The Family

by P. R. Black

  The woman sat opposite said, ‘Becky, I want to have a formal introduction as I run the tape.’

  She was about as tall as Becky, but a little heavier. Her straggly blonde hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, as if she’d been called out of the gym. Her eyes were sheer chips of ice, Siberian husky-blue. She might have been a Ukrainian beauty queen in her cold glamour, if it wasn’t for some unfortunate acne scarring across her face. ‘I am Inspector Labelle, and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Marcus.’

  The man beside Labelle was tall, with black hair cropped high at the back and parted in the middle. This reminded Becky of George Orwell, though his heavy eyebrows and thick-lashed eyes were more Ian McShane than country vicar. A lopsided smirk was permanently installed on his face, which did not fade as he nodded in acknowledgement, arms folded across his chest. He was handsome, but he reminded Becky of a poorly-painted action figure.

  ‘You are being interviewed regarding the death of Edwin Galbraith,’ Labelle said. ‘You are not being held on any formal charges, and are under no obligation to speak to us. You may terminate the interview any time you wish, though anything you do say to us may be used in evidence at a later stage. Is all of that clear?’

  ‘Sure. I’m here of my own free will.’

  ‘She didn’t ask you how you came to be here,’ Marcus said. ‘She asked if everything had been made clear to you. Answer yes or no, please.’

  ‘Yes,’ Becky said, frowning. ‘It’s clear.’

  ‘Good.’ He made a note in his pad.

  Becky smiled.

  ‘Something amusing you, Becky?’ he asked. ‘This is a serious matter. We’re dealing with someone’s death.’

  ‘I’m just wondering how long the pair of you are going to pull the “good cop/bad cop” routine on me. It’s not that good a tactic, to be brutally honest. Even the thickest criminal has watched Law & Order.’

  ‘Just answer the questions you’re asked,’ he said, irritably.

  Labelle laid a hand on his arm. ‘Becky,’ she said, ‘I’d like you to tell us how you came into contact with Edwin Galbraith.’

  ‘I joined a mailing list, used my contacts, and emailed him directly. The party had advertised for a media and PR officer. I put myself forward for interview.’

  ‘And why was this?’

  ‘I’m working on some articles – it might even make a book – about the rise of the far-right in Europe, and the disintegration of the European dream. I wanted to infiltrate his team, see what I could find.’

  Marcus scribbled notes; Becky strained to see if he knew shorthand. He asked, ‘What were you hoping to find?’

  ‘Dirt, frankly. I want to know what their secret is. Why this politics hasn’t gone away, given everything Europe has been through in the past hundred years. The wealth of information there is on it, out there. Memories are short, but not that short.’

  Labelle’s eyes twinkled. ‘Do you have a theory?’

  ‘Human nature. Either that, or simple economics. I’ll think about it in more detail once my research is complete.’

  ‘Two broad categories, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Marcus mused. ‘So, this book?’

  ‘It’s not a book – at least, not yet.’

  ‘You’ll have extensive notes, I take it? Have you started writing your… project, or is it just an idea you have?’

  ‘I’ve written a hundred-and-fifty pages or so.’

  ‘Could we see those pages?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve got them right here.’ She fished in her jacket pocket and produced a pen drive. ‘This is a copy of a copy of a copy, but it’s a work in progress. I can email you a file if you like. But feel free to take a look.’

  Marcus blinked in surprise, but took the pen drive, turning it over in his hands. ‘Do you have a book deal?’

  ‘Not yet. I got some positive feedback from an agent, but I have to produce some work before they can move forward. You’ve got the story so far in your hands.’

  ‘When was your first face-to-face contact with Edwin Galbraith?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘I met him at the parliament last Tuesday. We had lunch, and he offered me a job. We met at the Atomium on Friday morning to discuss some terms, and had planned to agree on a starting date. But he was called away.’

  ‘How long did you speak for?’ Labelle asked.

  ‘Couldn’t have been too long.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘A little agitated, truth be told. I was annoyed that he had dragged me all the way out there and then left so quickly, but I understood his problem. Business is business.’

