by Bella Mackie
Kelly is obviously annoyed that I’ve fascinated so many, as though I don’t deserve the dubious attention I’ve received. As though it’ll springboard me onto a reality dance programme and get me a haircare deal and a photo spread in OK! magazine to tearfully talk about my ordeal. After months of living cheek by jowl with the woman, I know this to be exactly Kelly’s dream.
I don’t know how to explain that women like her are a dime a dozen. She’s not going to end up on the front page of the tabloids because there’s nothing really salacious in her story. Sure, she’s attractive to a point, and there’s a sex angle to her crimes (it always helps), but there’s nothing unique about someone hustling for money after a bad start in life. Nell Gwyn did it centuries ago, and she did it with more style than Kelly can ever hope to have.
‘I guess I just got lucky,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘But did you never do anything bad before? Not even the odd shoplift? We was mad for a bit of that down at the local Sassy Girl, I used to shove tonnes of stuff down my trackie bottoms and sell it on at the local car boot on Saturdays. My mum couldn’t believe how well I saved my pocket money. That shop got a bit fancy later on though, started sticking tags on things and we had to move on.’ She smiles at this memory, as if it’s as wholesome as something Enid Blyton might’ve conjured up. I smile too, well practised in making it look real. A fake smile takes work – it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and your facial muscles seem to sense that they’re only going through the motions so it feels like you’re dragging them along. And yet it can’t look sarcastic, as half-hearted smiles so often do.
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Nothing really. I’ve lived a pretty dull life.’
I know it’s just a coincidence. I know she’s only saying Sassy Girl because there was one on every high street. I’m certain she doesn’t know that Simon Artemis is my father. She wouldn’t know who Simon Artemis was. She doesn’t know who owns that shop, whose stuff she was shoving down her pants to flog on a Saturday morning. I look back at Kelly, but she’s lost interest, immersed in applying a top coat to her newly painted toes. I grab my notepad and head to the computer room to go over my meeting with Thorpe. But I find that my fingers are already lightly pulling at the skin on my throat. I don’t like coincidences.
* * *
I find a space in the so-called computer room as far away from other people as possible and sit down. The room has three chunky monitors which look like they were donated by Amstrad back in the early Eighties. Supposedly, computers are being slowly allowed into cells in some places, but Limehouse seems to be low down on the list of prisons to receive such privileges. There are computer literacy courses available here, as if anyone wants to learn how to send emails and write a word document, when really most of us are just here to browse Facebook and search for that ex who dumped you for the girl who worked in HR, to see if they’re happy.
I write down everything my lawyer said in bullet points and go over them again and again, until I think I’ve got it all. Isn’t it absurd? Everything that I’ve done in the past few years, all the plans and all the death. The tunnel vision ambition I’d cherished, fuelled and successfully achieved and then … this.
She fell and I was arrested, charged, and tried with murder. She fell like the drunken emaciated mess she was and I ended up here in a tracksuit paying a man in tortoiseshell glasses hundreds of pounds an hour to try and find proof of my innocence. How can you prove something didn’t happen when the only witness is you? Caro will never be able to tell the truth about that night, and I suspect she wouldn’t even if she could. She’d find this amusing.
I’ve been in close proximity to death, if you forgive the perverse brag. I’ve found that seeing death happen in real time often panics people, makes them nut out – scream and cry and faint and run in circles. Thankfully, it’s never had that effect on me. I’ve always known it was coming, perhaps that’s the difference? But with Caro, I had no idea. She wobbled sure, but the suggestion that she might actually fall never entered my head. Perhaps it just felt too obvious – people fall off balconies drunk in Magaluf, not in Clapham. And it was amazingly sudden – and so quiet. She didn’t shriek or wail. There was no hand to grab onto as in a movie. One minute she was there, the next she wasn’t. If I hadn’t been watching her, been inches away from her face, I wouldn’t have believed it. And so I panicked. My usual detached approach to witnessing the end of a life deserted me and my vision went blurry. I sank to my knees, holding onto the stone spindles, looking between them to see if I could spot her. But all I saw was the well-clipped hedge which surrounded the flats. I didn’t yell, or run to fetch someone. I didn’t even notice my phone in my hand. Nobody really knows how long I sat there, but it can’t have been more than a couple of minutes. Jimmy told the police that he came to find out why we were still outside long after the time it would take to smoke a cigarette. He told them that I hated her. Jimmy told the police a lot of things.
