I, Witness

by Niki Mackay

  ‘Of course.’ She scowls at us both. ‘No answer. I’m going around there now.’

  My heart is racing. Oliver sounded crazed and hysterical, a man on the edge, and who knows what he’ll do next. We have to find Claudia and Bethany. We’re running out of time.

  38.

  Madison Attallee

  The house is modest. At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Pretty, bland new-builds, nothing special. But they must be expensive, everything here is expensive. I knock on the door of Number 48 and a woman answers. On first sight she’s quite plain but then she smiles and it’s as though the whole area around her lights up.

  ‘Are you Louisa Horfield?’

  ‘I am.’ Still smiling.

  ‘My name’s Madison Attallee, I’m a private investigator. I wonder if I might have a quick word with your husband?’

  The 100-watt smile falters. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘At work.’

  And this is where I have to be a shithead. ‘I’m afraid he’s not, I’ve already checked. They said he’s on annual leave.’

  Her hand darts quickly to her belly, cupping the underneath. I realise she is really, really pregnant. Great.

  ‘How far along are you?’ I ask her.

  She looks down. I know that feeling. You hold that child and don’t even know you’re doing it.

  ‘Eight months.’ We both look at her bump.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she says.

  I pass photos in the hallway. Her; a man I assume is Oliver – tall, very blonde. Unlike Kate, though their colouring is similar. A photo of their wedding day.

  I follow her into a large open-plan kitchen. Another big family living area, not quite as grand as Marcus and Claudia’s, but still all the rage. I remember ours being built. Rob’s excitement as the bricks went up. Him trying to enthuse me with magazines and textile plans. I barely noticed when it was done. I wasn’t there enough to enjoy the space. She puts a kettle on and waves a mug at me in question.

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  She gets out a cafetiere and fusses with water and milk, bringing it to the table. Instant would have done. She pours us both a cup.

  ‘I’m only on one a day. I know I ought to be off the caffeine, but I can’t pack it in entirely. I’ll be sorry if this one’s hyper, eh?’ She smiles but it’s strained now.

  ‘Is it your first?’ I ask her.

  She nods. ‘Yes. Well, I’ve lost three.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asks, quickly changing the subject.

  I weigh up what to tell her. ‘Do you know the name Kate Reynolds?’

  She screws up her face. ‘I recognise it but I can’t think why.’

  ‘She was in all of the papers a few years ago, six, to be exact. She was charged with the manslaughter of her best friend, Naomi Andrews.’

  ‘God, yes. I remember. I didn’t live here then.’ She sips at her coffee, cupping her hands around the mug.

  ‘So you didn’t know Oliver then?’

  ‘No. We met . . . I suppose it must be four and a half years ago now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Online. Look, I don’t mean to be rude . . .’

  ‘Oliver was involved with Kate,’ I tell her.

  She stares at me blankly. ‘The murderer?’

  ‘I think she’s innocent.’

  She blinks, coffee held an inch away from her mouth.

  ‘He never mentioned it?’ I ask.

  She puts the cup down. ‘No. Was it serious?’

  ‘It was to Kate.’

  ‘God. Wasn’t she just out of school?’

  ‘Eighteen at the time of her arrest.’

  ‘So, he must have been . . . a fair bit older than her.’ It’s not a question.

  I give her a moment while she does the maths figuring out there are twelve years between them, then I say, ‘They’d been seeing each other for a couple of years by then.’ And watch while the bomb hits. Sixteen is different to eighteen, especially when you’re dealing with a man pushing thirty.

  I see her shudder at the implication, glad I don’t need to mention at this stage that Kate is his sister as well and that I think he’s probably a murdering kidnapper.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asks.

  ‘Why do you think he didn’t mention it?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe he was embarrassed. I didn’t expect full disclosure – I certainly didn’t give him a blow-by-blow account of all my exes.’

  ‘Were any of them convicted of manslaughter?’

  She frowns. ‘Look, Oliver’s not . . . he doesn’t talk too much about his feelings.’

  ‘Has he always been that way?’

  ‘Aren’t most men?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘I didn’t meet him at the best time – for him, I mean,’ Louisa says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His mum had been in an accident. She’s never recovered.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A car accident, she was brain damaged. Lives in a home now.’

  ‘His dad?’

  ‘David’s a nice man, very quiet. Had a big job in the city but he had a breakdown after Oli’s mum was hurt. He pulls shifts in Sainsbury’s to cover the cost of her home.’ She quickly adds, ‘We have offered him money.’

  ‘He won’t take it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘David?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Around the corner. In fact, that’s probably where Oliver is right now. I’ll call him.’

  She’s up and grabbing for the phone before I can stop her. I hear her leave a message, adopting an enforced cheery tone.

  ‘Maybe they’ve gone to see Amelia – sorry, his mum,’ she says, sitting back down.

  I repeat, ‘Kate says she’s innocent.’

  Louisa stares at me. Her coffee sits untouched and her hands are resting on her bump. ‘I’m sure Oliver would be happy to help with any enquiries you have,’ she says.

