Crying Out Loud

TWENTY

‘S he came to see you?’ he asked. His voice shook.

I swallowed. ‘Come in,’ I told him.

He stepped into the hall, his hands rammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Shivering still, his face red from the weather. ‘She won’t tell me what’s happening. But I know she came to see you: the number was on the phone.’

‘You should go home,’ I said gently, ‘talk to your mum.’

‘I asked her.’ He raised his voice in frustration. ‘She won’t talk to me! Is she in trouble?’

Oh, Alex. The naivety of the question was hard to fathom. He’d obviously no idea how much I already knew. I formulated a neutral reply; the last thing I wanted was him freaking out on me. ‘It’s likely that the conviction of Damien Beswick was unsound. The police will be examining new evidence; they may reopen the investigation.’

‘They can’t!’ he breathed, his eyes fixed on me.

I didn’t speak.

‘I can’t bear it,’ he said. He slid down the wall put his head in his hands, his knees bent up.

‘Shall I ring her, Alex?’ I asked. ‘She can come and pick you up?’

The reedy wail of Rowena crying came from below. Alex frowned, looking confused, and shook his head at my offer. ‘No,’ he mumbled. He circled his knees with his arms, his head buried.

‘It was an accident,’ I said.

He raised his head to look at me, his face twisted in disbelief. ‘She told you?’

I nodded.

‘Why?’ he said with horror. ‘Why did she tell you? We promised-’ he was too distraught to continue.

I rushed to calm him. ‘She wanted to explain, I think, that it had been an accident.’

‘She said no one would believe her,’ Alex whispered. His lips were swollen and red, the skin flaking. ‘That she’d be in prison for years. I don’t want her to go to prison!’

My skin crawled and adrenalin coursed through me like toxin. I crouched down. ‘For lying?’ I asked softly. I could feel my heart in my throat.

He stared at me, misery on his face, dull confusion. ‘No, for what she did.’

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I tried to swallow. ‘The accident?’

The stairs creaked and Libby appeared, Rowena in her arms. Alex glanced over at her, almost indifferent. I stood, crossing to her to try and prevent the encounter but I hadn’t reckoned on Libby’s determination.

‘Alex?’ she said.

‘Who are you?’

‘Libby.’

He froze, the colour draining from his face. ‘That was why they were arguing,’ he said, ‘because of you.’

‘Arguing?’ asked Libby.

‘If you hadn’t been-’

‘The accident,’ I interrupted, catching Libby’s eye, signalling this was important. ‘It was Heather.’

Alex looked at Libby, then back to me. ‘What are you on about?’ His eyes glittered. Drops of rain trickled from the ends of his hair.

‘Heather told Sal it was you.’ Libby was trembling slightly; it was just possible to see. ‘You were with Charlie, there was an argument, Charlie went for you, you were scared, you picked up the knife. Charlie stumbled, he fell on the knife.’

‘You’re lying.’ He scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting wildly, seeking escape.

‘Alex,’ I put out an arm, trying to still him.

‘She’d never do that,’ he shouted. But the truth had already hit him. He turned suddenly, howling, slapped his palms against the wall then slammed his head against it. The sound was sickening. He did it again. I grabbed his arms, shocked at how skinny they were and the feel of his bones, and pulled him away, turned him to face me. Keeping my voice steady, I said, ‘Alex, sit down, sit down.’

He obeyed. Sat on the floor again.

Libby was fighting back tears, her face raised, neck stretched, eyes blinking. One hand rhythmically patting Rowena’s back, keeping the baby quiet.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him.

‘You believed her?’ he asked, injured, his voice breaking.

I didn’t answer him but asked a question of my own. ‘After you drove back to the cottage, you left your dad’s car on the drive. How did you get home?’

‘In mum’s,’ he said quietly. ‘She’d parked on the hill.’ He was crying now, silently, the tears coursing down his cheeks.

‘A Mondeo?’ I asked. He dipped his head. The car Damien had passed going up the hill, casing it for easy access to valuables, and the engine he’d heard starting up. And Alex was the man he’d passed, the one out of breath, carrying a rucksack. I recalled the shift in Sinclair’s face when I’d mentioned the cars. He must have made the connection, then. Known it was the same make as Heather Carter’s. But he’d said nothing. Did he dismiss it as a coincidence or was he past caring? Unwilling to contemplate the miscarriage of justice that had occurred.

‘Were you carrying anything?’ I said.

‘Dad’s rucksack,’ he said with difficulty. ‘She’d put the knife in an old curtain. I had to leave it in one of those bins at the supermarket. I can’t go home,’ he blurted out, fear making his voice squeak. ‘I’m scared.’ His mouth trembled. ‘I’m so scared.’ He began to rock, a desperate feral motion and he bit at his hand. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to ease his panic.

Heather had driven out there to confront her husband about his affair. They argued, she stabbed him, either intentionally or accidentally, then drove his car home and forced her son to help create the alibi. Now that the truth was bubbling to the surface she was prepared to name Alex as the killer. Ruthless, that’s how Nick Dryden had described Heather, something I’d dismissed at the time, but a label she certainly deserved. Not only had she destroyed her son by pressing him to enact the ghastly pantomime to save her skin, but as the cover-up threatened to unravel she had no qualms at betraying her only child. Of course, she still probably clung to the hope that nothing would change, that I couldn’t prove anything and that none of the authorities would take an interest in pursuing things any further.

