by Elena Wilkes
‘Section C, pages eighteen to twenty-one. Can I draw your attention to page eighteen, the photograph labelled “Seven” where you can see the police evidence photo of the interior of the cabin? The next photograph I would like you to consider is the photograph identified as “Number Eight”, showing where the DNA evidence was identified. You will see the red arrows pointing to the pillow on the left-hand side of the bed, the bedside cupboard handle, the drinking glass located on the top of said cupboard; all have been identified as containing DNA evidence and fingerprints belonging to the victim, Charlotte Vale.’
He paused to let that information sink in. ‘I believe none of this information is contested by the counsel for the defendant, Your Honour.’
Mr Saunders, Martin’s barrister, nodded in agreement and looked back at his desk.
Mr Bain turned to address the judge. ‘So I think it is safe to say that we all agree that Charlotte Vale, the victim, was indeed present in that cabin at some point that evening. The DNA evidence is strong and undegraded, thus indicating that her presence there was very close to the time she was last seen – sometime after three thirty-seven on the morning of the sixth of September.’
He carried on speaking, but Frankie couldn’t hear any of the words. She kept imagining and picturing the scene: she saw Charlotte’s naked shoulder just peeking from beneath the covers, the indented pillow, the blonde head that would leave behind those few strands of pale hair, the glass on the bedside cabinet being put there by a slim white hand, the fingertips just trailing, leaving their mark before she slid from the side of the bed. None of that had happened, it couldn’t have.
‘I would like to call the defendant, Martin Jarvis, to the stand.’
All eyes turned as Martin stood up. Frankie had never seen him dressed like that: the ill-fitting suit, the tie, the collar of his shirt slightly awry. He walked with strange jerky movements to the witness box where he mounted the steps, his face totally devoid of any expression. His skin had a pallor to it, a ghostly translucence, as he was asked his particulars. He answered calmly and precisely as though this might be something that happened to him every day.
She listened to the muffled rise and fall of voices as though she was one side of a thick plate of glass. Mr Bain, the barrister, then began to press questions about Martin’s whereabouts that night. Martin was speaking, but her ears couldn’t bear to listen to him: hearing his voice was sheer agony – this was the voice that had whispered to her; those were the lips that had told her so many lies. Her heart was thudding so hard she couldn’t hear his answers. The sound of the questions came in and out of focus: Why had he been at that party? Who did he see there? Who had he spoken to? She was terrified that at any minute she was going to hear her name. She waited. She waited some more. It didn’t come.
‘So can you tell the court, Mr Jarvis, the sequence of events after you left that party? You say you invited Charlotte Vale back to your canal boat?’
‘Yes.’
His voice was barely audible.
The saliva in her mouth tasted bitter.
‘And in your opinion, she was going with you willingly? Happily, even?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you mind speaking up, Mr Jarvis?’
‘Yes.’
A knife-like pain stabbed through her gut.
‘And you maintain that she went with you willingly because she’d been to your boat on several occasions before, I understand?’
The judge peered down intently.
‘That’s correct.’
The knife drove in further, twisting, slicing her in two.
He told them how he’d left Charlotte sitting on the bed in the cabin. He said she’d been upset about something, but she wouldn’t say why. He said he’d offered to go and buy wine from an off-licence, but the local shop had been closed and he didn’t go any further afield. When he got back, Charlotte had gone. The cabin was just as he’d left it and he just thought she’d changed her mind and gone home.
The judge suddenly coughed.
‘Can I just clarify that we definitely have no CCTV footage from the streets to confirm or repudiate what the defendant is alleging here? Is that correct?’
Martin’s barrister, Mr Saunders, got to his feet. ‘That’s correct, Your Honour. The CCTV does not show my client or the victim, Charlotte Vale, again. There is nothing whatsoever connecting Ms Vale’s death with Mr Jarvis.’
The prosecution barrister got to his feet and Mr Saunders was forced to sit down.
