Crying Out Loud (23 page)

‘I think Alex drove the car,' I said. ‘I think Charlie was already dead by then.' And you were a patsy, set up to seal their alibis. I didn't say that last bit out loud.

‘This is ridiculous,' said Valerie. ‘You're making a big mistake.' But there was more uncertainty than conviction behind her words.

Heather or Alex had killed Charlie, then both of them had been involved in the cover-up. Heather constructed the fake scenario of getting Valerie to help her trail her errant husband, Alex had driven Charlie's car to the cottage, creating a false alibi and using Valerie to seal the deal. Was Heather the killer? She was losing her husband to another woman. Sexual jealousy is a very powerful emotion. Perhaps she had got wind that Charlie was breaking his promise and sneaking off to see Libby. Perhaps she'd even been told the lie about Charlie going to the NEC for the weekend and seen through it, regurgitating it later for Valerie and the police. Or was Alex the one who killed Charlie? Possibly spurred on by his mother's distress. Had he been the one with the knife? My mind was cycling, stuck tracing a Mobius strip, trying to grasp the full picture.

The phone rang again. Had Valerie thought of something else? ‘Hello?' I said.

‘This is Heather Carter.'

The back of my neck prickled and I felt my stomach drop.

‘Valerie rang me earlier.' Her voice was soft, troubled. ‘She said you were asking questions about us, about Alex and me.'

I didn't confirm or deny it, just sat it out waiting to see what she wanted.

‘I'd like a chance to talk to you, to try and clear things up.'

As if it was a little minor misunderstanding; something that could be ironed out, fixed by a little civilized discussion.

‘You can talk to me now,' I told her.

‘Not over the phone,' she said.

Was it a trap? There was no way I was going round to her place. If Heather had done what I thought she'd done then she would be desperate to stop the news getting out. That thought was followed swiftly by another: if Heather tried to hurt me it would be obvious to the whole world whodunnit and she'd be inviting arrest. She'd be stupid to try anything – and her ability to evade detection, presumably to think fast and smart under enormous pressure, to protect Alex and herself and persuade the policy of their innocence, showed she was far from stupid.

Nevertheless, I exercised caution. I wouldn't invite her into my space either but meet her somewhere neutral. Somewhere busy, in public where we could talk without people listening.

‘Albert Square,' I told her. ‘Outside the town hall, half past two.'

She thanked me and hung up.

I'd a sick feeling of apprehension about meeting Heather but it was tempered by a keen curiosity. My chest felt tight and my throat dry and I shivered, chilly even though I had the heating on.

Heather Carter was there before me; I saw her get to her feet from the bench where she was sitting and I raised an arm in acknowledgement. That hurt. I was still having to move gingerly to try and minimize the pain from Dryden's attack on me.

The storm had moved on by mid-morning and now the day was fine: wisps of cloud in a china-blue sky, the sun slanting across the cobbled square, caressing the honey-coloured stone of the town hall with golden light, everything washed clean by the rain.

As I'd hoped, the place was busy with people: office workers on late lunches eating sandwiches or smoking, a large party of oriental tourists, maybe Japanese or Chinese, following a tour guide over to the fountain at the far side of the square.

Heather and I had the bench to ourselves. Her forehead was furrowed with concern; I could see the tension in her shoulders, huddled as though she was cold in spite of the roll-neck sweater and brown suede jacket she wore.

I waited for her to speak, nervous myself, feeling faintly nauseous, but intrigued as to how she would play it.

‘These  . . .' She faltered, began again, her fingers worrying at each other. ‘The things you've been implying – that we might have lied. I don't know how you've come up with that idea but it's a horrible mistake. I want to set things right.'

I didn't believe her, not for one second. If she and Alex were innocent, she'd not have given me the time of day. She'd more likely have gone to the police herself, to complain, and would never have invited me to meet with her. She was on a fishing trip, I thought, to see how much I knew, see how big a threat I was.

‘You're wasting my time. I didn't come here to be fed more lies.' I got to my feet, ignoring the stab of pain in my calves.

‘Please wait,' she said quickly. ‘It's not what you think.'

I sat back down carefully. ‘One of you killed Charlie,' I said quietly, ‘then you covered it up.'

