by Ruth Dugdall
Although it looked as though Falater had attempted to conceal the murder, Falater’s children testified that he always kept his work clothes and tools in the boot of his car and the prosecution argued he was acting out of habit. The neighbour also gave weight to the case, saying he was glassy-eyed during the attack and unaware of his surroundings. His mother confirmed he had a history of childhood sleepwalking, and his sister testified that as a girl she had tried to disturb him while he sleepwalked, and he threw her across the room.
The jury still found him guilty of first-degree murder.
So, how can it conclusively be proved that the accused was sleepwalking? In short, it can’t. It can only be concluded on the basis of probabilities, weighing up past behaviours and evidence of disturbed sleep.
Another example: In 1992, in Canada, Kenneth Parks drove several miles to his in-laws’ home, strangled his mother-in-law and stabbed his father-in-law, then drove to a local police station, saying, ‘I think I’ve just killed someone.’ His own wife believed he was asleep and this must have helped the jury’s decision to find him not guilty. He was under a great deal of stress, and had lost his job due to his gambling addiction.
He was acquitted because of his highly irregular EEG results.
Here the notes finished.
It sounded as though things were clearer for Clive than they had been earlier that day. Holly leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes wearily. When she opened them, her father’s gaze fixed on her from the baseball photo on the fridge. If only she were still a child, and under his protection.
But she had been a child that night when everything changed, and she hadn’t confided in him then. It was foolish to think that now, as an adult woman and living thousands of miles away, she needed someone else to help her.
Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up. ‘Cass?’
‘I just got your text. How did it go?’
The words tumbled out. ‘Clive believes your dad – I’ve seen the start of his report. He’s quoting other cases, to back up the theory that Hector was asleep.’
There was a long pause. ‘What about you: do you believe him?’
Now Holly hesitated.
‘Holly? Please tell me.’
‘Cass, did you know that Daniel was at the farm that morning? He’s known right from that first morning that this wasn’t an attempted suicide.’ She strained to hear Cass’s reaction, but through the phone wires, her senses had nothing to go on.
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s what your dad says. And yet Daniel wasn’t at the farmhouse when I arrived. He stayed out of the way while the police and paramedics did their work . . .’
‘It wasn’t Daniel, Holly. It was Ash.’
There had been a time Holly had believed this too, but now she wasn’t so sure. Ash and Janet both seemed devoted to the Hawkes. She asked softly, ‘How can you be so sure, Cass?’
‘Because Ash is violent. He’s shot someone before, when he was just a boy. I have a scar to prove it.’
Holly hung up, feeling wretched. She was a coward: she knew Ash hadn’t shot Cass, but she’d kept quiet to protect Jamie. She was still protecting him, after all these years. Still running away, just like she had that night.
So Ash had taken the blame, back then, and he could be wrongly accused a second time. She owed it to him to discover who had really shot Maya, and it was Daniel she suspected. If she could only get close to him, use her synaesthesia to pick up any trace of guilt . . . Tomorrow was Hector’s bail hearing – maybe she’d have her chance then.
But tonight, she needed to forget.
After a quick change into sweat pants and a comfortable jumper, she knocked on Leif ’s door to be welcomed by the smell of cumin and a warm kiss. A selection of curry cartons were already being heated, the beers were chilled and the DVD was ready to roll. Holly was usually wary of films, knowing they’d risk intruding on her thoughts and feelings, causing what she now knew to be a mirror-touch reaction. But the films Leif showed her, they made her think and – maybe because they were in black and white – they didn’t rattle her senses. She was curious to see what he wanted to share with her this time.
She leaned into Leif on the sofa, bottle of beer in hand, and felt her breathing deepen as he placed an arm around her, her body sinking into the cushions.
‘How was your day, Sötnos?’
‘Uneventful,’ she said, taking a swig from her bottle. The microwave pinged and he jumped up to fetch their food. ‘What have you been doing?’ she called, as he dished up.
‘I wrote eight hundred and five words on this film I want to show you, so I’m quite pleased with my considerable progress.’ She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but he sounded sincere.
