Chris Curran - Her Deadly Secret

‘Rosemary, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect …’ He glanced towards the kitchen where water splashed and crockery clattered.

Rosie tried to slow her breathing. She told herself she was an adult now. ‘I just came to ask what you’re playing at. You see, I’m confused. First, you spend years denying everything, letting me and Mum go through all kinds of agony, then you admit it. And now you’re saying you were innocent all along. It just doesn’t make sense.’

He shifted in the armchair. ‘It’s been hard on the two of you, I know.’

Rosie felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, gazing instead over to the picture window at the silhouette of a boat moving across the grey sea. She was tired and longed to sit down, but – no – it wouldn’t do to come down to his level.

The view was the only thing she had ever liked about the flat, but today the sea was still – a strip of corrugated metal – and when the boat moved out of view there was nothing else to look at. She stayed where she was as her dad kept talking.

‘You see, at the end, when your mother came to visit me, I realized I had to get out. And if you keep maintaining your innocence, they say you’re in denial and the parole board won’t even consider recommending you for release.’

Rosie couldn’t hold back a tiny laugh. That tone, so superior, how well she remembered it. She forced herself to look hard at him. ‘You told them you did it so you could get out, but at the same time you were saying you were innocent to Mum? I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the fact that she wouldn’t take you in if she still thought you killed Alice?’

As he shook his head she realized there had been a slight tremor there all along, so maybe he was ill. She stopped the thought. His health has nothing to do with any of this. ‘With Mum going on about it these last weeks, I’ve been thinking back and I remember worrying because I might have got you into trouble, somehow, by saying the wrong thing. You seemed very keen to make sure the police thought we’d got back home at more or less the same time. Why was that?’

Marion was beside her, sliding a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits onto the glass table in front of Bernard. She sat on the armchair next to him, so close their knees touched, reaching out to take his hand.

But he carried on looking at Rosie: unblinking. His only movement was that gentle shake of his head. The silence and the look seemed to go on forever as if he wanted to read Rosie’s mind. ‘I was trying to protect you. To make sure they didn’t upset you.’

Marion broke the silence. ‘Go on, Bernard, love, tell her.’ Then, without waiting for him to speak, she turned to her daughter, eyes wide, lashes flicking furiously. ‘He’s got proof. He can show you.’

Bernard placed his other hand on top of Marion’s for a moment. Then moved both hands away and folded them under his chin, the way he used to when she or Alice asked for extra pocket money. ‘I’m sorry, Marion, my love. I’m sorry, Rosemary, but I don’t think I should say anything more.’

Rosie turned to leave.

‘No, darling, don’t go … Bernard, tell her,’ Marion said. ‘About the letters.’

Her mother was pulling at his sleeve like a little girl, but his eyes were still on Rosie. He spoke slowly and steadily. ‘I got a series of letters, while I was inside. As time went by it became clear they were from someone who knew the truth.’

Rosie allowed herself to meet his eyes. A long moment passed. ‘OK, let me see them.’

His voice was very soft. ‘Can’t you take my word? Mine and your mother’s?’

Marion’s head jerked round to look at her. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s true. You’ve got to believe us.’

This was ridiculous. ‘But they censor mail in prison. Someone would have seen.’

He smiled at her very gently. ‘They were brought to me by my solicitor and, anyway, they were too vague for anyone who wasn’t involved to understand the subtext.’

Subtext, Christ, he was giving her a lecture. ‘But not too vague for you or Mum?’

Marion, now, her voice breathy. ‘That’s right. The final letters anyway. It was obvious to me.’

Rosie’s throat seemed to have closed up, but she managed to say: ‘What was obvious?’

‘That whoever wrote them could prove your dad was innocent.’

It had felt draughty where Rosie stood near the door, but suddenly the room seemed stifling and she wanted only to get out, to get away from here, but she had to go on. ‘So who wrote them? Who did they say did it?’

Instead of answering, her mother made a little noise and turned away. Her husband touched her hand, looking steadily at Rosie. ‘The letters were anonymous, and they didn’t identify the killer.’

Her mother’s voice was gruff. ‘But it was clear they knew. And yet he’s prepared to leave it like that. Didn’t even want me to tell you.’

Her dad’s eyes were unwavering. ‘Your mother got herself into a bit of a state. And I don’t want you to go through that.’ He looked back at Marion and rested his clawed hand on her knee. ‘It’s past history and digging it up will do more harm than good.’

For some reason Rosie wanted to cry. Why were they still keeping things from her? What did they have to hide? ‘Is that it? Well then, I’m sorry, Mum. If that’s the best there is …’ She willed him to meet her eyes again, but she might have been invisible. ‘It’s just not enough.’ As she turned there was a whimper from her mother.

Before she closed the door she heard her father’s voice, not a tremble in it. ‘It’s all right, darling. Let her go.’

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