by K. L. Slater
‘It’s just for a short time until you stabilise,’ Owen told me afterwards. ‘I know you’re blaming yourself because you were late picking Zachary up but I want you to stop being scared. We can and will move on from this.’
I’d stayed on the medication for eight months, and became not exactly addicted, but certainly reliant. Again, Owen came to the rescue and got me to agree to slowly wean myself off them.
Then, when I started to feel a little more in control, Owen insisted on taking over Zachary’s care almost exclusively. He took unpaid leave from work – being self-employed helped with this – and he gave me the time and space to get fully well again before drastically reducing his hours so he could be at home more.
He’d struggled terribly with his own feelings of guilt and regret. Or had seemed to. ‘If I hadn’t been at the fitness expo, I’d have been there to pick him up,’ Owen had repeated continuously. ‘All I can do is make sure he gets better and, if necessary, I’ll give up everything so I can do that.’
When I felt fully recovered and I knew Zachary was safe in his father’s care, my obsession with our son’s safety seemed to switch to building the business. My twisted logic told me that if I could use my journalistic experience to build a successful podcast company, then Zachary need never want for anything again. I could afford the best treatment for his injuries, different therapies not available on the NHS.
Looking back, I could see I focused on the business to the exclusion of almost everything else. Owen, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy to selflessly devote himself to Zachary. And now I knew why.
It was less a case of Owen putting all his efforts into caring for Zachary and more a case of keeping up appearances and possibly trying to quell the horror of his own guilt. All the time I thought he was being an exemplary dad, he was lying, pretending, hiding the truth and playing me like a violin. Now it was painfully clear that Owen wasn’t being a model father at all, he was simply manipulating the both of us.
I’d felt so grateful to him at the time. I’d admired him putting our son’s welfare and recuperation before anything else. That was before he started trying to dictate how I should be spending my time, too. Before his sole aim seemed to switch to making me feel guilty, an inadequate mother.
Now all I could ask myself was: who exactly is this man I married?
We all do it, don’t we? We’re all guilty of looking at others, questioning how they could have been so gullible… the British public openly wondered how someone like Simone Fischer could have just let her husband treat her like dirt for so long and stay in the marriage. Then the mirror flips and we recognise how we’ve somehow managed to do something quite similar in our own lives. We’ve managed to turn a blind eye because some part of us can’t handle the truth.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘You’re not to worry about a thing, do you hear me?’ Brooke says briskly.
‘But what about Simone?’ I whispered. ‘I have to keep my visit tomorrow. The whole podcast project depends on it.’
Brooke pressed her lips together. I could see her biting back her disapproval of my involvement with Simone.
‘Do you think you’ll be in a fit state to drive?’ She frowned. ‘You’re obviously shocked. Perhaps you could rearrange?’
‘That’s impossible.’ I croaked. ‘But Zachary—’
She said, ‘Zachary’s not a problem. I’ll take him to school and sort him out, whatever you decide to do.’
‘I should be back by mid-afternoon at the latest.’
‘I honestly think you’re making a mistake, you know. That… that woman… is a cold-blooded killer. Is that really the sort of person you want to be spending time with?’
I sighed. ‘I do know all that, Brooke.’
‘Well then, you should think on. Do you really want more problems on your plate? I’d have thought you’d got plenty to deal with right now.’
‘Simone’s problems are hardly my own.’
‘Have you heard of the term guilty by association? Evil rubs off. You’d do well to remember that.’ She bustled out of the room, so confident of her own opinion, so dismissive of mine.
Owen had always said he was his mum’s double in both looks and nature. Now that had new meaning.
At last, the mist had cleared and I could see everything so clearly. Without overthinking it I took one of my old prescribed sedatives before bed. I needed a good night’s sleep and it was the only way to get it.
There was no more room for denial. I knew what I needed to do.
Forty-Seven
The next morning I set off early. When I got out to the car, a short, plump man dressed in jeans and an anorak called out from the pavement.
‘Esme! Did you get my email? I wondered if we could have a chat?’
He was a few years older and about twenty pounds heavier than before he moved out of the area but I instantly recognised Colin Wade.
‘Not interested, Colin,’ I said curtly, pushing my belongings into the boot and walking around to the driver’s side.
‘That may be so but there’s a lot of interest in you at the moment. Is there any news on your sister’s attacker?’ I ignored him and opened the car door but he was undeterred. He raised his voice and leaned over the fence. ‘Is it true your husband is in police custody?’
I felt a cold sweat at the bottom of my back. I slammed the door shut and jammed the car into reverse. Wade rapped on the window as I paused to check the road at the bottom of the driveway.
‘Why are you trying to free Simone Fischer, a convicted murderer?’ he shouted, louder than ever.
With a squeal of tyres and a pounding heart, I hit the accelerator and sped away.
It took me a good while to calm down but I managed it in the end. Wade couldn’t force me to speak to him, and if he made a nuisance of himself I’d have a word with the detectives, see if they could help.
First stop was Melton Mowbray to meet with Peter Harvey.