  ‘He didn’t discuss things with you in any detail?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t finalise the terms and conditions of your attachment?’

  ‘Nothing that had been put in writing.’

  Marcus’s smirk angled downwards at one corner. ‘Did you discuss the fact that you used a fake ID to speak to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He appeared to be well aware that you were a fraud. It had been discussed in his office.’

  ‘Then my cover story wasn’t as good as I thought.’

  Labelle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you use the fake ID?’

  ‘That much should be obvious. I was undercover. I surely don’t have to explain this to detectives?’

  Marcus sniffed the air; Becky fancied that his nose actually turned upwards. ‘Does it strike you as being in any way strange that Edwin Galbraith should turn up dead within hours of meeting you?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of that.’

  ‘Again, answer the specific question.’ He sat forward in his seat, still smirking. Becky wondered how many times he had been punched in his life.

  ‘Of course, it strikes me as strange. I was shocked when I heard. But beyond the two meetings I had with him, I don’t know anything about the guy.’

  ‘And in the course of your meetings, you didn’t say anything that should upset him?’ Marcus asked. ‘There’s no secret information you may have had which might have caused him to become agitated?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I was looking for a job. I admit that this was for research purposes, and not to take up the role as advertised. I’ve explained why I did this. You have a copy of the manuscript I was working on.’

  ‘All right,’ Labelle said. ‘One question I want to ask you in particular – what are you doing in France?’

  Becky sat back and rubbed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. ‘You have to ask me that? Seriously?’

  ‘We might ask you lots of questions,’ Marcus asked. ‘The reasons are our own.’

  ‘Just to confirm… Labelle and Marcus, was that it? You’re on the cold case review team, under Inspector Hanlon. I carried out some checks, before we met. Is that correct?’

  The two detectives froze. Marcus broke the silence first, leaning forward and steepling his hands. ‘That is correct, Becky. We are assigned to Inspector Hanlon’s review team. We’re here because of our knowledge of English, and to assist our colleagues in France – we were handily placed to speak to you about your contact with Edwin Galbraith, and to gather a more detailed statement.’

  ‘Seems highly irregular to me. Wouldn’t you say?’

  After another pause, Labelle nodded. Those pale eyes studied Becky keenly, taking in every gesture and movement.

  ‘Okay.’ Becky sighed. ‘I’m here to see the scene of the crime. For the first time since it happened. Is that why you’re here? In this part of the world?’

  ‘We’re investigating,’ Marcus said, almost incredulously.

  ‘Why are you asking me about Edwin Galbraith?’

  ‘Seems a bit of a coincidence, this, doesn’t it?’ Marcus said, acidly. ‘A bit like you combining a trip to the crime scene with a writing project about… what was it? The far right in Europe?’

  Becky cocked an eyebrow. ‘Funny, I’ve spent a lot of time with Hanlon and his team recently. I don’t remember either of you guys.’
>
  ‘There are a lot of people working on your investigation,’ Labelle said. ‘It isn’t just a case of one or two guys knocking on doors. The team is huge.’

  ‘Still, it’s a bit odd.’

  Labelle smiled. ‘Perhaps we should schedule a meeting on a less formal basis? I can take you through some of the progress we have made. We work closely with Hanlon. He’s being briefed on what you say to us today.’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine with that.’

  ‘We are working hard on this case, Becky. There are one or two developments we’d like to share with you, but not right now – things are at an extremely delicate stage.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Are we done here?’

  Marcus scowled. ‘Yes. For the time being. We’d like a detailed itinerary of your movements in the next few weeks, so far as possible. You may be called in for more thorough questioning, regarding Mr Galbraith’s death and other matters.’

  ‘My time is my own, as you’ll have learned already,’ Becky said. ‘My work on the far right is done for now. That aside, I’m paying my respects to my family. From there, I’m going on a tour. They used to call it inter-railing. I have a number of weeks off work, and I want to make the most of them.’

