by Jody Sabral
‘Thank you for saying that. Do you want me to send the notebook back to you?’
‘No. I have no use for it. If it provides any clues to what happened, I’ll be glad.’
‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘I hope you figure it out.’
Her eyes display a mixture of grief and expectation. She talks about her former flatmate with such fondness, it’s very sad.
We finish our coffees and have a long hug before going our separate ways. I head back towards the Fields, hoping that the lush greenery in the park will lift my spirits. There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach. It’s been there since Greg was taken into custody. My heart is aching the way it did after I left Manchester. I feel like I’ve sunk right back into those feelings. I finally admit to myself that I really do miss him, but there’s also nothing I can do. It’s too late for that. I can’t tell him that I still love him, because I’m still drinking and he won’t accept that. But what he fails to realise is that I’m not a drunk like Sarah was. I used to see her knocking back booze on her own in the park every day when I went to work at the radio station. I’ve never been like that. Drinking tinnies in the park with other drunks.
Audrey has emailed me to ask if I’ll write something for the website. The notebook in my bag might hold something newsworthy, so I reply positively, hoping that by agreeing to do it we will be on better terms. She was really pissed off with me by the end of yesterday and I need to smooth things over. She deserves some recognition for how much she’s contributed to the story. So much so that I wonder if she might want to write something instead of me. I shoot her a text in that vein and she jumps on it.
I am walking at a snail’s pace towards home. Mostly because I’m actually finding it quite hard to walk this morning. My body is in desperate need of some respite from the drink. I promise myself that today, if it’s the only thing I do, I will detox.
The Fields is quite busy, in contrast to a week ago. People are taking advantage of the mild and sunny weather. It’s as if the murders never really happened. We all carry on, I suppose, pick up our lives and try to move forward. Passing under the large oak trees that must have stood here for centuries, I make a deal with myself to just get on with it. Not look back in anger. Celebrate my new-found success at work. It’s quite something having been on the teatime bulletin almost every day for a week. I wish Greg could see that.
Back home, I make a cup of tea, put my phone on silent and open Maggie’s notebook. Inside, there are notes and sketches, ideas she had during moments of inspiration. It’s very poignant looking through the pages filled with doodles and portraits of people she knew. I find the pocket Anne Marie showed me. Inside is a small piece of folded paper, and on it, a user name and password.
I log out of my own COMEout account and log into hers. She was popular, by the looks of it. There are roughly twenty conversations, all of which stopped on the day she was reported dead. I scroll through the windows, looking for a glimmer of something, anything, to shed light on who she met in the weeks before her death.
It’s what one would expect on a dating app, a collection of good-looking men. There’s Kieron, 42, a creative director with full arm tattoos. He is quite witty and clearly charmed by Maggie’s replies. They discussed meeting up, but it doesn’t look like anything came of it. Not that I can really ever know. They may have swapped phone numbers and continued the conversation on What’sApp. That happens a lot with dating online.
I sift through more conversations and profiles. It’s a window into the most intimate part of her life. Reading these conversations makes me feel incredibly sad. Maggie was very sharp-minded. Funny and intelligent. Such a waste of a life. The whole thing makes me think of Greg again. I don’t know what to say to him. I want to admit my drink problem. To possibly try again. I was so happy when I was carrying his baby, so why couldn’t I stop myself drinking? I’ve been so cowardly about the whole thing, but I just wish he’d stop judging me. See my success. Why doesn’t he get that?
The words in the notebook look all jumbled up, like the words in my head. I can’t seem to find anything of interest. I don’t really know what I’m looking for. I return to her dating profile. There is a conversation between her and Charlie, or the fake Charlie, so he claims. I read the messages and I have to say I agree; it doesn’t sound like him at all. The whole thing sheds no light on what happened to her, though. All it does do is highlight the fact that she was looking for real love. A deep connection that might fulfil something in her. That’s what we all want, isn’t it? It’s all Sarah Wilcox wanted, I suppose. To be loved. To be truly loved.
I feel bad about what happened to Sarah now. And about talking to her in Manchester last year. I also wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t. She might still be alive and Greg might be at home with me and not in police custody. Shit. It’s been almost twenty-four hours now and they still haven’t released him. This isn’t looking good.
60
March 2018
Dear Diary,
Some days I feel on top of the world, and others I feel dreadful. Truly dreadful. Like I’m another person. I do things I’m not proud of. I have violent thoughts that come out in fits of uncontrollable anger. I just explode. I thought being sober would give me my life back, and while it has in a way, the sobriety has allowed another part of me to emerge. It’s a part I truly don’t understand. Some days I have really, really dark thoughts. I’m wondering if I should go back to one-on-one therapy, because something is not right. But then I’m scared of what more I might discover.
