I was taken back to the conversation we’d had on the living room floor at the New Year’s Eve party. He’d said those same words, believed that at last someone understood and yet all I’d been able to think about was how uncomfortable I was and how I couldn’t see Zak any more.
“You’re not those things,” I said although I hoped he understood that wasn’t the same thing as saying what he’d done was all right.
“It hurts,” he whispered. “It physically hurts. It’s like being torn apart.”
None of us knew what to say. At last Xanthe took his hand and said, “Was it really that bad in the detention centre?”
He curled his hands into fists. “Whatever you’re imagining, it was worse. Anyone who tells you these places are like holiday camps is lying. You could be beaten half to death right in front of the staff and they’d turn a blind eye. Sometimes they even encouraged it – it was a bit of fun for them like watching a dog fight. And sometimes they were the ones beating you anyway.”
“The rules changed all the time to suit them – they cancelled visits, cut short exercise time – you never knew where you were. They told you every day you were worthless, a failure, nobody cared about you. If someone tells you those things enough times you start to believe them.”
“They punished you until you broke. But some of those boys were in for the most trivial stuff like receiving a stolen gift – and it didn’t just break them, it killed them.”
“So how can you vote for the government that brought in the Short Sharp Shock system?” asked Zak, his face screwed up in bewilderment.
But it didn’t seem like the right time for a political debate. So much for the “nice, comfy detention centre” the police inspector had talked about in my interview – although perhaps in comparison to an adult prison, it was. I shuddered at the thought of a young Stuart with his angelic appearance and perfect vowels finding himself in such brutal surroundings. I could only imagine how he’d have fared among the more violent inmates, let alone predatory staff.
He didn’t seem the typical ex-offender, kicking back against authority at every turn. Instead, he’d gone the other way – obsessively sticking to structure as though if he broke just one rule everything in his reconstructed life would fall apart. But thinking about it, that made a kind of sense too.
His voice dropped to barely more than a whisper as he said, “My cellmate, the only boy in there I saw as a friend, killed himself by swallowing razor blades. A prison officer told me it was my fault. That it was because he couldn’t stand being banged up with me.”
He turned his face away, so we couldn’t see that he was fighting back tears.
Xanthe threw her arms around him. “Have you kept in touch with Skye?” she asked.
He shook his head. “She’s in sheltered housing somewhere. I saw her once. We hadn’t seen each other for so long it was difficult to know what to say to each other. She doesn’t understand she did anything wrong. But I have to live with the fact that every time she closes her eyes at night she has to see what I see – hears the smash, feels the spatter of blood.”
He got up to leave the room but as he reached the door he gripped it, turned and said,
“I’m not going back. It’ll kill me. This is why we can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Chapter Sixteen
After a stomach-churning few days following the police interviews I began to think perhaps the solicitor had been right and despite their suspicions the police didn’t have enough evidence to charge us. Our lives regained a semblance of normality although you never knew if the phone call you were about to answer would be from the police again or whether they’d turn up at the office or the house and take us all in.
Sometimes I just wanted it all to be over. I thought it would be better if we did get caught. At least it would bring things to an end instead of this unrelenting adrenalin overload. At least we’d be able to explain and there was a chance a jury might believe us.
But then I’d be reminded of the life inside me. Being pregnant made me feel fiercely protective but also vulnerable. I couldn’t move fast so I had no chance of making a quick getaway, and I worried that all the stress would affect the baby.
Once we’d told Imogen about Bob, Rick started coming over more often. He’d meet her after work on Friday evening and get the first train back on Monday morning. Whether she’d asked him to I didn’t know but he seemed determined not to leave her on her own with us and who could blame him?
But we’d always know when he’d been in the house. We’d find his shoes by the door or his tie draped over a chair and get that sinking feeling.
He’d take phone messages for us but couldn’t resist adding his own bossy instructions: Your mum rang for the THIRD time. Call her!!! Chiara wanted to know if you had any plans this evening. I said you didn’t.
Xanthe went mad when she found him throwing out her only pair of trainers on the grounds that “nobody could want those disgusting things.”
“I swear to God I’ll kill him,” said Zak, shoving the tin pyramid that Rick had arranged on the counter top. “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than have him as a house mate.”
But our immediate concern was Imogen. The way she’d reacted to the news about Bob meant we didn’t feel safe. We kept an eye on her all the time. When she went out one of us always asked if she wanted company. We followed her to work and back home and listened on the landing when she was on the phone down in the hall.
Once as we joined her in the office canteen she rounded on us.
“Look are you going to stop this? Because it’s unbearable. No offence but we see enough of each other at home.”
We had no choice but to back off although we still watched from a distance. She tried to evade us, going for lunch with her editorial team and volunteering for lots of trips. But it made you wonder, what would happen if she drank too much at one of these events and unburdened herself to someone about the people she lived with? The only hope I could cling to was that people wouldn’t believe her and would dismiss it as drunken rambling.
