Someone Else's Skin

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘Except he wasn’t.’ Abby made a face. ‘Ron says he’s in a right state, trying to look after new twins, doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. He was driving around, trying to get the kids to settle. Ron says he’s on the level.’

  ‘What does Noah say?’

  ‘I didn’t speak with him. Ron said Noah was going to walk back. He seemed to think it’d freaked him out, being in a house full of baby stuff, but I should think Noah just fancied some fresh air.’ Abby looked up at Marnie, her full face smooth and trusting. ‘Any news about Hope and the others?’

  ‘You need to change the missing person status,’ Marnie told her. ‘Hope Proctor is now a suspect. Assault, kidnap and attempted murder.’

  ‘Hope?’ Abby’s eyes were saucers.

  ‘I need a list of sheltered housing in Dulwich. Can you get that for me?’

  The Millennium Bridge hung improbably over the Thames, like a rope bridge across a jungle pass. The river was busy with boats, its saline stink ripe with rust. Impossible not to look at the London Eye; it had eaten the skyline alive, a giant span of steel and glass, hollow moon in orbit above the city. The bridge’s structure had been reinforced after pedestrians detected swaying. Even now, when the wind got above a stiff breeze, Marnie could feel it moving. It didn’t stop people using the bridge. They expected it to sway. These expectations were everywhere in London, shaping the city.

  Ed was standing on the bridge, his face fractured with worry.

  ‘Tell me about Ayana,’ she said first.

  ‘I called at her parents’ house. Strictly in the role of Victim Support. One of her brothers answered. Turhan. What did Ayana tell Noah his name meant? Of mercy.’ Ed’s mouth wrenched at one corner. ‘He denied knowing where she is. I asked to speak to his parents, but he said no one else was home.’

  ‘Do you think she’s there? At her parents’ house?’

  ‘No. Turhan was too relaxed for that, but he knows where she is. He knew she wasn’t in the refuge, before I told him why I was calling.’ Ed turned and gripped the steel lip of the bridge, looking down at the water. ‘He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice.’ A patrol boat was making its way upstream, tannoy stuttering, driving a thin margin of litter to the edges of the shore. From where they stood, they could smell the silt of the river’s bed. ‘He knows where she is.’ Ed rubbed the crook of his elbow at his face. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, slept in. If he had slept. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What about her mother? Did you believe Turhan when he said she wasn’t home?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’

  ‘Ayana warned us,’ Marnie said, ‘about women and violence. Look what those girls did to Stephen, at Sommerville. Look at Simone, what her mother did. All the way down the line, I’ve been staring at evidence of what women are capable of, but still I chose their side. Instinctively. Male aggression’s part of the job. I see it all the time. Not just sexism or strutting. Boys like Lowell Paton . . . It blindsided me. Too many gorillas on the court.’

  Ed turned to face her, propping his back to the steel bar. ‘What’s happened?’

  She didn’t know where to begin. She needed to test the soundness of what she was going to say, to see if it stood up. Not that she thought Leo Proctor had lied, but she could hear the CPS picking holes in the evidence already. ‘At the hospital, the night of the stabbing? I spoke with Hope, and with the doctor who’d examined her. It looked . . . black and white, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way she spoke, the things she knew. About all the worst ways people can hurt one another. How you can buy silence not only with threats or violence, but with promises. Secrets. I thought it proved what she’d been through. She knew everything there was to know, about abuse.’ The river’s traffic pulled lines from the current. Silver scars on the water’s brown skin. ‘The other person who’d know that much about it is the abuser.’ She paused, the woman’s name sticking in her throat. ‘Hope Proctor.’

  Ed said slowly, disbelievingly, ‘Hope?’

  Marnie nodded. ‘Hope. She was the abuser, not Leo. He was the victim.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ There was a lick of anger in Ed’s voice. ‘You must be wrong.’

  She looked at him, steadily. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Where’s this coming from? Leo? It’s bollocks. Every abusive husband on the planet denies it at some point or other. He’s not the first who’s tried twisting the facts to make it look like he’s the victim.’

  ‘Ed . . . It was Hope. I know it was. She broke his hand, and his ribs.’

