I, Witness

by Niki Mackay

  After he’s gone I sit for a while in silence, smoking, thinking. I think about us, him, Peter. I think about him on his bike, driving his first car. I think about phoning to tell him I was getting married. The awful silence and my pissed off voice saying ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me’, knowing how I’d have felt if it had been the other way around. Unable to be any kinder. He’d hung up.

  Peter joined the police force shortly after he left university. He suggested I join and I’d gone along to an open day to keep him happy. Much to my surprise it had sounded varied and interesting, and I was temping and directionless at the time. Sure I wouldn’t last in an office but determined to do something. I loved it. From the day I started. The busyness. The messiness. Dealing with criminals and victims. I seemed to have an affinity for both. Peter was posted in the city but I stayed in Kingston, never wanting to be far from Mum. I met Rob, we had Molly, and then Peter ended up back here. As my boss. Just after my drinking had reached a new level and my marriage was on the rocks.

  I have a box of photos. Of him. Us. Being kids, turning into adults. I haven’t let myself look at them for over a year and I don’t let myself now, though the longing is strong. Almost as strong as the desire to open my flat door, run down the street after him and throw myself into his arms. Fuck this shit. I put on Led Zeppelin and I turn it up loud. I light another cigarette, drink Appletiser wishing it was wine, and think to myself that I’d probably cry if I was capable.

  Early the following morning my phone beeps, waking me up. It’s Peter, asking how I am. I text back that I’m fine. He asks me how long I’m planning on punishing myself. I’m not going to respond to that. My phone beeps again.

  ‘Not letting yourself be happy isn’t going to make Molly love you any more.’

  If he was here I’d punch him in the face. I learned enough in the nuthouse to know that my behaviours are pretty predictable. Even my mental health issues lack originality. I smoke and stew and ignore Peter’s messages, hoping it will hurt his feelings. Because I’m an immature prick.

  It’s nearly seven thirty a.m., but it’s still pretty dark. Soon the moody sun will shine through my flimsy curtains and then I’ll have to get going. I drain another cup of coffee, smoke another fag and step into the shower. I let the scalding water wash over me, hoping it will take last night’s regret with it. I struggle getting the box of files down the stairs and into my car. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating and my blow-dried hair is fucking frizz again. I wonder why I bothered showering.

  I drive to my office with Garbage blasting ‘Stupid Girl’ out of the stereo. Thanks a million, Shirley. It’s only eight o’clock. Emma won’t be here for another hour or so. I half-drag, half-carry the box in, trailing mud from outside along with me. Shit. I ineffectively wipe at it with some kitchen roll, could be worse.

  I feel a little charge go through my body when I take the lid off. How fucked up is that? It’s not a bloodthirsty thing though, not exactly. I used to have a hard time explaining it to Rob, but what gets me hooked is the puzzle. The things that lead people to do the awful crimes that used to land on my desk. The choices people make, or don’t know they’re having made for them. What it is that makes us tick, so to speak. Nine times out of ten the perpetrators are normal, born just like the rest of us. Along the way something gets lost, broken, their actions veer from the right track. They become unhealthy. Damaged, and dangerous.

  I start with the pictures. Normally I’d walk a crime scene first, get a feel for it. This one’s long gone but I work to pull the images back as I remember them. Naomi leaning against a wall, eyes glazed and looking straight ahead. That thing that made her who she was now gone. If you looked quickly and ignored the blood she could have been a sulky teenager – she could have been bored, or pissed off. She could have been alive – if you didn’t look too closely, and if it wasn’t for the blood. It was everywhere. I remember that, stepping into the room and the sticky feel of it under my feet. I wasn’t wearing shoe protectors, it messed with the scene-of-crime officer’s job later.

  I look at the photo of Naomi, no Kate by this point. I’d led her off. But she had been there initially, holding her limp friend in her arms. Both girls red and slippery like a bad Hallowe’en costume. Kate had smiled at me as I opened the door. Another kid had already found them, the one who phoned us. He had left a pile of vomit outside the door, followed later by my colleague’s own contribution. Malone questioned him. The poor kid hadn’t known when he rang whether the girls were alive or dead, maybe someone had just been hurt? I knew as soon as I stepped in. You can smell it, death. I bent down and said ‘hi’ to the smiling girl. She had carried on smiling and asked if I might shut Naomi’s eyes. I said I couldn’t. The other officer had given up at the door. Evacuated his stomach and stood shaking. I knew I had to get Kate out, this smiling gruesome child. I knew she was about to be arrested. The knife was inches from her knee.

  When DI Malone arrived he found me outside the front of the house half holding Kate up. He would congratulate me later for my smarts. He walked in with a team, then came back out seconds later and arrested her. She didn’t look all that surprised. Then she smiled at the other officers and half waved at the crowd of teenagers and gathering parents who were watching. Someone managed to get a picture. It made front pages everywhere. I was sent home to shower and change and get some rest. I didn’t, though, get rest. I was back, scrubbed and fresh, adrenalin pumping, waiting to see what happened next.

