by Deborah Bee
Clare has no job.
Clare’s father died in September 2014.
Under CONJECTURE she writes:
Clare is the victim.
Gareth is the perpetrator.
Gareth is in hiding.
Gareth has done a runner.
Clare is telling the truth.
Gareth is the victim.
Clare is the perpetrator.
Clare is lying.
‘What do you think?’ she asks PC Chapman, as she wanders in with her Starbucks coffee and begins to take off her coat.
‘I don’t know anymore. Every time I’m with Clare, I’m convinced she’s telling me the truth. Then you see the wedding photo, and his phone, laptop and keys on the table and you think – this is a crime scene, but what is the crime?’
DS Clarke takes a step back from the board and looks hard at PC Chapman. Like she’s seeing her for the first time. PC Chapman blushes but DS Clarke doesn’t notice. She turns to look at her white board and taps the end of the marker pen on her chin.
‘Good fucking point,’ she says to PC Chapman. ‘Good fucking point.’
The evidence retained from 289 Oval Road has been catalogued and an inventory has been produced. DS Clarke is frankly loath to ask DC Walker anything, but buzzes through to her.
‘I’m doing it now,’ says DC Walker.
‘And you’ve logged the pictures?’
‘They’re on the hard drive.’
‘Can you forward the wedding picture to my phone? The one I took is blurred.’
‘Will do.’
‘Anything interesting happen after I left?’
‘No, nothing. There was nothing incriminating in the house.’
DS Clarke sighs inwardly. She’s watched far too many police dramas, she thinks.
‘Apart from . . . the tidiness, the posh clothes, the laptop, the keys and the wedding picture?’ she says.
‘None of that incriminates Gareth James. If anything, it incriminates Clare Chambers. It proves she’s been lying all along.’
‘Does it?’ says DS Clarke.
‘Yes, sarge, it does.’
DS Clarke has neither the time nor the inclination to remind DC Walker of the first principles of the British judicial system.
‘Anything else?’ says DS Clarke.
‘Oh, we did find his journal.’
‘What’s a journal?’
‘It’s a jumped-up way of saying diary.’
‘Gareth kept a diary?’
‘Looks like it. Minute-by-minute account of his life over the past two years.’
‘Can you get that to my office – now, please!’
‘Yes, sarge. I already put it on Chapman’s desk. I’ll ask her to bring it over.’
DS Clarke can see the diary from where she’s sitting. It’s one of those desk jobbies, black leather with a silky ribbon, and silvered edges to the pages. She walks over to Chapman’s desk. The diary is in a clear plastic evidence bag and there are traces of powder on the outside cover. The forensics team has been all over it.
She opens the evidence bag, pulling on protective gloves and flipping back the cover. The end papers are marbled. Posh. She leafs through to the middle.
‘. . . had a restless night. She has frantic episodes where she begs me not to leave her, even though I have no intention of doing so. She refuses to leave the house now and . . .’
It’s not an actual diary, just a book with blank pages and each one has been filled out with carefully scripted handwriting, done with a fountain pen, black ink, italic nib.
‘. . . I am more concerned than ever about Coco. When I came back from the supermarket, she had been self-abusing by stubbing cigarettes out in her skin. I’ve applied some burn cream to her forearms but she keeps ripping off the bandages to . . .’
The words on the opening pages are sweeping, elaborate. Towards the end of the book, the writing becomes sloppier, with smudged ink obscuring some of the words as though the ink was still wet when the page was turned.
‘. . . transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms usually associated with Borderline Personality Disorder . . .’
‘What do you think?’ says Chapman, peering over DS Clarke’s shoulder.
‘I’ve only just opened it,’ she replies. ‘Have you had time . . .’
‘Basically, it says he’s been putting up with a monster for the past two years. A narcissistic, profligate, violent, drug addict, self-harmer. Shall I go on?’
‘And what does it say about him?’