  ‘Fine,’ Marcus said. ‘But don’t be disappearing. You will most likely have to appear at the formal inquiry into Mr Galbraith’s death.’

  ‘Suicide, right?’ Becky said.

  ‘That’s for the coroner to decide.’ Marcus said stiffly.

  Becky saw herself out.

  *

  Once the door was closed behind her and the tape was switched off, Marcus tilted his head back and sighed, as if blowing a plume of imaginary smoke. His posture softened and the smirk vanished from his face. ‘I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of her.’

  Labelle looked up from her notes. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Marcus jerked a thumb towards the closed door. ‘She’s a liar. Clear as day.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘As sure as I am about anything. What did they teach you where you used to work? Cheese farming? Wine press techniques?’ His smirk returned, but on the other side of his face.

  19

  The countryside galloped past her, a riot of rude colour interrupting the lush green. The train seemed bigger and faster than what she was used to in Britain, and scrupulously clean. Something had gone badly wrong with the railways in the UK, she thought.

  It might have been a pleasant journey, were it not for Devin McCance hissing steam in her ear through the phone.

  ‘Five hundred words you sent me on Edwin Galbraith. Five hundred words, I suffered through. So boring, they would have been rejected from the fucking agencies!’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Devin? Make stuff up? Say he was upset about something? We had a couple of boring meetings. Nothing interesting came up. He didn’t even flirt with me.’

  ‘So you meet one of the UK’s best-known politicians, he dies within hours of meeting you, and… nothing? Nothing of note? No interest?’

  ‘Honestly, nothing. I don’t know what you want out of me. I’m on sabbatical, as I keep telling you.’ I want him to sack me, she realised. I want him to do it.

  ‘That’s fine, Becky,’ Devin said brightly. Something in this tone gave her pause. ‘Let’s lay that aside, for the time being. Now, let’s talk about your real name.’

  Becky swallowed.

  ‘It’s not Becky Brown, like you’ve been telling us. Or ‘Marion Clifford’, as you used to have it, years ago. Becky Morgan is your real name. That’s something that’s been in the news for a while, now. I can’t think why… oh. What’s this? What do I have here?’ Paper was shaken close to the handset, dissolving into an unpleasant crackle. ‘The Salvo, no less. Page one. And who’s this I see in the photo?’

  ‘The Salvo? What in god’s name are you talking about?’ Beyond the window of the train, the scenery seemed to throb.

  ‘Why, it’s you! There you are. And guess what I discover you’re up to? You’re in France. On the anniversary of one of the most notorious murder cases in recent times. A murder involving your family. And that’s you, on the front page of The Salvo, giving them a fucking interview!’

  The blood leached from her face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Salvo? And it’s me?’

  ‘It’s you, all right.’ He cleared his throat and read. ‘“Becky Morgan has stayed out of the spotlight in recent times – but with the twentieth anniversary of the murder of her mother, father, brother and sister approaching, she’s heading for the continent – and out for justice.” Out for justice, it says. All caps.’

  ‘Devin, I swear to god, I have not spoken to anyone… This is news to me.’

  ‘It says you have, here. Exclusive interview. “I need closure on this,” you said. “I want to find out who did it, if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Your face is on page fucking one. You look a bit pissed, to be fair, but it’s you, all right.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to no one.’ Then she found her fury. ‘And what does it have to do with you, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Becky. And before we go on, I’d like to offer my sincerest condolences. The very sincerest. But you might want to give us a call when you’ve collected your thoughts. And explain why you thought to tell The Salvo this, but not us.’

  She had a moment of sudden, beautiful clarity. ‘Aw look – I quit, Devin. Quit. We’re through. Cancel the fucking sabbatical. We’re through. I’m not coming back.’

  ‘Oh, you’re coming back. Don’t fool yourself.’ She could picture the grin. ‘What else do you know but our paper? You’ll be back. I’ll give you four hours before you file the next instalment of your exciting adventures.’

  ‘And I can tell you—’

  He hung up.

