Her Deadly Secret
Page 9
Standing outside the door she took some long, shaky breaths, telling herself to calm down.
Her mother was alone. ‘He’s gone to see Richard, in Eastbourne. I took him to the station.’
‘He’s well enough to travel then?’
‘Not really, but after all Richard’s done for him …’
Richard Kirby had sat next to her dad in the orchestra for years and took over from him, as leader, when he had to leave. He always said he was just keeping the seat warm. He was the only one who had continued to believe in her father. His only visitor for all those years.
‘OK, then, what about these letters?’
Surprisingly, Mum didn’t try to delay things by offering tea; seemed as anxious to get on with it as Rosie. ‘He shouldn’t be back for a while, but just in case, you’d better read them in my room.’ Her cheeks blotched with pink as she led the way into the larger bedroom. ‘Dad’s sleeping in your old one.’ So they weren’t properly together – that was a small relief.
The letters were on the dressing table, just a thin bundle of folded papers. Rosie sat on the padded stool, hands in her lap, looking at them. ‘Who are they from?’
‘They weren’t signed and there was never a return address; the postmarks were from all over the place.’
Rosie picked a folded sheet from the top.
‘That’s the first,’ her mother said. ‘Dad kept them in order.’ Typical, he always wanted things neat. But then he probably got so few letters these would have been precious. A stab of something very like guilt. He certainly had nothing from Rosie, although he’d written to her every month for five years or so and there had always been Christmas and birthday cards.
She had a sudden memory of the first letter. Mum had passed it to her at the breakfast table saying, ‘You don’t have to read it, darling.’ But she had. She’d taken it to her room and ripped it open, hoping, longing, for some kind of explanation. There was nothing, just a few silly comments about books he was reading, trivial things in the news and, of course, questions about how she was doing at school and with her piano lessons. At the end, he wrote:
Just remember I will always love you. Be happy my darling.
She hadn’t replied, but she’d opened the next couple when they came. Each time she cried and started an answer to him, begging him just to be honest with her, to tell her the truth, but she never sent anything. And after that she binned his letters without looking inside. It hurt, but not as much as reading them would have done.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Mum touched her shoulder. ‘But don’t muddle them up: he mustn’t know you’ve seen them.’
The first was a bit of a scrawl and obviously from someone poorly educated. It referred to her dad as ‘Mr Pritchard’. So, it definitely wasn’t the girlfriend. Most likely some poor soul who was looking for a bit of excitement. Wanting to be a murderer’s pen pal.
There was no date.
Dear Mr Pritchard,
I’m so sorry they found you guilty, but I’m sure they will soon realise they got it wrong and it won’t be long till your out of prison. Your a brilliant violin player and piano teacher and a lot of people will be thinking of you and praying for you. It must be so horrible for you but you’ll get out soon I know.
Good luck.
From someone who believes in you.
Rosie put the letter to one side, folding it along the same creases – ‘a brilliant violin player and piano teacher’. She told herself not to think yet. To wait until she’d read them all.
The next was dated almost exactly two years after Alice’s death. And she wasn’t surprised to see it was neater and better phrased.
Dear Mr Pritchard,
I heard today that you didn’t win the appeal. It’s not fair. They must know you didn’t do it and you just got blood on you when you tried to help her. So please don’t give up. I think of you every day.
From someone who believes in you.
The next was word-processed and dated six years ago.
Dear Mr Pritchard,
I’m writing about the programme on TV the other night, which I hope you saw. I didn’t, but I heard that they proved what most people always knew and I’m sure the courts will have to pay attention. I’m sure it won’t be long before you are allowed out of prison.
With very best wishes from,
Someone who believes in you
Rosie shook her head. That bloody programme. It had been agony for them all. It went out the week Fay was born. Just when Rosie thought they might have a chance to move on and put it all behind them. Afterwards, her mum, who had been so looking forward to her first grandchild, had cut herself off from them and Rosie was diagnosed with postnatal depression.
It was the first time she’d heard about her dad having an affair and the theory that he was with this other woman during the missing forty minutes when he had claimed to be at the first supermarket. They implied that Rosie’s mum knew about it and that was why she turned against him. Rosie had never asked Marion if this was true.
And as for the suggestions of abuse that must have influenced the jury, even when the judge told them to disregard the hints in the press and the prosecution’s innuendos, well, the TV people talked to two of Dad’s old pupils and another who had been in his swimming club and they all said there was nothing to it. He was a lovely man. Of course, they never tracked down whoever made the accusations. Or, more likely, deliberately avoided talking to them.
Rosie swallowed, wanting to throw the whole bundle in the bin, but she had to carry on. The next letter was sent on the tenth anniversary of the murder.
Dear Mr Pritchard,
I had to write to you today, because it must bring back such awful memories for you. It does for me too. I never stopped thinking about you and wishing things were different. I don’t know what I can say after all this time except that I’m so, so, sorry I couldn’t do something to help you. N (who believes in you)
The last was from eighteen months ago.
Dear Mr Pritchard,
I’m writing again because I guess you must be near the end of your sentence. All I can say is that I wish you well when you get out. I have found out where your wife lives and sent her some money. It’s not much I’m afraid, but it’s all I can afford. Perhaps you can use it for a holiday.
