Sophie Hannah: The Wrong Mother

The traffic had started to flow freely again. Simon drove back on to the road and speeded up to sixty. Ten seconds later he had to slam on the brakes as they approached the falling arms of the level crossing. ‘Fucking hell! Come on!’

Charlie could see the tension in his shoulders. She thought about massaging the back of his neck with her fingertips. Impossible. She said, ‘Assuming you’re right about Hey killing Geraldine because she didn’t want him, why kill Lucy too?’

‘I don’t know. I could guess.’

Charlie waited.

‘He didn’t only want Geraldine. He wanted Geraldine and Lucy, the whole happy family package, exactly what Mark Bretherick had. Like a lot of people, Hey saw the Brethericks as the perfect happy family-the dream, the ideal. If he’d killed his own wife and daughter in order to replace them with that ideal and then Geraldine rejected him…’ Simon shrugged. ‘Just a theory,’ he said.

‘The note,’ said Charlie. ‘You said it wasn’t a suicide note.’

Simon’s shoulders lost a little of their stiffness. He was back on safe ground: answers he knew for certain. ‘Sally Thorning was carrying a black-covered book when she let herself into the flat last night. Did you notice?’

‘No. I was too busy scraping her up off the floor.’

‘I found the first page of a letter tucked inside the cover, a letter in Geraldine Bretherick’s handwriting. First thing this morning I put it together with the so-called suicide note…’

‘Second page of the same letter?’ Charlie guessed.

Simon nodded. ‘Geraldine used two sheets instead of turning the first one over and writing on the back of it. I made copies of the full letter; there’s one on the back seat. Lean over, you might be able to grab it.’

Charlie was already unbuckling her seat belt. With her cigarette in her mouth, and using her index finger and thumb as pincers, she gripped the sheet of paper and swung back round. You could see the join where the two sheets of paper had been placed side by side, a grainy grey line on the photocopy.

She started to read.

Dear Encarna,

I very nearly didn’t write this letter. I was scared of being honest, as people so often are, but a rumour got back to me that you didn’t believe we were really going away, and I simply couldn’t let that go unanswered. We have rented a place in Tallahassee, Florida, for the whole of half-term. We fly from Heathrow on Sunday, 21 May at 11 a.m. Our flight number, if you want to ring up and check, is BA135. We fly back on Sunday, 4 June, setting off at 7.30 a.m., and the flight number for our return flight is BA136. I have the tickets at home, and would be happy to let you see them if it would help.

If I were not going away, if I were planning to spend the whole holiday here in Spilling, I hope I would have had the courage to say no to having Amy for two weeks anyway, no matter what gifts or payment you offered me. Your offers were hugely generous, and I’m flattered that you thought of me, and I hope you’ll believe me when I say I mean you no ill-will. I don’t blame you for anything-I don’t agree at all with the whole blame-the-parents line. I’ve always liked and respected you, and thought you hilariously outspoken and brave and assertive in a way I could never be, which is why I want to be absolutely honest with you. You know that I, along with many of the other parents from Form 1, have certain issues about Amy’s behaviour, particularly around the matter of truthfulness. I know the teachers as well as some of the parents have spoken to you about it. I hope that you know by now these problems are genuine and serious and not just all of us being over-protective mother hens. Put yourself in my position: how could I ignore my concerns and say yes? Mark and I have brought Lucy up to be totally open and honest, and so it’s upsetting and confusing for her to be around Amy.

The rest, the second page, Charlie had read once before, but she read it aloud now for the first time, knowing its author had not planned to take her own life. ‘ “I’m so sorry. The last thing I want to do is cause any hurt or upset to anyone. I think it’s better if I don’t go into a long, detailed explanation-I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want to make things any worse. Please forgive me. I know it must seem as if I’m being dreadfully selfish, but I have to think about what’s best for Lucy. I’m really, truly sorry. Geraldine.” ’

‘Hey must have felt like the cat who got the cream when he realised he could use the second page of that letter as Geraldine’s suicide note,’ said Simon.

Charlie read it again. ‘Encarna obviously accused her of lying about the Florida trip. What a cheek.’

Simon turned into the lane that led down to Corn Mill House. ‘Nearly here,’ he said. ‘Probably too late.’

Charlie blinked. She hadn’t noticed that they weren’t still stuck at the level crossing. Her seat belt clicked and stiffened each time she banged against it. Simon was driving as if in training for an Olympic hurdling event. ‘Watch out,’ she yelled. ‘You can drive around potholes, you know. Use the steering wheel!’

A heavy sigh, but he did as she suggested.

‘The diary file,’ said Charlie, throwing her cigarette end out of the car window. ‘If it was on Geraldine’s laptop before she died…’

‘Weeks before,’ said Simon. ‘And it wasn’t all done in one go-the file was opened more than once. Norman gave me the dates. Every time it was opened apart from the last time, Geraldine was still alive.’

‘But not the last time?’

‘No. That was the third of August-she was dead by then. Hey opened it after he’d killed her. Oh, no, I don’t believe it!’ Simon smacked the steering wheel with both hands. A DHL delivery van was approaching them head-on and there was no room for it to pass. ‘I hate this fucking lane. No! No, you reverse, you fucking wanker!’

‘Look at his face,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s not going to budge. We’ll have to go back. What are you…? Simon, by the time you’ve got out and told him you’re CID… We’ll get there quicker if we go back and let him out!’

Simon slammed his door shut and started to jerk back over the potholes. Charlie pictured herself getting married in a neck-brace. To stop Simon swearing continually under his breath, she asked another question. ‘How did Hey get access to the Brethericks’ computer while Geraldine was still alive, then?’ Are men like babies? Is trying to distract them a better tactic than asking them to behave reasonably? ‘And does that mean Hey had been planning Geraldine and Lucy’s murders for months, or weeks? If he opened the diary file long before-’

‘He didn’t,’ said Simon.

‘He didn’t? Then who did? Encarna herself?’

‘She’d been dead over a year.’ Simon almost smiled. ‘The book Sally Thorning was holding when she walked in last night-you haven’t asked me what it was.’

‘Oh, God, I’m going to start drafting a suicide note in a minute.’

‘It was Encarna Oliva’s diary. Written in Spanish. Remember where Geraldine Bretherick worked?’

‘She was an IT helpdesk bod, wasn’t she?’

‘Yeah, but where?’

‘Um… I don’t know!’

‘The Garcia Lorca Institute-a language school. A Spanish language school.’ Charlie’s eyes widened; she said nothing. ‘The diary we found on Geraldine’s laptop was a second draft. Norman found the deleted first draft: the writing was stiff and wooden. It made sense, but it was clumsy-’

Charlie gasped. ‘Did Geraldine speak Spanish?’

‘I phoned the Garcia Lorca Institute the second I left Norman’s office. Yes, she did. They’ve got a policy: all their employees must be fluent in Spanish, even the techies.’