I managed to find a spot on a side street with an hour’s free parking. I was ten minutes early for our agreed appointment but when I walked into a nearly empty Costa Coffee, I immediately saw Peter sitting scrolling through his phone at a table near the rear of the café. He’d already got a coffee so I stopped off at the counter and got myself a small latte.
He looked up and scowled as I approached.
‘Morning.’ I placed my coffee down on the table before sitting down and slipping off my jacket. ‘Thanks for meeting with me.’
‘I hope this won’t take long,’ he said airily. ‘I’m a busy man. Looking after Simone’s affairs is a full-time job, especially as she’s now asked me to work on various plans for the future.’
He watched me carefully, gauging my reaction, willing me to ask him to elaborate. But I’d resolved not to pander to his self-importance.
‘It’s just a quick chat, Peter.’ I took a sip of my coffee. ‘Particularly if we can be candid with each other.’
He laughed and put down his phone. ‘Be as candid as you like. As the brother of Simone Fischer, I’m not sure anything could shock me anymore. That’s why I’m the best person to write the book.’
‘The book?’ I played dumb.
He nodded, clearly delighted he’d finally brought the conversation round to what he wanted to discuss.
‘I’m putting together a biography about Simone. About what really happened. A bit like your podcast, I suppose, but for people who’d rather read about it than listen. Simone has agreed, and between you and me, I think I’ll probably have a bestseller on my hands. There are already publishers interested, although I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
His eyes were bright and fixed to mine and I took great pains to keep my face impassive. I wouldn’t get drawn in to this, despite Peter’s best efforts to provoke a reaction.
I nodded. ‘Sounds interesting. But I wonder if we can go back to what I wanted to see you about today.’
‘Ha! How did I know it wasn’t ju
st the cosy, informal chat you tried to sell me?’
‘I’ll get to the point. Something doesn’t quite sit right with me about the whole Simone-Grant situation.’
His smile faded. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Something just feels a bit off about everything I’m being told.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s vague and doesn’t mean anything in itself, but I just get a strange feeling about the whole scenario.’
‘Oh, spare me, please.’ Peter dismissed me with a flip of his hand. ‘What you mean is, the story isn’t sensationalist enough for you. How disappointing and woefully predictable. I told Simone from the beginning that you’d just be the same as all the others, that you’d—’
‘I don’t mean that at all. But what I can’t quite figure out is why you’re always talking about how close you and Simone are, how awful it was for you knowing she was trapped in a loveless and abusive marriage, how you loved being an uncle to Andrew at the time and yet… Simone never mentions you as having been part of her life. And you’re not in touch with Andrew any more, as far as I can gather.’
‘That’s not my doing. I took him in, you know. Saved him from going into care.’
I nodded. ‘Have you tried to involve him with campaigning for his mother’s release?’
Peter’s mouth tightened. ‘He wants nothing to do with it all. Totally useless. He still visits his mother occasionally but that’s about it. He has no interest in getting involved in the FSF group even though it’s Simone’s best chance of getting out of that hellhole.’ He reached for his drink. ‘Happy to wash his hands of the past and help strangers rather than his own mother.’
‘Perhaps he just finds the memories too painful to bear,’ I suggested. ‘Grant was his father and—’
‘That’s just it, though. He claims to not have any memory of that afternoon. Nothing. So there can’t be any pain involved,’ Peter huffed. ‘So much easier to go off and live your own life though, isn’t it? Harder for me, to stick around and support my sister. Handle all the publicity, all the media interest on my own.’
His face shone.
‘What does Andrew do?’ I asked lightly, hoping he didn’t close down the conversation. ‘For a job, I mean.’
‘Works with people with “complex needs” apparently,’ Peter said scathingly. ‘An all-round do-gooder. You know the type, aren’t interested in their own family but they’ll help any hopeless cause.’
I focused on my coffee for a few moments. I felt a desperate need to speak to Andrew, but that would be difficult if he’d made up his mind to try and live a life separated from the family’s past.
‘I sent him a message asking if he’d like to contribute to the book and he wouldn’t even consider it. Selfish to the core, that’s my nephew.’
I decided to go for the jugular.
‘Do you think Simone is afraid of you, Peter?’
He laughed. ‘That’s not even worth a reply.’
‘Part of me wonders if she’s trying to protect you in some way.’
A shadow passed over his face and his brows knitted together as he leaned forwards. ‘You’re making up your own stories and that’s not allowed, remember? I think you’re trying to say I’m hiding something and I don’t appreciate that. I don’t appreciate it at all.’
His words didn’t really amount to anything. His appearance though, was another matter. Within seconds his whole physicality had changed. He bristled, his mouth flattening into a sneer. His eyes seemed darker in colour and I could see the tendons pulling in his neck. Was he trying to hide something? I didn’t really know yet, but one thing was certain; I’d hit a nerve.
‘I told Simone she should have nothing to do with you,’ he continued, his voice quietly menacing. ‘You journalist types are all the same. If there’s no story, you’ll make one up. You’re looking for something to make your meaningless little podcast sensationalist, that much is obvious. Be honest with me, I can take it.’
A flare of annoyance rose in my chest. I felt like he was playing games with me. Before I could bite my tongue, I said exactly what was on my mind.