‘That he’s a martyr. Do-anything-for-his-lovely-wife type thing.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s that type of guy!’ says PC Chapman, turning on her heel and heading back to her own desk. ‘I used to go out with one like that. He was a wanker. Anyway, it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It’s a diary,’ says DS Clarke. Juries respond well to diaries, DS Clarke knows that. Ridiculous as it might seem, she thinks to herself, the mugs tend to believe it if it’s written down.
‘Well, he’s obviously made it all up,’ says PC Chapman.
‘Has he, Chapman? How do you know that?’
‘I believe Clare.’
‘We’d all like to believe Clare. Did Walker track down this Quinn bloke?’
‘Yes, she saw him last night.’
‘And . . .?’ says DS Clarke, arms folded, expecting the worst.
‘Quinn said, and I think these are his exact words . . . ‘I can’t remember how I broke my arm last year! I think I was drunk. Sorry not to be of more help.’
‘Perfect,’ breathed DS Clarke. ‘So, where is Gareth, then? If he’s not at the house, where’s he gone? Maybe he did go to the hospital after all? Still nothing on the CCTV?’
Chapman shrugs.
‘Go back and look at it again. He’s devious. Oh, and look for any traffic or parking violations in the past six months for Clare’s car. We need to find someone to corroborate Clare’s story.
*
The police doctor’s report is through and includes all the photos. DS Clarke has requested a hard copy and it’s now lying unopened on her desk. She needs to wait till the children are busy. Sometimes the photographic evidence is hard to look at.
The case briefing meeting begins in Meeting Room 1. The children wander in with their mugs. DS Clarke has some time.
She closes her office door and slices through the seal of the envelope.
*
Medical Police Report – Clare Chambers. Case Number 4267819DV
Each point in Ridley’s report is matched by a photo of a part of Clare’s body.
DS Clarke flips open the first pages.
Ingestion of hazardous liquids – not confirmed
The photo shows close-ups of Clare’s tongue, blue, and some red sore patches around the mouth. Tox reports on the contents of Clare’s stomach are referred to. The initial hospital report is included. So, thinks DS Clarke, just mouthwash after all that.
Thermal & chemical burns – confirmed
Shots of skin, charred in places, angry red in others. The inside of the thighs are criss-crossed with black and brown scorch marks. Old scorch marks suggesting ongoing abuse.
Bruising consistent with abuse including to the thighs, abdomen, buttocks, cheeks & neck.
Grey skin mottled with yellow, green, blue and purple bruises – all sizes, all shapes. The differences in colour indicate when the bruises were caused.
Bruising consistent with significant trauma including to the knees and shins.
Superficial cuts and grazes
The biggest, angriest bruise on the thin right leg – barely any fat or muscle.
Malnourished.
Bony shoulders and a spine so sharply defined it looks like it could pierce through the skin.
May have a propensity to self-harm.
The last photo makes DS Clarke take a sharp breath. A tear-stained Clare, naked from the waist
up, lying on a hospital bed, apparently unconscious, the palms of her hands facing up. She looks like a starving, hopeless child from one of those charity appeal films that’s impossible to watch.
DS Clarke remembers what Dr Ridley said,
‘It’s hard to fake that kind of abuse.’
Thirty-One
Clare
I’m not sure why I’m eating.
Mrs H is standing guard half in the kitchen and half in the dining room.
I honestly don’t think she’ll go until I’ve eaten every last crumb of breakfast.
I’m also not sure why I’m eating granola (gluten) or yoghurt (lactose) but I guess I’m not intolerant to either after all.
So much for Gareth’s nutrition tips.
Babe, I know everything about nutrition.
Really.
There’s nothing I don’t know about nutrition.
Did you have your vitamin supplements today?
Let me see you take them.
In your mouth.
Swallow.
Now open wide.
Let me see they’re gone.
Kitty is dipping rice cakes into humus and swigging out of a Diet Coke can.
