by Helen Cooper
It’s Auntie Rach who asks the question. “Then what was?”
“After several rounds of testing, the toxicology team also found an anticonvulsant in Mr. Wood’s system. They estimate he ingested it around eight to twelve hours before he fell ill.”
I make myself focus on the police, a slight frown on my face, hoping a deep flush isn’t bleeding into my cheeks. The fridge is buzzing like an insect in the corner, the noise it makes when it’s on the blink.
“An anticonvulsant?” Mum echoes.
“Carbamazepine.” The name of Becca’s medication takes on a new emphasis in the policeman’s voice. Auntie Rach shifts as if she recognizes it, but says nothing. I look toward Becca, expecting her to look back at me, expecting this to feel like the inevitable end. She stares squarely ahead. Then I realize that everyone has followed me in turning toward her, and we’ve formed a ring of expectant gazes with her at its center.
“Do you know of any reason Mr. Wood might have taken this drug?” one of the officers asks. “It’s most commonly used to treat epileptic seizures.”
I snap my eyes downward, hoping everybody else will do the same. Auntie Rach’s gaze slides away from her daughter, but Mum’s still staring in Becca’s direction.
“My niece has epilepsy.”
Becca straightens. “But I don’t take that drug.”
My eyes boomerang to her. Does she really think she can get away with lying?
“Look.” She leaps to her feet and goes to her handbag, rummaging through and producing a packet of pills: sodium valproate.
I feel as if I’m seeing things. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe she’s been taking these all along. But that would mean the toxicology report was wrong.
More likely she’s changed her medication. For a genuine reason? Or in some crazy attempt at a cover-up?
What have you done, Becca?
“Have you always taken those?” one of the policemen asks, accepting the packet and studying it.
Becca sits back down. Her neck is blotchy. “Actually”—she screws up her face as if remembering—“I did used to take carbamazepine. But I’ve been on these for a little while now.”
“Were you taking carbamazepine when Mr. Wood fell ill? Might there have been some in the flat he could’ve accessed?”
She shakes her head firmly. “Nope. I actually wasn’t taking anything then. I was between meds.”
Between meds? I dare to glance at Auntie Rach: Her face is full of confusion. Becca looks pale now, too, as if regretting going down this road.
“We’ll have to follow this up, Miss Fielding. With your cooperation, I hope? And we’ll also consult with the toxicologists, to confirm how sure they are about the exact type of anticonvulsant in Mr. Wood’s system.”
“How much was found?” Mum asks.
“It can be hard to measure levels in the blood, but they’ve been estimated as quite high.”
“Did it kill him?”
“The toxicology team and our medical experts think he died from a strong adverse reaction to that drug. The antidepressants might have increased its effects, and made the levels of carbamazepine appear higher. With alcohol in his system also, the synergistic effect of all three . . .”
I try to breathe evenly through my nose. I can hear Becca cracking her knuckles beneath the table. Auntie Rach is very still, unusually quiet. Mum frowns at Becca’s pills in the policeman’s grasp.
“We’d like to talk to you all separately. It would be easier to do this at the station, if you would follow us there?”
I risk a final glance at Becca. She’s slumped now, as if in defeat. As if she knows that lying about her tablets is yet another decision we can’t take back.
48.
PAUL
Paul told the ward staff his pain was down to “a two or a three.” Forced himself to sit and stand, eat and drink. All so they wouldn’t protest when he said he wanted to “get some air.”
In reality, his ribs screamed when he walked too fast, and his jaw clicked as if it would never be quite right again. Approaching the Blue Car Park, he clutched his side and glanced in every direction. He thought he’d recognized the writing on the note that had been left for him, but he couldn’t be sure.
Then he saw her, standing close to the overgrown bushes on the far side, wearing a tan leather jacket rather than the scarlet coat from last time.
How had she found him? Why was she here? Up close, Paul struggled to guess what was on her mind and realized he’d never tried to before—never had to. Yvette had done so much for him, knew so much about him, and he couldn’t say the same in return.
His life felt full of one-way relationships. He was never allowed or able to give enough of himself. Even to his daughter, his wife.
Yvette hugged him gently, shaking her head as she took in his injuries. “I should never have given you his address. I should’ve known it would end badly.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Paul insisted. “I was determined to find him. It would’ve driven me crazy if I hadn’t.”
“What happened?” she asked, at the same time as he said, “How did you know I was here?”
“Glover called me in a rage,” she said, “swearing down the phone at me, asking if I’d told you where to find Sanderson, if I knew how much shit I’d caused. Typical Glover—the soul of discretion until he truly loses his temper.”
Paul nodded. He’d always had the impression Yvette shared his dislike of Glover, but as his therapist she’d been too professional to say so. Now all pretense was dropped.
“Anyway, I knew something must’ve happened,” she went on. “I kept looking at Nottingham news online, but there was nothing. Eventually I decided to take the risk and drive to Sanderson’s address. One of his neighbors was outside, all pumped up because there’d been an ambulance on the street. That got me even more worried, of course. I managed to track you down, but I didn’t want to come right to you, in case Glover was hanging around.”
