‘She left me the house. But if I ever sold it, there was a letter that would go to the police, giving an account of what happened to Kimberley.’ I shake my head, defeated. ‘It was her way of punishing me.’
‘It’s hardly surprising you and Ms Macklin lost contact.’ The DI leans back in his chair. ‘You were each other’s worst reminder of what happened to your sister.’
It’s true. I couldn’t think of Allie, still can’t, without thinking of my sister. ‘After we lost touch, I found out that her parents had sent her away. Later, she told me they’d disowned her.’
DI Lacey taps his fingers on the table. ‘Which they clearly considered to be her punishment. While your grandmother didn’t consider the punishment you’d received severe enough, she left you a living memento of what you’d done, didn’t she? A house you could never sell, and a garden she’d planted so you’d never forget.’
Tears stream down my cheeks as I nod. Because it’s true. Each day I’ve lived there I’ve seen Kimberley’s face, lived with the echo of my grandmother’s anger, heard her words in my head, about the alchemist’s curse. Waited all these years for the balance to be redressed, knowing at some point, it would be. And now it has. Then I look up at him. ‘It’s true that I should have said something about what Allie did. It doesn’t excuse anything, but she was formidable – and I suppose I was under her spell. You have to believe I had nothing to do with the poison she gave Kimberley.’
‘Can anyone corroborate what you’ve told us?’ PC Page’s voice is sharp.
‘Only Allie.’ I pause. ‘But she won’t. She’s convinced herself that it was me who did it, to the point that she believes her own lie.’
‘What about the boyfriend? Maybe he saw something.’
Shaking my head, more tears roll down my cheeks. ‘He may have found out from my grandmother. They spent a lot of time together in the weeks after Kimberley died.’
DI Lacey glances at PC Page. ‘I think we need to find him and bring him in for questioning.’
‘Oh no …’ Wiping my tears away, I stare at them. ‘Oh, God. You don’t know, do you? After Kimberley died, Charlie killed himself.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘When did this happen?’ PC Page’s voice is sharp.
‘I’m not exactly sure.’ My memories are sharp, but not the timing. ‘But Charlie hung himself. In my gran’s garden … My garden. From the apple tree – it’s still there.’ I wasn’t there when it happened, but every day, when I look at the tree, it’s impossible not to think of him. ‘It happened about a couple of months after Kimberley died. He didn’t want to live without her.’
The DI is silent for a moment. ‘You’d have saved us all a lot of time if you’d been honest.’ Glancing at PC Page, he speaks under his breath. ‘We need to find Ms Rose and bring her in for further questioning. We may well have enough evidence to reopen the investigation into Kimberley Preston’s murder.’ He turns back to me. ‘We will get to the bottom of this, no matter how long it takes.’
‘So what happens now?’ I’m still clinging on to the most fragile of hopes. ‘I’ve been held for ninety-six hours. Surely I can leave?’ But my words fade. Knowing they think I’m involved in the death of my own sister, that whatever I say I can’t be trusted, the churning feeling in my stomach grows. It’s the look on their faces, in their eyes, telling me they think I’m the ultimate unreliable witness.
‘Apologies.’ The DI fidgets in his chair. ‘I got somewhat sidetracked. We were talking about your house. And actually, there is one more thing, Ms Reid.’ Under his scrutiny, I feel myself shrink. ‘When we found your notebook, there was a carrier bag buried in the ground next to it. Inside, were some of your clothes – an orange sweatshirt with a flower print on the front, a pair of faded jeans, patterned socks … We’ll need you to identify them, but I’m fairly sure they’re yours?’
As he describes the familiar clothes, I’m speechless.
‘All of them stained with blood, Ms Reid.’ Sitting back, he looks smug. ‘Obviously we’re testing it, but I imagine it’s of the same type we’ve found everywhere else. There was a wallet, too, containing bank cards in the name of Matthew Roche.’
