Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘Were you carrying anything?’ I said.

‘Dad’s rucksack,’ he said with difficulty. ‘She’d put the knife in an old curtain. I had to leave it in one of those bins at the supermarket. I can’t go home,’ he blurted out, fear making his voice squeak. ‘I’m scared.’ His mouth trembled. ‘I’m so scared.’ He began to rock, a desperate feral motion and he bit at his hand. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to ease his panic.

Heather had driven out there to confront her husband about his affair. They argued, she stabbed him, either intentionally or accidentally, then drove his car home and forced her son to help create the alibi. Now that the truth was bubbling to the surface she was prepared to name Alex as the killer. Ruthless, that’s how Nick Dryden had described Heather, something I’d dismissed at the time, but a label she certainly deserved. Not only had she destroyed her son by pressing him to enact the ghastly pantomime to save her skin, but as the cover-up threatened to unravel she had no qualms at betraying her only child. Of course, she still probably clung to the hope that nothing would change, that I couldn’t prove anything and that none of the authorities would take an interest in pursuing things any further.

But she hadn’t reckoned on Alex, driven by terror and desperate to know why his mother had contacted me. Alex, driven to breaking point and finally revealing a much more plausible version of events.

‘Alex,’ said Libby, ‘Heather claimed Charlie used to lose his temper. That he was violent. That he hit you. He never did that, did he?’

Alex shook his head slightly. ‘I miss him,’ he sobbed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

‘He was a good man,’ said Libby.

‘He was leaving us, though,’ Alex cried.

‘He was leaving her, not you,’ said Libby. ‘He loved you.’

Alex moaned, rolled his head back against the wall, his mouth stretching with tears.

‘He’d agreed to stop seeing me,’ Libby went on, ‘until you’d done your exams. We didn’t want to make it hard for you. And after that we hoped that you’d stay with us some of the time. He really loved you. It was my fault he lied to your mum that day. I wanted to meet up, to tell him I was pregnant. I’m so sorry.’

Alex stared at her.

‘This is your sister,’ Libby said, ‘Rowena.’

Alex looked away, weeping now, his shoulders shuddering.

When he sounded a little calmer, I spoke. ‘You need to talk to the police, tell them everything. OK?’

He nodded numbly. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but Mum said we had no choice-’

‘She was your mother. People will understand. Just tell the truth.’

‘I don’t want to see her.’ He grabbed my wrist, shivering. ‘Don’t let her near me. Please.’

‘I promise.’

Alex’s face glazed over, an expression of blank defeat, of desolation on it. He continued to rock, making a little moaning sound in the back of his throat. Whimpering. The sound of someone broken.

I hung on the phone until someone agreed to interrupt Dave Pirelli in one of his meetings. Then I gave him the option: did he want to come and arrest Alex Carter or should I call 999? I also warned him the boy was traumatized and would need medical attention and that on no account should his mother have any access to him.

They came with lights and sirens on. Some of the neighbours braved the rain to gawp and whisper as Alex was taken from the house and put into the patrol car. Dave Pirelli had the gist of the story from me and another car had been despatched to arrest Heather. I would be contacted in due time to make a full statement, as would Libby.

When they had gone, I turned to Libby. I felt drained, hollowed out, my blood too thin, my bones weak. ‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I could do with a proper drink.’

She nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

Downstairs again with Libby and Rowena I poured two generous measures. The brandy scorched my throat and belly and I felt my neck loosen, a sensation of heat spread along my limbs.

‘Do you think it was an accident?’ Libby asked me.

‘No,’ I said quietly.

She tilted her head, inviting me to elaborate.

‘Heather would have tried to get help, dialled 999. You just would. She’s not stupid. If it had been an accident the evidence would have backed her up but she knew it wouldn’t. I don’t think she set off for the cottage intending to harm Charlie. If she’d planned his death she could have come up with something less messy. She went to challenge him and she lost her temper, a moment’s madness, a single blow.’

Libby drained her glass. ‘How did the pair of them cope with it? Murdering someone. Knowing that they’d done that day after day, week after week. It must have been hell.’

‘Yes. Well, you saw the state of Alex.’

Libby snorted, disgusted. ‘She’ll get life?’

‘God, I hope so.’

‘And Alex?’ She pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair.

‘Who knows? His age will work in his favour, and his cooperation now.’ I twisted my glass, watched the amber liquid spin and shimmer. ‘It’s too late for Damien, though.’

‘What a mess.’ She refastened her hair. ‘You’ll tell Chloe?’

‘Yes.’

‘In your report,’ Libby referred to the document I had promised her, ‘will you put in how it all happened, as far as you can tell, all the stuff that Damien told you, the times and everything?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

‘It’s like I need to go over it, get it all fixed in my mind. I did that before when they convicted Damien. Does that sound weird, creepy?’

‘No, I understand.’ I’d had the same reaction to traumas in my own life. Absorbing the facts, revisiting them again and again, was a way of coming to terms with the emotions.

Libby and Rowena had gone. I’d be expected home but I wasn’t fit company. The light was fading, the sky turning charcoal. A new moon, blurred by cloud, glowed above. The park was deserted. The football pitch was waterlogged already and some of the footpaths flooded. I walked at first, my legs stiff and aching from the bruises, then began to speed up until I was running at full pelt, fighting through the pain. The rain stung my face and hands, creeping down the back of my neck, soaking through my trousers. I increased my stride, felt the stretch in my calves and thighs, and the cold, damp air suck in and out of my lungs until my windpipe felt raw and my heart pounded in my skull. Running because I was sad and sickened and because I was alive with blood coursing through my veins and love and fear and hope in my heart.

Chloe’s house was busy again when I called round early the following day. The funeral was set for that Friday and half the neighbourhood seemed to be involved in planning the arrangements.

‘Can we talk in private?’ I asked her.

‘Upstairs.’

We went into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and pointed me to a wicker chair.

‘Have you heard from the police?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Why?’

‘They’ll be reopening the investigation.’

‘Honest? How come?’ Her brow creased.

I told her. As she listened, she played with a teddy bear, bending its limbs, positioning it; something to keep her hands busy, her face mobile with emotion.

When I was done, she shook her head and put the bear down on the bed beside her. ‘That bitch,’ she said, her eyes glittery with tears. ‘That bloody bitch.’

I couldn’t disagree.

I tried letting Geoff Sinclair know what I’d found out, maybe wanting a little recognition that I hadn’t been completely barking. But whenever I called, his answerphone was on. It’s not the sort of information you leave on voicemail. Later, I learnt he’d gone into a hospice and died very soon after. I don’t know if he ever heard that Heather Carter had been charged with murder or that her son Alex had been taken into psychiatric care, unfit to plead to charges of being an accessory.