* * *
I heard footsteps and turned towards the French windows. He stood there and I looked up, suddenly aware of reality.
‘Where is Caro, Grace?’ He didn’t wait for a response. I pointed (I think I pointed) towards the balcony and he stepped over me and looked down. I never saw what he saw. I didn’t look. And by the time we were allowed to leave the flat later that morning, she was gone. But Jimmy saw her. And he didn’t scream or moan or let out a guttural wail like you’d imagine. He just turned back towards me, crouched down and grabbed at my hands like he wanted to rip my arms from their sockets.
‘What have you done?’ he whispered, his face screwed up in confusion and shock. ‘What the fuck have you DONE?’
I just looked at him. He lurched to his feet, crashed back through the French doors and I heard the flat door slam. The girl inside whose face I have completely forgotten must have called the police. I was still sitting on the balcony when they arrived, wailing sirens and three uniformed officers. They were quickly followed by an ambulance, which seemed strangely funny to me, a true triumph of hope over experience. She was dead, wasn’t she? Such a performance.
I was given a blanket, helped to my feet, led back to the sitting room and left with the female officer, who insisted that I drink some water. She told me her name was Asha, and explained that I was in shock. That felt ridiculous to me. I didn’t like Caro, this had solved a huge problem for me and besides, I hadn’t really seen anything. But looking back, she was probably right. I felt achingly cold, I couldn’t stop shaking and I needed to pee every fifteen minutes. Jimmy didn’t come back upstairs, and I kept asking where he was. The other girl had vanished by then, and I felt too tired to protest when Asha said that I wouldn’t be able to go downstairs and find them. In my head, I replayed the moment that Caro fell as calmly as possible. How close was I? Did she look scared? Could I have done anything?
As I went over it all, my body started to relax and I could feel the anxiety slipping away. I was wrestling control back by working through the chain of events. To have a moment of panic was acceptable – it’s not every day a woman you had sort of wished might die actually does just that right in front of your eyes – but any more than a moment would be indulgent and worse, damaging. Even though it was an obvious accident, I’d have to answer questions. I’d come under scrutiny from the police, something which could be potentially catastrophic. If I didn’t hold it together I might make this situation worse for myself.
By the time a detective came upstairs, I had warmed up, sobered up, and firmed up my story. The man introduced himself as Greg Barker, but didn’t need to ask mine, calling me Grace the moment he sat down on the blue velvet sofa and pulled up his trousers so that I could see his yellow socks. They had little hot dogs on them. I hope his kids bought him those for Father’s Day. I hope he pulled them on in the dark when he was getting ready. There’s no excuse for comedy socks on a grown man. Especially one investigating a tragic death at 5 a.m.
Detective Barker was fairly brusque, but not
in an unkind way. I appreciated it, actually; I was fed up with Asha’s hushed tones and arm stroking. I sometimes wish I could wear a badge like some rescue dogs do when they’ve had a rough life: ‘Aggressive, do not pet’.
‘I’m sorry to inform you that Caroline Morton was declared dead by my paramedic colleagues earlier this morning. Obviously you’ve had a terrible shock, Ms Bernard, but it’s imperative that we get a clear sense of what happened here tonight and for that to happen, we really would like to question you sooner rather than later.’
He fixed me with his grey eyes, and I considered pushing back, demanding to go home, have a shower, and take off this outfit which felt absurdly flimsy in the morning light. I wanted to put on a thick jumper and high-waisted trousers. I wanted a structured blazer enclosing my body before I talked to the police. But Greg Barker was still staring at me. And I wondered if it said anything to the police when witnesses stalled. The police aren’t exactly known for their open-mindedness and staunch refusal to make assumptions, so I imagine any reluctance on my part to follow protocol would mean a big black mark being levelled against me.
‘It’s just so fucking awful,’ I said, pushing my left eyebrow up with my palm. ‘So needless. Poor Caro. Poor Jim. Can I see him before we talk?’