But when she came towards you with people you didn’t know you had to ask whether she was being a Judas, about to betray us to the police.
Shouts and crashes woke me late one night. I could picture the police storming the house, dragging each of us out of bed, shining a light in our faces. Then an even bigger shudder passed through me as the thought sunk in that it might not be the police. Whoever Fitz was, there was always the possibility that he or she would come to the house trying to retrace the money Bob had owed him.
But opening my door a crack, I saw Rick on the stairs. He gave me a hate-filled look, ran down and slammed the front door. Imogen yelled something out of her window above and banged it shut. In the morning her face was puffy and stretched around the eyes. It wasn’t something you could easily ignore.
“So, are you going to tell us what happened?” Zak asked, although he didn’t sound like he cared much.
Imogen spooned yoghurt into a bowl and squeezed honey over it in a long, deliberate swirl.
“He lied to me.”
“About what?”
“His past.”
We exchanged looks across the table. “Surely as long as it’s in the past,” said Stuart. “Or are we talking about unfinished business?”
She shook her head. “No. It was when he was at school. For three whole years and he’s only just thought to tell me.”
“Didn’t he go to a boys’ school?” I asked.
Stuart cleared his throat. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I mean I don’t think it’s that uncommon.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “I realise that. He isn’t gay. They used to look at magazines with pictures of women while they were doing it.”
“So, what’s the problem?” asked Xanthe, her features scrunched in confusion.
“The problem?” Imogen exploded. “Oh, I don’t know. Just this little thing called AIDS – perhaps you’ve heard of it?
I’m not angry because he experimented or let himself be experimented on or whatever. But I’m furious that he concealed from me that he’s a glaring health risk when all the time I thought I was safe.”
She flung her head into her arms and her shoulders shook and heaved. Then she ran out and slammed the door.
“That was harsh,” said Xanthe.
“What’s new?” said Zak.
“This isn’t good,” said Stuart. “We need him on our side.”
We had to admit we were all relieved to see the last of Rick. If it really was the last. But these days we couldn’t afford to fall out with people. You never knew where it might lead.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m collecting my stuff.”
The change in Rick’s appearance in just a few days shocked me. He was unshaven and instead of his usual sharp style he was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a rumpled t-shirt. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks, but he mustered his usual condescending smile.
“Right. Imogen’s not –”
“I know. She said it would be fine. I won’t be long.”
I stood back to let him past, remembering the time he and I had been on our own in the house and he’d discovered the new-look basement. It seemed a long time ago now and I was reassured by the presence of three others in the house this time, but I still found it hard to trust him.
He put his head in at the living room and nodded at Zak and Stuart.
“Hey, how are you doing?” asked Zak, barely disguising his surprise.
“Good. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
I stood watching him as he went up the stairs, but he turned halfway up and gave me a withering look. “I know my way, thanks.”
I went back to watching a video with the others – Midnight Express which on reflection wasn’t a good choice.
“How much stuff did he leave here?” Stuart asked after a while. “I never saw him bring much with him at weekends.”
Above our heads came a series of dull thuds and the sound of furniture being trundled around. I could imagine Rick sliding open drawers and rifling through wardrobes. He was obviously looking for something.
Zak shrugged. “I don’t envy him trying to find anything in that mess.”
“Do you think we should make a note of what he’s taking?” Stuart asked. “Imogen won’t be too pleased if she comes back and finds he’s gone off with something of hers.”
Eventually we heard him coming down stairs. Stuart popped out of the door. “Were you looking for something?”
We heard Rick’s terse reply. “Thanks, no, it’s okay.”
We all came out into the hall. Rick had gone a peculiar colour. There were sweat patches under his arms. He looked from one to the other of us. He seemed agitated.
“Got everything?” asked Zak, casting an eye over the bin bag. “Can I give you a hand out to the car?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Short of demanding that he turn out the bag there wasn’t much we could do. Zak stood back to let him pass.
“All right, well, see you around, I guess.”
“I doubt it,” said Rick. He stopped halfway to the door, perhaps tried to rein himself in from saying something and then found he couldn’t stop himself. “You’ve made sure of that haven’t you? You turned Imogen against me – got me out of the house which is what you wanted, wasn’t it? Well done. I hope you’re happy.”
“We didn’t do anything,” said Stuart. “Whatever it was, you did it yourself.”
It seemed to be the last straw. Rick exploded. “Do you think I don’t know what you lot have done?”
Silence fizzed between us.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” said Stuart.
Rick put down the bag he was carrying. “No? You realise I could go to the police? Tell them that Oskar Bramley – or Bob as you like to call him – spent his last night here and leave them to draw their own conclusions?”
I caught my breath. We did our best to look confused, but it probably wasn’t convincing.
“We didn’t touch Oskar Bramley,” said Zak at last.
