by Heidi James
‘No I’m not!’
‘I believe you.’ She cuffed his arm.
‘D’you think we’re disgusting?’
‘Of course I don’t. But I think you should be careful.’
‘Why? People already think I’m gay. What does it matter?’
‘Yes, maybe, but you and Darren? Listen to me. Be careful.’
‘He’s not stupid you know. He’s not like the others, he’s different.’
‘Perhaps, he is. But trust me, if this gets out he’ll turn on you just like the others, and if he doesn’t it’s the family you’ll have to watch for, his brothers.’
‘So we won’t get caught.’
‘OK lover boy. I’ve missed you though,’ she said and pushed through the door into English, saluting Mr Laugham as she dropped into her seat.
When he was four, Marcus trapped his finger in a door; so young he wouldn’t remember, but this is the kind of experience that the body – and that lizard part of the brain – never forgets and is always vigilant for. Testing the world for the potential of pain. Watchful. He’d cried and screamed and to his little befuddled mind it took forever for his mother to arrive and save him. He thought she would never come. Does this explain anything? Who knows, these are just stories.
Old Blood
The room was small and drab, with pus-coloured walls, plastic chairs, a rectangular table topped by a tape recorder with its red light flashing, a video camera in the corner. Etcetera. You’ve seen cop shows on TV, and they’re strikingly authentic. And of course, the obvious question, which is real? The police station on TV or the one I was in? And neither of those questions was new either, only it was the first time I’d asked them.
Okonjo was sitting opposite me, her hands clasped and resting on the table, her posture saying, ‘I’m listening, I’m non-threatening.’ Etc. A new habit, I was done with collecting and reporting all the details. I was tired. The strip light above fizzed and clicked. The vending machine coffee Okonjo had brought for me was cold under the greasy film that had formed like a scab on the surface. Etc. Just things. Words.
‘So tell us about your friendship with Melanie.’
I told her. I told her about school, I told her about our friendship, I told her she was clever, brilliant. I told her very little. Okonjo was laying bait for me, which I avoided. I knew how to interview. Perhaps she didn’t know that? I thought I was being clever. Self-possessed. She got up and left the room; when she returned, Callum was with her. He sat in the corner, barely looked at me, though he was listening, his head to one side like a parrot.
Okonjo pressed Record again on the tape machine.
‘Let’s start again. We just want to clear some details up with you, OK?’
I nodded, lifting the tips of my fingers up to my mouth.
‘You’re a journalist, that’s correct isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I am an investigative journalist. I write, excuse me, wrote for the Sentinel.’
‘Politics? Big business?’
‘Mostly.’ Callum was looking to one side, his mouth pressed tight.
‘But you’re not working for the Sentinel now?’
‘No.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, let’s go back a bit. Why did you choose to come and cover a murder case? Bit out of your usual remit, isn’t it?’
‘Not really, the location the body was found in could have been an embarrassment for the government. Potentially political, you see?’
‘So it was your decision to come here?’
‘My decision? I wouldn’t say that, my editor felt strongly that I should work on this. He’s the boss.’ I sat back in the chair, keeping my eyes on Okonjo. She smiled, her cheeks pressing up into her temples.
‘Your boss,’ she checked her notes for a moment, ‘Edward Campbell, said you insisted you take this story. He said you were aggressive.’
‘He said what? When did he? Why have you spoken to him?’
‘All part of my job, Mr Murray; checking facts, establishing the truth. You know about that as part of your work, don’t you or maybe not?’ She smirked. ‘Did you insist on covering this story?’
‘No, I didn’t insist on coming here, not at all. Quite the opposite.’
‘So you wanted to avoid coming here? Any reason why you’d want to avoid your home town? Your mother lives here, doesn’t she?’
‘Now you’re twisting my words. Come on, you can do better than that.’ A shrill ringing had started in my ears, like a digital whine just in my range of hearing.
‘So you weren’t avoiding covering this story?’
‘No.’
‘But you knew the victim? Detective Constable Burrell?’
‘No, I didn’t know him.’
‘So you never met him?’
‘No.’
‘But you were friends with his stepdaughter, Melanie Shoreham.’
‘Yes.’ Callum looked away, his face tight.
‘You were very fond of her. Charlie, Mr Charles Smart, was Melanie’s former stepfather, is that right?’
‘Is what right? I’m confused by your question.’
‘Sorry, that Charlie was her mother’s ex-partner?’
‘Yes he was, or so I was told.’
‘Good. Well, he said that you idolised Melanie. “Worshipped her” is how he described it. Would you say that was true?’ She was picking up pace, getting into her stride. Had she suspected me from the start, is that why she didn’t like me? How long had they suspected me?
‘When did he say that? When you interviewed a very sick man and nearly killed him? Is that when?’ My throat was dry; I reached for the cold coffee then set it down. My hands shook.
‘Did you “worship” Melanie?’
