Clear My Name

by Paula Daly

  When her eyes adjust, she sees a woman. A woman who is hunched over, a woman who appears to be incredibly sad.

  Tess lowers the knife a little. ‘What do you want?’

  And the woman looks up. But it’s as if she’s not fully with it. She seems displaced, not quite lucid.

  The woman says, ‘You’re older than I thought you would be.’ Tess doesn’t reply. ‘And you’re not as pretty as I imagined either.’

  She has an odd, creepy air about her and Tess feels herself becoming progressively panicked.

  ‘I told myself—’ The woman’s voice catches as she tries to speak. ‘I told myself that if he was doing this then it had to be with someone younger. Someone younger and prettier must have caught his eye. I told myself he was flattered. But now I don’t know what to think.’

  Tess leans her weight against the wall and closes her eyes. ‘Clive,’ she exhales.

  ‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Clive.’

  ‘How did you know where I lived?’ she asks Rebecca. Clive’s wife.

  Rebecca takes a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. ‘I hired someone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I needed to know.’

  ‘What did you need to know?’

  ‘Who you were.’

  Tess takes a breath as things start to make sense. ‘Does he drive a green Subaru, by any chance?’ and Rebecca nods. ‘Is that how you got in here?’

  ‘He helped me,’ replies Rebecca. ‘He used to be a security specialist or something. He’s very serious, ex-military. He was kind of odd actually, seemed to want to take things a bit too far, but I needed to see where you’d been fucking my husband.’

  It occurs to Tess to tell Rebecca that she has not been fucking her husband on the bed on which she now sits. That she hadn’t even let Clive know where she lives. But there is no point. The woman is broken and angry and Tess being pedantic over the details of their relationship is not what she needs. ‘So, what now?’ Tess asks cautiously, aware that Rebecca is not exactly stable. Her uncertainty must show in her face because suddenly Rebecca flares at her out of nowhere.

  ‘What?’ she spits, rage flashing in her eyes. ‘You think I’ll hurt you? No, I won’t hurt you. I want answers. I want to know why he wants you. I want to know how long. I want to know why.’

  ‘I don’t have answers.’

  ‘Oh, don’t play games … He never talked to you? He never said why he was unhappy at home? He never said you were beautiful? More beautiful than me? He never told you he liked screwing you more than he did me?’ Rebecca’s face collapses and she starts to cry. ‘What did he want?’ she whimpers. ‘What did I do that was so wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tess says, but Rebecca doesn’t hear. Tess thinks about approaching, putting her arms around Rebecca, but she senses this offer of empathy would not be well received either. For now, Tess has no option but to stand by and let Rebecca cry herself out. This is why she’s so bad at relationships. A normal person would find the right words with which to comfort Rebecca, a normal person would not conduct affairs with married men so they could avoid entering into real relationships in the first place.

  There is a change in the rhythm of Rebecca’s cries and Tess senses she’s beginning to taper off. Tess stands up straight, ready to take whatever Rebecca throws at her. Rebecca blows her nose again. She then takes a small compact from her bag and tidies up her make-up before pushing her hair behind her ears. She looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Our bedroom is so much nicer,’ she says, bewildered. ‘I made it so pretty. So much prettier than this.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘And we have such lovely kids.’

  Tess smiles weakly.

  ‘He does love us, you know,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘I know he does.’

  Rebecca bites her lip and Tess wonders what she’s going to say next. ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘Why do I …?’

  ‘Do you love him? Is that it?’

  Tess exhales. She does love Clive. But not in the way that Rebecca’s thinking. She loves his wit and his charm, and she loves him as a colleague, and even as a lover. She loves him in that way you do when you really care for someone. In the way that you only want the best for them. But if she were to say this to Rebecca, she imagines Rebecca might feel the need to hit her.

  ‘I don’t love him,’ she tells Rebecca firmly.

  ‘But he loves you?’

  ‘No,’ Tess says. ‘I’m a distraction, that’s all.’

