by Chris Curran
‘Then, who do you think killed her?’
‘I don’t know.’
The room was suddenly very quiet. Loretta forced down a sigh and could almost feel Davis itching to take over.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to just before it happened, before Lily died, shall we?’ No reaction from Hannah who was looking down again. ‘Was everything all right? How were the two of you getting on?’
‘OK.’ Those thumbs began to circle once more.
‘And what about Joe and Lily?’
‘She loved him. They got on great.’
‘Teenagers can be difficult, though, can’t they? You must have had some arguments.’ Hannah shook her head. ‘But you did have at least one big row, didn’t you? Lily told her boyfriend, Samuel, about it. Was it because she wanted to find her real dad?’
Another touch on Hannah’s arm from the solicitor, but Hannah ignored it. ‘Yes.’
‘And when was this?’
‘Months ago. I told her to leave it because I didn’t know who he was.’
‘But she didn’t believe you?’ Davis said.
His voice was gentle and Hannah didn’t seem to register anything different. ‘No, but I never thought she’d be able to find him.’
‘And did she?’
‘She couldn’t have.’
Loretta willed Davis to let her speak and he did. ‘Why were you so desperate to stop Lily finding her real dad?’ she asked
‘Joe’s her dad; no one else.’
Davis shifted in his seat and Loretta felt his breath on her cheek as he spoke. ‘Were you ashamed because Bernard Pritchard was her father? Was that it?’
Loretta wasn’t exactly enjoying this, but there was always a sense of satisfaction when an interview became a kind of duet. It was her turn now. ‘I can understand why you’d want to protect her from him, if he took advantage of you when you were so young.’
The solicitor said quietly: ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
But Hannah looked at Loretta, her eyes dull. ‘He didn’t. He was a good man, tried to help me.’
Davis again. ‘But you didn’t think Lily would understand?’
Hannah looked from him to Loretta and back again, her eyes suddenly alight, her voice louder. ‘Mr Pritchard didn’t do anything, can’t you understand that? He wasn’t Lily’s father. Please leave him out of it.’
When she sensed Davis was about to speak again, Loretta moved slightly and he took the hint. ‘That’s partly up to you, Hannah. Unless you tell us the truth, Mr Pritchard is still in the frame and we can’t leave him alone. East Sussex police have already spoken to him.’
Hannah dropped her gaze to the table, rubbing her fingers along the grain of the wood.
Loretta looked at Davis and his nod told her to go on. ‘Were you afraid Lily would find out about Alice? Was that why you were scared?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the biological father knows you killed Alice?’
Hannah turned to her solicitor, who said: ‘You’re not obliged to say anything you don’t want to.’
Loretta exchanged a quick glance with Davis and he nodded again, keep going. ‘Are you afraid he’ll get into trouble for keeping quiet about it?’
Hannah shook her head and her solicitor touched her hand and whispered in her ear.
Davis produced an evidence bag with Lily’s Post-it note inside. He pushed it across the table, speaking very softly. ‘We found this. It’s Lily’s writing, isn’t it?’ Hannah smoothed the plastic, tracing the words inside. ‘As you can see, it’s a list of names. People you knew in Hastings. Is Lily’s father’s name there?’
Hannah looked for a long time, her head shaking slightly. Then her eyes went to her solicitor and back to flicker between Loretta and Davis. ‘Please, he didn’t know. I never told him.’
‘Didn’t know what?’ Loretta said.
‘I never told him about the baby, so I can’t let him find out now; now she’s dead. It would be too cruel.’ Another look at the solicitor. ‘Please, I want to stop.’
And that was it.
Rosie
Rosie had arranged to meet her mother at Bexhill’s De La Warr Pavilion. It was warm and sunny, so the place was busy. Visitors wandered around the spacious marble-floored foyer enjoying the ‘Icon of 30s modernist architecture’ as the leaflet described it. The gallery had a big exhibition by a Japanese conceptual artist who seemed to specialize in piling litter into meaningful arrangements. It looked very popular.
