her memory, the visit was a whirlwind of people and music and bars and her first taste of alcohol.
She wondered if making reference to this as his opening gambit was a ploy on Wade’s part to unnerve her. Yet as soon as he saw her surprise he’d backed off. Authentic or devious?
They sat in a circle under the awning. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Alison sat opposite him, stock still, face pale, brow creased, wrapped in a blanket Briony had provided. He spoke in quiet sentences and, as he recounted the story of his relationship with Sarah, Jo found herself mentally checking it against what she’d read in her sister’s journals. And the two accounts did match.
So did this boy lose his temper? Did a lover’s tiff turn into a drunken fight, which simply spiralled out of control?
As Jo listened she deliberately slowed her breathing and focused on small visual details: his restless hands, the tapering fingers; this helped her become more detached. She knew she had to retreat into detective mode, treat the man in front of her as a stranger, which he was, and no different to any other suspect. It was important for her to bring no baggage to her assessment. This would’ve been easier before she’d read the journals, but she had an eerie sense of her sister beside her, standing at her shoulder. And she too wanted answers.
Jo glanced at her mother. Alison’s narrow shoulders were hunched, her bony hands clasped in her lap, her eyes vacant. She didn’t even look as though she was breathing. She was there but not there, like a frozen wraith, and it was impossible to tell what impact this was having on her.
Briony remained uncharacteristically quiet. She sat on Nathan’s left, was obviously keyed-up but had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. Kayleigh squatted silently on the step of the van.
It occurred to Jo that now they were face to face she had the power, if she cared to use it. Crossing her long legs, she fixed Wade with a hard stare. ‘Mind if I ask some questions?’
He looked apprehensive – again, was that for show? – but shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘You say you argued with Sarah, stormed out and walked to the train station? Is that correct?’
‘Yes. I walked part of the way and then I ran when I realized the time. I knew the last train was just before midnight.’
‘How did you realize the time? Did you look at your watch?’
He frowned. ‘I didn’t wear a watch.’
‘So how did you know? Did you have a phone?’
‘I had an old Nokia that had belonged to my dad. But I didn’t take it out much because the battery was always going flat.’
‘How did you know the time then?’
‘Well, I think I knew roughly. Or I guessed.’
‘You said I walked then I ran when I realized the time. Sounds like you made a decision to run. Based on what?’
Nathan put his head in his hands. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have you ever retraced the route you took?’
He shook his head.
‘Did you see anyone? Around midnight on campus, there could’ve still been people about. Other students heading for the station?’
‘I was wound up. I didn’t really notice anyone.’
‘Okay, so you caught the train. How many other passengers got on?’
Nathan was pressing his forehead as if the physical force could prise open his recalcitrant memory. Then his eyes lit up. ‘I asked the time. Yeah, I remember now. I passed a couple of people. And I knew one of them, sort of vaguely. A girl from my course.’
Jo studied him. This was the first element in his account that struck her as obviously disingenuous. A lightbu
lb moment, conveniently after all these years? Surely he’d have replayed this scenario in his mind many times. She decided to see where he was trying to lead them.
‘You know her name?’
He shook his head, puffed out his cheeks with frustration.
‘Visualize her. What did she look like?’
‘She was sort of funky and alternative. Jumble sale clothes. And she had her hair braided into long dreads, but she was white with gingerish hair.’
‘She told you the time?’
‘Not her. The bloke that was with her. He wore a watch.’
‘Just two of them?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Cyn!’ Briony wagged her finger triumphantly. ‘Cynthia! But she called herself Cyn.’ Jumping up, she grabbed her phone and started to scroll.
Jo scanned the film-maker. There was a small cynical voice in her head telling her this was all a bit neat. She was being played. ‘You recognize the description?’
‘Yeah. She was on our course, a real snotbag. Wanted to be an actress. Sarah hated her.’ Briony held out her phone. ‘That’s her. We’re friends on Facebook.’
Nathan took the phone and peered at it. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know. Could be her.’
The dreads were long gone. The profile picture showed a smiling woman with a neat blonde bob.
‘I could get in touch with her and ask her.’
‘If you didn’t like her, how come you’re Facebook friends?’
Briony inclined her head. ‘Well, I’m friends with all sorts of people now. We’ve all grown up a bit.’ She retrieved the phone from Nathan, her excitement was obvious. ‘Shall I message her?’
Jo raised her palm. ‘No.’
The harsh tone stopped Briony in her tracks. She waggled the phone. ‘Don’t worry, Jo. I’m not that stupid. I wouldn’t say anything, y’know, blatant. I’d just, well, whatever.’ She seemed deflated.
It Should Have Been Me Page 17