Crying Out Loud

EIGHTEEN

The weather moved in during the night. Winds bringing thunderous clouds and heavy downpours. In the early hours, I woke to the sound of rain scattering like shot on the window. Later, I heard Lola’s muffled cries, from the floor above.

It was still teeming down when I got up, before daylight. I let Digger out and watched him from the kitchen window. When I went out to clear up his mess, I could see the light on in Leanne’s bedroom, a rectangle of yellow glowing in the pitch of the roof.

‘You were up early,’ I said later. ‘Lola have an early start?’

‘She slept till eight.’ Leanne frowned.

‘I saw the light on.’

She flushed and gave a little shrug. ‘I keep the light on,’ she said.

I understood. Like Maddie, she was scared of the dark. For all of her street smarts, her prickly edge, Leanne was just a teenager, and one who’d survived nightmares. I didn’t like to think what she had faced in the dark, the demons, the shadows that had tried to break her. She was still vulnerable.

I was ensconced in my office by nine. Stewing on the case. Picturing Libby finding Charlie, working backwards to Damien discovering the body, to Damien arriving in the village, to Charlie driving up, locking his car, opening the cottage. Was there someone there? Someone waiting in the dark shadows of the building with a knife. Or someone hot on his heels? Driving up the hill after him?

Something sparked in my head. And my pulse jumped in response. Valerie had no trouble keeping up with Charlie, but he was a fast driver – a reckless one, even. Libby had described how Charlie would overtake in the most dangerous of circumstances. The traffic was slow moving, Valerie said. But an impatient driver like that will speed up even if the rest of us are diligently keeping pace. They’re the sort of people who cut in and out of queues, rev the engine and streak off as the lights change. I find them deeply irritating. There was no way Charlie Carter would have meekly sat in line in weekend traffic. My mind was racing; a tingle spread through my veins.

I checked something on the computer, looking up the model of Charlie’s car, then took a deep breath and dialled Val’s number, praying she’d be at home. I was lucky.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ I said, playing nice, ‘but I wanted to double-check something that you said yesterday.’

She sighed noisily. ‘What?’

‘You said the traffic was moving slowly when you followed Charlie. Was there any reason: a traffic jam or an accident?’

‘It was just busy,’ she said shortly. ‘It always is.’

‘Could you see Charlie driving?’

‘Yes,’ she said firmly.

‘You couldn’t see his face – you were behind him. It was dark by that time. And his car, that model, had those darkened windows. It was his car,’ I said with emphasis, ‘but was he driving?’

My heart was thudding in my chest and I’d a thirst in my mouth.

‘Of course,’ she said with annoyance.

‘Could someone else have been driving the car?’

Who? I’d already run out of suspects: not Nick Dryden, no hint of a road rage stranger, not Damien, not Libby. And Heather, the person with the strongest motive, had an unbreakable alibi. But I hadn’t considered the other person who would be hurt by the break-up of Charlie’s marriage: the other person who had cause to resent Libby and to stop Charlie abandoning his family. Alex Carter.

Had Alex killed Charlie? Had he discovered his father was going to leave, or that he was still seeing the ‘other woman’? The possibility fizzed inside me like the fuse to a firework. How did it fit with the anomalies at the cottage? With the new things Damien had told me about?

The picture was garbled, a half-finished jigsaw, but I sensed a pattern there if I could only grasp it.

‘Could it have been Alex?’ I said to Valerie Mayhew.

It made sense, it would explain the driving: the boy hadn’t even passed his test. Charlie was incapable of keeping to the speed limit. There was a moment’s pause. Then she exploded. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Alex was there when we left. I saw him with my own eyes and,’ she emphasized the word, ‘he was there when we returned. Which would be physically impossible if he’d been in the car. Why on earth would Alex be driving Charlie’s car? These are people’s lives you’re messing with. If you bother me again, or contact Heather or Alex I will report you.’ She cut the connection.

I swallowed, feeling as though I’d had my wrists well and truly slapped. I muttered various dark things about her. Could I have got it so wrong? If not Alex driving then who on earth could it have been?