“But how did Glover know anything had happened?”
“I’m not sure. He makes it his business to know everything when it comes to Sanderson. Constantly terrified of the truth getting out . . .” She paused, drifting into thought. When her gaze returned to him, she scanned his bruised face again. “Did Sanderson do all this?”
Paul nodded, looking down. But I did worse to him. “Do you know if he’s in this hospital?” he asked, ducking the real question: Do you know if he’s alive?
She shook her head. “Was he hurt too?”
Paul nodded again. He could still feel the force of Daniel’s blood as he’d crushed three tea-towels against his shoulder wound. The warmth, and the smell, and the alarm in Daniel’s eyes, which should’ve been satisfying but wasn’t. Help had seemed to take hours to arrive. There’d been no time for explanations or interrogations as the paramedics had sped Daniel away in the ambulance, and Paul had been taken to hospital in their smaller vehicle, without the blue lights wailing. He’d kept expecting the police to turn up at his bedside, asking questions, but there’d been nothing yet, and somehow that was even more unnerving.
“I stabbed him,” he finally answered Yvette, and heard her surprised intake of breath. “And then I tried to save him. But I don’t know if I succeeded. It’s a fucking mess.”
As he’d knelt there trying to prevent Daniel from bleeding out, the adrenaline that had inflamed their confrontation had begun to fade. And Paul had been left with a heavy conviction that this had all been for nothing. Daniel’s reaction to seeing him again had been so strong, Paul could no longer reconcile it with a calculated revenge plan. It had been pure bottled hatred, unexpectedly unleashed by a visitor from the past. If Daniel had taken Freya, wouldn’t he have been prepared for Paul’s arrival?
Slumped against his kitchen cabinets, his skin gray, Daniel had slurred: I haven’t touched your daughter.
And then, I didn’t hurt Billie either. I didn’t.
He’d looked smaller, sadder, his head hanging. It was hard not to believe a man who clearly thought he might die. But if Paul did choose finally to believe him, it meant the whole operation had been pointless. Lives had been ruined on theories that had never been true.
In the aftermath of Nathalie’s death, he used to torture himself by mentally listing his crimes.
He had deceived a woman who was trying to grieve for her missing child, and whose only source of support was the brother Paul had been sent to investigate.
He had broken every rule of undercover ethics: He’d kissed her, fucked her, made promises to her. He had let her stand naked in front of him, let her show him photos of Billie as a baby, let her fall in love with him, even though her heart was already broken. And he’d barely told her a single honest thing about himself.
He’d sworn to keep her safe, promised that one day they’d go away together, somewhere far from Nottingham and all the things that had happened to her. He’d half meant it, too, even though he’d known simultaneously that it was impossible. He’d told her he loved her—and maybe that was the one truthful thing he’d ever said to her, but even that wasn’t a pure truth.
And, above all, he still hadn’t quite trusted her. He’d succumbed to a creeping suspicion that she might know more about what had happened to her daughter than she was letting on.
Those trips she’d started taking, slipping off early evenings once or twice a week. By then Paul had known the smell of her hair after a shift in the café; the lullabies she’d sing when she was sad; the way she’d fiddle with her left earring when nervous—particularly around her brother, it had always seemed. But he’d had no idea where she went on those just-popping-out-for-a-bit nights.
In a way, it had redressed the balance. She’d known nothing real about him—she thought his parents were dead, that he had always done odd jobs for a living—so perhaps it was only fair she had her secrets too. But Paul couldn’t have let the mysterious outings pass without investigating them, especially when he’d noticed Daniel slipping her money before she left. It had been his duty to find out what she was doing. Or so he’d told himself many times since.
Paul closed his eyes and saw the remote outbuilding he had followed her to one night. His heart pumped as hard as it had at the time, watching her go in, fearing the worst about whom she might be visiting. He’d experienced a brief flutter of excitement at the prospect of a breakthrough in the case he’d nearly lost hope of solving, but it was quickly drowned in dread. Nathalie couldn’t be involved. It was supposed to be Daniel, not her. She was innocent, and she would be free once they’d exposed her brother. That was what he’d clung to throughout their relationship.
The other times he’d followed her, he had hidden much better. That time, perhaps he’d subconsciously wanted her to see him. He’d been so desperate to know what was inside that building, what she was doing there.
And, of course, when she’d spotted him on her way out, she’d wanted to know the same.
“What the hell are you doing here, Paul?”
He’d had his explanations prepared, just as he’d been trained to, but he’d frozen for a second too long.
“Did you follow me?” she’d asked, looking so incredulous that Paul had begun to fear he’d got things very, very wrong.
“Why would you do that?” She’d kept asking questions because he hadn’t been answering. All he’d been able to think was that he didn’t want to lose her, wished he could turn back the clock in every possible way.
His eyes must have strayed to the building she’d come out of. Nathalie had looked round too. When she’d turned back he’d been unable to read her face, half lit by a glow from the narrow windows of the hut. Paul couldn’t resist glancing back at it, trying to see inside.