‘So this isn’t a date, then?’ she teased, taking the plate of food from him, and settling down to enjoy it. ‘It’s a seminar.’
‘Now, Holly, this film Gaslight is a classic. It’s important, for film history but also for its psychology. You’ll see, there is a type of abuse here that is I think very interesting.’
‘Sounds just up my street.’ She smiled, happy to be his student and for Gaslight to be her evening class assignment. If Leif filled her head with film theory and the talents of Ingrid Bergman, she didn’t have to think about Innocence Lane, which was a welcome respite. They sat together on the sofa, but he gave her enough space to curl her legs up, close enough so she could feel his warmth. This Swedish student seemed to know how to play it just right.
Gaslight was an unsettling film, and it absorbed Holly, although the monochrome somehow made the creepy sensations bearable.
The premise was that the young bride, played by Ingrid Bergman, was being persuaded by her husband that she was going mad so that he could incarcerate her in an asylum and thus have free reign over her money and assets. Gaslighting, Leif told her, is a word sometimes used to describe the process of persuading someone that they’re insane.
It was as if Leif ’s films held a dark mirror to the Innocence Lane case, where a woman was most at danger in her own home, most at risk from her own husband. But Holly wasn’t thinking about Maya, she was thinking about Cassandra, remembering how Daniel fawned over her, telling her she was unwell, telling her she was wrong about the shooting. Yet he had known all along that Cassandra was right.
The Samphire Master, who healed people, who was revered locally.
Could he be Maya’s murderer?
31
Cassandra
I’ve put the phone down on Holly. No, she’s wrong. Daniel isn’t involved, that would make no sense. He was so close to you – he saved you.
Oh, Mum, you always spoke for me, told me what to do. Now I’m having to learn, for the first time, how to stand alone.
This evening I’ll go through the motions of being okay, for Victoria’s sake. There’ll be food on the table and the fire going in the front room: it’ll look like I’m coping. When the delivery of Chinese food arrives, Daniel’s still not home and he isn’t answering his mobile. I call the Studio. Katie seems surprised when I ask for him.
‘He said he had to be with you,’ she whines, not even offering her condolences. ‘I had to cancel all his healing sessions – everyone’s so upset! You know how they depend on him.’
Everyone, it seems, needs Daniel. I wonder if he’s with Monica. I wonder if he’s going to leave me, even as I spoon the pieces of duck onto Victoria’s plate and tip a container of plum sauce over. ‘Eat up, love. I bet you don’t get anything like this at Oakfield?’
‘No.’ She lifts her fork, but just pokes around the meat, hardly touching it. ‘I miss Dawn. Can’t she come and stay?’
I know she’s sad. I know she misses her friend, but I’ve lost my mother. We need to support each other through this.
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate, love. We have Granny’s funeral to plan. I’ve booked the crematorium in Ipswich, but we need to order flowers and talk about hymns and eulogies. Do you want to read someth
ing?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’d be too nervous. But I’ll pick out some music.’
‘That would be lovely.’ I reach and squeeze her hand in mine. ‘Thank you.’
I want Victoria to stay longer, but after she eats a few mouthfuls of food she asks to be excused, and I know she wants to go and FaceTime Dawn. I let her go, and then I’m alone.
Daniel still isn’t home.
I go up to the bedroom without turning the light on, and look down onto our empty driveway, as if wishing will make him appear. This conflict, my love for him balanced against righteous anger that he should be here supporting me, is very present for me in the dark room. But even here, now, I don’t believe Holly’s right. Ash shot you, I’m certain, just like he shot me when I was twelve. An accident, Dad called it, comforting the snivelling boy even before he came to me, though I was bleeding. He made me tell the police I didn’t want to press charges, then you sent me away to boarding school. And this is your reward, Mum – this is what happens when you welcome foundlings into your house and treat them like kin.
Every time a car turns into our road and its beam falls on our front path my heart lifts, then sinks as the light dips and the car turns away. The longer he stays away, the more the doubts take hold. Could it be that the man I sleep beside each night is a killer? I can’t believe that. But that he’s a cheat, that he’s fucking someone else? Yes.
