by Kate Medina
Jesus. What if Marilyn had been right about Carolynn all along?
63
‘I’m not paying you to spend the day at the beach sunning yourself,’ Marilyn said, in response to another loud squawk from the seagull, bereft at the disappearance of the tantalizing white stick.
‘You’re not paying me at all, yet,’ Jessie countered. ‘Listen, Marilyn, did you ever check Zoe’s DNA against Carolynn and Roger’s?’
No response. She waited, knowing that the silence wasn’t driven by Marilyn’s need to trawl through his memory. Every detail of the Zoe Reynolds murder case had been committed to his memory, an encyclopaedic index at his mental fingertips. She recognized it for what it was, an – Oh fuck, what is she going to say next? – pause.
A guarded tone. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I didn’t need to. The identification box was ticked by Roger Reynolds coming to the morgue and confirming that the little girl’s body was that of his daughter, Zoe. Not that we had any doubt before, as we’d found Carolynn Reynolds on her knees in West Wittering car park clutching Zoe’s body and screaming. There was no need to check her DNA. Procedure had been followed, protocol met. Why?’
Jessie had never before heard Marilyn use the terms ‘procedure’ or ‘protocol’. His resort to them now was driven by defensiveness, she recognized. Defensiveness and intense apprehension.
‘Do it now, please, urgently.’
‘What’s going on, Jessie?’
She looked at the seagull. Her seagull. They were mates now. He was balancing on one webbed foot, the other tucked into his tummy feathers. He looked happy and relaxed, even a bit smug, perhaps. He’d done his job, helped her out.
‘I believe that Carolynn is sterile,’ Jessie said.
‘What?’
‘I’ve just added the two and two from something Carolynn said to me during one of our sessions and come up with four. I didn’t pay attention at the time, because I didn’t believe that what she told me was relevant to her psychology, or at least, not relevant to the event I believed was responsible for her psychological breakdown – her daughter’s death in a car accident.’
Raising her hand in a ‘stay’ gesture to the seagull – Did they share dog psychology? She had no idea – Jessie stood. The seagull tilted his head and eyeballed her quizzically as she clambered up the pebbles to the concrete walkway.
‘I think that Carolynn was born with Turner syndrome,’ she continued, walking towards the Fisherman’s Hut. ‘It’s a genetic disorder that affects around one in two thousand females, so it’s not uncommon. A girl with Turner syndrome only has one X chromosome instead of the usual two. Sufferers are characterized by a range of physical symptoms, which can include webbed feet. But the most important thing is that girls with Turner syndrome usually have underdeveloped ovaries and are sterile.’
‘Carolynn had postnatal depression, Jessie.’
‘Sure, but postnatal depression isn’t confined to biological mothers because it’s not only caused by hormonal changes. Postnatal depression can be driven by a range of factors such as having unrealistic expectations of the joy of parenting, difficulty in bonding with the child, or being disappointed with the child. The symptoms of postnatal depression in adoptive mothers who experience it are the same as those displayed by birth mothers. Carolynn may well have had postnatal depression, but that doesn’t mean she was Zoe’s biological mother.’
The sound of Marilyn’s tense, choppy breathing echoed down the phone. ‘So, if what you’re saying is true, Carolynn would have no biological connection to Zoe.’
Jessie reached the Fisherman’s Hut and scanned the menu.
‘Jessie.’
‘Yes. No. None.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Multi-tasking.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind, you wouldn’t get it.’
‘Because I’m a man?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Tapping a finger in the middle of the list of ‘Today’s Catch’ chalked on the blackboard, she bought half a pint of peeled prawns in a polystyrene cup.
‘Are children who are brought up by parents who aren’t biologically connected to them, more likely to be abused or killed by those parents?’ Marilyn asked.
‘It’s a complex and controversial area,’ she said, as she slid carefully back down the steep pebbles to the sand. ‘Lots of studies have been carried out, but the results have been inconclusive. From a sociological point of view, whatever that’s worth, genetic preservation is at the core of human behaviour.’