But she hadn’t reckoned on Alex, driven by terror and desperate to know why his mother had contacted me. Alex, driven to breaking point and finally revealing a much more plausible version of events.

‘Alex,’ said Libby, ‘Heather claimed Charlie used to lose his temper. That he was violent. That he hit you. He never did that, did he?’

Alex shook his head slightly. ‘I miss him,’ he sobbed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

‘He was a good man,’ said Libby.

‘He was leaving us, though,’ Alex cried.

‘He was leaving her, not you,’ said Libby. ‘He loved you.’

Alex moaned, rolled his head back against the wall, his mouth stretching with tears.

‘He’d agreed to stop seeing me,’ Libby went on, ‘until you’d done your exams. We didn’t want to make it hard for you. And after that we hoped that you’d stay with us some of the time. He really loved you. It was my fault he lied to your mum that day. I wanted to meet up, to tell him I was pregnant. I’m so sorry.’

Alex stared at her.

‘This is your sister,’ Libby said, ‘Rowena.’

Alex looked away, weeping now, his shoulders shuddering.

When he sounded a little calmer, I spoke. ‘You need to talk to the police, tell them everything. OK?’

He nodded numbly. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but Mum said we had no choice-’

‘She was your mother. People will understand. Just tell the truth.’

‘I don’t want to see her.’ He grabbed my wrist, shivering. ‘Don’t let her near me. Please.’

‘I promise.’

Alex’s face glazed over, an expression of blank defeat, of desolation on it. He continued to rock, making a little moaning sound in the back of his throat. Whimpering. The sound of someone broken.

I hung on the phone until someone agreed to interrupt Dave Pirelli in one of his meetings. Then I gave him the option: did he want to come and arrest Alex Carter or should I call 999? I also warned him the boy was traumatized and would need medical attention and that on no account should his mother have any access to him.

They came with lights and sirens on. Some of the neighbours braved the rain to gawp and whisper as Alex was taken from the house and put into the patrol car. Dave Pirelli had the gist of the story from me and another car had been despatched to arrest Heather. I would be contacted in due time to make a full statement, as would Libby.

When they had gone, I turned to Libby. I felt drained, hollowed out, my blood too thin, my bones weak. ‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I could do with a proper drink.’

She nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

Downstairs again with Libby and Rowena I poured two generous measures. The brandy scorched my throat and belly and I felt my neck loosen, a sensation of heat spread along my limbs.

‘Do you think it was an accident?’ Libby asked me.

‘No,’ I said quietly.

She tilted her head, inviting me to elaborate.

‘Heather would have tried to get help, dialled 999. You just would. She’s not stupid. If it had been an accident the evidence would have backed her up but she knew it wouldn’t. I don’t think she set off for the cottage intending to harm Charlie. If she’d planned his death she could have come up with something less messy. She went to challenge him and she lost her temper, a moment’s madness, a single blow.’

Libby drained her glass. ‘How did the pair of them cope with it? Murdering someone. Knowing that they’d done that day after day, week after week. It must have been hell.’

‘Yes. Well, you saw the state of Alex.’

Libby snorted, disgusted. ‘She’ll get life?’

‘God, I hope so.’

‘And Alex?’ She pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair.

‘Who knows? His age will work in his favour, and his cooperation now.’ I twisted my glass, watched the amber liquid spin and shimmer. ‘It’s too late for Damien, though.’

‘What a mess.’ She refastened her hair. ‘You’ll tell Chloe?’

‘Yes.’

‘In your report,’ Libby referred to the document I had promised her, ‘will you put in how it all happened, as far as you can tell, all the stuff that Damien told you, the times and everything?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

‘It’s like I need to go over it, get it all fixed in my mind. I did that before when they convicted Damien. Does that sound weird, creepy?’

‘No, I understand.’ I’d had the same reaction to traumas in my own life. Absorbing the facts, revisiting them again and again, was a way of coming to terms with the emotions.

Libby and Rowena had gone. I’d be expected home but I wasn’t fit company. The light was fading, the sky turning charcoal. A new moon, blurred by cloud, glowed above. The park was deserted. The football pitch was waterlogged already and some of the footpaths flooded. I walked at first, my legs stiff and aching from the bruises, then began to speed up until I was running at full pelt, fighting through the pain. The rain stung my face and hands, creeping down the back of my neck, soaking through my trousers. I increased my stride, felt the stretch in my calves and thighs, and the cold, damp air suck in and out of my lungs until my windpipe felt raw and my heart pounded in my skull. Running because I was sad and sickened and because I was alive with blood coursing through my veins and love and fear and hope in my heart.

Chloe’s house was busy again when I called round early the following day. The funeral was set for that Friday and half the neighbourhood seemed to be involved in planning the arrangements.

‘Can we talk in private?’ I asked her.