Silent, I stare at him in disbelief as he goes on. ‘We’ve been making enquiries into local taxi companies near Beachy Head, to see if anyone picked up a woman and took her to Steyning that night. We spoke to a John Angel. Does that ring any bells?’ Seeing my frown, he goes on. ‘He remembered that night very well, as he received a call from a woman looking for a taxi from Beachy Head. It was in the early hours and he was about to turn in, but she sounded distraught. Being the good sort he is, he went to pick her up. When he got there, he said she was freezing cold and clearly upset. He couldn’t get out of her why – she didn’t want to talk. Once he got her into the taxi, she asked him to take her home. When he asked where that was, she said Steyning.’
As he pauses, I’m terrified of what’s coming next.
‘The woman was wearing a silver jacket.’
I gasp out loud. I’d looked for that jacket only recently, but it hadn’t been hanging where I usually left it, with my other jackets.
He goes on. ‘The only other item of note he could remember, was the orange sweatshirt she was wearing underneath. It had a flower print on it – he noticed as she got into his car. He gave us quite a clear description of her – in her late thirties, with fair hair. Most interestingly, he noticed her ring, because it was unusual. He said it reminded him of one his wife bought, in Morocco – dull gold, with a green stone. He saw it clearly while the lights were on inside the taxi when she came to pay him. When she’d called him initially, she’d given her name as Amy. He dropped her just off the High Street.’
In shock, I stare at him, trying to imagine a woman who looks like me, wearing my silver jacket, my orange sweatshirt that was later found buried in my garden, stained with blood. A woman who wasn’t me. ‘She may have looked like me, but I swear it wasn’t me. I’ve told you, so many times, I was at home.’ But as piece after piece of false evidence stacks up, I know I’m sinking. Going down for a crime I didn’t commit.
‘There’s also the fact that you and Fiona Rose claimed not to know each other, when the truth is, you go back a very long way, a fact both of you have avoided talking about.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Strange too, that both of you hook up with the same man.’
I look at him, utterly aghast. ‘That both of us know Matt was a coincidence. You have to believe that.’
‘It’s a little unlikely, even by your standards.’ The DI leans back in his chair. ‘You both had very good reason to be angry with Mr Roche. Maybe angry enough to push you to the point where you cooked up some plan between you to get rid of him, using the wedding as a smokescreen to make people think he’d simply taken off. But even without her …’ He breaks off for a moment. ‘There are consistent accounts of your mental instability. Your therapist, Sonia Richardson, backs them up. Didn’t you stop to think why she came to your house? It was because you’d been suicidal in the past, she was concerned enough to call round to check on you.’
My mind races. Sonia would never have told them that, not in so many words. And I could never have gone through with it, because of Jess. ‘It isn’t true. I was low at that time, yes. But nothing more.’
‘According to Ms Richardson, at the time, you admitted as much to her. Are we supposed to believe you over a mental health professional?’ His eyes bore into me.
It’s an impossible question – one that I either answer truthfully, risking adding to the damaging picture they have of me, or else lie. But there have been too many lies. ‘When I was at my lowest, I thought about it. But I could never have done that to my daughter.’
He goes on, each new statement filling me with fear. ‘Like I said, there are other accounts. Whether or not you had an accomplice, Ms Reid, I don’t think there’s any question that you are guilty of the murder of Matthew Roche. You will be remanded in custody until we can arra
nge a court hearing. I’m not sure what your role was in the death of your sister, Kimberley Preston, but the truth will come out. It always does.’ Sounding matter of fact, he pauses for a moment. ‘Ms Reid, I am charging you with the murder of Matthew Roche. You do not have to say anything …’
But as he goes on, his words go over my head. Then I’m thinking of Matt with Allie again, suddenly dizzy, unable to think, to take any more in, feeling my mind close down.
1996
Kimberley’s grandmother knew what you’d done. She found your potion, found out what you’d put in it. Suspected who was guilty – how could she have missed the jealousy in your eyes? But she didn’t tell the police. It was that belief she had – about nature’s way of finding balance; in the alchemist’s curse. The circle of life – and death. At some point, what you’d done would come back to haunt you.
But your actions stretched further; had consequences you couldn’t have foreseen. A boy who never got over losing the only girl in the world for him, who could only follow her to her grave. Two devastated families. A friendship tainted forever, by the shared knowledge of what you’d done. The guilty secret that would stay with you, every waking day, until your last.
So many wrongs you could never right. So much grief you left so many people with. Grief that will never fade – grief for the young never does. When a life is wasted, how can it?
