The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘Stop, Mrs Hardy – please stop!’ Lisa buries her face in her hands. ‘I can’t accept your help.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t deserve your help, or anyone else’s for that matter.’ Lisa picks at an imaginary scab on her elbow. ‘I saw them. Together. That afternoon. The day he died.’ Her long-held confession emerges in a series of short sharp sentences. A Morse code of admission. I am too stunned to reply. ‘They were on the green in front of the swimming centre,’ she continues. ‘Smiling, laughing. I was so angry I just ran away.’

  ‘And the police?’ I ask. ‘Afterwards did you tell the police?’

  The look of shame on her face is so manifest that I find myself turning away.

  ‘Just because they were together that day, doesn’t mean she was with him the night he …’

  ‘The night he drowned.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you suspected?’

  ‘I saw her later.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She looked like she was on her way to meet someone.’ Lisa lets out a tiny sob. ‘She was wearing lipstick. She always wore lipstick when we met.’

  I scramble for my phone and show her the screenshot I took of Michael’s text to Diving Fish. Meet me by the water’s edge tonight. ‘They did meet that night, Lisa. The night Michael died, and yet you did nothing about it.’

  Lisa’s expression deepens. ‘I did try to speak to the head teacher.’

  This is becoming more and more unbearable. ‘And what did he say?’

  Lisa’s voice has gone very low and there’s bitterness in every syllable. ‘He told me I was being ridiculous and to mind my own business.’

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. ‘We need to go to the police, Lisa. Right now.’

  ‘I won’t go back there.’ The skin on Lisa’s elbow is now raw and bleeding. ‘Not after the way they treated me.’

  ‘But I’ll be there with you this time.’ I could report this to the police myself hoping that Lisa would be questioned, forced to cooperate. ‘I’ll make sure you get all the support you need. I’ll make sure they listen.’

  Lisa’s eyes look hopeful before quickly fading back into despair. I’m losing her. I must think fast. ‘I know a lawyer in Truro – a friend of my sister’s. I could ring her and arrange for her to come with us.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone else involved,’ says Lisa. ‘And anyway, what good would that do?’

  I take an antiseptic wipe from my bag and pass it to her, watching her gently dab it on her elbow. ‘She’ll make sure you’re taken seriously.’

  Lisa’s face is a fortress. ‘I’m tired. I want to go home.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off if you like.’

  ‘No, Mrs Hardy. I have a car.’

  ‘But what about the police? The sooner we tell them everything, the sooner they can start to investigate?’

  Lisa looks as if she’s about to burst into tears again, but instead takes a gulp of air and steadies herself. ‘You shouldn’t get involved in this, Mrs Hardy. You’ve suffered enough.’

  Somewhere in the distance I hear a door slam and the sound of approaching footsteps.

  ‘That’s the head,’ says Lisa, clearly terrified. ‘You shouldn’t be here – she’ll hit the roof. I’ve already been late twice this month. I can’t get in trouble again.’

  Using the bloody antiseptic wipe, she rubs the mascara from her cheeks, then, jumping up, returns to wiping down the whiteboard. I’m about to suggest going to the police again when we hear the door open.

  ‘Mrs Gannon?’

  The head teacher, a tall willowy blonde in her late forties, is standing in the doorway eyeing both Lisa and me with suspicion.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Drake?’

  ‘You’re aware we don’t encourage parents in the school after four p.m. unless under special circumstances.’ She gives me a polite once-over. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Kate Hardy.’

  She looks momentarily perplexed but, used to the ever-changing nature of the modern nuclear family, she smiles. ‘And your child is?’

  ‘Mrs Hardy isn’t a parent.’ Lisa puts down the whiteboard eraser and I can see that her fingertips are stained with red marker. ‘She’s the mother of one of my former classmates.’

  Mrs Drake arches a perfectly threaded eyebrow.

