Crying Out Loud

NINETEEN

The bus cruised down Oxford Road, past the BBC and the universities, on through Rusholme and Fallowfield. I was dimly aware of the people paying, showing their passes, of those getting off, murmuring their thanks to the driver, of the mix of old and new buildings along the route. The weather was changing again, the sky darkening and there were the first fat drops of rain. But I was rerunning Heather’s story, thinking that if I went over it often enough it might become comprehensible. I didn’t dispute the facts of what she’d told me and they fitted with Damien’s account, but the sheer scale of collusion, the amorality and audacity, the stone cold nerve that both of them had demonstrated was hard to swallow.

Not quite ready to face home and hearth, I went to the park when I got off the bus. In the little copse by the stream, where the path meanders and old frayed rope swings hang from the sturdier branches, I watched the sun slice beams through the crown of the trees and midges dance in their shadows. The air was rich here, redolent of sap and must and the heavy clay soil.

Libby needed to know what had happened, Chloe, too, and then Dave Pirelli, the police detective and Damien’s lawyer. There was nothing to stop Heather denying her confession to me; in fact, if she was still hell bent on protecting Alex, she’d have to. Having come this far and with little sign of guilt or shame for her behaviour, she would probably stick to her original version of events. Had she really expected me to let it lie? For me to walk away and say no more about it? Did I have enough to convince the police to reopen the case? A hearsay confession from Heather, the recollections of a dead man: a darkened cottage, a cooling engine, a stranger hurrying down the hill. Could that possibly be enough?

Abi had walked the kids home and when I arrived back Maddie and Tom had been playing make-overs with Leanne. They’d raided my cosmetics and various kitchen items. Maddie had full-blown panda eyes and her hair had been backcombed and sprayed, forming clots and spikes, a sort of dragged-through-the-hedge look. In a stroke of genius, Leanne had suggested special effects to Tom, who had a scar across one cheek (lipstick, eye pencil, peanut butter and cornflakes), a moustache and a tattoo on his arm. Not to be left out, Baby Lola sported cat’s whiskers and a black nose.

I wasn’t unaware of the contradictory position I held. On the one hand I was intent on making the truth known about Alex’s attack on his father and the ensuing cover-up engineered by his mother and determined to see justice done – for Charlie, for Libby, for Damien and his family. On the other I was sure that my decision not to reveal the truth about Leanne’s past crime and in effect to help her evade prosecution was the right one. Alex had unintentionally killed his father in a messy argument; Leanne had intentionally taken a life in an act of revenge, in the midst of a terrifying encounter, hitting back at one of the men who had orchestrated abuse on a brutal scale.

The process of law can be a clumsy tool but while I thought Leanne would only have suffered further at its hands, I really believed there’d be understanding and clemency for Alex. If only he had admitted to the terrible accident immediately. His mother’s counsel had been disastrous, distorting everything and trapping them both in a tragic lie.

Why had Heather been so intent on covering up? Had it not been the accident that she described? Self-defence, she had said at one point. Charlie had been violent – lunging at the boy. But if that wasn’t the whole truth, if Alex deliberately attacked his father then Heather’s actions after the death made a lot more sense.

I’d rung Libby and asked her to come round to my office. I wanted to tell her what I’d learnt in person. I told Leanne that Ray would soon be home if she could hold the fort till then – I’d be an hour or so.

Even with an umbrella, I got wet walking the short stretch to work. The rain drummed on the cars parked along the roadside and gushed along the gutters. It spattered the leaves on the trees and bounced off the paving stones.

In my office the Tupperware on the window sill was catching the drops from the leak in the narrow basement window frame: plop, plop, plop. I turned up the heating to take the chill off the room, made fresh coffee and rang Dave Pirelli. He was in, though rushed. But I impressed on him that what I had to tell him was extremely serious and wouldn’t wait. He couldn’t cancel his meetings that day but promised to see me first thing in the morning. I was thankful he hadn’t given me the brush-off or told me not to waste police time – both responses I have had from detectives in the past.

How might Libby react? I was nervous, having second thoughts. The truth would be a huge shock. Might it not be easier to fudge what I’d learnt and leave it as it was? If and when the police took action they could answer Libby’s questions. But I owed her: she’d hired me to do my best and expected an honest account from me. Could she handle it? Thinking about Libby and how she had conducted herself reassured me: she had survived the pressure of suspicion when the police first began the enquiry; she hadn’t gone haring off to Chloe Beswick when she got the letter about Damien’s conviction but brought me in to check it out; she had coped with me finding merit in Damien’s position with good grace and had now gone so far as to reverse her opinion and join Chloe Beswick in asking for further police investigation. She had done all this after finding Charlie violently killed, and in the midst of her shock and grief. In the past year she had lost her lover, their future together and had borne his baby. The latter in itself can be enough to make a woman slightly deranged for a good while, going by my own experience. She had kept her business going, too. Libby was strong enough to take the news and sorted enough not to do anything stupid. I’d a box of tissues handy in case of tears – and a bottle of brandy in the filing cabinet, in the best private-eye tradition.

Libby shook the rain off her coat and I told her to leave it on the hooks in the hall. She’d brought Rowena in with her; the baby was dozing in her car seat.

We sat on the sofa downstairs in my office. She picked up on the atmosphere straight away. ‘What’s happened to your face?’

‘Nick Dryden warning me off.’

‘Oh, my God!’

