The Life I Left Behind

by Colette McBeth

  Her heart rate slows. By degrees her body pulls her back in. Taking deep breaths she smells the mossy scent of the riverbank. The same smell you get just after it has rained. Petrichor, that’s what it’s called. She searched for the term on the internet years ago. Tilting her head up towards the sun, she closes her eyes and feels its gentle heat stroke her cheeks, a light breeze that dusts her skin. Her whole body relaxes as if it has been defused. Even her mind allows her to remain in the moment without turning over its next move.

  When she opens her eyes, she takes in the sight. Running through a village, along a river or sitting in a restaurant with your boyfriend isn’t necessarily the best way to get to know a place. It strikes her that she could be seeing all this for the first time. Why has she not noticed the narrowboats that line the river’s edge before? Each one painted in bright, distinctive colours. She can make out the names on those closest to her. Iona, Aubrey, Marge the Barge.

  When she looks up to the sky, she sees ribbons of sun escaping the clouds only to be swallowed up again. The changing light has a transformative effect. Under the sun the river glints and sparkles before switching back to a murky brown when it slips behind the clouds once more.

  Gradually her ears become attuned to the chatter of others, the sound of kids shrieking and giggling, the faint hum of aircraft overhead. She doesn’t want to run home. For the first time in years she would like to stay where there is life and noise and bustle. Feeling her back pocket, she remembers the tenner she brought out, just in case.

  The village is more like a town, a town that smells of percolating coffee. It seems to Melody that people around here either work like dogs or spend all day exchanging gossip in cafés; there is little in between. She chooses one that is housed in an elegant double-fronted villa with tables and chairs on a small patio at the front. Mercifully it is free of mothers and children, presumably because the tables are too tightly packed to allow for buggies. Once inside, she realises there is another reason. The place is piled high with antiques and ceramics, vintage chandeliers hang from the ceiling, sweet-smelling candles are arranged on tables around chunky silver and gold jewellery. Melody wonders if she read the word Café by mistake, is about to turn and leave when she sees a pile of pastries stacked up on an old wooden table and hears the sound of milk being frothed.

  She smiles to herself. She wasn’t imagining it after all.

  Her juice – fennel, orange and carrot – is offset by the pain aux abricots. She takes both and finds a table facing the door, next to the window. The café is on the main square around which village life seems to revolve. Opposite, on one of the narrow lanes that flow off the square, a delivery driver appears to have got his van stuck. She’s watching the small gesticulating crowd that’s gathered around when her phone rings.

  It’s Nathaniel Jenkins.

  It’s his turn to sound nervous.

  ‘Mel, it’s Nat … Nathaniel, although no one calls me that except for my mum, but you don’t really need to know that, do you …’ His babble raises a smile. It’s the kind of waffle she would come out with to fill silence. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling.’

  She thinks about this. Does she mind? The fact that she’s not trying to close down the call immediately tells her she doesn’t. She could go further and say she is actually pleased to hear from him. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I’ve been worried that I cocked up … sending you that file. I didn’t really think it through, you know, how hard it might be for you.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ She’s had enough of people thinking about her, tailoring their conversation and actions to what they believe might upset her.

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Hardly. I’ve made a start, that’s all. It’s a bit weird to be honest, it’s all about what happened to me but some of it I’m reading for the first time.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well I only went to the trial once, couldn’t face it after that … and now seeing it all written down in black and white …’ She can’t finish her sentence, doesn’t think she’s ready to release the words just yet.

  ‘He was a mate, wasn’t he, David?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Did you ever have any doubts …’ he pauses, sensing the delicate territory he is walking, ‘that he did it?’

  She presses her finger down on to her plate, collects a few flakes of her pastry and exhales. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  They could meet, he says, quickly qualifying his suggestion with ‘Only if you wanted to … if you weren’t too busy.’

  Her reflex is to say thanks but that won’t be possible. She wouldn’t invite him to the house and she can’t go out. Then she reminds herself where she is, looks across the square and sees the van emerging from the tight spot, another man slapping the back of the vehicle to let the driver know he has cleared the lane.

  She is out. Alone. It is physically possible. Does she want to meet Nat? Yes, she does, and instinctively she knows why. Beyond a photograph, a few basic details, she knows nothing about Eve. Who she was. What motivated her? Would Melody have liked her? The questions aren’t necessarily logical, she is aware of this. But she’s followed logic for six years and it’s left her empty and lost.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she says quickly before she can change her mind.

  ‘Tomorrow works for me.’

  ‘I don’t have a car. I live in Surrey, would you mind …’

  ‘I can come to you,’ he says. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘I live in Rockside. There’s a coffee shop just off the square.’ She glances down at the menu. ‘It’s called Nest,’ she says, tickled with her newly acquired local knowledge.

  ‘Eleven?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Chapter Six

  Melody

  HE’S SHORTER THAN she remembers, like those actors who appear tall on the screen only for you to realise they’ve been walking around in Cuban heels the whole time. She sees him seeking her out across the café, which is busier than yesterday with a large table of what looks like the local WI, green wellies and Barbours slung on the back of chairs and pearl earrings and ever so yah. One of the women with particularly big hair is taking notes, occasionally tapping her pen on the side of her cup in an attempt to steer the conversation back to the matter of the fair and away from gossip and tittle-tattle. She isn’t having much luck.

