The woman blanches, her lower lip trembles, she steadies her hands on the base of her seat. ‘No.’
Sam looks on in surprise.
Mel taps her fingers on the table. ‘I think I do. You’re Charlotte Arnold, aren’t you?’
Sam’s jaw drops.
‘Do you realise your family has been searching for you for over twenty years?’
The woman looks up, her eyes shine with anger. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve already told you who I am. I’m Lottie Bennett.’
‘To be absolutely accurate, you lied.’ Mel inclines her head towards Sam. ‘You told us your name was Kerry Marchant. Now you’re saying your name is Lottie Bennett. It seems you have a problem with the truth. We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Charlie. It will be quite easy to establish who you really are. A quick DNA test will prove that beyond doubt.’ Mel looks over at Sam. His face is impassive. She realises he has no idea who Charlie Arnold is. She should have told him but there hadn’t been time. The email arrived just as the woman invited them in.
Mel retrieves her phone, hands it over to Sam, he peers at the photograph.
‘Your sister, Belinda has been looking for you all these years.’
The woman stares out of the window. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t have a sister. I want you to go.’
‘I’m sure you do, but I want you to think of the three-year-old girl whose whole life has been a misery because he stole you away. That’s how old Belinda was, that’s if you can be bothered to remember. She was heart-broken.’ Mel has no idea if this is truly the case, but it usually is.
The woman refuses to look at the photograph. ‘He didn’t steal me away.’
Mel gets out of her seat, sits next to the woman, decides to take another track.
‘Do you know why we’re here?’ She sees the woman swallow, run her tongue over her lips.
‘No.’
‘Sam, ring the RSPCA, see if they can pick up the dog.’
‘Why?’ it was barely a whisper.
Mel decides to take a chance. ‘We’re investigating the murder of Karen Albright, aged fifteen when she disappeared back in 1973. Robert William Bennett, the man you say is your husband, is a person of interest.’ She couldn’t resist it. ‘We believe he is her killer. I believe you are Charlie Arnold, that he abducted you in 1985.’
‘But… I’m not her,’ she points to Mel’s phone. ‘I… I don’t have a sister.’
Mel lets out a sigh, two words flash into her consciousness, Stockholm Syndrome. She decides to change track again. ‘Lottie, Mrs Bennett, where is your husband?’
The colour drains from the woman’s face. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I think he’s left you,’ Mel spreads out her hands, ‘left you to deal with all of this.’
‘You’re lying!’ The woman spits the words out, stands up, lashes out at Mel with her fists, knocks her to the floor. She swings back her right leg, the full force of her foot heads towards Mel’s chest.
Sam launches himself towards her, grabs her in a neck hold, hauls her to her feet.
Mel scrambles to her feet, her cheeks flaming red. ‘I don’t think attacking a police officer is going to help your case at all.’ She brushes herself down as Sam pulls the woman’s arms behind her back and snaps on a pair of restraints.
‘So, who are you, then?’ This time Sam asks the question.
The woman looks over her shoulder. ‘Go screw yourself!’
‘I am arresting you,’ Sam’s voice is clear and firm, ‘on the grounds that you have assaulted a police officer. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court…’
Mel, arms folded across her chest, stands by, observes. The expression on the woman’s face transforms. Eyes dry, she lifts up her chin, speaks without tremor, says what they all say when cornered.
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘I believe you’ve been covering up for him for years. You have, haven’t you?’ Sam tugs at the restraints, the hardness in his voice cuts through the silence. ‘You’re his accomplice. You’re going to need that lawyer.’
Lottie eyes unfocus, she hesitates for a moment, frowns. ‘You’re wrong, he’s crazy, he’s dangerous. He said he’d take Belinda if I didn’t go with him—she was just a kid. What choice did I have?’
‘Why didn’t you leave?’ Mel’s voice cuts in.
Charlotte Arnold hangs her head, and doesn’t utter another word.