  ‘What about her injuries?’ Ed demanded. ‘How’s he explaining those?’

  ‘She made him hurt her. It was a condition of their marriage.’

  Ed made a sound of exasperation. ‘Jesus, Rome . . . I can’t believe you fell for that.’

  She’d slipped in his estimation. She was surprised how much it meant, how much it hurt. She hid her hands in her pockets, driving her fingernails into her palms. ‘Leo refused to do it at first, so she went to bars and picked up strangers, before going home to show him their bruises on her.’ Connection. Was that what Hope was chasing? The need not to feel like a stranger inside her own skin. ‘Leo was terrified she’d end up dead. She wouldn’t tell him why she needed it. Punishment of some kind, I imagine.’

  Ed had turned away, his jaw tense, a muscle wrenching in his cheek. She studied his profile, looking for something she’d lost. ‘I know how it sounds. I didn’t want to believe it either. A woman asking for those sorts of injuries, inflicting them on her husband? I was happy to think she fought back, at the refuge. That the stabbing wasn’t panic, that maybe she meant to kill him because he’d been raping and abusing her, for years. Because it fitted with my personal preference. What was it you said, at Sommerville? I thought she was my kind of victim, the kind that fights back. I didn’t stop to think that she might be the abuser, but that’s exactly what she is. Do you think I’d be telling you otherwise? Ed . . . I need you to listen to this. Then tell me I’m wrong.’

  He straightened to face her. Nodded. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Leo admitted it, after I asked some awkward questions. I think he’d have kept it secret if he could. I began to suspect after what happened to Stephen at Sommerville. It was the way he defended himself . . . It reminded me of Leo, that first time I questioned him.’ She wanted to reach for Ed’s hand, but couldn’t. ‘I didn’t really get a fix on it until I heard that Hope had been to the house, with Simone. For a suitcase. I couldn’t imagine Simone risking a trip like that. It got me wondering who was behind the escape from the hospital. I’m not saying Simone wasn’t up for it, but I couldn’t see her motive for running. Hope was the one with a motive, especially after Leo woke up.’

  Ed drew a short breath. She watched his face change, making room for this new, appalling truth. She regretted the shadows she’d put in his eyes, the lines around his mouth.

  ‘Then . . . it was attempted murder,’ he said. ‘The stabbing. Can you prove it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if I can persuade Leo to make a formal statement. He’s not in great shape.’ The breeze had untied her hair. She reknotted it. ‘If Hope gets away with it, it’ll be because she blindsided Simone and Shelley – all of them. Took their fear, and their suffering, and twisted it into the perfect alibi. Talk about witness protection. We have to prove what really happened, not what she wanted them to see. If we can’t . . .’

  Ed said nothing.

  ‘Yes,’ Marnie murmured sadly. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

  She looked out across the water to where the sun was setting behind the Houses of Parliament, making a tourist postcard of the view, London’s outline gilded in rose and orange. The Eye was a cool ring of steel, lit with white light.

  ‘I swear this bridge still moves,’ Ed said. ‘Like standing on a snake.’ He shook his head at her. ‘I should’ve heard you out before jumping in. I’m sorry.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Hope . . . The
last thing out of Pandora’s box. After all the evils, plagues, whatever. I know the legend, but I never knew if hope was meant to be the consolation prize, or the worst evil of the lot.’

  ‘I think Pandora’s hope was intended to give us something to cling to.’ Ed stood with his shoulder at hers. ‘The medical evidence . . .’ he began.

  ‘The doctor said she presented like a sex worker. In other words, it could’ve been consensual. I was the one who decided it wasn’t. Just as I decided Leo’s nervousness at the hospital meant he was guilty.’ She bit at the inside of her cheek, tasting iron. ‘The cupboard under the stairs was big enough for a man. His broken hand and ribs . . . We added it all up – I added it up – and made eight from four, because it fitted what I thought I knew about men and women. What I expected.

  ‘At the refuge, Hope made sure Shelley saw her bruises. She told the women about Leo, let them see how afraid she was, how desperate. She abused their trust, made them witness a stabbing, knowing how vulnerable they were. Maybe she enjoyed it. The power trip. Making them provide an abuser with an alibi . . . Can you imagine how Simone’s going to feel when she finds out she’s been protecting an abuser?’