Of course you deserve far, far more after what you’ve suffered. Not only all those years locked away, but the loss of your daughter. That must have been the most terrible thing of all.
I hope your other daughter is a comfort to you.
N.
Rosie folded the papers together and placed them back on the dressing table, rubbing her hands over them. The room was so silent she could hear her own breathing and feel the heavy thump of her heart.
‘Mum.’ She’d called out without intending to and Marion was there, two mugs in her hand, as if she’d been outside the door all the time. Rosie held up the last letter. ‘Did you get the money?’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own.
Her mother nodded, handing her a mug of coffee and sitting on the bed. ‘Yes, two postal orders. There was a note attached saying they were for Mr Pritchard from someone who knew he was innocent.’
‘You never told me.’
‘I know, but, you see, that was what made me visit him. He told me about the letters then.’
‘How much money are we talking about?’
‘There were two orders for £250 each.’
‘Good God.’
Her mum shook her head. ‘You can see, can’t you? She knew he was innocent.’
She. It was one of those silences you could almost touch. Her mother brushed her hair back with one hand, then gulped at her coffee, eyelashes fluttering very fast. Rosie could only stare.
Marion hurried from the room. In the kitchen, she began filling the sink with water, squirting in washing-up liquid.
‘Mum …?’
‘I don’t know why I said that.’ She scrubbed at a mug with a brush.
Her mother sat opposite, wiping her soapy hands on a tea towel. It was the one with a picture of the Paris Opera that Rosie brought back from a school trip. ‘That’s why Dad didn’t want to tell you. He guessed it was one of the kids he used to take for extra music lessons. The ones from the state schools who had no support at home.’
Yes, Rosie remembered the piano tinkling away after school and, on weekend mornings, a few scruffy kids scurrying in and out. He had offered his services free to a couple of local comprehensives. Wanted to help talented kids. Dad’s charity cases, Alice called them.
Rosie swallowed down a spike of fear and looked at the letter again. ‘She mentions me. Did I know her?’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t. It was a girl called Natalie. At least, that was Dad’s guess. From the initial and the handwriting on the early letters. She had no kind of home life. Horrible mother who treated her like dirt.’
The name meant nothing. ‘So why didn’t he try to trace her? Get her to talk to the police.’
‘She obviously didn’t want to be found and, if it was this Natalie, she was very vulnerable. Besides, by the time he realized the significance of the letters, it was too late.’
A beam of light was shining through the little kitchen window directly into Rosie’s face. It dazzled her. Made her hot and dizzy. She moved her chair. ‘What was her other name?’
‘Dad didn’t say.’
‘But if she knew something, why didn’t she speak up at the time?’ Rosie looked down at the bundle of letters fighting the urge to tear them to pieces. Wishing she’d never seen them.
Marion stood, pulling the tea towel through her hands. ‘Probably scared of getting involved with the police. The mum was known to them. Drugs, prostitution – you know the kind of thing. The police would be seen as the enemy by people like that. And she obviously didn’t think he would be convicted. Then, as time went on, I suppose it got more difficult to come forward.’
‘But she doesn’t say if she knows anything definite. And if she was one of those kids he took under his wing, maybe she just thought too much of Dad to believe anything bad of him.’ She couldn’t hold back a tiny laugh. ‘That’s the way I was for a long time, after all.’
‘But what about the money?’
‘That proves nothing. She might be loaded. No …’ she waved the letters. ‘I need a lot more than this before I let him back into my life.’ She was so tired she only wanted to get away. To be back home with Fay and Oliver.
Marion straightened the towel and hung it on the hook by the sink, sat opposite Rosie again and touched her hand. ‘He didn’t want me to tell you any of this and I can see why. It’s brought it all back, hasn’t it?’
‘No, it hasn’t.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘I’m fine and none of it makes a real difference.’ This was better. She was feeling strong again. Nothing had changed.
‘But it does, Rosemary, don’t you see? If this girl is who I think she is, she could have been there that morning.’
The motes of dust spinning in the sunlight made it hard to see properly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know he let some of those youngsters come to the house to use the piano outside their lessons. They often came on weekend mornings when you and Alice were at tennis or whatever. We didn’t mind them just turning up. If they didn’t have access to a piano at home, we’d let them practise, even if Dad didn’t have time to give them a lesson.’
A hot spike of anger. ‘I remember. You used to take them into the kitchen afterwards and feed them biscuits. Making them think our home life was all sweetness and light. When all the time we were tearing each other apart.’
Her mother’s face flushed and she stood and went back to fiddle with something in the sink. Her voice was muffled. ‘That’s not fair, Rosemary. Things were difficult, but I was only trying to help them and to help Dad. And I always did my best by you and Alice.’
The anger died away as Rosie looked at her mother’s thin back and her shoulders hunched over as if in pain. It was the way she always stood when she was upset, and Rosie’s response was automatic. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
Marion turned on the tap, squeezed a sponge and rubbed it over the already clean metal draining board. ‘The point is, this girl might have come to the house thinking she could practise and seen something. Seen someone,’ she said.
