Today the house looked neutral and impassive in its whiteness. All the curtains were closed. Heavy, thick folds of material hung at every window. Simon imagined the dozens – he didn’t think that was an exaggeration – of dark, mainly empty rooms that he couldn’t see. Outside there was bright sunshine. The one remaining inhabitant of The Elms had chosen to refuse admission to the brightness of the day.
Simon had volunteered to talk to David Fancourt. He’d said he thought Fancourt might find it easier to deal with a man. Charlie had agreed, after some persuasion. If she was aware of Simon’s ulterior motive, she gave no indication of it. The truth was, he wanted – more than wanted – to go back to The Elms one more time before he spoke to Alice. He needed to see the house she’d come to regard as her prison, to feel that grand, suffocating stillness that he’d had only an inkling of on his first visit. Maybe then he’d understand why Alice had done what she’d done. Maybe then he wouldn’t be quite so angry with her.
It had been such a shock, seeing her alive. And her appearance . . . she looked as if she had deliberately dressed up as Charlie. Simon had been so repulsed both by the idea and the reality of this that he had been unable to move at first. Only when he heard Charlie yell did he rouse himself to drag Vivienne off Alice, and he only managed it with The Snowman’s help. He could easily have been too late.
Simon knew he ought to be relieved that Alice was alive, but all he felt was a biting fear. He had imagined, in her absence, that he wanted some sort of relationship with her. The old Alice, the one who looked nothing like his sergeant. But perhaps that person, the one he thought he had seen that day at the top of the stairs, no longer existed. Maybe she never had. And even if Simon could somehow find her, he knew his insecurities and hang-ups would ruin everything.
That and what he now knew about her. There was only one way in which you could know a person, Simon decided. Observe his or her actions, and make inferences accordingly. Instead of focusing on the sort of person he believed Alice was and trying to predict how she would behave, he should have worked backwards from the facts. What must she have done? Therefore what sort of person is she?
Perhaps it would be better never to get close to anyone. Other people intruded too far into one’s psyche. They asked too many difficult questions. Simon, are you a virgin?
He was aware of feeling angry, but it wasn’t the boiling rage he was used to. This was a cold, stodgy disillusionment that had settled like a lump of lead in his stomach. For once, he didn’t want to hit and punch and spit until he got it out of his system. He didn’t want to rush into action of any kind. This new feeling had to be hidden, nurtured. It was proud, and complicated, and wouldn’t be hurried. It required dwelling on. Simon didn’t know if it was Alice or Charlie or both who had made him feel like this. All he knew was that he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts for the time being.
David Fancourt opened the door, just as Simon was about to press the bell for the third time. ‘You,’ he said. He was wearing maroon paisley pyjamas and a brown towelling robe. Stubble darkened his face, and his eyes were red and watery.
‘Is now a good time?’
Fancourt laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t think there’s much point waiting for one of those. You might as well come in now.’ Simon followed him through to the kitchen and sat down. This was the chair I sat in last time, he thought, the same chair. Fancourt sat across from him.
The inside of the house was very different now. Dirty plates and cups littered every surface. Rubbish had spilled out of the overflowing bin on to the floor. In the hall Simon had spotted a scuffed pile of newspapers that looked as if they had been kicked around by someone in muddy boots. ‘You don’t seem to be coping very well on your own,’ he said. He felt sorry for the man. Fancourt couldn’t handle the knowledge that his mother was a murderer. When Charlie had told him, he’d not said a word, apparently. He’d just stared at her. ‘You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Wouldn’t you rather be with your son?’
Fancourt scowled. ‘Felix is better off without me,’ he said.
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s better that way.’
Simon lowered his head, trying to make eye contact. ‘Mr Fancourt, you’ve done nothing wrong. You shouldn’t feel guilty for something your mother did.’
‘I should have known. The night Laura was killed, I should have known that story was nonsense.’
‘What story?’
