by Casey Watson
I couldn’t help but sigh, too. This was a mother and daughter who clearly loved each other very much, and it just didn’t seem right that they might be separated for years to come. Could that really happen?
Get real, Casey, I thought. Of course it could. And, in truth, I didn’t know how to feel. Deep down I understood that, whatever the circumstances, violence – particularly such devastating violence that it almost killed a man – was wrong and needed to be punished according to the law. But, on the other hand, maybe Laura had been driven to a point where she completely lost control. Surely that would mean she couldn’t be held fully responsible? Surely they couldn’t convict her for attempted murder in that case? Surely they’d see it was self-defence, and, hopefully, acquit her? I didn’t know – I didn’t know the first thing about Laura Daniels, truth be told – but in my heart, whatever the legal outcome or the facts of her relationship with her partner, I somehow knew that this woman loved her daughter passionately. And their love, whatever happened, would endure.
In the short term, however, the counselling session didn’t look like adding weight to Laura Daniels’s cause. Once they’d finished, Bella went up to her room to attack some new schoolwork her school had sent in the post, so we could deal with the ‘boring admin bits’, as I put it.
‘It was all very affable,’ Katie said, once Bella was safely upstairs. ‘She was a great deal more talkative than I’d expected, too.’
I explained that Bella was at least coming along well in that regard. ‘But she said nothing of substance?’
Katie shook her head. ‘I felt she was trying to please me,’ she said. ‘As if she knew what was required of her, but had already made her mind up that she had nothing to say to me. I believe she’s been much the same in all her previous interviews. She spoke happily enough on safe topics: missing school, the upcoming wedding – congratulations to your daughter, by the way, you must be so excited! And how she enjoys playing with your little granddaughter, too, all of which seemed very genuine. But when I mentioned how much she must miss her mum, it was as if a shutter went down. Either that, or you have a lot of exciting goings-on just outside your living-room window. Has she opened up to you at all?’
I shook my head. ‘She’s just written a letter to her mum, at least, so that’s good. And we heard about the visiting order just before you arrived, of course, which seemed to cheer her up no end.’
‘Well, that was something she didn’t even mention,’ she said. ‘So it’s clear how it is. Still, it’s only early days. At least we’ve met each other. It could all be different next time. When’s she going?’
I didn’t know, and said so, but in truth it wouldn’t have been appropriate to say so even if I did. Though we were working together when it came to Bella, a counsellor such as Katie was a ‘bought-in’ service, so it would have been going against protocol to reveal anything to her that she didn’t already know. It might seem silly, but with a serious court case ongoing, and several lives in the balance, protocol was king.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it looks like we might be in for the long haul with this one, doesn’t it? So, early days. I’ll speak to Sophie and hopefully see you again soon.’
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it’s good for her, even if it doesn’t produce anything her mother’s defence lawyers can use.’
Katie frowned as she put on her coat. ‘Well, you know my limitations in that regard, Casey. If Bella’s made her mind up she’s not going to say a single word about it, I’m the last person who’s in a position to try and make her. Though, in truth, in my admittedly short acquaintance with that young lady, I suspect there won’t be anyone who can.’
I thought she was probably right.
Chapter 8
The prospect of finally seeing her mum transformed Bella. Not in the sense that it blew her cares away or made her excited – she was, if anything, extremely nervous about the impending trip – but it made her talk so much more than ever before.
Where she’d been adamant she had nothing to say about the incident to Katie or Sophie (and still was), within the sanctuary of the family it appeared we had finally gained her trust, because she talked at length about anything and everything – just as long as it wasn’t about the thing, of course.
She fixated particularly about what she should wear. So on the Monday, after Mike had gone to work and Tyler had left for school, I took her into town and we chose a special outfit for her – a demure plum-coloured dress (even slightly old-fashioned, to my mind), and a pair of suede ankle boots to go with it. ‘I can’t believe someone gives you money so I can have these things,’ she kept saying, when I explained that there was an allowance to make sure she had what she needed. ‘Why? Why do I deserve them when so many children have nothing of their own? It doesn’t make sense.’
