Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

Luke glances at Sarah. What age might she be? Twenty-nine? Thirty? She’s not from around here – she won’t remember when it all happened. The year 2000: a year that promised a fresh new millennium but warned that planes might fall from the sky if computers failed. Craig Wright had been a ‘normal’ lad – well, he’d appeared to be. He’d never told anyone what had motivated him to kill. Whatever it was, Luke doesn’t believe that seventeen years in prison will have changed him for the better. He’s going to reoffend, there’s no doubt about it.

‘I was thinking of interviewing the witnesses,’ says Luke. ‘See if they remember anything new – perhaps dig a little deeper into his childhood and what made him do it. I’m going to look into the second victim, too – try to come up with some more details about her. Craig’s mother, though… she might be a tough one. She’s been through a lot.’

‘It’s not our fault she chose to stay here. If a murderer lived on my street, I’d want to know about it. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Luke has thought about Erica often over the years. He’s the same age as her son. How different their lives had turned out – did Erica ever wonder how different Craig’s life could’ve been? He managed to get a brief interview with her after Craig’s sentencing. It hadn’t felt right at the time. He’d not long started at the Chronicle ; the most serious crime he’d covered was illegals working at the takeaway on the high street.

Erica hadn’t known that Luke worked for the newspaper when he spoke to her – perhaps she assumed he was a concerned bystander. He’d known that he wouldn’t be able to use what she told him, but perhaps it would get him a new angle, help him get his lucky break – maybe he’d make the nationals.

He found her down one of the side streets, taking a drag from a cigarette. Luke remembers she wore black and was shivering. He’d wanted to put his arms around her, like he would’ve done had it been his mother at a funeral. He wasn’t sure if Erica dressed like that for her son, or the girl Craig murdered.

Luke doesn’t need to read his article again to recall her every word; there weren’t many. ‘Do you think he did it?’ Luke had asked, pretending not to know who she was.

‘Of course not,’ she said, looking at the floor, then to the crowd in the near distance.

Her voice was barely a whisper. She appeared so small, like she wanted to disappear, blend into the concrete.

The detective leading the case had read out a statement saying how justice had been done – that a dangerous, calculating and manipulative young man had rightfully been put away. The victim’s relatives huddled behind him, clinging to each other to stay upright, while cameras captured their grief, pain and tears.

Erica Wright had sat alone during the trial. There were no friends or relatives there to support her. Luke recalls glancing at her as the photographs of Lucy were shown to the court. Unlike others in the courtroom, there were no gasps from Erica’s mouth. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her mouth remained pressed into a straight line. Why had she done that to herself? But then, Luke thought, why had the victim’s parents sat there, too? Who would want to see their child’s lifeless body, or listen to what happened in their last moments?

Craig had looked at the photographs, too. Of course, he’d already seen the body in person, hadn’t he. He showed no emotion as he gazed at them. Perhaps he got some sick gratification, as though reliving the memory. Craig remained detached when Lucy’s mother ran out of the courtroom in tears. Only a person so cold, sociopathic, could ignore suffering like that.

Down that side street, Erica threw her spent cigarette on to the ground. She fumbled with a crumpled packet for a new one. Luke always carried a lighter, alongside a pen, notepad, and a packet of fags, even though he didn’t smoke. As he held the flame up to her and cupped his other hand to shield the wind, he said, ‘Will you visit him in prison?’

She narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Of course. He’s my son. I love him.’

Tears rolled down each side of her face. Then she turned her back on Luke and walked away.

He wondered if she had visited him. What had they talked about for all these years? Did they talk about the most serious of subjects, his guilt? Luke would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall during their visits.

There was another girl: Jenna Threlfall. She went missing a week after Lucy did. Everyone feared the worst for her after Lucy’s body was found in woodland outside Preston. Their fears were realised when Jenna Threlfall was found in the playing field. She was right in the centre, star-shaped as though she were in the middle of making snow angels. Dog walkers found her. It’s always dog walkers, isn’t it? They’re out so early, in random places and the dogs can smell it: death, bodies.

The police interviewed Craig about the second girl, but he had an alibi – the MO was different. There was no evidence to connect the two. Only circumstantial, and that wasn’t enough. But people thought it was him. Otherwise, why hadn’t the police pursued anyone else?

‘I’ll get on it,’ Luke says to Sarah.

He retrieves Erica’s number from the database, lifts the receiver and dials.

She picks up after ten rings.

‘Hello?’ Her voice is quiet.

‘Erica? It’s Luke from the Chronicle . Do you have time for a chat?’

‘I… No. I’ve people here.’

She hangs up.

People? So it must be true. After seventeen years in prison, Craig Wright is coming back home. He’s bound to slip up – he can’t be that bright to have been caught in the first place. He’s going to make a mistake and Luke is going to make sure he’s there when it happens.

I haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time these past two weeks. I drank three strong coffees this morning in preparation for their visit and now I could do with a fourth.

They waltzed into my house like they owned the place and now they’re sitting in my living room with gadgets instead of notebooks. I carry the tea tray through, grasping it tightly. I spaced the china far enough apart so it wouldn’t clatter if my hands tremble. I place it on the table in the middle of the room.

Patrick Nelson from probation was here four weeks ago with a young man, but he’s brought a young lady, Hannah McIntyre, with him today. Perhaps he prefers being with females. I know his type.

Hannah’s looking at my photographs on top of the telly. Craig was a normal little boy, I want to tell her – a mummy’s boy. He probably still is. She gazes at the landscape prints on the walls, the bare bars of the electric fire. At least my house is clean, tidy.

I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she pity me? Or does she hate me? Perhaps she thinks I created a monster.

If I talk normally to them this time – I’ve practised since the last – then it could be the final time I have to deal with the authorities. I know as I think this that it won’t be the case, but it’s a step closer. It might all be over soon – we could have a chance at a normal life. Once Craig realises what it’s like living back here, he’ll want to move away – like I’ve always wanted to.

‘Thanks so much for seeing us again, Erica,’ says Patrick. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I thought we’d go through things again. I want to get Hannah familiar with everything as she’ll be organising Craig’s voluntary work. As I mentioned last time, Craig will already know his supervising officer.’ He glances at the paper on his lap. ‘Adam Bardsley.’

It’s a fake smile he gives me. I don’t return it.