by K. L. Slater
He nodded. ‘When’s Dad coming home, Mum? And when can I see Aunt Miche?’
‘Not sure for both of those things yet, Zachary,’ I said, watching his face drop. ‘You’ve got to trust me here… I’ll do what I think is right for you every time, do you understand?’
‘Not really.’ He frowned.
‘What I mean is that sometimes there are things happening behind the scenes that you don’t know about. Yes?’
‘You mean like a plot twist?’ he said. ‘We did those in creative writing.’
I smiled. ‘Yes, Zach, that’s a great way of looking at it. And you never really know what the twists are until the end of the story, right?’
He nodded again. ‘I think I understand now,’ he said.
‘You’re a clever lad.’ I smiled and kissed the top of his head.
In the meantime, I’d have to think of how and when I could break the news to him that his own father nearly killed him and then proceeded to lie to us both for almost two years.
Sixty-Two
We’d had a good night. Zachary had stayed in his own bed, and I luxuriated for a moment in the knowledge that the house was our own again.
When I opened my eyes, my phone was flashing. I reached across and picked up my phone from the bedside table. A call coming through from… Owen.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. The call ended and a list of eight notifications was revealed on screen. Texts, missed calls and a voicemail message. I felt gratified I’d thought to double lock the front door last night so he couldn’t use his key.
Owen clearly had his phone again and was desperately trying to make contact. That meant he was a free man.
I listened to the voicemail. ‘Esme, it’s me. I’m out. Listen, I didn’t want to just turn up at the house but I need to speak to you about… well, about everything. I know what happened with Mum and Dad, that you put them out of the house and… I’m shocked. Whatever you think about me, you shouldn’t take it out on them. I can come round this morning. I want to see Zachary. Could you keep him off school? Call me when you get this message please.’
He was shocked I asked his parents to leave after they tried to take my son away? Spare me.
I glanced at the other messages, assuming they would all be from him. But there was one from Justine.
Hi Esme, I know life must be crazy atm. If you want me to look after Zachary for a few hours after school, maybe take him to the new dinosaur art exhibition at the Contemporary gallery… just let me know.
Justine’s offer couldn’t have come at a better time. I didn’t want to see Owen yet, didn’t feel ready to hear his pathetic excuses or admonishments. My stomach turned when I thought of him anywhere near Zachary. I knew I was going to have to get over that somehow, but that didn’t have to be right now.
Janice from the FSF group had sent me a message yesterday to say Simone had asked if I could visit her this morning. I’d read it quickly and hadn’t replied because I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it with everything that was happening.
But now I found myself thinking about visiting Simone after all, it sounded like she wanted to talk to me. Yes, it was a long drive, but I relished the thought of the thinking time it would give me and the added benefit that it was a perfect excuse to stop Owen coming round to the house.
Zachary knew Justine well enough, and anything dinosaur-themed would be sure to be a hit. It was just the thing to take his mind off all the crap that was happening around him. And it also meant we’d be out of Owen’s reach for most of the day.
I tapped out a hasty reply to Justine.
That would be amazing. Call you when I’ve had coffee!
An hour later, Zachary had happily gone to school, excited for his trip to the gallery later, and I was on my way down to Bronzefield Prison.
If Owen came to the house looking for tea and sympathy, he would be sorely disappointed.
Sixty-Three
HMP BRONZEFIELD
ESME
Simone’s face lit up when Officer Kat opened the door to the visitor room and I walked in. It felt a novelty that today was purely a visit, not a recorded episode.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. She was sparkling. She rushed forward and flung her arms around me. I saw Kat open her mouth to issue an admonishment and then she closed it again, giving me a small smile.
‘Janice says she’s had lots of positive messages after episode two, and that public opinion seems to be on the turn. She thinks we’ll have a fighting chance of getting a retrial.’ Simone tucked her long brown bob behind her ears.
It was very early days to assume such things, but I knew the positive reaction to episode two and growing popularity of the podcast had contributed to this raging optimism. But a successful podcast and the Supreme Court deciding to reopen a case were very, very different things, and weren’t dependent on each other. It was true that there was at least a glimmer of possibility her case might get reviewed in the coming weeks, but it wasn’t a foregone conclusion by any means. It was hard to dim someone’s shining hope though, particularly with so much misery around me already.
‘Let’s hope we hear soon,’ I said, hugging her back with affection.
Simone stepped back and looked at me, her hands still on my shoulders.
‘It’s going to be alright, isn’t it, Esme?’ she said earnestly.
‘There’s a lot of public support for you now, so that will help bring the case to the court’s attention. If coercive control was at play, which it clearly was, then there’s a good chance the wheels could start turning. But obviously I’m not a lawyer, so you’ll need to get professional advice. I’m sure Janice will already be on the case.’
Simone covered her face with her hands and let out a muffled scream. ‘A whole tub of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream… that’s the only thing I want when I get out.’
