It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  Jo folded her arms. She had an uncanny sense of being on the cusp of an insight. If only she could grasp it. She glanced at Nathan. He was too much of an enigma to read with any accuracy and her default mode was suspicion. Something about him wasn’t right. She felt it in her gut, still she wanted to know more.

  Her instincts as a detective were propelling her forward. Questions, theories were nattering away in her brain. Were they feeding her a story? Had this all been rehearsed? But if this person did exist and had spoken to Nathan that night, why hadn’t she come forward at the time?

  She decided to go on the attack. ‘Okay, this woman may or may not be significant. But we need to be systematic.’ She fixed Briony with a chilly stare. ‘Can you identify Bruce?’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t know his real name. I never did.’ The film-maker was squirming, as Jo had expected she would once her little tale was subjected to scrutiny.

  ‘So you never actually knew him?’

  ‘I knew him. But I only knew him as Bruce. I saw him a few times, hanging around, even saw Sarah talking to him.’

  ‘Could you identify him from a photograph?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably. Did Sarah have one?’ She sounded nervous now her bluff was being called.

  Jo’s gaze was unremitting. ‘If he was a postgrad the university would have his details in their archives, including a mugshot.’

  ‘Oh yeah. But would they let us look?’

  ‘Persuade them, Briony. Tell them you’re making a film.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you asked them, as a police officer.’

  ‘I have no authority to do that in this case. You want me to take what you’re saying seriously?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ She shot a look at Nathan. ‘We want you to believe that Nathan could be innocent.’

  ‘What I’ll believe is evidence. You get me Bruce’s real name. Show me an alternative suspect who can be questioned. Then I might consider taking what you’re saying seriously.’

  Briony grinned. ‘It’s a test, isn’t it?’

  ‘Call it what you like.’

  ‘But it means you’ve read the journals and you believe he exists.’

  Ignoring this assertion, Jo turned to Nathan. ‘What do you say?’

  Throughout the exchange his eyes hadn’t left her face but the look behind them remained aloof. It seemed to Jo that he had an agenda of his own and she was wondering more and more what that might be. But her intuition was clear. She didn’t trust him. No way.

  He shrugged and smiled. ‘Yeah, go for it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The drive back to London was mostly silent. Alison gazed out of the window. The afternoon was dry, traffic on the motorway cruising easily. Jo could feel that her mother had relaxed but it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. She’d encased herself in an invisible bubble which repelled all attempts at communication.

  They stopped at Clacket Lane services on the M25. And Jo thought of Razan. This was where she and twenty other frightened kids, mostly Syrians, had been rescued from the back of a Dutch lorry transporting flowers. She felt guilt bubbling up. Had DC Georgiou found the little sister, Amira, yet? She doubted it. She should go back and visit Razan. But what good would that do? She had to let go; it was no longer her job.

  As they strolled across the car park a snatch of birdsong drifted from the nearby trees. Alison pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit up. Turning away from Jo, she hunched her shoulders to indicate she was in no mood for recriminations about her smoking.

  Jo ignored her and walked towards the building. People were milling about, hands clasped round hot drinks, chatting, laughing. It seemed such a benign and friendly place, a welcoming pit-stop for weary travellers.

  It occurred to Jo that most of the drivers getting out of their cars, stretching their legs or scurrying to the loo, were probably totally unaware of the numbers of desperate illegal migrants who also passed through this place. The phantoms no one wanted to see. It was one of the motorway stops favoured by the people traffickers as a transit point. Close but not too close to the Channel Tunnel and the ferry crossings, it was used to trans-ship their human cargo from large lorries to smaller vehicles. Surveillance and raids took place on a regular basis, but the police knew they only managed to intercept a fraction of the trade.

  Emerging from the building with some tea and packaged sandwiches, Jo found that her mother had settled herself at a picnic table on the grass. She was chatting to an amiable old lady with a dog. It was a small Jack Russell, which enjoyed the fuss.

  The old lady and her companion wandered off, Alison stubbed out her cigarette and gazed up at her daughter. ‘I think I might get a dog. Don’t you think that would be nice? I could take it for walks in the park.’

  Jo handed her a cardboard cup. ‘You’d spend all your time picking up its poop.’

  ‘You always see the negative in everything, don’t you?’

  ‘I was only saying, that’s what you’d have to do.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why you’re in the police? You prefer to deal with the unpleasant side of life. You find that easier.’

  Every conversation they’d had lately, this was what Alison would harp on. The job. She seemed to have become obsessed with it as an explanation for all the things about her daughter that she didn’t like.

  Jo decided to let it pass. Whenever her mother couldn’t cope, her spitefulness tended to make an appearance.

  Sitting down, she unwrapped her egg sandwich and looked at it. It was rather soggy and unappealing. ‘Okay, let’s talk about Nathan Wade. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

  ‘Mum, why are you being like this? You wanted to meet him. Now what?’

  Alison removed the lid from her cup. ‘Well, presumably you’re going to go and talk to this woman.’

  ‘I want to know what you think about him.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I thought I’d know but I don’t.’ Her chin quivered. ‘He seems . . . well, rather sad.’

