by Karen Cole
‘How long did he stay? Did you see him leave?’ I’m aware that I’m firing questions at her, but she doesn’t seem to take offence or become defensive; though it’s difficult to tell – her eyes are the only clue to what she’s thinking and at the moment they seem bland and friendly.
‘I didn’t,’ she says simply.
So, it’s entirely possible that this man, whoever he is, didn’t leave at all. It’s possible he was still here in the early hours of the morning when Charlie was killed. He could have killed her. I feel a twinge of excitement. This is the first real lead I’ve had.
‘Did you mention him to the police?’ I ask.
‘I did.’
So why hasn’t his picture been broadcast on all the news stations? I think bitterly. Why only mine?
‘Did you hear anything later in the night?’ I ask. ‘Ben Wiltshire said he heard a car drive up about one o’clock in the morning.’
‘No, I was sound asleep. I take pills to help me sleep. I didn’t hear anything. But I did notice Charlie’s car was still parked outside the next morning and I was surprised because she usually goes in to work at the shop on a Saturday. But I just assumed she’d decided to take the day off. She was the boss so she could do what she liked.’
I want to ask more about the man Meg saw visiting Charlie that weekend, but at that moment we’re interrupted by another woman who emerges from inside. She’s in her forties, stocky with dyed black hair and a tough, belligerent face like a bulldog. She has rubber gloves on, and her sleeves are rolled up, as if she’s been cleaning.
‘Are you okay, Meg?’ she asks, staring at me suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m fine, Sophia. It’s okay,’ says Meg. ‘This is Catherine. She was a friend of Charlie’s.’
‘I see.’ She nods curtly at me, but her eyes still glitter sharp and watchful. It’s easy to see that she feels very protective of her charge.
‘This is Sophia,’ Meg says. ‘She’s my nurse, cleaner, friend and my own personal Sergeant Major.’
Sophia laughs gruffly. ‘She thinks I’m a bully just because I make her do her exercises every day.’
I wonder what exercises Meg can possibly have to do. She can barely move.
‘Nice to meet you, Sophia,’ I say, holding out my hand to shake hers.
She takes it, frowning stiffly. Then she seems to soften slightly. ‘Sorry. I probably seem rude to you, but we’re all a bit on edge lately with what happened just next door – and the killer still out there. The police are useless. They’ve done next to nothing. I asked them for a guard, protection for Meg, but nothing. Nada. And I can’t be here all the time. I’ve got my own family to look after.’
How much more terrifying it must be if you’re stuck in a wheelchair, unable to move, literally unable to defend yourself? I wonder how Meg seems so calm. She seems so stoical, humorous even. If I were in her situation, I probably would have given up long ago. But perhaps we all have reserves of strength and endurance inside us that we are unaware of until we’re tested.
‘I don’t think you’re in any danger though,’ I say. ‘The police seem to think that it was a personal attack – that they targeted Charlie.’
Sophia sits down at the table next to Meg.
‘Who on earth would want to hurt that sweet, young woman?’ she says shaking her head.
‘That’s what we were just saying,’ I agree. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Were you here that night?’ I ask as casually as I can.
She shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t usually sleep here. Meg can contact me or her daughter any time if there’s an emergency. I only live a couple of minutes away, but like I said, I’ve got my own family to look after.’
‘But did you notice anything unusual,’ I ask, ‘in the days leading up to the murder?’
Sophia’s eyes narrow. ‘Not really. Adam went away on the Thursday evening. Charlie kept up her usual routine – work, therapy sessions. I told her she should slow down, take it easy, given her diagnosis, but she insisted on going into work. She was worried the shop would fall apart without her there. And judging by what’s happened since, she was probably right.’
‘Her diagnosis?’ I say and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise I’ve made a mistake.
Sophia stares at me, suspiciously. ‘You didn’t know? I thought you were her friend.’
I shake my head and hurriedly explain. ‘We were old school friends. We’d been out of touch for quite a few years. What was wrong with her?’
Sophia presses her lips together and folds her arms across her chest.
‘Charlie was very ill,’ she says. ‘She had stage four bowel cancer.’
Fifteen
‘Charlie had cancer?’ I repeat. My head is spinning.
Sophia nods gravely. ‘Yes, she was dying. But she was determined not to give up without a fight, bless her.’
Neither the police nor Adam had mentioned anything about cancer.
‘Did Adam know?’ I ask.
‘Of course. How could he not know?’
Weird that he didn’t mention it, I think. But perhaps he thought it wasn’t relevant or, more likely that it was none of my business.
‘How long did she have to live?’
‘The doctors had given her about four months. That’s right, isn’t it, Meg?’
‘Yes,’ Meg agrees.
‘Just four months?’
Sophia nods. ‘It’s ironic but her killer probably saved her from a lot of suffering.’
I digest this new piece of information, still reeling from the shock. It opens up all kinds of possibilities I hadn’t previously considered. Charlie was facing months of pain and anguish with no prospect of recovery. She must have been shattered. ‘Do you think her murder could have been a mercy killing?’ I suggest tentatively.
Sophia gives me a sharp look. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone would choose to die that way, do you – stabbed four times in the chest?’