I smiled. I wouldn’t talk about Michelle today; I didn’t want to sink down into the pits of her betrayal. It might take some time, but there was a real possibility that Simone’s life could change for the better, that justice might be served in the future. Despite my own life falling to pieces, I was delighted to see her so happy. This result had come from a podcast my company made, and despite everything else that was happening, that made me feel really good. Like we were making a difference to real lives.
‘Your truth shines through in the podcasts,’ I told her. ‘The public couldn’t fail to like you once they got to know you.’
Simone stared at me for a moment or two and then looked at Officer Kat. ‘Can we just have five minutes’ privacy? Just five minutes?’
The officer looked like she was going to refuse, and then she sighed. ‘Five minutes, that’s all. I’ll be standing just outside, so no funny business. If this thing does work out for you, you want to make sure you don’t mess it up, Simone.’ She walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.
‘You and I, we’ve been honest with each other, and it’s worked well,’ Simone said, clutching my arm.
‘I think of you as a friend now, Simone,’ I said carefully, suddenly sensing an opportunity. ‘And friends are completely honest with each other, right?’
‘Of course,’ she said, a little guarded.
I tipped my head to one side and braced myself. ‘This is a difficult question to ask you but I feel like I have no choice. I need to know the truth.’
The smile dropped from her face and she turned pale. What on earth did she think I was about to say?
‘Go on,’ she whispered, her eyes flitting to the door.
‘Do you know anything about Peter meeting up with my sister? I have evidence that he did. I found an entry in her online diary. She met him two weeks before she got attacked.’
‘I swear I don’t know,’ she said, her expression strange. ‘Peter… he’s not so bad.’
‘Are you sure about that? Sometimes, you seem almost afraid of him.’
‘I want to tell you the truth,’
she said simply.
‘Simone…’ My insides were cramping. I was half dreading her response, half desperate to hear what she had to say. ‘If you know something please don’t protect Peter. Please don’t lie to me.’
‘I haven’t lied to you exactly, Esme. But you seem such an honest person, I’ve lost sleep over the fact I haven’t told you the full story.’
‘Which is?’ My heart hammered on my chest wall. If she confessed that Peter had attacked Michelle, I’d have no option but to go straight to the police.
‘I didn’t plan it. I want you to know that.’
I frowned. ‘Plan what?’
‘Grant had been so cruel that day, he’d outdone himself. In the end I just lowered my head to the table and closed my eyes against it all. And that’s when it happened.’
‘What happened?’ I swallowed hard, the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.
‘Grant was sitting across from me at the table. He had his back to the kitchen door and… I opened my eyes and Andrew was behind him clutching the biggest knife out of the block. Grant had this thing about keeping them super-sharp all the time. I cried out at the same moment as Andrew plunged the knife into the soft bit of flesh behind Grant’s ear and the top of his neck.
‘It was horrific. Blood spurting everywhere, Grant with his eyes still open, a horrible gurgling noise in his throat… I jumped up and ran to my son. He was frozen like a statue, the knife still in his hand. I snatched it off him and pushed him out of the door.‘Grant’s head was on the table but his eyes were still open and he was staring at me, blinking at me, blood running out of his mouth, and he sneered. Even in that state, he sneered at me, and I just lost it.
‘I took the knife and I stabbed him again and again and again. Then I cleaned Andrew up and stuck his clothes in the washer. He put on his pyjamas and sat in front of the television and he didn’t say a word. I made a cup of tea when I’d tumble-dried Andrew’s clothes. And then I rang the police.’
I glanced at the door. I could see the officer through the glass, shuffling her feet, ready to come back in.
‘Andrew attacked Grant? Killed his own father?’
Simone shook her head. ‘He wasn’t dead. Andrew didn’t kill him. Grant would have recovered and I knew for certain that Andrew would have been taken into care. That sneer… it meant Grant had still won, you see. I couldn’t stand the thought of a life being without my son but still being under Grant’s control.’
Thoughts were whizzing around in my head at a hundred miles an hour, but I couldn’t stop Simone from talking now.
‘I’d do it again. I’m not sorry. Andrew had heard what was happening in the kitchen, how Grant was treating me. I opened my eyes at the moment my son walked in, calm as anything. I could see he was staring into space as if he was in some kind of a trance.’
The officer opened the door and walked back in. Looked at our faces.
‘Is everything OK in here?’ she said.
Back outside, I took some deep, cleansing breaths and stood at the end of the footpath on the edge of the parking lot. Cars crawled past looking for vacant bays. Vehicles came in and out of this place all the time, a vital visitor support network for the prisoners within. I felt like I was looking at everything with new eyes, as if Simone’s truth had shone a light on the whole world outside.
I pulled my thin cardigan closer against the cool breeze I hadn’t noticed when I arrived. More than anyone, I understood the love of a mother and the need to protect her son, but Simone’s confession also proved she’d made the decision to kill her husband solely to disguise the fact Andrew had stabbed him.
In anyone’s book, that made Simone Fischer a murderer.
Didn’t it?
Sixty-Four
My phone started ringing when I was just a few yards away from my car in the prison car park.
