Watching You

by Lisa Jewell

  He ran to his room and he pulled out the small drawer in the centre of his desk and his fingers found the soft nap of the suede tassel, the one he’d found on the landing after Red Boots had been here on Tuesday photographing the house. He gripped the tassel in his fist and then he took it back downstairs and he dropped it through a gap in the kitchen doorway.

  Then he sat with his dad, his hands clutched tightly together on his lap thinking, Now they’ll know who it was. I have helped them. Now they will know that it was definitely not my dad who killed my mum. They’ll know it was her.

  It was Red Boots.

  RECORDED INTERVIEW

  Date: 25/03/2017

  Location: Trinity Road Police Station, Bristol BS2 0NW

  Conducted by: Officers from Somerset & Avon Police

  POLICE: Ms Mullen. Can you tell us again exactly what happened after your liaison with Mr Fitzwilliam at the Bristol Harbour Hotel? After he left?

  JM: I got ready. I went downstairs. I got in a taxi. I went home. I nearly knocked at Tom’s door—

  POLICE: But you didn’t.

  JM: [Shakes head.]

  POLICE: Please answer yes or no.

  JM: No. I didn’t.

  POLICE: Why was that?

  JM: I don’t really know. Tom wasn’t back yet and I thought maybe I might talk to Nicola.

  POLICE: And what were you planning to say? To Mrs Fitzwilliam?

  JM: I was going to say … I don’t know what I was going to say. I was worried …

  POLICE: Worried about?

  JM: I was worried about both of them.

  POLICE: And why were you worried about them?

  JM: Because. Because of things that Tom said when we were at the hotel.

  POLICE: What sorts of things?

  JM: Things about their relationship. It was abusive. He was feeling trapped. He wanted an escape.

  POLICE: So you were worried that – what? That Tom Fitzwilliam might harm his wife?

  JM: [Silence.]

  POLICE: Ms Mullen. Could you answer the question?

  JM: Yes. I suppose. Or that Mrs Fitzwilliam might harm him.

  POLICE: Her husband?

  JM: Yes. It sounded like they had a mutually abusive relationship. It sounded a bit sado-masochistic. With Nicola being the sadist. It just seemed – I don’t know. It felt like Tom had reached a point of no return. I just had this really bad feeling. I can’t explain it. And I thought that maybe if I was there when Tom got home, then I could stop something bad happening. But then I thought, I realised, that it was none of my bloody business. So I changed my mind and went home.

  POLICE: And what did you do when you got home?

  JM: I’ve already told you all this. I went home. I went up to my room. I watched TV with my husband.

  POLICE: And when you got in. Before you went upstairs. Did you go anywhere else?

  JM: I went into the kitchen. I got myself some water.

  POLICE: And did you see anyone there?

  JM: No. There was no one there.

  POLICE: Did you go outside? Into the back garden?

  JM: No. No, why would I …?

  POLICE: Ms Mullen – for the purposes of the recording we are showing Ms Mullen photograph number 2198. This is the plughole of the sink in the utility room of 14 Melville Heights, your address. As you can see, it is holding sizeable traces of mud. And there are also some traces of wet mud on the soles of these gardening shoes, also found in the utility room.

  JM: I don’t see …

  POLICE: So someone in your house went outside in these shoes on Friday night, around the time of the murder.

  JM: Well, it wasn’t me.

  POLICE: So, in your opinion, who might it have been?

  JM: Well, they’re Rebecca’s shoes. So I assume it must have been her.

  POLICE: Rebecca Mullen?

  JM: Yes. My sister-in-law.

  POLICE: Mrs Mullen claims to have been in her home office all night, working. We have a witness who says they saw a figure at her window at the time she claims to have been there. And you say she wasn’t downstairs when you got home?

  JM: No, but—

  POLICE: So, Ms Mullen. This is what we have so far. We have you, in a hotel room with the victim’s husband on the night of her murder. We have photographs taken on Tuesday of this week on your phone clearly showing the assailant’s probable means of entry to the Fitzwilliams’ house: the broken window. We have photos from another witness of you watching the Fitzwilliams’ house for many weeks leading up to last night; photos of you touching Mr Fitzwilliam’s car on more than one occasion. We have a tassel from the boots you were wearing last night found at the scene of the murder; we have photographic evidence of a figure at the back of the houses at around the time of the murder. And we have fresh mud on these boots that matches mud found at the scene of the murder. Ms Mullen, I suggest very strongly at this point that you exercise your right to the representation of a lawyer.

