Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  “He had blood all over him.”

  “He was holding Grace, for heaven’s sake! She had been bleeding profusely, he was trying to help her! Of course he had blood all over him! They never checked to see whether it was just her blood, or that of her parents as well, did you know that?”

  “No, we didn’t know that,” Jacob says. He makes a note.

  “If I could ask about the murder weapon,” I say, “The cricket bat was wiped down. There were traces of blood on it, but no prints. Why would Dennis do that? If he was prepared to stick around, and scream, getting himself found at the murder scene. Do you know why he would do that?”

  “You know Rachel, the Chief Constable has always dismissed that point as irrelevant. Whenever he was asked about that—and he was once or twice, by journalists who were prepared to do some work, rather than just print the press release—he said Dennis was preparing to leave when Mr Patel walked in.” She makes a frustrated sound. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t claim Dennis had been caught while on a crazy rampage out of jealousy and hatred, and at the same time paint him as a pragmatic killer, wiping down the murder weapon because he’d forgotten to wear gloves.”

  “The police said he was upset because she hadn’t invited him to her birthday party.”

  “That was a lie. He had been invited, but he didn’t go. I was ill. I had a terrible flu and I had to stay in bed all day. He came to look after me. He cooked some soup in my kitchen. He was at my flat for maybe three hours that afternoon, then he went back to his own flat that evening, and that’s when he got the phone call.”

  I’ve got so many questions about what she just said I can’t get any of them out.

  Jacob shoots me a look of disbelief.

  “He had an alibi?” he asks.

  “That’s right.”

  “And I presume you told the police about this?”

  “Of course. They wouldn’t listen. They didn’t even write it down, can you believe that? They never took my statement. Never. They dismissed me. They thought I was lying to protect him. But I wasn’t lying. Dennis wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was a gentle young man. And he would never have hurt Grace Forster, or her parents. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  I came in here wanting to get some information from her. Anything that would show that they’d arrested the wrong man. I’ve got that now, and there’s nothing I can do with it. We’ll put that in the podcast, I’ll insist, but it’s true that everybody will believe it’s a desperate statement from a desolate mother.

  But I got more than I bargained for. I got to see first-hand the horror that was committed, and not just on my family, but on other families too. The Dawson family didn’t deserve this, any more than my family did. At least my family aren’t treated like monsters.

  “Why did you say that before?” I ask, “About a phone call?”

  “Dennis cooked some dinner for me, then he went to the chemist to get my prescription filled. He dropped off my medication on his way home. He only lived around the corner from me on Mill Road. It only took five minutes to walk there. He rang when he got back home to ask if I’d be all right if he went out. I said of course I would, I was going to bed. I asked where he was going, he said a friend of Grace’s had just rang, asking him over to Grace’s party. They were all still there, and she wanted him to be there too.”

  “Did he say which friend?” Jacob asks quickly.

  “I didn’t ask. I told him to have a good time and I went to bed. It was the last time I ever spoke to him. And not a day goes by that I don’t wish I had asked that question. Whoever the friend was has much to answer for.”

  I could tell her who made the call. It’s not hard to guess, but it wouldn’t help now. It’s too late. But I always wondered why Dennis was there so soon after they were killed. Now I know.

  “Did you tell anyone else?” I ask.

  “I told everyone I could. I called the newspapers. They never printed anything I said about where Dennis was that night. Just that his ‘distressed mother had expressed disbelief as to his guilt’”. She scoffs. “I knew the truth! So of course I expressed disbelief! I called the papers to ask them, why didn’t you print what I really said? That he was here with me! You know what they said? That the police had advised it would be prejudicial to Dennis for them to discuss his defence. Can you believe that?” She shakes her head. “But they did print the claim from Chief Constable Hennessy that Dennis had confessed right away, but then he’d recanted. How could he confess to something he didn’t do? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.”

  She leans forward, it’s like she’s looking right at me.

  “The police said the family had been killed at least an hour before Mr Patel arrived. At that time, Dennis was at Boots on High St. I wrote to the Magistrate to tell him. By then Dennis was already dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Dawson,” I say.

  “Did you hear back from the Magistrate? After you sent the letter?” Jacob asks.

  She pulls the handkerchief out again and presses it against her eyes. I already know what she’s going to say.

  “Dennis died. Case closed.”

  “Forgive me if this question upsets you, but the confession. It was his handwriting. But you don’t think he wrote it?” Jacob asks gently.

  “Oh, I know it was. I believe he wrote it. My Dennis was autistic. At the extreme end of the spectrum. If you asked him to write a story that he killed these people, he would do it just to please you. He didn’t understand the significance of it. It was conveniently reprinted in the papers at the time. They had no problem with that it seems.” She shakes her head quickly. “Did you see it? The note? You can see clearly it was written under duress. Anyone can see that.”

  “I don’t think that rules out the authenticity of what he wrote.”

  “I know. But I know what does rule it out.”

  “You do?”