Fiona
Chapter Thirty-Five
A hint of early spring brings Brighton to life. As I walk to work, I notice more people running or cycling along the seafront, under clear skies, the sea becoming a chalky blue. When I hear no more from the police, I begin to believe that justice will at last be served and my life can go on as planned.
When I think about the letter that deliberately implicated me, there’s no way of knowing whether it was inspired by a desire to tell the truth or by some other motive. Why name me and not Amy? Or maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe in their twisted mind, the writer wants the police to question both of us. My stomach turns over as I think about how they already have Amy. How long before they want to question me again?
I try not to dwell on it. After weeks of angst, peace of mind no longer exists. Every street corner, the people I work with, even my flat, are a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. I imagine going away, picture somewhere quiet, where the sun is hot, a place where no-one knows who I am, while I come to terms with losing Matt.
When I hear through the legal grapevine again that Amy’s been charged with Matt’s murder, hatred fills me, then sadness, as I allow myself to grieve for the man I loved. But with clarity comes the sense of a weight starting to lift. That morning, as I walk to work, my mood is brighter, my step lighter than it’s been in months. Thinking about booking a couple of weeks off while I work out a long term plan, my sense of optimism builds. There are times it’s good to step away from what you know. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is one of those moments.
At work, instead of waiting for the lift, I take the stairs to the first floor, but when I pass through the swing doors into the reception area, I’m stopped in my tracks.
‘Ms Rose.’ It’s PC Page, with another uniformed officer I don’t recognise. ‘We’d like you to come with us, please.’
A feeling of foreboding fills me. Then as I stand there, I feel my plans disintegrate, falling like rain. Staying calm, in an attempt to mask it, I smile at her. ‘PC Page. I don’t understand. Surely whatever it is, we can talk about it here? Would you like to come through to my office?’ As I speak, I’m aware of people around us, watching, as a horrifying thought occurs to me. Surely they’re not about to arrest me?
As PC Page frowns, then opens her mouth to speak, I nod. ‘Yes, of course.’ I turn briefly to the receptionist, Sheila. ‘Could you cancel my meetings for today?’
A look of astonishment on her face, she nods, as I turn back to PC Page, summoning as much dignity as I can muster. ‘Right. I’m ready. Shall we go?’
We walk to the lift in silence, PC Page beside me, the younger officer slightly ahead, silence that’s maintained as the doors open and close. Even when we reach the ground floor and walk to the car, I don’t speak. Around me, the Brighton I walked through just minutes ago, where the future felt filled with hope, doesn’t exist any more. If I’d objected to their request, they would have arrested me in front of my colleagues. Of that, I’m in no doubt. That I’ve avoided it by the skin of my teeth is of little comfort.
At the police station, I’m led into a small interview room. The younger officer stays with me, while PC Page disappears for a few minutes. When she comes back, she nods towards him. ‘That’ll be all. The DI’s on his way. When he gets here, can you show him in?’
At the mention of the DI, my heart sinks further. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
Her voice is short. ‘You’ll find out in a few minutes, Ms Rose.’
As she finishes speaking, the door opens and DI Lacey comes in. Looking directly at me, he pulls out a chair and sits down.
‘I still don’t know why you’ve brought me in, Detective Inspector.’
‘Before we go any further, we have one or two more questions about Mr Roche.’ He pauses. ‘From what we’ve learned, it looks as though he subjected Ms Reid to a form of emotional abuse known as gaslighting. Are you aware of what that is?’
I nod. ‘Yes. I’ve had clients who’ve been exposed to it.’
‘So you would recognise it if someone tried it on you? Even though it begins in ways so subtle they’re barely detectable?’
‘I think I would.’ When it comes to relationships, at the first sign of any sociopathic tendencies, I walk away. And usually I spot them a mile off. ‘But I take your point.’
‘You weren’t aware of Mr Roche behaving in this way towards you?’
I frown. ‘I don’t think so. I often felt he had the upper hand – but that was because of the situation. My understanding of emotional abuse is that for all kinds of reasons, some people are more susceptible than others.’
