* * *
Bill Bryson Library is a work of art. Glass-fronted, all sleek lines and curves, it sprawls itself out unapologetically. When I walk in, I feel like I’m stepping ten years into the future. It beats the old portable classroom we had in our school hands down.
The surly-looking young woman at the desk glances up at us as we approach, sees Nick, and breaks into a wide smile. Apparently the face works on women everywhere, no matter how grumpy. This woman has a shock of murky blonde hair that fuzzes around her head like an “after” shot in an electrical safety advert. She’s thin, and her clothes hang off her frame like they’re wearing her rather than the other way around. I instinctively want to give her a good meal. Her eyes are dark, making the paleness of her skin stand out even more. After an age, she turns to look at me.
There’s a sudden pain in my head, so intense that I stop walking and close my eyes. “Are you okay?” Nick places a hand on my arm.
“Migraine. I got them a lot . . . before.” I can’t explain why, but my heart is racing. Panic overtakes me. I can’t breathe, I should be able to breathe. I just want to run.
“Are you sure? You’re . . .”
“Panic . . . attack,” I manage.
“What should I do? Can I get you anything? Is this because of the accident?”
I shake my head, lean it on his shoulder, and he puts his arms around me. The panic begins to subside. I take deep breaths and my heart slows down. After a few minutes he holds me at arm’s length.
“I’m fine now.” Only a small lie: my breathing is back to normal and I don’t feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Looking around me, I remember we’re in the library and people can see me. “Sorry to scare you.”
“It’s fine, really. Do you want to go?”
I force my voice not to tremble. “No, we’re here now. It’s happened before, it’s not a big deal.” Another lie. “Can we get on with this?”
Nick frowns and studies my face for a few uncomfortable seconds, but eventually he nods and turns to the library assistant. She looks about my age, maybe older, but dark circles line her eyes. I’m glad I’m not the only one looking like I haven’t slept in a week. After spending time with glamorous women like Kristy Riley and Rachael Travis, I’m happy to be the one who comes off better looks-wise.
Nick explains that we’d like to look at the university yearbooks but carefully doesn’t give away any more information. The woman promptly issues us with guest passes and shows us where the yearbooks are kept, scores of them, each labeled with different college names. I know Mark studied at St. Chad’s and we decide to start there. The woman informs us that the yearbooks are produced according to start date, not graduation.
“I came here myself once upon a time, so if I can help at all, you know where to find me. I hope you’re okay now.” She gives us a parting smile and leaves us alone. The library is relatively quiet and this part is completely deserted.
“What was that all about?” Nick asks when we’re alone.
“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”
He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He pulls down the 1990 volume and opens to the first page.
A familiar pang of nostalgia hits me when we find Mark’s photograph. He looks fresh-faced and full of excitement, nothing like the man he was the last time I saw him.
“That’s him,” I say, placing a finger on the photo. Nick raises his eyebrows.
“Nice-looking guy,” he remarks. It’s the second time I’ve seen him act this way and it doesn’t suit him. It’s funny, because although he’s right and Mark is a good-looking guy, he doesn’t have anything on the Clark Kent next to me.
“Looks aren’t everything,” I say.
“Do any of these girls look like the one you saw in the photos?” he asks, ignoring my teasing. I shake my head.
“No, I’d definitely recognize her.” It’s disappointing; there are sixteen colleges at Durham University and we have no idea which one our mystery girl is from. Not to mention the fact that she could have started any year between 1988 and 1992 to have crossed paths with Mark. More disturbing still is the thought that she might not have been a student at all; she might have been a girlfriend from home or a waitress at the local pub for all we know.
Determined not to let our bad start put us off, we pull down book after book and study photographs from each one. It’s nearly an hour before I see the familiar deep red hair and green eyes that I’ve been unable to put out of my mind for the last two days.
“That’s her!” I exclaim a little too loudly. Looking around and seeing no one, I still lower my voice to a whisper. “Sorry, but that’s her.”
“Bethany Connors.” Nick runs his finger over the photograph and reads the name from underneath. “History of art at Trevelyan College. She’s . . . beautiful.”
The picture is the only mention of Beth in the yearbook, which is a little disappointing, but at least we have a name, a year, and a degree subject, which is more than we had before. Seeing her photo makes me feel vindicated somehow: here is definite proof that I didn’t imagine her. Nick is right, she really is beautiful, and I get a stab of jealousy when I think of her and my ex-husband, the man I loved, sharing intimate moments, walks around the college grounds, and candlelit picnics in the park.
Nick photocopies the picture and pockets it. We spend some time browsing photos of Durham sporting events through the years and framed newspaper articles telling of the achievements of the university’s alumni. When we find no other mention of Bethany Connors we decide to call it a day and head home to eat. It’s already three o’clock and the two-hour drive back after our eventful journey here isn’t particularly appealing.
“Feeling better?” the girl at the desk asks us as we go to sign out and hand back our passes. She looks like she’s run a brush through her drab locks and applied some lipstick, but other than that she’s still unremarkable. Her dark brown eyes look full of concern. I nod.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Oh yes, thank you,” Nick responds with a smile.
