by Jess Ryder
He turns back to me. ‘There were no DNA matches with unidentified bodies.’ A wave of relief whooshes over me. ‘But that doesn’t mean…’ He pauses.
‘It doesn’t mean she’s not dead.’
‘No. And something that Jay said… I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I thought you ought to know…’ He pauses again, unsure.
‘Well, what?’
‘He called her Becca.’ I look at him blankly. ‘Like he knew her. I checked, and they both said at the trial that they’d never seen each other before. I read the entire trial transcript to see if anyone referred to her as Becca, and they didn’t. Not once. It slipped out by mistake – I saw him cursing himself.’
‘So you think they were in it together?’ My heart clenches.
‘Possibly. I don’t know.’ He stares out of the window, as if the answer might run into the road. ‘If it wasn’t for your dad’s statement, I’d be smelling a rat. But he completely backed Becca up about that night. They both claimed they had a bedtime row; she went out for a walk, found the body. I asked Graeme if there was anything in his original statement he wanted to change, but he insisted there wasn’t. Then again, you said yourself you thought he was hiding something…’
‘He wouldn’t lie to the police.’
‘No, I know… He picks up his can of Coke and drains it with a noisy slurp. ‘Jay knew Becca, I’m sure of it. I’ve got this nagging feeling it’s important, but I haven’t worked out how it fits together yet.’ He pauses, crushing the can with one hand. 'I thought you were being a bit melodramatic at first, but now I think you could be right.’
‘About what?’
‘Becca’s disappearance. It’s looking more and more suspicious. Maybe Jay did need to silence her. ’
‘Arrest him!’ I say immediately. ‘Arrest him and then you can take his DNA.’
‘How many more times, Meri . . . There’s no evidence. I need compelling new evidence.’
I pick up my bag. ‘Okay. I’ll find some.’
‘Meri!’ he calls as I swing towards the doors. ‘You mustn’t get involved – come back!’
But it’s too late. I’ve gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jay
He shaves slowly and carefully, making sure not to cut himself, then brushes his thinning, grey hair towards the back of his scalp, exposing his ever-enlarging forehead. His shirt – dark green linen, selected for its casual artiness – is already waiting for him, washed and ironed by his own fair hand and hanging on the door handle of his wardrobe. He puts it on and buttons it up, not as far as his neck and not so low that it shows his vest. The sight of himself in the mirror, however, is not appealing. He wishes he looked more confident.
To be honest, he’s shitting himself with nerves. But he’s going to do it; he’s promised himself. And it’s more important than ever now that the case is being reviewed again. Who knows how long he’s got? Okay, so he refused to give them his DNA, but that won’t stop them – they’ll trump up some other charges against him and he’ll be forced to give a sample. They’ll pretend to find traces under Cara’s fingernails, or semen stains on her dress, or maybe there will be traces and they’ll claim they’re from the night of the murder. This time there’ll be no Becca to save him. No, he has to face facts. Freedom could be snatched from him at any moment. This could be his last chance.
He takes the tube to Green Park and arrives at Waterstones with time to spare. He wanders around the ground floor, idly picking up books, then makes his way to the top floor, climbing the stairs with heavy, trembling legs, his heart beating fast. Ten minutes to kick-off. About twenty fans are already mingling by the ubiquitous drinks table, and a slim young woman in a little black dress is handing out plastic cups of wine.
‘White or red?’ she asks as he approaches.
‘Red,’ he says, adding, ‘please.’
She pours him a desultory half-cup and he has to hold himself back from swigging it down in one mouthful. He looks anxiously around, but there’s no sign of Isobel. Presumably she’s going to sweep up the stairs and make a grand entrance. A couple of solitary people have bagged their seats and are studying their freshly purchased copies of Isobel’s book. The rest are hovering by the drinks table, plastic cups in hand, talking in loud, authoritative voices punctuated with bursts of jolly laughter. Jay takes up position a few feet away and leans lightly against a bookshelf. He feels, as ever, an outsider. Everyone looks so fucking smug. God, he’d like to finish off the lot of them.