63
The hood of his coat blows back, the freezing cold wind stings his scalp. He yanks the black beanie hat down over his ears – it keeps slipping off his newly shorn head. He’d already taken the glasses off, condensation clung to the inside of their lenses rendering him almost blind. Hands grasping the straps of his rucksack, he presses on, stumbling over the rutted ground, never sure where his feet will land next. The snow, up to his knees, blusters around him, clings to his lips and eyelashes.
The bitterness of it all gags at the back of his throat. All these years, those girls – people forgot them, he forgot them. Then he’d been torn, that’s how it felt, literally ripped back into the past. All because some rich arsehole wanted to build luxury houses for even bigger arseholes. They wanted a view of the moorland. That’s what the developer had named it, Moorland View. The press renamed it Murder View, he’d been disappointed, the perspective had been completely inaccurate.
He stops abruptly, squints into the distance, tries orientating himself. He’d left the road a while ago, decided to take an alternative route, the one he’d trodden along back in 1973. His tracks will be less visible, less likely to catch the notice of prying eyes. The true landscape eludes him, hidden beneath a fakery of white and black. It doesn’t bother him, not much. Long ago he painted this place, in summer not winter, an orchestration of colour and space, the rocky landscape folding in on itself; the hard, siliceous sandstone juxtaposed against the life that clung to it. Miles of swirling, purple cotton-grass, sapling trees that hugged the rock, drystone walls that gave the land shape and form. The lucent sky, puffs of cumulous cloud tinted pink by the afternoon sun. Three matchstick people punctuate the landscape. It hung on the wall of his studio for years. On impulse, one Christmas, he’d presented it to Carlo, whose face denoted no pleasure; he was not a fan of sunsets, he’d said, handing it back. He’d choked back the hurt, never forgot it. He’ll probably sell his story when it comes out. He never painted over the canvas, didn’t have the heart, it was a reminder of his time with Karen, although she herself isn’t in it. Now it lies under the bed in the spare room. Loved only by himself.
A thin line of oaks appear out of the mist, half a mile away, the Albrights’ farm beyond it in the distance. He presses on, snow clinging to his calves and feet, his waterproof trousers no longer waterproof. Overhead, a flash of shimmering coal-black wings, a pair of ravens bicker and screech as they swoop down to hit the ground. The victor rises – the head of a dead mouse in its beak.
Shivering, he veers off to the right, to the old barn in the high field, he’ll camp there for the night.
64
The band of pain from his back to his sternum is crucifying, the seat of his trousers soaked with sweat. His buttocks stick to the black plastic chair he’s been sat on since they invited him in for an interview three hours ago. All this time he’s been left waiting.
All he can think of is Felicia, what will she think of him? She’ll be afraid for him—terrified. They’ve taken his phone off him, he can’t contact her. He’d been allowed one call, to his solicitor. What use was that? His was a commercial conveyancer, with absolutely no experience of criminal law. He rang him nevertheless, asked him to find him a proper lawyer. The tone of the man’s voice told him that he was offended. Whoever he found has yet to turn up.
The interview room is cold and airless. There’s a shadow of footprints on the wall, toe marks, heel scrapes. Four cha
irs tuck under what looks like a breakfast bar. He’s seated in one, waiting. A tape recorder is screwed to the table.
He hears a scramble of a fight through the wall, raised voices, someone kicking in the door, there’s a rush of feet down the corridor, more shouting. His pulse races—he wants to be away from this, away from the future he’d been avoiding for years.
Over the years, Jimmy wanted to tell his daughter, he’d planned to tell her at the right time. He truly had. But he didn’t have the guts. Yesterday he’d worked himself up to it. When he was young he was foolish, reckless, he’d done things he’d regretted, he’d start with that. He’d made her lunch at his place, bought her a bouquet of flowers, Baby’s Breath and twelve deep, red roses. Her face lit up as she’d cradled them in her arms.
‘Dad, you are such a sweetie.’
Now, tell her now, he’d said to himself.
Across the table, an empty bottle of red between them, he’d opened his mouth, ‘I—’ The doorbell startled them both. The words froze in his throat. Their faces filled the security screen. Two of them. Police. She’d wanted to stay. He couldn’t let her. She didn’t understand. How could she understand? And when she did, she’d hate him. She hated bullies and always had.
