‘Mrs Lane, Mr Lane, thank you very much for your time today. It’s been most helpful for the case. Eloise is currently being assessed at The Orchard. Once I hear what the psychiatrists have to say about her condition we will have more to go on. Until then, if you think of anything, or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call my office.’
‘She’s not a murderer, Ms Bell,’ Dorothy said suddenly. ’She is a gentle, loving girl. This is not her. She needs help. Not prison, never prison.’
Her eyes locked on to Harriet’s, her desperation and hope clear. Harriet nodded. ‘When I know more I will be in touch.’
‘Thank you,’ Paul said, settling his hand on the small of Dorothy’s back and leading her to the door.
Harriet leaned back in her chair watching the Lanes depart. They were sincere, she thought. Honest, hard working people who loved their daughters. Did that love blind them from an evil side to Eloise? Or was she really as sweet and gentle as she seemed? Her motives did seem to be piling up: the threat to Jacob, the loss of income. The DDP’s assertion that she found the custody application and, threatened by the loss of her child she flew into a rage, was very strong. It explained the trigger for the fugue, for leaving Jacob alone. Alone facing such betrayal her mental instability would reasonably be triggered. Yet, could she be said to have had a motive for murder at all if she couldn’t even remember doing it?
Paul’s anger towards Grant was interesting. Motive enough for murder? No, that was a long shot. The scissors, the blood on Eloise, there would have been evidence he had been there too. She shook her head. She rather understood Paul’s disgust with Grant. Try as she might Harriet couldn’t muster any sympathy for the victim. A man who deserted his wife when she was ill, who then wooed her with kind words, only to conspire behind her back to take her child. There was obviously more to the story of his relationship with June. And Paul had all but confirmed Grant had been unfaithful to Eloise. Only the once? Doubtful. There was definitely more background here to investigate. Harriet wouldn’t mind betting there was more than one woman out there who was angry at Grant Huxley.
7: Bloody Christmas
Christmas Eve started early, the drive to Ellesmere Port was a long one and Harriet wanted to avoid the holiday traffic. Loading her car with her overnight bag and gifts for her family: whiskey for dad, though God he didn’t need it; hand creams for mum and bluetooth ear buds for Billy, Harriet double checked her laptop was secure. Sighing she climbed into her Mazda and began the trek. The dark blue of pre-dawn languidly melted to deep cobalt and then pale cerulean as she veered onto the M5.
As expected the four hour drive took more like six, traffic. As Harriet pulled into her parents’ short drive on Thornton Road, her stomach growled a protest at its emptiness, her eyes crusty and strained. Packed tightly against the properties on the rest of the street, the off cream exterior of the terraced house bubbled around the windows. The front lawn, a shining testament to her mother’s skills in summer had been reduced to a muddy puddle by the constant rains of the festive season. Anne, dressed in jeans and a thick woollen jumper, Santa Clause grinning from the stitching, dutifully met her on the wet drive, despite the misting damp that drifted down from the grey skies overhead. The air was thick with the desire to drop its watery burden.
‘Mum,’ Harriet smiled as Anne enfolded her in a tight embrace, warm against the December cold.
‘Lunch is ready for the table, we waited for you. I don’t want to miss a moment with you, seeing as our time is so short.’
Harriet turned to her car and rolled her eyes, ignoring the first of many not-so-subtle jabs she knew she would have to endure from her mother during this visit. She pulled her bags from the boot and followed her mother into her childhood home. The hallway was dim, masking the worn carpet that covered the frustratingly small steps to the second floor bedroom, steps that once matched her little feet like they were made for her, now outgrown. Just like she’d outgrown the whole house and the town it sat in. Harriet trudged upstairs to her room. Dumping her bags Harriet stretched her shoulders and striped off her t-shirt and jumper. Donning a white shirt and cream cardigan set, she headed for the bathroom, splashed some life back into her face and checked her eyes for sleep before heading for the dining room below.
The room was bedecked with Christmas cheer. A bright red runner trimmed with reindeer divided the dinning table in two, tiny plastic Christmas trees at either end, and a plastic Santa lamp held court from the side table. There was silver tinsel hanging from the ceiling and Christmas bunting, made by Nellie, Billy and Harriet as children, lined the doorway to the kitchen. Harriet suppressed a shudder. Lord but she hated Christmas time.
