by K. L. Slater
‘I didn’t even know he had a Facebook account.’ Andrew frowned.
‘It got me thinking that… well, I wondered, if someone with an axe to grind was behind the page.’
Andrew seemed unfazed. He thought for a moment, scratched at his pale, freckled forearms and said, ‘Why, though? Why would someone want to do that?’
‘Well, here goes. This is the awkward bit,’ I began.
Andrew put down his coffee and looked at me. He had his mother’s eyes and I thought, from the photographs I’d seen of Grant Fischer, I could sense something of his father around his nose and mouth. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘Do you think… is there a chance that Peter might’ve created that page himself?’
I held my breath. Even if he didn’t get on with Peter, he was his own flesh and blood.
I braced myself for a curt reply, but he didn’t say anything. I’d caught him by surprise, I could tell.
I continued in the silence. ‘Peter is annoyed with me, I think. He doesn’t trust me, doesn’t trust the podcast about your mum. You told me about his plans to write a book about Simone, maybe he wants to scare me off.’
Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t take that personally. It’s true, I think, he wants her all to himself, has done since she got sent down. Peter’s got this weird control thing going on with everything around Mum. Like the FSF group and stuff, he has to be the main contact. I’ve told Mum to remove his authority to speak on her behalf, but she says it’s his way of dealing with what happened.’
‘So… do you? Do you think Peter would stoop so low as to pull a stunt like this to unnerve me?’
Something wasn’t right, and I had to vocalise it to Andrew, someone who knew Peter well. Simone appeared outwardly confident and acted as though she tolerated Peter. But my journalist’s instinct kicked off every time I spoke to him. It was as if he wore a mask of respectability, a believable one. But every now and then it slipped, just a fraction, and the reality of what might lie behind it was terrifying.
Andrew paused for a moment before answering, as if he were thinking about what I’d just said, and I wondered if he’d ask me to leave. Then he said, ‘As far as I know, he wouldn’t have the skills to do it himself, but he has a vast array of contacts. So the answer is yes. I think it’s exactly the kind of thing that Peter would be capable of.’
I breathed out. Someone else agreed with me that Peter was capable of doing something as awful. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I feel vindicated.’
‘I didn’t say he had done it, but I certainly believe it’s possible. I’ll do anything I can to help you find out if he is up to anything. You only have to give me the word.’
‘Thank you,’ I said and allowed myself to breathe out fully.
In a world where everyone seemed to be against me, it felt like I had an ally at last.
Fifty-Two
JUSTINE
An hour later, Justine had composed herself, and was all smiles when Esme arrived at the office.
‘Let’s go into the meeting room,’ Esme said, her expression grim. ‘This is… sensitive.’
Toby appeared from the back room. ‘Esme, I wondered if… would it be possible to speak to you before you, before —’
‘Later, Toby,’ Justine said irritably. ‘Esme isn’t staying long.’ Her heart felt like a battering ram on the inside of her chest. The last thing she needed was Toby prolonging the agony of what might well prove to be an unpleasant confrontation.
Distractedly, Esme turned to address Toby, but fortunately he’d already scuttled off again.
In the meeting room, the women sat opposite each other.
‘I don’t know where to start,’ Esme said, stony-faced.
Justine curled her toes tightly inside her boots. ‘I’m listening,’ she said. She was ready.
‘Before visiting Simone today I met with her brother, Peter, briefly. He seemed to know all about Michelle being in hospital and so I confronted him. Asked him how he’d found out my personal family business. He told me about a Facebook page that’s been set up,’ Esme said, her face darkening. ‘It’s called “Pray for Michelle Fox”, and it’s got her photo on there, a picture of the Intensive Care Unit at QMC and also a link to an online news report about the attack.’
‘Did Peter set up the page?’ Justine said, her heart rate slowing marginally.
‘He says not but I don’t think I believe him. He said he thought I already knew about the page, that I’d created it. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him, frankly, and… I’ve spoken to Andrew Fischer, Simone’s son, and he says his uncle is definitely capable of pulling a stunt like that.’
‘You’ve managed to speak to Simone’s son?’ Justine gave a low whistle. ‘That’s impressive. I know he’s a very private person.’
Justine’s breathing settled a little. Esme’s visit to the office wasn’t about what she’d feared after all. She reached for her laptop and opened up Facebook. She typed in the name of the page and it came up immediately, Michelle’s image filling the screen. Justine scrolled and tapped for a few moments. ‘There’s nothing on there that’s not already in the public domain,’ she said. ‘But I can see why you’re creeped out about it. That someone would do this anonymously…’
‘Exactly. Somebody has gone to the trouble of effectively setting themselves up in some sort of alliance with Michelle,’ Esme said. ‘I wondered… with your research skills, if you could somehow trace who’s behind it?’
‘The world’s full of crackpots and social media is their willing stage.’ Justine closed the laptop. ‘Tracing is notoriously difficult, nigh on impossible, on a platform like Facebook. But leave it with me, I have other ways and means of finding things out.’
‘Thanks, Justine, I really appreciate it,’ Esme said. ‘It’s just creepy as hell, and it feels invasive, even though, strictly speaking, it’s not.’