  ‘He’s just spent sixteen years in prison.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. They have television and everything nowadays.’

  Jo scanned her mother. She was retreating into herself and all her old nonsense. Had it scared her that much, this encounter with her daughter’s convicted killer? Jo had worried that meeting Nathan Wade in person would be too much for her mother and it looked like she was right.

  The only response that ever worked in this situation was if Jo held her temper and didn’t rise to the bait. She bit into her sandwich, it wasn’t that great, but she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was too hungry to care. Perhaps Alison needed time to process her feelings. It was pointless to push her.

  Alison took a sniff at her sandwich then proceeded to break it into pieces and toss it to the birds. She soon had a flock of greedy starlings hopping round her.

  ‘You need the loo before we go, Mum?’

  Alison shook her head.

  ‘I’m going. Won’t be long.’

  As Jo strolled back into the building her phone chirruped. A brief glance at the screen revealed the face of a middle-aged man. Stopping she exhaled. What did he want?

  She hesitated then answered. ‘Hey, Dad.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Jo?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Generally, Nick Boden was the opposite of his ex-wife, even-tempered and laid-back, very little seemed to faze him. But he sounded aggravated.

  ‘I’ve just received an email. From this damned film-maker who’s been harassing me. Briony Rowe? You know her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘According to her, you and your mother have met with Nathan Wade and are cooperating in some bloody miscarriage of justice film to prove his innocence.’

  ‘Hang on, Dad, that’s only partly true.’

  ‘Which part? Have you met him or not?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

 
‘Your mother’s met him? Are you mad? How on earth did you agree to this? Have you any idea what effect this could have?’

  The hectoring tone, the accusation, was too much for Jo. ‘Yeah. More than you, actually. Because I’m the one that’s here with her. And it was her idea to talk to the film people, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s doing half the time. Why didn’t you call me and discuss this?’

  ‘Why?’ Jo took a breath to calm herself. She glanced back at her mother still feeding the birds. ‘You know what. I don’t have to discuss anything I do with you.’

  ‘Jo, listen to me—’

  With a brisk tap of her thumb, Jo ended the call. She then switched her phone to silent, slipped it into her bag and marched towards the toilets.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was already getting dark when they arrived back in Greenwich in the late afternoon. Alison had hardly spoken throughout the journey and Jo had filled the void by turning on the radio. The bland pop intercut with vacuous banter between the presenter and his sidekick washed over Jo and gradually her fury at her father abated.

  By the time they got back she’d come to a decision. Both she and her mother could probably do with some space and time to reflect. The Kelmendis, or their informant, had known where to find her, the butchering of Marmalade demonstrated that. So there was little point staying in Greenwich. She announced she was going home to her own flat and Alison didn’t object. She retreated to her garden studio with a glass of wine.

  Jo packed her case, slotting her sister’s university journals in the top, and returned to Lant Street. As she turned her key in the lock and opened the front door the aroma of stale Thai curry assailed her. But the kitchen was unusually clean, no washing up. Marisa’s door was ajar, Jo peeped in and saw her flatmate sleeping. She must be on a late shift this week.

  Her own room smelt fusty. Quietly closing the door she threw up the sash window and let cold air flood in. The room was small and dominated by her main luxury, a Queen-sized handmade Shaker bed. The frame was solid oak, she’d paid two hundred and fifty pounds for it in a sale, the duvet and pillows were stuffed with white goose down. It was her comforter and her refuge. Whenever life gave her a clobbering she would escape and curl up in her soft-feathered nest. She realized how much she’d been missing it.

  Unpacking her case she put her clothes away in the narrow corner cupboard and placed her laptop and Sarah’s journals on the desk that doubled as a dressing table. Plugging her phone into the charger she noted three missed calls from her father followed by a text:

  Sorry if I’ve upset you. We need to talk. I’ve been in touch with my lawyer to find out what we can do to stop this nonsense. Call me. Please. Dad xx

  There was a second text from Briony Rowe:

  Thanks so much for coming. Know how hard it was for you. Have talked to an admin person at uni and in theory there’ll be a pic of Bruce on file. Am chasing it up. Will keep you posted. B.

  Kicking off her shoes, Jo plumped down on to the bed and closed her eyes. She must’ve fallen asleep immediately because she awoke in darkness, an icy current of air rippling across her face and a figure looming over her. Instinct kicked in; she rolled sideways away from her assailant and threw up her arm to protect her head. How did they even get in? The window! She should never’ve opened the window.

  ‘Welcome home.’ Marisa’s voice drifted to her through the blackness. ‘I brought you a cup of tea.’

  Jo sat up abruptly, her pulse was racing, adrenaline screeching through her veins.

  ‘Shall I put the light on?’ The voice was full of concern.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  Marisa flicked the switch and the low-energy bulb cast a sepia glow over the room. She studied Jo. ‘Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

  ‘Just a bad dream.’ Jo raked a hand through her hair, got up and shut the window.

  ‘How was Meribel? I wanna hear all about it.’

  Meribel? Jo’s mind was blank for about twenty seconds before she remembered that this was the lie she’d spun her flatmate when she’d learnt the Kelmendis were targeting her and she’d escaped to what she had thought would be the safety of her mother’s house.