  ‘My son, Michael, attended Edgecombe Hall School with Lisa.’ I’m eager to keep her from getting into any further trouble, at least until I can get some answers out of her. ‘He passed away a few years ago. The anniversary was only last week. I just came to see Lisa to ask her a few questions about Michael’s time at Edgecombe.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Hardy, I truly am, but we have a strict safeguarding policy here at St Michael’s.’ She frowns slightly, clearly irritated at a possible transgression. ‘Rule number one is that no unauthorised persons are allowed into the school without prior permission. Mrs Gannon is aware of that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Drake.’

  ‘Please don’t blame Lisa,’ I say, feeling that automatic response to fight for the underdog. ‘I did try to find someone at the front desk but there was no one.’

  ‘That should not have happened,’ the head teacher says with barely contained fury, ‘but that still doesn’t excuse—’

  ‘She was only trying to help,’ I interrupt, ‘and she did ask me to leave, but I’m afraid I just needed to talk.’

  The head teacher’s stern composure softens. ‘Of course, and I am sorry. It would be more appropriate, however, if you met outside school.’

  ‘I understand. It won’t happen again.’ I get up and turn to Lisa, who is standing by the whiteboard, wide-eyed and mute. ‘Lisa and I were just going anyway, weren’t we?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a word with Mrs Gannon first,’ says the head teacher, now restored to stern mode. ‘We may be a little while.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  Her nostrils flare. ‘Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Why don’t you leave me your mobile number?’ says Lisa, attempting to sound calm, but clearly in a state of panic. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I’m done.’

  I am reluctant to leave now that I have found her. It’s clear, however, that I have no choice.

  ‘Of course.’ I rummage through my bag for a pen and paper, write down my details on a Post-it note and hand it to Lisa.

  ‘My office, Mrs Gannon,’ says the head teacher, and, leaving the classroom, adds sharply: ‘Straight away please.’

  Lisa’s complexion turns ashen, and when she speaks her voice sounds childlike. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What about the police?’ I try not to sound too demanding, threatening. ‘Shall I wait for you somewhere?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ says Lisa impatiently. ‘Meet me at four at the QE Cafe on Godolphin Street. We’ll talk then.’

  ‘And you’ll come to the station with me? Tell them everything?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lisa snaps, ‘I’ll come to the police station with you!’

  As she turns to leave, I step in front of her, blocking her way. There is still one more thing I need to know. ‘You never told me about Diving Fish.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  I don’t move. ‘Who is she?’

  From the hallway comes the muted voice of Mrs Drake. ‘Mrs Gannon – now, please?’

  Lisa, pale-faced and humming with anxiety, turns back to the desk. I watch as she searches through my papers, pushing aside the police and coroner’s report until she finally finds what she’s looking for. She picks up the photograph of her, Michael, and their swimming coach sitting together at the Edgecombe Hall fundraising event and thrusts it at me. ‘You already have your answer,’ she says. Gone is the frightened, panicked expression, replaced momentarily by one of power and control. Grabbing her planner, she speeds from the classroom towards the head teacher’s office, calling back to me, �
�I’m sure you can see yourself out.’

  19

  My meeting with Lisa has been both astounding and perplexing, providing me with far more questions than answers. I should go straight to the police, but I’m not sure how to explain what she told me, or even what it means. Was Diving Fish someone in Michael’s year? Or a sixth former? Or someone else, someone older? I find myself struggling with Michael’s version compared with Lisa’s. In his diary he describes his lover as beautiful, loving, sensual; there’s no indication of manipulation or abuse. Yes, there were comments about things getting nasty when he wanted to go public with their relationship, but that’s hardly on the scale of what Lisa described. What exactly is the truth, and who’s telling it? A vulnerable young woman, or my dead son?

  I give myself a shake for letting my imagination run away with me. Conscious of the long drive home, I stop for a coffee and something to eat. I can’t stop myself from returning to the photograph. What did Lisa mean when she pointed to the image? You already have your answer. Was it someone on the scholarship committee, or at the meeting where they were photographed together? What about Susan O’Neill, the sullen-looking swimming coach sitting on Michael’s left? Could she have been Michael’s lover?