‘Maybe it’s not Simone at all,’ I said, keeping my voice level. ‘Maybe it’s you I don’t trust, Peter. I’m going to keep going until I find out if my instincts are right. That there’s something more that’s not being said. Something important that’s been carefully buried and concealed about this case.’
His expression didn’t falter. If I was expecting him to explode and blab something telling out in temper, then I was to be sorely disappointed. But he did shock me with what he said next.
‘I knew from the start you weren’t the type to back off. Unless something really bad happened. And now I suppose it has. To your sister.’
He was trying his best to rile me and he’d succeeded. But it was worse than that. With those few words, something had clicked in my head and now I couldn’t stop staring at him. I’d say Peter was about five foot nine. He had dark brown hair which was quite obviously dyed, and he was going thin on top. I ran through Zachary’s description of the man he saw outside the school with Michelle.
He was tall with brown hair.
Peter couldn’t really be described as tall for a man but to a nine-year old child… well, wouldn’t any adult look tall?
‘Are you actually listening to a word I’m saying?’ Peter frowned. ‘Do you realise the implications of getting Simone’s hopes up? How unlikely it is she’ll get an early release?’
‘Have you ever met Michelle, my sister?’ I said, fixing my eyes to his face so I didn’t miss his reaction.
He looked nonplussed for a moment. Hesitated. ‘Met her?’
‘Yes. Have you ever spoken to her in real life?’
He frowned for a moment as if he were trying to recall something. Then he said, ‘She’s in hospital, isn’t she?’
I felt dizzy, even though I was sitting down. ‘I asked first. Have you ever met Michelle? It’s a simple enough question.’
‘No! I haven’t met her. I’m sure of it.’
He looked away from me but I kept my eyes on him.
‘You seem… uncomfortable, Peter.’
‘It just seems a strange thing to ask me.’ He swept a hand over the table to clear some scattered grains of sugar.
Every fibre in my body told me he was hiding something.
I recoiled at being in the company of this man any longer. I didn’t like him. I prided myself in having the instinct to weigh people up within a minute or two; it had come in very handy in my career over the years. But I couldn’t discern whether Peter Harvey was outright lying to me or not.
‘Can I ask you how you found out about my sister being in hospital?’ I said, reaching for my jacket and handbag.
‘What?’ He watched me collect my things together. ‘Is that it then? I’ve disrupted my plans to meet with you and you’re taking off now?’
‘How did you find out Michelle was in hospital?’
‘The Facebook page, of course!’ he snapped. ‘How the hell do you think I found out?’
Back in my car I sat staring at my phone – specifically, at the Facebook page I’d insisted Peter showed me before I left. He’d watched me, interested and amused as I took in an involuntary gasp of air, stood up and rushed out of the café.
I clamped my hand to my mouth when I looked at the page’s main cover photograph again: a shot of the ICU unit at the QMC. The pinned photo on the page was the same picture Michelle used on her own Facebook profile page. Just a head-and-shoulders shot I took of her at the coast, the same one I showed around the supermarket.
The page name was ‘Pray for Michelle Fox’. The tagline: A page created by Michelle’s family and friends to share her progress. Your support is much appreciated.
My heart felt like it might explode as I scrolled down to the one post, which was a link to the local newspaper report about an unnamed woman who was found badly beaten in Wollaton Park.
That was i
t. Nothing else. There was a total of twenty-two likes on the post but clicking on a few of the profiles, they looked like the kind of people who tended to like and support charity-type pages.
I could never have imagined the awful feeling wracking through my body right then. Someone had created this page and it felt a slap in the face, both for me and for Michelle.
I started shivering and couldn’t stop. The nurse who mistakenly thought I’d visited Michelle twice in one day. Had the person who created this page been in, stood at her bedside, held her hand… it felt such a violation and made me sick to my stomach.
I clicked on ‘Report this page’ and then stopped. The police needed to know about this before I got it closed down.
I closed Facebook and opened my call list. When the automated voice at the police station answered, I entered the extension number of DI Sharpe. It went straight to his answerphone.
‘It’s Esme Fox here. I need to speak to you urgently. There’s a Facebook page set up in my sister’s name. Someone’s done this and… I think I might know who.’ I take a breath, aware my message will sound garbled when he listens to it. ‘Look, I’m on my way down to Bronzefield prison to speak to Simone Fischer. I wish I could cancel my visit but I can’t. I’ll try you again when I’m on my way home.’
And then I texted Justine.
Forty-Eight
The Fischer Files
EPISODE FIVE: TOO MUCH TO BEAR
I’m speaking to you from outside HMP Bronzefield women’s prison in Ashford, Middlesex. Today I’ll be continuing my conversation with Simone about the day her husband, Grant Austin Fischer, died.
Simone is speaking exclusively to us and giving the most personal of insights. Only The Fischer Files has access to the truth of the case.
This is a Speaking Fox podcast and I… am Esme Fox.
Esme: Simone, before we go back to the day Grant died, I want to ask you a bit about your relationship with your brother, Peter, if that’s OK.