‘About Laura asking Mum to have Felix overnight so that she could go to a club. She’d never have done that. She couldn’t stand Mum. I always thought it was a bit strange, but . . . I was too stupid to work out the truth.’
‘You weren’t stupid. No son would suspect his mother of murder. In your shoes, I wouldn’t have done.’
‘I’m sure you would. Simon.’ Fancourt flashed an exaggerated mock-smile at him.
‘About Felix coming home . . . maybe you’ll feel differently in a few days.’
‘I won’t.’
Simon sighed. Now was perhaps not the best time to assail the poor man with new information, but he needed to know. The test results were back. There was no excuse for not telling him. And, depressed and apathetic as Fancourt seemed, there was no indication that he was delusional or in any way unstable. Anyone would be depressed in his situation. Simon thought his reaction was entirely normal. Maybe he was even right about leaving Felix with Maggie and Roger Cryer. It was better for the boy to be in a stable family environment while his father recuperated.
Simon felt guilty for having thought so badly of Fancourt, whose only crime, as far as he could see, was abrasiveness, irritability under pressure. And for that, and because of his own jealousy, Simon had hated him, slandered him. He owed it to him now to tell him the truth. If anything would jolt Fancourt out of his torpor, this news would.
‘We’ve found your daughter,’ Simon said gently. ‘We’ve found Florence.’
Fancourt looked at him, finally. The expression on his face was unmistakable: boredom. ‘I don’t want her here either. Give her to Alice.’
‘But . . .’
‘Alice is a good mother. I’m not a good anything. I won’t change my mind.’
‘I feel as if I owe you an apology, Mr Fancourt.’
‘I’ve got what I’m owed. What goes around comes around, as they say.’
Simon couldn’t understand the man. Wasn’t he going to fight for his wife and daughter, for the chance to be happy? Whether Fancourt was interested or not, Simon had to say what he’d come to say. He decided to proceed with his planned speech. ‘We found Alice and the baby in the home of Briony Morris, Alice’s friend from work. After the . . . business at the health club, we arranged for tests to be done on both of them.’
No reaction from Fancourt.
‘There was a match,’ Simon continued. ‘The baby Alice took from here on Friday 3 October was her daughter.’ He sighed, shaking his head. He wished he could feel even a fraction of Fancourt’s indifference, assuming it was genuine. ‘There was only ever one baby, Mr Fancourt. Mr Fancourt? David? Do you understand what I’m saying? There has only ever been one baby. There has only ever been Florence.’
David Fancourt yawned. ‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ he said. ‘I’ve known it all along.’
43
Tuesday October 14, 2003
Simon sits across the room from me in Briony’s long, narrow lounge. Briony sits beside him on the sofa. I’m glad she’s here. The redecoration process is still far from complete, so the furniture is all covered in white sheets. I feel as if our surroundings are a stage set, not a real place.
And the combination of the three of us is odd, jarring. Though I am grateful for Briony’s presence – and I sense Simon is too, because this exchange might otherwise be too awkward – there is a connection between me and Simon, a connection of understanding, from which Briony is excluded. Her company will force us both to play roles for a little while longer.
&nb
sp; I can see that he knows. When he arrived, the three of us moved hesitantly, suspiciously, around the room like nervous lions who could not see their prey clearly enough to pounce on it. Briony didn’t ask Simon to sit down; she forgot her manners in her eagerness to discover Florence’s whereabouts. It was Simon who suggested sitting down. I was glad he did. He had news, he said. I needed to be still before he spoke. No amount of preparation for a moment like this can ever be adequate. But then, there aren’t many moments like this in the average lifetime. For most people, there are none.
Simon waited until I had settled myself in a chair. Then he told us. There was – is – only one baby. The baby I took from The Elms on Friday 3 October is my daughter. Little Face is Florence. He expressed himself in all these different ways, one after the other, as if he were making three separate points. Briony might have wondered why he was repeating himself, but I knew what he was trying to say: that there is no way of looking at this situation, no way of phrasing it, that allows for the existence of an alternative perspective. For my benefit and Briony’s, Simon was determined to round up all the ambiguity at the margins and drag it out into the open, where it could be illuminated by the cold spotlight of his factual approach.
