The Things You Didn't See_An emotional psychological suspense novel where nothing is as it seems

by Ruth Dugdall

  This is the first time that I’ve thought about this: if Dad is telling the truth, he’s a risk to me and Daniel and – worst of all – to Victoria. If the stress of the farm pushed him to this violence, what might the stress of the court case do? But I’m not frightened, because I don’t believe any of it. Dad is protecting Ash – don’t I know more than anyone what Ash is capable of ? Don’t I carry the scar? As soon as I can prove it, this madness can all end.

  Daniel gives me a long blue stare. I know what I have to do.

  ‘I want him home, Mr Jackson. He needs to be with us, especially now we’re all grieving, so please make that as clear as you can to the court.’

  Daniel places a concerned hand on my shoulder. We’re a united front, and I lean into his body. ‘This is a terrible time for all of us, but Hector has our full support.’ Just then his mobile starts to ring, and he glances at the screen. ‘I have to take this, I’m afraid: it’s a very poorly client. Won’t be a minute.’

  Rupert Jackson watches him go. ‘Remarkable man. Now, Cassandra, there’s already been some developments in the case. Dr Marsh has a colleague at the Bartlet Hospital who can run the sleep test later this week, which is great news, and he’ll also need to set up overnight monitoring in your home. What do you know of your father’s behaviour when asleep?’

  ‘He has done strange things in his sleep, I won’t deny that, like the time he jumped through the window, but that was years ago. I had no idea he still sleepwalked. My mother never mentioned it.’

  ‘She did, Mum! I remember the story of him driving the tractor and not waking up till he reached the motorway,’ Victoria chips in, unable to suppress her nervous excitement. ‘We all do it – you bake cakes in your sleep, don’t you, Mum? Dawn says sometimes I get up and move things around our room, but only when I’m anxious about a test.’

  I turn to her sharply. ‘Hush, Victoria, Mr Jackson isn’t interested in our family anecdotes. Why don’t you go and get us some drinks from that machine in the foyer – make yourself useful.’ I hand her my purse, and Mr Jackson watches her go with amusement on his face, rocking back on his patent shoes.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Hawke, your family are quite charming, which will help immensely with the trial. And the housekeeper, Janet, also confirms his sleepwalking from when she lived at the farm, so we’re in a strong position.’

  I glance across to where Daniel’s leaning on a wall beside the main entrance. He’s facing away from me, so I can’t see his expression, and still talking on his phone. Victoria’s pushing coins into the vending machine, too far away to hear me.

  ‘How do you know Dad’s not lying though?’

  Jackson doesn’t even seem shocked, as though my disloyal question is simply philosophical musing.

  ‘Truthfully, I don’t.’ He raises an eyebrow then removes a yellow pad from his bulging briefcase, flicking rapidly through his notes to find the right section. ‘What I present is an argument, and ultimately, the jury decide if it’s a convincing one. Everyone deserves a defence, Miss Hawke, and that’s my motivation. Now I’m off to the cells to see Hector. I’ll come back and get you when it’s time.’

  Daniel is agitated when he returns.

  He slides his phone into the pocket inside his jacket as if it’s something he wants rid of. I wonder if Monica is making demands he isn’t happy with. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  ‘Poor love, you look awful. I think once your dad is home, after the funeral, you should take a break. Spend some time relaxing.’

  ‘You mean a holiday?’ All of our money has been earmarked for the Spa: we haven’t had a break in years. My pathetic heart lifts, because he wants to spend time alone with me rather than his lover. ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘We? I can’t take time off work, love, not with my growing client list, and the radio show is getting so many listeners. I meant you could get signed off from work.’

  ‘Signed off ?’ The phrase is a chilly one. It takes me back two years, to the last time I wasn’t coping. Bad times.

  ‘It might be a good idea, Cass. Give yourself a chance to recover.’

  He thinks I’m sick. I watch as a group of teenagers kick a paper cup between them, despite the usher’s warning look. There’s a weepy woman across from me, clutching the hand of a man wearing a suit and trainers, speaking to his solicitor. Life’s outcasts, but right now, I feel more kinship with them than with Daniel and his successful life.

