It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  Jo could think of a number of reasons for that but what she wrote was: Narcissism? She certainly had a strong feeling that he was clever and probably had a hidden agenda. If celebrity appealed to him, which it might, that could be lucrative. A jail sentence was no obstacle to creating a popular media persona. Reformed gangsters were always attractive to the public, but a wrongly convicted murderer could have even more appeal.

  She drew four parallel lines, which she formed into two rectangles. She coloured these in. Celebrity = MONEY. Perhaps he regarded Briony as an impediment to that. There could be financial spin-offs from the film, which he didn’t want to share. Maybe he was just greedy?

  Across the top of the right-hand page she wrote: Bruce – who is he? Why would he kill Sarah? Why would he kill Briony? To protect his identity? Who could’ve told Bruce that Briony was a threat – Cynthia?

  Jo took her plate to the kitchen and washed it up. She made herself a mug of camomile tea which she hoped might help her relax and loosen her headache. What she needed was sleep but her mind was jittery and refused to rest.

  She hadn’t heard from Alison in days, which was never a good sign. When they returned from the initial encounter with Nathan Wade, her mother had seemed to be shutting down and slipping into one of her downers. Jo assumed this is what had happened and she felt guilty for not having gone round. She thought about phoning but, if she was right, Alison wouldn’t answer.

  There was also the question of Briony’s death. Who knew what impact news of that would have on Alison. Jo certainly didn’t want her to hear about it from anyone else.

  Trekking to Greenwich on a freezing February evening had little appeal, so Jo decided to try the phone. Her first attempt rang out. She tried again. On her third go Alison picked up.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey, Mum. How you doing?’

  ‘Well I’m not dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ Scratchy but combative; she wasn’t as bad as Jo had feared.

  ‘Sorry it’s been a couple of days. I’ve been working. And . . . I’ve been to Littlehampton again.’

  ‘To see him?’ A definite spark of interest.

  ‘Partly. There’s something I need to tell you about. I think it might be a bit of a shock.’

  ‘You found Bruce.’

  ‘No. Briony’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? What d’you mean? An accident?’

  ‘No, probably not. The local police are treating it as suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Alison heaved an audible sigh. ‘Well, just goes to show, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Goes to show what, Mum?’

  ‘You never can tell about anyone.’

  Jo decided that taking the discussion any further over the phone was probably not a sensible idea. Alison remained silent but Jo could discern the snap of the lighter as she lit a cigarette. She needed to change the subject.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve been reading more of Sarah’s journals and there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? It’s the ones you least expect. She seemed quite . . . I dunno, jolly?’

  ‘Yeah. Well I was wondering about the time Dad went down to visit Sarah on his own. In the first term, maybe November.’

  ‘I don’t remember that. We always went together.’

  ‘Yeah, but he might’ve been down there on business and popped in to see her.’

  ‘No. He never did that.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘What? Now, not only d’you think I’m crackers, you also think I’ve got dementia!’

  ‘Mum, don’t be daft. That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘You think I don’t remember every single time we saw her, every visit we made in those months she was there? You went at half-term.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But did Dad—’

  ‘No! Absolutely not!’ The phone went dead. Her mother had a tendency to hang up when she was annoyed. So Jo wasn’t particularly taken aback.

  She opened the drawer in her desk and took out the envelope containing her sister’s three letters.

  The second one was dated 14 November and was a chatty mixture of advice and scandal that sounded like the big sister Jo remembered. But in the third letter, dated 5 December, the tone had changed. And there it was in black and white:

  I know you’re upset that Dad came down to see me and didn’t tell you. But he had a work thing, a meeting with a client in Brighton, which was arranged at the last minute, so he literally popped in. I know that Mummy’s told you that spring half-term is the best time for you to visit and I absolutely promise you that it will happen.