‘But he’s not involved with what happened to Charlie. He got the wrong end of the stick: thought I was spying for his creditors or the authorities. And I got the wrong end of his temper.’

‘Have you reported it?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m going to let it go. Too complicated. I don’t ever expect to hear from him again. But I’ve got other news. It’s going to be a big shock,’ I warned her, ‘I’m sorry.’

She drew herself up in preparation and regarded me solemnly; a wary look hooded her eyes.

I repeated what Heather had told me, sticking to the bare bones of the confrontation. Her eyes filled with tears and she didn’t say anything for a few moments after I’d finished speaking. Then she rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘So, the alibi, and the things that Damien remembered – how does it all fit together?’

‘Here’s what I think. After it had happened, Alex rang his mother, probably hysterical, panicking. She told him to come back, to drive his father’s car home and she worked out a way to create an alibi.’

Libby gave a sad smile. ‘Charlie always said she was clever.’

‘Well, when Alex got back they must have rehearsed what to do. Then she rang Valerie. Gave her the story about wanting to catch Charlie out, how he’d told her he was off to the NEC but she thought he was cheating on her, breaking their understanding and going to meet you.’

‘That wasn’t so far from the truth,’ Libby admitted.

‘The best lies run close,’ I said. ‘So, Valerie sees Alex when she calls for Heather. Alex then goes upstairs. He has his games console on. Heather makes a show of calling out goodbye to Charlie or maybe she even goes up and pretends to say goodbye to him. Some gesture to persuade Valerie that Charlie has not left the house, yet. Valerie never sets eyes on Charlie but she’s tricked into thinking he’s there. Then Heather and Valerie wait down the road in Valerie’s car. When Charlie’s car appears exiting the Carters’ drive they follow. It’s easy to keep up as he’s going so slowly; that’s because Alex is driving and he’s still a learner.’

Libby stared at me. ‘The opposite of Charlie, who drove like a maniac.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And she wouldn’t be able to tell it was him because of the tinted windows,’ Libby pointed out.

‘Yes, and don’t forget it was twilight. Now, the women didn’t want Charlie to notice them so Valerie even hung back at one point to let a car get between them. When Charlie’s car turns off towards the cottage, Heather plays the wounded wife. Valerie and Heather drive back home to the house in Hale. It sounds like Alex is still gaming upstairs, making a right racket. Heather complains to her friend and goes up and asks him to turn it down a bit. But he’s not there; it’s all a ploy. Meanwhile, Alex reaches the cottage and parks Charlie’s car in the drive. He locks the car. He has to go inside and leave the car keys. When they are later found there are no fingerprints on them so he must have wiped them clean.’

‘The knife?’ Libby asked me.

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It was never found – he must have got rid of it.’

Libby shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand. Distressed, I imagined, at the harrowing thought of Alex in that gruesome situation.

‘Alex walks down the hill, passing Damien. He gets the bus back as close as he can then walks the rest of the way home. He sneaks upstairs and is there when Heather serves dinner. And they wait for the police to call.’

Libby sat there stunned, hands to her temples, gazing in the direction of Rowena, though I don’t think she was actually seeing her daughter or taking anything in from the room, from the present. Finally she moved her hands, straightened up and turned to me. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

‘It’s hard to credit,’ I agreed.

‘No, not the cover-up: the fight. Charlie wasn’t like that, he was a very patient man. He never lost his temper.’

‘With you,’ I said.

‘In general. Honestly, the only time he got wound up was when he was driving.’

‘Maybe that was it,’ I suggested. ‘Alex was driving out there with him to get some practise. If Alex was going slowly, making mistakes, then Charlie would find it hard to keep calm. He’d be pretty wound up when they got there, then if Alex did something to make it worse…’

Libby shook her head. ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘Charlie would never have lost it like that. He’d never lay a finger on that boy.’

‘So, what Heather said about the fight…’

‘Bullshit,’ Libby said succinctly.

‘So was it something more sinister? Not an accident.’ But a boy that age. Where would such violence come from? ‘Alex – there was never any suggestion he was disturbed in any way?’ I asked her.

‘No. He was a bit shy. Sensitive. Stuck in his room, Charlie said, always on his computer. He didn’t have many friends; Charlie worried about that. Do you think Alex found out about us?’

‘It’s a helluva leap from that to picking up a knife.’ I imagined Alex, chaotic, confused, the blade in his hand, accusing his father, one fateful move. Talking to his mother, fleeing the scene, shock descending. Then the purgatory of driving back there. The cottage in the dark. Having to open that door. Feel the presence. Gag on the smell of death. The frantic scurry down the hill to the bus, passing Damien on his way up.

Ice froze in my veins; my heart grew heavy, a weight solid in my chest. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What?’ Libby sat forward, alert to the urgency in my voice.

‘He can’t have taken the bus home,’ I said. ‘They’re only every half hour and Damien had just got off the bus. Damien ran back to the bus stop after he’d stolen Charlie’s wallet. He waited for the next bus and he was alone at the bus stop.’

Libby shook her head, slowly. ‘More lies? What’s going on, Sal?’

‘I don’t know. Damien heard a car start up. Maybe Alex drove another car home.’

‘But you said he drove Charlie’s car; he couldn’t drive two cars.’

There was hammering on the front door.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Libby. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

It was Alex Carter, his clothes drenched with rain, his hair plastered to his head, shivering, looking younger than his years, hunted, haunted.