  Nat spots her immediately. Melody is reminded of their first encounter in the police station and feels her anticipation turn to dread. There is no escaping the circumstances that have brought them together. A large part of her longs to be talking jam and cakes too.

  She smiles self-consciously and drops her gaze, watches his feet, two desert boots negotiating their way around the display tables. He looks more rested, healthier than when she saw him last, wearing a fresh checked shirt. His hair is combed into a small quiff. On his wrist a chunky watch glints in the light.

  He reaches out to shake her hand.

  What the hell are we going to say? she panics, feeling her palms grow clammy.

  He waits for his coffee to arrive before promptly knocking it over. It spills across the table, drips down to his jeans.

  ‘Great, now it looks like I’ve pissed myself, or maybe I have pissed myself and this was just an attempt to cover it.’ He winks at her. ‘Sorry, I’ve been bricking it all morning that this is going to be really awkward.’

  Melody breaks into a laugh. She is relieved to find she likes him, an instant gut reaction born from his tendency to say exactly what is on his mind. Who else in her life does that? She relaxes into her chair.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like Eve. Not exactly, but similar. That’s why I came across all strange in the police station.’

  ‘You thought I was her.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Then I heard the copper say your name. Is it Melody or Mel?’

  It was always Melody. She insisted upon the lo
ng form because she liked to hear the full three syllables of her name sounded out like a song.

  When did it become Mel?

  ‘Either really,’ she says.

  ‘Melody then,’ he says without hesitation. ‘It is the superior name of the two.’ He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘It must be a tough time for you. Were you two together?’

  He stares at her for a moment before the question registers. ‘Oh no, not like that. Although we always said it was a shame I was gay because it would have been much easier if we could have got together. Actually no …’ he laughs, ‘we would have driven each other up the wall.’ He pauses, closes his eyes for a moment. ‘It still hasn’t really sunk in. It’s not like we saw each other every day anyway. But I catch myself thinking, oh Eve would love that, or I must call Eve and tell her about this, and it slams into me that she isn’t here and she isn’t coming back.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The police think he did it …’ He sighs. ‘Now it’s my turn to apologise. Just tell me if you don’t want to talk about it …’

  ‘I’m fine, go ahead.’

  ‘Eve was sure David was innocent. She thought she was getting somewhere with the investigation. She was a good judge of character, you know, smart, too smart sometimes because she wouldn’t back down when she thought something was right or true even if it meant getting up people’s noses. It was why she was so good at her job; well she was when she still had it. You know that’s what she did, don’t you? She worked on APPEAL, the investigations programme.’

  Melody shakes her head. ‘I hadn’t known.’ It made sense though. No wonder it all seemed so professional. Eve wasn’t just anyone blindly heading in to an investigation. She knew exactly what she was doing. Nat catches the waitress’s attention and orders a replacement coffee. ‘She had looked at loads of cases like David Alden’s, she knew what she was doing and I’m not convinced she would have got it so wrong.’

  ‘Some people are good liars.’

  He considers this. ‘Yeah, I know they are, but what if Eve was right? What if she got too close and she was killed because someone wanted to shut her up?’

  ‘If they get it wrong again and charge David Alden, Eve’s work counts for nothing, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She sees the tears swell in his eyes. ‘I would hate that to happen.’

  ‘But the police have her file too. Surely they’re going to read it and find out exactly what Eve discovered.’

  ‘Yeah, and the police are great at admitting their own mistakes …’ The sarcasm in Nat’s voice pierces her. ‘Sorry … they have a vested interest in pinning it on David Alden, that’s what worries me. I guess I don’t trust them.’

  Mel feels the doubt infest her. She scratches at her skin. Her house might be empty and soulless but it’s also clean and sterile and safe.

  ‘You said you had your own questions about the conviction.’ Nat’s tone is gently coaxing.

  ‘He was a friend of mine,’ she says. ‘I thought I was a good judge of character too … until it happened. I didn’t believe he could do that and then they told me my hair was found on his jacket and fibres from my clothes too. His car was seen where they found me. It was hard to argue with it after that.’

  ‘And now?’

  She sucks air in. ‘I don’t know what to think. Reading Eve’s file about what was said in court is odd.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They said he tried to come on to me. But he had never tried to do that, not once, it wasn’t that sort of friendship. It was easy and cool. We had a laugh.’

  Nat regards her intensely. ‘Eve said that if she were you she’d want to know the truth. Do you?’

  The question grabs her by the throat; she feels herself trying to squirm away from it. Before she answers, she’d like to know what the truth will cost her. She’d like a crystal ball to see where it will lead her. She doesn’t like walking in the dark with no sense of what lies ahead. Maybe it’s not a matter of whether she wants the truth but if she is strong enough to handle it. Panic crashes over her. She looks at Nat, his eyes burning with loss. He can’t sit still. His whole body is restless with the need to make sense of Eve’s death. Melody’s mind produces a picture of Eve, working alone, determined to get to the truth because she trusted her instincts over scientific evidence and police theories and legal process; not stopping to consider the cost because whatever it was, the truth is always worth it.

