by Niki Mackay
‘Once a month.’
‘That’s very precise.’
She shrugs.
I ask, ‘Saying what?’
‘Oh, nothing much. Updates on himself, the family.’ She pauses and I think how young she looks, how frightened she must have been at eighteen. Locked up, isolated from her family. She must have felt utterly abandoned.
‘Did you write back?’
‘Yes, every time. I wrote letters in between to start with but he didn’t respond so I stuck to once a month. We spoke on the phone a few times recently. He called when I wrote and told him I wanted to come back here.’ She pauses, taking a deep breath. ‘They sorted the flat out for me when I said I was coming home to Kingston.’
‘So your dad is helping financially?’
She takes a sip of her sugary tea. ‘Yes. I was very surprised.’
‘Were you close growing up?’
She frowns. ‘Not to Marcus really. If you’d asked me then, I’d have said me and Dad were close.’ She blinks away tears.
‘Your sister?’
‘No one was close to Martha. She spent a lot of our teenage years in and out of hospital.’
‘You haven’t heard from her either?’
‘No.’
I ask where Martha is now. Kate says she’s in a psychiatric hospital called Sandcross. I make a note to call them.
I say, ‘There’s a history of mental illness in your family?’
‘Yes, none of us Reynolds women come off well, eh?’ It’s a half-hearted joke.
‘Marcus didn’t experience the same kind of problems?’
‘As Martha or Mum?’
‘Either of them.’
‘We were all . . . messed up . . . Especially after Mum died. Just in different ways. I got in with Naomi, then Oliver, looking for love, according to my therapist.’ She laughs, it’s a bitter sound. ‘Marcus also got obsessed with Naomi, in a different way of course. Then he got angry. Martha cracked up.’
‘Marcus was angry at Naomi?’
‘Yes. She could be infuriating. They had a thing, she was cheating.’ Kate flushes as though the embarrassment of the cheating was somehow her fault.
‘How did Marcus find out?’
‘She didn’t really hide it, didn’t see it as a problem.’
I frown at that. ‘She knew he was upset?’
‘Yes, not that it did him any good. She found other people’s pain amusing.’ She puts her empty tea cup on the edge of the desk. Her hand shakes slightly. I remember the days when mine used to do that. For different reasons. I pick up my coffee, enjoying its steady journey to my mouth. Sometimes it’s the little things. ‘Naomi sounds like a treat.’
Kate says, ‘When she was nice she was really nice.’
‘And when she was nasty . . .’
‘Yes.’
I put down the cup and make a quick note linking Marcus and Naomi’s names. ‘Was Marcus violent?’ I ask.
‘Towards Naomi?’
‘Towards anyone.’
She shrugs, little thin shoulders like spikes under cotton. ‘No, not really. I mean sibling stuff, with me more than Martha. We fought but probably that’s usual. He punched a lot of walls when he was frustrated.’
‘You said he was angry with your mum?’
‘I think so. He was quite protective over her though, even after she died. Wouldn’t hear a word said against her.’ She’s tugging at the bottom of her sleeves and rolling her hands up into them. Lots of her mannerisms seem younger than her.
‘How did your father react?’
‘To Mum?’
I nod.
‘He was devastated. He was really the only one of us who had a proper relationship with her.’ I can see her fingers wriggling under the fabric. Worrying at a thread or button.
‘The only one who was close to your mother?’
She nods. ‘I realise that sounds odd, but she was never well. She was like Martha, I suppose. Scared of her own shadow. We were always too much for her.’
I ask, ‘But you loved her?’
‘She was my mother.’
‘So you loved her, what, out of duty?’
Kate blushes and runs a hand over her face.
‘Yes, and hated her, I suppose. In equal measures if that makes sense. I don’t know about the others.’ She pushes the hand back into her sleeve.
‘What was wrong with your mum?’