I could have wept to think she truly believed she didn’t deserve them. She, who had so little – and I wasn’t thinking about material things, of course – and who was on the brink, perhaps, of losing even that.
On the Wednesday morning she was up early, washing her hair; we’d agreed that, again, once we had the house to ourselves I would do her hair for her with my ‘posh’ curling tongs.
‘Mum won’t recognise me,’ she said, swishing her curls back and forth, smiling – even sounding happy, almost.
But it was fleeting. She was sad again, in an instant. ‘I wonder what she’ll look like,’ she said, looking at me, wide-eyed, through the hand mirror. ‘I’m a bit scared to see her, Casey.’
I switched the tongs off and bent to kiss the top of her head.
‘Of course you are, sweetheart,’ I told her. ‘Who wouldn’t be? And you’re right to prepare yourself, because she probably will look different.’
‘And in some horrible prison uniform, probably. I’ve seen them on TV.’
I shook my head. I was able to do so with confidence, having at least been able to establish that the prison where Laura Daniels was being kept was one with an own clothes policy. I wondered who’d taken charge of going to fetch those clothes for her. What, if anything, was currently happening at her home? Not to mention whether there’d be a chance to get more of Bella’s things, should she want them – something I’d avoided discussing or even raising with Bella, since it would send such a strong message that her stay with us could be lengthy, and the spectre of her mum being found guilty.
‘No uniform,’ I told her. ‘No ball and chain either, so don’t worry. You know, you’ve never really told me what your mum looks like,’ I went on. ‘Has she got the same beautiful blonde hair as you?’
‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘But she has to have her roots done. I take after my gran. Her gran was from Norway. She was a lady Viking.’
‘Is that so?’ I said, pleased and surprised by this observation. And also biting back my natural inclination to probe further – because this would be the gran into whose care she refused to be sent, and who, up to now, Bella had yet to even mention. It had been almost three weeks now, as well, since Bella had been with us, and not a word of communication from her grandmother either. Why hadn’t she written to her granddaughter? Surely it would be the first thing she’d do? I made a mental note to suggest to Bella that she write to her gran, when she returned. I didn’t know the circumstances and it would be wrong to second-guess them, but with the ordeal of a trial ahead, surely whatever bridges could be built should be? And she spoke about her gran now without rancour. Why was she so adamant she didn’t want to go there?
‘And you look like a princess,’ I told her. ‘There. You’re done. Give us a twirl. Yes, you’ll do.’ I pulled the plug out of the wall. ‘Don’t want your mum thinking we’re not taking care of you, do we?’
Which made her tears well up again, and I cursed myself – she was on such an emotional knife-edge – but she sniffed them back stoutly – crossly, even – and shook her head. ‘No crying,’ she said. ‘Mum needs me to be strong for her.’
‘Indeed she does,�
� I agreed.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Tyler told me. It’s so sad about his mum, isn’t it? I mean, his dead mum. Not you. He said we could maybe go and visit her grave one day. Did he tell you?’
I shook my head. ‘But we can. If you’d like to.’
It seemed a strange kind of outing, but, then again, maybe not. Tyler’s sense of self owed so much to the belief – which we’d always encouraged – that the best way for him to keep her close to his heart was to become the man she would have wanted him to be. I wondered what else the two of them had discussed. Bella smoothed her hands down her dress front. Matter of fact. Back in control. ‘I think he’d like me to.’
‘Then we’ll go,’ I said. ‘Come on, princess. Let’s get you downstairs. Sophie will be here any minute.’
Laura Daniels was being kept in a women’s prison over a hundred miles away, so it would be a lengthy, four-hours-plus round trip, even in the sleek BMW.