I’m trying not to hate her for lying about me.
Mrs Henry is listening in.
She’s got glittery leg warmers on. Kitty, that is.
‘You like my new hair?’ she says, staring out of the window.
Gareth used to do that. Ask me things, then not be interested in the reply.
‘Yeah,’ I say, not really sure what’s different.
‘It’s graduated. That’s what they call it. Got it done in Parkway. The guy there, the colour-specialist, he said I had quite a good face.’
‘Nice,’ I say.
‘I think I’m going to get scouted soon. By an agency. Like Cara Delevingne. They look for people all the time. Storm Models is the best one. But I think Elite are quite good too.’
‘Why don’t you go and see them, if that’s what you want to do?’
‘I’m not going to ask them! They have to ask me! That way you hold all the cards in the relationship. That’s what Kate Moss did.’
‘Wasn’t Kate Moss ten or something when she got scouted?’ I say, chewing on unchewable bird seed or something.
‘Yeah. At an international airport. If I was going through international airports all the time, I’d have been scouted already. She came from a privileged background. It was easy for her.’
I thought she was from Croydon.
I think that.
I don’t say that.
‘You should come to my dance class,’ Kitty says, examining the ends of her hair.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘It’s Jazz and Contemporary. Everyone is pretty rubbish. I should be in the senior group but they said they’re full up.’
‘Is it safe for you to go out?’ I say. I mean, I don’t even know what her story is. But if I ask she’s bound to ask about mine.
I’ll find you wherever you go.
I promise you, babe.
I’ll be behind every wall, every tree.
‘Yeah, it’s fine. I was groomed,’ she says, lowering her voice so Mrs Henry can’t hear, ‘by a gang. The police are all over it. They’ve arrested fourteen of the wankers already. Come on! Get your stuff. I can loan you some shoes if you haven’t got any. I’ve got a spare pair.’
‘I don’t think . . .’ I start.
‘You don’t have to think,’ she interrupts. ‘You deserve some fun, don’t you? And you ain’t gonna get any around here.’
‘Morning, Clare,’ says Sally, coming in.
She’s all dressed and ready for action.
Even got lipstick on.
‘I don’t know why I’m eating again,’ I say, ‘I’m still full from last night.’
‘You off to your dance class?’ Sally says to Kitty.
Kitty doesn’t reply.
She slides off the table and picks up her bag.
‘See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya,’ she says to me.
‘The rubbish, Kitty. In the bin please,’ says Mrs Henry, winking at me behind Kitty’s back.
She huffs like a three-year-old.
Drops her bag in the middle of the floor.
Picks up the Diet Coke can and the humus pot and slams them in the bin.
Picks up her bag again.
Swings her hair.
Saunters off.
Proper little madam.
‘I had a call from DS Clarke,’ Mrs Henry whispers to me. ‘She’d like to see you today. And she’s got a bag of your clothes.’
‘You’re kidding me! I can take off this crap?’
‘And we can wash that dressing gown,’ says Sally, waiting for me to have a hissy.
‘She said she’d be in this morning. You’re here, right?’ says Mrs Henry.
‘Actually, I have an appointment with the Queen of England,’ I say. ‘She’s going to have to wait her turn.’
Mrs Henry laughs.
So does Sally.
And then I thought they looked at each other kind of funny.
I don’t know.
Just something I thought.
Maybe not.
‘How come Kitty goes out all the time?’ Sally says to Mrs Henry.
She shrugs. ‘It’s a refuge, not a prison. Quite a few of the residents have classes, or jobs, appointments, whatever. It’s up to you what you do. I wouldn’t recommend that either of you go out, though. But I can only recommend. You have to make your own decisions.’
She clocks my empty bowl.
She doesn’t say anything though.
It’s not surprising you’re so fat, babe.
You gotta drop a few pounds.
‘This won’t get the baby a new bonnet,’ Mrs Henry says and sighs. ‘I’ll let you know when Susan gets here. She’s bringing Celia.’