‘Can I ask the witness a simple question? Were you, or were you not, in a sexual relationship with Charlotte Vale?’
Frankie closed her eyes. Her stomach came up to meet her throat but she held on.
‘Objection!’ Mr Saunders shot up. ‘That has no bearing on the case.’
‘Overruled.’ The judge harrumphed. ‘Please answer the question, Mr Jarvis.’
‘No, I was not.’
There was a murmuring hiss from somewhere over to her right that grew more menacing.
‘Yet there were marks on Charlotte’s body, scratches around her neck. I wondered if she had got them during or before intercourse took place?’
Her stomach rose again.
‘Object—’
But Mr Saunders didn’t get any further. The explosion was immediate.
‘Liar! You fucking liar, Jarvis!’
It took a second for Frankie to register the shock of someone screaming. The boy with the denim jacket was on his feet, his fists raised and then slamming down on the rail in front of him again and again as he leaned over to yell a stream of obscenities. Martin had shrunk down in the witness stand and was gripping the sides as if any moment the guy might launch himself through the air from the public gallery and tear him to shreds. Suddenly everyone in the courtroom began to speak at once above the blam-blam-blam of the judge’s gavel. Within moments, two guys in security uniforms appeared, grabbed the lad and hauled him bodily away, his shouts and yells echoing all the way out into the corridor. Frankie stared at the space he had left and, with a shock, realised where she’d seen him before.
That party.
The lad with the white-blonde hair who had come up to them. She stared blankly at the empty seat. The woman in the pink jacket had a tissue pressed to her mouth and her eyes were swollen. The sandy-haired man had an arm around her shoulder. He looked as though he was just about keeping it together.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ the woman was whispering. ‘Not to Charlotte, not with him… Not with him… What did that monster do to you, my baby? What did he do?’
She remembered the bed of leaves, the heat of them, the whispering in the darkness.
‘This is more than love.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘No boundaries… No going back… That’s what we said, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what we said.’
That was it. The vomit that had been threatening for so long came up in one terrific rush. Her palm came up to her mouth to stop it. She bolted for the exit, out into the corridor and straight to the Ladies’ where she hung like a rag doll over the toilet bowl, sobbing and coughing as her insides turned out. Everything left her: every shred of self-respect, every hope she’d ever had; her whole world was flushed away in an instant.
The moment she’d seen them together, she’d known. From that moment the magical world had turned grey; there was nothing special there; just old and dirty and monochrome. Why had he done those terrible things? Why did he have to come into her life bright and burning, and then turn out to be ash like everyone else?
The hard edge of the enamel pan cut into her cheek and she closed her eyes. She was empty now; there was nothing left. There was no way forward, and definitely no way back. She was lost: utterly lost.
‘Oh!… Oh my goodness! Are you okay?’
She felt a pressure on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes. There was the scuff of feet behind her and the cubicle door bounced a little against the wall.
/>
‘Gosh. Oh dear, you poor thing. Hang on.’
She heard the drum of copious amounts of tissue paper being pulled from the dispenser.
‘Here. Let me get some paper towels and wet them. Don’t try and get up. Stay there.’
The feet moved away. There was the sound of water gushing. She managed to pull herself up onto the closed toilet to sit, her forehead in her palms as she let herself breathe. The touch of something damp and cool against her fingers made her jump and she peered upward. A woman with tawny hair and kind eyes was crouching in front of her. Frankie dropped her hands.
‘Oh!’ The woman lurched back, her hands flailing to save herself. ‘Oh my God!’
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Frankie blurted. The woman’s eyes filled with agony.
‘No, no it’s me. I’m the one that’s sorry. It’s just that you look—’ Her eyes welled. ‘Oh my goodness…’ Her fist moved to her chest as she stood, trying to control her breathing as though she might pass out.
Frankie stared at her in horror. Pink jacket.
Charlotte Vale’s mother.
She felt instantly queasy again.