  She stands up and feels her way out of the room. Jacob doesn’t pause the recording so I don’t say anything. He makes notes, writing quickly. The clock in the hall chimes four. Emily Dawson returns with what looks like an old prescription. She unfolds it and pulls out a small yellow piece of paper, folded in half. I put my hand out and gently tug at a corner of it. She holds on.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you have to understand, I’m blind. You could tear it into a million pieces right in front of me and I’d have no way of knowing. I’ve kept this safe for all these years, waiting for a day just like this.”

  I release it. “What is it?”

  She opens it out gently. “It’s a receipt.”

  “Can we take a look at it?” I ask.

  “You can take a look yes, you can take a photo too, you have one of those phones, don’t you? But you can’t take it away with you, dear. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you have to understand, after everything I went through…”

  “We understand,” I assure her. “If you could explain what we’re looking at, and we’ll take a photo.”

  She lets go. Jacob leans across and peers over my shoulder.

  “It’s a printed receipt from Boots Chemist up on High Street for some cold and flu tablets, some aspirin and other things for twelve pounds fifteen.” She has it memorised. It’s the VAT receipt, the old-style ones that was printed on paper that doesn’t fade so quickly. It’s got the date, November fourth two thousand and six, and the time: nineteen thirty-one. Just below ‘Thank you for shopping at Boots’.

  “Jesus,” Jacob says, softly.

  “He stopped by the chemist on his way back here, to pick up my medication. Just like I told you. At the time that poor family was killed, Dennis was at the chemist.”

  “This is incredible. You had this all this time?”

  “You have to understand, dear. Everything happened so fast. Dennis was arrested that night and I didn’t hear about it until the next day. I didn’t even know I had this. Months later I needed a refill from a different prescription, and I f
ound this one, in a drawer of my dresser. It was tacked inside, you see, the prescription was folded in two. By then, what was I going to do? I didn’t want to contact the police anymore, I knew they wouldn’t do any good. I just put it aside, waiting for the right time, to show the right people, and then I gave up. Now I’m old, I’m blind, and I’m tired. But you, you are the right people.”

  “I understand what it means to you, Mrs Dawson, but it’s not proof, because anyone could have picked them up. It doesn’t prove Dennis did.”

  “But this does, surely.” She pushes the old prescription forward on the table. I lift it gently by its corner, barely touching it and turn it around.

  It’s barely visible, because it’s the carbon copy of the prescription, the old style. But It’s clear enough. It’s Dennis Dawson’s name and signature. On the back of it.

  Jacob is taking pictures from every angle. I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I am shaking so much. This is the most incredible development to happen. It’s better than anything I could wish for.

  “We’ll make sure the right people see these, Mrs Dawson, I give you my word,” I say, squeezing her hand hard.

  “I know it wasn’t my Dennis. You put that on your tape, you hear? You let the world hear all of it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Dawson,” I say, then I add, “I promise.”

  “You sound vaguely familiar dear, have we met before?”

  Twenty-Seven

  “What did I tell you? What did I tell you, Rachel Holloway? Didn’t I say this case smells to high heaven? Did I say that? Or didn’t I say that?”

  We’re sitting at the bar of the King’s Arms, I’m sipping a gin and tonic and Jacob is having a Perrier. My head is swimming, and I don’t think it’s from the alcohol.

  “You can’t bottle it, you know. It’s pure instinct.” He taps the side of his nose. “Either you have it, or you don’t.”

  I nod. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe it. No one would believe her. All this time, the poor woman.” I drain the rest of my drink and signal the bartender for another.

  “It’s going to be gold. I’m telling you right now. This podcast will win an award.”

  I just wish I could be there when Hugo Hennessy hears the episode. I’d love to see his face when he finds out that there is proof that Dennis Dawson couldn’t have done it. It’s too late for him, but not for his mother. All these years she’s been hounded. She’d spawned a monster, they said. She’ll be able to spend the rest of her days with her head held high. For the first time since this whole thing started, I can’t wait to put this episode out.

  “Are you hungry? I have to eat,” I tell Jacob, “and I want to call my family.”

  “Yes, sure, let’s get some food into you, Rachel. Sorry, I’m not thinking straight, you must be starving. I know I am.”

  We sit down at a table and while he orders two hamburgers and chips for us, I call Matt.

  “Hi love, how are you?”

  “Hi.”

  I can hear voices in the background.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “At home, where else? Mum’s here, and Cathy.”

  Cathy is Matt’s eldest sister. I feel a pang of loneliness that I’m here and they’re all together at home, without me. I almost ask if he misses me.

  “How’s your research going?”

  “Good, yeah, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,” I say.

  He snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

  I ignore that for now.

  “Can I talk to Gracie?”

  He puts his hand over the phone and calls out to her. I can hear her squealing in the background. She adores her aunt and grandmother. I was worried she would miss me, I’ve never been away from her overnight before. I’m glad she’s enjoying herself but a little jealous too.

  “Mummy! Hello Mummy!”

  “Hello, my darling, are you having a nice time?”

  She tells me that Aunt Cathy is reading her stories and her grannie is there too. She starts talking so fast I can barely follow, and then all of a sudden she says goodbye and drops the phone. I can hear her in the background running and shouting ‘Aunt Cathy!’