  Rebecca sits quietly, taking this in. After a minute she gets up and tells Tess that she’d better be going. She apologizes for breaking and entering and says that in the heat of the moment it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do but she can now see that she was hasty.

  Rebecca then asks Tess if she thinks she’ll continue to see Clive and Tess tells her she won’t. As soon as Tess says it she knows that she means it. She can’t continue to do this. Not to Rebecca and not to Clive. Just because Tess is a disaster relationship-wise, that doesn’t give her the right to drag them down with her. It isn’t fair. Not on either of them.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Rebecca asks warily.

  ‘It’s over,’ Tess says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Now

  TESS AND AVRIL arrive at Morecambe Police Station. They park nearby and make their way to the entrance on foot. It is a truly awful building: a square monstrosity rendered in cat-litter grey, with a crazy collection of aerials on the roof. The windows are sad vertical slits and the whole thing looks as though it was put up in a hurry and has been lamented over ever since. Avril missed yesterday’s meeting on account of having her nose reset and so Tess is doing her best to explain the reasoning behind requesting the fibre analysis records. She tells Avril that when two people come into contact, fibres from their clothes will be deposited on each other. So if Carrie really did murder Ella, there should be a record of the fibres from Carrie’s clothes that were deposited on Ella’s clothes, and vice versa. But these records were never submitted. (She does not mention Rebecca’s break-in right now. In fact, she might never.)

  Avril says, ‘Yeah, but perhaps the records were not submitted as evidence because there was no transfer of fibres.’ She says this reasonably, and Tess holds eye contact, waiting for the penny to drop. When it doesn’t, Tess lifts her brows, as if to say, And?

  ‘And what?’ asks Avril.

  ‘Take your time. Think about it.’

  They push open the doors to the station and Avril stops dead in her tracks. ‘If there was no transfer of fibres, then they were not in contact. No transfer of fibres means they did not meet and Carrie did not murder her.’

  ‘Hurrah.’ Tess smiles, glad that she’s getting it. ‘And if that evidence was not submitted at the trial, that means Carrie was convicted by an omission of evidence. Which is serious stuff. If the jury had been made aware that the two women had not come into contact that day, then they would’ve had no choice but to acquit Carrie.’

  ‘Wow,’ Avril says.

  ‘Wow, indeed.’

  They approach Enquiries and the desk sergeant greets them with a grin. He’s mid-fifties, sweaty, leering, the aggravating type that Tess really hasn’t time for today. ‘Cheer up, ladies, it might never happen!’ he says brightly, and Tess remembers her father’s girlfriend Tina using the exact same phrase many moons ago. It pushes her buttons. Where do people get the idea that this is a useful thing to say? She could be here to report a rape. The desk sergeant looks at Tess. ‘You know you’d be so much prettier if you smiled,’ he says confidently, and so Tess fires back a wide, unhinged, maniacal grin in his direction. He flinches. Then frowns, unsure what on earth’s wrong with this woman. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks cautiously.

  ‘We need to speak to DI Gillian Frain.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’

  ‘You can, but I won’t tell you.’

  The de
sk sergeant disappears through a glass door behind him leaving Tess and Avril alone.

  ‘How’s your nose?’ Tess asks.

  ‘Not as sore as I thought. They’ve given me a ton of co-dydramol though, so it could be hanging off and I probably wouldn’t notice. How does it look?’

  Tess inspects as Avril turns first to the left, and then to the right. ‘Beautiful,’ she declares, and Avril gives her a look as if to say she’s full of shit, but she smiles nonetheless. Then the glass door shudders open and a heavy-set woman in a V-neck jumper and ill-fitting slacks walks in.

  ‘You were looking to speak to me?’

  ‘Gillian Frain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Tess. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Gillian Frain spreads her hands wide as if to say, What’s wrong with here? ‘It’s about Carrie Kamara. We’re from Innocence UK,’ Tess tells her, and Gillian’s expression darkens.

  ‘Follow me.’