‘You look like… I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be saying this…’ The woman shook her head over and over. ‘But you’re not. Please forgive me… You just caught me off guard. It was such a shock, that’s all.’ She sniffed and tried to gather herself. ‘Never mind me, look at you, you’re not well. You don’t need me and all my silliness. Come on – let me help you.’
She put out a hand and Frankie reluctantly took it.
‘I’m Vanessa, by the way.’ She managed a smile.
‘Frankie.’ She licked her lips, hoping that she didn’t smell of puke.
‘So how are you feeling now?’ Vanessa scanned her face.
‘Better than I was.’
‘Well Frankie, shall I go and get someone? Who did you come with?’ Her face was kind, so, so kind as she glanced round.
But Frankie only shook her head. ‘No one, but honestly, I’m fine, really. I really should go.’ She gently pulled her hand away.
‘You haven’t got anyone with you?’ Vanessa looked immediately concerned. ‘Well, they’ve adjourned for lunch, so how about you and me go and get a cup of tea somewhere, hmm? My husband, Peter, has gone to find out what’s happening with my stepson, Jack. I can’t go, I just make them both more upset, and I think we’re all upset enough, don’t you?’ She attempted a smile, but her chin wobbled. ‘Anyway, there’s a café just around the corner. I hate sitting in places on my own, so you’d be doing me a big favour.’
‘Well…’ She wasn’t sure this was a good idea. It all felt pretty weird. Too weird. She took a step forward but staggered a little.
‘That sorts that, then,’ Vanessa said decisively. ‘You need a hot drink at least. Look at you – you’re incredibly pale and such a skinny-minny.’ She smiled but the pain in her eyes was like a flash of light. ‘Did you even have breakfast?’
The thought of breakfast was even worse.
‘Then I’m going to ask you to put up with my company, I’m afraid. Even if it’s only for half an hour.’ She put her hand briefly on her arm; it was a comforting gesture. ‘I promise, with a bit of food inside you, you’ll feel tons better.’
* * *
The café was thankfully only a few doors away. Vanessa fussed around Frankie for a few moments, settling her at a table before going to the counter and ordering food. She kept glancing back to make sure she was still there, but Frankie knew the only place she was possibly running to was the toilet. She grimaced and tried to ignore the horrible metallic taste in her mouth.
‘Here we are.’
A mug of tea descended over her shoulder and Vanessa sat down opposite with what looked like coffee.
‘I took a guess… Sugar?’ She slid the pot of sachets over.
‘No thanks. This is fine. Great… Thank you,’ she added. She picked up the mug and took a sip. The heat of the liquid was comforting.
‘My pleasure.’
She could feel Vanessa watching her over the rim of her cup. She dreaded what might be coming next.
‘Shall I just’ – she put the coffee down. ‘—Address the elephant in the room?’
Frankie couldn’t take her eyes off a lone crumb that was caught between the wooden slats of the table.
‘I think I knew most of Charlotte’s close friends – the ones who would be close enough to come to…’ She waved the circumstances away with a flinch.
Frankie kept her eyes on the crumb.
‘So if it’s not Charlotte, then I’m assuming you know Martin Jarvis.’
It was a statement and not a question.
‘And I’m also assuming that a very young and pretty girl like yourself knows him…’ She paused. ‘…Romantically?’
Her neck muscles wouldn’t let her nod.
‘I’m not surprised you got ill.’ She didn’t sound angry or judgemental; she just sounded sad. She reached across suddenly, touching the back of Frankie’s hand. ‘It all came as a shock, didn’t it?’
She had never had someone touch her so instinctively. The warmth of Vanessa’s fingers became her whole palm. Her skin was red hot. Frankie thought she might cry again. She glanced up. Vanessa was leaning across the table, her eyes searching her face. ‘Don’t feel awful, Frankie, don’t punish yourself; you’re just as much a victim as we are.’
She swallowed and then picked up her tea to cover it.
A waitress appeared with two plates. Vanessa glanced up with a grateful ‘thanks’ as they slid onto the table. She gestured to Frankie to help herself.