“I didn’t think to ask before, were you looking for anyone I might know?”
Nick takes the picture out of his pocket and hands it to the woman. “Bethany Connors,” he replies. “Did you know her?”
The woman’s face changes abruptly. Her smile becomes a scowl and her bushy eyebrows knit together. She looks at Nick as though she wants to strike him down.
“Is this some kind of joke?” she practically spits. “Who are you? Are you reporters? Don’t you think we had enough of this twenty-one years ago?”
Nick is as shocked as I am but tries not to show it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” he says, taking back the photo. I watch stunned as the woman points to the front doors.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she snaps at us. Funny how she’s gone from addressing only Nick to suddenly acknowledging my presence. “Or I’ll call the police. You’re here under false pretenses and the university doesn’t take kindly to liars or journalists.”
Despite the fact that we are both liars and one of us is a journalist, I feel more than a little insulted. Before I can object to her libelous outburst, however, Nick ushers me out of the library door, mutterings of “dogs with a bone” ringing in my ears.
“What the hell was that about?” I explode as soon as we’re outside. Nick says nothing, just looks confused.
When we get back to the car, he immediately navigates us to a café that boasts free Wi-Fi and “the best coffee in Durham.” I test out the second claim while Nick boots up the laptop.
“Well, I think I’ve found the reason Mrs. Hyde switched her personality so quickly,” he announces after a few minutes.
“Why?”
He turns the laptop to face me, and a picture fills the screen.
“Because Bethany
Connors was murdered in 1992.”
43
CARL: 16 DECEMBER 1992
What do you mean, got him? What the hell’s going on?”
David was already making his way out the door. If Carl wanted information, he had to follow, and quickly. He was reluctant to leave that jumped-up little prick Jack Bratbury, but he was getting nowhere with the kid, and none of it might matter now.
“Name’s Lee Russon,” David read from a sheaf of papers as he walked. “He’s a known vagrant, got a record for petty theft, been moved on from sleeping on university grounds a coupla times. He was pulled in for pickpocketing a student, name of Harvey. They found him covered in blood and with Beth’s purse hidden under his stuff and brought him in. He’s waiting for us in room twelve.”
“This is bollocks and you know it.” Carl walked into the chief’s office without preamble. It had been three long weeks since the discovery of Bethany Connors’s body and they still didn’t have one single lead. The university had got fed up with the police hanging around, making the students uncomfortable, bringing their reputation down. Potential witnesses had clammed up, even the girl’s friends were becoming hostile. Now, after all this time, they just had him?
The chief inspector stepped backwards.
“Carl, please, be reasonable. He confessed, for God’s sake. I’ve got people in every direction demanding we wrap this one up, and a blood-soaked junkie found with the girl’s purse confesses to killing her. What do you want me to do, say ‘Sorry, mate, there’s a detective in Homicide who doesn’t think you did it, so back off to the streets for you! Be a good chap and don’t kill any more students.’ Come on.”
Carl gritted his teeth. “Her name was Beth, Bethany Louise Connors, and most junkie tramps don’t have the strength to wipe their own arses, let alone carry a body to the middle of nowhere and dump her.”
“He says he stole a car.”
“So where is it? Has he told you where she was killed? What he did with the murder weapon?”
“He says—”
“Oh, fuck what he says!” Carl exploded. “Do we have any evidence to back it up? You do remember evidence, don’t you, John? That stuff we used to use to prove a case?”
“Look, Carl, I can see you’re angry. For some reason this case has struck a chord with you. It’s hard to accept that this girl, sorry, Beth, died for no reason. But sometimes that just happens. Sometimes there is no motive, no good explanation. Sometimes fucked-up people do fucked-up things. We just have to make sure those people go down for it. And he will, I promise. For a very long time.”
Chief Inspector John Barnes turned to walk out of his office, expecting Carl to follow him. “And what if I’m right?” Carl called to his retreating back. “What if you’re putting away the wrong man?”
44
Bethany Connors was just twenty when she was abducted from outside her college, raped, murdered, and her body dumped three miles away, sending shock waves through the entire university. She was a bright young talent, well on track for a first-class degree in art history, and had already been accepted by two prestigious art galleries for internship programs. She had been due to meet her fiancé, Mark Webster, at St. Chad’s student bar, and when she hadn’t arrived by eleven thirty he had called her best friend, Jennifer Matthews, who alerted the supervisor at Trevelyan. Mrs. Whitaker had called the police and a search had been mounted by fellow students. Bethany was found dead at seven o’clock the next morning—twelve hours after she had last been seen alive. According to the newspaper reports, Mark had been questioned, but he’d never been made an official suspect owing to numerous corroborations of his alibi.
It makes me feel sick to think of my husband filing away the undesirable parts of his past. Why didn’t he feel he could confide in me? Once upon a time I’d thought us the perfect team. Now I realize that was a stupid, naive thing to think. Trevelyan College campus is a short drive from the café, and we make it in silence. A group of giggling students direct us to the supervisor’s office and confirm that Mrs. Whitaker is still in charge. I have no idea what we’re going to say to her and hope, as usual, that Nick has a plan and that we won’t be threatened with the police again as soon as we mention Beth’s name.