Her brother’s wiry frame sat at the table. He smiled at her as she entered, saluting her with his Carlsberg. Her father, who was sitting in his lounge chair, maintaining the heavy groove of his butt in the worn fabric, TV blaring the latest Premier League standings in preparation for the Boxing day matches, didn’t stir. Smoke curled up from the chair. Harriet frowned, still smoking inside. Bloody hell.
Her mother came pacing from the kitchen, bringing forth the scent of roast chicken and potatoes and placed her offerings on the red table runner. ‘Lunchtime,’ she called across the room to her husband. Fergus raised a hand to signal he’d heard, stubbed out his cigarette on his fancy metal ashtray and pressed the raised top. The metal lid swirled, flinging the ash into the bowl of the tray, lid closing above it. A gift from Harriet, thinking putting the ash inside the tray would help with the smell. She hadn’t accounted for the smoke infused furniture and closed windows. But her father was at least using it. A small smile played on her lips.
Fergus rose from his chair and muted the TV. Bringing the remote with him he turned, finally acknowledging Harriet’s arrival.
‘Ah there’s my girl,’ he beamed, stretching thick workman’s arms out wide for a hug as he advanced towards her. Harriet allowed herself to be pulled into his embrace, breathing in his scent of car grease, smoke and stale beer. Nothing changed. Fergus pulled back and eyed his daughter, jaw working like he had something to say.
‘Come on,’ her mother interrupted, ‘it’s getting cold.’
Fergus released Harriet with a pat on the shoulder and took up his place at the table next to her brother, facing across the room towards the ever present sport channel. Harriet sat across from her sibling, her mother at the table head between them. No one blocked Fergus’ view of the football round ups.
‘This looks delicious mum,’ Harriet said. ‘How will you top it for tomorrow?’
‘Your mother always saves the best for Christmas, Harriet. But every meal is a star,’ Fergus stated simply.
Anne busied herself scooping potatoes and slices of chicken onto plates, and passing them round. But Harriet could see the pride that flitted over her face.
‘Long drive?’ her brother asked.
‘The traffic is always heavy for the season,’ her mother began, ‘never good to be on the roads on Christmas Eve. Better to come up a few days before, I always say.’
Her brother grinned mockingly across the table at Harriet. She kept her face neutral and reached for some honeyed carrots.
‘Your mother tells me you have a big new case,’ her father took up the conversation.
‘Yes, a murder in Devon…’
‘Not the wife killer? The mental one on the telly?’ her brother exclaimed.
Harriet paused, slowly pouring gravy over her plate as she sought for an answer. ‘Well, actually yes, that’s the one.’
‘Aw Hare,’ her brother crooned, ‘ain’t no case there. We’ve all seen the news. She was going to kill the baby next. That’s well worse than the fucking whore job earlier in the year.’
‘Language,’ Anne tried.
‘How can you defend that?’
Harriet bristled. The media in this country had a lot to answer for. The stories that had swirled after the tabloids got hold of the details of Eloise’s arrest, specifical
ly about Jacob, had been vindictive and salacious. Nothing to do with public interest. And the coverage comparing Eloise to Stacey Stripp was outrageous, how do you get a fair trial with that kind of thing circulating? Just because they were both women in Devon, who stabbed a man to death. Irrelevant, the cases were totally different. But that shit stuck, no matter what a judge instructed the jury.
‘It’s not just about guilt and innocence. There is also culpability.’
‘What?’
Harriet rolled her eyes, it wasn’t worth it. ‘Everyone deserves a defence,’ she answered evasively.
‘Everyone with money,’ her brother countered darkly, hooded eyes boring into her face. ‘Besides, the truth is pretty obvious.’
‘I don’t need the truth,’ Harriet smiled sweetly at Billy, ‘I only need doubt.’
‘Wine, Harriet?’ her mother asked, proffering a bottle of Sainsbury’s Pinot Grigio. ‘Please,’ Harriet nodded.