At this, Barker tilted his gaze just a fraction. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible today. But Mr Latimer’s family have been called and he’s in good hands, so don’t worry too much.’
I’m his fucking family. His mother will be a ghoul, weeping and repeatedly talking about how terrible it all is. His sister will become increasingly anxious and retreat into herself. And John will try to be practical. Help arrange things. Family friends will turn up as if they’re needed and not just there to signpost their own goodness by making their presence known early on. The kind of people who get to funerals early so they can sit near the front and signal to those sitting further back that they are important. But Jimmy needs someone to scream at. Or be silent with. Or sit in his old bedroom and watch old episodes of The Sopranos with because sometimes that’s all that helps.
Again, to push or accede? This time, I thought it would only make me look caring to insist.
‘Sir’ (men always like being called sir), ‘I want to make sure my friend is OK. He’s just lost his fiancée, surely I can just see him for five minutes – if his family haven’t arrived yet I think he’ll need me.’
Again, Barker settled his gaze somewhere just below my ear and let out a tiny grunt. ‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible today. I assure you my officers will look after him.’
Right. Did that mean that Jimmy had left already? Or did that really mean that the police didn’t want us to talk before they’d taken our statements separately? Or worse. Much worse. Did it mean that Jimmy didn’t want to speak to me?
‘What the fuck have you DONE?’ The last thing he had said to me. I’d assumed it was said in panic, in disbelief. In that specific momentary madness that the brain foists on you when something happens that you cannot process normally. But what if it wasn’t just of the moment? Could that thought have taken hold? Could it even now have laid down roots in Jimmy’s trusting brain, burrowing deep so that when the first shock wore off and he’d managed to get some sleep, he’d wake up and believe it?
Jimmy wasn’t the kind of person to not trust his own thoughts. Me, I had thoughts all the time that I dismissed, knowing them to be warped, self-defeating, treacherous. Intrusive thoughts which feel like your own, but they aren’t, not really. They’ve muscled their way into your brain and dressed up as your thoughts. ‘Your mother was a whore’, ‘you want to fuck that old man until he collapses’, you know the kind of thing. Jimmy won’t know not to trust his thoughts because when has he ever had a thought so scary or perverse that he’s come to understand that his brain isn’t always his ally? If he wondered whether I somehow played a part in Caro’s death, then why would he question it? His brain had come up with the seed, would that be enough for him to run with it?
I hoped I hadn’t betrayed myself in front of the policeman. He was still watching me, waiting for my answer. Outside, the sun was rising ever higher in the sky.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘How can I help everyone?’
* * *
I was taken to the police station in Battersea, and made a mental note not to cross the river again any time soon. Drunk men stumbled about in red chinos, drunk girls fell off balconies. Nothing good happens there.
Despite the carefully curated oatmeal atmosphere – constant offerings of tea, a cheery woman behind the desk offering to get me a jumper – everything suddenly felt like a trap. Why weren’t me, Jimmy, and that bland friend of Caro’s huddled together, sharing our shock, explaining the night and then being released to go and recover together? I was led into an interview room that looked exactly like it might have been hastily built for a mediocre ITV crime drama and left there for fifteen minutes. I looked around for a mirrored wall where someone would potentially be observing me, or an obvious microphone designed to catch out a weak criminal prone to blurting out his deeds when given five minutes alone, but there was nothing. Just me and the weak tea I was pretty much forced to accept. Why offer tea when you’re facing prison? Give me some vodka and at least I could have some fun when the questions get going.
When the door finally opened it wasn’t Detective Barker but a young woman wearing a polo neck and a silk skirt. Both her gender and her outfit exposed the internalised misogyny that I would normally give myself a pass on because how does anyone grow up not absorbing it at least a little? I do wince at the sight of a female pilot though. Not sure I can let myself off for that.
The detective, upon closer inspection wasn’t so young, but she wasn’t exactly a grizzled Jane Tennison type either. No wedding ring. Nice nails. I wondered what red that is, Crimson Tide? I was always on the lookout for the perfect red.