My mind continued darting about trying to stitch bits of the story together. It was hard to make it mesh. A step at a time, I muttered to myself. Was there any way to prove that someone else had driven Charlie’s car? The keys, I thought. Charlie’s car keys had been inside the cottage when Damien got there.

Geoff Sinclair did not sound pleased to hear from me, either.

‘I won’t keep you,’ I assured him. ‘Charlie’s car keys. Were they fingerprinted?’

‘Yes. Nothing on them.’

‘Isn’t that odd?’ I persisted, hope rising that I was on to something now. ‘Wouldn’t you expect Charlie’s prints to be on them?’

‘He might have worn driving gloves.’

‘Did he?’

Silence. I tried to collate what I knew about Charlie and driving: he enjoyed watching car racing; he was an impatient driver, drove too fast, fast enough to get speeding tickets quite frequently. None of it helped me second-guess whether he wore gloves to drive. I couldn’t think of anyone who did. Only when it was cold, or if the car heater was on the blink as mine used to be.

‘What’s the interest in his keys?’ Sinclair asked.

‘Just an idea.’ I considered saying more, telling Sinclair my latest ‘wild theory’ but hung back. It all felt raw and fragile, like the bones of a structure still knitting together. I was loath to say it aloud and have Sinclair shoot it down in flames.

‘Anything else,’ he said wearily, ‘and the officer you want to talk to is DS Dave Pirelli – like the tyres.’ There was no way of knowing whether Dave Pirelli would have an open mind but at least he hadn’t already labelled me as someone with an overactive imagination.

‘Thanks.’

My next call was to Libby.

‘I’ve got a question about Charlie. It might sound a bit odd but did he wear driving gloves?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘No. Half the time he wouldn’t even wear gloves at work. His hands were a mass of cuts and calluses. Why?’

‘There weren’t any fingerprints on his car keys; it seems a bit odd.’

‘Well, he never wore gloves,’ she repeated. ‘Hats, sometimes. He looked good in a hat.’ Her voice was warm with affection.

‘What sort of hats?’

‘Not baseball caps, proper hats. He’d one like a yachtsman’s, and a Panama for the hot weather, and one of those Australian bush hats.’ I’d a vision of Rolf Harris with corks hanging off his brim. ‘Quite a collection,’ she said.

‘Libby, I’m sorry to go over this again, but when you got to the cottage, Charlie… Did he have his coat on?’ I could recall Damien’s account: the plaid shirt, the blood.

‘No, it was hanging up.’

‘And did it look like he’d just arrived?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was there any sign that he’d been there for more than a couple of minutes. Anything?’

There was quiet as she thought about my question. Then she spoke slowly. ‘His toolkit was there. And the heating was on,’ she added. ‘It was quite warm in there.’

My ears pricked up. It was cold when Damien was in there, so the heating must have come on in between his leaving and Libby arriving. ‘The heating,’ I said, ‘was it on a timer?’

‘Yes, like the one I’ve got at home? Why?’

‘I’m just trying to get the sequence exactly right,’ I explained. ‘You texted Charlie to say you might be late. When was that?’

‘About three,’ she said.

‘Did he reply?’

‘No.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘Would he usually?’ I asked.

Her voice changed: a thread of foreboding in it. ‘Yes, mostly. Why?’

‘I don’t have all the answers yet, Libby.’ There were still gaps, contradictions, puzzles.

‘But you have some? I need to know.’ She sounded intent.

‘As soon as it’s clearer, I’ll ring you back. I promise.’

Everything Libby had told me supported the emerging theory I had. Charlie got to the cottage much earlier that November afternoon. In daylight. Much earlier than everyone had been led to believe. He had time to hang up his coat, bring in his toolkit, set the central heating to come on so the place would be warming up when Libby arrived. Then he was killed. Someone took his car and hours later, masquerading as Charlie, drove back to the cottage to make it look like Charlie was still alive. Creating an alibi for his wife Heather. Heather Carter must have known the car that they were following was not being driven by Charlie. Then who? Whichever way I threw the dice I got the same answer staring at me. Who else could that be but Alex? Something I’d already been told was impossible. Unless…

There was one final word of confirmation I needed but it meant speaking to Valerie Mayhew again.