‘So, another year, another family gathering. Not brought a fella up Harrie?’ her father enquired. He did so casually, chopping into a potato and dipping it in gravy, eyes down. Harriet was not fooled. Here we go again. She pursed her lips. Because having a lawyer as a daughter isn’t enough, Harriet thought angrily. She needs to breed to have value.
‘Not this year dad. No time. Work has been busy. Can you pass the Yorkies?’ she threw a glance at her brother, pleading. He sat hunched forward, chewing, grim amusement on his face as he passed the plate of puddings.
Her father sat back as though stretching his belly out. ‘Still,’ he said. Harriet braced herself. ‘You aren’t getting any younger. Getting to the ‘now or never’ for kiddies Harrie. Need to get on to that. There’s always work. There ain’t always time for family.’
Harriet ignored her brother’s smirk. She pressed her eyes closed and counted to ten.
‘So how are things at the factory?’ she asked, eyes boring into her brother. His grin fell.
‘Looking more broadly now,’ Billy answered. ‘Can’t work cars my whole life.’
Harriet tried to mask her surprise, catching her mother’s warning glance.
‘Don’t see why not,’ her father said as he chewed at a large slice of chicken. ‘Kept food on this table and a roof over your head.’ He thumped the table with a fist and stabbed his gravy covered fork towards his son.
Billy’s turn to squirm. ‘Yeah, I know dad. And it’s been a great job. But with Crystal pregnant I need something more than the casual hours…’
‘Pregnant?’ Harriet exclaimed.
Billy’s smile turned positively feral. ‘Just three months. We’ll be moving in together once she gets her council flat in Liverpool. Yep, gonna be a father.’
‘We are all so pleased,’ her mother beamed. ‘Our first grandchild.’
‘You’ll have to make time for a mid-year visit, Harrie. To meet your new niece or nephew,’ her father said.
Harriet felt her fingers shaking, swallowed hard. Why hadn’t her mother said?
Regrouping she faced her brother. ‘Congratulations, Billy, that’s wonderful news. Will Crystal be joining us tomorrow? I’d love to meet her.’
‘Nah, spending Christmas with her parents in town. Maybe next year.’
Lunch continued, butter cake was served, wine poured. As the light began to bleed from the sky her father returned to his chair, cigarette in hand, Billy and two beers in tow. Harriet drifted to the kitchen to help her mother wash up.
‘You didn’t tell me about Billy and Crystal,’ Harriet said, ‘I didn’t realise they were serious.’
Her mother sighed, hands scraping roast chicken crust from the tray, suds to her elbows. ‘I didn’t think they were. I don’t know, but I don’t think it was planned.’
Harriet nodded slowly, ‘And the factory?’
Her mother flicked her eyes up to Harriet, ‘You mustn’t tell your father. He thinks it was Billy’s choice.’
Harriet stilled, ‘I won’t say anything.’
Anne rinsed a plate, shoulders tight. ‘He was let go. Failed an on site drug test.’
Harriet nearly dropped the glass she was drying. ‘Not…’
‘No, no, just marijuana.’
Harriet breathed out heavily. ‘What was he thinking?’ she hissed. ‘Working under the influence. He could have hurt someone, hurt himself…’
‘Oh rain it in Harriet,’ her mother snapped. ‘It’s not been easy for Billy. You know that. He’s never been right since Nellie. We can’t all sail through life like you.’
Harriet pressed her lips together in a thin line, holding in the screaming rebuttal boiling inside. It wasn’t easy for me either. After Nellie, you fell apart. I picked up the pieces. I made my own way, dragged myself through uni working night shifts on night-fill. I’ve never had a penny from you or dad. I made myself. But there was no point. Billy was Billy and Harriet would always be second to the golden son; the sister who lived.
Carefully, Harriet folded the dishcloth over the oven handle to dry. The washing up wasn’t finished, but she was. ‘Had an early start,’ she said, turning for the door. ‘Going to take a nap.’
Her mother shot her a guilt laden look, but nodded her head, letting her go. Harriet climbed the stairs, heavy footed and wished to god she hadn’t let her mother convince her to stay a night in this stupid house.