Until now there’s been a kind of mutual respect. But this time, as DI Lacey speaks, I know I have every reason to be very worried. ‘If you require a solicitor, Ms Rose, now might be that time.’
Suddenly I’m rigid, playing for time as he glances at PC Page. ‘We need to question you about the murder of Kimberley Preston. The matter of the herbal potion designed to make her fall out of love with her boyfriend. The boyfriend you wanted for yourself. Except at the last minute, you added a substance that killed her.’
It’s as though every last drop of blood has drained out of me, leaving me lightheaded. ‘I … I’d like to call Bill Merton.’ Even my voice sounds different. ‘I used to work for him. He’s a partner at Dentons – in their Cobham branch.’ Bill’s hardcore, used to defending serious criminals. Once upon a time, he and I had a brief dalliance, one I’ve no wish to resurrect, but right now, he’s my best hope.
Clearly his reputation precedes him. ‘You haven’t been arrested, Ms Rose.’ DI Lacey looks surprised.
Folding my arms, I stand my ground. ‘I have the right.’
‘I’ll see to it.’ Glancing at the DI, PC Page gets up and heads for the door, leaving me alone with him.
‘As I told Ms Reid, the truth always comes out.’ Speaking quietly, he sits back, his eyes resting on my face, as if waiting for me to speak.
I refuse to be drawn. Then I’m thinking of the anonymous letter again – how the police now have both Amy and me. Is this what the writer of the letter wanted? Staring back at DI Lacey, we’re adversaries, our accounts conflicting; suspended in the air between us, the truth.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Two hours pass before Bill arrives, the small room growing stuffier with each passing minute, DI Lacey long replaced by a junior officer. My eyes scan my surroundings, observe every mark on the wall, imagine the conversations that have taken place here. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’
When he goes out, I lean forward, resting my hea
d in my hands. Amy’s cracked. How else could they know about the potion Kimberley took? But I know she’ll have told them her version of events, saying whatever it takes to save her own neck, not caring for a second what will happen to me.
A wave of rage floods over me as I think how her life has been. No-one’s ever disowned Amy, or washed their hands of her. Compared to what I’ve been through, she got off scot-free. If I’m not careful, it will happen again. I’m the only person who can make sure justice is served. Amy deserves to suffer.
When Bill eventually walks in, he looks fraught. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. I got caught in terrible traffic. What’s going on?’
As he sits down, I start talking. ‘It’s unbelievable, Bill. It’s to do with something that happened twenty-three years ago. It’s a long story. I was at my friend’s grandmother’s house in the summer holidays, with her older sister. My friend’s name was Emily. She changed it to Amy subsequently, for reasons which become apparent.’ I go on, telling him what happened and how Emily and I played this prank which went horribly wrong. ‘We were kids, Bill. Emily was hopelessly jealous of her sister. Kimberley was beautiful and had everything Emily wanted – especially her boyfriend. We cooked up an idea to create a love potion, so that Kimberley’s boyfriend might fancy Emily. Childhood games. Her gran had all these bottles and a book of recipes – she dabbled as a herbalist. We cooked up something to make Kimberley fall out of love with her boyfriend. It was supposed to be completely harmless, more of a joke rather than anything serious. But at the last minute, Emily added something extra when my back was turned. It had hemlock in it, I think. Possibly digitalis, too. It killed Kimberley. Bill, it was the most terrible time.’ I break off, as a look of shock crosses Bill’s face. Shaking my head, remembering the events that day, I go on. ‘The police have been talking to Emily about it – or Amy as she is now. She’s told them this cock and bull story about how it was me who added the poison. I’m really worried they believe her.’ Pausing for a moment, I stare at Bill – it’s imperative he believes me. ‘She’s already in a lot of trouble. She was recently charged with the murder of a man.’ I hesitate again, knowing how implausible this is going to sound. ‘The man’s name is Matthew Roche. She was living with him. They were about to get married.’ I look at Bill. ‘The thing is … You couldn’t make this up, Bill. A few months ago, I met Matt in a bar. He told me his relationship with Amy was over and we started seeing each other. The night he disappeared, he was about to tell her he was leaving her – for me.’
The Vow: the gripping new thriller from a bestselling author - guaranteed to keep you up all night! Page 22