‘No,' she insisted.

Across the square a man stepped into a taxi and the cab pulled away; the line of black taxis moved up the rank. A flock of pigeons rose and circled the square. A woman was taking photographs of the marble statue of Oliver Heywood, raised to the benefactor for his devotion to the public good.

‘Either you or Alex were at the cottage earlier,' I carried on, ‘and you constructed an alibi, making it look like Charlie was still alive much later in the day and exonerating yourselves. Damien Beswick was convicted on the strength of his false confession. He died in prison. He couldn't face another night, another day. He hung himself rather than go on. You knew he was innocent.'

‘I loved Charlie,' she said, still denying any blame.

‘And you were losing him,' I pointed out.

Her face flooded with colour and she turned her head away. A light breeze toyed with the curls on her head.

Another cab drove off. The photographer walked along to the bronze of Gladstone.

‘What are you here for, Heather? What did you expect?'

‘It's not all cut and dried,' she said. ‘You talk as if you know everything and you don't. We had nothing to do with it.'

‘I know enough to talk to the police,' I said.

‘The police already investigated,' she said sharply. ‘There are no grounds to do so again. You're just going to make a complete fool of yourself.'

‘There's new evidence: evidence from Damien Beswick. It's all in my report. I think it's compelling.' At that stage I didn't even know whether Damien's evidence would be allowable, given he wasn't around to be tested on it. But I was banking on the fact that she wouldn't, either.

‘What evidence?' She sounded perplexed.

I wasn't going to disclose any details. I didn't want to give her the ammunition. ‘You're going to need a lawyer,' I said.

‘I didn't do it,' she said simply.

I sighed, growing tired of her protestations. Her silence stretched out, then the bell in the town hall clock tower rang out once for quarter to three: a mournful toll. The pigeons wheeled and landed by the benches, scouring the cobbles for crumbs. They were a scrappy bunch: two had deformed feet and another had dull, bedraggled feathers.

I waited, counting silently to ten, preparing to leave her.

‘It was an accident,' she whispered, ‘a silly accident.'

‘No reason for a cover-up, then,' I came back.

‘He didn't mean it,' her voice trembled, ‘it was self-defence.'

‘Who?'

‘Alex.' The word choked her.

I felt prickling as the hairs on my forearms rose.

‘Charlie lost his temper. He flared up sometimes, it was frightening. He could be very violent. He went to hit Alex and Alex grabbed the knife. He was just trying to protect himself but Charlie tried to get it, he tripped. He fell.' She gave a shaky breath.

I tried to imagine the situation. Charlie yelling, Alex panicking, fearful, grabbing what was to hand. Charlie lunging and the sudden, irreversible horror as he fell. The blood. Alex rigid with shock, his father dying before his eyes. The terror at what he had done consuming everything else.

A car cut in front of another, swinging round the corner into the square. The blare of horns startled me.

‘Where were you?' I asked.

‘I wasn't there,' she said simply. ‘Alex rang me: he was hysterical, terrified.'

‘He didn't call an ambulance? Get help?'

‘It was too late.' She shuddered beside me. Her face was etched with anxiety. ‘Alex was petrified; he knew he'd be arrested, locked up. That's why he needed the alibi. If it had been me then no question  . . . but my son.' Her voice quavered.

‘His age,' I objected. ‘The circumstances – they'd have been taken into account. If it was an accident or even self-defence he wouldn't be blamed.'

‘What if they didn't believe him? He wouldn't hear of it and I couldn't risk it. I couldn't lose him as well.' She sniffed.

I watched a man, clutching a can, walk unsteadily to the Albert Memorial, settle down on the bottom step and lay a cap on the floor by his feet.

‘What good would it do now?' she asked.

‘You sacrificed another boy's life for Alex's,' I said.

She had no answer for me, her mouth worked with emotion. ‘I came here to beg,' she said. ‘Perhaps I was foolish—'

‘Callous.' I couldn't keep quiet. Seeing Damien again, twisting in his chair, that sudden fleeting smile, the last glimpse I had of him as he lay his head on his arms. Defeated. I was determined to make her acknowledge the extent of the damage she'd done.

‘But I had to protect Alex. He was all that I had left. He was so frightened. He's never been strong. He was terrified of Charlie.'