  ‘You’re assuming Hope will let her go,’ Ed said shortly.

  ‘I’m not assuming anything. I’m hoping.’

  He walked away from her, watching the water. Marnie moved to join him. The bridge breathed under their feet.

  ‘Simone will have told Hope what happened to her, with Lowell.’ Ed held his neck in his hand. ‘If she told me . . . she’ll have told Hope. She’ll have made a gift of her worst nightmare, to a woman who thrives on manipulation, torture . . .’

  ‘If Hope’s got any sense, she won’t hurt Simone. She could still make a case for self-defence with Leo. The evidence . . .’

  ‘Why try to kill him?’ Ed asked. ‘Just for the power rush?’

  ‘He was working up his courage to come to us. She knew she’d pushed him as far as she could, and she needed an alibi if he went to the police. There was too much evidence of abuse, if he chose to expose it. She couldn’t cover it all up.’

  They looked upstream, at the sprawl and soar of the city. ‘She meant to kill him. I’m sure of that. When she realised he wasn’t dead, she was terrified. That was probably the only honest emotion she’s shown us.’

  Perhaps there was another motive, too. The need to kill the one person who knew everything about her. The only witness to the real Hope. Had Stephen killed Marnie’s parents for the same reason? To expunge that truth?

  ‘Back at the refuge,’ Ed said, ‘when you were talking about the invisible gorilla . . . You said Ayana didn’t think it was self-defence. She thought Hope meant to kill Leo, even if she didn’t suspect her of the abuse.’

  ‘None of us suspected Hope of that. She resented my questions at the hospital, but I put it down to the fact that I’d taken what was left of her dignity. She was weeping, for God’s sake. That’s supposed to be the hardest emotion to fake. Tears blur your vision, bad for survival, isn’t that what they say?’

  She’d made more mistakes than she could count. She turned to face Ed. ‘You saw her, at the hospital. Did you pick up any threatening vibes?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘She likes to play the little girl lost. I bet men fall for that all the time.’ She studied his face. ‘Control turns her on, but she despises men. Sees them as lower primates. I bet she saw you as a challenge, someone higher up the food chain . . . She wanted witnesses. Needed them. Not just as an alibi. As . . . vindication. Witnesses mean justice. In some way, even if it’s twisted. Witnesses make it real.’

  ‘You really think she won’t hurt Simone?’

  ‘I can’t be certain,’ Marnie admitted. She was thinking about the flowers. The roses that Hope insisted Leo bring to the refuge, even though she hated flowers.

  They make a mess and then they die.

  The roses were a trigger, had to be. Hope’s way of binding at least one of the women to her, so tightly she could be sure of an ally if things went wrong, or if she needed a passionate advocate.

  ‘It’s possible that Hope stage-managed more than the stabbing. She told Leo to bring a big bunch of yellow roses to the refuge, but Leo swears Hope hated flowers.’

  ‘I thought they were to hide the knife,’ Ed said.

  ‘Maybe, but why yellow roses especially? That’s what Hope insisted he bring. So I’m thinking, what if the roses weren’t for Hope?’

  Ed repeated, ‘The roses weren’t for Hope?’

  ‘You told me Lowell Paton took Simone flowers, every week.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Lowell said the same thing. He said he took her yellow roses. What if Hope knew the roses would be a trigger, knew what they’d trigger? That way she’d be certain of at least one person’s reaction to Leo’s arrival at the refuge. Complete shock. Fear. Simone wouldn’t have had any trouble seeing Leo as a rapist, a potential killer. She’d see the roses and she’d remember Lowell.’

  ‘Hope told Leo to bring yellow roses?’

  ‘Yes. She insisted on yellow roses, and a knife. I fixed on the knife, we all did, but the roses were a weapon too. A way to make Simone remember – and react. A way to prime her as a witness and as a backup plan in case the stabbing went wrong.’

  Ed half turned away, linking his hands behind his head. ‘Jesus . . .’