And now we’re all sitting here in silence, as if someone has cut out our tongues. It won’t last for ever. Someone will break the silence. Not me. Maybe that’s part of Briony’s role: to speak when Simon and I can’t.
‘What are you saying?’ she asks eventually. ‘The baby upstairs is Florence? Little Face is Florence?’
They let her come back to us, straight after the DNA test. I was still recovering in hospital from Vivienne’s attack, and they brought Little Face back here, to Briony. I was amazed. I’d assumed they would take her straight to David. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes,’ says Simon with equal force. ‘The DNA test proved it beyond doubt.’
‘A DNA test proved beyond doubt that Darryl Beer murdered Laura. And now we know he didn’t.’
‘I’m not wasting my time answering that. You know the difference.’
‘It must be a mistake,’ I say. ‘I’d know. She’s my daughter. I’d know.’ I slump in my chair. My lower lip is trembling. I try to still it by clamping it in place with my teeth. I must look like a truly mad person. There would be a certain amount of relief in being truly mad. No-one could hold you accountable for anything.
Briony has crossed the room and is leaning over me. ‘Alice, are you okay? Don’t worry, all right? We’ll sort out this . . . misunderstanding. Of course those tests can be wrong. And the police – no offence . . .’ – she glanced at Simon – ‘. . . but they’ve got pretty much everything wrong so far . . .’
‘I don’t know which police you’re talking about, but it’s not me,’ says Simon, with a voice like stone. ‘Me, I only got one thing wrong. Pretty seriously wrong, as it turns out.’
I do not like the sound of that – his voice, his words. I can imagine him being unforgiving. Because he tried so hard, in his own hesitant way, to save me. Haven’t I learned from living with David that sadism can be the flip side of chivalry, when the object of one’s attention slides off her pedestal somehow?
‘Little Face is my daughter. I swear she is,’ I whisper. I need water. My throat is so dry that soon it will be sore.
‘That’s what he’s saying,’ Briony murmurs, her hand on my shoulder.
‘No, I mean Florence. Florence is my daughter.’
‘I need to talk to Alice on her own,’ says Simon.
‘I need a glass of water,’ I say, but nobody hears me.
‘I’m not sure now’s . . .’ Briony starts to protest. She doesn’t want Simon to put any pressure on me. She’s afraid my mind won’t be able to take it.
‘Now,’ he insists.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’m all right. Honestly, Briony. I’ll be fine. You go upstairs and check on the baby.’
She looks unconvinced but she leaves the room. Slowly. She is a good friend.
Once she’s gone, I look at Simon. He stares back at me with blank eyes. His fierce determination seems to have left the room with Briony. A few moments ago I was slightly afraid of his anger. Now I feel as if we will never reach one another, either in rage or in understanding. I am as cut off from him as if there were a glass screen between us. It’s funny: when Briony was here, I imagined that she was the only thing standing in the way. Obviously not.
‘Good performance,’ says Simon. ‘Excellent, in fact.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘How are you feeling? After . . . you know. Actually . . . that’s none of my business. We should talk about Laura Cryer. I need a statement from you.’
‘Simon, what do you mean? What performance?’
He makes a point of not hearing me. I can’t say I blame him. I should try to talk to him properly, as I’ve imagined doing many times. But in my fantasies it has never been like this, with Simon so stony and remote. I am hurt. I suppose this is a good sign. After everything I have been through, I can still feel normal emotions. My heart has not shut down completely.
‘You knew Vivienne had killed Laura. Let’s start there,’ Simon says dispassionately, writing in his notebook. ‘When did you know?’
He isn’t ready to talk about Little Face. I’m not sure I am either.
‘The business with the school: when did you think of that?’
‘When I was pregnant. I didn’t exactly know, not at first. I had a sense of it. I felt it. Haven’t you ever felt the presence of danger?’