  After a full minute of cradling her head in her hands, Becky opened up a web browser on her phone. It would cost her a fortune to access the net this far from anywhere, but The Salvo’s front page – one of the most-browsed news sites on the planet, mainly thanks to a focus on celebrity side-boob shots and beach holiday fat-shaming – soon opened up.

  And there she was. Looking drunk, as advertised, with a blood-red cocktail on a table in front of her. The drink rang a bell – this had been a month or so ago. A nasty evening which had taken her two full days to recover from. There had been a man, a photography student, perhaps, someone who hadn’t stayed at her flat for a proper sleep, far less breakfast. She swallowed… was it him? Had she talked? Had he gone to The Salvo with it?

  But someone else was in the mix, too. Someone she’d talked to all night. She’d assumed they were part of the group the photographer had been with. It was indistinct – one of those nights that seemed to be going wonderfully well at the time; less well, in retrospect. Bright lights, dancing, even singing at the top of her voice. Who had the other person been?

  The countryside unfurled past the train window, relentless.

  ‘The big secret’s out,’ she whispered to herself. ‘One of them, anyway.’

  She checked the byline on the article: Rosie Banning. A clickable thumbnail enlarged on Becky’s screen. The young woman had dark hair and glasses, but the face meant nothing to her.

  *

  A hire car was needed for the rest of the journey. Becky parked up in a deserted truck-stop a mile and a half away from the woodlands, still discomfited by a close encounter with an angry man in a baseball cap driving a puce VW Golf with his own skull decals. He had tailgated her with inch-perfect precision for at least a mile, even with a wide, clear space in which he could have overtaken. Becky had noted the licence plate, heart thumping, but he was soon gone.

  He was no one special. Just another arsehole on the road. She wanted to blame France, continental drivers, and as many as half a dozen other equally bigoted reasons, but these people were everywhere, after all. ‘Gardez-vous,’ she’d muttered, as the car disappeared over the hill.

  The
parking area was new, as was the sign advertising a camp-site, 300 yards away at the top of the hill. Through the trees, there were no tents set up in the clearing, and no other cars parked either. Becky wondered if this place’s reputation preceded it. It must be difficult to set up for the night, knowing that the person responsible for what had happened to her family might be close by, even today.

  She had expected to be shocked by a sensation of sudden recognition, or even worse, assailed by flashbacks, visions of what had gone before. The opposite was true. Heading into the pathway, she felt no sense of returning to a place she knew. Had the path been so well-kept back then? She remembered an overgrown place, limpid with ferns and waist-high weeds; now there was a stony path, bordered with white stones. Birds fluttered from branch to branch. A bright blue dragonfly hummed past her, a tiny flash of lightning, feather-light on the sparse wildflowers that grew in the sun. Somewhere in the midst of the pine trees, a woodpecker hammered out his lunch. It was almost enough to make her forget that, about a quarter of a mile up ahead, was the boating pond. Beyond that was the gîte – still in use, still occasionally hired out for a few months a year, though with a different owner. And somewhere in the middle, very close now, was the clearing, hemmed in on all sides by thick woodland, a frown in 360 degrees, and the stone circle.

  Where it had happened.

  Though this scene might have portended nothing more than a brisk hike up a gentle slope in the middle of a bright spring day, Becky’s heart thundered in her chest, and sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She controlled her breathing, but the anxiety was strong today, overpowering. Had she been required to speak to someone, her voice might have wavered. Or it could have clicked in her throat, stoppered fast.

  The sun-dappled forest floor seemed to writhe with a life of its own; every shadow, every flickering branch, required watching. As she climbed towards the clearing, Becky was reminded of a time when, as a young girl – before it happened – she had walked across a railway bridge. This was in broad daylight, but the acoustics in the enclosed pathway had played tricks on her ears. She’d been sure someone was following her. Here, every crack and rustle were the result of her own footsteps, but the illusion of pursuit was visual rather than aural. It was like a stray hair blown across her forehead and into her field of vision, or something in her eye. There! A bird took wing, and a branch rebounded. Or there! Something scuttled down a tree bark, spiralling completely around the timber and parting the ferns as it escaped.