‘And neither Carolynn or Roger had any genes to preserve.’
‘Right. But more important than that – much more important, I’d say – is that this was yet another lie, or at least a very major omission of the truth. And an unnecessary one, unless they omitted that truth for a reason.’ Another fairground funhouse mirror that revealed Carolynn, freak-show distorted.
Jessie’s seagull had obeyed her command and maintained a ‘stay’. Balanced on one leg, still happy and relaxed, he tilted his head with interest as he watched her approach with the cupful of prawns. She wished that she could say the same for herself; she felt strung to snapping. She needed to do her job properly now, do it right. Get into Carolynn’s head in a way that she had singularly failed to do in their sessions, understand what the hell made the woman tick, and whether that tick was the tick of a time bomb that had already exploded twice, or that of a benign bedside-table clock. Disturbed, but ultimately harmless.
‘I’ll check the DNA database now,’ Marilyn said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Feed a seagull.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I owe him. Call me back.’
64
Tossing his mobile on to his desk with a clatter, Marilyn covered his face with his hands. Jesus Christ. He’d lost count of the hours he’d spent since Carolynn Reynolds was acquitted, reviewing each step of the investigation, putting his logic under the microscope, searching for some minute gap in his reasoning, and he hadn’t been able to find one. And now it turned out what he had missed was a gargantuan black hole that would swallow him entirely: his career, his reputation – the whole lot, hook, line and sinker – if Carolynn Reynolds had indeed murdered her daughter and got away with it, leaving her free to murder little Jodie Trigg.
But the most damaging blow would be the wholesale destruction of his self-respect. He was a good policeman – a great policeman, he’d venture to say when he was feeling particularly self-congratulatory – and through twenty years on the job he had rarely failed to get a result. His reputation and self-respect had been hard won. Hard won; easily annihilated.
A hand on his shoulder and he almost leapt out of his skin. ‘Tea, sir.’
‘I need more than a cup of bloody tea, Workman.’
She put the tea on his desk anyway, slipping two milk chocolate digestives next to the cup.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ Marilyn asked, eyeing the biscuits cynically.
Workman’s expression was inscrutable. ‘I thought we might need the energy.’ She sat down across the desk from him and met his gaze. ‘What’s the problem, sir?’
‘Problem? Is it that obvious?’ Massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers, he sighed. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Jessie Flynn. She reckons we need to compare Zoe Reynolds’ DNA against Carolynn’s on the database. In haste. Now. Immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Doctor Flynn doesn’t believe that Zoe was Roger and Carolynn Reynolds’ biological daughter.’
The expression of horror that crossed Workman’s face summed up his feelings exactly.
‘And from what she told me, I’m inclined to agree.’
‘But there was no indication at all – neither of the Reynolds said anything to suggest she was adopted. Carolynn had postnatal depression. Zoe even looked like her … her mother … Carolynn.’
/> ‘I know, I know, but I should have checked anyway. It was one of the t’s I should have crossed. I crossed every other bloody one, whole alphabets full of the bloody things, but not the one that needed crossing.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s on me, this one, Sarah. If Carolynn Reynolds is our murderer, this one is on me. Little Jodie Trigg’s death is on me.’
‘On us, sir. We’re in this together.’
‘No, Sarah. I’m the SIO. I take the blame, alone.’ Reaching for his tea, he took a sip, hoping that Workman didn’t notice his hand shaking as he lifted the cup to his mouth.
Workman stood. ‘I’ll get on to it now, sir. Shouldn’t take long.’
‘Thank you.’
When she had gone, Marilyn demolished both biscuits in four big bites and felt no better for doing so.
This one is on me. Little Jodie Trigg’s death is on me.
