by Nicci French
Thirty-One
I didn’t want to meet anybody. I crept down the stairs and out of the back door. I slipped the notebook safely into the inside pocket of my thick coat and strode away from the house. I chose one of the walks I knew best, one of the longest, most exposed and one of the most familiar, which I knew I could manage without any thought. I walked through woods and then up hills with winds so strong they almost blew me over and, on this cold, blustery day, such a view that I could have sworn that I could see all the way to the Beacons in Wales.
I went on and on, never turning for home. When it was getting dark I reached a pub and I phoned the Stead and told Claud not to expect me back for supper and I’d explain everything later. I ate a lasagne with some warm frothy beer, followed by an astringent rhubarb crumble with custard and black coffee. The woman behind the bar showed me a map and I was able to walk back to the Stead along the road under the illumination of the fullest of moons. By the time I heard my boots crunching on the drive, all the lights were out. I went straight to my room and fell heavily asleep, the diary under my pillow.
By the time I came down in the morning it was after nine. I could see Fred and Lynn outside, loading the car. Claud was fixing a shelf in the kitchen. I asked him where Alan was and he told me that Alan and Theo had driven into town. Shopping, he supposed. He gestured to the oven. Inside was a pan with eggs, tomatoes, bacon. I devoured them with tea and orange juice. Would it be all right if I borrowed Claud’s car for the morning? Yes. He asked if I had anything to tell him. Not yet, I said. I swallowed the last of the tea, took his keys and went to the car, hugging Fred and Lynn on the way.
At the front desk of Kirklow police station, I asked for Helen Auster. She was away.
‘Can I see whoever’s standing in for her, then?’
I looked at the posters until a thickset young man appeared and introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Braswell. I showed him the diary and Natalie’s note and in a few sentences explained where I had found it. He looked startled and led me through the station to the office of Kirklow CID, pleasingly modern and industrial in design. A hum of conversation stopped as I entered and several people looked at me in curiosity. Braswell led me through them and out to an interview room. He asked if he could take the diary for a moment. Within a very short time he returned with two more men, the younger of them carrying a blue plastic moulded chair which he placed in a corner. The other, obviously the senior officer, was a slight man, with a florid face and dull brown hair, combed flat with obvious effort. He stepped forward and shook my hand.
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilks. I’m in charge of this inquiry,’ he said. ‘And I think you’ve met Detective Constable Turnbull before.’
I nodded at the young man hovering in the corner. We all sat as Wilks continued.
‘DS Braswell, assisted by DC Turnbull, will do any interviewing that is necessary. I just wanted to sit in for a preliminary chat, if that’s agreeable to you. First, is there anything we can get you? Tea? Coffee?’
Turnbull was dispatched to get four teas.
‘Where’s Detective Sergeant Auster?’ I asked.
‘On leave,’ Wilks said.
‘In the middle of the case?’
‘DS Auster is no longer on the case,’ said Wilks. ‘At her own request.’
‘Oh.’
‘Now, Mrs Martello, can you tell us about this diary?’
I described in detail how I had searched Alan’s study and found it and the note inside.
‘Yes,’ said Wilks, lifting up the note which was now encased in a plastic folder. ‘There is no doubt that that is the handwriting of Natalie Martello?’
‘None at all. There is still lots of her writing in trunks at home if you want to check it.’
‘Good. You say that Alan Martello found you there. What happened?’
I described the squalid scene as calmly as I could, the hands on my neck, the collapse, the guilty guilty guilty.
‘Why did you search Alan Martello’s study, Mrs Martello?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the face of it, it seems odd to suspect one’s father-in-law of murdering his daughter. Why did you suspect him?’
I took a deep breath. This was the bit I had been dreading. Now I told the full story of the therapy with Alex, my cheeks burning hot. I had expected the officers to smile and exchange glances but Wilks’s frown of concentration never faltered and he remained silent except when he asked two or three questions about the circumstances of the therapy – how often it was conducted, where, in what way. When I had finished, there was a silence. Wilks broke it.
‘So, Mrs Martello, let us get this straight. You are claiming to have witnessed the murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you willing to make an official statement to that effect?’
‘Yes.’
‘With the possibility of appearing in court as a prosecution witness.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Wilks stood up and put his hands in his pockets. I looked around at the three officers.
‘I was afraid you might laugh at me,’ I said.
‘Why should we do that?’ asked Wilks.
‘I thought you might not believe that I had regained the memory of seeing Alan.’
‘You obviously had some doubts about it yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’
Wilks shrugged. ‘You didn’t come and see us with your suspicions. Instead, you undertook a personal investigation, in the course of which material evidence seems to have been handled both by you and Alan Martello.’
‘That’s not very grateful.’
‘I don’t want to seem ungracious but it might have been better if you’d come straight to us. You might have been hurt as well.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘If you’re willing, and I hope you are, DS Braswell and DC Turnbull here will take a detailed statement from you, which will probably take a couple of hours. I should add that you are fully entitled to have the advice of a lawyer before making any statement. We can supply a name or two if you want.’