‘Oh, well . . .’ The hand darts out again, rubbing across her face and away. ‘She was . . . morose. I don’t know exactly. Something . . . happened when she was growing up. I never met her family. That’s unusual isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. Do you know why?’
She shakes her head. ‘I heard whispers over the years. Dad said they weren’t good people but I know she was living with them when they met. I guess he must have known them.’ The whispers of the past have a habit of steering through the generations no matter how much we try to bury them. I never met my mother’s parents. They never forgave her for having me. I’ve still managed to resent them even in their absence.
I ask Kate, ‘Did Martha’s . . . problems start after your mother’s death?’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh, no, not exactly. She was always sensitive, but things got worse after Mum died.’ She’s picking at her cuffs again. I don’t think she realises that her hands never stay still. I bet she twitches when she’s sleeping. She says, ‘According to Marcus, she hasn’t improved much.’
‘And there was no specific incident that you know of that led to your mother committing suicide?’
‘No. I’ve thought about it a lot, obviously. I’ve never really found a satisfactory answer.’ The hand flicks out again.
‘Tell me more about Ruth,’ I say.
‘She was soft, and sad. Very beautiful. My father doted on her, I remember that. Always with the extravagant gifts, nothing was too much trouble. We had a series of au pairs. A team of cleaners. He’d rush in at night and go looking for her.’
‘Did she love him?’
She pauses, weighing it up. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure she had it in her.’
What must have occurred to make Ruth Reynolds unable to love her own husband? Her own children? I think of my daughter’s young life. I wanted so badly to go back to work and get away from her incessant needs. And yet I loved her. It must be awful not to feel even that connection.
‘Martha had long absences from school after Ruth’s death. Can you tell me about those?’
Kate nods. ‘Yes. She was too ill to learn.’
‘Mentally?’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have been rough on you and Marcus, all the attention going on Martha?’
She frowns, a small line dances in between her eyebrows. ‘I suppose it was. Marcus chased Dad’s approval, always looking for attention. I partied with Naomi and Oliver. I’m sure you’ve read my journal.’ She’s blushing.
I say, ‘It was a long time ago and we only focused on relevant passages.’
‘I’ve regretted writing any of it since, though I’m ashamed to say I very much meant it at the time.’ She tugs at the end of her sleeves, raises a hand to her hair, pushing her fringe, slightly too long, out of her eyes.
‘You wanted her dead?’
‘I think I did, yes.’ Her voice is small, her eyes downcast. Shoulders curled in. I wonder if it’s guilt collapsing her in on herself and if so what exactly the guilt is for. Hating her bitchy frenemy or murder?
I ask again, ‘But you don’t think you killed her?’
She’s shaking her head, wipes a hand under both eyes. Her movements are small and quick – birdlike, nervous. Hands darting in and out of her sleeves. Eyes wandering, unable to meet mine for too long. She does, though, just for a minute, and she is clear when
she says, ‘She was dead when I came into the room,’ and sits up straighter, turning her shoulders back toward me.
‘Stabbed repeatedly, just like you fantasised about in writing?’
She holds my gaze. ‘I realise I don’t come across well.’
‘Hey, the papers don’t love me either.’
She giggles at that and I can see that if she loosened up she’d be almost pretty. ‘What did Marcus want this morning?’ I ask her.
Her eyes stray away from my face back down to her hands. ‘To avoid further embarrassment.’
Ah. ‘He wants you to leave?’
‘In the nicest way possible, yes.’ I can’t think of a nice way for your family to ask you to fuck off.
‘You’re not going to?’
She looks at me again, pausing. I can almost see her mustering resolve. ‘Not yet. I have a purpose here.’
‘To clear your name?’
‘I hope so.’ She quickly adds, ‘With your help.’
No pressure then. I don’t bother telling her how hard it’s going to be to reopen a case that is six years old. Instead I say, ‘Whose idea was the party?’
‘Probably Naomi’s.’
