Sophie Hannah - The Wrong Mother

‘I know.’

‘Lucy Bretherick was dead, but she was still recognisable as a child.’

Simon nodded. ‘Sam…’

‘What?’

‘It could be two different killers. It could.’ Even an expert like Jonathan Hey could be wrong. ‘What if Mark Bretherick killed Amy and Encarna Oliva and that’s why Geraldine and Lucy were murdered-in retaliation?’

‘By Amy’s father?’ Kombothekra’s mouth twisted. ‘I wouldn’t let Proust hear you say that. Speculation’s out. Finding out for certain what happened before close of business today is in.’

‘That bad, was he?’

‘I’m not allowed even to think these bodies might be Amy Oliva and her mother. I’m not allowed to say it, obviously, but I’m not allowed to think it either. He says he’ll be able to tell from my face when he sees me if I’m still thinking it, and if I am I’ll “rue the day”.’ Kombothekra made quote marks in the air.

Simon grinned. ‘Dental records’ll tell us soon enough.’

‘I hope he finds cause of death.’ Kombothekra nodded towards the garden. ‘Grooves in the bone made by a big knife, or… some great big fuck-off mark from a clearly identifiable weapon. It’d be nice to know they were dead when the killer buried them.’ He looked up at Simon. ‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you. That they might have been buried alive?’

It hadn’t and it didn’t now; Kombothekra’s words barely registered. Simon had had an idea. A mark from a clearly identifiable weapon… He went over it once more to check it was sound. In his mind, a tangle of incomprehension began to unravel. He saw a way in which the apparently impossible might make perfect sense-the only way.

He was out of the kitchen in seconds, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Thursday, 9 August 2007

Nick is lying on the sofa, which is on the ceiling instead of the floor. He has tomato sauce all over his face. Zoe is sitting on his knee, kicking the lampshade with her foot. The news is on too loud, and the television is also upside down. The children’s toys are whirling in mid-air, in constant motion. Jake comes in, walks across the ceiling and asks Nick, ‘Where Mummy gone?’ His palms are flat, upturned-or rather downturned-and his face is set in a curious frown, a replica of the puzzled expressions he’s seen on grown-ups’ faces. ‘Gone a London, Daddy? Back soon?’

I jolt awake and the horror rushes to meet me. No gradual dawning of awareness-it hits me all at once. I’m still here, locked in the room. How could I have fallen asleep? I remember crying and begging to be released, falling to the floor eventually, hungry and exhausted…

He drugged me. He must have done. The bottle of water that was on the passenger seat of my car, not in the footwell where I expected to find it… the water he brought me when he first came into the room…

I run to the door. Still locked. I start to bang and scream. When my fists don’t make a loud enough noise, I hurl my whole body at the door, over and over. If it hurts, I’m unaware of the pain. My mind only has space for one thing: the need to get out of here.

My bag-it’s still there, by the window. I lunge and grab it, tip the contents out all over the floor. My phone has gone. So has my watch, I notice when I try to look at it. He’s been in here while I was asleep. I don’t know how long I slept for, but it must have been a while. I can tell from the light coming through the curtains that it’s daytime now.

The curtains. I yank them open. There’s a small, paved yard outside, dotted with plants in pots of different sizes and styles-too many. Enough to cause an obstruction to anyone who might want to walk from the house to the tall, thick hedge that encloses the yard on two sides, as sturdy-looking as a brick wall. There is no third side to the yard, so it must turn the corner, go round the side of the house. Among the plant-pots-at their centre-there is a small fountain, a silver elephant’s head on a tray. Water pours from the trunk, shows no sign of stopping. In one corner of the yard there’s a wooden gazebo that’s missing one or two planks from its seat. Next to this is a black-painted wooden gate, solid, the same height as the hedge. There’s a padlock on it.

Nothing to indicate where this house is. No chance of a passer-by seeing me, however long I stand by the window.

I run back to the door, grab the handle with both hands and use what little energy I have left to produce the loudest scream I can. No response. I listen. Is there only silence in the rest of the house, or can I hear something? Has he gone out or is he waiting on the other side of the door, listening to my anguish and ignoring it? I no longer feel hungry, only emptier than I have ever felt. The air seems to ripple slightly each time I turn my head, as if it’s some kind of thick, transparent liquid.

‘Sally?’

‘Unlock the door, let me out!’ I hate myself for being pleased to hear his voice.

‘All right. But… Sally, I don’t want you to get a shock. Are you listening?’

What is he talking about?

‘I’m holding a gun. When I open the door, I’m going to be pointing it at you.’

‘I need to phone Nick. Please. Give me back my phone.’

The door opens. He looks exactly the same as he always has, the same helpful, concerned face. The only change is the gun in his hand.

I’ve never seen a gun in real life before. I’ve seen them in films, on television, but it’s not the same. Stay calm. Think. The gun is small, grey and smooth.

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I tell him. ‘But I do need to phone Nick, as soon as possible. I don’t want him to worry about me.’

‘He won’t. He isn’t. Look.’ He pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. There’s a message from Nick: ‘Talk about short notice. Yes, can pick up kids if have to. Come back asap. Ring when you can-kids will want to speak.’

Next I read the text that supposedly came from me, the one Nick replied to. It is shorter and less informative than any message I’ve ever sent. It says that I have to leave for Venice immediately because of a crisis, that I’ll be back as soon as I can.

For Christ’s sake, Nick! When have I ever sent such a business-like text? When has my work involved a crisis so dire that I would set off abroad without making sure to speak to you first? When have I ever not signed a message ‘S’, with three kisses?

I clear my throat, struggle to find my voice. ‘You wrote this? As me?’

The man nods. ‘In spite of everything, I didn’t want Nick to worry.’

‘When will you let me go home?’ I ask tearfully. ‘How soon is soon?’

He lowers the gun, walks towards me. I flinch, but he doesn’t hurt me. He wraps his arms round me, hugs me for a few seconds, then releases me. ‘I expect you’ve got a lot of questions,’ he says.

‘Did you kill Geraldine and Lucy? Is your real name William Markes?’ I ask because I think he wants me to. All I care about, at this moment, is when I’ll see my family again; that’s the question that fills my mind, along with all its possible answers.

‘Who?’ His body stiffens. He raises the gun. Silence swells around us.

‘William Markes,’ I repeat. He doesn’t recognise the name. And it frightens him. Not knowing frightens him.

‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘My name is not William Markes.’

‘You said “In spite of everything”-you didn’t want Nick to worry in spite of everything. In spite of what?’

‘His mistreatment of you.’

‘What?’

‘He treats you like a skivvy.’

‘No, he doesn’t!’

‘“I go from room to room tidying up, and before I’ve finished, Nick’s worked his way round most of the house messing it up again, and I have to start from scratch.” Do you remember saying that to me?’