I want to ask him all these things but I don’t want to see his face when he lies to me. I just want to know what any of this has to do with my son, and how a twenty-one-year-old murder case could be linked to my baby boy.
47
JACK: 17 DECEMBER 1992
You saw it all?” The voice was full of awe, the piece of ass with lip gloss attached so easy to impress. She edged closer to Jack, not even slightly mindful of the rest of his audience. Christ, any closer she’d be sat in his lap, not that he’d object. The girl—Sandy, Sammy? He didn’t know and he didn’t care—leaned in, her forearm resting on his chair. From this angle he caught a glimpse of a flimsy skin-colored bra, imagined the small, hard nipple that was pressing against its fabric. Jesus, he couldn’t let himself get hard, not sitting with a group of people waiting to hear about the man arrested for Beth’s murder.
“All of it.” He leaned back, inviting the rest of his audience to lean closer. People from other tables were listening now; Sandy/Sammy hadn’t been keeping her voice down.
“Like I said, I’d gone to the station with Jeremy to help the police with their inquiries. God knows, someone had to.” A few sniggers from around the table. The police hadn’t made themselves popular in the university the last few weeks.
“Why did you go with a lawyer?” Graham something asked, his nose wrinkled. Jack let out a short laugh.
“The old man would shit a brick if I set foot in a police station without representation.” It was taken without another comment. Of course the son of George Bratbury should have a lawyer wherever he went. “Anyway, we’d only been there about fifteen minutes when there was a hell of a commotion outside.”
His audience was hooked, exactly how he wanted them. He was loving this.
“The fat idiot interviewing me went out to see what was going on, so I canned Jeremy and followed him.” The look on Lip Gloss’s face was priceless. “There were two police officers, big knuckle-dragging things, both locked arms with a dirty stinking hobo. Hair down to his shoulders, so thick with grease you could have oiled the whole cast of Striptease with it. The smell in the corridor was fucking rancid.”
He screwed up his nose at the imagined memory. These people didn’t have to know it was all utter bullshit, that Russon had already been taken through to the interview room before Fat Man had been informed. They didn’t need to know that the only time Jack had seen Russon was when he’d covered the filthy junkie in Beth’s blood the morning after her death and buried her purse deep under the comatose hobo’s possessions.
“What was he like?” Lip Gloss’s hand closed over his arm.
“He was a mess. High as a kite and throwing himself from side to side like a wild beast, trying to tear himself away from the gorillas holding him. But there was no chance. He was wailing, over and over again, not words at first, just noise. His jeans were so thick with filth you could barely see they were denim anymore; he’d obviously been wearing them for weeks. And his T-shirt . . .”
This was the best bit, the bit he’d been saving. Every breath he took drew the crowd in closer, like he was sucking them towards him with the force of his story. He paused, tried to look like he was composing himself. Jesus, he was going to come if this piece rubbed herself against him just once more. The power, the sexual high of having every person around him exactly where he wanted them, the knowledge that he had the information every person on campus, every police officer in Durham wanted to know . . .
“His T-shirt was covered in blood. Beth’s blood.”
48
I wake up to the smell of bacon cooking downstairs, that amazing sizzling aroma that permeates every inch of the house. I’m just about to throw on some clothes and go down when there’s a knock at the door. Grabbing a robe, I shout, “Come in.”
“Sleep well?” The door opens and Nick walks in carrying a tray filled with food. Buttered crumpets, bacon, egg, sausage, and tomatoes: everything looks amazing.
“Are you trying to fatten me up?” I ask. “I haven’t been for a run all week and all you do is feed me.”
“What would Cassie say if I let you stop eating again?” Nick grins. “So where do we go next?” he asks as I shovel food into my mouth. “We’re still no closer to knowing what happened to Dylan.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, wiping my mouth as discreetly as possible with my finger. “I just can’t believe that what happened to Beth Connors isn’t related, but I can’t for the life of me see how it can be. If Dylan had been murdered, or kidnapped for ransom, I’d think it was some kind of revenge for Beth’s murder. But the photo I got shows a happy little boy, unharmed and smiling. That doesn’t suggest revenge to me. We can’t just turn up at Mark’s house and ask him, ‘Oh, by the way, did you murder your fiancée twenty-one years ago?’ ”
Before Nick can reply, my mobile rings. Shit. Mark again? It’s a number I don’t know and before they have a chance to hang up I snatch it up and press the green button.
“Hello?”
“Is this Susan Webster?” A man’s deep voice.
“Speaking.”
“Ms. Webster, my name is Carl Weston, formerly Detective Carl Weston of the Durham Constabulary. I received a call from a Jean Whitaker, who said you might want to speak to me about Bethany Connors?”
Do I ever. I cover the phone and mouth “detective” to Nick.
“Would we be able to meet somewhere? In, say, two hours?”
I nod, then, realizing he can’t see me, say, “Of course, where are you?”
“I’m coming from just outside Durham, I’ll get the train.”
We arrange to meet at a café not too far from the train station. When I get off the phone, I expect Nick to be excited. Instead he looks apprehensive and suspicious.
“Who was that? Which detective?”