  Had Alison simply forgotten? It was entirely possible. When she and Nick broke up in a welter of toxic grief, did she block out the separate relationship he’d had with his daughter? Over the years, Alison’s recollections of her had ossified into her version of saintly Sarah. Anything less than flattering had been redacted from the record.

  Jo skimmed through the rest of the letter: Sarah’s wish to change course and her plan to apply for a year abroad at a university in America. It ended in a different vein to all their previous correspondence. These were the last words her sister had written to her:

  But if in doubt, run like hell. Sometimes it’s the best thing to do. In many ways I envy you. You get to learn from all my stupid mistakes.

  Run like hell from what? She’d certainly seen Sarah subsequently. But Jo couldn’t recall any sisterly tête-à-têtes. If anything, Sarah had become more distant. But surely this was natural – two girls growing up and growing apart. It would’ve happened anyway. They would’ve probably ended up in different places with vastly different lives and a few shared memories to be giggled over at Christmas when they dragged out the old photo albums.

  Jo wondered what sort of life she might’ve had if tragedy hadn’t intervened. Perhaps they’d be living on separate continents, connecting occasionally on Skype and meeting every few years when one of them could afford to make the trip. This was the relationship Jo had with their brother, Carl. And she knew less about him than she did about Sarah.

  Picking up her notebook, Jo added two questions to the right-hand page: What happened at the end of November? Has Mum forgotten or does she not know?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The office was packed the next morning for the 10 a.m. debriefing. Jo stood at the back near the door. The seizure at Buckler’s Hard had led to a slew of additional arrests in Manchester and London, suspects were being questioned and the effort now was on collating all the evidence for the CPS.

  Ivan Rossi’s mugshot was third in the top row displayed on the screen. Jo wondered if he’d woken up yet to her part in his arrest. She hoped her cover had been preserved as she didn’t fancy yet another disgruntled villain with a motive to harm her.

  Vaizey introduced the briefing but then invited other officers to fill in the details. He looked weary and dispirited, a common reaction when the euphoria following a big bust subsided. Jo suspected he might be something of an adrenaline junkie, so he was probably suffering withdrawal symptoms. He glanced in her direction once, she avoided his eye and they didn’t speak.

  Jo had already decided that she was owed some skiving time and she sloped off at the first opportunity. If Foley needed her, she assumed he’d call. As for the boss, she hoped that her behaviour had indicated to him that she didn’t intend to be any sort of a problem and had drawn a line under their encounter.

  She took the tube to Liverpool Street. Cynthia Fenton-Wright had a corner bay-windowed office in a Victorian refurb above a sandwich bar in Spitalfields. She was the CEO of a branding and digital design agency and a quick trawl through her client list on the net led Jo to the conclusion that she was pretty successful at it. She had some big-name clients and a stack of industry awards.

  The young man who ushered Jo in wore a T-shirt and Converse high tops but offered refreshments with all the obsequiousness of a butl
er.

  Cynthia, clearly no longer Cyn, held out her hand. ‘DC Boden. I’m so pleased to meet you. Though I’m glad to say we don’t often get visited by the police.’

  Jo shook her hand. ‘As I hope I made clear on the phone, I’m here in a personal capacity. This is not official.’

  ‘Yes, you’re Sarah Boden’s sister. You did say that. She was such a lovely girl. What a terrible tragedy that was.’

  Cynthia perched on one of the two vintage Ercol sofas and invited Jo to take the other. Although she must’ve been the same age as her sister, Jo concluded she only looked about thirty. Hair and make-up were subtle, the clothes elegant and expensive. Her own personal brand had certainly changed since her student days.

  Jo smiled. ‘Do you keep in touch with many old friends from university?’

  ‘Facebook. Not really in touch. I suppose we’re all a bit competitive, we like to know who’s done well and not so well. Marriages, divorces, how many kids, that sort of thing.’

  ‘My sister wrote a journal during her time at uni and I’ve been reading it.’

  ‘That must be rather bittersweet.’