Rosie took the curving staircase to the first floor café and carried two sandwiches and coffees out to the long balcony that faced the sea, stretching the full length of the building’s glass and concrete frontage. There were plenty of people eating and drinking here, but no one was likely to notice or overhear them.
When her mother had rung she had sounded very subdued. ‘I’m sorry I got upset the other day. It’s just that I can’t stand Dad making excuses for someone who might have killed our daughter. You can understand that, can’t you?’
Rosie cut her off. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But, Rosemary, I have to speak to you without Dad around. Can you meet me? I can’t leave him for long, but we could have lunch at the De La Warr.’
Rosie checked her watch. Mum was late. She looked at her phone almost hoping to get a text to say Marion couldn’t come. Every conversation they had seemed to make matters worse. Although Rosie was hungry, she didn’t feel like eating. She pulled a piece of cheese from her sandwich and nibbled on it then swallowed a gulp of the coffee that was already cooling.
When she looked back into the café, her mother was coming through the glass doors, carrying a big glass of white wine. ‘I didn’t think you’d want one, as you’re driving,’ she said. Rosie remembered Marion overdoing the booze in the early days after Bernard went to prison, but she’d cut down since then. It looked like she needed some Dutch courage today, which made the fluttering inside Rosie feel even worse.
She pushed the other sandwich and the coffee across the table. ‘Here, better have something to soak that up.’
Marion took a large bite, a blob of mayonnaise squirting out and just missing her blue blouse.
Rosie waited till she’d chewed down a couple of mouthfuls before blurting out, ‘What is it you couldn’t say on the phone or in front of Dad?’
Her mum tossed her head, reminding Rosie of Fay when she was in one of her moods. ‘I just want to beg you to say as little as possible to the police. And not to mention the letters.’
Rosie put down her sandwich. She couldn’t eat. ‘Do you think they’ll be coming to see me again?’
‘I don’t know. They seemed quite friendly, so Dad imagines they might be starting to believe he’s innocent, but I remember how they were the first time. Very pleasant to start with. Until they came to arrest him.’
Rosie remembered it too. Her mother had been hysterical when the police took her dad in for questioning; but later, when they shared their suspicions with her, she closed down and wouldn’t talk to Rosie. Until that awful moment when she said they had to accept that dad had killed Alice.
Marion was still talking and Rosie forced herself to concentrate. ‘They seem very interested in Natalie Grant and I think they may realize she was involved.’
‘Surely, then, it would be good to let them know about the letters.’
‘No.’
It was almost a shriek and Rosie put her hand on top of her mother’s.
Marion lowered her voice. ‘We need to keep right out of it. Please, Rosemary.’
‘But if Dad is innocent, I don’t understand why you’ve been holding back so much. Why the two of you didn’t explain the whole thing to me from the start.’
Marion pushed her own sandwich away. ‘He didn’t want us to make a fuss. Told me he was scared they’d take him back inside, but I think he was really trying to protect her. That murderer.’
Her voice was pitched too high, and Rosi
e nodded towards a couple of people bringing their food to the next table. But her mother gave a quavering laugh.
‘They’re not interested. No one’s interested in my poor Alice. Nobody cares about her anymore, not the police, not her own father, not you.’ She drained her glass ‘When I think of that girl, that Natalie, living happily all these years, knowing what she’d done to us. And him telling me to let it go. How the hell does he expect me to do that?’ The table wobbled as she leaned on it.
Rosie steadied it with her elbows. ‘Drink your coffee, Mum.’ Marion looked from her empty glass to the bar, but, thank God, seemed to change her mind. ‘I haven’t forgotten about Alice and I certainly haven’t stopped caring,’ Rosie said. ‘She was my sister and I’ll never stop grieving for her. That’s why I’ve got to know everything.’