Rick gave a triumphant snort. “That’s a lie isn’t it? His last hours were spent in this house. He was here at your party on New Year’s Eve. He never left. You see, I know that you, Zak, and you, Emily, drove his body to that clifftop in Cornwall and threw it over. That doesn’t sound to me like not touching him.”
We exchanged looks. This was awful. We’d been expecting all this time to be found out and the moment we’d taken our eye off the ball it had happened.
“I meant we didn’t touch him while he was alive.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
My stomach squeezed until I could barely breathe. This was worse than the police interview because Rick wasn’t just fishing for information – he seemed to know things.
“You can think what you like,” said Zak doing an impressive attempt at looking unconcerned.
“Oh, can I? Thank you. I’ll tell you what I think then. After you dumped the body you did a massive detour via Bedfordshire where you left the car and then got a train to London, so you could get another train back from London to Bristol to make it look as though you’d been staying the weekend in town.”
None of us said anything. We were finished. Either Rick was a brilliant detective or Imogen had been a lot less discreet than we’d thought. She’d shopped us to her boyfriend who had the power to bring everything crashing down.
“How do you know?” asked Zak at last.
Rick smiled. “Because I have this.” He dug around in the bag and produced a tiny tape recorder.
“That’s Imogen’s,” said Xanthe. “She’s been looking for it for weeks.”
She snatched for it, but he held it out of her reach. “I knew you were up to something. I hid this in the kitchen. Imagine my surprise when this is what I heard.”
He pressed the button. I felt sick as our own words filled the room: “Even if she remembers Oskar being at the party she doesn’t know he died there or anything about moving the body…” He pressed the button again, selecting other conversations.
“Be my guest,” he said to Xanthe as she made a second grab for the device. “It’s all backed up on another tape anyway.”
“It was you who sent the postcards then?” said Zak.
He nodded. “I wanted to see what you’d do – whether any of you had the guts to come out and admit it.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” asked Xanthe.
He smiled ruefully. “Because of Imogen. I wanted to protect her. I didn’t see why she should get dragged into it all. That doesn’t matter so much now, of course.”
“Look, come on, you know we didn’t kill anyone,” said Stuart, his voice breaking with emotion. “Can we please talk about this?”
Somehow, he managed to persuade Rick to go through to the living room which at least felt less confrontational than standing in the hall.
“All we did was move his body because it had nothing to do with us,” said Zak as he sank into a chair.
“Yes, and in so doing you perverted the course of justice.” Triumph flickered in Rick’s eyes. I could imagine him in court wearing his robes, strutting about and grinding down a witness, congratulating himself afterwards on reducing them to tears while the rapist or mugger or murderer walked free.
“You must know that because of what you did you’ve made yourselves number one suspects?” he said with an incredulous laugh. “You were in close contact with the victim on the night he died and certainly among the last people to have seen him. They’ll be able to produce lots of witnesses who saw you with him. And, even worse, you actively tried to prevent a police investigation taking place.”
Stuart searched desperately for something to say. His face was pink and he wiped a line of sweat from across his nose. “Surely you can see we had to do it?”
But Rick laughed. “No. You chose to do it. Conc
ealing a crime doesn’t become any less serious because you thought you’d get blamed for murder.”
“But what else could we have done? You’ve said yourself we’d have been number one suspects.”
Rick spoke as though he were addressing a child. “You know what you should have done. You should have gone back up those stairs without touching anything, called the police and told them exactly what you’d found. What you actually did makes you look guilty, but it’s also more than likely destroyed any evidence which might have helped prove your innocence. I’d say your chances of being convicted of murder now if the police find Bramley was killed here would be close to a hundred percent.”
Zak inhaled sharply. “Thanks. That’s a big help.”
“Well don’t tell me you’re surprised. Conspiring to prevent a lawful and decent burial of a body is very bad – you could each end up spending a couple of years in prison. But disposing of a body with intent to prevent a coroner’s inquest – that’s a lot worse. If the post mortem finds the death was unlawful and a motive for murder or manslaughter can be established, you could be looking at a life sentence.”
It was the worst of the worst. My stomach tightened again. I felt something move inside me. It felt like a kick. I’d been starting to get them recently, but it just brought home to me how unlikely it was that I’d ever be able to keep this child. Would I even be allowed to hold her before they took her away?
“What do you think we should do?” I asked. We could at least take advantage of Rick’s legal knowledge.
He blew out through his cheeks. “That’s up to you. But I do know one thing – courts are more lenient when people give themselves up and spare the public purse from a long trial. “An early guilty plea can shave a lot off a sentence – so I’d get on the phone now and tell them what you’ve done.”
He got up to leave. As he reached the door he added with a smile, “Oh, and pray.”
“We’re not going to give ourselves up,” said Stuart.
There was a catch to his voice. I didn’t like where this was going. It reminded me of the time he held up the knife to Imogen. We all knew that if Rick walked out the door our secret was well and truly blown. This was what I’d been afraid of – that in trying to escape justice for a lesser crime we’d end up committing a much worse one.
The Suspects Page 19