  Marnie moved so the breeze was at her back, thinking of the suitcase Hope took from the house. Leo had been reluctant to tell her what was inside the case, but in the end he’d confessed, the way he’d confessed the rest of it. No – not the rest of it, not everything. She doubted that she’d seen more than the tip of the iceberg. All couples hid their private lives to one extent or another, and the Proctors had more to hide than most.

  ‘How can I help?’ Ed asked.

  ‘By keeping things calm at the refuge. We’ll have to re-interview everyone, about Hope. How’s Britt getting on? Is she keeping Shelley in line?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Ed grimaced. ‘Not sure hope is the right word, under the circumstances. Makes you wonder what was going through her parents’ minds, when they named her.’

  Marnie sketched a quick picture of Hope’s childhood. He listened in silence, then sighed. ‘What does it say about me, that I’m not surprised? I’ve heard much worse . . .’

  ‘Parents don’t breed psychopaths. They don’t always help, that’s for sure, but look at Ayana, and Simone. They didn’t let their early experiences turn them into monsters.’

  ‘Where’re Hope’s parents now?’

  ‘Her mum died six months ago. Cancer. I’m wondering if that was the tipping point, for what happened in Finchley. The timing fits. Her dad’s in sheltered housing, in Dulwich. Leo didn’t go into details. He didn’t think her mum’s death was significant, but from the way he described what happened? I think it must have been a catalyst. After her mum’s death, Hope started getting a lot worse.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a chance she’ll go after her dad?’

  ‘Kenneth Reece. I’m tracing him, but from what Leo said, Hope never had a problem with her dad. She blamed her mum, for being a victim.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good for Simone.’

  ‘Simone’s a survivor,’ Marnie said.

  Ed nodded, but he didn’t look happy. ‘Let’s hope she gets the chance to prove it.’

  7

  Abby Pike was working late. ‘Here’s that list of sheltered housing in Dulwich. Do you want me to start ringing round?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Marnie scanned the list and handed it back. ‘We’re looking for Kenneth Reece, late fifties, widower. His wife was Gayle Reece. She died in October. I don’t have the exact date.’

  Abby wrote it down. Her desk was chaotic, but it was an organised chaos. Marnie bet she could lay her hands on everything she needed, when she needed it. ‘Tell me about the CCTV.’

  ‘Nothing from the hospital yesterday. I got the Finchley foot
age, but it doesn’t show the roof and that’s where they took her, isn’t it? Ayana.’

  ‘How about footage from the Proctors’ house?’

  ‘The nearest camera’s two streets away, by the tube station.’ Abby nodded at the monitor on her desk. ‘Here.’

  Marnie crouched to see the screen better. It was the usual poor quality. Muddy imagery, stilted delivery. Nothing like the crystalline data secured in television dramas, where every courtroom in the land presented jurors with infallible evidence captured by cameras in the well-lit locations chosen by criminals for the purposes of recording their misdemeanours. The CCTV outside Woodside Park tube station relied on yellow sodium street lighting, the worst kind. Of course it did. What was it Marnie had said to Noah, right at the start of this? No one loves us that much.

  She peered at Abby’s monitor. Hope Proctor and Simone Bissell had gone into the underground station at 8.11 a.m. Nearly twelve hours ago. Simone was carrying a suitcase. Hope had her head down.

  ‘Woodside Park,’ Abby said. ‘The Northern Line runs all the way to Elephant and Castle. After that, if you want Dulwich, it’s buses. I’ve asked for CCTV from the British Transport Police. So far, I can’t find them coming out of the tube at Elephant and Castle, so maybe they weren’t headed for Dulwich, but I thought it made sense to start there, if that’s where her dad’s based.’

  Marnie straightened up. ‘Good thinking. Keep looking.’

  ‘Are we going public with the missing persons? The new status, I mean.’

  ‘Not yet. I need to be sure Hope won’t panic and do something stupid . . . Can I have the footage on disk? I want Ed Belloc to take a look at it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Abby took the CD from the computer drive and slipped it into a plastic case. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Marnie said. ‘And you’d better call in Noah, and DS Carling. It’s going to be a late night.’

  Ed was waiting in her office. He’d made coffee. ‘I’ve got the footage,’ she said.