The door opens, he jumps up from his seat. DS Parker and MacLeod walk in, seat themselves down in front of him. Neither are smiling. ‘Take a seat, Mr Fairfax. Your solicitor still hasn’t turned up,’ the tone of her voice lacks empathy of any sort. ‘We’ll get you put in the cells until he does. We need this room for another interview.’
He slumps back in his seat, he feels sick, the unease that consumes him turns into vertigo, everything around him spins.
‘No—let’s get on with it.’
DS Parker flips open an A4 notebook, then reaches forward, presses the button on the recorder.
‘DS Kevin Parker and DS Kinsi MacLeod interviewing Mr James Fairfax. Mr Fairfax has decided to continue without representation. Is that correct, Mr Fairfax?’
Jimmy nods his head.
‘Mr Fairfax has nodded his head. Could I ask you to confirm your decision verbally?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Anything would be better than waiting, he wants it over. ‘I’ve decided to continue without representation.’
‘We’d like to take you back to the night of the sixth of January 1973 – a Saturday. Tell us what you were doing that night.’
He doesn’t hesitate to answer, it’s all he has been thinking about for the last three hours. ‘The Connaught, I was at the Connaught, always was, back then.’ His words tumble out. ‘I have witnesses, you can ask them?’
‘Witnesses, after all these years?’ DS Parker leans forward, his mouth sets in a hard line. ‘That’s rather convenient. Won’t they find it hard to remember, after all these years?’ He leans back, taps the base of his pen on the desk.
Jimmy blurts the answer out, ‘We’re still friends—mates, have been for years, still meet up.’ He shifts in the chair; his left buttock numb. ‘They come in the restaurant. We were at the Connaught, we went there every Saturday night.’
DS MacLeod scratches a note in the notebook in front of her. ‘And Karen Albright – was she a friend?’
He turns his head, stares into her face. ‘I’ve told you I didn’t know her. All I know is what I’ve read in the papers.’ His fingers cling to the edge of the table. ‘If I knew her I’d tell you, what’s the point in holding anything back.’
‘Tell us about your relationship with Veronica Lightfoot?’ She smiles.
‘Veronica? The other girl?’ An image flashes in the corner of his mind, long red hair, green eyes. ‘She was a friend of a friend. That’s all. Look, like I’ve said. I’ve got witnesses, they’ll tell you I was in the club all that night.’
DS MacLeod raises an eyebrow, ‘Shame they didn’t come forward back in 1973, isn’t it? Neither did you, did you? I’d say that was perverting the course of justice?’
‘Definitely.’ DS Parker interjects. ‘Without a doubt.’
Jimmy pulls himself up, ‘Look, I’ve not seen Veronica since the night she went missing. I didn’t even know she was called Veronica, we all called her Ronnie.’ The pressure builds up behind his temples. Felicia’s face rushes up inside his head.
‘A friend of a friend? What’s that friend’s name?’
‘Paula, my wife, Paula. Ex-wife, we’re divorced. She knew her better than me.’
‘Ronnie?’ She jots down the word. ‘We have evidence that you knew Veronica well. That something happened between you the night she disappeared.’
‘Evidence?’ The air goes out of his lungs. ‘What sort of evidence?’
‘We aren’t at liberty to say at this moment. However, we have a witness who is willing to testify that you and Veronica had an argument that night.’
The words echo in his head, he watches the police officer unconsciously play with the gold bangle around her wrist. Veronica’s voice echoes in his ears. Please, please, don’t. Splinters of memory rise to the surface. The broken nose, blood splattered over his new Ben Sherman shirt. He imagines the look in his daughter’s eyes when she finds out what he used to be. ‘We didn’t argue, it was me.’ He sucks in air through his nose, ‘I’m not proud of who I was.’
‘Who were you?’
Head between his hands, he tells them who he used to be. The violent racist who controlled people with drugs. ‘The last time I saw Veronica was the night she disappeared. Paula, my ex, it was her fault, she set her up, set me off. I dragged Ronnie out of the club,’ he rubs the back of his knuckles, ‘taught her a lesson, told her that I never wanted to see her face again.’