  Rupert Jackson returns. ‘We’re up next,’ he says, as if we’re about to get on a stage and perform. He places a hand on my elbow and guides me through a dark wooden door with gold script announcing its name: COURT I.

  Among the faces up in the public gallery are people from Kenley who knew you, Mum, most of your life. This is an event: a family tragedy worthy of prime-time television, played out in front of their eyes like the best kind of theatre. I imagine them muttering behind hands, ‘He shot her, you know. Said he was asleep.’

  ‘Likely story. They should bring back hanging!’

  Alfie Avon is up there, of course; I can hear his rasping voice from here. He’s hounded this case since the start, and now he’s looking around to see who might have some tidbits for him. In the front row, leaning over the balustrade, is Philip Godwin. He’ll be thinking only of the farmland, and the question mark that looms over it now you’re dead and Dad’s been accused. Criminals can’t benefit from crimes, I know that much, so any decisions will now fall to me and Daniel.

  Godwin catches the reporter’s beady eye and Alfie Avon moves to sit next to him. He must be enjoying this, feasting on our tragedy.

  I sit as far back as I can on the bench, so they can’t see my face. Wedged between Daniel and Victoria, I feel myself swaying, like I’m in a dream and can’t wake up. Victoria is subdued now, her nervous energy evaporating into the intimidating atmosphere. I slide my hand over hers and feel sweat, whose I’m not sure. She’s only fourteen, it wasn’t fair to bring her, but Daniel insisted it would show the magistrates that Dad is a family man.

  Daniel. In his smart suit, with his dark looks. So handsome, so controlled, and I see women in the public gallery pointing him out to each other, wondering if they dare ask for a selfie with him later. But what they can’t see is that his leg is shaking, jiggling up and down.

  There’s movement, a door is opened and Dad is led to the witness box. He slides into the wooden seat, head high and I notice the web of broken veins across his nose and cheeks that redden his skin. His nose, prominent on his face, is fleshy and broad. A weathered face: no mistaking that this is a man who works the land in all seasons. Whatever grief he feels, he’s keeping it held in.

  The excited chatter in the public gallery gathers momentum, and I see Alfie Avon exchange a few words with Dave Feakes, who looks sullen, seated on the end of the row. Whatever Alfie’s asking, no doubt seeking some sensational headline linking this case to the Port Authority’s desire to buy our farm, Feakes isn’t inclined to answer.

  Victoria fidgets, shuffles her black skirt lower over her knees. She’s wearing her school uniform, but without the tie, the only suitable clothes she had. She’ll probably wear the same outfit at your funeral. She watches the activity in the gallery.

  ‘Look, Mum,’ she says, tugging my sleeve, ‘it’s Ash!’

  I look up, see him take a seat in the back row beside the woman who runs the Spar shop in the village. Dad has noticed too, gives him a sorrowful nod. An intimate moment passes between them and I feel a pang of envy, then anger. He should be in the witness box, not Dad. My scar itches under my blouse, as if sending confirmation.

  Then I notice Holly, taking a seat in the public gallery, but in the corner. She gives me a small smile, which I return. She’s here for me, sending me support across the room.

  Rupert Jackson appears, like an actor stepping onto a stage, striding to the front desk – in his element here. In seconds, the usher says, ‘All rise, please�
��, and from a door at the back of the room, three magistrates appear: two men in suits and one lady in pearls. We all stand, waiting for them to take their seats beneath the crest and Latin motto, the woman in the middle.

  Dad’s poise deserts him, his face pales and even from here I can see him shaking. I notice he’s wearing the checked shirt he’s worn to farmers’ conventions and a badly fitting navy jacket – an expensive one I don’t recognise.

  ‘Where did he get that jacket?’ I ask Daniel, in a hushed whisper.

  ‘It’s mine. I took it when I went to visit.’

  I turn and stare at him, thinking again how little I know this man. How many more secrets does he have? He keeps looking ahead, to where the action has begun.

  Dad watches Mr Jackson as he would an untested bull just released into a field of cows: everything depends on his performance.