But Simon is determined to tell the story his way. ‘You were happy to be under Vivienne’s wing until you got pregnant. Then her attitude to you changed.’ He looks up, acknowledging for the first time that we are partners in this dialogue. ‘Didn’t it?’ he says.
Something inside me wilts. His manner is so matter-of-fact. It suggests that whatever I might have suffered is pretty much irrelevant. Yes, Vivienne’s behaviour towards me changed. Suddenly she was no longer my fierce, benevolent protector. I had something she wanted more, far more, than she had ever wanted me. I was just the carrier. She started to monitor what I ate. She stopped me going out. I wasn’t allowed in pubs, or to drink a glass of wine with a meal.
‘I saw that she was determined to control every aspect of Florence’s life. I guessed that it must have been the same for Laura. Until then, I’d always believed David, that Laura was an unreasonable dictator who wouldn’t let anyone near Felix.’ I shake my head. ‘I was stupid and naive. Vivienne wanted to own Felix, and Laura wouldn’t stand for it. Once I’d worked that out, I couldn’t believe that Laura dying had nothing to do with it. And my pregnancy . . . When you’re pregnant, all your perceptions are sharper, more extreme. Sometimes irrational. At first I wondered if perhaps I was magnifying the feeling I had that Florence and I were in danger, but . . . my instinct, it was so strong. It wouldn’t go away.’
Simon frowns. I get the impression that subtleties make him impatient, unless they are his own.
‘Vivienne made a mistake,’ I tell him. ‘When she put Florence’s name down for Stanley Sidgwick, when I was five months pregnant. She never should have told me about the long waiting list. She must have thought I was too stupid to wonder about Felix. Not that she’d ever have imagined I’d have turned against her. I was her devoted disciple.’
‘Vivienne’s proud of what she did,’ says Simon. ‘She’s trying to turn her guilt to her advantage. She seems determined to use her situation as some sort of platform, championing grandparents’ rights.’
‘She’s not sane. Isn’t she, technically, a psychopath?’ A woman like Vivienne Fancourt is beyond my psychological training and experience. That Florence and I inhabit the world alongside her is a truth I find difficult to absorb.
‘She’ll probably get lots of media attention.’
He is trying to get at me. When he talks about Vivienne’s hypothetical future publicity, he sounds almost boastf
ul. I want to ask him if he is certain that Vivienne will stay in prison until she dies, but I am afraid he would use such an enquiry as another opportunity to hurt me. ‘You’re annoyed with me. For wasting police time.’
‘Annoyed?’ He laughs without a trace of warmth. ‘No. I’m annoyed when I get stuck in a traffic jam. I’m annoyed when I spill coffee on a clean shirt.’
‘How could I have told you, Simon? I couldn’t risk it. What if you’d alerted her to the fact that I was suspicious? I’d have ended up like Laura.’ I shiver, remembering Waterfront, the water sealing shut above my head, pressing down on me.
I was desperate to tell Simon, from the second I met him. By then I’d given up on the idea that I would ever be able to tell my own husband. How I wished I could talk honestly to David, after Briony had phoned the school. But he would never have listened. In his eyes, Vivienne could do no wrong. He thought she was supportive while I was pregnant. He kept saying how grateful we both should be, and all the time I was feeling more and more used, more and more incarcerated.
Poor David. I know how shattered he must be. I feel sorry for the person he might have been, had things turned out differently, for the potential he once had, the six-year-old boy abandoned by his father, who had to love his mother, whoever she was, because she was the only parent he had. David needed to believe in his version of Vivienne, and I can’t really blame him for that.
I must try not to think about him. I want to have a boiling hot bath, to wash his taint off me, but I know that the damage he has done cannot be so easily erased. I don’t even care that he’s ruined any faith I had in the idea of permanent love between a husband and a wife. I have no desire to marry again. The tragedy is that David has destroyed my faith in myself. It turns out that I was stupid to love him, stupid to marry him. In the past week, I have had my nose rubbed in that stupidity so often that part of me believes I deserved what I got.
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