I wrote to Alex again. I explained to her that I need her. That I think I really need to find my way back into a programme to deal with who I am now, before I do something stupid, but as usual, she didn’t respond. She behaves like I don’t exist. I decided that perhaps she wasn’t seeing my messages, so I managed to get her mobile phone number from her place of work. Pretended I had a scoop that I would only share with her. It was quite easy to get it, believe it or not.
I called, but she didn’t answer, so then I texted and she finally agreed to meet up. I can’t actually believe it. At last we’re going to meet. I sent her my address and she’s coming over. I’m so happy, I can’t describe how I feel. It’s what I’ve been waiting for all this time. I’m going to tell her I can help her and I think she can help me too, like she did before. If it’s the last thing I do, I will help her admit to her problem and I will admit mine too. We can help each other and everything will be better. I want to be better. I really do.
61
Mr Wilcox called to tell me he is in London and wants to see me. I’m not entirely sure why, but I agreed to meet him, because maybe it’ll shed some light on what went on between Sarah and Greg, and maybe that’ll help get Greg out of police custody.
We agreed to meet at a hotel in Old Street. He is in the lobby when I arrive, sitting in a high-backed leather chair. I recognise him from the photos I saw when I interviewed his wife. Although he looks much frailer in person. When he realises I’m standing next to him, he gets up and extends his hand to greet me. A smile softens his face and he looks younger for a brief moment.
‘Alex. Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t really know who else to call.’
We sit down. He rests his clasped hands on the table between us. There’s no wedding ring on his finger.
‘I’ve ordered a coffee. Would you like something?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Just then a waitress approaches and deposits a mug of coffee on the table before leaving us alone. He stirs in one sugar, then leans back and clasps his hands again.
‘I’m not really sure where to start.’ He’s looking up to the ceiling, as if searching for some guidance from above.
‘At the beginning?’ It’s a cliché, but I’m not really sure what else to say.
The hotel lobby is quiet. There’s a couple checking in, but other than that, we have the place to ourselves.
He leans forward, his hands sti
ll clasped, and looks me straight in the eye.
‘My wife has been hospitalised. Been up to her old tricks.’
I remember the marks on her wrists and hope that’s not it.
‘Sarah had a lot of problems. A lot of problems, not unlike her mother.’
The coffee is now in his hands and he takes a tiny sip.
‘I found her, you know. My wife. She was sitting in bed. She’d had too much to drink, as always. But this time it wasn’t the same. She didn’t look the same. When you’re married to an alcoholic, life is messy.’
I’m not sure where this is going, so I say nothing but try to look attentive. The painkillers I necked just before I got here are kicking in, and my body has a reprieve from the aches and pains of the abuse I’ve inflicted on myself this past week.
‘My wife drinks too much. Always drinking. I tried to help her stop many times, but she didn’t want to, you see. On this occasion, her liver just decided to give up. She won’t last long. It was only ever a matter of time. She’s lucky she even got this far really.’
The sound of cutlery being put away ripples through the lobby. There’s a dining room to our right with a bar.
‘Sarah drank as well, and that is because of her mum, but then you knew that, didn’t you?’
The comment takes me aback, but I do my best not to react. Instead I focus on the steam rising from his cup, which is being blown sideways as he talks.
‘Unlike her mother, Sarah did go to rehab. She did try to get better and that’s partly because of you. She told me about how you met, in the park last year. That you changed her life when you took her to AA. I want to thank you for that.’
‘But I didn’t do anything. I really didn’t. I met her a few times. Hardly knew her.’
‘You changed her life. You set her on the path to recovery. Sometimes all it takes is a nudge in the right direction by a stranger. Often those around you are too close to the issue, you know.’
I wish I had something to drink. I find some gum in my bag and shove it in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Wilcox, but I think you’re mistaken. I really didn’t know Sarah that well.’
He’s not listening to me. He’s talking as if no one ever listens to him.
‘All the experts say you need to get to the bottom of why you drink to stop drinking. But the reason for Sarah was complex.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘She drank because of the pain, but then neither of us tried to stop her because of the pain. If I hadn’t left when she was young, her life probably would have turned out very differently. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that, for abandoning her. Leaving her with her mother, who couldn’t provide the nurture a child needs to become a secure, loving individual.’
‘But you’re here now. You care. I don’t really follow.’
‘When Sarah was a baby, I left her with her mother for a number of years. It was during those years that the damage was done. I couldn’t stand the drinking, you see. I was in no state to take Sarah with me, and it would have become a legal battle. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted. I just knew that I couldn’t be around the drinking. I couldn’t enable my wife.’
This is actually a very brave confession by an emotionally tortured man. It moves me, and for a passing moment I understand how it must feel to be in Greg’s shoes.
‘By the time I came back, Sarah was a different person. She had started having dark thoughts. Very dark thoughts. It was the lack of love in her that caused it. I know that now.’
His hands are shaking, not unlike mine but for different reasons, so he puts the coffee down on the table and wipes both hands over his face, an act that gives him a moment to think.