  63

  25 March

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘God. Joey. Thank God. What’s going on? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes! They’ve been questioning me for over an hour!’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘They think I did it, Jack! You have to get me a lawyer!’

  ‘They think …?’

  ‘They think I killed Nicola Fitzwilliam!’

  ‘What! But that’s …’

  ‘I know. It’s nuts! But they have so much evidence! They found a bit from my boot. Next to the body!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense. But it was there. They showed me the photo. It was in the blood.’

  ‘Joey—’

  ‘Just get me a lawyer, Jack. Please. The best one you can get.’

  ‘Alfie’s here—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to Alfie. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m just – I’m so scared, Jack. I’m so scared!’

  Jack sighs. ‘I’ll call David Moffat. He’ll be able to recommend someone. Just leave it with me. But, Joey. Listen. Don’t say one more word to anyone. Not one more word. Not until the lawyer arrives. Promise?’

  Joey sniffs. ‘I promise. God. Of course I promise. Just get someone.’

  The line falls silent for a moment and Joey listens to the rhythm of her brother’s panicked breathing. Then she says, ‘I have to go now, Jack. I love you so much. I love you so, so much.’

  ‘I love you too, little sister. Take care.’

  Then the call cuts off and Joey sits with the receiver limp in her hand until someone takes it away from her.

  RECORDED INTERVIEW

  Date: 25/03/2017

  Location: Trinity Road Police Station, Bristol BS2 0NW

  Conducted by: Officers from Somerset & Avon Police

  POLICE: Your name please.

  TF: Thomas Robert John Fitzwilliam.

  POLICE: Thank you. And your full address?

  TF: 16 Melville Heights, Bristol BS12 2GG

  POLICE: And if you could just confirm your relationship to the victim?

  TF: I’m her husband.

  POLICE: Mr Fitzwilliam, could you tell us exactly where you were last night between the hours of 6 p.m. and 9 p.m.?

  TF: I was at school between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m.

  POLICE: And were there any witnesses to corroborate this statement?

  TF: Yes, a few. I was in my office for most of that time; I also spent a short while in the staff room, socialising. And I left the building at the same time as Mr Kirk, my deputy. Our cars were parked side by side.

  POLICE: And at 7 p.m. you left the Melville Academy?

  TF: Yes. Or just after.

  POLICE: And then?

  TF: Then I drove into town.

  POLICE: Where exactly did you go?

  TF: I went to the harbour and I parked my car in the Nelson Street car park. Then I walked to the Bristol Harbour Hotel. I got there at about seven twenty-five.

  POLICE: And did you talk to
anyone when you got there?

  TF: No. I took a lift straight up to a room.

  POLICE: Can you remember the room number?

  TF: No. No, I can’t. It was on the first floor.

  POLICE: And what did you do when you got to the room?

  TF: I knocked on the door. Josephine Mullen answered. I went into the room.

  POLICE: And then?

  TF: I kissed her.

  POLICE: Did she reciprocate?

  TF: Yes, she did. At first. But then, very quickly, it became apparent that neither of us was feeling comfortable with the encounter. That it had been a mistake. So I left.

  POLICE: And what time was this?

  TF: Roughly seven forty.

  POLICE: So you returned to the Nelson Street car park and drove home?

  TF: That is correct.

  POLICE: A journey, typically at that time of night, of around twelve minutes?

  TF: Yes.

  POLICE: Yet you didn’t get home until eight seventeen?

  TF: That sounds about right.

  POLICE: Could you explain what you were doing between 7.40 and 8.17 p.m.?

  TF: I was driving. Just driving around. Trying to get my head together.

  POLICE: So you didn’t feel quite ready to come home? To face your wife?

  TF: Exactly.

  POLICE: Mr Fitzwilliam. Would it be fair to say that your relationship with your wife was somewhat strained?

  TF: No more so than anyone else’s.

