The Evidence: A completely unputdownable psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by K. L. Slater

  ‘I miss you so, so much, Michelle,’ I whispered. Even if she’d been conscious, with the noise of the ward and the rasping sound of the ventilator, she would have struggled to hear me. But I carried on just the same. ‘I’ve taken you for granted, everything you do for me and Zachary. I’ve been too involved with the business, too obsessed with making it a success.’ I swiped at my wet cheeks. ‘I should’ve stopped to think about how you felt about being my general dogsbody. I’m sorry. I love you.’

  I closed my eyes and tried to gather myself and then I looked around. The beds were set wider apart than in a normal ward. I couldn’t tell whether the tube-cluttered patients either side of Michelle were male or female. There was just one other visitor across the other side, his back to me, hunched over his loved one in silent prayer. This was a wretched place that most people would never get to see. Lucky them. Hope didn’t feel that strong here, but fear loomed large.

  I inched my chair closer to her and spoke a little louder.

  ‘I need to know you’re safe here, Michelle. What happened? Did you know the person who hurt you? Who left you in the woods? Can you squeeze my fingers, just a tiny bit if you did know them?’

  I held my breath and prayed for a tiny twitch from her hand but there was nothing at all.

  ‘The police, they’re questioning Owen. I know you two had issues but… I don’t think Owen would hurt you. I don’t think he would ever do that.’ I could feel a strange throbbing sensation in my neck. What if I was in denial? I mean, why were the police so interested in Owen? The detectives both seemed competent and experienced… they must have had reason to be so preoccupied with him, to have a whole host of questions to ask, better done down at the station. But to keep him overnight? The thoughts scared me.

  ‘Michelle, did Owen hurt you? I want to know. I need to know. Just a tiny, tiny squeeze… just a single twitch of your fingers to tell me. Did Owen have anything to do with what happened to you… I need to know for Zachary’s sake. Please?’

  I squeezed my eyes closed, half-terrified, half-hopeful for a sign. For anything at all to show she was there behind that awful rasping mask.

  ‘Did Owen hurt you, Michelle?’ I whispered hoarsely, closer to her ear. I waited for what felt like a long time, holding my breath, my senses on full alert. I was willing her to hear me so hard.

  But there was no response at all.

  Forty-Three

  When I left the ward, the tall nurse caught me on my way out.

  ‘I’m really sorry, looks like I was wrong. We’ve had a shift change but the healthcare assistants from this morning are still here and the ones I’ve spoken to don’t recall Michelle having another visitor today.’

  ‘That’s good. Thanks for checking.’ I still felt uneasy about it but they were super busy. I knew it was perfectly possible she’d made a mistake.

  Back home, I pulled on to the drive and sat in the car for a few minutes.

  I got a sinking feeling when I looked up at the house and saw a shadow pass in front of the small window at the top of the stairs. Brooke.

  It was true I didn’t know what I would have done with Zachary when I went to the hospital if Brooke hadn’t turned up as she did, but the stress caused by having her around wasn’t worth it. I found I didn’t want to go back inside my own house.

  I’d have liked to spend a little time with Zachary and then, when it was time for him to go up to bed, I’d pour myself a glass of wine and wrap myself up in a big soft fleecy blanket and sit with my misery a while. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen with Brooke on patrol.

  It occurred to me that I still had some sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed for Zachary after his accident, to be used very sparingly. With Brooke in the house, it would surely be safe for me to have just one, just to take the edge off so I could get a good night’s sleep…

  Yet I had the long drive to HMP Bronzefield the next day to see Simone. I had to stay sharp for that.

  The front door opened and Brooke stood there with her arms folded, peering out at the car. When I didn’t move she went back inside but left the door wide open, signalling her expectation that I would follow her in. I questioned whether I had the energy to fight this woman. It was starting to make more sense to just go along with whatever she said.