“What is this place?” he’d asked, finally recovering his voice.
Afterward, he’d convinced himself that if she hadn’t acted evasive at that point, everything might have been okay. The way she’d squinted, fiddled with her earring, it had made his police instincts kick back in, merging with his intimate knowledge of her nervous tics.
He’d taken a step toward the building, watching her reaction, asking again what was there.
“What—you think I’m having an affair or something? Don’t you trust me?”
Did he trust her? Did he trust anyone?
“You sneak off here most weeks,” he’d said. “I’ve even seen Daniel giving you money beforehand.”
“So what?”
“So . . .” He could still remember how light-headed he’d felt, how he’d known he was on a cliff edge: He could either tip over or haul himself back.
An outside force had seemed to snatch the words from his mouth before he’d fully decided whether he should, or could, say them: “Is it something to do with Billie?”
All the muscles had tightened in her face. She’d looked so different in that slow, drawn-out moment, staring at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s okay.” Paul had tried to touch her arm but she’d jerked away. “You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“If . . . if Daniel made you do something. If he dragged you into his plan.”
“Plan?”
Paul had felt himself tumbling over that imaginary cliff edge, falling in blackness. He pictured telling Glover, I thought it was time. Time to push her a bit on the Billie thing. I’d secured her trust and hoped she’d tell me the truth.
“Whatever happened to Billie, maybe it was an accident. I know it would’ve been Daniel who saw an opportunity to make money from it. Not you. Or maybe she’s still alive, maybe someone’s taking care of her . . .” His eyes had flashed again to the outbuilding. “Maybe you feel trapped now, like you can’t undo it. But you can. I can help you. I love you.”
She had begun to shiver violently. It had seemed to last forever: Nathalie standing there, trembling, her chest rising and falling hard.
When she’d finally spoken, it had been in a low, alien voice. “How could you think that about me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. I know Daniel must be behind it—”
Her volume soared. “How the fuck can you think that about either of us? He’s your friend, and I . . . I . . .”
“He’s not my friend.”
That had reduced her to silence. Paul instantly knew he’d said too much. Nathalie had stared at him again and he’d taken deep breaths, trying to rein himself in, to remember his training and how much was at stake.
“Who the hell are you?” she’d asked.
The question had seemed so inevitable it was like déjà vu, like they’d already had this conversation in multiple parallel existences. It was always bound to come down to this.
Stay in character at all times. Talk, walk, feel, and dream in character.
Stick to your story unless you are absolutely certain your cover has been blown.
Have explanations ready for when anybody doubts or questions you. Recite them in your head before you go to sleep, when you wake, when you shave and shower and sit on the toilet . . .
“You’re not who you say you are. Are you?”
“Of course I am, baby—”
“Don’t call me baby!” She’d thrown up her hand to ensure he didn’t move any closer. “I’m not the only one who sneaks off places.”
“What?”
Always preempt. Know where the danger is coming from even before it arrives.
But Paul had no longer been sure what he was most afraid of: losing Nathalie, or destroying the whole operation. Were they one and the same? Glover’s voice had kept coming into his head, then falling away again as soon as he’d looked at Nathalie and felt his heart wrench.
“I’ve noticed something lately,” she
’d continued, her voice growing stronger, but still with a tremor. “You go off to use the phone box at the same time every week.”
He’d feigned half-amused confusion. “Do I?”
“Exactly the same time.”
He’d been spending far too much time with her. Letting her stay in his flat more often, rather than hers. Enjoying the morning warmth of her in his bed.
Giving her a chance to observe his routines.
“I’m a creature of habit.”
“And you never use the nearest phone box. I followed you once, too, remember—that time you forgot your wallet and I thought you’d need money for the phone. You were using the one on Howe Street.”
“I thought that was the nearest.”
She hadn’t even seemed to be listening to his excuses anymore. Later, he’d realized she’d been working things out even as they’d spoken. Grasping the significance of all Paul’s little slipups, here in the moonlit wasteland he had trailed her to.
“Last week, when you came back from the phone box, you hid a piece of paper under your mattress. I saw you do it, and I looked at it later. Who’s G?”
“Are you accusing me of cheating now?” Paul had hoped to divert the conversation that way. Another woman was a better explanation for his weekly check-ins with Glover than the truth.
“Nobody does things like that unless they’ve got something to hide. I shrugged it off at the time, but now . . .” She’d almost run out of breath, her palm pressed to her throat. “Now . . .”
“Nat, let’s go home and talk. Please. It’s getting cold, we’re both tired.”
“I’m not tired.” She’d drawn herself up tall. “I want to know why you’ve followed me. Why you’re asking questions about Billie. Why you make secret phone calls and write notes in weird code, and why you never talk about yourself. You always change the subject when I ask about your family or . . .” Her words had disintegrated into tears then, and Paul had realized, with a plunge of his stomach, that she knew. He’d let her get too close and he’d made bad choices, and they weren’t even balanced on that cliff edge between truth and lies anymore. They were sliding into a ravine below.