We didn’t linger on the doorstep as it was bitterly cold. I took Bella out to the car, wrapped up warmly in her thick winter coat, and she strapped herself into the front seat. At twelve she was deemed old enough to sit next to Sophie, and as they drove away I could see they were already chatting. I wondered if anything of consequence or of use to Bella’s mum might be said. I hoped so.
I was just turning to go back in, to make a start on the housework, when I saw the postie round the corner of our street. He’d been with us for years now – he’d been doing the round since before we’d moved in, and as I recalled that he and his wife had gone on some sort of northern lights cruise over the holidays (a lifelong ambition) I was keen to hear how it had gone.
He waved – he probably had some post for me – and I waved back, so to be sociable I waited, rubbing my hands up and down my upper arms to keep them warm, while he delivered post to the two houses before me.
‘At least it’s not snowing,’ he said, as he headed up our path. It was always some variant of the same cheery sentiment. If it was gloomy he’d be pleased that at least it wasn’t raining, if blowing a gale, at least it wasn’t a tornado, and if raining at least it wasn’t a monsoon. I wondered what kind of positive spin he’d put on it if he was delivering post in an Arctic blizzard. But I didn’t doubt he would.
‘I wouldn’t mind some snow,’ I told him. ‘Cheer the place up a bit. So, how was it?’
‘Bloody parky!’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold. Me! Feeling the cold. Would you credit it? But it was in-cred-ible,’ he enthused, then spent what was obviously an enjoyable five minutes telling me all about it, while the cold January air whistled round my dressing gown and made it billow round my legs.
I agreed that Mike and I would put it on our bucket list as I took the post from him, and it wasn’t till I was back indoors and riffling through the half dozen depressing post-Christmas bills that I realised one of them was hand-addressed – these days a rarity – and, moreover, in an unfamiliar hand.
The envelope was cream, the handwriting sprawling and slightly childish, and moreover it was addressed just to ‘Mrs Watson’, and minus a house number or a postcode.
Which was odd in itself, I thought, as I lifted the kettle, felt the weight, put it back and slapped the switch on. But perhaps it was from one of my former pupils, I reasoned. I’d spent a few years working as a behaviour manager at the local comprehensive, and I got the odd letter from my former charges from time to time.
Which would be nice, I thought, making my coffee and sneaking one of the remaining chocolate biscuits, before settling down at the kitchen table to have a read.
As letters went, it was already something of a disappointment when I pulled it from the envelope, which had obviously been deceptively thick. It was a single sheet, with writing on only one side, the inside. I unfolded it, and started to read.
Mrs Watson
You don’t know me, but I know you have Bella Daniels living with you, and I’m a concerned citizen. [Concerned citizen? What did that mean when it was at home?] I don’t know what you have been told, but I’ve heard that you are making waves and jumping to conclusions about what happened with her parents. I say parents, but actually, Adam is only a stepfather, a very good one I should add!
What? I thought. Making waves? Jumping to conclusions? Since when? I read on:
I suggest that you step away from this and keep your nose out. You have no idea what really went on that night and what led to it. Ms Daniels (Laura) isn’t as innocent as she would have people believe and there are two sides to every story. I suggest you take my advice very seriously!
Yours, a concerned citizen. [Again.]
To say I was gobsmacked would be an accurate description of my expression when I finished reading, as I was definitely open-mouthed. What a cheek! And who was this? A neighbour of Bella’s parents? The outspoken Mrs Murphy? A friend?
I picked up the envelope again, a worm of anxiety growing. It was correctly addressed, in terms of the road at least, and bore a festive Christmas stamp. Whoever it was knew where we lived. Knew where Bella was, which was worrying in the extreme.
I needed to get straight on the phone and ring John Fulshaw. I had to report this as, no matter how you tried to dress it up, it was also a very thinly veiled threat.
Chapter 9
It was a good thing that the prison was so far away as I had more of a fight on my hands than I’d imagined. I knew there were protocols for when a child’s location was discovered, but had thought some sort of investigation would be in order as a next step, not the knee-jerk reaction I was hearing.