  Reluctantly, I grabbed my handbag and got out of the car, locking it and walking into the house. I felt a cool breeze on my face and shivered, pulling my jacket closer to me.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to get back.’ I jumped as Brooke stepped out of the shadows in the hallway, her voice low and raspy. ‘Eric’s been in touch. The lawyer has just arrived at the police station and is waiting to see Owen.’

  ‘What? Have the police contacted you?’

  ‘Eric contacted them. He’s dealing with it now, to give you a bit of space to be with your sister. We thought it was for the best.’

  The detectives knew we were separated but legally we were still married, and I had a responsibility to keep myself informed for Zachary’s sake. ‘They should have let me know, too.’

  ‘You weren’t here, Esme. You were at the hospital,’ Brooke said crisply, revealing why she was so accommodating earlier, encouraging me to visit Michelle. She twisted her expression into something resembling pity. ‘It’s clear you’re struggling and that’s understandable. You can’t do everything, you need to offload some of the responsibility. That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘But… Eric can’t just take over, he—’

  ‘Someone has got to look out for Owen! You’re barely functioning, your head’s full of helping that murderer and your sister and little else. It’s not fair for Zachary and Owen to suffer because your priorities are skewed.’

  I couldn’t have felt more winded if she’d punched me. I slumped against the wall in the hallway.

  ‘I found these in the bathroom cupboard.’ She shook a small brown bottle I recognised. Zachary’s sleeping tablets. ‘They were within Zachary’s reach and I’m asking myself why a child of nine needs drugs to help him sleep. He’s living in near squalor in that bedroom and he tells me you allow him to spend most of the evening playing computer games.’

  Like most parents, I tried hard to monitor Zachary’s screen time but it wasn’t always easy. Still, what child, trying to pull the wool over his grandma’s eyes, wouldn’t try that line on them?

  I pushed myself off the wall and stepped towards her. ‘Why are you snooping around in my cupboards? You have no idea, not a clue, about how damaged Zachary was by the accident. Those tablets were prescribed by his GP who knows a damn sight more about my son than you do!’

  I snatched the bottle out of her hands and she jumped back as if I might throttle her next. As much as I would have liked to do just that, I stepped back again. But I wasn’t so far gone I was ready to roll over and let her get away with her insults just yet.

  ‘And I don’t know what your definition of squalor is, but I can assure you that for normal people who aren’t living in a pink bubble, a sink full of pots and a few bits of dirty laundry on the floor don’t count. If you must know, the spare room you’re sleeping in was left in that state by your son.’

  ‘So Owen was sleeping there, proving there are problems between the two of you.’ She turned her back on me and walked into the kitchen. I could see Zachary through the living room door, engrossed with Animal Crossing which the little monkey had set up on the television downstairs while I was out.

  The kitchen was spotless. All the surfaces glistened, not a soiled pot in sight. She’d moved the toaster and the kettle to the opposite worktop, repositioned the tea, coffee and sugar caddies. All the opened mail, school newsletters, old magazines that littered the worktops had disappeared.

  I refused to give her any credit.

  ‘What’s happening with Owen?’ I said. ‘Why has the lawyer come down?’

  She sprayed some anti-bacterial cleanser on the already flawless worktop and wiped it down smoothly and methodically with a c
loth.

  ‘Owen decided not to answer any further questions unless he has a lawyer present,’ she said smoothly. ‘Exactly the correct response, Eric says.’

  ‘But won’t that make him look as if he’s got something to hide?’ I cried out, and then bit my lip, hoping Zachary hadn’t heard. ‘He just needs to tell them the truth. I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘You’re not a lawyer, Esme, so you won’t understand. Bruce will soon avail himself of all the details and Eric will bring us an update when he has any news.’

  ‘I’m the one who should be getting the updates,’ I snapped, even though I logically knew Eric would be the solicitor’s first point of call.

  ‘But you’re not his wife, are you? Not anymore. You threw him out, apparently?’

  ‘How do you know th… we’re still legally married. We aren’t divorced and Owen moving out was a mutual decision.’