‘No. We were friends, that’s all.’ I cleared my throat, the sound of a guilty man. I tried not to swallow or blink. I kept my hands folded on the desk.
‘So, you wouldn’t have done anything to protect her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean if she was in danger, you might have tried to help, no matter what.’
‘Whatever it is you’re implying, why don’t you just spell it out?’
She leaned back, leaving her hands flat on the table. Her fingernails were short, but filed into perfect, shiny ovals. No ragged cuticles, no hangnails. She sat forward again, reestablishing our connection. ‘Did you know that Melanie’s neighbours had called the police on numerous occasions because of domestic disturbances?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes, it would appear that DC Burrell and Melanie’s mother, Christine, had a turbulent relationship. Is it possible that he was violent towards Melanie?’
‘I don’t know.’ I blinked, swallowed, blinked. As if I was lying. Was I lying? I wasn’t sure. I blinked again.
‘Perhaps he was violent to Melanie and you had to defend her? It’s understandable, you were close and she was in trouble maybe...’
‘Seriously, you are grasping at straws. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ My skin had begun to itch, as if I were crawling with lice, the light from the fluorescent bulb vibrating in my eyeballs.
‘Social services were involved with the family, did you know that?’
I shook my head.
‘Did you know that Melanie had been hospitalised after being attacked when she was fourteen?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, she was but she refused to tell the police who assaulted her. So you see why it would be understandable if you’d wanted to protect her?’
‘I didn’t know she’d been hurt.’ The image of Melanie that I’d carried for so long dissolved and reassembled. Unrecognisable
.
‘Just to come back to your editor, Edward. Why did he say you insisted on covering this story, when you say you didn’t?’
‘I don’t know. He has a big problem with me, obviously. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you.’ I got up to leave. They both watched me, unmoving. I sat back down.
Finally, Callum spoke. ‘What do you think happened to DC Burrell?’
‘I don’t know. From what I’ve heard from you, maybe he was killed by the gang he was undercover with, but who knows?’
‘Forensics say he was killed by a blow to the skull by what looks like an iron. Bit domestic for a criminal gang, isn’t it?’ Okonjo raised her eyebrows.
‘How would I know?’ All three of us turned towards muted voices outside the door, the handle half dropped then flipped up again. Whoever it was had changed their mind about entering. They turned back to me. Okonjo reached inside a blue folder and slid out a sheet of paper. It was a photo of Chrissie’s wall hanging.
‘Do you recognise this?’
I looked closely at it; Elvis’s face marked by the shadows of old blood, or dirt. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’ Shaking my head. I felt my lungs squeeze shut; my head spun and black spots appeared in my peripheral vision.
‘The body was wrapped in it before being buried. Are you sure you’ve never seen it?’
I shook my head. Tried to breathe.
‘Did you ever visit Melanie at her mother’s home?’
‘Once maybe, twice, I can’t remember.’
‘So you don’t remember seeing this at Chrissie’s house?’
‘No, no I don’t remember.’
‘Because Charlie said it was hers.’
Charlie. Good old Charlie. Fucking Charlie. ‘He would know better than I would.’
Okonjo shook her head and exhaled hard. ‘We know you’re hiding something and I don’t want to be rude, but you don’t exactly have the reputation of being an honest and upstanding citizen right now. So why don’t you just tell us what happened?’
‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘And yet you were the last person to see her alive and well in this country.’
‘No I wasn’t.’
‘We have witnesses who say that you were.’
‘That’s impossible.’ My neck and shoulders cramped sending a spasm of pain through my jaw. I rolled my head from side to side, the joints popping and cracking. Okonjo watched me, almost sneering. I settled back in my chair, the ache spreading down my back and up around my skull. The floor felt a long way down.
‘And yet, we have two people who claim they saw you with Melanie, covered in blood on the night she left.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘Really? And we’re supposed to believe you?’ She raised her eyebrows, incredulity reshaping her face. ‘Did you kill Steve Burrell?’
‘No.’
She softened, morphing from interrogator to confidante with a subtle shift of her shoulders and face. ‘Not even to protect your best friend?’
‘Am I under arrest?’
She pulled back, ‘Not yet.’
Callum touched her arm to interrupt and leaned forward to speak. ‘How tall are you, Marcus? Six foot one or so?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And how tall were you when you were sixteen?’
‘I don’t know! This is ridiculous.’
‘Is it? Because the forensic evidence shows that he was struck from behind, with enough force to kill. The size and shape of the injury gives us a pretty good idea of the height of Burrell’s killer. So roughly, how tall were you?’
‘Not much shorter than now, five eleven maybe.’
‘And Melanie? How tall was she?’
‘I don’t know. I’d guess five-five or something. Average height. I can’t be precise. I mean I’m not her parent, I didn’t keep a record of these things.’
‘No, but we tend to know these sorts of things about our close friends. Don’t we?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘So she was average height and with a slim build, would you say?’
I nodded. ‘Can I speak to my solicitor now?’