“Carl Weston. He’s the guy who left the Durham police force because he didn’t believe Russon was responsible for Beth’s murder. We’re meeting him in an hour.”
“I can’t.” His voice is sharp. “I have to go into work today to pick up some things. You go, you can tell me what he says.”
I can’t hide my disappointment. “You didn’t mention work before. Can’t you go in this afternoon?”
“Not everything revolves around you, you know.” His voice is cold and he gets up to walk away. “Come back here when you’re done. And be careful, you don’t have a clue who this guy is.”
49
The cold air is biting and I decide to wait inside for Carl Weston. When he walks in, I have no doubt about who he is. He looks like a police officer, he walks like a police officer; when he sees me he deduces quickly who I am—like a police officer—and approaches the table.
“Ms. Webster?”
I nod. “Please, sit down.”
He takes a seat. He’s older than I expected, I’d say in his sixties, and he’s looking at me with caution, as though I might suddenly bite him.
“Did Mrs. Whitaker tell you why we went to see her?”
Carl Weston nods. “She said you wanted to know about Bethany Connors. You’re Webster’s ex-wife.”
“Did you meet Mark?”
Another nod. “It was a good many years ago now, more than twenty, but I do remember your husband. We tried to interview him a few times.”
“Tried?”
Carl Weston looks up and smiles as a young waitress comes to take our order. He asks for two teas, then looks at me questioningly, as though he’s forgotten what he was in the middle of. Or maybe he’s forgotten why he’s here at all.
“You say you tried to interview Mark?”
“Oh yes.” And he’s back in the room. “Not very successfully, mind you. The first time we saw him, he was a mess. His father had got him a hotshot lawyer—not that he needed one: his alibi was cast-iron and there was no reason to believe he might have been involved. He just wouldn’t stop crying. I had to stop the interview at one point for him to be sick. Anyone would have thought we were interviewing him
as a suspect.”
“Is it unusual? For someone to be that upset?”
Carl shakes his head. “Oh no. People react to loss in different ways, Mrs. Webster.” He looks embarrassed. Of course, he knows.
“Of course they do.” My eyes drop to the table so he doesn’t see them tear up. Thankfully the waitress arrives with our drinks, giving us both a reason to shake off the awkward moment.
“I’m afraid I can’t be much help to you.” He throws me another embarrassed look. “If I knew anything worth knowing, I’d have found a better explanation than Lee Russon.”
“So you definitely don’t think he did it? Killed Beth, I mean.”
“There’s just no way. After we brought him in, he was babbling incoherently. He claimed to have stolen a car to take Beth’s body to the wasteland, but he couldn’t remember where he’d left the car.”
“Was he mentally ill?”
Carl nods his head. “He couldn’t afford a decent lawyer and the courts accepted his confession. The thing is, Russon had nowhere to sleep and no way of getting his next meal. Inside he had a bed, a roof over his head, and three meals a day. We see it all the time, vagrants confessing to just about anything to get themselves taken care of. We never usually take them seriously, which is why it boiled my blood to see Russon go down for Beth’s murder.”
“Jennifer Matthews said something about him having Beth’s purse? And blood on his T-shirt?”
Carl blows through his teeth; he looks disgusted. “He could have got the purse from anywhere, a bin, a ditch. It was by chance that we brought him in, for pickpocketing. When he saw the purse, it was like he’d just remembered that he’d killed somebody. The blood was on a T-shirt under his coat, which didn’t have any traces on it. No blood on his filthy hands or anywhere else for that matter. Like he’d cleaned it off the rest of him but forgotten his shirt. Rubbish.”
This is all well and good, but like Carl said, he didn’t know who killed Beth then, and he doesn’t know now.
“What about the boy who told you Beth had been selling herself for cash? Matthew Riley?”
Carl frowns. “Yeah, that was another inconsistency. He said it, then took it back almost straightaway, the next day I think. We couldn’t find anyone to back up his story about Beth soliciting, but the rest of the team took it as read anyway. I always figured he saw wrong, that his girlfriend convinced him to change his statement. Pretty little thing, practically frog-marched him into the station. I can still picture all that bleached-blonde hair and her bright red face. Funny what we remember, isn’t it?”
Bleached-blonde hair . . .
“Do you remember her name?”
Carl smiles. “Memory like a hawk, me, still sharp after twenty years. It was Kristy.”
So Kristy Riley was at university with my ex-husband when his fiancée died. Funny how she neglected to mention that.
“Lovely name, Kristy. Kristy Travis.”
“Travis?” It has to be a coincidence. There’s more than one Travis in Bradford. It doesn’t mean that Matthew Riley’s wife is connected to Rachael Travis, my lawyer.
“Sounds like a movie star, doesn’t it?”
“Did she have a sister, do you know?”
Carl makes a face. “Do I. Now there’s a woman even twenty years can’t erase. Kicked up such a fuss about us bringing the university into disrepute that I almost framed her for the murder. I’m happy to say I’ve never clapped eyes on Rachael Travis again.”