  ‘You can’t cope as it is, without getting involved in Owen’s predicament, too. And for the record, I think my son will be much better off without you. Eric only gave it six months to last when you two wed, do you know that?’

  I walked away before I started screaming at her. Upstairs I got changed in my bedroom. She hadn’t even asked how Michelle was.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I pulled on some old jeans and a top. It sounded silly but I felt too vulnerable in my pyjamas, in front of Brooke. Although she’d changed into an emerald-green, velvet lounge suit, she was still in full make-up and jewellery, looking like she was about to star in a QVC advert.

  Didn’t she ever just breathe out?

  I stepped out into the garden for some fresh air and to try and calm myself down. I relished the cool breeze on my hot face and checked out the shrubs I’d planted last year and undertaken to keep trimmed and neat. I’d neglected them since then. After a few minutes of staring at the untidy borders, I opened up my emails on my phone.

  I scrolled down the numerous messages and my breath caught in my throat when I spotted an email from Colin Wade, the local journalist who now worked on a national newspaper, congratulating me on the ‘runaway success’ of The Fischer Files. He wanted an exclusive interview about my interest in the Simone Fischer case and to ask how that was being affected by my sister’s recovery from the, as yet unsolved, attack. I knew then it would only be a matter of time before the press floodgates opened and my personal life became a free for all.

  Just about to click out of the emails, I saw there was one from Janice of the FSF group. She’d sent me Peter Harvey’s telephone number. With so much on my mind I’d been distracted from my work on the podcast. I hesitated; glancing up at the house, I was all alone out here. I pressed the link, causing my phone to call him.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered curtly. He’d sound quite fearsome if you hadn’t seen his diminutive appearance.

  ‘Hello, Peter. This is Esme Fox of The Speaking Fox. Janice Poulter of the FSF group gave me your number.’

  ‘Did she indeed!’ He didn’t sound pleased to hear from me. ‘So, to what do I owe this honour, because last time we met you didn’t seem that keen on speaking to me.’

  ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot,’ I said carefully. ‘And I wondered if you’d be willing to meet up, either somewhere halfway or I’d be happy to drive to Ashford if that suited you better.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t live near the prison, it’s just that my sister is incarcerated there. I’m in Melton Mowbray.’

  Famous for its legendary pork pies and Stilton cheese, I’d been to the town a few times over the years. It was only about twenty miles from Nottingham. On a good drive I could do it in forty minutes.

  ‘It’s no problem for me to pop over to you there, Peter.’

  He paused a moment and then said suspiciously, ‘What’s all this about? Why do you want to speak to me?’

  ‘Just a general chat. You’re the person who knows Simone best and it would be really useful to hear your opinion on what happened.’

  ‘I want nothing to do with all that podcast nonsense,’ he said airily. ‘And I’m not being recorded.’

  ‘That’s absolutely fine,’ I said, excited he might actually agree to see me. ‘It’s just an informal chat. Off the record.’

  ‘Ha! I’ve never met a journalist yet who knows the meaning of that phrase. Things have a nasty habit of finding their way on to the news channels whether they were said off the record or not.’

  ‘I give you my word, Peter,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound too desperate. ‘Would you be free tomorrow? I’m travelling down to speak to Simone anyway, so I could stop off for a coffee with you on the way? There’s a Costa Coffee on the South Parade in the middle of town. I could meet you in there at say… ten o’clock tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he sniffed. ‘Looks like you’ve finally realised who calls the shots when it comes to my sister.’

  The person she banned from sitting in on our visits, you mean? I’d like to have added, but I got the feeling Peter’s sense of humour wasn’t his strongest point.

  Nevertheless, I smelled a rat around Mr Harvey and I intended following my nose on this one.

  Forty-Four

  I went back inside, already thinking through what I wanted to ask Peter. I pushed the worry about press interest in my own life to the back of my mind. They couldn’t force me to speak to them.