Later that evening after dinner, as her family sat inside watching Love Actually for the billionth time, Harriet took a bottle of Sav Blanc, imported from somewhere, and headed outside. Rugged in her winter jacket and layers of jumpers she sat on the creaky garden bench that faced the street. The mud at her feet had hardened, the air crisp with the promise of frost or snow. Perhaps it will be a white winter after all, she pondered, filling her glass.
She flicked out her mobile and began scanning her emails. It might be Christmas, but the law didn’t take a break. Her fingers flew across the keypad and she lost time working through her correspondence.
Footfall pulled her from her screen. Billy stood beside the chair, cigarette glowing in his mouth. ‘Shuffle over Hare,’ he said.
Harriet clicked off her screen and returned her mobile to her jacket pocket, moving aside to make room for her brother. Billy sat down right on the edge of the bench, knee instantly jiggling against the cold. He sucked in a lung full of smoke and blew it out in Harriet’s face. Grinning at her frown, he offered her a drag. She shook her head in refusal. He turned away.
Harriet waited a moment, then, ‘Mum told me, about the factory. There’s no possibility of a second chance?’
Billy shook his head, releasing a long stream of smoke.
Harriet pressed, ‘But you can still get references right? From your Foreman? You worked there for 10 years without incident, that’s got to count for something.’
Billy looked at her, full in the face, dark eyes glittering in the pale moonlight.
‘You haven’t even asked if I did it,’ he said.
Harriet held his stare, daring him to deny the truth. Billy huffed a laugh, ‘Innocent until proven guilty hey?’ he drawled.
‘A drug test is pretty convincing evidence.’
Billy looked away, staring out at the dark, cold night.
He relented. ’I fucked up. There’s no way back. But Mike knows a garage guy in Liverpool who’s looking for extra hands. Should be in there.’
‘Or you could think about other avenues. You finished your A levels.’
‘I’m almost 30, Hare and I’m having a baby. I gotta get a job.’
‘There’s always some reason why you won’t do further study… I got it, before. You had to get clean. But that was years ago now Billy. You could…’
’You barely even have your accent anymore.’
Harriet was pulled up short by the change of topic, ‘I haven’t lived here in almost 15 years Billy. Accents fade.’
‘Sure.’
‘Billy…’
‘You can’t fucking help it can you?’ Billy interrupted, face swinging back
to hers. ‘You just think you’re better than us.’ He gestured towards the front window, TV light playing across the drawn curtains. ‘Better than me.’
Fury blazed in Harriet’s chest. Fucking little shit, she thought. ‘I don’t think I am better than you Billy,’ she said, voice firm and cold. ‘I think you are better than you.’
Billy eyed her in the dark, expression unreadable. The silence stretched. Finally, he shrugged. ‘Whatever, ’night dickhead,’ he said and walked inside leaving Harriet alone to ponder the Christmas Eve sky.
January
8: Ruined sanctuary
Harriet stood at the top of the cliff between Torcross and Beesands looking down at the small hotel where Grant Huxley had taken his last breath. The sea glowed in the pale January sun, its rays twinkling on the wooly ripples in the bay. Farmland bordered by trees swept down to the beach, the grasses brown, ice glinting from the shadows. Spring would be beautiful here, Harriet realised, imagining the green pastures full of vibrant yellow flowers contrasted against the bright blue skies of May and June. She turned back, the ice wind whipping at her exposed nose and cheeks, turning them pink from cold. The ground beneath her crunched, flecks of ice in the hardened dirt track cracking beneath her weight. Pulling her shoulders in to shrink the surface area of her body exposed to the winds, Harriet headed back towards Torcross, retracing the walk Eloise took that night; after killing her husband.
She’d arrived early, the drive from Exeter shorter due to the lack of traffic the January gloom inspired. Though it was a sunny day, the wind was unforgiving and people, it seemed, were content to stay indoors. Strolling along the Torcross foreshore she noted the holiday houses boarded up against the storms and wild seas that winter brought, hockey ties and padlocks holding shutters firm against the promise of waves splashing up against them. Only the pub on the edge of the pebbled beach remained open. She turned up the road into the seaside holiday town. Curls of smoke floated from the chimneys of several houses, the few who stayed resident year round keeping warm against the harsh season. The scent was welcome and comforting, conjuring memories of the taste of soup and tawny port.
The Unsound Sister Page 5