  They make their way past the enquiries desk, through another set of double doors and along a corridor. Gillian’s sensible plum-coloured Doc Martens squeak a little as she walks. She doesn’t make conversation. She is late thirties and has that worn-out, frazzled look of a working mother of young children. They enter an interview room. ‘Make yourselves at home,’ she says, deadpan.

  They sit down and once settled, Tess leans in and puts on her ‘We’re all friends here’ face.

  ‘As I understand it,’ she says, ‘you were the senior investigating officer when Ella Muir was murdered?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, what we’re really interested in is taking a look at some of the forensic reports.’

  Gillian Frain keeps her expression intentionally neutral. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem … But you’ve already got access to the court documents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, everything’s in there.’

  A pause.

  ‘Not everything,’ says Tess. ‘See the thing is – this is rather delicate, Detective Frain, so bear with me. You’re aware, I’m sure, of reports in the press recently of police and prosecutors failing to disclose vital evidence?’ Tess smiles sweetly. ‘Now I’m sure this is not the case with your team, but you’re aware of certain forces believing that the defence counsel is not really entitled to see all of the evidence?’

  ‘That doesn’t happen here.’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. I’m sure you run a very tight ship.’

  They share a strained moment of silence. DI Frain shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘Were there any tapings done at all?’ asks Tess. ‘Any fibres taken from both the victim’s clothes and the suspect’s clothes at the time of the investigation to establish whether they’d been in contact that day?’

  ‘I … I’d have to check.’

  ‘We’re very happy to wait.’

  Gillian Frain walks out of the room.

  ‘She’s lying,’ says Tess.

  And Avril points to a camera positioned in the top right-hand corner of the room. ‘Shhhh,’ she whispers.

  Tess looks directly at the camera. ‘She’s lying,’ she repeats loudly.

  Fifteen minutes later and Detective Inspector Frain is back. She is flushed and rattled. She doesn’t sit down. ‘So, the tapings were done.’

  ‘Excellent,’ replies Tess.

  Frain hesitates. ‘But the results were not made available to the defence.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame. What was the reason for that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ Tess mirrors back, flatly. ‘Well, where can we get hold of the forensic report now?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  Four Years Ago

  CARRIE’S WEIGHT IS supported by the plastic chair. The backs of her thighs have lost feeling and the knots of her spine are on fire. She has been in this chair for ever. She wants to get up but she can’t. She must stay still, she must behave herself, she mustn’t cause a fuss. She has pins and needles in her right foot. She circles it but it’s not enough, so she slips off her shoe, folds her leg into her lap and rubs at the vulnerable area, the fleshy spot between ball and heel, with her thumbs. The criminal defence solicitor in the seat beside her pauses. He casts a critical eye over her foot and she lowers it. She slips her shoe back on, places her hands neatly in her lap, and keeps deadly still. ‘Would you like me to go on?’ he says, and Carrie tells him that she would.

  She was brought from her custody cell by DI Gillian Frain and told that a solicitor had been appointed for her. He would go through the particulars of her case and advise her accordingly. She told him she had nothing to hide and was willing to answer any questions put to her by the police, but at this he shook his head as if she was woefully naïve.

  ‘We will work on a prepared statement,’ he said. ‘This is the way to go. There is nothing to be gained by you defending yourself in a police interview.’

  He is writing the statement out longhand, trying to capture Carrie’s voice, trying to reproduce exactly what Carrie has told him, but in a way that doesn’t raise questions. Carrie can see it’s a skill he’s developed over time. And she can also see why a prepared statement can be preferable to interrogation – less chance for slip-ups, less chance for her to hang herself by saying the wrong thing. But she can’t help thinking that it’s cheating. And Carrie doesn’t want to cheat. She wants to come at this from a position of integrity. She wants to answer their questions so she can set the record straight.

  The solicitor finishes the statement and asks that Carrie sign the paper on both sides as well as printing her name clearly and putting today’s date alongside. ‘Think we’re all done,’ he says and Carrie thanks him for his services. ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he answers gravely, ‘thank me if they let you out.’