‘You were taking drugs?’ I know they had been. I saw the toxicology reports but I want to know if it was problematic or recreational. Despite my own issues, I don’t believe drugs are all bad.
‘Yes, sometimes. Not usually like that.’
I scrawl a note. ‘Naomi?’
‘Oh yes, she was more . . .’ Kate half smiles, ‘greedy than me maybe, she couldn’t get enough.’
I relate to that but I don’t tell Kate. I just nod and put a question mark next to Naomi’s name.
‘Who did you buy them from?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Naomi just showed up with various things. Usually pills.’
They had found traces of pharmaceutical speed and Valium in the girls’ systems. An odd combination. I’d wondered at the time if Naomi had been buying from a doctor, chemist or nurse. I wouldn’t have thought your average dealer would sell such things.
‘You had a boyfriend . . .?’
She smiles at that, nodding, blushing. ‘Oliver.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘Naomi introduced us.’
‘Where did she meet him?’
Kate laughs. ‘HMV I think.’
‘The record shop?’
‘Yes. We hung out there loads.’ She pauses, seeming to weigh something up.
I prompt her, ‘Go on.’
‘We used to . . . steal things.’
‘From HMV?’
She blushes again, nodding.
‘Why?’ Both girls came from wealthy families and money never seemed to be an issue.
Kate is getting redder. ‘I know it was stupid. I hated doing it; I was always terrified of getting caught and getting into trouble.’ She pauses as the irony of that comment hits home.
I say, ‘Right.’ Little rich kids looking for a thrill. I used to shoplift food and tampons. I’d have to if I didn’t manage to get the dole cheque off Mum before she hit the offie.
‘Oliver was a few years older than you?’
‘Yes, twenty-three.’
‘And you were just sixteen at the time?’
‘Yes.’ She nods.
I make a note of this. I had thought this was a bit off in the original investigation. Not to mention that we had spoken to him once, briefly, and sent him on his way. I remember Malone waggling his eyebrows at him in a lascivious way as Oliver outlined a sexual relationship with Kate. When I’d asked what he thought, he’d said boys would be boys and who could blame him.
‘Oliver was local?’ I ask. I can’t remember exactly where he lived.
‘I don’t know. I never went to his house. He used to come to mine a lot.’ I wonder if he had been hiding his relationship with such a young woman from whoever he lived with. I can’t recall us delving into who that might have been, or even where his house was. I put a large red line underneath his name.
‘You thought he was cheating on you with Naomi?’ She’d written as much in her journal.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think they already had a thing going on when she introduced him to you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her eyes widen. ‘I hope not, but looking back . . . maybe.’ I can see her mind whirring through the past. She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Nothing I could prove.’
‘Maybe you were paranoid?’
‘Maybe,’ she replies.
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘No.’ Her eyes meet mine.
I hold her gaze and ask, ‘Have you heard from him?’
There is a pause. ‘No.’ I wonder if it’s the truth but I don’t push it.
‘He was questioned,’ I tell her.
‘Really?’ She looks surprised enough to make me think maybe she’s not lying.
‘Of course – he was at the party. He said you and Naomi had been fighting, he wasn’t sure what about.’
She blinks and I see something wash over her face. She frowns.
‘Were there any good things about Naomi?’
She laughs at that. ‘God, thinking back, I’ve wondered that myself. It’s hard to explain . . . I suppose she was . . . fun, really fun, and she let me tag along. Before we were friends I was pretty unpopular, to be honest.’ She shrugs. ‘I felt like maybe I was more fun when I was with her. She was wild and exciting. We were set on different paths when we met, I think hers looked better than mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was charismatic, very clever. I was pretty mediocre. I had one friend, Annie Jakes. We’d known each other since we were babies. Our friendship was based on having no one else to play with. Naomi was constantly surrounded by people who wanted to hang out with her. She chose me. I was flattered.’
I scribble down the name Annie Jakes, checking the spelling with Kate, and I ask, ‘Did you remain friends?’