  Next in the box are Kate’s mugshots. Some of the blood had been wiped away, but not all of it, and she’s still smiling. Back to Naomi – washed and on the autopsy table, looking young and womanly at the same time. I sat in on that autopsy. It was brutal. I was there when her parents came in first to identify her, even worse. The report is here. I flick through it. Death was caused by one fatal stab wound to the neck, although many other injuries were present. More stab wounds. The person who killed her had been pretty mad, pretty determined. It’s no easy thing to stab another person. It goes against instincts that are ingrained.

  Kate’s father took two hours to get to the police station. We were unable to question her until he arrived. I didn’t sit in on the interviews, so when I open the transcripts they are new to me. There is a recording. I put it into my own Dictaphone and hit play. Malone went at her hard. Her father barely stepped in. He urges her to answer a few times when she pauses, but other than that James stays out of it. What kind of parent doesn’t move heaven and Earth to save their child from a horror like that? She giggles at one point. He hisses her name and she stops. I don’t think I would have handled it the way Malone did; I like to think I might have been kinder. She was checked by Monty, a shrink we use at the station. He’s pretty vacant, always stressed and seems to think badly of everyone. He said she was fine. I think his exact words were something like, ‘Perfectly fine, little cow even laughed.’

  I’m amazed at how little was collected. By my estimation the whole investigation was flimsy. Naomi’s parents were handled with kid gloves. Marcus was only spoken to once, despite Kate telling us he had been in a sexual relationship with Naomi and was prone to jealousy. Oliver was questioned for all of fifteen minutes. There was one visit made to Kate’s school, which I had been present at. Mr Wilson wasn’t spoken to. As I recall, we apologised to Mrs Anselm and promised not to take up too much of her time. I’ve had to work with Malone many times over the years. What I initially mistook for confidence on his part is actually just bravado. A front to hide the truth that he is sloppy and lazy in his work. Work that matters, damn it. He’d always been ambitious though, wanting the accolade that promotions bring. I was doing most of his legwork for years before it occurred to me that I could probably do his job. He’s never forgiven me for taking what he saw as his promotion.

  The office door opens and Emma comes in, bringing a blast of cold with her. She quickly surveys the muddy floor and the leaning stacks of pape
r. I try to look nonchalant. She smiles, hangs her coat, pops on coffee and appears as if from nowhere with a mop I didn’t know we had. The floor is sparkling in no time and she offers to help with the documents.

  ‘Sure. I’m gonna have a fag.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’

  I’m only outside for five minutes. I smoke two cigarettes, thinking it will save time later. When I get back in the stacks are already somewhat neater and there is space on the big round table I’d plonked it all on.

  She carries on stacking while I keep sieving. She has started piles based on type of document. She inhales sharply as I pass her the pictures. Half an hour in she says my name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Marcus and Naomi’s relationship is mentioned by several people, yet it doesn’t seem to have been followed up much. Would that be normal practice?’

  ‘No.’

  She tuts. ‘According to your diary you’re seeing Marcus this afternoon?’

  I nod.

  ‘At his office?’

  ‘I am.’

  She hesitates before saying, ‘I wonder if it’s worth calling the wife first, in light of what Kate’s told us.’ Naomi’s diary.

  I grin at her. ‘You know, that might not be a bad idea.’ Emma may prove to be more useful than I give her credit for. Even if she does speak like a Victorian spinster.

  28.

  Claudia Reynolds

  The phone rings and I almost drop to the floor. Idiot.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Claudia Reynolds?’

  My stupid hand is shaking. ‘It is.’

  ‘Madison Attallee. I believe your sister-in-law said I’d be in touch.’

  I can barely breathe but I manage to say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She pauses then says, ‘You sound . . . I don’t know, breathless.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I can’t begin to explain all the ways that statement isn’t true.

  ‘Kate told me what you found.’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice is barely a whisper.

  ‘Do you have it in your possession?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. It’s here. In the safe. If I take it . . .’

  ‘Kate said you’re planning on going to stay with her for a while.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her voice sounds softer now. ‘That seems like a good idea. Why don’t you get your things together, for you and Bethany, get the diary and we’ll all meet at Kate’s later?’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m nodding as though to convince myself as much as her.

  We say goodbye and I need to sit down for a minute. Bethany is napping. I switch on the baby-monitor to make sure she’s okay and then I head into the office. There’s a Post-it note on his desk with a telephone number on it and a kiss. This is how brazen he is now, how little my feelings matter. Or perhaps he figures I’m so well trained I wouldn’t dare to come in here.

  I remember the first time it happened. It was one of the admin girls at work – not quite his secretary but close enough to be a cliché. Bethany was only a few months old. I almost didn’t blame him. I was milky, frumpy, in that state that new mothers find themselves in, being boring and preoccupied. The violence hadn’t really begun by then. Somewhere in my mind I had reasoned it was the stress of becoming a parent. We hadn’t discussed it since. I had stopped being wary.

  I called my mother and sobbed down the phone. She was without judgement and asked if I wanted to stay in the marriage or not. I said yes. The thought of it being just Bethany and me seemed untenable. She was at the house an hour later and I left Marcus a note. On the same kind of pink Post-it as the one I had found. Tacky and pathetic. Very like the one I’m looking at now.