  Rupert Jackson begins, his plummy, over-loud voice, punctuating every sentence with Your Worships, and Madam, referring exclusively to the woman in the middle, who I gather is the most important. She’s the only one who looks up; the men are writing with their heads bent. He points me out as he explains the bail application, using more words than needed, enjoying the moment.

  I realise that I won’t have to say anything. My very presence, the fact of me sitting here, is enough to suggest that I want Dad home and that I’ll look after him.

  Dad holds himself still, looking ahead. Only his gnarled right hand moves, shaking hard until he grips onto the balustrade to steady himself.

  The magistrates don’t even retire to decide their course of action. The two men whisper to the woman, she speaks to each, nods, then finally she asks Dad to stand.

  ‘Hector Hawke, you will be bailed to your daughter’s home. Bail conditions are that you must attend all appointments with Dr Clive Marsh, take any medication prescribed and co-operate with the sleep tests both at home and the hospital. Your case will be committed to the Crown Court for trial, and you will await notice of this date.’

  Just like that, it’s over.

  And then it isn’t. We’re outside, on the court steps, and there’s a circus around us. Dad’s in the centre of our family circle, hands bunched into fists, blinking in the daylight, but so is Alfie Avon.

  ‘How does it feel to be free?’ he shouts. ‘What will happen to the farm now?’

  Cameras click, people push, there’s too much noise.

  Holly’s trying to catch us up, but the crowd are seeping around us, a human barrier. Alfie Avon turns to her. ‘What do you make of what just happened, Holly? Any comment?’

  She catches my eye, shakes her head at Alfie, but it’s enough for me to understand: he knows her, they’ve spoken. Why didn’t she tell me this?

  I’ll follow you home, she mouths, over the heads of the crowd.

  Then Avon turns to Daniel, his voice raised above the chatter of other reporters. ‘If it isn’t The Samphire Master himself. Is there any truth in the rumour that Maya wasn’t as well as you said on your radio show? That your claims to cure cancer are just a big con?’

  It’s too much, and Daniel lunges forward, ready to punch Avon. Jackman is quicker though, pulling him back, just before Daniel’s fist meets Avon’s jaw. Avon pulls the ugliest, most joyous grin and I see that he wants Daniel to hit him, how perfect that would be for his next article.

  ‘Temper, temper!’ he crows. ‘Doesn’t that meditation work either, then?’

  Daniel turns to me, his face is ashen with rage and regret. I shout across to him, ‘It’s okay, just get out of here.’

  I reach for Victoria and for once she allows my arm to circle her, pressing against me. Then Holly is with us, guiding us both away from the crowd. I have never felt more grateful.

  33

  Holly

  Daniel drove away at speed, so fast his tyres screeched on the road. Holly watched the car go, and turned to Cassandra, who was holding Victoria close.

  ‘Can you take us home, please, Holly?’ she said.

  It was Alfie who’d provoked this reaction with his jibe about Maya’s cancer, and Holly had given him that tidbit, revealing confidential information from the hospital files. Daniel had shown his sore spot, and hadn’t Alfie said his own wife had been one of Daniel’s patients? There was something there, she knew it, but she also knew she was overstepping her remit and risking her career to seek it out.

  They arrived at the house and Cass remained seated in the car, staring out of the window.

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ said Victoria, jumping out of the back seat. Cassandra began to move, as if going inside her home was the last thing she wanted to do. Holly sensed it was because of Hector, the tension between them was palpable, but Cass had been deceived by both of the men. And Daniel had just revealed his violent side.

  When they were inside, Hector and Daniel were nowhere to be seen, and Victoria disappeared upstairs; she could already be heard talking on her phone. Holly followed Cass to the front room, where she sat on the sofa like a soldier returned from battle. She looked tired but elegant in her court outfit of a simple cream blouse and navy trousers. She’d pulled off her heels so her feet were bare, and Holly noticed that her toenails had newly been painted pale pink. Her blonde hair had been swept up and clipped out of her face, enhancing her even features, her mouth was slightly pulled down, and her eyes looked bruised with fatigue and grief. Even so, anyone could see that, like her mother whose picture had been on the front page of the Evening Star every night that week, Cassandra was beautiful.