‘Just one more question, please,’ I spoke in a rush, pleaded with her, gripping the phone, ‘then I won’t bother you again.’

‘No. Enough’s enough. And I’ve told Heather to have nothing more to do with you. I’m not prepared to countenance-’

I hurried on, ignoring the acid in her tone. ‘Did you see Alex as soon as you got back to the house? Did you actually see him then or only later?’

The pause stretched out. I swallowed, the muscles in my back were stiff, my belly clenched with tension.

‘Mrs Mayhew?’

‘I could hear him. Heather went up to see him. He was still on his games.’

‘And he came down later for tea?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘What about Charlie? Did you see Charlie at the house when you first called for Heather?’

She didn’t say anything. I felt a jolt of excitement, a flip in my stomach. I was right. ‘Did you see Charlie?’

‘What are you getting at?’ Again she could not confirm it. I wasn’t losing my marbles, I was on the right track.

I thought of Heather, the grieving widow. Her plausible performance when I’d first seen her after she’d had the letter from Chloe. And Alex, a typical shy teenager. One who’d had to bear the trauma of his dad’s death.

‘I think Alex drove the car,’ I said. ‘I think Charlie was already dead by then.’ And you were a patsy, set up to seal their alibis. I didn’t say that last bit out loud.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Valerie. ‘You’re making a big mistake.’ But there was more uncertainty than conviction behind her words.

Heather or Alex had killed Charlie, then both of them had been involved in the cover-up. Heather constructed the fake scenario of getting Valerie to help her trail her errant husband, Alex had driven Charlie’s car to the cottage, creating a false alibi and using Valerie to seal the deal. Was Heather the killer? She was losing her husband to another woman. Sexual jealousy is a very powerful emotion. Perhaps she had got wind that Charlie was breaking his promise and sneaking off to see Libby. Perhaps she’d even been told the lie about Charlie going to the NEC for the weekend and seen through it, regurgitating it later for Valerie and the police. Or was Alex the one who killed Charlie? Possibly spurred on by his mother’s distress. Had he been the one with the knife? My mind was cycling, stuck tracing a Mobius strip, trying to grasp the full picture.

The phone rang again. Had Valerie thought of something else? ‘Hello?’ I said.

‘This is Heather Carter.’

The back of my neck prickled and I felt my stomach drop.

‘Valerie rang me earlier.’ Her voice was soft, troubled. ‘She said you were asking questions about us, about Alex and me.’

I didn’t confirm or deny it, just sat it out waiting to see what she wanted.

‘I’d like a chance to talk to you, to try and clear things up.’

As if it was a little minor misunderstanding; something that could be ironed out, fixed by a little civilized discussion.

‘You can talk to me now,’ I told her.

‘Not over the phone,’ she said.

Was it a trap? There was no way I was going round to her place. If Heather had done what I thought she’d done then she would be desperate to stop the news getting out. That thought was followed swiftly by another: if Heather tried to hurt me it would be obvious to the whole world whodunnit and she’d be inviting arrest. She’d be stupid to try anything – and her ability to evade detection, presumably to think fast and smart under enormous pressure, to protect Alex and herself and persuade the policy of their innocence, showed she was far from stupid.

Nevertheless, I exercised caution. I wouldn’t invite her into my space either but meet her somewhere neutral. Somewhere busy, in public where we could talk without people listening.

‘Albert Square,’ I told her. ‘Outside the town hall, half past two.’

She thanked me and hung up.

I’d a sick feeling of apprehension about meeting Heather but it was tempered by a keen curiosity. My chest felt tight and my throat dry and I shivered, chilly even though I had the heating on.

Heather Carter was there before me; I saw her get to her feet from the bench where she was sitting and I raised an arm in acknowledgement. That hurt. I was still having to move gingerly to try and minimize the pain from Dryden’s attack on me.