‘And what did teaching her a lesson involve, Mr Fairfax?’ There was a loud thumping noise. A raised voice carries through the wall, ‘Sit down.’
DS MacLeod, impervious to the interruption, carries on. ‘What did that lesson involve?’
‘I beat her up, pinned her up against the wall, held her by the neck.’ The shame of it appals him, ‘I headbutted her. She was in a state when I left her, unconscious.’
‘Did you rape her?’
He is back there, in the alley, his eyes bore into Ronnie’s face, his fist smeared with her blood. He stood over her, spat in her face.
DS MacLeod taps the table with her pen, ‘Did you rape her, Mr Fairfax?’
The words explode out of him. ‘God, NO!’ Panic sets in his chest, he can see it in their eyes, they don’t believe him. It’s written all over their faces. ‘I was violent, yes. But I never would have done that.’ The thought that they might tell Felicia he was a rapist petrifies him. ‘I have never raped a woman.’
‘But you left her to die in the alley?’
‘No… no… I was angry,’ his shoulders slump, ‘I didn’t even think about it.’ He hangs his head again. ‘There are witnesses, I wasn’t long, I went back into the club.’ He feels the heat rush to his cheeks.
DS Parker leans forward, the is room deadly quiet. ‘And Jacky Wainwright, when did you last get in touch with her?’
The wind goes out of Jimmy’s chest yet again. His forehead creases. ‘Jacky Wainwright, what’s she got to do with this?’
The police officer smiles. ‘There’s a message from her on your mobile phone. When did you see her last?’
Jimmy shakes his head, he blinks. ‘I can’t remember—it must be years, twenty years, maybe more. She called me, a couple of days ago, I forgot to get back to her. Why?’
DS Parker places a small clear plastic bag on the table, there’s a yellow label on it. ‘Because Mrs Wainwright has been attacked.’ He turns it over, slides it towards him, gives a half-smile. ‘Because we found this sticking out from under the settee.’
Jimmy stares at the card, his heart batters against his ribs, the room swims. It’s his business card. ‘How the hell did that get there?’ He is incredulous.
‘That’s what we’d like to know too, Mr Fairfax.’ DS Parker shifts in his seat, the plastic chair creaks as relaxes into it.
The colour drains from Jimmy’s cheeks.
Kinsi watches every tiny movement on his face.
No, it’s not him—he hasn’t got the balls.
65
I slept for two hours today, in one go. The nurse says that’s good.
‘What day is it?’
I stare at her, watch the smile form on her face. I look in my brain for the answer, nothing comes to mind. She waits for a minute then repeats the question.
I still don’t know.
We are creating memories. New memories that I can hang on to. That’s what she told me. It’s all about creating new short-term memories. Why is it that I can have these thoughts in my head, orderly thoughts but can’t make them come out of my mouth?
‘Today is Tuesday. What day is it, Lily?’
‘Tuesday… today is Tuesday. My name is Veronica.’
I don’t remember being Lily. I remember being Veronica.
‘Where are we?’ Yet another question.
I’m tired. ‘No.’
The nurse sticks her hands in her pockets, she’s unhappy. I can never remember her name. She doesn’t like that, either. The lower lid on her right eye tics. I can never remember her name. She doesn’t like that, either.
Rosie speaks, she’s my sister. I have two sisters, Rosie and Thomasine. Thomasine isn’t a real sister. Rosie says I’ve got fifty-two Get Well cards. I must have a lot of friends. She tells me I was a therapist. When I was Lily. I can’t remember any of it.
‘Maybe we can give it a rest for today?’
I have two sisters, Rosie and Thomasine. Thomasine isn’t a real sister. Rosie says I’ve got fifty-two Get Well cards. I must have a lot of friends. She tells me I was a therapist. When I was Lily. I can’t remember any of it.
Every day is the same. I keep clean, I like clean things. Rosie says I’m very tidy in my house, I didn’t know I had a house. She says I’ve got two. What’s the point in that? I live here now.
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 28