He chooses a seat in the back row and takes out his phone. There’s an email from Isatu, confirming his return to work on Monday, and he’s starting to reply when he hears a buzz of activity behind him. He briefly swivels round to look, and yes, Isobel has arrived, accompanied by some PR chap in a blue stripy shirt and her wife-cum-henchman, the dreadful Alice Anderson. No surprise that Alice is here; they are never seen apart. Jay has almost as many photos of Alice as he has of Isobel, although usually he cuts around her and puts her in the bin. She’s an actress – not a very good one, but Isobel casts her whenever there’s a suitable part, and sometimes when there isn’t. Either love is blind, he thinks, or Alice has some strange power over her partner. He has a vague memory of her accompanying Isobel to the trial, but she looks so different now, it might have been somebody else.
He keeps his head down while the rest of the attendees take their seats. ‘Thank you all so much for coming tonight,’ says the PR chap. ‘What a lot of you!’ Isobel beams at everyone appreciatively. ‘Marvellous. I’m going to start by asking Isobel a few questions, then she’s going to read a short extract from the book, and then it’s your turn. So without further ado…’
Jay slides his back down the seat so as to disappear behind the large man in front of him and takes abstemious sips of his wine. He finds the sound of Isobel’s voice excruciating. She uses the same public-schoolgirl expressions that drove him crazy thirty years ago – ‘Oh, absolutely!’ and ‘Honestly, darling!’ and ‘Terrific!’ – and it’s pulling him unwillingly back to those times in Darkwater Terrace, rehearsing their post-apocalyptic play in the upstairs front room, with Isobel bossing everyone about and Cara sitting there like a faithful puppy, agreeing with every stupid word she said.
‘I absolutely thrive on collaboration,’ she’s telling Mr PR now. Jay nearly huffs out loud. Collaboration? She never knew the meaning of the word. It was Isobel’s house so it was her theatre company and her show. Jay would have accepted that if she hadn’t tried to pretend they were all on equal terms.
He hadn’t joined Purple Blaze deliberately to cause trouble. He’d arrived with a song in his heart, thrilled that he’d finally got his first acting job – even though nobody was being paid and they had to sign on. Isobel had impressed him at first, although he found her upper-class accent a bit intimidating. He’d liked her energy. She’d certainly talked a good game, denouncing Thatcher and cheering on the Rainbow Warrior, leaving her Labour Party card ostentatiously on the kitchen table, mainly as a hint to him, he thought, the only non-member. He’d realised after a short while that it wasn’t his acting talent that had got him the job, but his working-class credentials: his single mum and his council estate address. That was what ignited it – first humiliation, then anger and finally burning hatred. He did what he did purely to hurt Isobel, but he never dreamt she’d react so violently, or that she’d try to make him take the blame. How naive he’d been, thinking he could take on such a formidable enemy.
Isobel reads a few pages aloud while Jay sits there with his eyes closed, not listening, spasmodically visiting scenes from the past. It’s like a useless leg he drags after him: painful and encumbering, but he can’t imagine ever being rid of it. He has a sudden image of Isobel standing in the witness box at the trial, telling all those lies in her posh voice about how he regularly beat Cara up, how she’d seen the bruises, how Cara had said she was afraid for her life. He told them she was lying, but nobody believed him, not even his own counsel. Lies. Li
es. Lies.
And if there’s a retrial, she’ll do the same again. She’ll be believed all the more now because of who she is. Isobel won’t care if he ends his days in solitary confinement. He hasn’t got a successful career to ruin or loved ones to miss him. He glances across at Alice, sitting to one side, in a no-man’s-land between the stage and the audience, bathing in the reflected glory, an adoring gaze fixed on her partner’s face. Nobody will campaign for his release, or even visit him in prison. On the contrary. Isobel, Cara’s family, that young detective, that old bastard Brian Durley – they’ll convince the rest of the world that justice has finally been done and he’ll be left to rot. But he won’t go quietly. If there’s one thing he’s learnt from thirty years of living with injustice, it’s that attack is the best form of defence.
The reading finally draws to an end and, predictably, there’s no time for questions from the audience. Jay feels his heart pumping again, his nerves taking hold.