  ‘If?’ she asks.

  ‘If,’ he replies.

  Carrie is returned to the custody cell where she is given a bottle of water and three Rich Tea biscuits. Shortly afterwards, she is shown to an interview room by a uniformed officer. He doesn’t lead her there in the way DI Frain did – gripping her elbow, shepherding her – he trusts that she’s able to make it there on her own without incident. Carrie is not wearing her own clothes any more as they are covered with vomit. She’s been provided with a pair of blue cotton trousers and a blue smock top. If you were to meet her on the street you might think she’s making her way from the operating room, that she’s wearing theatre scrubs. And for a second, Carrie allows herself to lapse into this fantasy of a different life led. She could’ve been a theatre nurse – if she’d not left school at sixteen. If she’d not fallen in love with Pete she could’ve done all sorts of things. If she’d not fallen in love with Pete she would not be here.

  ‘So, remember, don’t answer any questions. They’ll read the statement but then they’ll try to get you to talk. You don’t want to do that. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Are you sure, because I’m not sure you’re grasping the gravity of this.’

  ‘I’m not to speak. I understand.’

  The detectives file into the room. ‘Have you had something to drink, Carrie?’ asks Gillian Frain and Carrie nods. No speaking, she tells herself. ‘Have you been offered a bite to eat as well?’ Gillian asks next, and Carrie nods again. It’s harder than she first thought.

  Gillian places a laptop and a file on the table before introducing her colleague. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Alice Goodwin.’

  DS Goodwin seems nervous. Carrie wonders if this is her first murder case. Then she remembers that this is Morecambe and she’s not living in some sprawling metropolis and she supposes this must be Gillian Frain’s first murder case too. What if they screw it up? They must be under enormous pressure; they must be worried that this case will define their future.

  Carrie’s solicitor is reading from the prepared statement. The whole thing has started without her realizing because her mind i
s unfocused. What is he saying? That she remained home on the evening of Ella Muir’s murder. That she watched Escape to the Country before preparing a meal for Peter Kamara and herself. Shepherd’s pie. Did she really make shepherd’s pie? She can’t remember. She knows she doesn’t like the sweet, fatty smell of minced lamb cooking in the pan, so she can’t imagine that she made that. And yet her solicitor seems convinced. What else has she told him that can’t possibly be true?

  He finishes the statement and tells them Carrie won’t be answering any questions and both detectives stare at Carrie impassively. She gets the impression they think it’s a work of fiction.

  Gillian Frain takes her time, but when she does eventually speak, she says this: ‘I’d like you to look at these images, Carrie,’ and she swivels her laptop around for Carrie to see. ‘They’re taken from a CCTV camera the evening Ella Muir was murdered. We believe this is your car, here, on your way to Ella’s house. Take a note of the time at the bottom of the screen.’

  Carrie squints at the image. No one has seen fit to provide her with suitable reading glasses yet. She had to sign and print her name on her statement holding the paper as far away as her arm would allow. It does look like her car on the screen. Yes, it definitely looks like her car. She starts to panic as Gillian Frain pulls the laptop around towards her, brings up another image, and turns it back to Carrie.

  ‘We believe this is you on your return journey, after going to Ella’s house.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ Carrie says in a small voice, and she receives a hard stare from her solicitor.

  ‘I repeat, Carrie won’t be answering any more questions,’ he says.

  Gillian Frain closes the laptop. ‘We also have a witness who can place you at the scene.’

  This news hits Carrie square at the back of the head. What witness? Who are they talking about? There can’t be a witness. There is no witness!

  She needs to get out of here. Carrie goes to stand and the detectives fly into action. ‘You need to calm down, Carrie,’ she can hear one saying. She’s not sure which. She needs to get out while she still can. She doesn’t know what she’s doing with her hands or her feet but she can hear yelling, she can hear someone shouting, ‘Calm down now!’