The storm had moved on by mid-morning and now the day was fine: wisps of cloud in a china-blue sky, the sun slanting across the cobbled square, caressing the honey-coloured stone of the town hall with golden light, everything washed clean by the rain.

As I’d hoped, the place was busy with people: office workers on late lunches eating sandwiches or smoking, a large party of oriental tourists, maybe Japanese or Chinese, following a tour guide over to the fountain at the far side of the square.

Heather and I had the bench to ourselves. Her forehead was furrowed with concern; I could see the tension in her shoulders, huddled as though she was cold in spite of the roll-neck sweater and brown suede jacket she wore.

I waited for her to speak, nervous myself, feeling faintly nauseous, but intrigued as to how she would play it.

‘These…’ She faltered, began again, her fingers worrying at each other. ‘The things you’ve been implying – that we might have lied. I don’t know how you’ve come up with that idea but it’s a horrible mistake. I want to set things right.’

I didn’t believe her, not for one second. If she and Alex were innocent, she’d not have given me the time of day. She’d more likely have gone to the police herself, to complain, and would never have invited me to meet with her. She was on a fishing trip, I thought, to see how much I knew, see how big a threat I was.

‘You’re wasting my time. I didn’t come here to be fed more lies.’ I got to my feet, ignoring the stab of pain in my calves.

‘Please wait,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not what you think.’

I sat back down carefully. ‘One of you killed Charlie,’ I said quietly, ‘then you covered it up.’

‘No,’ she insisted.

Across the square a man stepped into a taxi and the cab pulled away; the line of black taxis moved up the rank. A flock of pigeons rose and circled the square. A woman was taking photographs of the marble statue of Oliver Heywood, raised to the benefactor for his devotion to the public good.

‘Either you or Alex were at the cottage earlier,’ I carried on, ‘and you constructed an alibi, making it look like Charlie was still alive much later in the day and exonerating yourselves. Damien Beswick was convicted on the strength of his false confession. He died in prison. He couldn’t face another night, another day. He hung himself rather than go on. You knew he was innocent.’

‘I loved Charlie,’ she said, still denying any blame.

‘And you were losing him,’ I pointed out.

Her face flooded with colour and she turned her head away. A light breeze toyed with the curls on her head.

Another cab drove off. The photographer walked along to the bronze of Gladstone.

‘What are you here for, Heather? What did you expect?’

‘It’s not all cut and dried,’ she said. ‘You talk as if you know everything and you don’t. We had nothing to do with it.’

‘I know enough to talk to the police,’ I said.

‘The police already investigated,’ she said sharply. ‘There are no grounds to do so again. You’re just going to make a complete fool of yourself.’

‘There’s new evidence: evidence from Damien Beswick. It’s all in my report. I think it’s compelling.’ At that stage I didn’t even know whether Damien’s evidence would be allowable, given he wasn’t around to be tested on it. But I was banking on the fact that she wouldn’t, either.

‘What evidence?’ She sounded perplexed.

I wasn’t going to disclose any details. I didn’t want to give her the ammunition. ‘You’re going to need a lawyer,’ I said.

‘I didn’t do it,’ she said simply.

I sighed, growing tired of her protestations. Her silence stretched out, then the bell in the town hall clock tower rang out once for quarter to three: a mournful toll. The pigeons wheeled and landed by the benches, scouring the cobbles for crumbs. They were a scrappy bunch: two had deformed feet and another had dull, bedraggled feathers.

I waited, counting silently to ten, preparing to leave her.

‘It was an accident,’ she whispered, ‘a silly accident.’

‘No reason for a cover-up, then,’ I came back.

‘He didn’t mean it,’ her voice trembled, ‘it was self-defence.’

‘Who?’

‘Alex.’ The word choked her.

I felt prickling as the hairs on my forearms rose.