‘I’m sure you’d all like me to thank Isobel on your behalf for giving us such a fascinating insight into her career,’ booms the PR guy before leading a round of applause. Jay doesn’t clap, realising to his satisfaction that he’s got through the whole event without listening to a word she’s said. ‘Isobel has very kindly agreed to sign copies of her book, which we are able to offer – for tonight only – at a fantastic ten per cent discount.’ The attendees get to their feet, murmuring enthusiastically to each other. A few beat a hasty retreat, but most of them form a compliant queue, credit cards at the ready.
His mouth feels dry. He scouts around, more in hope than expectation, for the drinks table, but everything has been cleared away and the girl who was serving the wine is now selling Isobel’s books. Jay joins the signing queue; there are five or six people in front of him. He stands there, knees weakening, pulse racing, feeling sick. Isobel is sitting just a few feet away, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel.
‘Thank you so much,’ she croons, adding her swirling autograph in purple ink. ‘Do hope you enjoy it.’
He gently pats his inside pocket. The knife is still there, wrapped in a piece of butterfly-patterned kitchen towel, for safety’s sake. He didn’t have to buy it specially; just found it lurking in the kitchen drawer. And it’s virtually unused, so it should be sharp. He imagines thrusting it into Isobel’s chest, the squelch of flesh, the blade crunching on bone, blood spurting over her wretched books.
Just one person in front of him now, who tells Isobel he’s always been a huge admirer of her work. Isobel asks for his name and writes a message on the title page.
‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ says the man. ‘I’m an actor, you see, and I’d love to work with you—’
The PR guy, who has been hovering, leaps to the rescue. ‘Who’s next?’ he shouts.
‘I am.’ Jay stands in front of the table.
Isobel lifts her pen in anticipation, and then stops. ‘Where’s your book?’
He locks his knees and tries not to sway. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ There’s a brief time delay, then Isobel’s face drops.
‘You? What the fuck are you doing here?’ she hisses.
‘It’s a public event. You can’t stop me.’
Isobel looks frantically towards her PR man, but he’s still trying to deal with the annoying actor. She stands up. ‘Sorry, everyone, but I’ve got to leave now. Train to catch!’ There are cries of disappointment as she throws her pen in her bag and hoists it over her shoulder. She calls out to Alice, who rushes over.
‘What’s wrong?’
Isobel cocks her head in his direction. ‘Jay’s here,’ she says quietly.
Alice freezes momentarily, then whispers, ‘Okay. Let me handle this.’ She turns towards him, fixing him with her most withering look. ‘Just go. Now. Or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Why? What are you going to do?’ he counters. ‘Shall we fight for her honour? Lipsticks at dawn?’
Alice rounds on him. ‘You’re pathetic, Jay, you know that?’ She takes out her phone and starts to dial.
‘No, don’t call the police,’ says Isobel quickly.
‘I’m not. I’m calling a car.’
Jay leaps forward and knocks the phone out of Alice’s hands. ‘Isobel Dalliday is a murderer!’
‘What’s going on?’ says the PR man. He calls out to the girl in the tight black dress, ‘Don’t just sit there. Get Security. Now!’ The girl runs off like a frightened goose, flapping her arms and tripping in her high-heeled shoes. Everyone else is still in audience mode, observing the drama curiously and definitely not in the mood for any participation. Jay sees Alice glance down at her phone and he immediately sticks his foot on it.
‘What is it you want, Jay?’ asks Isobel, peering out from behind Alice’s back.
He opens his mouth, but his throat is closing up and he can hardly breathe, let alone speak. Everything he was going to say has suddenly evaporated from his brain. He tries to grasp the sentences but they’re lost, fragmented into short, nonsensical phrases or random words. He reaches for the knife, but his fingers are as thick and useless as raw sausages. Can’t seem to find it… Impossible… It was there a second ago… Nothing is making sense. His head is spinning; he thinks he’s going to faint.
Two security guards are running towards the scene. Alice points and they grab him by his armpits. He gets one last look at Isobel – her face paler than ever, eyes open wide – and goes to spit at her, but there’s no saliva in his mouth. The guards frogmarch him down the stairs. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t struggle. His legs buckle and he floats down between them, flight after flight, his toes skimming the floor.