‘Upstairs.’

We went into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and pointed me to a wicker chair.

‘Have you heard from the police?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Why?’

‘They’ll be reopening the investigation.’

‘Honest? How come?’ Her brow creased.

I told her. As she listened, she played with a teddy bear, bending its limbs, positioning it; something to keep her hands busy, her face mobile with emotion.

When I was done, she shook her head and put the bear down on the bed beside her. ‘That bitch,’ she said, her eyes glittery with tears. ‘That bloody bitch.’

I couldn’t disagree.

I tried letting Geoff Sinclair know what I’d found out, maybe wanting a little recognition that I hadn’t been completely barking. But whenever I called, his answerphone was on. It’s not the sort of information you leave on voicemail. Later, I learnt he’d gone into a hospice and died very soon after. I don’t know if he ever heard that Heather Carter had been charged with murder or that her son Alex had been taken into psychiatric care, unfit to plead to charges of being an accessory.

I hoped that Libby would heal in time, that she’d meet someone new and build a life with him and her daughter. I couldn’t pass a marquee without wondering about her, and what she would tell Rowena about her father Charlie. How do you tell your child that their father was murdered? That jealousy about you was a big part of the reason? And that another man, an innocent man, died in prison after falsely confessing? How much do you reveal? How long do you keep silent? When do you tell them? There can never be a good time for such shocking disclosures so how do you choose the moment? And how do you cope with the distress and the anguish that will result?

The day the truth came out, the day Alex turned up on the doorstep of my office, I arrived home after my run in the park, sodden through, splashed with mud and grime and intent on having it out with Ray. Life was too short to be mucking about and I wouldn’t stand for another minute of his prevaricating. We were in this together or it was over.

They were all in the kitchen.

Leanne gawped at me. ‘Did you fall in?’

‘Can you take the kids, Leanne,’ I said tightly. ‘Take them out for a bit.’

‘It’s raining,’ she complained.

‘It’s easing off,’ I said.

‘It’s dark,’ Maddie said.

‘There are street lights.’ I pulled a damp twenty-pound note from my pocket and gave it to Leanne. ‘Here – buy them tea or something. Left at the main road – there are places down in Didsbury.’

‘We’ve had tea,’ Maddie said.

‘Have it again,’ I snapped. ‘Have pudding.’

‘Cool.’ Tom grinned.

‘I’m not sure-’ Ray finally chipped in.

‘I am.’ I glared at him. ‘Go,’ I said to Leanne.

Leanne’s eyes flicked between us. ‘Right,’ she announced. ‘Last one ready’s a muppet.’

The kids flew out to the hall, giggling and Leanne scooped Lola up and carried her out. I stood, my back against the counter, arms folded, waiting for the sound of the front door closing behind them. Water seeped from the bottom of my trousers, forming pools on the floor. My thighs and neck felt clammy from the damp.

Ray didn’t speak. The air between us sang with tension. I noticed my toes pressing against the floor, my back held rigid.

I heard the door slam.

‘So,’ I said, ‘do you want to go first?’

He shuffled in his seat. ‘Not really,’ he said. I bit down on my temper. He looked my way. ‘Your face,’ he said, his expression opening with concern.

Top marks for observation, I thought sourly. ‘Don’t change the subject,’ I said. ‘You and me… stuff happens, Ray: babies, surprises, setbacks, things change. We don’t have to let it destroy us.’

He gave an awkward shrug.

‘Or is that the plan? You close down on me, cut me off. You sulk, you refuse to talk.’ My voice was rising. ‘You’re so selfish – you never consider what it’s like for me. It makes me feel helpless and needy and I hate it. I really hate it.’ I was practically shouting, trying not to cry. I paced across the floor. ‘I want to be with you but I don’t know-’

He stood up, came closer.

‘Don’t touch me.’ I raised a hand to ward him off.

‘I love you, Sal.’

‘Don’t. I’m angry. I can’t be angry when you, if you-’ I was crying.

He raised his hand to mine and grabbed it; his was warm, large. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come here.’

‘No.’ Like a child.

He kissed my eyelids, my mouth, hugged me close. ‘We’ll work something out. I don’t want to lose you. Lose this. Everything’s a mess at the moment but we’ll find a way, yeah?’

‘I hate you,’ I told him.

‘I know.’

‘I really hate you.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He kissed my neck and ran his hand through my wet hair, gripped my head, kissed me again, his lips firm and warm where mine were still cold, his tongue smooth.

‘You have to let me in,’ I said. ‘You have to share things with me. It won’t work otherwise.’

‘I know, I will. I promise, Sal.’ He kissed me. ‘Come upstairs,’ he whispered.

‘I’m hungry,’ I sniffed.

‘It’ll keep. Come on.’

I was getting dizzy, my body responding, my breasts tingling, my belly hollow. I let him walk me to the door, guide me up the stairs, stopping to kiss, into his room.

‘I still hate you.’

‘You said.’

He peeled off my clothes, then his own. Lowered me into bed. I closed my eyes and let go, spinning and swimming and dancing. Sensations overwhelming me, crowding out thought and logic and memory. Stopping time.