65
Though Jessie was tempted to keep her finger jammed furiously on the bell until the front door opened, she played the psychology and gave it one short, businesslike ring. Then, instead of stepping sideways as Marilyn had done, so as not to be framed in the eye viewer’s circle, she ducked her head so that if Reynolds checked he’d get an eyeful of long black hair, a woman, in his eyes hopefully less of a threat. She hated to be so disingenuous, but she didn’t have a choice. She needed to get inside that house and talk to Roger Reynolds, and she couldn’t risk him recognizing her through the viewer and deciding that he’d rather shove his head in the oven than answer any more of her questions.
Reynolds had clearly learnt caution; when the door eventually opened, it was only by a fraction. The latched door chain cut across the narrow space, revealing a sliver of pale face and one bloodshot grey eye above it.
‘No’ was all he said.
Following Marilyn’s lead this time, Jessie jammed her foot in the door. Reynolds looked down at her flimsy summer sandal. ‘If I slam it, you risk a severed toe, Dr Flynn.’
‘I’ll take the risk.’
‘Brave girl.’ The face withdrew and the door inched slowly closed, as if moved by an invisible force, until it nudged against Jessie’s exposed toes.
‘Move your foot, Dr Flynn,’ a disembodied voice commanded.
‘If you won’t talk to me, I’ll be forced to go and ask your mother about Zoe’s biological parentage,’ Jessie said. She snatched her foot away, knowing that her words would precipitate either a slam or the door being torn wide open, no scenario in between.
A slam.
Jessie waited. A moment later, she heard the sound of the chain being removed and Reynolds emerged from the concealing darkness of the hallway, blinking furiously in the sunlight.
‘You little shit,’ he hissed. ‘You leave my mother alone.’
She stood her ground and maintained eye contact, though it was an effort.
‘No, you’re the shit, Mr Reynolds. You’ve been lying from the start. Perhaps your mother might know the value of truth, even if she didn’t think to teach it to her son.’
‘She’s eighty years old, in a home. Zoe’s death destroyed her. She loved that little girl.’
‘Unlike your wife.’
‘Carolynn loved Zoe.’
‘Did she? Really?’
‘In her own way, she did.’ His voice now laced with pain, had lost its force.
Jessie didn’t care. ‘In her own way?’ she said scornfully, raising her voice deliberately. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
Reynolds glanced past her, aware that people were dawdling in the narrow road outside, that this unprepossessing house had become an unlikely tourist attraction since the police search, the community bush wire buzzing with speculation.
‘Come in,’ he said, stepping back across the threshold and pulling the door open. ‘Come inside the house, now.’
Should she? She hadn’t, in her haste, told Marilyn where she was going. Carolynn had given Jessie the impression that Roger was controlling, borderline abusive. Or had that been another fairground-mirror distortion? Probably. The woman was like quicksand; the one thing Jessie was certain of was that she’d been labouring under an illusion, thinking she’d known anything concrete about her former client.
She moved past him into the hallway and was enveloped in darkness as the door closed behind her, shutting out the sunlight. Though Burrows and his SOCO team had finished yesterday, the house still bore signs of the search. A fine dusting of fingerprint powder on the hall floor was slippery under her soles, and in the kitchen, to her left, a couple of drawers hung half open and more fingerprint dust – she could tell from the way the light from the overhead electric spots reflected back at her in sparkles – coated the table. All the blinds and curtains downstairs had been drawn. Outside, a bright summer’s day; inside, a chill winter’s evening. Her heart was beating too fast. She cleared her throat, trying to play her role.
‘Tell me about Carolynn and Zoe’s relationship.’
Crossing his arms over his chest, Reynolds leant back against the hall wall. He clearly wasn’t going to invite her to sit or offer her tea. Fine. She felt more secure staying where she was, a short dash to the front door, even if he was standing between her and escape. She could tell from his hesitation that he was contemplating telling her to shove her questions somewhere even narrower and darker than this hallway.
‘What are you going to do with the information?’ he asked finally.
‘Use it.’
‘Against my wife?’
‘Potentially. It depends what you tell me.’
‘I need to protect her.’
‘Like you protected your daughter?’ It was a cheap shot, a few centimetres below the belt and it hit home as she had intended it to.