  ‘Kate’s sister-in-law is missing. Claudia Reynolds.’

  Something flickers on her face and her mouth drops open. She closes it quickly.

  ‘So is her three-year-old,’ I add.

  ‘God.’

  ‘If there’s anything you can think of that might help?’

  ‘What – do you think Oliver took them?’ She laughs. ‘He’s the nicest man I know.’

  ‘But he doesn’t talk to you about his feelings – maybe he’s bottling things up. He didn’t tell you about Kate.’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there. I trust him completely. I’m having his child, for Christ’s sake,’ she says, her voice rising.

  ‘But you have no idea where he is?’

  ‘I don’t like what you’re implying and I think you need to leave.’ She’s out of her seat and getting to her feet. ‘If you leave a number I’ll make sure Oliver calls you when he gets home.’

  She hurries me to the door. I hand her a card and take her hand before she can stop me.

  ‘Do you have any friends nearby?’ I ask.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘I have an aunt a few roads over.’

  ‘Think about staying there, just until this blows over.’

  ‘Get out.’ She snatches her hand away. I’m pushed over the threshold and the door slams.

  My phone rings just as I pull up at the office. It’s a number I don’t recognise.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Madison Attallee?’ Soft Irish tones.

  ‘Yes. Is that Denise?’ The nurse from Martha’s hospital, Sandcross.

  ‘Sure,
how could you tell?’

  ‘Your accent,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Are you okay, Denise?’

  She pauses, then says, ‘I am. I can’t be long – I’ve just nipped out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m out of turn to call you or not.’

  ‘I’ll keep it between us if I can.’

  ‘Martha discharged herself, yesterday.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She hurries on, ‘Normally her dad would be here to get her, but she just went on her own, like.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But she’s allowed to? I mean she’s not on a section or anything?’

  ‘Well, that’s right, I just . . . it didn’t seem right, and I tried to ask her . . . if she was okay, what was happening, you know?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said she was fine and there was no need to call her dad, she’d make her own way.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be discreet, but I’ll try to find out if she’s shown up.’

  She asks, ‘Would you let me know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I don’t call Marcus or James to check. I’m quite certain that even if they knew where Martha was neither one would tell me. I get in the car because it’s too cold to stand outside and light a cigarette. I sit for a few moments in silence, trying to assimilate a thought that’s forming, but just out of reach. I’m on my second fag by the time it hits me. Martha. James and Marcus would have no real reason to protect Oliver, but what if Oliver had been using not just Kate, but his other sister as well? I think about James paying the staff at Sandcross, asking them to leave her be and I wonder if maybe there’s a good reason. I hit dial on the last number on my phone.

  She picks up on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  I balance the phone dangerously between shoulder and ear and say, ‘Denise. I’d appreciate you not mentioning this to James or Marcus right now.’

  ‘Right, okay.’ I’m relieved when she doesn’t ask why.

  39.

  Kate Reynolds

  Dean is waiting in the reception at his office. I promptly burst into tears when I see him. I’ve been holding everything in and now it empties out of me. He sighs, puts a gentle arm around my shoulders, walks me into his office and settles me down. He makes me tea, sipping from a water bottle and taking a chair opposite.

  When Dean called I’d told him everything about Oliver and how I’d contacted him on LinkedIn.

  ‘Why did you message him?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He sighs. ‘I wish you’d spoken to me.’

  ‘I knew what you would say.’

  He sighs again. I feel shame wash over me, that I’ve managed to make a bad situation even worse and that I may have caused Claudia and Bethany’s disappearance. I gave Oliver a way in all those years ago and by reigniting his attention I’ve let him back in again. I think it must have been him following me, so he’d have figured out that Madison was investigating it all again. If he’s broken into my flat who knows what he’s found, and I’m pretty certain I led him to my sister-in-law. My niece. God.

  I say, ‘Oh, Dean, what have I done?’

  He pats my hand but doesn’t say anything to alleviate the guilt.

  Which makes me want to say more – to explain. I tell Dean in detail who Oliver is, that Madison has discovered he’s Ruth’s son and who that means he must be to me. He watches. His face betrays nothing and I find even saying the words makes me feel rotten all over again.

  When I am spent he says, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I say, ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You’re not an idiot. Your mother caused all of this long before you were even born.’ His voice is sharp.

  ‘Do you think my dad knows? Maybe that’s what he’s been hiding.’

  ‘It’s hard to know; they definitely seem to be hiding something. From what you’ve told me James was always out to protect Ruth.’ Dean shrugs. ‘Maybe he’s still doing that now.’

  I think about that and I agree. Ruth’s still stabbing my heart and she’s been dead for a decade, for God’s sake. Oliver must have been obsessed with her. And us. I shudder when I think just how mad he must have been, or desperate for that love. I wonder if he thinks we got what he didn’t. He’d be wrong. Ruth didn’t want us any more than she wanted him. In that way I suppose Oliver and I are alike. Searching for that one thing we should all have from our parents. The only unconditional kind of care you can expect. No, there’s no point pitying him.