50
Nick, where are you?” I struggle to catch my breath as I throw my handbag in the car and slam the passenger door. “I’m on my way to see Kristy Riley, can you meet me there? I’ve just been with Carl Weston. Kristy lied to us when we spoke to her the other day. She was at Durham with Mark and Matt and she knew all about Beth. I’m going to find out what else she’s been lying about. For all we know she’s got Dylan in her bloody spare room. And her maiden name was Travis, as in Rachael Travis. Call me the minute you get this message.”
I left Carl with the promise that I will call him if I get any new information about Beth’s murder. The information he gave me only backed up what Jennifer had to say yesterday: Beth had found something out about her fiancé that scared her, something he was involved in with the elusive boys Jennifer referred to as the “Durham elite.” Yet a week later they were still together, playing happy families as though none of it had ever happened. When she’d changed her mind about telling Jennifer, had she given up? Calmed down and gone back to Mark, only to be raped and murdered the following Friday? I don’t think so. I think she turned to a new friend, someone whose boyfriend was equally implicated in what Beth had seen. I think she went to Kristy Travis.
The Range Rover is parked in the driveway and I pull in right behind it as close as I can.
No escape, I think to myself.
I’m going to knock on the front door and demand that Kristy Riley tell me exactly why she didn’t tell me about knowing my husband, and exactly what she knows about my son’s whereabouts. I’m not going to leave until she tells me everything. Or calls the police.
Despite the car being on the drive, the house looks deserted. There’s no answer, no matter how hard I bang on the front door, and a quick look through the front window shows that the TV is off and no lights are on. I’m about to give up and go away—I know, so much for my not leaving until I have the truth—when I notice something that makes my blood run cold. Through the living room window I can see into the dining room beyond, which I know from the last time I was here leads to the conservatory. What is different from the last time I was here is that the beautiful crystal vase that sat in pride of place on the dining room table is now scattered in pieces on the floor.
Flowers fan out around it and water seeps around them like blood from a head wound. I could overlook a smashed vase, dismiss it as an accident, a woman in too much of a rush to clear it up—although I don’t think Kristy Riley would be that kind of woman—but that isn’t all. Through the doorway of the dining room I see a heeled shoe, cast aside as though dropped carelessly. And next to the shoe is a foot.
I should get back into my car, call the police, and go. Before this sensible thought can properly register in my mind, I’m making my way around the back of the house to the conservatory.
Kristy Riley is dead, unrecognizable but for the shock of blonde hair and the designer clothes she is still clad in. Her beautiful face is a mess of blood and bone, not one of her striking features left unharmed.
I stifle a scream. My body spasms and I kneel down in preparation for what I’m sure is going to be a flood of vomit spilling from my throat, but nothing comes. Call the police, my mind screams. Call 999 now.
But you can’t, can you? a more rational part of me says slyly. How’s that going to look? A paranoid convicted murderer, convinced that Kristy Riley knows something about her son’s disappearance, heads around to her house and conveniently finds her dead? No Oakdale for you this time, love, this is prison for sure.
Shit. What do I do? My morals tell me to trust the justice system, do the right thing and report this. I’ve been brought up knowing right from wrong, and to leave the scene of a crime is wrong. But that was before. That was before I was falsely accused of my son’s murder and everyone around me started lying their asses off. Now I know the truth: that the people running our lives are as corruptible as everyone else, and honesty is not always the best policy. That’s why I do what I do. I run.
I’m in the car and halfway down the road before I consider the implications of this for Rachael. As much as I want to hate her for being a part of what happened to me, I can’t forget the help and support she gave me at a difficult time of my life, and this is her sister. I can’t tell her that she’s dead, but it’s hard to go from being grateful to someone to wishing them harm in such a short space of time. I have to warn her she might be in trouble. And as much as I hate to even consider the possibility, it might be my ex-husband she needs to watch out for.
/> “ZBH Solicitors, Gemma speaking, how can I help?”
“Gemma, it’s Susan Webster, could you put me through to Rachael, please.”
“I’ll just see if Mrs. Travis is availa—”
“No you won’t just anything, Gemma, this is serious, a matter of life and death, in fact. And you will put. Me. Through. To. Rachael. Now.”
Gemma cleverly senses that I am deadly serious and the phone begins to ring again. “Rachael Travis speaking.”
“Rachael, it’s Susan Webster. Don’t hang up. This is very important.”
“Susan.” Her voice adopts a fake “so glad to hear from you” tone. “I wouldn’t dream of hanging up. How are you?”
“Have you spoken to Mark today?”
There’s a pause, and I can tell she’s surprised. I swing the car left onto the dual carriageway and pick up speed. I need to put as much distance between myself and that house as possible, and I need to find Nick.
“Of course not, why would I—”
“Cut the crap, Rachael. This is important. Life or death, mine, my son’s, and maybe yours, so let’s get something straight. I know you are related to Kristy Riley. I know your brother-in-law and my husband were frat brothers or something ridiculously childish like that, and I know you knew I was innocent and you fucked up my case on purpose.”
“I don’t know—”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about. Of course you don’t, and I’m not expecting you to admit you do, so just shut up and listen. If Mark calls you, do not answer. If he shows up at your office, do not let him in. Do you understand?”
“Why?” She tries to sound defiant but she just sounds scared.
How I Lost You Page 23