‘It is out of order though.’ Justine frowned. ‘This is the last thing anyone with a relative in hospital wants to see. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a good look at the page, interrogate its admin and stuff.’
Esme said, ‘I just want the truth. I want to know who’s doing this and why.’
Justine turned away and walked over to the window, pretending to look up at the sky to judge whether there might be rain.
She’d wait a little longer and then she’d tell her, but she felt certain of one thing.
Esme wasn’t going to like the truth. She wasn’t going to like it at all.
Fifty-Three
ESME
Five minutes after I’d left the office, my phone rang out on the car speaker and DI Sharpe’s name flashed up.
‘Hello, Esme,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I just picked up your voicemail.’
‘There’s a Facebook page,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s called “Pray for Michelle Fox”. Why would someone do that?’
‘Whoa, let’s rewind. What’s this about a Facebook page?’
‘I spoke to Peter Harvey, Simone Fischer’s brother, as part of the podcast I’m doing about her case.’
‘This is Simone Fischer, the convicted murderer, right?’ It felt like he’d said that out loud to signal to a colleague the name and remind them who she was.
‘Yes. I hadn’t told him, but Peter knew Michelle had been attacked and was in hospital. To be honest, it creeped me out and I demanded to know how he knew this… I thought he’d been stalking me or something.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he saw it on the Facebook page, as if it was something I already knew about. He showed me the page on his phone. It claims to have been set up by Michelle’s friends and family to report on progress and gather support for her… but nobody knows her well enough to do that except me. And I certainly haven’t created it.’
‘One sec, let me pull this up on the screen.’ A few moments elapsed. I heard muffled voices in the background. ‘OK, we see it our end. There’s not much on here.’
‘No, but look at the cover photograph – it’s the Intensive Care Unit at the QMC. That’s exactly where Michelle is right now.’
‘Hmm. It’s a generic ICU picture though, easily available from a search engine. What I’m saying is that nobody has actually gone and photographed Michelle in hospital, thank God. Googling that location would bring up hundreds of examples.’
That was true. But still.
‘They’ve used Michelle’s actual Facebook profile picture,’ I said. ‘They have no right to do that.’
‘It’s annoying, I know, but sadly very easy to do. Anyone can take a picture from Facebook and appropriate it for their own use. Have you reported the page to Facebook as being unauthorised?’
My throat burned. ‘No! I thought you’d want to investigate it first… find out exactly who’s behind it. How do we know the person who attacked Michelle isn’t responsible for this? It could be a massive clue as to what happened to her.’
‘Sadly, our hands are pretty much tied when it comes to social media. It’s notoriously difficult to prise any information from a company such as Facebook. Besides, this page is not threatening or abusive in any way.’
‘So why does it feel so sinister?’ I was aware my voice was rising higher and higher and I made a conscious effort to calm it. ‘Surely there’s something you can do!’
‘I suggest, as a first step, you report the page, Esme. Hopefully they’ll remove it if it’s distressing you. But why would he draw your attention to the page if he’d gone to the trouble of secretly setting it up, pretending to be a member of Michelle’s family?’
‘I don’t know. Because he’s trying to unnerve me, maybe. Scare me off.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, he’s Simone Fischer’s brother,’ I said. ‘He’s bristly and unhelpful. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want me to do the podcast.’
‘Really? What has he said about it?’
‘Just that his sister is vulnerable and I should have approached him, not gone to Simone directly. But she’s quite capable of making her own decisions. She’s told him that, and I have, too.’
‘And his reaction?’
‘He’s annoyed and doesn’t try to hide it. He’s planning to write a book about her case and I think he’s angry I’ve encroached on that. If the podcast gives an interesting insight into what happened, the book won’t be as exclusive as it might have been. In fact… I wondered if… oh, I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I wondered if Peter Harvey could be the man Zachary saw outside school with Michelle. He said the man had brown hair, which Peter has, but he also said he was tall. And Peter is only about five foot nine… which might seem tall to a kid.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’
‘No but there are some online of him and one with Simone when she was outside the court.’
‘Could you show Zachary his picture, ask him if this was the person he saw?’
‘Yes! Yes, of course.’ I bit the inside of my lip. My mind had been so full of Owen’s treachery it hadn’t occurred to me to do something as simple.
‘One more thing. Do you have contact details for Peter Harvey? What do you know about him?’
‘Not much. He lives in Melton Mowbray, he’s Simone’s brother. And yes, I have his number. Hang on.’
I pulled over at the next lay-by and pulled my call list up to read him Peter’s number.
‘I’ll show Zachary his picture when he gets home from school and let you know what he says.’
Before I got home, I rang Peter Harvey’s number myself half a dozen times to check he was around. There was no answer.
Fifty-Four
When I got home it was mid-afternoon and I suddenly felt so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. Briefly, I said hello to Brooke and then went to my room for a lie down for half an hour before school pick-up.
I must have been exhausted, because I fell fast asleep for a while. Brooke woke me, entering the bedroom with a tray. Her make-up was immaculate as usual, but the formal jacket and jewellery were gone. She was wearing plain black slacks and a simple round-necked top.