  ‘Yes,’ she tells Nat finally. ‘I honestly think I do.’

  His face breaks into a smile. ‘Eve was right after all.’

  They ask the waitress for the bill. The WI women have gone now. Apart from Nat and Melody there’s only one other older couple who’ve finished their coffees and are now browsing the ceramics. ‘Let’s keep in touch, shall we,’ Nat says.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘And Melody …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It might be a good idea not to tell anyone you have it … I’m probably just being overcautious, but … well, after what’s happened, it just seems like we should be careful.’

  ‘Understood.’

  He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got five minutes to make my train.’ They kiss each other goodbye and Mel watches him dart across the square towards the station. Once he’s out of sight, she leaves and jogs all the way home without stopping.

  Twenty minutes later she is back in the safety of the house, her breath ragged. She gives herself a moment to recover before she opens her laptop and starts writing.

  For once she will air her own memories of 17 August 2007, the ones that were discounted and undermined and locked away because they didn’t fit with what everyone else told her. She looks out to the garden, to a patch of sky. It is blue. It is not yellow or purple.

  She received a text that night arranging a time and a meeting place.

  She writes the name of the person she was going to meet.

  She writes the word GOLD CHAIN in capitals, followed by a question mark.

  Where had she seen it before?

  Chapter Seven

  DI Rutter

  THE GOLD CHAIN BOTHERS Victoria. No one has given her anything close to an adequate explanation for it. Certainly not David Alden, but then it wouldn’t be in his interests to do so. She can’t remember it featuring highly in the investigation into Melody Pieterson’s attack. Stirling liked to direct his resources where he was most likely to get a quick result. So far all she knows is that the chain was produced by a wholesaler in Kent, a family-run business that stopped making them three years ago.

  If all else fails, she knows what she’ll have to do. It’s her least favourite option, but if needs be she’ll slap on a bit of make-up, sweat under the camera flashes and ask for the public’s help through the press.

  She’s not there yet, though.

  In recent days she’s been avoiding DCI Stirling. However bad it gets, she can always console herself that he is two months away from retirement. Technically he is still in charge but his influence is ebbing. His authority has gone into terminal decline. Not that anyone is upfront about it. Stirling pretends he’s still got it, everyone humours him. But they all know. In eight weeks’ time he won’t matter. Victoria’s reluctance to charge Alden is salt in the wounds.

  She’s no closer to doing it either. If anything, she’s further away. After reading the CCTV section in Eve’s file, she traced Alden’s route from Shepherd’s Bush to Ham herself before turning around and going back to Hammersmith. Did he have enough time to dump his friend and return to the club? Her heart pounded as she stared at the dashboard clock when the journey was over. She wanted Eve Elliot to be wrong. She needed her to be wrong in the same way she needs to kiss her kids when she comes home late at night, to know that they are alive and breathing, that her world is still stable.

  Eve had to be wrong because it was DC Victoria Rutter who searched the CCTV in Melody Pieterson’s case. And it was her, in her
youthful exuberance, who found the blurred image of a green car close to Ham Gate and presented it to Stirling. Had she believed it was David Alden’s Porsche 911? Was it discernible through the glow of headlights? It wasn’t for her to say. She was simply giving her boss a potential lead. Someone else had been tasked with finding the expert who testified in court that it was Alden’s car. What she does know is that the subsequent praise from Stirling made her feel sick, like she’d gorged on too many sweets. It could have been any green car and she knew it.

  And no one, not Victoria or her colleagues, had taken it upon themselves to plot out each sighting on CCTV and work out the exact timings, determine beyond any doubt if it was possible for David Alden to get from Hammersmith to Ham and back again in the window of time available.

  Victoria needed Eve to be wrong.

  But Eve was right.

  ‘Brought you a coffee.’ DCI Stirling lumbers into her office brandishing a takeaway cup.

  She hesitates before taking it from him. ‘Thanks, but it’s not my birthday.’

  ‘You should stop drinking that crap from the machine, it’s toxic.’

  ‘That from a man who has a Greggs pasty for breakfast every day.’ She tastes the coffee, has to admit it’s a good one. It’s not even from Greggs but the posh deli round the corner. She should stop being so cynical, accept the gift without thinking he’s only bought it to give him a reason to come into her office, stalk her.

  She feels a stab of sympathy for him. What the hell is he going to do with himself when he leaves work? As far as she knows he doesn’t even play golf. His face is pallid, he wears a beard, yellowed around his upper lip from the fags he claims to have given up. Eighteen holes would be too much for him anyway; he struggles to make it to Greggs and back without getting out of breath. When her dad had a heart attack he changed his lifestyle completely, started jogging and took up t’ai chi at sixty-seven. DCI Stirling on the other hand seems to be playing a game of chicken with life.