*
‘Kitty invited me to her dance class,’ I say, when Mrs H has gone.
‘I hope you told her where to go,’ says Sally.
She’s got no time at all for Kitty, since she complained about me.
‘She was groomed,’ I say. ‘By men, a gang she said.’
‘Nearest she got to grooming was getting her hair dip-dyed,’ says Sally.
‘No, really. She was groomed and the police have arrested fourteen wankers,’ I say. ‘That’s what she said. Fourteen wankers.’
‘Everything’s larger than life for Kitty,’ Sally says.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I mean she makes stuff up,’ says Sally. ‘You know that. So, shall we wash that dressing gown, then?’
‘Bathrobe,’ I say. ‘Gareth says . . .’
‘Dressing gown,’ says Sally.
‘Dressing gown,’ I repeat.
I don’t know why everyone is looking so serious.
‘Can I put these on now?’ I say, holding up my favourite pyjama bottoms.
Brushed cotton.
Pink rabbits.
The only ones that Gareth didn’t find and throw out.
They’re in the Sainsbury’s bag that Susan has brought me. Two T-shirts. Trainers. Sweatpants. Knickers and a bra. White. Plain.
Only French underwear for you, my love.
Detective Sergeant Clarke doesn’t smile like she usually does.
‘We need to talk first, Clare,’ she says.
Very official.
‘It’s all going to be OK,’ says Celia, putting her arm around my shoulders.
‘What is?’ I say.
‘This is,’ she says, looking at Susan.
‘You found him!’ I blurt out. ‘What happened?’
‘We haven’t found him, Clare. We’re going to do a full forensic on the house,’ says Susan.
‘What’s a full forensic?’ I say.
‘We need to check it out,’ says Susan. ‘Things aren’t quite adding up.’
‘What’s not adding up? What’s she mean?’
I say to Celia.
She shakes her head, looking at Susan.
‘Gareth seems to have disappeared,’ she says.
‘Disappeared?’ I say. ‘Well, he’s not going to just sit there and wait for you to arrest him, is he?’
I’m a master of disguise.
Did I tell you that, babe?
One of my best friends works for the CIA.
I know everything about international intelligence.
I do actually work for the CIA but I’m a sleeper.
I just come when called.
Like a dog.
A superhuman dog.
When they have a top operation that they want handled the ‘Lone Wolf’ way, that’s when they call me.
‘None of his stuff has gone, Clare. His laptop. His keys. His phone. His journal . . .’
‘What journal?’
‘The diary he kept . . .’
‘Gareth never kept a journal. Or a diary. Or whatever it is you want to call it. He was far too shallow to have anything to write down.’
‘Was,’ says Susan. ‘You said “was”.’
‘Is,’ I say, turning red.
I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve done anything.
There’s a long silence.
No one says anything.
But everyone seems to be thinking a lot.
‘Why are you trying to make me feel bad?’ I say.
Celia looks at Susan as if she needs permission to speak.
‘That’s not at all what we’re here for,’ says Celia, patting my hand.
‘I’m going to be absolutely straight with you, Clare, so you can be absolutely straight back,’ says Susan.
I nod.
‘I have been straight, though,’ I say to her. ‘I have . . .’ but she interrupts.
‘First of all, your clothes, Clare.’
‘What about my clothes. They were in the drawers, next to the bed, right?’
‘There were a few clothes there, Clare. But the majority of your, let’s call it, “extensive” wardrobe, don’t look like these. There are a lot of designer clothes.’
‘They’re not mine,’ I say, shaking my head, looking at Celia.
Waiting for her to smile and nod.
Nod and smile.
‘Cashmere sweaters. Joseph skirts and trousers. Silk shirts in ten colours.’
‘Those aren’t mine!’ I say. ‘I haven’t bought any clothes in two years. You’re making this up. You’re trying to make me go mad. Gareth says . . .’