  Matt is laughing when he picks up the phone again, and I wish I was there with them. It dims the glow of the day, that feeling.

  Jacob is already having his breakfast when I come downstairs.

  “How did you sleep?” I ask. I stare at his scrambled eggs and baked beans. I’m so hungry I could snatch the plate from him and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it.

  “Better than you, I’d say.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard you leave last night. Where did you go?” He sips some coffee.

  “Let me get some breakfast first.”

  Our rooms are right next to each other, and you can hear the TV from either side. I thought I was quiet when I left my room. Obviously not.

  I get some eggs and toast from the buffet, and a mug of coffee.

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, when I return with my breakfast. But it’s no use. Jacob won’t be so easily distracted.

  “I heard you leave your room, and I was worried about you. It was after ten o’clock, I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well again.”

  “I wasn’t. So I went for a walk, to get some air.”

  “It was freezing out.”

  “I don’t mind the cold.”

  I eat my breakfast without looking at him.

  “Did you get any sleep? I waited up for an hour then I went to sleep,” he says.

  I hold my fork an inch from my lips. “You didn’t need to do that. And not much, if I’m honest. Just a lot on my mind.”

  I might hate being back here, but another part of me longed to experience it again. I wanted to revisit a little of ‘before’. I wanted to remember the smells, the tastes, the sights. I was born here. All my memories of my sister, my mother, my father, are from this place. So I went to take another look at my old house. I stood across the road, and watched the lights behind the windows, and pretended it was my family’s shadows behind the drapes.

  Then I went to the old train station. It was so dark, but I could see how overgrown the ivy was over the wall. If I could climb inside I would have. But there’s no way I could have hacked my way through to reach the window. I put my forehead against the cold brick wall and I told my sister in heaven that I was going to get him. I will be brave from now on, and I will do what needs to be done. I promise. I promise you, Grace, that Hugo Hennessy will go to jail forever for what he did to you.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jacob says now. “And I didn’t mean to pry. I was just worried about you.”

  “Don’t be, I’m fine. Have you heard anything from Hugo Hennessy yet?”

  “Nothing. We could go by his office. What do you think? After we interview Mr Allen.”

  “I was going to say the same thing.” I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.

  Hugo Hennessy has never moved away from the town he grew up in. And why should he? He was the son of the Chief Constable. He could go around and commit the most gruesome murder in the history of the district and get away scot-free. Hennessy the father was now the Mayor of Whitbrook, and Hugo is a property developer now. He heads a large firm called Lakeside Homes, although he pretends he’s only an employee. They build ugly houses and even uglier shopping centres. I know this because I looked it up online. But he does own it. I checked the records and it wasn’t that hard. I wonder what grubby deals father and son get up to every day.

  Mr Allen was Grace’s teacher. He still works at the school. He’s agreed to be interviewed and we’ve arranged to visit him this morning.

  Outside I pretend to get my bearings. We’re not far from the school, so we decide to leave the car parked here and walk.

  We turn the corner and walk to the next junction but Jacob thinks we should go the other way. I’m not going to argue. We stand there, stamping our feet, trying to ge
t warm, while he pulls out his mobile to check the map when suddenly the young woman from the cafe yesterday is by my side. She’s got her daughter with her in the buggy.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hey, hi!” Jacob replies. She’s so close to me I can smell her deodorant, and I’m still pretending I haven’t seen her. I’m too busy buttoning my coat. Is she here for me? Did she follow me? Does she know me?

  “Are you lost? Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Thank you, yes. We’re looking for St Agnes Secondary School.”

  “I can walk you there if you like, I’m going that way too.”

  I give Jacob a look and a very small shake of the head. Don’t. But he doesn’t notice it.

  “Thank you, that would be kind of you,” he says.

  “It’s this way,” she points her chin. Jacob points a finger at me. “You were right!”

  “Are you from the podcast?” she asks.

  “Yes, how do you know?”

  “We heard you were in town. News travel fast around here.”

  “Clearly,” he says, smiling. He extends his hand and introduces himself, and then me.

  “Hello,” I say. I leave my own hands deep in my coat pockets. I don’t trust them not to shake.

  “So you live here, I guess?” Jacob says.

  “Born and bred. I’m Cindy McArthur. And Grace Forster was my best friend.”

  Wow. My heart skips a beat. My gaze cuts back to her, roaming her face. I don’t recognise her, and I certainly don’t remember anyone called Cindy. Let alone a friend of Grace.

  “She was?” Jacob asks.

  “Yeah, she was and I can’t tell you how much I miss her. Still. She was like my sister. So I thought, if you had any questions about the family, or —”

  “That’s good of you, Cindy, that’d be great.’ He looks at me, excitement clear in his eyes and raises his eyebrows. “Maybe we could do it now?” He means the question for her, but he’s looking at me.

  I stare at her face and she shoots me a small smile. I remember to send one back, so she doesn’t think I’m unfriendly. But I just can’t remember her.