“Hello there, can I help you?” Mrs. Whitaker is in her office. She is a small, homely looking woman who I’m sure makes her students feel at ease in their scary new surroundings. I wonder if Beth felt safe here.
“Mrs. Whitaker, my name is Nick Whitely, and this is Susan Webster.” We both shake her hand and I see no flicker of recognition at my name. “We were wondering if we’d be able to speak to you regarding a former student of yours.”
Her eyes narrow slightly but her face doesn’t lose its friendliness, yet. She motions for us to come in and closes the door behind us.
“Please, take a seat. What brings you to Durham?”
Nick sits down and so do I, hoping this will make it harder for her to kick us out. I let Nick do the talking.
“We’re in the middle of an investigation of sorts,” he says, and I wait to see what story he is going to come up with this time.
“An investigation? Are you with the police?” She looks at me as though she seriously doubts I’m an officer of the law.
“No, we’re not with the police; it’s an investigation of a personal nature. We’re here to ask about Bethany Connors.”
Her eyes narrow further and this time she looks distinctly less friendly. “You’re journalists,” she states flatly.
“Well, yes, I am a journalist,” Nick admits to my surprise, “but we’re not here for a story.” Mrs. Whitaker stands up, but Nick stays seated and I follow his lead.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to say about what happened to Beth. I can’t help you.”
Nick nods. “Yes, I thought you might say that. Perhaps you could just hear us out? Then if you still don’t want to talk to us we’ll go quietly and leave you to your work.” There is an open book on the table and it’s clear she wasn’t doing any work, but it’s a nice touch. He’s good at this.
After a pause, Mrs. Whitaker shrugs. “Okay,” she replies. “Go ahead.”
Nick turns to me. “Perhaps you’d better take over. It is your story, after all.”
I’m shocked. Does he want me to tell the truth? I can’t think fast enough to lie and I look beseechingly at him. Mrs. Whitaker is waiting patiently and Nick gives me a small nod. He wants me to be honest, and so I take a deep breath.
“As Nick said, my name is Susan Webster,” I begin nervously. “Four years ago I was married to a former Durham student, Mark Webster.”
Mrs. Whitaker nods. “I knew Mark Webster and I know who you are, dear.” There’s no judgment in her eyes. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, if you can manage it.”
I like her. She reminds me of my mother, a woman who always thought the best of people until they proved otherwise. I have a feeling her students rarely let her down; you can’t help but try to please people like her. I nod in reply.
“Mark and I thought our family life was perfect,” I continue. “Well, he seemed to, at least. I had no idea he had anything in his past he would want to hide from me, but I was hiding something from him. I wasn’t coping as well as I thought I should. I doubted my ability as a mother and at times I thought they would both be better off without me. When Dylan was twelve weeks old, he was smothered in his sleep and I was accused of his murder.” Saying the words out loud hurts less now that I’m starting not to believe them, but it’s still difficult to tell people how I was a less than perfect new mum.
“Go on.”
I take a deep breath. “I spent almost a year on remand, awaiting trial, and was diagnosed with puerperal psychosis, then found guilty of second-degree manslaughter. I was sent to Oakdale Psychiatric Facility, where I spent two years and eight months. I was released almost five weeks ago. Last Saturday I received this.” I hand her the photograph with my son’s name on the back and watch as she st
udies it, watch her eyes widen like everyone else’s when she reads the words written on the back.
“Believe me, I was as surprised as you. I went to Mr. Whitely for help. I believed that as a journalist he might have details of the trial that I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for, and other knowledge that might have some bearing on my case—like the disappearance of the medical examiner who gave evidence at my trial. As it turns out, he’s been more help than I could have imagined.” I glance fleetingly at Nick and plunge on.
“When I went to confront my ex-husband about it, he claimed to know nothing. That’s when I found the photographs of Bethany Connors. I need to know whether what happened to Bethany has anything to do with what has happened to my son. I need to know whether my son is still alive.”
When I finish, I’m well aware that my eyes are glistening with tears and my hands are shaking. Mrs. Whitaker gets to her feet again. It hasn’t worked, I’ve blown it. Nick relied on my honesty and I’ve messed it up.
“I think we all need a drink and a more private setting. The students know where to find me if they need me. Why don’t you both follow me to my house and we can talk in comfort?”
I let out a sigh of relief and Nick smiles encouragingly. As we follow Mrs. Whitaker across the campus to her house, his eyes look distant and I wonder what he’s thinking.
The college supervisor’s bungalow is small but cozy.
“Please, take a seat,” Mrs. Whitaker instructs, and offers us a hot drink, which we both accept. She leaves the room, and when she comes back a few minutes later it’s with a tray of coffees and a plate of biscuits. Nick and I each take a mug.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Nick starts, but she waves her hand.
“Please, it’s Jean.”
How I Lost You Page 20