I pulled it out of my bag and glanced at the screen. Unknown number. I almost rejected the call, but then, worrying who it might be, I answered.
‘Is this… Esme Fox?’ a woman said, unsure.
‘Speaking,’ I said.
‘This is ICU at Queen’s Med. Your sister has suffered a sudden setback. The doctors have said you should get here as soon as you can if—’
‘I’ve got a two-and-a-half-hour drive in front of me but I’m on my way.’
I pushed the phone, call still connected, in my bag and rushed for the door, cursing my decision to come here in the first place.
I drove like a maniac, earning myself beeps of annoyance and frustration from at least half a dozen other drivers on the way.
My mind lurched between Simone’s confession and what I’m morally obligated to do about it and the need to make peace with my sister, possibly before she dies.
Mercifully, there were no delays on the roads, and two-and-a-half hours later I pushed my way out of the lift and ran towards the double doors of ICU.
A nurse took me directly to Michelle’s bed, explaining what had happened on the way. I tried hard to take it all in, but only her key words got through.
‘Setback… Breathing… Relapse…’
In the main ward I spotted immediately that there was a small group of medics standing around her bed. I broke away from the nurse and started to run, calling out Michelle’s name. They turned to look at the disturbance and the senior doctor stepped forward and held up his hands for me to stop.
‘Is she… is she going to be OK?’ My words emerged broken and incomplete.
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said quietly, respectfully. ‘Your sister passed away just a few minutes ago.’
Sixty-Five
I sat on the small kitchen sofa with a cup of coffee, staring out of the window at the garden. I felt so quiet inside, and inconsequential, as though I was partially invisible.
Having Brooke installed here and spending so much time feeling unwell in my bedroom had given me a new appreciation of my home. Despite Michelle’s newly discovered betrayal, I felt completely hollowed out with news of her death. In that moment, I felt empty and utterly alone, and yet I could not cry.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text. I looked over to the worktop but didn’t rush to get up. The world wasn’t going to fall in if I took a little longer to drink my coffee.
The phone started to ring.
I stood up and ran across the kitchen.
The lit screen revealed Peter Harvey was calling. I hesitated and then answered.
‘Esme? What the hell is happening? I got a voicemail from you and then another three from the police! Is this something to do with your sister because I told you, I’ve never—’
‘My sister is dead,’ I said quietly. ‘I got to the hospital too late.’
The tone of his voice changed completely. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry to hear that, Esme. Is there anything I—’
‘Save your breath,’ I said. ‘I know, Peter.’
‘You know what?’ He was a good actor. He sounded completely confused.
‘I know you had a meeting with Michelle. Just a couple of weeks ago. To talk about The Fischer Files podcast. I know all about her and Mo deceiving me now, setting up their own company.’
‘Are you completely mad? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I have never met your sister, never mind attended a meeting with her.’
So many lies. Everyone I knew was telling lies.
‘I’ve got access to Michelle’s meeting dates. There’s a diary entry for a meeting with you two weeks ago. She confirmed it with you by email.’
‘She didn’t. And that’s a fact. Hang on, I can check now.’ I heard him tapping a keyboard. ‘There is no email on here at all from your sister. Nothing from anyone regarding a bloody meeting in a pub two weeks ago!’
‘Peter. I need to ask you something straight. It’s going to come out because the police are looking for a murder suspect now. They’ll be doubling their efforts. Level with me. Did you create the Facebook page about Michelle? I warn you that
the police know about it and I spoke to Andrew and he—’
My voice faded out as I tripped myself up.
‘And he what?’ Peter snapped.
‘Well, he said it was possible, just possible, that you might have—’
‘Be careful who you trust, Esme, is my advice,’ he said in a sinister voice.
I thought about Simone’s confession. Was it possible Michelle had suspected something about Andrew’s involvement in the death of his father and had asked to meet with Peter to discuss it? She’d never mentioned it to me, but then she wouldn’t… a shocking revelation like that would set her new business off to a flying start.
‘It’s time for this to stop,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Before I could reply, Peter had put down the phone.
I stared at the wall feeling disturbed but not knowing exactly what to do about it. I felt like I was fighting in a swamp of grief and pain. Unresolved questions from the death of my sister, mixed with disbelief over what she had done to me.
Then, in the midst of that dark place, I had a glimmer of an idea. I pulled up one of the photographs featuring Peter Harvey that I’d downloaded from Google to show Zachary and I texted it to Justine.
When you pick Zachary up from school, could you show him this photo? Ask him if he recognises anyone on it.
Then I headed back out to the car yet again.
Sixty-Six
Before I started the engine, I entered the address for The Spindles care home in Nether Broughton into Google maps on my phone, and then I set off on the twenty-five-minute journey.
I left the radio off, preferring to recall memories of when Michelle and I were just kids. In the summer months we’d spend entire days in the garden, hunting for evidence that fairies and goblins were real. During wintertime, we’d build dens under the dining room table and hole up stores of biscuits, pop and crisps, pretending we were in the Arctic with snowdrifts as big as the house outside.