Marion turned away from her to stare out to sea. Rosie followed her gaze. There was a whole flotilla of tiny sailing boats on the water. She could hear her mother’s breathing beginning to slow as she calmed down. Eventually, Marion picked up her coffee cup, took another sip and gave a wavering smile. ‘I want to tell you it all. That’s what I’m here for. But it isn’t that simple.’
She grabbed Rosie’s hand. ‘I’ve been wrong about everything. Wrong to suspect Dad all these years, wrong to forget about how painful it must have been for you. Not just the murder, but before that when our family was falling apart. You were always so good. Alice made such a fuss that she got all the attention and we didn’t think enough about you.’
Rosie pulled her hand away and crossed her arms tight over her chest. She didn’t want to talk about this. ‘That’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter now. I’m happy with my own family.’
Her mother dashed her hand across her eyes. ‘I was also wrong to try and persuade you not to move away. You deserve the chance to start a new life.’
‘I can’t go until we sort this out, and if you want me to keep things from the police, you have to give me a valid reason.’
Marion was looking at her properly for the first time, her lashes fluttering fast over watery eyes. ‘What I haven’t told you or Dad is that I guessed Natalie was pregnant when she called and asked to see me. But I really did forget she might be coming that weekend.’
‘Did you ask her who the father was?’
‘No, because on the phone she never actually told me she was pregnant; but you must see that she wouldn’t have come to me for help if Dad was the father of her child. And anyway, I knew she had a boyfriend. She’d mentioned him to me once and another time I saw them together in the village. He had to be the father.’
‘So why don’t you tell the police about the letters that could help prove she killed Alice? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Dad doesn’t want to have anything more to do with the police. So long as his family believes in him, he’ll be happy.’
‘But don’t we owe it to Alice to help them find the truth?’
The eyes that met hers were bleak. ‘Are you sure you can’t let it go, Rosemary? There are some things it’s better not to know.’
‘I can’t.’ Once the words were out and Rosie saw Marion’s expression, she wished them unsaid, but it was too late. Her mother’s hand fluttered towards her, but Rosie moved back squeezing her arms tighter over her chest. ‘Just tell me, Mum.’
‘The letters will connect Natalie to Alice’s murder. But they will also bring up the question of her child’s father—’ Rosie went to speak, but Marion held up a hand to stop her. ‘It wasn’t Dad, but I know who it was.’
Rosie could hear her own heart thudding in her ears and all at once the sun was too bright, the voices and clinking crockery too loud. ‘What are you saying?’
Her mother’s blue eyes were as pale and translucent as the sky overhead. ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t happy when you started seeing him, but I couldn’t tell you why. I told myself it didn’t matter. Natalie wasn’t around and I had no idea what had happened to her. The baby might not have survived and he clearly knew nothing about it.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She said the words like a charm to ward off what she knew was coming.
‘Natalie was having her boyfriend’s child, not your dad’s. And her boyfriend at the time was Oliver Weatherall. Your Oliver.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rosie
After her mum had gone, Rosie went down to walk on the beach. It was quiet despite the good weather. The sea was calm and the flotilla of yachts had disappeared, so she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, focusing on the effort of moving against the slide of the pebbles. So many colours: it always amazed her how many there were in pebbles, all the shades of brown and cream and grey and the brilliant whites.
Her mum had wanted to stay with her, but Rosie needed to think. She knew it could be true. It explained how funny Marion had been when she and Oliver got together. Telling Rosie not to get too serious with the first boy she fell for. She was young. Needed to live a bit before settling down. At the time, Rosie had thought it was because her mum didn’t want to lose her.
Apparently, Natalie had talked about her boyfriend a few months before Alice’s death. It was clear this was something new and she was besotted. ‘I thought it was so sweet,’ Marion said. ‘She sat at my kitchen table, eating cake, after her lesson, all pink and giggly. Until then she’d always been so serious. Never seemed happy. She called him Oliver and said he was coming to meet her near our house, so I guessed he must live close by. Then I saw them together in the village a couple of weeks later.’