His eyes gleamed angrily. ‘Carolynn didn’t kill Zoe.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘You’ve switched sides, Doctor. I was right when I accused you of being a poacher turned gamekeeper.’
‘The only side I’m on is that of the truth, whatever it turns out to be. I did defend Carolynn vehemently against DI Simmons’ accusation that she murdered your daughter and I’d hate to think that I was entirely wrong to have done so. So what is the truth?’
‘You probably know as much as I do,’ he muttered.
‘I doubt that very much.’
66
Past
Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham, Portsmouth
Tears running down her face, the girl held out the doll she had bought for her baby. It was a cheap, plastic doll in a nasty, pink acrylic ballerina dress. It wasn’t worthy of her daughter, but it had been all she could afford.
‘It’s hers. It’s Anna’s.’ She felt desperate. Desperate that the woman, the social worker, understand her. ‘From me, from her mother. Something to remember me by.’
The blonde woman wouldn’t even look at the doll. Not one glance. With Anna cradled against her shoulder, she reached out and took the doll by its ankle, in pincer fingers. Holding it upside down, away from her body as if it was filthy, she turned and walked to the door. There was a metal flip-top bin by the door, and as she passed it the woman stepped on the pedal to flip the lid open and dropped the doll into the bin.
With a scream, the girl scrambled from the bed, only to double up as she felt the stabbing agony of her stitches ripping. She staggered, snatching at the bedside table for support, the pain intense, blood coursing down her legs. The policeman stepped forward, stretching out his arms, corralling her. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, but she sensed that his reasons were different from those of the blonde woman. She snatched at his arm, trying to pull him around, make him look her in the eye, engage with her. ‘Stop her, please.’
‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do,’ he muttered. ‘Get back into bed. I’ll call a doctor.’
Methodically, his strong fingers unhooked hers, one by one. She wanted him to slap her, punch her, kick her, rape her like the other men had done. Nothing would hurt her more than separation from her daught
er.
Beyond the policeman’s shoulder, her eyes locked with the blonde woman’s.
‘Please don’t take her. Please.’ The girl had begged before, when the men were raping her, and it had made no difference. If anything, it had made most of them crueller, made them revel in hurting her more, and she had promised herself then that she would never ever beg again. Begging made merciless people more savage. But that resolution meant nothing now. She would do anything to keep her baby.
‘Please let me keep her. I’ll be a good mother. She needs me. I promise, I’ll be a good mother. Please …’
Cool air from the corridor billowed into the room as the woman pulled the door open. As she stepped over the threshold, she glanced over her shoulder, and the cold, blank look in her eyes made Ruby shiver.
‘You’ll never see her again, so forget that she ever existed. Forget that you ever had a child.’
67
Marilyn glanced up at the sound of footsteps and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you’re making up for a lack of love in your childhood by carting that thing around with you.’
‘Afternoon, DI Simmons,’ Burrows said brightly. Pulling out a chair, he sat down across the desk from Marilyn. His moon face was sunburnt scarlet from his two days combing the beach and his bald patch was peeling. He resembled a particularly unattractive toddler with eczema.
‘I’ve had enough bad news,’ Marilyn said. ‘So if you’ve got more, you can keep it to yourself.’
Burrows shook his head. ‘I come bearing gifts,’ he said.
With a flourish, he laid the doll in its plastic evidence bag on Marilyn’s desk. Marilyn looked down at it, but didn’t touch. He felt damned enough without cursing himself further by touching that voodoo doll in its hermetically sealed shroud.
‘I can do without the gift of a juju curse, thanks, Tony. I seem more than capable of screwing up without any help from the dark side.’ Sitting back, he rolled his shoulders and stretched, wincing as his joints cracked at the unaccustomed movement. He’d been sitting motionless, ruminating, his shoulders hitched up somewhere around his ears since Workman had left him forty minutes ago now, he realized in surprise, catching sight of the wall clock.