‘Hello, Grace. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, we’ve been a bit all over the shop this morning, Sundays aren’t normally as busy as today. All our cells are full and we’re playing catch up. I’m Gemma Adebayo and my colleague joining us is Sandra Chisholm.’ As she talked, a dumpy blonde woman in regulation police garb slipped into the room and sat down next to Adebayo. She smiled tightly.
‘We’re just here to have a chat about the sad events of this morning. It’s not under caution or anything like that, Grace, it’s just to get a statement so that we understand the chain of events and hopefully get some peace for Caroline’s family.’ Gemma raised her eyebrows in what I took to be an encouraging gesture and started the tape recorder, stating the date, time, and people present.
I spoke slowly, explaining everything that had happened at the party. I told the officers that Caro was drinking heavily, taking drugs, and that she’d seemed edgy, wound up and nervous. I didn’t tell them anything we talked about, instead I said that we had a drunken chat about weddings and dresses, as though we were mates bonding over her special day. That seemed like something a bride would do at her engagement party with the best friend of her betrothed. That is, if the bride was a normal basic girl excited to have invites designed featuring love birds and gold embossed lettering and not an entitled mess marrying my best friend just because she wanted someone to love her who wasn’t her father. Christ, what is wrong with women that they demand so little? ‘Not your father’ seemed like a low fucking bar. Does anyone have a father that doesn’t disappoint in some low level but ultimately incredibly damaging way? Oscar Wilde (him again) once said, ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.’ There’s too much that’s wrong with this to unpack but just to say, he’d have been better off looking at the men who end up like their fathers. You’d come closer to fixing the problems of society if you focused your search there.
I expressed my utter (and genuine) shock that Caro had fallen in the middle of our cosy chat. ‘I’d only been to their flat twice and I’d not clocked the balcony before. I don’t
really do heights so I wasn’t too clear on how high the drop was or how precarious her position was, but I certainly don’t remember thinking that she was in any danger. It’s just … so awful.’
It was their turn to say something now. I put my hands over my face and breathed in through my nose, shuddering slightly as I exhaled. Suitably traumatised, I imagine, even for these women who’ve seen it all. The older blonde nodded, clearly warming to me. I was a sympathetic figure here, a shaken, tired girl worried about her friend, finding it all overwhelming. And some of that was true. Adebayo smiled quickly, but didn’t rush to reassure.
‘Thank you, Grace, I know you must be tired. I’m just going to run through some questions and then we’ll let you go. You must be longing to get home.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bryony died before Caro’s accident. Looking back, it’s funny to think of Caro’s family gossiping about Bryony’s tragic demise, just weeks before her own unhappy end. I wonder if Caro’s death hit them as hard as Bryony’s hit Simon. I suspected (correctly) that Bryony would be the kicker for him. You could always marry again, and a man like my father, well, he wouldn’t wait long. A new squeeze half his age would emerge before the headstone had time to be engraved, I was sure of that. But Bryony was his only child and, unlike his wife who spent her time shuffling between plastic surgery offices and stuffy restaurants in Monaco, Bryony actually chose to live with Simon. I thought her death might well tip him into some kind of action. So Janine would go first.
I’d decided how to kill Janine before I’d even thought about anyone else in the family. That seems ridiculous really, but there it is. A lot of these plans have come down to luck, despite the constant plotting I did as a teenager, coming up with meticulous and ingenious ways to kill these people. It turns out that as with everything, the reality is always slightly more given over to chance, or an idea that pops into your head at 3 a.m. Janine’s murder was a bit of both. I read an article in some Sunday supplement three years ago about the rise in ‘the internet of things’, a term which gets bandied around a lot by excited nerds but basically means a bunch of devices connected to the internet which can communicate with each other. They have automated systems and can gather information and carry out tasks – collate a shopping list when you run out of cleaning products for example, or turn on your heating when you’re set to come back from holiday. It’s hardly the vision we had of the near future, this isn’t The Jetsons and we still don’t have flying skateboards – but we can now expect our houses to do more of the work. No keys needed for the front door when it just takes a fingerprint, no time spent vacuuming when a robot can do it for you while you’re out. At the moment, the most normal people come to having a smart house is by buying an Alexa or something like it, which they smugly instruct to play music or google something. Mainly in front of bored friends who dread coming over. But for the uber-wealthy, it can mean linking up your entire house and everything in it.