‘That’s all right. And what will you do then? Will you bring Alan in for questioning?’
‘No.’
‘Why on earth not?’
Wilks gave a smile, beneath which was just the smallest trace of puzzlement.
‘Because he’s already here.’
‘How on earth did you get him so quickly?’
‘He came by himself. He said he wanted to make a statement. He was clocked into the station at 09.12 and twenty-five minutes later, Alan Edward Dugdale Martello confessed, unprompted, to the murder of his daughter, Natalie.’
‘What?’
‘He’s currently in a cell in the basement pending the preparation of charges.’
I was stunned.
‘Has he…? Did he say, well, why and how he did it?’
‘No. He said nothing else.’
‘Are you going to charge him?’
‘False confessions are always a possibility. Some wicked cynics have even accused the police of encouraging them. However, off the record,’ Wilks raised an eyebrow at me, ‘having heard what you have to say and seen the diary and the letter, I now feel disposed to prefer charges. But let’s wait until we have your statement, shall we? Guy and Stuart will sort out any problems you may have. See you later.’
DC Turnbull rummaged in a cardboard box at his feet and produced a bulky cassette recorder with two sets of spools. While Turnbull noisily searched through some cassette cases, DS Braswell was slipping a carbon between a thick pad of forms. He caught my eye and smiled.
‘You thought you’d done the hard bit. You haven’t seen the forms you’ve got to go through.’
Thirty-Two
At nine o’clock in the evening of the day after Alan’s confession, I was phoned at home by a reporter from the Daily Mail. What he described as ‘a source’ had told the newspaper that Alan Martel
lo was about to be charged with the murder of his pregnant daughter, twenty-five years after the event, because I had suddenly remembered having witnessed it. Would I be prepared to give the newspaper an interview? I was so shocked that I had to sit down before I could speak, but I managed to control my voice. I said that, as far as I understood, if Alan was charged, it would be because of his own confession. The man seemed sure of his ground. He asked me if it was true that I had witnessed the murder.
For a moment my mind was blank. Should I lie? Would it be best to co-operate? I thought of my last venture into the public realm, with my doomed attempt to defend my hostel to the local community that it was designed to benefit. That settled it. I told the reporter that it would be best to deal directly with the police. Then an idea occurred to me. I said that, since a charge was probably imminent, the matter was now sub judice. The man seemed dissatisfied but he let me get off the line.
I phoned Alex Dermot-Brown immediately and told him what had happened. I expected him to be sympathetic and shocked but he laughed.
‘Really?’ was his only reaction.
‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ I said.
Alex didn’t seem to think it was all that terrible. He said it was only to be expected and it was what I had taken on when I decided to do something about Alan. I felt dissatisfied, somehow. He resumed in a cheerful tone.
‘I’m glad you rang, because I was going to get in touch with you. Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Nothing especially urgent. What is it? Do you want me to come for an extra session?’
‘No, I want to take you somewhere. I’ll pick you up at about eleven thirty.’
‘What’s all this about?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way. Bye.’
I was tempted to ring Alex back and tell him I was busy, but I couldn’t be bothered and, anyway, I was curious.
It took a couple of pills to get me to sleep, which meant that I awoke with a headache. I had a few aspirin with my black coffee and grapefruit. I showered and, since I didn’t know where I was going, dressed in clothes selected for neutrality. Dark, longish skirt, grey sweater, discreet necklace, a touch of lipstick and eye-liner, flat shoes. If I looked like a mental patient, then at least it was one who could safely be released back into the community. When I was ready, it was only ten thirty, so I fidgeted for an hour, smoking, listening to music, inattentively reading a novel. I should have gone out and worked in the garden, planted some bulbs, but I thought I might not hear the front door. The electric bell wasn’t working.
Finally, there was a knock at the door. Alex was wearing a most improbable suit. He had shaved. His hair was neatly brushed.
‘You look smart,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a date, is it?’
‘At eleven thirty in the morning? You look smart too. Come on.’
Alex drove a Volvo. There was a baby seat in the back and every surface was strewn with crisp packets and cassettes and empty cassette cases. He swept some of them off the passenger seat and onto the floor to make space for me. A flashing light instructed me to put my seat belt on and we were off, south, down Kentish Town Road.
‘So where are we going?’
Alex switched on the cassette player. The car was filled with some Vivaldiesque music. For months I’d been curious about any stray details of Alex’s private life that I could garner, and now, here I was in his car, with his tapes, Miles Davis and Albinoni, Blur and the Beach Boys, written in his own handwriting. For me it was as improbable as if I were to find myself in a car being driven by, I don’t know, someone like Neil Young, with the added feeling that there was something forbidden, incestuous about it.
‘I’m giving the keynote speech at a conference,’ Alex said. ‘I thought you might be interested.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because it’s about recovered memory.’
‘What?’
I was stunned.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I don’t understand, is it something to do with me?’
Alex laughed.
‘No, Jane, this is a subject I have an interest in.’
