The Suspects

by Katharine Johnson

  “I thought I loved her,” Zak said. “But I don’t think I ever did, not really. I was in love with some things about her but only because I made myself close my eyes to others. The only person I’ve ever really loved is you, Em.”

  I smiled. “I’m sorry about earlier. I got it so wrong. Is there any way you could forget I said those things about you?”

  It was a long time before he answered. “I don’t know. I want to say it’s all right, but you called me a murderer. I can’t believe you didn’t even trust me with my own child. I don’t know where we can go from here.”

  “But I…”

  “I need to think about this. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to put it behind us. I keep thinking we’re out of the shit but then it starts happening again.”

  When he’d finished the pizza he took off on his bike. I thought it might be one of those situations where he’d relent. For several weeks I expected him to turn up just like he had after the night we’d moved Oskar’s body.

  But when I answered the door one Saturday morning expecting to see him I found myself looking at Xanthe’s father. He accepted my invitation to come in but looked uncomfortable as though the house was somehow to blame for what happened to Xanthe.

  He took in the wreckage in the hall as we passed through to the living room. I made him tea which he drank without milk or sugar.

  “Everything that was said about Charlotte at her funeral was true,” he said, looking down into his tea. “Until her teens she was a model child. Perhaps we pushed her too far. We just wanted to see her settled but that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted a life that was more exotic, more exciting, than the one we gave her. Even as a little girl she used to dream of joining a circus.

  “As she got older she had dreams of being a dancer but we wanted her to have a good education first. As a teenager she started challenging the way we did things. She refused to come to church anymore, stopped eating meat, got her ears pierced – she found us embarrassing most of the time.

  “She made a mess of her GCSEs, dropped out of school and got in with the wrong crowd. She made accusations against a dear family friend which I was convinced was all in her head. But one day we found a note on her pillow and she’d gone.

  “The police were wonderful at first but after a while they scaled down the search. For a year we had no idea if she was alive or dead. I hired a private detective who eventually found Charlotte living in a squat using a different name. I suppose she thought that life was more exciting.

  “She refused to come back. That was harder for us to hear than being told she was dead. But we just hoped she was happy. I still don’t understand how she could do that to us. My wife’s health’s never been the same. But to hear she’d been getting back on her feet, going back to education, starting a proper job. It looks as though she’d started to see sense. And that man took it from her…

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  He drained his cup. “I don’t suppose you knew what he was capable of. You had a lucky escape.”

  He took something from inside his jacket.

  “I noticed this among her things we collected. I don’t know if it’s important but it has your name on. It was tucked inside one of her books.”

  He handed me an envelope. I wondered how we could have missed it all those times we’d gone through Xanthe’s things looking for a clue to her disappearance but like he said it must have been stuck inside a book. I had no idea what it might contain. It felt strange to have some communication from Xanthe after all this time as though she was speaking from beyond the grave.

  After her father had gone I opened the letter. My fingers trembled as I smoothed out the page.

  In case this all goes wrong, I just want to explain what I did and why I can’t keep quiet about it any longer.

  I’ve already told you I put Oskar in touch with Rick. I gave him Rick’s phone number which I got from Imogen’s diary. I thought he was going to arrange to meet him in London so it was a shock when he turned up at the party. He’d promised not to tell Rick how he’d found him so we pretended not to know each other at the party but I did point Rick out to him.

  I saw Oskar going into the basement, followed a little while later by Rick. I waited until Rick had come out and gone back to join Imogen in the living room. I went into the basement and found Oskar counting the money. I asked him for my share but he refused. He was angry with me for rejecting him earlier when he tried to kiss me. He wanted me to go back to him but I didn’t want to. I had to tell him that had never been part of the plan as far as I was concerned. My life had moved on. I felt I was finally getting somewhere and I didn’t want to be dragged back down.

  He hit me. I grabbed the backpack and ran up the steps. He followed me and was wrestling it off me. He grabbed me by the hair and was pulling me backward. I was losing my balance. I kicked out. He stumbled back on the stairs. I seized the chance to get out and lock the door.

  It never occurred to me he was badly hurt. I assumed he’d get up, run back up the steps and start bashing on the door. Someone would let him out. The key was still in the door. But now that I think about it, the music had been turned up full blast so it would have been hard to hear him unless you’d been right next to the door.

  I was convinced he’d come after me for the backpack. All I could think of was getting away. My room was full of people. I pushed through all the bodies in the hall and kitchen and went out into the garden. I hid the backpack in the old coal store so I could come back for it later.

  I was about to go back in when other people started to spill out into the garden. Someone offered me a smoke and we started kissing. I thought Oskar wouldn’t dare confront me if I was with someone else. And eventually I thought he must have given up looking for me and gone home.