A searing image of Alice lying by the fireplace. The sun as bright as today and Rosie blinded by the nightmare of it all.
And she was on her feet, needing to get away; needing to think. She found herself by the living room window looking out but seeing nothing. Her mother’s voice came from far, far away.
‘Are you all right, Rosemary?’
She turned and dragged her fingers through her hair, trying to clear her mind. ‘Have you tried to find this Natalie?’
Marion picked up a cushion from the sofa, patted it, put it down and picked up another. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I didn’t need to. I could see what the letters meant. Surely you can see that too?’
‘I can’t take this in. I don’t know what to think. But, whatever you might believe, Oliver and I can’t take any chances. Fay has to come first.’
Her mother nodded, the fingers of one thin hand pressed to her chest. ‘Yes, of course. I can see that. But please don’t just dismiss it.’
As Rosie walked back to her car she was trembling and, when she’d driven a few yards, she had to pull up again and sit breathing slowly. She turned on the radio, but it was tuned to a news programme and they were talking about the Swindon murder. So she switched over to some music, turning it up loud.
Anything to drown the turbulence in her head.
Chapter Eleven
Loretta
‘Give it a rest will you, Andy.’ Loretta almost wished that bitch Maggie was in the canteen. She would have enjoyed giving her a mouthful, instead of snapping at poor Andy who was only trying to help. ‘I’ve tried everything and Hannah just keeps saying she doesn’t know. Claims the father could be one of a dozen and she can’t even remember their names. Won’t say much about her past at all, but there’s only so much pressure I can put on her. The neighbour is certain she didn’t go out all day and was in the garden around the time Lily was killed. So, she’s not a suspect.’
‘What about the husband?’ Andy was chewing a doughnut, jam dribbling down his chin – disgusting, how come he couldn’t feel it?
‘He claims to know nothing either and I’m inclined to believe him but, because of the boyfriend’s unbreakable alibi, he might be back in the frame, so I’ve got to tread carefully there too.’ She grabbed her bag from the back of her seat. ‘Anyway, thanks for listening.’
At least he hadn’t asked about her kids. If he’d mentioned Dex that would have finished it. And, of course, as soon as she climbed into the car her mobile started up and it was Will. ‘Yes?’
‘Can you talk?’
What could she say? ‘Yes.’
‘Just checking you were all right about what I suggested the other day. About Dex staying with me for a bit.’
No, I’m bloody furious. ‘I’m OK. It took me by surprise that’s all.’
‘Well, nothing’s settled. You think about it and discuss it with Dex.’
‘OK.’ She disconnected, knowing he’d guess what she was feeling. And, sod’s law, there was Maggie, smiling and waving at her as she waltzed into the station, obviously bitching about Loretta to the probationer with her.
Loretta waved back, muttering, ‘Fuck off,’ as she pulled away with a screech of tyres.
It started to rain as she headed for Hannah and Joe’s. She was so angry with Willard she could hardly think straight. He’d tricked her: that was what it came down to.
They’d all had a meal at the diner after the meeting with Dex’s head t
eacher. As they sat down, Will said, ‘Look, Dex, your mum and I aren’t happy about what we’ve heard from Mrs Taylor.’
As Dex went to speak, Loretta put her hand on his arm and Will carried on. ‘But this isn’t the time or the place to discuss it. So let’s just have a nice meal and talk about it later.’
‘That doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences,’ she couldn’t resist adding. ‘And you need to promise you’ll try to keep out of fights and go to school every day from now on.’
She felt the muscles in his forearm tighten, but he just muttered, ‘OK.’
‘I’m starving,’ Pearl said. ‘And I already know what I want so will you lot get on and choose?’
After that they spent the rest of the evening just chatting and laughing and, as he was paying the bill, Will looked up at her with a big smile and said, ‘We need to do this more often.’
But when she came back from the Ladies they were all looking at her.
‘What?’
When Pearl glanced at Will, Loretta thought she saw a tiny nod. ‘Dad’ll drive Dex home and I’ll come with you, OK? I think Dad’s gonna tell him the facts of life, at last.’ She laughed and elbowed Dexter.
‘Get off.’ His voice had that harsh quality it had developed recently, almost as if he had a sore throat, and she felt a tremor at the thought that he was growing up. Still, it was good to see him smile.
Alone in the car with Pearl, Loretta wasn’t going to waste her chance. ‘What do you know about all this trouble with Dex?’
‘He’s missed a couple of lessons and he’s not doing his homework. I suppose old Taylor told you that.’
‘She said he’d been fighting – that’s not Dex.’
‘It’s all boys, Mum. Especially when there’s a girl involved.’
‘So he’s got a girlfriend?’
Pearl was playing with the beads in her hair. ‘Not anymore. There was one a while back, but she didn’t go to our school so that’s all I know.’ She leaned over to the radio.
‘Pearl, we’re talking.’
Her daughter continued to fiddle with the dial, switching from channel to channel, each snatch of music jabbing into Loretta’s brain. ‘Chill, Mum. We can talk and listen, can’t we?’