‘Piss off or we’ll call the police,’ says one of them, pushing him out of the main door.
Jay drops to the pavement, bashing his kneecaps. As he collapses onto his side, the knife falls out of his pocket and unrolls from the kitchen towel. It lies there, taunting him. He stays still for a few moments, his legs drawn to his chest, catching his breath, waiting for the dizziness to go. Then he snatches up the knife and tucks it away before standing up slowly, gasping with pain as he puts his weight down.
He staggers to the shop window and leans on the glass. People stare as they walk past, some sympathetically and others with looks of grand disdain. How quickly you can look like a down-and-out, he thinks. He straightens himself up and hobbles away, stopping to rest in an office doorway. The pain in his knees is agonising; no way will he cope on the tube. He looks back towards Waterstones, just as Alice and Isobel emerge, flanked by the security guards. Jay retreats into the shadow of the doorway, holding his breath. Moments later, a smart grey car draws up and Alice and Isobel get in. As it drives towards him, Jay turns his face to the large wooden doors, hoping they won’t see him as they pass. Then he staggers to the kerb and hails a taxi.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Me
There are nine people in the UK named Christopher Jay on Facebook, twenty-five on LinkedIn and 140 on the electoral roll, but none of the profiles seem to fit – wrong age, wrong location, wrong nationality. Then I remember Eliot telling me he works at an FE college. Archway. Northeast London. Sure enough, his details are on the college website. Christopher Jay, Tutor, Department of Performing Arts. Gotcha.
It’s definitely the same person I’ve seen in the press photos from the trial. Same narrow eyes, same gaunt cheeks. His features have been dragged downwards with age, but the expression, or lack of it, hasn’t changed one bit. All these years he’s had his freedom, doing the things that people do. Earning a living, enjoying the company of friends, travelling, falling in love, fathering children, striving for happiness… Who knows? Whatever he’s achieved, it’s more than Cara or Becca ever got a chance to do.
I study his cold, blank face, imagining that he’s in a police cell and I’m questioning him. So, Christopher, tell me what it’s like to have two deaths on your conscience. Do you wake up every morning hating yourself, wondering why God has le
t you survive so long? Or does the guilt go in and out like the tide? Talk to me, Christopher – let me get inside your head. Give me a life in the day of… He stares back, defiant and grim-lipped. But he won’t be able to avoid me when I meet him in the flesh.
I told Eliot I would bring him compelling new evidence, and I will. DNA is the obvious thing. I imagine following Christopher Jay into Costa and stealing his empty coffee cup. Or standing behind him on the bus and deftly plucking a hair from his head. Detectives are always doing that kind of thing on television, but I bet it’s far more difficult in real life. Maybe I could make him so angry he’d threaten me and I’d call the police. He’d be arrested for assault and they’d have his DNA. Sorted. But it’s a risky enterprise. I have to remember that this is a man who’s already killed once, very possibly twice.
A confession is what we need. To be honest, I can’t see the police ever solving this case without it. But if a murderer’s got away with it for over thirty years, they’re not going to spill the beans just because somebody asks them a direct question. Unless they’ve had some kind of religious conversion, and that’s unlikely. But if I could get him to open up, make him feel like I’m on his side, like I understand… He’s already made one slip; perhaps I could get him to make another.
I should make a secret recording of our meeting, in case he says something incriminating and backtracks later. I fetch my phone and do a test. It works fine, although not so well when I put the phone in my bag. It needs to be on the table, near to Jay. That would be okay, I think; people put their phones on the table all the time. This assumes that we’ll be somewhere with a table, however, and I can’t guarantee that. Jay might well refuse to see me; he might not even be there.
It’s too late to book a day off work, so I call in sick, hating myself for all this repeated lying. I am sick, I tell myself as I get dressed: smart but not too smart, black jeans and a grey top, my hair pulled into a scrunchie, natural make-up, flat shoes in case I want to run away. I swing my laptop bag over my shoulder, shut the front door and walk purposefully towards the tube station. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m doing it for her.