‘No,’ I shake my head and laugh inappropriately. ‘You’re right. Stupid question.’
There is a silence. Meg drools a little at the corner of her mouth and Sophia wipes it away with a tissue. ‘I think that Meg is getting tired now,’ she says pointedly.
‘I’m all right, I like the company,’ Meg protests but Sophia’s eyes are boring into me and I like to think I know when I’m not wanted.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I say, standing up. I’m staggered by what I’ve just discovered. Poor Charlie. She found out she was dying just when her life was falling into place. She’d set up her own business, just married Adam. Who knows? Maybe they were thinking of having kids. It must have been a devastating blow. Is it possible she took her own life? But that’s ridiculous. I almost laugh out loud at the idea. She couldn’t have stabbed herself in the chest. Besides, that didn’t fit with the Charlie I knew.
When I get home, I notice with a twinge of guilt that the lawn is covered in small piles of dog poop. I haven’t taken Delilah out for a walk in a while. Feeling contrite, I clean up the lawn and give Delilah a dog biscuit, promising I’ll take her out this evening. She gazes at me with big, reproachful brown eyes, then curls up in her basket with a heavy sigh of resignation.
The house looks like a bomb’s hit it. I clear up some toys, load the dishwasher, hoover the carpet and clean the bathroom. I scrub the bath vigorously, trying to remove the ring of grey grime near the top of the tub, and I mop the kitchen floor. It feels therapeutic, as if cleaning the house can also clear out my mind and give me some clarity. But everything I’ve learned at Cecily House has just raised more questions. Who was the man Meg saw visiting Charlie on Friday afternoon? And did Ben Wiltshire really hear a key in the door and a scream in the early hours of the morning? How much can I trust what either of them says? And what about Adam? He seems sus
picious to me. Have the police really checked his alibi carefully?
My head is spinning, so I make myself a cup of tea, take a piece of paper from the printer, fold it over and write a list:
1. Who visited Charlie on Friday afternoon? (I underline that twice as it seems key to me.)
2. Who did Ben hear arriving at one o’clock in the morning?
3. Why was the medicine box out?
4. Who gave the police a description of me and how can they claim they saw my face so clearly when it must have been dark at one o’clock in the morning?
I add three more question marks to the end of the last question. I can’t believe the police haven’t picked up on that. I need to talk to DI Littlewood. I pick up my phone to ring her. But it’s as if she’s read my mind. And her name flashes up on my screen along with a little green phone symbol before I get the chance to call.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, hi. This is DI Littlewood. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,’ she says politely.
‘No, it’s fine. Actually, I was just going to call you. I wanted to talk about the photofit,’ I say.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Charlie was killed in the early hours of the morning. It would have been dark. How could the witness have seen my face clearly enough to give such a detailed description?’
There’s a short silence. ‘What makes you think Charlotte was killed in the early hours of the morning?’
Shit. I don’t want her to know I’ve been talking to the residents of Cecily House. ‘Well, wasn’t she?’ I say lamely.
‘I can’t disclose that information, Catherine,’ she says tartly. She gives a loud, angry sigh. ‘And you really just need to let us get on with our work.’
‘Well, the fact that you’re so interested in the time Luke was with me from eleven o’clock onwards suggests that Charlie was killed after that,’ I retort testily. ‘And by the way, have you talked to him again yet? You know that he’s lying, don’t you?’
‘Er, no, actually. I know nothing of the sort.’ Littlewood sounds annoyed, her usual icy calm cracking a little. ‘This has nothing to do with Luke. There’s something else – something we’d like you to take a look at. Something that has come to light.’
‘Oh?’ My gut clenches uneasily.
‘We’ve received a new piece of evidence and we’d like to discuss it with you. Could you come to the station today?’
‘What time?’
‘As soon as you can get here. Let’s say in about half an hour?’
What am I supposed to say? I can’t exactly refuse, can I? It’s a Friday and Theo is picking up Dylan from school so I can’t even use him as an excuse.
‘Okay.’ I agree wearily and then add, with a short, explosive burst of anger, ‘But I’m getting sick and tired of this whole thing. You need to do your job properly. Find the real killer. None of this has anything to do with me.’
DI Littlewood doesn’t respond. ‘Right then,’ she says in a tight, deliberately calm voice. ‘See you soon.’
Why the hell did I snap at Littlewood? I berate myself as I walk into town. I need to keep her on my side – if she ever was on my side, which is doubtful. And what is the new evidence she was talking about? It’s got to be good for me, right? I didn’t kill Charlie and I wasn’t anywhere near Cecily House on the night she died, so any new evidence should point to someone else. But then why do the police want to discuss it with me? My thoughts spiral and my stomach churns with anxiety until I reach the police station and push open the blue painted doors.
I’m shown to the same interview room as before. And DI Littlewood and another male officer, not Sergeant Fisher, are sitting chatting. They stop abruptly when they see me and DI Littlewood addresses me gravely.
‘Take a seat please, Catherine.’
‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best. I’m just under a lot of stress right now, that’s all.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Littlewood coolly. ‘Sit down.’