  ‘Madison hasn’t tracked down Oliver yet either?’ asks Dean.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s married, you know.’ I sigh. ‘She’s pregnant, his wife.’

  ‘He’s been getting on with his life, hasn’t he?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess he was always going to. It was only in my stupid head that we would grow up, get married, and live happily ever after.’ I feel the familiar wave of nausea again and an image of an awful incestuous monster of a child in my arms hits me before I can stop it.

  Dean frowns at me. ‘And you were nursing these thoughts for years?’

  I laugh even though I know it’s not funny.

  He goes on, ‘And you didn’t think to tell me? So much for not keeping secrets.’

  He’s right. I have kept it from him. Because I knew somewhere deep down that the feelings I had for Oliver weren’t right. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t do it out of spite.’

  He looks as though he’s going to say something else but his phone rings. He checks and his face changes. ‘It’s a client. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to take this.’

  I nod and get my things together. He is working. How stupid that I feel jealous of his client.

  ‘Keep me updated,’ he says as I go, closing the door quietly behind me.

  I’m ashamed to say it but I now have the jitters walking around in broad daylight. I hurry back to my flat, taking a bus two stops to shorten the walking distance. I think about the awful feeling I had when I woke up. I’m quite sure that the night my door was unlocked someone had been in my flat. It had to be Oliver. My refuge, now not so safe. When I get in I shut the door and throw the bolt over it.

  40.

  Claudia Reynolds

  One night I came to on my living room floor. My eyes opened and the pain hit me from every muscle, every digit, every bit of skin. My body was alive with it, the beating, the humiliation. I was in a wretched state – one of the times I couldn’t think straight – where I wondered if I might have sustained serious damage. I cried for a while, lying there, prone, bleeding, sobbing like a fool. He was asleep, Bethany was asleep. I had an overwhelming desire to get out. I had to get out. The walls of my beautiful home were closing in on me. I managed to stand, to drag myself up, and to walk out the door. I had no destination in mind, though I vaguely thought of Mum and Dad’s. My wonderful parents who I no longer saw. Who I communicated with via clipped messages.

  Mum knew by then that something was up. She didn’t know what, though, she still doesn’t. But that was the idea I had in my head that night, to walk the twenty-odd miles to their house. I knew the way by car, I’d just follow the road. I was in my nightgown, I found wellies by the door and a coat. My purse was in the pocket of my coat. I had bank cards in there but it somehow didn’t occur to me to call a taxi. I just had to go. I had to get out. It had to be over. I walked for seven miles before I passed out on the side of a main road. A passer-by called an ambulance. They found my purse in my coat pocket, my driving licence nestled within. When I came to this time it was in a hospital bed with my husband sitting beside me, concern etched into every line and his hand squeezing mine gently. I cried then, deep sobs. He held me tightly. Whispered my na
me into my hair, and then he said, ‘Don’t make me punish her for your mistakes,’ and I knew then that there was no escape. Not for me. He would always win.

  When he left to get my things from home, a nurse came in to see me. She said, ‘It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, playing innocent.

  She had sat on the edge of the bed and looked me directly in the eye. ‘We see other women just like you, love.’

  My voice had been a whisper, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Whatever he’s threatened, can it be much worse than where you are now?’

  I wanted to talk to her, to tell her, to ask for help. Perhaps if Bethany had been anywhere but home with him I would have.

  Instead I said, ‘I must have been sleep-walking; I’m on tablets, you know. I’m sure my husband must have told you.’

  ‘A lot of your bruises are old.’

  ‘They make me clumsy.’

  She had sighed. ‘There’s a refuge in Surbiton. They’d take you in, help you.’

  ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding.’

  She patted my hand and I had resisted the urge to grab it.

  My one attempt at escape. We never discussed it. I came home, we carried on.

  I’m sick to death of carrying on. Now I’m literally in a locked room. My husband and captor has put me here. It’s time to be free.

  I haven’t let Bethany eat the food Martha brought in, even though she says she’s starving and thirsty. I let her drink water from the bathroom tap and I do the same. Still, my tongue feels thick, fuzzy. Whatever we inhaled has left a residual hangover, but I don’t feel like we’ve lost loads of time. Hours rather than days, I hope. There is a TV in the room which has been a godsend as Bethany is distracted by CBeebies. When I asked if she remembered getting here she says no and also that when I said we would be visiting her aunt she thought I meant Kate, not Martha. She doesn’t look impressed, as though I had intentionally duped her. I smile and stroke her hair.

  We need to get out of here. There is a window, but it’s too high up for me to look out of and too narrow for us to fit through. Then there is the door. I don’t know what’s on the other side. This could be the upstairs of somewhere. We might get out, only to be greeted by more house. It doesn’t matter, that’s what we need to do. Get out. It’s the only way we have any chance. Staying in here won’t help us. I can probably overpower Martha if she comes back, but I can’t overpower a fully grown man. Not that I ever tried with Marcus, but I felt it. The tipped scale, physical power always in his favour, never mine. A simple unchangeable biological fact.