  The more I find out, the less it makes sense. Unable to contain my curiosity or impatience any longer, I decide that there is still one more thing I can try and do before my meeting with Lisa tomorrow. Something that might just help us when we go to the police.

  I make a quick phone call, and then drive the twenty-three miles to Falmouth, making it to the bank just before closing time. It’s half past five when I arrive at the Old Wheel. Siobhan is already waiting.

  ‘Mrs Hardy.’

  ‘Why don’t we go outside?’ I lead Siobhan around the back to the beer garden. She looks nervous – but even more than that, she looks hugely curious.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I say, finding a table under a large chestnut tree.

  ‘I can’t stay long.’

  ‘You won’t need to.’ I reach into my bag, remove a white envelope, and slide it across the table.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I told you I’d make it worth your while to meet with me. Open it.’

  Siobhan glances around and then, slipping a manicured fingernail between the seal, gently rips open the envelope. My eyes never leave her face. At first, she seems confused, uncertain; but slowly understanding dawns. I watch in satisfaction as she counts the notes.

  ‘There must be at least five hundred quid here,’ she whispers, finally daring to make eye contact.

  I smile, confident she is mine. ‘Five hundred pounds now,’ I say, ‘and another five hundred when you deliver to me a copy of Susan O’Neill’s HR file.’

  ‘The old swimming coach?’ Siobhan gives a chortle of disbelief. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘Just a photocopy. Or screenshots,’ I confirm. ‘Whatever’s easier.’

  ‘But it’s against the law.’

  I can see her struggling with her conscience; but not too hard.

  ‘It’ll just be between you and me. No one else needs to know.’

  We leave the pub without speaking. I watch as Siobhan slips the envelope into her handbag and clips it shut with a heartening determination.

  ‘I’ll just pop back and say I left my mobile in the office,’ she says, sliding elegantly into the front seat of her Fiat. ‘The hall porter won’t care. He’ll be too busy watching online porn. I’ll be back here in an hour. Wait for me in the car park.’

  I drive a few miles west and, spotting a lay-by with a scenic view, spend the next hour gazing out at the sea. For so long, I’ve doubted myself: first as a daughter, then as a mother, and most recently during my marriage to Adam. Now, however, I feel a new and fresh power in my bones; a vitality and assurance that I have never experienced before. I check my mobile. Siobhan was supposed to text me when she was ready to meet. It’s nearly seven and I still haven’t heard anything. Has she lost her nerve?

  I hear a ping and, checking my messages, smile and start the engine. I might just make a decent private detective after all.

  Pulling into the pub car park, I quickly spot the Fiat. Siobhan steps out of the car, an A4-sized envelope in her hand. I feel my heart soar. I’m getting closer.

  ‘It was as easy as could be,’ she says, handing me the envelope. ‘The porter couldn’t have cared less, and I know most of the CCTV cameras don’t work because of the shit electrics in the older buildings.’ She tuts self-righteously. ‘If only the parents who fork out thirty-five grand a year knew what really went on.’ I hand Siobhan a second white envelope. She slips it into her handbag without bothering to examine the contents. ‘I think it might be best, Mrs Hardy, if you don’t contact me again.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, surprised but impressed.

  Without another word Siobhan gets into her car and drives off, the glint of excitement at the prospect of six months in Australia still in her eyes.

  20

  I sit in my car, the white A4 envelope on my lap. Inside are photocopied pages of Susan O’Neill’s job description, health questionnaire and permanent contract with Edgecombe Hall School and Sixth Form College. I scan the pages. She had been twenty-six and at Edgecombe for nearly three years when Michael started. She had had an exemplary record. Few absences; comments on her great rapport with her students; accolades from her peers. The woman was a saint. I continue searching through her peer reviews and teaching observations, and I am just about to give up when I spot it.

  A document, dated just a week after Michael’s death, signed by the Head of HR agreeing to Susan O’Neill ending her contract early without giving the standard term’s notice. Her last day of employment was less than a month after Michael died.