  It wasn’t until we found the body that I realised he must have fallen harder than I’d realised, and that it was my fault. I should have told you but the way Stuart took control of the situation, I thought no one need ever know. I never meant to get anyone else into trouble.

  At first it seemed as though everything was going to be all right but now the police have started questioning us I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. It’s been torturing me and I can’t keep quiet about it any longer. I’ve put off going to the police until now because I know it might lead to you all getting convicted for the things you did. But I can’t bear it any longer.

  I folded the letter up and put it back into the envelope.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  2000

  “Emily, we need to talk.”

  I recognized the voice immediately. Ten years fell away. As if we were back at number 17. Imogen was sitting sideways in an armchair, her legs slung over the arm. The French doors open, the curtains lifting in the evening breeze. Golden light filtering through, making patterns on the floorboards. I forced myself back into the present, to the council flat I shared with Livvy.

  “What do you want?”

  “Stuart’s out. Look it up. The appeal went through this time.”

  All I could think of to say was, “He can’t be. The judge said…”

  “He said a lot of things Emily. But they’ve used new technology apparently which makes his trial unsafe.”

  Things were whirring through my head – the trial, the way the Prosecution barrister had been so scornfully certain, the looks on the jury’s faces. And Xanthe’s father looking as though he were about to throw up and being helped out of court.

  “And my guess is he’ll be heading over to see you soon.”

  My stomach sank. I had no idea how to deal with this. In fact it was another few days before he found me up in Edinburgh. We walked through the gardens – I’d thought it would be better to meet on neutral territory. His hair had receded, he was skinnier, his face sunken. He blinked more often than I remembered.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Good. At least not bad. At least better than I have been.”
<
br />   “Stuart, I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “For not being able to convince them earlier. Rick would never admit to them what he eventually told us – that it was him who rolled Xanthe’s body down the bank. And Chiara denied everything of course. It isn’t fair that you took the blame for everyone.”

  Stuart lifted his shoulders with a forgiving smile that made me feel worthless. “It’s what we agreed. There was no need for everyone to go down for it.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not angry about it.”

  He twitched. “Oh no, I’m angry. I’m angry about the things I missed out on. Like getting married, having a family. A decent career. My life will never be what I hoped it would.”

  A couple of children trundled their bikes past and a small dog bounded up to us.

  “I’d have liked a normal life. Liked a family.”

  “There’s still plenty of time for that,” I said. “Most people our age haven’t started thinking about having children.”

  But I thought about Liv who was in her final year of primary school – hair that wouldn’t be tamed, socks that never matched, always with her nose in a book. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Stuart had been Inside her whole lifetime.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think it will happen, not now. I’m a different person. Not easy to love. And people have preconceptions, don’t they?”

  For a while neither of us said anything. I found him looking at me.

  “We agreed we wouldn’t drop each other in it. But some of those things you said in the witness box – you didn’t need to say them.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. But I had to answer the questions. I was under oath.”

  His voice took on a sharper note. “Did you? Did you really? Or were you trying to save yourself by making sure I was put away and the case closed up and forgotten?”

  I sighed. “The Bob plan was yours,” I reminded him. “None of it would have happened otherwise. I never wanted anything to do with it but none of you would listen to me.”

  “Then you should have spoken up.”

  “I know. That’s one thing the experience taught me. I grew up such a lot in those few months. And it’s what I’ve taught Livvy - to think for herself and never to go with the crowd.”

  “You knew that by making me sound unhinged you were increasing the chances of me being found guilty. Which increased the chances of you walking away. And you did, didn’t you? You all walked away.”

  “We didn’t think it would end like that. Afterwards we didn’t know what to do.”

  Then out of the blue he came out with it. “I thought maybe it was you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The reason I didn’t say, the reason I didn’t speak up for myself at first, is because I thought you’d done it. Did you?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  He looked at me. “You’ve nothing to lose, Emily. Just admit it to me if no one else. I’ve done time for you. They won’t waste money reopening the case again now. The least you owe me is the truth.”

  “Stuart, I think you’re confused.”

  “I knew Xanthe couldn’t have left in her own car. I’d fixed it so it wouldn’t start – I was so worried she’d go to the police. So someone must have given her a lift. I thought perhaps you and Zak had seen her and she’d jumped in the car with you but then you’d had an argument and either lost control of the car or hit her or something.”

  I had no idea what to say except that I was sorry and grateful and he was a better person than all of us but that he was wrong.

  He sat absorbing this knowledge for a long time before he left. I didn’t see him again.

  2019

  Number 17 looks much the same as I remembered it. The garden at the front where Stuart and Xanthe used to park their cars has been paved over and there are pots of bright tulips around the edge. There’s a rocking horse in the window of Xanthe’s room.

  For a moment I think I see her leaning on the window frame and calling out to someone below. I picture Imogen in her room, closing the Austrian blind, and Stuart in his, shooting the sash up to get some fresh air even when it was freezing.