  In the kitchen I saw Brooke had laid the table with three place settings. That was something I rarely did anymore because we all tended to eat in different rooms. Something was bubbling away in the oven which ordinarily would’ve smelled delicious to me, but I had zero appetite and my stomach turned a little at the mere thought of eating.

  Even before Owen moved into the flat, I’m ashamed to say we got into the habit of eating at the breakfast bar in the morning and then taking our evening meals on trays in front of the television. My fault, admittedly, but I knew Zachary was going to rail against Brooke’s ‘sitting at the table’ expectation big time. He was used to eating while he watched his favourite television programmes.

  Brooke glanced over at me as I hovered around the kitchen door, wondering how I was going to get out of this, too.

  ‘Esme, look… we’ve got off on the wrong foot here. The things I just said… I’m stressed, too. We all are.’

  Another pretty grovelling apology… by Brooke’s standards.

  ‘I’ve made a cottage pie,’ she said before I could answer, in the kind of tone that implies no excuses will be acceptable. ‘Zachary!’ she called. ‘Television off please and come and wash your hands.’

  I heard the television fall silent and Zachary’s murmurs of discontent but, to my amazement, he walked in the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink before taking a seat at the table.

  When we were sitting down and Brooke was busy at the oven, Zachary turned to me.

  ‘Did you see Aunt Miche, Mum? Did you tell her that I miss her?’

  ‘I did, sweetie. She’s very poorly.’

  ‘Was she still sleeping?’

  I nodded. ‘They’re still helping her to breathe but she has improved slightly, the nurse told me. Once she can breathe on her own, then she’ll be awake and you can go and see her.’

  I hoped and prayed Michelle’s bruises and swelling would be much improved by the time Zachary went to visit. It was getting easier to talk about Michelle to my son, and that could only be a good thing.

  Brooke carried an oblong earthenware dish over to the table, the contents still bubbling, and set it down on the heatproof mat in the middle of the table. My stomach growled. The potato topping was perfectly browned and had been artfully scored with a fork, Mary Berry style.

  ‘Yum!’ Zachary’s eyes widened and he licked his lips.

  I had to admit it looked very good, even though I felt a sharp pinch of inadequacy when I thought of Zach’s usual fare served after school. Fish fingers and chips or burger and potato wedges. Usually frozen. ‘Looks amazing, Brooke.’

  She
looked pleased and went back to the oven for a second dish and our warmed plates. ‘Here we are. Asparagus and buttered carrots to go with it.’

  Zachary’s nose wrinkled and Brooke saw it. ‘No vegetables, no pie,’ she said simply, and emptied a large spoonful of carrots on his plate. He didn’t object.

  ‘Can I have a glass of juice?’ Zachary asked, watching his grandma as she placed a portion of cottage pie in front of him.

  I pushed back my chair but Brooke shook her head and indicated for me to pass my own plate over. ‘You shouldn’t drink while you eat, Zachary, it dilutes the gastric juices. When you chew, the food starts to break down in your mouth, the first stage of digestion, before it even gets to your stomach. Did you know that?’

  ‘Cool!’ Zachary said, obviously impressed. No stropping, no backchat, no objections whatsoever. Where had I been going wrong?

  Finally, when the food was all served, we ate.

  ‘This is really delicious, Brooke,’ I said, and I meant it. The mash was creamy, the rich meat and gravy seasoned to perfection and the vegetables were firm and fresh, not overcooked as I was prone to do.

  I looked at Zachary and saw he was completely immersed in the experience of eating, no television or computer game to take his attention away. It was heartening to see my boy enjoying his food like this. If someone had tasked me to create this scenario I’d have said it would be nigh on impossible and not worth the trouble for the kickback I’d get from Zachary. And yet here we were. Brooke had somehow managed to work miracles.

  She saw me watching Zachary and smiled knowingly. ‘Children need the very routines and framework they like to kick against in my opinion,’ she said rather smugly. ‘All this respecting their views and giving them a voice is utter nonsense so far as I’m concerned. Children need gentle discipline. It’s only when they’re left to rule the roost there are problems.’