  ‘Gut-wrenching. I think that’s how I’d describe it.’

  Cynthia gave a concerned nod. ‘You must’ve been quite young when it all happened.’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Old enough to hurt but not to understand.’

  ‘That’s a good way of putting it.’ Jo smiled. ‘Sarah does mention you. You were called Cyn back then?’

  The businesswoman laughed. ‘Yes. I liked the double entendre, thought it made me sound cool. It’s the sort of silly thing you think when you’re nineteen.’

  ‘I get the impression that you and my sister didn’t get on that well.’

  Cynthia raised her sculpted eyebrows. ‘You mean the play? When I replaced her? It was her decision to pull out.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I think she had some row with the director. His name was – God, can I even remember – Randall? Yes, that’s right, Randy. He was this preppy American on the exchange programme. When he found out that Randy had a rather different meaning over here he insisted everyone call him that. Loved it. But then he was totally obnoxious.’

  ‘Was Sarah ever involved with him?’

  Cynthia chuckled. ‘No! I wouldn’t have thought so. Does she mention him in the journal?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘He was short and fat with terrible halitosis. You’d have to be pretty desperate to succumb to his charms. Certainly not Sarah’s type.’

  ‘But you and Sarah weren’t close? More rivals?’

  ‘It was our first year. No one knew anyone. We were all back to square one, like kids in the playground again, jockeying for position, forming cliques. Sarah was an obvious star. Beautiful. Clever. I must say, you look a lot like her. That must’ve been a bit of a curse for you over the years.’

  Jo smiled and shrugged. Cynthia had an easy confidence and a shrewd manner, which put her in mind of Sarah. They seemed strangely similar. Perhaps this is what her big sister would’ve become if she’d lived: a foxy businesswoman with a perfect manicure and a pile of cash.

  Cynthia crossed her legs and clasped her palms together. ‘I wish I had known Sarah better. I think in the long run we would’ve got on well.’

  ‘Yes, I think you would.’

  There was a pause as the two women eyed each other. The preliminaries were over and Cynthia Fenton-Wright seemed completely composed. Perhaps too composed. Jo was beginning to wonder if she even knew of Briony Rowe’s death. Or maybe she hadn’t connected Jo with Briony.

  Jo crossed her own legs, mirroring the businesswoman. ‘Well, you’re probably wondering why I’m here.’

  Cynthia shrugged. ‘I had heard, I can’t remember where, that a film’s being made about your sister’s murder. Trying to get her killer off. But I’m sure you wouldn’t involve yourself in anything like that.’

  ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t. But Nathan Wade has been released on licence and, as you can imagine, that’s very difficult for my family. Especially my mother.’

  ‘I think the media can be so irresponsible.’ She pursed her lips like a disapproving schoolmarm. ‘They go for the shock and sensation and give no thought to who might be affected. It’s all audience figures and sales. Don’t get me wrong – I have no problem with the profit motive, I’m in business to make a profit. But there are ethical considerations too and lines that should not be crossed.’

  ‘I absolutely agree. So what did you make of Nathan Wade?’

  ‘I’m very glad to say I didn’t know him.’ She gave an involuntary shudder.

  ‘You wouldn’t have recognized him at all?’

  ‘Well, I sort of knew who he was. That he was on our course. But there were quite a few of us.’

  ‘You knew him by sight then?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Jo observed the tension in Cynthia’s hands. Her self-possession was starting to crack. Was she anticipating Jo’s next question? What exactly had Briony Rowe told her when they’d met for lunch?

  She laced her own fingers. ‘On the night the murder took place, were you on campus?’

  ‘I lived on campus. Most first years did.’

  ‘But not Nathan.’

  ‘I have no idea where he lived.’

  ‘Is there any possibility you could’ve bumped into him that night?’

  ‘Nathan Wade? No.’ The reply was quick and emphatic. Too emphatic. Boden lounged back on the sofa and smiled. Cynthia Fenton-Wright was not a good liar.