‘Why was Alex there, at the cottage?' After all, I thought, Libby was due to turn up later. He might run into her. The three adults had tried to keep the state of play from Alex, not wanting to upset him before his exams. So why would Charlie have taken him there?

‘Driving practice.' She stared at her nails. I saw the wedding ring on her finger. That she wore it still seemed monstrous. ‘Alex was taking lessons. Charlie said Alex could drive out there; he was laying carpet and Alex was going to help him fit it.' She cleared her throat.

The flock of tourists disappeared up the steps into the main entrance of the town hall.

‘So the phoney conference at the NEC – you invented that for the alibi?'

‘No, that was true. Charlie had told us he was going on down there later that afternoon.'

‘And how would Alex get home?'

‘Charlie would drive him back to the main road on his way to the M6. There's a bus from there.'

How had they held it together? I wondered. Blood on their hands. Where had they found the resolve to enact the pantomime for Valerie Mayhew? To fake their reactions when the police came with tragic news? How on earth had a seventeen-year-old boy not betrayed the terror in his soul as he sat beside his mother and answered those mundane questions about the day?

And in the weeks that followed when they were informed of the arrest of a suspect, when they buried Charlie, when they went to court to hear Damien plea, how had they borne that secret?

‘He nearly went mad.' Heather spoke as if she could hear my thoughts. ‘He still has nightmares. He can't go to college. He couldn't survive in prison.' Anguish tore at her words.

‘Nor could Damien.'

She looked away again. I was aware that she had ventured no apology for any of it: not a sorry for lying, for the miscarriage of justice, not a word of regret for Damien's suicide.

‘Perhaps that would have happened anyway,' she said. ‘By all accounts—'

‘Don't you dare.' I felt anger sluice through me, my skin grow hot, my chest burn. I stood up. The taxi drivers were clustered outside their cabs, exchanging gossip, smoking, laughing on this fine autumn day.

‘You'll destroy him,' she pleaded. ‘For what? Have you no compassion?'

I walked away, across the setts, past the Albert Memorial, up along Princess Street where the wind was funnelled along the road, and the traffic swept past, unending, relentless.

NINETEEN

T
he bus cruised down Oxford Road, past the BBC and the universities, on through Rusholme and Fallowfield. I was dimly aware of the people paying, showing their passes, of those getting off, murmuring their thanks to the driver, of the mix of old and new buildings along the route. The weather was changing again, the sky darkening and there were the first fat drops of rain. But I was rerunning Heather's story, thinking that if I went over it often enough it might become comprehensible. I didn't dispute the facts of what she'd told me and they fitted with Damien's account, but the sheer scale of collusion, the amorality and audacity, the stone cold nerve that both of them had demonstrated was hard to swallow.

Not quite ready to face home and hearth, I went to the park when I got off the bus. In the little copse by the stream, where the path meanders and old frayed rope swings hang from the sturdier branches, I watched the sun slice beams through the crown of the trees and midges dance in their shadows. The air was rich here, redolent of sap and must and the heavy clay soil.

Libby needed to know what had happened, Chloe, too, and then Dave Pirelli, the police detective and Damien's lawyer. There was nothing to stop Heather denying her confession to me; in fact, if she was still hell bent on protecting Alex, she'd have to. Having come this far and with little sign of guilt or shame for her behaviour, she would probably stick to her original version of events. Had she really expected me to let it lie? For me to walk away and say no more about it? Did I have enough to convince the police to reopen the case? A hearsay confession from Heather, the recollections of a dead man: a darkened cottage, a cooling engine, a stranger hurrying down the hill. Could that possibly be enough?

Abi had walked the kids home and when I arrived back Maddie and Tom had been playing make-overs with Leanne. They'd raided my cosmetics and various kitchen items. Maddie had full-blown panda eyes and her hair had been backcombed and sprayed, forming clots and spikes, a sort of dragged-through-the-hedge look. In a stroke of genius, Leanne had suggested special effects to Tom, who had a scar across one cheek (lipstick, eye pencil, peanut butter and cornflakes), a moustache and a tattoo on his arm. Not to be left out, Baby Lola sported cat's whiskers and a black nose.