I hesitate in the doorway, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. Everything is so formal and serious. I hadn’t expected this, and I can’t help feeling ambushed.
‘What’s going on?’ I blurt. ‘Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?’
DI Littlewood smiles soothingly. ‘You’re not under arrest and we’re not charging you with anything, but of course you have the right to speak to a lawyer if you want.’
I step into the room and perch on the only empty chair gingerly. It’s slightly wobbly and it crosses my mind that they’ve given me an unstable chair deliberately to unsettle me. ‘No, it’s okay,’ I say airily. If I’m not guilty why would I need a lawyer? It will just make me look suspicious if I started demanding representation now.
‘Good. Then we’re okay to proceed?’
I nod and DI Littlewood presses record on the tape recorder on the table.
‘I’d like to show you something, Catherine and for you to tell us if it means anything to you.’ She speaks loudly and clearly into the recorder. ‘For the record, I’m showing Catherine Bayntun photograph 16A.’
She pushes a clear plastic envelope with a photograph inside across the table to me and I peer at it without touching it, my hands clasped in my lap. It shows a picture of an old stone country house next to a river. Next to it is what was once a stable, converted into a garage with large, dirty white doors and a gravel driveway. It seems faintly familiar, but that’s probably because it looks like hundreds of other houses in this part of the world.
‘Um, I don’t think so,’ I say cautiously. Under the table my leg is jiggling out of control. I feel as though I’m falling into a trap, but I don’t know what the trap is. ‘Why, what is it?’ I ask.
‘Look again. Carefully. Are you sure you don’t recognise it?’ Littlewood laces her fingers together under her chin and regards me in that unnervingly icy-cool way she has.
‘Um . . .’ I’m thinking rapidly, glancing at the picture again, and I flush because now I realise that I do know it, and it’s going to look as if I was lying if I admit that.
‘Now I come to think of it, I’ve been there before,’ I say cautiously. ‘It’s in South Baunton, right? It’s the house of a girl I was at school with. I don’t know if her family still lives there – Vanessa Price, she was called.’
‘A family called Carter lives there now. Do you know them?’
I shake my head.
Littlewood leans forward. ‘You said you attended the same school as Charlotte Holbrooke. Did she know this Vanessa Price too?’
‘Yes, she knew Nessa, she was our classmate.’
I didn’t know Nessa very well, but she was always near the top of the class, always ambitious. I expect she’s in some high-flying job in London by now. I can’t imagine her sticking around here in this backwater for long.
‘So, when did you go to this house?’ asks the other police officer, introducing himself as DI Clarke. He leans forward and his impassive brown eyes bore into me as if he can see through to my lying core. I wonder where Sergeant Fisher is. I don’t like this new guy. He’s not at all friendly and he has a smooth, observant manner like a cat watching its prey.
‘I went there once or twice when we were at school, but that was more than seventeen years ago.’
In truth, I only ever went to that house once, on the evening of Nessa’s party. Chill creeps into my bones. Can it be a coincidence? After the pub, Nessa’s house was our next stop. The possibility that this is all unrelated – the picture of the park in Dylan’s book bag, Nessa’s house, the photofit, Charlie’s murder – is receding rapidly.
‘So, just to be clear for the purpose of the tape, you’re stating that you haven’t been to this house recently?’ Clarke taps the desk, drumming his fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
‘Right.’ I nod
firmly. ‘I haven’t even been to South Baunton – not for years. Why are you asking me, anyway?’ I ask, meeting his eyes defiantly, not sure if I really want to hear the answer.
‘We received this yesterday, along with a note.’ DI Littlewood hands me another piece of paper. Just a scrap really, torn at the edges. The message is written in capitals in blue biro. ASK CATHERINE BAYNTUN.
‘Who sent it?’ As I place the note back on the table, I can’t help noticing that my hand is trembling, and I don’t want them to see that. Clarke spots it anyway. I catch him taking it in, as if it’s a plump, tasty mouse. I can almost imagine his tail twitching under the desk.
‘We don’t have any idea,’ he says, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. ‘We thought maybe you might know.’
‘Don’t you have ways of tracing the paper or the handwriting?’ I say, fear making me angry. ‘Did it occur to you that the person who sent that note could be Charlie’s killer, trying to pin the murder on me?’
‘What makes you think this has anything to do with Charlotte’s death?’ says DI Clarke, pouncing. His eyes glitter with the thrill of the chase.
‘Nothing really,’ I say, mentally kicking myself. ‘I just assumed. Well, doesn’t it?’
‘We really don’t know,’ says Littlewood. ‘We were hoping you could tell us. Think carefully, Catherine. You don’t have any idea who wrote this and why?’
I shake my head and shift uncomfortably in my chair. ‘No, I haven’t a clue,’ I say firmly.
Sixteen
2002
We piled into my mum’s old Ford Fiesta and wound along the country lanes towards Nessa’s. ‘Get the Party Started’ by P!nk was blaring out of the CD player, the windows were wide open, the wind rushing in our hair and the sinking sun was casting a golden glow over everything. It was one of those evenings when everything felt right with the world. I felt as if anything was possible. I felt invincible.