  I examine the documents for any indication of where she might be living now. The address listed is a staff flat on the school grounds. Clearly, she would have had to give that up when she left. The mobile number given is different to the one on Michael’s pay-as-you-go phone. I won’t be surprised if that one is dead too. There is no forwarding address, no next of kin. It appears that Susan O’Neill has disappeared without a trace.

  Sleep that night is elusive: a wave that drifts in, hovers, then just as quickly withdraws. Tired of watching the shifting shadows, I get up and make myself a cup of tea and then spread all the documents out on the bedroom floor in front of me. The HR files; the photograph; my research documents from home. I turn on the laptop and log into my emails, scrolling through the messages I received from Michael before his death. There are a few initial ones reporting on the school’s poor catering and lack of central heating, but after that he seems to have settled in well. He wrote of his housemates in their special boarding house for elite swimmers; their quirks and eccentricities: My roommate likes peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches! and of the rigorous training regime: ball busting! There are two mentions of his introduction to writing poetry as part of his English GCSE: I always thought I hated poetry, but I guess it’s sort of okay after all, and then a little later, something more subtle, more private. I actually kind of like writing poetry.

  ‘He seemed happy,’ I mutter. I scroll through the pictures saved on his laptop, but there’s nothing to connect him to Lisa or Diving Fish, not even the photo from the scholarship meeting. In an age where young people keep a digital record of almost every aspect of their lives – Michael had countless photographs of him and his mates doing nothing – I am surprised that there is so little evidence.

  I do yet another Google search on Susan O’Neill. Aside from a few postings from Edgecombe Hall about her coaching successes and something about a creative arts club, there’s nothing. I check the time and wish away the hours until I can take Lisa to the police station and expose the truth about Michael’s death once and for all. I am tempted to call Grace and tell her about my meeting with Lisa: tell her that I, the hysterical, grief-stricken fantasist, have been right all along. I make my way to Mic
hael’s bedroom, eager for tomorrow to begin.

  I wake to a chaos of paperwork all around me. It’s another stormy day, but nothing can deaden the feeling of triumph I hold in my heart. I shower, eat a proper breakfast, and spend the rest of the morning tidying the house. I dust, hoover, and after cleaning the fridge and wiping down the kitchen surfaces, pour the last of the vodka and red wine down the sink. Finally, I collect my papers, reports, photos, the diary and the burner phone, and leave.

  The drive to Helston seems interminable; every red light and section of roadworks is a personal affront. Eventually I make it to Godolphin Street and the café where Lisa and I have agreed to meet at four. I check my phone. It is ten past three. I order a coffee and find a table near the window: I want Lisa to be able to see me when she arrives. The street life outside the café ebbs and flows; a dribble of construction workers popping in for takeaway coffees and cakes, a stream of young mums passing on their way to the school pick up, and again on their way home. I order another coffee, and then a sparkling water, before finally checking the time. It is nearly twenty past four. Probably just tidying up or waiting for a late parent.

  ‘Excuse me,’ calls the sullen-faced waitress. ‘We close at half-past.’

  I leave the café and walk straight to the school. I’m just turning the corner when I spot the first police car. It’s parked near the front entrance. A second is parked in a lay-by opposite. I slowly make my way through the school gates and into a nightmare.

  The tiny entrance is crowded with people. By the plastic ID badges dangling from their necks, I can see that they’re all school staff or police officers. A middle-aged woman, clearly the school receptionist, is sitting at her desk weeping. Next to her a female officer makes a feeble attempt to try and comfort her. Other staff members appear shocked and uncertain, and I hear someone whisper, ‘I just can’t believe it.’ I’m about to step forward and ask for Lisa when I see the head teacher, clearly distraught, emerging from her office, and being escorted by an overweight man in a poorly fitting suit. Spotting me, she grabs the man’s arm and points animatedly in my direction. For some reason I have an overpowering urge to run, but I resist the impulse and wait for them to approach.