  Holly reached out to touch her arm, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort. ‘Are you okay? That moment outside the court was a bit tense.’

  She could feel relief seeping into Cassandra’s marrow that the ordeal was over. ‘I will be. I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Bourbon?’

  Like a stunned animal Cass stood, staggered slightly, then made her way towards the kitchen. Holly followed, leaning against the kitchen counter as Cass found some glasses and poured from a bottle of Wild Turkey.

  Victoria came back downstairs and grabbed an apple. ‘Are you hungry, love?’ asked Cass, but the girl just shrugged. What an ordeal for a fourteen-year-old. Holly had the impression of a young rabbit who’d just made it across a very busy road. The decision to let her attend the court hearing seemed strange to Holly.

  ‘Do you want some juice?’ Cass asked her.

  ‘Please.’

  Cass busied herself at the fridge and Holly took a moment to study the daughter. Victoria had a similar beauty to her mother, except she had dark hair like Maya. When she left the room, she took ninety per cent of its energy. Cassandra looked ready to collapse, she leaned on the kitchen table as she downed her bourbon in one smooth belt.

  ‘Was it a hard decision, Cass, to let Hector come back here?’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, and what Mum would’ve wanted. Besides, I think he’s innocent.’

  She reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey, poured another shot. Holly wished she’d sit down, relax, talk. She wanted to help, and it seemed that in order to do so she’d have to probe.

  ‘Even though he says he’s responsible?’

  ‘He says he was asleep. Holly, you interviewed him in the prison. Do you believe him?’

  Holly waited a beat, and in that moment she heard movement upstairs, quick but heavy footsteps that she knew must be Daniel’s. Her mistrust surfaced like the scent of sulphur in her nostrils. Unpleasant, a warning: tread carefully. ‘No, I don’t. But the police do, and a court date has been set. So that’s it.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Cassandra. She seemed to have grown in resilience, as if her mother’s death had forced her to take a stronger role within the family. Holly saw how, since that first morning at the farm, Cass had gained confidence. Warmth spread through her, maybe the bourbon, maybe friendship, and she reached to clasp her hand.

  ‘You’re coping so well, Cass.’

  ‘Not everyone thinks so,’ Cass said drily. ‘Daniel suggested I
take time off work, compassionate leave.’

  Daniel, again, telling Cass she was ill. Gaslighting her. Once again, Holly had the sensation of smelling burning matches, her senses alerting her.

  ‘I think he’s wrong, Cass. Some people would be struggling to get out of bed after all you’ve had to deal with. And you’ve still got the energy to want to solve this.’

  ‘Yes, but I have other things to do too. Victoria is home, and I still have the details of the funeral to organise. I’ve booked a humanist to do the service – Mum didn’t believe in God so it seems appropriate. To be honest, having so much going on around me helps me get through this. I have to get through this, but Daniel says I’m not strong.’

  Holly thought that the person coping least well was Daniel, whose calm demeanour had broken when he raised a fist to the reporter. This was the person she most wanted to know about; being in the same room as him would give her senses a chance to work. ‘What do you think Daniel and Hector are doing?’

  ‘Dad will be resting and Daniel will be upstairs, meditating. It’s what he does when he’s agitated and that scene with Alfie Avon really shook him. That’s why I told him to leave; I knew that was the safest thing.’

  ‘He has quite a temper, doesn’t he?’ Holly said, pushing the conversation back to where her interest really lay.

  ‘Alfie Avon provoked him – he never usually loses his cool. He takes everything on, and tries to fix it. Daniel thinks he can heal the world, but this is outside of his control.’

  ‘I suppose everyone deals differently with trauma.’

  Cass finished her drink and looked at Holly coldly. ‘Please don’t try to suggest Daniel has anything to do with the shooting, Holly. You’re my friend, and you’ve been the only one who believed me when I said Mum didn’t shoot herself. I want us to help each other, but please don’t turn on my man. Ash is the guilty one, not Daniel.’