But the evidence of my ears was incontrovertible. John Fulshaw was telling me the next step was clear – putting plans in place to remove Bella from us as soon as possible.
‘What? Why?’ I spluttered, unprepared for him taking such a radical stance. ‘No, John, please. We don’t need to do that. It was just a crank letter! It could be from anyone.’
‘An “anyone” who just happens to know your address,’ John pointed out. ‘Come on, Casey, you know as well as I do that a carer’s information is kept strictly confidential. This could be a potentially dangerous position for you. I mean we are possibly talking about attempted murder charges here, don’t forget. This isn’t your regular “parents are fighting” situation. Not by a long shot. The stakes couldn’t be higher.’
‘I know that,’ I conceded, the reality and gravity of the situation finally beginning to properly hit me. ‘But surely we don’t have to give Bella up just yet. Can’t we – you, someone – do a bit of digging first? See if we can find out who it might be? From the writing it looks like it could be another kid, even. Oh, please, John. Seriously. Let us hang onto her for now, please? Leaving us, particularly now, would definitely set her back.’
The line went silent for several seconds and I knew John’s mind was ticking away as he thought about the best course of action. A course of action, no doubt, that he felt would both keep me happy and all of us, myself and Mike included, safe.
‘So how do you think this happened, Casey?’ he asked me, after what seemed ages. ‘How do you think someone got hold of your address?’
I had been racking my brains with the very same question, and had come up with only one possible answer. ‘Well, it has to have come from Bella herself, obviously,’ I said. ‘Tyler has been with us long enough to know all about confidentiality, so he certainly wouldn’t have been blabbing about it at school or anywhere, though I will obviously ask him just to be sure. Not that his circle of friends and Bella’s would even overlap. No, I think Bella must have told someone, mustn’t she?’
I hadn’t mentioned that first time when it occurred to me that she might have gone on Facebook, and I didn’t now. But I also thought back to the nights when I’d allowed her on my laptop to do her homework, and immediately felt stupid for trusting that’s what she was doing. No, she’d not talked to us about any close friend up to now, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have them. Or, indeed, want to make contac
t with them. ‘She could have been chatting to friends online,’ I admitted sheepishly, feeling like I was in a headmaster’s office. ‘She’s not been going to school, has she? Which has obviously isolated her from social contact, so it’s probably been naïve of me to assume all she’s been doing on the laptop is visiting her school website and a bunch of educational sites. I’ve been lax is the bottom line, John. This is all my fault, probably. I began by watching her like a hawk, but you know how it is …’
I heard something like a splutter from the end of the line. ‘If you think that “all my fault” line is going to soften me up, Casey, you’re wrong,’ John said sternly. ‘And it’s certainly not your fault anyway. You’re not expected to be hovering over her shoulder every moment of every day, and she’s almost a teenager, so of course she’d want to reconnect with her friends. Yes, I imagine that’ll be what’s happened. Okay, so here’s what I propose. Ask her. Let’s see if that is what’s happened here. A worthwhile discussion anyway, as she obviously needs to know how important confidentiality is – that she must not divulge her whereabouts to even her closest friends.’
Relieved beyond measure that no one was going to swoop in and whisk Bella away, I agreed to do just that, and assured John that I’d be more careful in the future. In truth it was my fault, whatever he’d said. No, I wasn’t expected to hover over her like the proverbial ‘helicopter parent’, but I should have been more savvy, and mentioned security to her every flipping time she used the computer. Kept at it till it had sunk in. Not blithely assumed that because she acted like she had no one in the world – she hadn’t mentioned a single friend to us, after all – she didn’t have a whole bunch of them she wanted to chat to. Stupid, stupid me.
We also decided that, though John would have to report the letter to both social services and the police, we would be better not mentioning it to Bella just yet. There was no point in worrying her further if we didn’t need to. And the last thing I wanted was to dampen her good spirits the minute she returned after her long-awaited visit with her mum.