Oliver had lived not far from them, went to the same private school as Alice and was the same age. Although he wasn’t one of her friends, he did come to the house once with a group of them. That was the first time Rosie could remember seeing him.
She’d had to brave the living room on one of those days when Mum and Dad were out and Alice’s mates were filling the house with their noise. There was an important exam the next day and her notes were on a bookshelf.
The room was warm and crowded. Alice was squashed in the big armchair with another girl, and a boy who sat on one of the arms. The rest were sprawled everywhere, lolling on the two sofas and all over the floor. She had to step across their legs, praying no one would notice her.
One of the boys was sitting next to the bookshelf and, as she reached for the papers, he grabbed them, holding them just out of reach. Then he shoved his foot between hers so she almost toppled onto him. They were all laughing as he lowered and raised his arm and she flailed about. A girl said, ‘Oh, Jake, don’t be mean. She’s only a kid. She wants to do her homework.’ And Rosie stood, hot and red, hating them all. There was no point in looking to Alice for help.
But a boy who’d been sitting on the floor walked over. He held out his hand and Jake sniggered and let the notes fall.
The boy gave them to her. ‘Here you are.’ He spoke softly, looking into her eyes. His were a clear, cool blue. The others let out whoops and whistles, but Rosie didn’t care. He opened the door for her, still smiling into her eyes. ‘Don’t let them bother you.’ Then turning back to the room, ‘They’re a load of wankers.’ And the whoops changed to good-natured laughter.
Later, when she was helping Alice clear up, Alice said: ‘You fancy your chances with Oliver Weatherall, do you?’ Rosie could feel herself blushing, but she carried on collecting drink cans and cushions from the floor and Alice laughed the mocking laugh that Rosie hated. ‘Better join the queue then.’
She saw Oliver around the village a few times after that and once or twice he smiled at her. But when Alice died she moved to Bexhill with her mum and forgot all about him. Until they met at a party given by one of her university friends when she was eighteen.
He was her first and only love, but she’d always known he’d had other girlfriends. And one of them could easily have been Natalie Grant. And if he’d slept with Natalie, he must realize by now that her child might be his.
Her mum had told her to leave it
, but that wasn’t possible. She headed back to the car.
Joe
Joe made three mugs of tea and passed one to Raj, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘Help yourself to biscuits.’ The guy was so thin it was a wonder how many he could put away. He’d driven them home after Hannah’s interview at the station, and she had gone straight up to lie down.
According to their solicitor the interview had gone fine and there was nothing they need worry about at the moment. Joe hoped that wasn’t as ominous as it sounded.
Upstairs Hannah lay staring at the ceiling. He made his voice cheerful. ‘Cup of tea, love?’ When she pulled herself up to lean against the bed head, Joe slipped off his shoes and stretched out beside her. They drank their tea in silence. She was wearing a long-sleeved top and he was glad of that. The bandages had just come off and the one glimpse he’d had of her wrists and the insides of her forearms had horrified him.
She’d seen him looking, so he had to say something. He touched her sleeve. ‘All set to take over the washing-up for a bit, then? I reckon I’m entitled to a couple of weeks off, at least.’
She twisted away from him. ‘You don’t have to keep pretending, Joe.’
‘I’m not. You know I don’t believe you could have hurt Lily.’
‘Please, that doesn’t help.’
‘But it would help me if we could talk. Loretta’s not here and Raj is busy scoffing biscuits. He won’t bother us. And you might remember something.’
‘And what if I don’t want to remember?’
‘Can’t you tell me who Lily’s father was? If it wasn’t Pritchard I don’t see what the big secret is.’
‘He was just a boy I knew.’
‘And you loved him?’
‘I thought I did, but it didn’t last. His parents never wanted him to go out with anyone – he had to concentrate on his exams, get into a good university. They would have hated knowing he was mixed up with someone like me.’
‘And what about the baby?’
‘I never told him. It wouldn’t have been fair.’ She made a little noise. ‘We’d more or less broken up by then.’