Daniel must be with her, with Monica. I should never have doubted myself two years ago: my suspicions were right. He’s going to leave me. Oh God, he doesn’t love me any more. I’ve already lost you – how can I cope if I lose him too?
There’s only one way to keep him, and that’s to forget what I know. I won’t say anything when he arrives, I’ll act normally. His dinner’s saved on a plate in the oven – the smell of charred flesh, bird meat brittle from waiting too long. Will he say he was with a new client, one who desperately needs his help, maybe someone with terminal cancer? I’ll nod and watch him eat, pour him a glass of wine and say nothing. My fear of him leaving me is an invisible scold’s bridle.
But then another thought. Oh – God forbid – maybe he’s not coming home at all. Maybe the phone will ring instead, from Monica’s house. ‘I don’t love you, Cassandra.’ Is this how it ends?
Car lights. Coming down the road. Coming up the drive – his car. I practise smiling as I run downstairs, to the kitchen. By the time he opens the front door, the food is out of the oven and on the table. The purple sauce covers blackened duck meat, a large glass of wine to cover the taste. Pathetic, I know, but I’ve decided to keep the lid on the can of worms, because I love him.
‘God, it’s freezing out there.’
Daniel takes off his coat, tosses it over the banister, and then disappears into the downstairs restroom. Running water and a refilling tank. Finally, he’s with me in the kitchen. His face is yellow-grey, like there’s something leaking under the surface and polluting it. I pour myself a glass of dark grape and slug it down, already swallowing more than I should.
‘How was your day, love?’ He sounds weary and I hand him his wine, checking his face for signs of deception.
‘I’m coping. How was work?’
‘Busy. Last month’s radio programme on treating ME with reiki has brought in another three clients.’ I can see the deceit on his face.
‘That’s great news, Dan.’
He can’t even look at me as he picks up his fork. I watch as he chews.
I can’t resist asking, ‘So that’s why you’re late?’
Then he makes himself look at me, his eyes blinking heavily, hidden meaning in pools of blue.
No, don’t say it! I don’t want to hear.
‘Cass, I didn’t go to work this afternoon.’
I’d prefer him to lie. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed him with questions.
‘I didn’t want to deceive you, love, but I didn’t want to upset you either. It’s a tragedy, what you’re going through, and I don’t want to make your burden worse.’
‘Then don’t,’ I say weakly.
‘I have to, love. I visited Oakfield. Mrs H was so concerned about you, what with you just turning up and collecting Victoria with no warning. I saw Dawn too. She’s missing Tori. And then I went somewhere else . . .’
‘No, don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘Do what you like – as long as I’m ignorant it can’t hurt me.’
‘That wouldn’t be right, love. There should always be honesty between us.’
Oh God, here it comes. I feel my spine curve out, my body already giving in. The lid being peeled back from the can of worms.
‘You’ll be angry, but hear me out first. I want you to know that I only ever do what is best for our family.’
‘Daniel, please shut up.’ I don’t want to know about his lover; he can fuck her so long as I don’t have to hear it. Keep the lid on the can, push it down hard. ‘Just eat. We can talk another time.’
‘You know we shouldn’t eat processed foods.’ He pushes his plate away. ‘Cassandra, I went to Norwich Prison to see your dad. Look, love, he needs our help. God, that prison is truly hideous. All those bloody criminals. Hector looked like a trapped animal. I mean, he’s a farmer – he belongs in the open air. Seeing him in there, locked away like that. And the stench!’
He takes my hands in his, holding them tight and waiting till I look at him. Every instinct tells me to run away, but his eyes hold me.
‘To attack someone while sleepwalking isn’t a crime, Cass, it’s just sad and unusual. If you’re not conscious while you act, you’re innocent.’
I look at him hard to see if he really believes that, and I think that he does. His blue eyes are clear. He’s trying to make me understand something.