March, 1990
He stood on her front step, blood stinging his eye. His hands were scraped raw, the knucklebones exposed and slick under the streetlights. He was covered in blood, though it looked worse than it was. Head wounds bleed a lot, considering how thin the skin is, stretched over the skull, the particular bones of the face. He tapped on the door, afraid of disturbing the neighbours, or her mother. There was no answer so he thought about leaving, finding his way back. He thought about the mess he’d run from and whether he was dead. Then she came and opened the door. The light behind her picked out her shape.
Like a Breakfast Egg
‘All done?’ Okonjo and Callum stood at the door. I nodded, sliding my phone into my pocket. They sat down in tandem, as if they’d rehearsed the movements and the timing over and over. Their twinned faces searched mine for a reaction. I looked straight back at them.
‘If you admit that you were wrong about St Clair, then this will all go away. It’s that simple.’
That’s what my solicitor said, or that’s what was implied, or that’s what I remember, or that’s what I heard. And I agreed. I gave in, weak as I always was, even if I pretended for a little while that I wasn’t. And I write all this down as if I remember every detail, every word spoken, every gesture, every facial tic and expression as if I’m a recording medium, a technology able to reproduce the scenes perfectly, like my father’s God. But I’m not, and now I wonder how much I’ve got wrong.
‘As I said, the victim was struck from behind, with a fair bit of force. Now he was a big man and the blow came down,’ Callum stood raising his arm and brought it down in an arc. ‘Like this. So it’s likely he was on his knees or crouched down close to the floor, facing away from his attacker. He was hit just the once, which suggests it was, well it suggests this wasn’t a frenzied beating.’ He sat back down, watching me.
‘Perhaps someone was just trying to make him stop, perhaps it all got out of hand.’ Okonjo drummed her fingers on the table then asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
She sighed, ‘So, let’s say you didn’t kill him, Marcus. Let’s say it was someone else and we just need to fill in some of the gaps. You could help with that, couldn’t you?’ She waited for me to agree. I nodded. Disgust at the dark reach of St Clair was replaced by relief and fear that flushed through me like cold water. It was over. Of course they knew it wasn’t me. They knew all along. They knew it was Charlie. All it took was to stop telling the truth. I would let lies replace an exhausted reality. It was that easy.
‘Talk me through it then. What happened that night after your friend Melanie killed DC Burrell?’
‘Melanie didn’t kill him, she couldn’t.’
I looked down at my hands, trembling in my lap. My head felt loose on my neck, unattached. Separated into distinct parts. New details, new facts sliding into place. Melanie? I imagined the possibility of blood, the skull cracking like a breakfast egg. The parabola of the iron, swung and dropped like a drowsy morning spoon. Melanie. Her face, her hands. Small.
‘If it wasn’t Melanie, then who?’
‘Not Melanie, she wouldn’t hurt anyone,’ I shook my head.
‘But you say you weren’t there, so you don’t actually know?’
‘No, I wasn’t there.’
‘So you don’t know.’
‘No.’
‘What do you know about that night?’
‘I’ve told you, nothing. I don’t know anything. I was a kid.’
‘It’s just, with an injury like that there would be a lot of blood, a lot of mess to clear up and then there’s the body to dispose of. It’s a long way from the Sho
reham house to the orchard where we found the victim, and he was a well-built man. I can’t believe that Melanie could’ve moved him, even with her mother’s help, let alone dug the grave. Chrissie Shoreham couldn’t drive, so I wonder who helped them?’
I said nothing, a series of images flickering through my mind.
‘Why did you go and visit Charlie Smart? Was it to threaten him? To warn him to stay quiet? To get your story straight? Did you and Charlie… ’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘I didn’t visit Charlie to threaten him. I just wanted to see him.’
‘You just wanted to see an old man you barely know, after what? Twenty years? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’
‘No, it doesn’t. Are you going to arrest me or can I go?’
Okonjo pursed her lips and looked over at Callum. ‘When was the last time you saw Melanie?’ She reached into her jacket and handed me a tissue. I was sweating. I mopped my face. Maybe there were tears.
‘At school, I think. Not long after Valentine’s Day. There was disco at school.’
‘Did she mention anything? Seem worried or afraid?’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘Did she? What about? Because before you said she hadn’t been any different from usual.’
‘Did I? When?’
‘When we spoke at your house, Marcus. Remember?’
‘I’m very upset. I’m under a lot of pressure right now.’
‘I have your statement here from 1990, do you remember now, being interviewed by our boss, DCI Sutton?’
‘Not really. Vaguely, I’d forgotten until you reminded me.’
She passed a sheet of paper to me. ‘Is that your signature?’
‘Yes.’
She pulled it back across the table so she could read from it. ‘Here you’ve stated that you and she were good friends. That she often talked about leaving home and running away but that you had no reason to believe she was unhappy. Do you still believe that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why run away if she wasn’t unhappy?’