  But all that’s gone.

  There have been times when I’ve been tempted over the years to visit the town, but I’ve made various excuses not to. If a friend hadn’t begged me to drive her to Bristol for a literary festival perhaps I wouldn’t have been standing here now looking at the place, daring myself to stand firm.

  I’m so tempted to ring the bell and ask if I could have a look around.

  I can smell the spices from Zak’s cooking, Xanthe’s cigarette smoke, Imogen’s bath oil and the magnolia in the garden when the French windows are open.

  I wonder if I’d have the courage to look in the basement.

  But I don’t. I don’t want to inflict my story on the people living there now. They have the right to live their lives unencumbered by the past. I don’t want to give them nightmares about finding a body in the basement or seeing a baby falling through the air in the stairwell.

  The house is something different to them.

  I turn to go. But I think I’ll take one photograph just to remind me – give me closure. I rummage in my bag for my phone – I can never find it when I need it. Livvy’s always telling me to get a brightly coloured case - I walk back across the street and stand against the wall opposite.

  The curtains twitch in number 15. Mrs Nosy Parker still up to her tricks. No that can’t be right. How old would she be now? Well over a hundred.

  While I’m standing there the door of number 17 swings open and someone I don’t know walks out to their car. I feel my face flood with colour and drop my phone. I’m scrambling for it when a voice I recognise says, “Oh my God, it’s you isn’t it?”

  Everything slows. Even the street noise fades out around me

  “Zak?”

  He looks older, of course he does. He still has a good head of hair but it’s greying, and his face is thinner, pinched around the mouth.

  But essentially, he’s the same person that climbed on his bike right there thirty years ago and never even looked round. He must see that I’ve changed too. I no longer henna my hair and I’ve put on a stone or two since those days when we used to live on toast over a weekend. It’s different when you have a family – you have to feed them somehow.

  “I can’t believe you recognised me,” I say to mask the awkward pause.

  “You haven’t changed that much,” he says with a shrug. I draw back from his appraising look. “In any case I’ve seen your pictures on Facebook.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you I expect. It’s not the first time I’ve been back. Sometimes I walk past, sometimes I stand and look. It helps a bit. Were you on your way somewhere or do you have time for a coffee?”

  It’s tempting. But this is the life I turned my back on. I always felt that by making contact with any of the other house mates I’d be letting some of the past back in.

  “Five minutes?” he says with that hopeful raise of the eyebrows.

  We walk down to the docks to where the publishing house used to be. It’s a café bar now. Some of the old shops and restaurants remain but a lot has changed. We walk through a broad, paved square that has a continental feel, cross a small bridge across the river, festooned with padlocks. Students more affluent than we were but who remind me of my own daughter – our own daughter although it seems funny to think of Livvy that way after all this time.

  “Do you still think about it?” I say as we order our coffees at a table overlooking the water, and some expensive-looking flats on the other side. “Everything that happened?”

  He pulls a face. “I try not to. But you know how it is.”

  I do. He was and will always be the person who knows me best. I don’t say that I’ve spent moments here and there thinking what if…? What if we’d stayed together? What if I hadn’t accuse
d him of killing Xanthe and trying to kill me? As if I’ve said it aloud he says at the time it wasn’t the accusation that hurt but the fear – the suggestion that he had it in him to do something like that. Perhaps we all have.

  “I felt like King Midas in reverse – everything I touched turned to shit. I didn’t want that to happen to you – or Livvy. I thought if we stayed together it would always be there and we wouldn’t be able to move away from it and we’d end up hating each other.”

  “So here’s a question,” I find myself asking. “If you could go back in time knowing what we know now would you still take that place on the training scheme?”

  “I would.” I’m taken aback by his lack of hesitation. “I’d still move into the house with you, too.”

  That’s a bigger thing. A much bigger thing

  “You didn’t keep in touch with Livvy,” I say.

  “I wanted to. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to. But I honestly thought she was better off not knowing me, not being a part of what we did.”

  It turns out he knows a lot about her. He’s been stalking us on Facebook for years. He knows about her birthdays and our holidays, her jobs and her tattoos. He knows she’s been bungee jumping and sky diving and about the six months she spent in Australia. He talks about her as if he knows her.

  And yet he doesn’t. He’s missed so many things. He doesn’t know what her laugh sounds like, the faces she pulls, the way her hair has a life of its own. He doesn’t know the real Livvy, only the Facebook one.

  “What have you told her about me?” he asks.

  I know Livvy didn’t mind not having a father when she was growing up, but I don’t know how to tell him without sounding as if I’m attacking him. She’s always accepted that we were a small team. For a while during my brief and not too successful marriage she was part of a conventional family and I was able to convince myself that redemption was possible.

  But when David left he said being married to me felt lonely. He always felt I was keeping him out. There was a part of me he’d never be able to reach.