‘I came up earlier but you were asleep and I thought I’d let you rest. I got a cab and collected Zachary from school.’ She placed the tray down on my bedside table. Tea, toast and a small dish of grapes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, panicked that I’d missed school pick-up. ‘You should have woken me. How long have I been asleep?’
‘Only an hour or so,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that. Everything is in hand. Zachary’s downstairs and fine and Eric and Bruce are on Owen’s case. If anyone can get Owen out of there, it’s Bruce.’
Tough words, but I saw a shadow cross her face. In her quiet moments, even Brooke must have wondered what would happen to Owen if Bruce couldn’t work his magic.
With Michelle still in ICU and Owen admitting to almost killing our son, I couldn’t imagine our lives would ever be close to normal again. Brooke busied about around me, straightening the quilt, pulling back the curtains fully, and I thought about something Simone said earlier: Everybody has an agenda.
Here was Brooke, seemingly caring and considerate all of a sudden. But this was Owen’s mother, the master manipulator.
‘Can you ask Zachary to come upstairs please? I need to ask him something.’
‘Hmm, I will but he’s doing his homework now, and then—’
‘No, Brooke, this is important. I need to speak to him.’
She sighed, walked to the top of the stairs and called down to Zachary. ‘Come on up, poppet, your mum needs a word.’
My son walked into the bedroom and I held out my arms. We had a little cuddle.
‘When can I go and see Aunt Miche?’
‘Soon, Zachary. It won’t be too long.’
‘And when’s Dad coming home?’
‘I’ve explained everything to him,’ Brooke interjected. ‘Grandad’s working very hard with Bruce to sort the mess out at the police station.’
‘I’ve told you before, Brooke,’ I said, injecting emphasis in my tone. ‘He doesn’t need to know all the details.’
She gave me a patronising smile that made me want to slap her. ‘He’s fine. Stop worrying.’
‘How’s school been today?’ I turned back to my son.
‘OK, I suppose,’ he said unenthusiastically. ‘Are you poorly, Mum?’
‘I’m tired out, sweetie and I think I might be coming down with something.’ I reached for my phone. ‘Listen, I want you to take a look at this photo. Do you recognise this man?’
Brooke hovered in the doorway.
After my conversation with the detective I’d already saved a few different pictures on my phone of Peter Harvey from Google, some with Simone and others outside the courthouse. I chose the clearest image and pinched it open to enlarge Peter’s face. I turned the screen to face Zachary.
He looked at the photograph and hesitated. I held my breath in anticipation, but then he handed me the phone back.
‘I don’t know him,’ he said, and I sank back into my pillow. The little bit of hope I’d been harbouring was gone.
‘You’re certain this wasn’t the man you saw with Aunt Miche outside school?’ I said feebly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Mum, we’ve run out of malted milk biscuits.’
His favourite treat for after tea.
‘I got you those nice rich tea biscuits from Waitrose,’ Brooke said from the doorway.
‘But they don’t taste of anything!’ Zachary wrinkled his nose. ‘When are you getting up, Mum?’
‘Come on now, let your mum rest. She’s feeling under the weather. Back to your homework and then Grandad has sent over a fun gardening quiz for you to do.’
My eyes met his and Zachary seemed to silently plead with me.
‘I’ll try and get downstairs a bit later. This won’t be for long,’ I whispered, and gave him a squeeze to show I under
stood what he was having to put up with.
When Zachary had left the room, Brooke sidled over.
‘I couldn’t help hearing you say something to Zachary about a man… outside the school with Michelle.’
She fell silent and waited, like she fully expected me to fill her in.
‘That’s right,’ I said, my tone curt.
‘It’s just… well, I wondered if your sister had a lot of boyfriends – acquaintances, if you’d prefer.’
Blood rushed into my face. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing! Nothing offensive, it’s just that, if she was seeing various men, things might be a little more complicated for the police and perhaps they ought to know about it. That’s all.’
‘As far as I know she wasn’t seeing anyone, Brooke. I’m speaking to the police about all this and I don’t want to rake it up again here, at home.’
‘Of course. Yes.’ She disappeared on to the landing and I breathed a sigh of relief to have a little bit of space from her exhausting behaviour.
I was halfway through drinking my cup of tea when I started shivering. I put down the drink and pulled the quilt up around my neck.
‘What is it?’ Brooke frowned, taking in my huddled appearance when she passed the open door with an armful of clean folded towels.
‘I’m freezing. Cold to the bone,’ I said, clutching the covers closer still.
‘It’s actually rather warm in here,’ Brooke remarked with interest. ‘The sun’s shining outside and I’ve got the kitchen doors open downstairs.’
‘Maybe I’m coming down with something.’ My heart sank. The last thing I needed was some bug incapacitating me. I’d planned to visit Michelle in hospital after my rest, and with everything that had happened with Owen at the police station, it was crucial I was ready to respond at any minute.
‘I’ll go and get an extra blanket from the airing cupboard,’ Brooke said, moving away.
I looked towards the drawn curtains and could see it was indeed still bright and probably warm outside. Hopefully, a couple of paracetamol and another little rest and I’d be good as new.