  The stupid girl had signed it, the one I found years ago. I knew her name because she often rang Marcus with schedules and appointments. I’d picked up the phone a few times. I left the disgusting, explicit words on the kitchen table along with my own saying we would be at my parents. The insult was made worse by the tone. It was dirty. Something Marcus hated from me in the bedroom. A side of my own nature I had given up, now providing only the chaste wife.

  He called that evening, devastated, and asked me to come home so we could work it out. Mum was pleased, she said marriage was all about hard work and that in the end it would make us stronger. I headed back home, full to bursting with hope and forgiveness. I walked in with Bethany sleeping in my arms. He took her upstairs and laid her down in her cot while I sat expectantly, preparing myself for the apologies and preparing to be an understanding wife. What he had done was unforgiveable, but I was so madly in love with our daughter I could see how he felt pushed out.

  When he came back down the stairs he didn’t look sorry. He looked cross. I opened my mouth to speak but he was on me before I had the chance. Still to this day it remains one of the most brutal beatings of our marriage, and there has been much brutality. When he was finished he spat at me. Somehow it hurt just as much as his fists and feet.

  ‘You will never, ever leave me again. How dare you?’

  I couldn’t move for the rest of the evening. I lay prone on the floor, battered and bloody. He went to bed and I stayed where I was. At one point I wet myself. Hot acrid urine soaked through my clothes, warm at first, but icy cold by the morning. He woke early, put me in a bath and washed me with such tenderness it nearly broke my heart.

  Bethany cried when she saw me. I had only glanced briefly in the mirror but I knew my face was raw with one large black eye. The rest of the bruises were on my body, harder to spot. I couldn’t go out for nearly a week and even then I sported large Jackie O shades. He never marked my face again.

  I should have left that morning. I think maybe even Marcus thought I might. When Mum called that afternoon I assured her things were okay, that we were going to work through it all, just as she’d suggested. She sounded so relieved and I desperately wanted it to be true. I had Bethany now. I had vowed the day I discovered she was growing inside me that she would come from a happy home, like mine. Two parents had to be better than one. I would make this marriage work. I’m saddened now, by that decision made all those years ago. The things stolen from my daughter have been far greater than I could have imagined. It’s nearly time, I know now that I have to get away. Even if it is nearly four years too late.

  29.

  Madison Attallee

  Marcus is the managing director of Reynolds Estates, a property investment company started by his father back in the days when you could make a fortune from very little. James has stayed on in his role as CEO, though from what I can gather the day-to-day running of things comes down to Marcus. James is rarely in the offices. When I arrive I’m met by a large glass building – new premises the company had taken over five years ago. The reception is a wide, airy, open space with not one, but three efficient and neat-looking receptionists. I walk up and am greeted with a row of smiles. I smile back, telling them Marcus Reynolds is expecting me. They call for his PA and lead me to the ‘waiting area’, letting me know she’ll be with me shortly.

  She takes a few minutes to arrive and is beaming when she does. She gives me an unasked-for commentary of who does what on each floor as we go. I nod politely and then I end up in another bloody waiting area. Ashley, apparently, asks if she can fetch me a ‘refreshment’. I say I’m fine. I am kept waiting for another five minutes, then her desk phone rings and I’m sent through.

  The office is impressive. Beautiful views, more glass, lots of pictures – Marcus and James, Marcus, Claudia and Bethany. Claudia looks a lot like Ashley, the PA. They look like a perfect catalogue family in the pictures, but then Rob, Molly and I might have looked like that to outsiders. He walks around the desk and takes my hand warmly in both of his. He is very good-looking. Chiselled, dark, tall, well dressed. Too shiny for my tastes.
r />   ‘Please sit. Did Ashley offer you a drink?’

  I smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

  He smiles back with even perfect teeth that must have cost a fortune. ‘Good, good.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Reynolds.’

  ‘Marcus, please. Mr Reynolds is very much my father.’

  ‘Of course. I understand he’s in the process of retiring?’

  He shrugs. ‘I think he’ll go for what you might describe as semi-retired. I can’t ever see Dad letting go completely, to be honest. I suspect he’d get bored.’

  ‘And you’ll take over as CEO?’

  The grin is on again. ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘I guess you’re already pretty much in charge?’

  He laughs. ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Your other siblings weren’t interested in joining the family business?’

  ‘Martha’s done bits and bobs over the years. She’s not cut out for work. I understand you’ve visited her yourself so you can probably see why.’

  ‘Yes, I visited her. I also heard they’d ceased her treatment a few years ago?’

  His face sets in harder lines. ‘I think you must have heard wrong. Sandcross offers fantastic ongoing treatment, though we have come to accept that Martha will never fully recover.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Never fully recover from what?’

  He shrugs. ‘Whatever it is that ails her. Anorexia is most likely, in itself, life threatening, and probably depression as well.’

  ‘And your father doesn’t think psychiatric treatment will help her any more?’

  His eyes narrow. ‘I’m sure my father and the staff at Sandcross have come up with the best care plan for my sister. We pay them enough.’