For the rest of the journey I stared out of the window. Alex drove into the basement car-park of the Clongowes Hotel on Kingsway. We went up in the lift and walked across the lobby to a conference room with a sign outside saying ‘Recovered Memory: Survivors and Accusers’. Alex signed us both in at the reception and I received a badge bearing my name, written in ballpoint pen. I was apparently not expected. In the hall were rows of desks, as if an exam were about to be taken. Most of them were occupied and Alex steered me to a seat at the back.
‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you again in twenty minutes or so. There are one or two people I would like you to meet.’
He winked at me, then walked down the aisle towards the front. His progress was slow because he greeted almost everybody he passed, shaking hands, hugging, patting backs. A beautiful woman, dark, with olive skin, clattered towards him and gave him a hug, one high heel cocked up behind her thigh. I felt a twinge of jealousy and caught myself. I had had months of Alex to myself and it was something of a shock to see him in public. It was like seeing Dad at the office, and realising with a pang that he had a life outside his relationship with me. I made myself think of something else. On the desk in front of me was a white ballpoint pen and a small lined pad of paper, both bearing the inscription ‘Mindset’. There was a folder bearing the title of the conference and inside was an assembly of documents. One contained a list of delegates, about a hundred of them. Against each name was the person’s qualification. There were doctors, psychiatrists, social workers, representatives of voluntary organisations and a number of people, all women, labelled simply as ‘survivors’. I supposed that I too was a survivor, and an accuser as well, for that matter.
At the front of the hall was a table with a jug of water and four glasses. Beside it was a lectern. Displaying the charming diffidence with which I was already familiar, Alex shook hands with a final delegate and made his way to the lectern. He gave the microphone a little tap which echoed round the hall.
‘It’s twelve fifteen, so I suppose we’d better get underway. I’d like to welcome you all to the 1995 Recovered Memory conference, organised by Mindset, and I’m glad to see so many familiar faces here. This is your conference, and, like last year, it’s been designed to maximise the delegates’ participation, so I’ll try to stem my natural eloquence, or at least that’s what I call it. I’m aware of being in an audience with many distinguished fellow analysts.’ There was a dutiful ripple of laughter. Alex coughed nervously, sipped from a glass of water (I was shocked to see his hand trembling) and continued.
‘I’m just going to give a brief introductory talk, setting out some of our agenda. Then Dr Kit Hennessey will be giving an outline of some recent research. Then we break for lunch, which I’m told you’ll find outside and to the right. Just hand in the token that you’ll find in your folder. After lunch we split up for a series of workshops. Those are in different conference rooms all on this floor. You’ll find the details also in your folder. I think that’s about all.
‘Now for my brief contribution.’
Alex opened the slim document folder he was carrying and removed some papers. This was a different Alex from the easygoing, enabling, ironic listener with whom I had spent so much of the last few months. He was passionate, unambiguous, polemical, from his opening statement: ‘Recovered memory is one of the greatest hidden scandals of our time.’ He spoke of how generations of people, especially women, had been compelled to hide traumas they had suffered in their early lives. When they had spoken of them they had been disbelieved, vilified, marginalised, diagnosed, lobotomised. He admitted with regret that the very medical authorities best qualified to expose the horror, the psychiatrists and analysts, and the criminal authorities, the police and lawyers, had become collaborators in its suppression.
‘Law
and science,’ he said, ‘have been misused against these victims just as in the past they have been misused against other groups wherever it has suited the interests of authority to deny the rights of victimised minorities. So-called scientific objectivity, so-called burdens of proof have themselves been used as instruments of oppression. We owe it to these victims of abuse, who have shown the courage to remember, to say, “We believe you, we support you”.’
I knew now why Alex had brought me here. I had felt mad and strange and an outcast, trapped in my own private sufferings. This was part of what Alex meant by going public: the discovery that I was not alone, that other people had experienced what I had experienced. With a pang that almost made me cry as I sat there at the back of the hall doodling on the shiny dossier cover, I was reminded that this was what I had loved about Natalie: she had validated me by feeling the things I had felt. Had I, too, been buried when she had been buried?
Alex had finished. He asked if there were any questions and several hands went up. One man, a deputy director of social services, thanked Alex for his speech but said that the one omission from his survey was the political dimension. Legislation was needed. Why was there no MP among the delegates, or even a local councillor? Alex shrugged and smiled. He agreed with the delegate, he said. From personal connections, he knew a number of politicians who were sympathetic to their cause, but the implications of findings about repressed memory were so great, and the entrenched medical and legal authorities so powerful, that they were extremely unwilling to go public with any form of commitment.
‘We have to push the issue another way,’ he said. ‘We need some high-profile legal cases to demonstrate that this phenomenon cannot be ignored. When that happens, and public awareness has increased, it will seem less dangerous. Perhaps when the bandwagon is rolling the politicians will jump on it.’
There was a round of applause. As it faded, a woman stood up. She was strikingly short, dowdily dressed, in her late forties. I expected a personal testimony of remembering abuse but she identified herself as Thelma Scott, a consultant psychiatrist at St Andrew’s in central London. Alex gave her a wry nod of recognition.