  The cop tilted her head. ‘Do you remember where you were that night, or what you were doing?’

  Cynthia exhaled. ‘No. It was a very long time ago.’

  ‘Did you go out?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Maybe with some friends? When I first went to uni we were in the bar most nights.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The businesswoman’s demeanour had changed. Still very much in control but unsettled. She glanced at her watch.

  Jo decided to prod a little more. ‘Nathan Wade thinks he bumped into you that night and asked you for the time.’

  Cynthia spluttered. ‘Well, he’s certainly mistaken about that.’

  ‘You said you don’t remember what you were doing.’

  ‘I would’ve remembered that. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously. Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’ Jo got up. Cynthia looked surprised then visibly relieved.

  As she reached the door, the detective turned. A standard trick but worth a try.

  ‘Oh, I meant to say, did you know Briony Rowe? She was a friend of Sarah’s and also on your course I believe.’

  Cynthia’s brow puckered. ‘I have a vague recollection. Rather overweight, I recall.’

  ‘Is she one of your Facebook friends?’

  ‘Oh God. She might be. All sorts of people come out of the woodwork wanting to connect with you. You know how it is.’

  Cynthia’s anxiety to get rid of her was palpable. Jo stood pondering for a moment. She turned to face the businesswoman, smiled, sighed, taking her time.

  ‘Well, you’ve heard about the film. It’s Briony Rowe’s project.’

  ‘I don’t think I knew that.’ Another lie, which was interesting. She was taking quite a risk.

  ‘Apparently, Briony thinks there’s an alternative suspect. She believes Nathan to be innocent.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. And if he is innocent, why wouldn’t he have spoken up sooner and tried to clear his name?’

  ‘I agree. But unless you’ve got money for lawyers it’s quite hard to get an appeal heard. Perhaps he lost heart over the years and decided he’d get out sooner if he accepted his guilt and went for early parole.’

  ‘You actually think he was wrongfully convicted?’

  ‘I didn’t. But since Briony’s death I’ve begun to wonder.’

  ‘Briony’s dead?’
The shock that swept over Cynthia Fenton-Wright’s face was impossible for her to conceal. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Suicide, accident? No one’s sure. She was killed by a train on a level crossing outside Littlehampton. Early hours of yesterday morning.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ The colour had drained from her face. She sat down on the sofa.

  Jo gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have upset you. I didn’t realize you knew her that well.’

  ‘I didn’t. It’s just . . . the idea of anyone dying like that is so awful.’ Cynthia put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Yes, it is. I suppose I’m a bit more inured to these things. Well, thanks again for seeing me.’

  Under the careful make-up the businesswoman’s upper lip was damp. ‘You don’t think . . . I mean, is there a connection to your sister’s death?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You said you’ve begun to wonder. Are you looking into it?’

  Jo had her on the ropes and she went for the knockout blow.

  ‘Briony’s death is a matter for Sussex Police. I have no involvement. I don’t know what I think about my sister. But I would like to know the truth. I think my family deserve that.’ Jo kept her tone as bland as possible but gave the businesswoman a penetrating stare. ‘I know it was a long time ago, but if anything comes to mind, any small, incidental thing, especially about the actual night, perhaps you’d give me a call?’ She held out her business card and smiled. ‘This is where you can contact me.’

  Cynthia took the card between thumb and index finger. ‘Of course.’

  Heading out, Jo began to speculate as to what Cyn might do next in response to the grenade that had just been lobbed at her. Contact Bruce? In an ideal world, she’d put Cynthia under surveillance, track her phone calls and her movements. But she had no official sanction to do that, which was a problem.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The gun-smuggling suspects were being interrogated at various locations. The clock was ticking to assemble the evidence and get the nod from the CPS to formally charge. The office was half empty when Jo returned and she joined Sandra in front of the bank of monitors showing live feed from the interviews.