‘Do you mind me asking?’ I say. ‘What do you mean by dark thoughts?’
‘By the age of eight, she was having episodes, and she needed treatment, but by then it was too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘To change what had happened to her.’
He rests his hands on the table and leans forward, his head dropping. When he eventually looks up, the overwhelming emotion on his face is shame. I know what shame looks like. I’ve lived with it all my life.
‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.’
‘Because I’m a journalist and you want the truth?’
He ignores me and continues.
‘I don’t suppose it matters anyway. It will all come out in the end. You see, as hard as this is to admit, I think Sarah’s sobriety may have had a profound effect on her, and maybe she got involved in something that wasn’t quite right.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘I spoke to Tim her therapist at rehab. I think that was his name. Anyway, he explained that she had serious trauma that had created neurological issues.’
He opens a notebook that was on the table and reads from it.
‘He said that those traumatic feelings had become unconscious memories hidden in her deepest, darkest vaults. That the lights connecting to the neurological pathway had gone out so she was able to move her life forward temporarily. But the sobriety lit up this pathway, which he believes could have thrust her backwards to relive that trauma. The results, he said, could be very dangerous. She could have violent episodes, triggered by the memories that had started to come back. I’m wondering if this might be partly responsible for what’s happened here.’
‘What are you saying, Mr Wilcox? That your daughter was capable of murder?’
‘I suppose I am.’
His head drops again, but my story just took a turn in an award-winning direction. I wonder if DI Brook is aware of this aspect of Sarah’s personality. I need to tell him. Maybe it will help Greg’s case.
‘I truly believe that my wife is in hospital because of her guilt. I think she knows something important, but she’s in no state to talk yet. She’s unconscious, you see. This time she almost finished herself off.’
‘I see.’
‘The police say they still haven’t located the flat where Sarah was living in London, but that’s because she rented it in a different name. She didn’t want her mother to find her at any cost.’
‘Do you know what name she used?’
He looks very serious.
‘She rented a place in your name, Alex. I told the police this morning.’
62
I call DI Brook from the hotel lobby and question him about the fake profile set up in Charlie’s name, but he offers no explanation and sticks to the official line that they are investigating all leads. It’s infuriating, to say the least. I also tell him I’m aware of the fact that Sarah was a violent individual who was renting a flat in my name, but all he does is thank me for my concerns and hang up.
Mr Wilcox has agreed to do an interview, given that his wife is now in hospital and his daughter is dead. He wants to open up about Sarah’s mental health and her alcoholism, believing that it might have some bearing on the case. The news centre is unsure what to make of my latest scoop, but they agree to it for lack of knowing what else to do with the story. They need a new line to keep it going, as the police haven’t said anything since yesterday. I’m hoping it might keep the focus off the man in custody too, buy some time on that side of things. So Mr Wilcox and I take a cab to HQ.
The interview is raw, emotional and passionate. He’s a broken man, confessing his darkest secrets for the country to judge. He admits he is guilty of not addressing Sarah’s drinking when it started because he was in denial, as he had been about his wife for most of his married life. He urges people to take alcoholism seriously. For the government to recognise it as an inherent disease in order to make diagnosis easier and treatment cheaper. He believes this would help families own up to it rather than pretend it isn’t happening. Talking to us is part of that denial finally being lifted, I suppose. He feels that the police have made a hash of things and he is angry that it has resulted in his wife being in hospital.
The lawyers are going to have to look at it to ensu
re we can’t be sued by the Met for influencing the investigation, but this is the stuff TV is made for. We are about to link it to the bigger picture, using the string of murders to open up a real debate about how the country is dealing with alcoholism. It is an incredibly moving interview. A grown man admitting he failed his daughter – well, it doesn’t get much stronger than that.
Within an hour of the interview going live, it has received upwards of one million hits.
Audrey is elated. ‘I’m going to get a promotion on the back of this, and you’ll probably end up with something too. How lucky is that, I mean, that we got the interview. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit grouchy lately, I’m just tired and I think the case was getting to me.’
‘That’s okay. Sometimes things just work out another way. Enjoy this moment, Audrey.’
‘I’ve got almost twenty thousand Twitter followers now – that’s power in our game.’
‘It is,’ I agree.
‘You’ve gone over a hundred thousand followers, Alex, you’re like the Twitter queen of the channel. It’s not been a bad week, has it?’
‘Not at all. This has launched your career, and cemented mine.’
‘Which is great, isn’t it? But there’s a killer still out there. That hasn’t changed.’
‘Not for much longer, I hope. I have a feeling that it might soon be over. I’m going to get a coffee,’ I tell her. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
Walking out of the news centre, a real sense of achievement fills me for the very first time in my career. Now the editors will have to take me seriously. The story is a national obsession. #SarahWilcoxRIP is trending on Twitter since Mr Wilcox spoke out about the results of his denial.