‘Hector needs to come home for Maya’s funeral, love. We need to support him at the bail hearing tomorrow and if he’s released, we need to look after him. And we need to do everything we can to show medical evidence of a sleep disorder.’
‘Why are you doing this, Daniel?’
He holds my fingers fast, and in that moment, he looks entirely truthful. ‘For you, Cass. Because I love you.’
DAY 10
MONDAY 10 NOVEMBER
32
Cassandra
It’s a macabre family trip, with the three of us dressed in smart black clothes, as if for a funeral.
Victoria can’t hide her nervous excitement. Going to court is an adventure for her, and she’s sure her grandad will be coming home. Daniel’s been silent since he woke – strange for him. I wonder if he’s brooding over the possibility that Dad may not be released, or if his lover is occupying his thoughts.
At the courthouse entrance, we’re accosted by Alfie Avon, all jowls and pinpoint eyes, wagging a notebook at us as he shouts, ‘Remember me, Cassandra? I was at the farm the day before the shooting?’
As if I could forget. This man who has tenaciously tracked Daniel’s career for years, the parasite who is feeding on our family tragedy. I put my head down, not acknowledging him, but he jumps around me like a bulldog at my ankles. ‘Do you believe your dad’s confession? Was it assisted suicide on account of her cancer?’
‘You bastard!’ hisses Daniel, lunging towards him and making the bilious man grin in satisfaction. ‘You know she was cured of that. This was an accident!’
‘Mr Avon, I must ask you to stop harassing my client’s family,’ calls Rupert Jackson, jogging down the steps and moving us away from the reporter, ‘or I shall file a motion to have you banned from the court vicinity. How would your readers like that bit of news?’
Avon shrinks back, his thick lips curled into a sneer over his stubby brown teeth. ‘Only doing my job, mate, same as you.’
Once we’re out of earshot, Jackman’s hand still on Daniel’s elbow, he says, ‘Please don’t speak to the press, Mr Salmon, especially not that man.’
Jackman is smart in his pinstripe suit, dark hair like an unruly ruff that he keeps brushing aside, only to have
it fall back over his eyes. Victoria stares at him like he’s an actor, which in a way he is. Once we reach the privacy of the solicitor’s room, he turns to Daniel. ‘I was hoping we could turn the media to our advantage, with you being a local hero, but now I think it could go against us. I gather from reading his articles that Alfie Avon doesn’t like you very much?’ His voice seems able to project only at high volume.
‘He’s jealous,’ Daniel says. ‘He had the Friday-evening slot on the radio, before it was offered to me. He’s obsessed with the idea that I’m a fraud, always trying to dig dirt on my Samphire Master programme.’
Alfie Avon has been a thorn in Daniel’s side for two years, snidely having regular digs in his ‘All About Suffolk’ column at Daniel’s radio show, and his juice programme. In Suffolk, any celebrity is coveted highly, and Avon can’t stand that Daniel gets more media attention than him. His reportage is always vicious.
Jackman adds, ‘On the plus side, my wife swears by your juices. They helped her through the menopause, which was a relief to everyone, I can tell you. She listens to your radio show religiously – I may have to get your autograph later.’
Daniel manages to look bashful. ‘Shame she can’t testify for me.’
‘Well, of course, you aren’t the one on trial. Now, to the matter in hand. Miss Hawke, if the court asks you, you should say it will be better for you to have Hector home, yes? Less travelling to and from Norwich, and of course you want him home for the funeral. Do you have a date?’
‘Next Monday,’ I say.
It was the earliest Ipswich Crematorium could do. I just want it over. You understand that, don’t you, Mum?
‘Good. Now, this medication Hector’s on is very important, it’s to control the sleepwalking. It will be monitored by Dr Marsh, so he must take it, and you can tell the court that you’ll make sure he does. Daniel has said he’ll take Hector to the sleep tests at the hospital, but the big bonus is that if he’s bailed home a longer sleep test can be set up. It’s a sensible arrangement all round. We’ll need to argue that there’s no risk to you or yours, not now Hector is being medicated and his sleepwalking is controlled.’