  She looked at Marisa and felt guilty, too many lies. And Marisa didn’t deserve it, she was straightforward and kind. She was also possibly the closest thing the cop had to a friend. They went clubbing together and had shared plenty of regretful hangovers.

  Jo met her gaze. ‘I haven’t been skiing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marisa frowned. ‘So, is it because of Tom? Are you planning to move out?’

  ‘Tom? Christ, no!’

  ‘I know he pisses you off—’

  ‘It was a work thing. Not Tom.’

  ‘Actually, we’ve split.’

  ‘Really? I’m sorry.’

  Marisa laughed, a deep gurgling chortle. ‘No you’re not. Don’t lie, Jo.’

  Jo couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Are you about to go to work?’

  ‘No, I’ve done a double shift. We had a big RTA and we were already short-staffed so I stayed. That’s why I’ve been asleep most of the day. Totally blitzed.’

  ‘Fancy getting a takeaway?’

  ‘Yeah. Good plan. But not Thai. I seem to have been living on Thai lately.’

  ‘Your choice. I’m happy with whatever.’ Jo swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  Marisa gave her a quizzical look. ‘Are you okay? Has your mum been giving you grief?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Let’s order, then I’ll fill you in.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  According to the latest neuroscience the prefrontal cortex of the brain doesn’t finish developing fully until around the age of twenty-five. Until then impulse control is not complete. It’s why kids do stupid things and it’s why I lashed out that night. It’s not about willpower or lack of it, it’s simple biology. That punch was far harder than I intended. I was a boy who didn’t appreciate his own strength. I wasn’t in the habit of hitting people. More than one life was irrevocably altered that night, Jo, that’s for sure. But I can’t be held solely responsible.

  I’m not really sure why I’m writing all this down now. I doubt you’ll ever read it. I want you to understand how it happened, of course I do. But that in itself is a risk.

  Will we ever be able to have this conversation face to face? That’s my fantasy. I’m not asking for forgiveness. That implies guilt. I don’t feel guilty. And, as I’ve already explained, your sister bears her share of the responsibility. She thought she could lie to me and get away with it. If you knew what she was capable of, then I think you might have some sympathy for my point of view.

  It took me a while to remember that I had actually seen you before. You were only a little kid and you came to visit her. She didn’t want me anywhere near you. When the mood took her, she could be a real bitch.

  I think you were eleven, just started secondary school. You were skinny and gangly, tall for your age but slightly clumsy like a foal learning to run and tripping over its own feet. And you worshipped Sarah. She was a bit naughty with you, took you into the campus bar and gave you half a pint of cider. I’m sure your parents would’ve disapproved. But you loved it. Loved getting pissed like a real student. Even when you puked everywhere you weren’t that upset. Sarah patted you on the head, told you it was an initiation. But she did look after you. I think we all wish we had a big sister like that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  An evening spent with Marisa was the tonic Jo needed. They ate Italian – spaghetti alla carbonara – from a little Italian place in Borough Market, delivered within fifteen minutes of ordering by a boy on a moped.

  Mostly they discussed Marisa’s break-up with her boyfriend. He’d been on a team-building exercise at some fancy hotel and spa with work. In the Jacuzzi he and a colleague discovered their mutual attraction. One thing led to another and he’d sent Marisa a text the next day inform
ing her that he needed space to sort his head out. He came round to pick up his stuff and Marisa realized it wasn’t his head that was the problem.

  She’d shed a few tears, then a new junior doctor in A&E, where she worked, had asked her to go for a drink. A few days later Tom had started to text her suggesting they meet up and talk. She’d told him to get stuffed.

  Jo found her flatmate’s resilience heartening. Marisa had optimism written into her DNA, nothing ever seemed to upset her for long. She was also one of the few people Jo knew who could listen.

  After their second glass of Pinot Grigio, Jo showed Sarah’s journals to her flatmate.

  ‘You never knew these existed?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I did. I must’ve done. But I’d sort of forgotten.’

  ‘Makes sense. You were only eleven.’

  Jo refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle. ‘Does it? I feel . . . I dunno—’

  ‘Guilty? That makes sense too. Survivor’s guilt.’

  ‘But it was all so long ago. Okay, she was my sister. But, to be honest, I don’t think about her that much.’

  Marisa picked up one of the black shiny books. ‘Until now?’

  ‘I don’t know what I should do. My mum thinks that if the wrong person was convicted this somehow explains why she could never come to terms with Sarah’s murder.’

  ‘Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, untreated for years and over-medication with a cocktail of drugs is probably a more accurate explanation.’

  Jo sighed. ‘I know that.’

  ‘What d’you want to do?’

  ‘Run away? But I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘That’s what my dad and my brother did.’

  Marisa shrugged. ‘Men are often better at prioritizing their own needs.’

  ‘Knowing that doesn’t help.’

  ‘Maybe it does. The past is, well, past. It makes no difference to Sarah whether or not the right man went to jail.’

  ‘Matters to me though.’

  Marisa chuckled. ‘Then there’s your answer, kiddo.’