‘I tried to drop her. Probably not in a nice way. Naomi thought she was a total loser.’ Kate sighs. ‘Looking back I was a royal bitch to Annie. I felt she was an embarrassment.’ She blushes again. ‘I just wanted her to stay away. Naomi would pick on her when she tried to hang out with us, but she’d come back for more.’
‘Did you love Naomi?’
‘I don’t know. I was very jealous of her.’
‘Why?’
‘She was just . . . better than me. She had parents who loved her, confidence, friends, boys liked her and she didn’t seem scared of anything.’
Having met Naomi’s mother, even briefly, I can imagine that her parents’ world revolved around her. In some ways it can be worse than neglect. Spoiling your kids seems a sure-fire way to breed little monsters.
‘What were you scared of?’
She laughs that quiet laugh again. Her busy hand covering her mouth. ‘I was scared of everything.’ She still looks scared now.
‘Talk me through what you remember from that night.’
She does. I make notes. Then I tell her, ‘I want to speak to Dean Hall about his professional work with you, with your permission, of course.’
She frowns. ‘He was my therapist.’
I put down my pen. ‘Look, police work, investigative work, whatever you want to call it, is an invasion of privacy. When we’re looking into a crime, we invade everything and everyone involved. The criminals, the victim, their families. I’m planning on doing this with you and your life. You need to be prepared for it.’
She’s biting her lower lip now, face pinched in a frown.
I tell her, ‘You can walk away, you don’t have to do this. Now is the time if that’s what you want to do.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, no it’s okay.
I have to. It’s not like you’re going to be splashing my diary on the front pages again, right?’
‘No, though as we proceed the press may get wind of it . . .’ She pauses and I find I’m holding my breath.
‘It can’t be any worse than not knowing, right?’
I feel something close to relief, and it’s not just about the finances. The dark part of me is glad to be back in the game.
6.
Claudia Reynolds
When he phones, he is fuming. I can hear it in his voice before he details the problem. He says his sister is planning on hanging around. He spits the words out and I flinch even though he isn’t here. I imagine him walking around his office as he tells me of her cheek. He will be irate, red-faced. He says he will be home early today. I mutter through gritted teeth that that will be wonderful.
He isn’t though, in the end. He’s in a good hour after Bethany has gone to bed. He heads to the kitchen, banging about as he goes. I want him to shut up. Our daughter is asleep and I don’t want her woken. I won’t tell him though, no point risking it.
I wait, on hand, in the shadows, trying to keep her safe. I wait to see what he needs or wants, trying to pre-empt it. I’m doing it now. Following him around the kitchen. Closing cupboard doors behind him, getting ice out of the freezer as soon as he picks up a glass. Filling his glass, refilling. He is in a rage now. Drink clenched in one hand, the other balled into a tight fist. I murmur and nod. One ear listening out for Bethany. I had known this morning’s visit wouldn’t go well. Marcus has been fuming since she wrote with her release date and of her plans to head back to Kingston. He’d even phoned her to try and talk her out of it.
The big family shame. Even worse than poor Martha, or Ruth. I used to think it was dreadful what Marcus’s mother had done, leaving behind three children and a husband to fend for themselves. Back in the glory days when things were black and white. When I was someone else and Marcus pretended to be too. Now I think I get it. I love Bethany, but still . . . Escape. I fantasise about it. Not suicide. I’m too gutless for that. I’m scared that I would spend eternity tossing and turning, worrying about my daughter. I imagine an accidental death. I step off the pavement and a bus comes hurtling towards me, the driver fast and not paying attention. I am smashed to pieces. I no longer exist, and I luck out twice because the afterlife is nothing. Nothing at all, just peace and silence. No gnawing in my gut, no nagging headache. It doesn’t happen though. I live and breathe. I don’t even get proper illnesses. No fevers to take me out. Just each day, much like the last.