‘Are you okay with my choices? You’ll feel so much better. Come on, get stuck in.’
She gazed at the array of different dishes.
‘If not, I can always pop over and get something else.’
There was a toasted cheese and ham sandwich, a bowl of chips, and a mound of delicious-looking guacamole with triangles of toasted pita bread sticking out of the top.
She felt her mouth watering but with hunger this time.
‘It looks lovely.’ She picked up a piece of pita and reached for the guacamole, loading it up and taking a bite. ‘Mmm. Thank you.’
She hadn’t realised how good food could taste.
Vanessa watched her approvingly as she chewed, before taking a slab of sandwich and cutting it daintily into smaller chunks.
‘I’m sorry about my reaction before. I’m all over the place. I know this sounds odd and mawkish, but the fact you look a little like Charlotte makes me feel strangely comforted.’ The knife paused. ‘It’s like there’s a bit of her sitting here and we’re doing something ordinary together. Does that creep you out?’
She shook her head but wasn’t sure that was the truth.
‘So tell me all about yourself, Frankie.’ Vanessa smiled and this time her face relaxed. She picked up a bit of sandwich but then paused. ‘I have to say this is a very funny way to make friends, isn’t it?’
Frankie smiled back. Were they friends now?
She told her the pat story that everyone got told: that she’d been brought up in care, that it hadn’t been too bad, that it was like belonging to a big family. None of it was true but it got people off her back.
‘So you weren’t ever fostered?’
The question was simple enough and so was the answer.
‘My birth mother left me when I was three. People don’t generally want three-year-olds, they want babies.’ She shrugged.
‘And do you remember her? Your mother?’
‘Umm… Only bits. Nothing much. I think she was very young. I don’t think she could cope.’
Vanessa seemed happy with the answer. They both ate in silence for a few minutes. ‘Young and unable to cope’ made people feel better. She had no idea what the truth was. She had no memory of anything. She’d seen the police report though, the one about how she’d been abandoned in a derelict house just before Christmas. She was only wearing a T-shirt
. No one had any idea how long she’d been there or who might’ve left her. A homeless man called Frank had found her. She’d crawled amongst the filth and the garbage and had eaten newspaper to stay alive. She was left out with the rubbish. That’s what had always stayed with her. And the simple kindness of a stranger. That stayed with her too; hence the name Frankie.
‘She must have been very scared, your mum. You mustn’t be angry with her.’
‘No.’
‘And you seem a lovely girl, so something in the care system clearly worked.’
Did it?
‘People do all kinds of things when they’re not coping.’ Vanessa sighed deeply.
‘Peter, my husband, isn’t coping at all.’ She pushed her plate away wearily. ‘He’s not himself. It’s as though he’s pretending that nothing has happened.’ She glanced away for a second. ‘Here he is, a well-respected professional man who works for Children’s Services, who’s around therapists and counsellors and guidance people all day – and the irony is, he’s a man who’s utterly lost.’ She shook her head. ‘I just worry what will happen when he stops pretending and reality hits him.’ She blinked the thought away. ‘He’s not Charlotte’s dad, he died ten years ago, but Peter has always seen her as his own… Saw,’ she hesitated. ‘And Jack – even though he was only her half-brother, he’s always been super protective. That outburst in the court is how we’re all feeling. I only wish I could get a hold of my rage and scream and shout like that – I’d love to.’ She grimaced. ‘I think we’re all numb and angry and exhausted with grief, and we’re all dealing with it in different ways.’ She gazed blankly off. ‘I don’t think Peter or Jack can go through another session of all that. That’s why I’ve said they should go off together this afternoon.’
She placed her knife and fork very neatly on the plate of half-eaten food. ‘But I have to be there, Frankie. It’s like a compulsion. I want to feel something. Anything: any amount of pain. It’s the only way I can cope. It’s like I see the white-hot flames of this horror and I have to put my hand right in the middle.’ She stopped and wiped her fingers on a serviette. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’