‘Charlie lost his temper. He flared up sometimes, it was frightening. He could be very violent. He went to hit Alex and Alex grabbed the knife. He was just trying to protect himself but Charlie tried to get it, he tripped. He fell.’ She gave a shaky breath.

I tried to imagine the situation. Charlie yelling, Alex panicking, fearful, grabbing what was to hand. Charlie lunging and the sudden, irreversible horror as he fell. The blood. Alex rigid with shock, his father dying before his eyes. The terror at what he had done consuming everything else.

A car cut in front of another, swinging round the corner into the square. The blare of horns startled me.

‘Where were you?’ I asked.

‘I wasn’t there,’ she said simply. ‘Alex rang me: he was hysterical, terrified.’

‘He didn’t call an ambulance? Get help?’

‘It was too late.’ She shuddered beside me. Her face was etched with anxiety. ‘Alex was petrified; he knew he’d be arrested, locked up. That’s why he needed the alibi. If it had been me then no question… but my son.’ Her voice quavered.

‘His age,’ I objected. ‘The circumstances – they’d have been taken into account. If it was an accident or even self-defence he wouldn’t be blamed.’

‘What if they didn’t believe him? He wouldn’t hear of it and I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t lose him as well.’ She sniffed.

I watched a man, clutching a can, walk unsteadily to the Albert Memorial, settle down on the bottom step and lay a cap on the floor by his feet.

‘What good would it do now?’ she asked.

‘You sacrificed another boy’s life for Alex’s,’ I said.

She had no answer for me, her mouth worked with emotion. ‘I came here to beg,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I was foolish-’

‘Callous.’ I couldn’t keep quiet. Seeing Damien again, twisting in his chair, that sudden fleeting smile, the last glimpse I had of him as he lay his head on his arms. Defeated. I was determined to make her acknowledge the extent of the damage she’d done.

‘But I had to protect Alex. He was all that I had left. He was so frightened. He’s never been strong. He was terrified of Charlie.’

‘Why was Alex there, at the cottage?’ After all, I thought, Libby was due to turn up later. He might run into her. The three adults had tried to keep the state of play from Alex, not wanting to upset him before his exams. So why would Charlie have taken him there?

‘Driving practice.’ She stared at her nails. I saw the wedding ring on her finger. That she wore it still seemed monstrous. ‘Alex was taking lessons. Charlie said Alex could drive out there; he was laying carpet and Alex was going to help him fit it.’ She cleared her throat.

The flock of tourists disappeared up the steps into the main entrance of the town hall.

‘So the phoney conference at the NEC – you invented that for the alibi?’

‘No, that was true. Charlie had told us he was going on down there later that afternoon.’

‘And how would Alex get home?’

‘Charlie would drive him back to the main road on his way to the M6. There’s a bus from there.’

How had they held it together? I wondered. Blood on their hands. Where had they found the resolve to enact the pantomime for Valerie Mayhew? To fake their reactions when the police came with tragic news? How on earth had a seventeen-year-old boy not betrayed the terror in his soul as he sat beside his mother and answered those mundane questions about the day?

And in the weeks that followed when they were informed of the arrest of a suspect, when they buried Charlie, when they went to court to hear Damien plea, how had they borne that secret?

‘He nearly went mad.’ Heather spoke as if she could hear my thoughts. ‘He still has nightmares. He can’t go to college. He couldn’t survive in prison.’ Anguish tore at her words.

‘Nor could Damien.’

She looked away again. I was aware that she had ventured no apology for any of it: not a sorry for lying, for the miscarriage of justice, not a word of regret for Damien’s suicide.

‘Perhaps that would have happened anyway,’ she said. ‘By all accounts-’

‘Don’t you dare.’ I felt anger sluice through me, my skin grow hot, my chest burn. I stood up. The taxi drivers were clustered outside their cabs, exchanging gossip, smoking, laughing on this fine autumn day.

‘You’ll destroy him,’ she pleaded. ‘For what? Have you no compassion?’

I walked away, across the setts, past the Albert Memorial, up along Princess Street where the wind was funnelled along the road, and the traffic swept past, unending, relentless.