  POLICE: So you wouldn’t say that there was possibly a physical aspect to your relationship, that maybe, occasionally, stepped over the boundaries of normal marital discourse?

  TF: No. I wouldn’t say that.

  POLICE: So, you didn’t tell Ms Mullen that you had a sado-masochistic relationship with your wife?

  TF: No. Not at all.

  POLICE: Mr Fitzwilliam. As well as the multiple stab wounds to your wife’s chest and back, there was also some bruising to her neck. The bruising appears to be quite old, at least a week or two. Could you explain this bruising?

  TF: No. I have no explanation for that.

  POLICE: So, the bruising wasn’t inflicted by you?

  TF: No. Not as far as I’m aware.

  POLICE: As far as you’re aware?

  TF: No. I mean no. It wasn’t.

  POLICE: And do you have any idea what might have caused it?

  TF: None whatsoever.

  POLICE: This isn’t the first time you’ve been brought in for police questioning, is it, Mr Fitzwilliam?

  TF: [Sighs.]

  POLICE: In April 1997, you were held for questioning at Burton Police Station in relation to the death by suicide of Genevieve Hart, a student at the school where you were teaching.

  TF: [Sighs.] Yes. That is correct. But I don’t see what it has to do with—

  POLICE: Her parents believed they had evidence that you’d been having some kind of inappropriate relationship with her.

  TF: They did not have evidence. They had a diary with some references to her feelings towards me, some flowery descriptions of our – entirely normal and appropriate – encounters. Nothing else.

  POLICE: There was some suspicion at the time, was there not, that according to what she’d written in her diary, you had arranged to meet her at the location where she took her life. That she had been expecting you to be there.

  TF: No. There was nothing in her diary to suggest an arrangement to meet with me. Nothing at all. She alluded to an arrangement of some sort and her parents assumed it was with me. But it was not. I had a rock-solid alibi and the police let me go within minutes. And again, I don’t see what any of this has to do with my wife’s murder.

  POLICE: We’re just trying to form a picture, Mr Fitzwilliam, a fully rounded picture. Ms Mullen tells us you made a very sudden and specific invitation to her earlier in the week to meet at a certain place, at a certain time. In order to have – or at least to talk about – having sex. It suggests a pattern of behaviour, Mr Fitzwilliam. That’s all.

  TF: I did not arrange to meet Genevieve Hart for sex. I did not arrange to meet her, full stop.

  POLICE: Then who, in your opinion, did?

  TF: [Groans.] I’m sorry, officers, I really am, but I am not prepared to answer any more questions about Genevieve Hart. No more. OK?

  POLICE: Fine. Fine. Moving back, then, to the timeline of events last night. You returned home at 8.17 p.m. And then what?

  TF: I let myself into the house. There was no one there. I called out for my wife. She’d been ill all week and she’d spent the day before in bed. So when she didn’t reply I went up to our bedroom. She wasn’t there. So I went through the rest of the house, then I went back downstairs and opened the kitchen door and that was … [Silence.]

  POLICE: That’s OK, Mr Fitzwilliam. Take your time.

  TF: She was there. Nicola. On the floor. She was dead.

  POLICE: Did you check for any vital signs?

  TF: Yes. Yes, of course I did. But it was clear to me that she was dead. Just from looking at her. The amount of blood. I mean, she must have been dead for some time.

  POLICE: Well, actually, Mr Fitzwilliam, the forensics report suggests the time of death at approximately 7 p.m. to 8.30 p.m.

  TF: Does it?

  POLICE: Yes. It does. And now, moving on to your call to the emergency services. This came through at 8.40 p.m. Could you tell me, Mr Fitzwilliam, what you were doing between the time of your return at 8.17 p.m. and the making of the phone call at 8.40 p.m.?

  TF: Well, as I said, I went upstairs. Looking for Nicola. And I … yes, I used the toilet. The one in our en suite. I might have spent some time in there.

  POLICE: Twenty minutes?

  TF: No, possibly not twenty minutes.

  POLICE: So, let’s say five minutes? Shall we? And then you came back downstairs and found your wife. So, fifteen minutes later you called emergency services. Please can you explain what you were doing during those fifteen minutes?

  TF: I was … God, I don’t know. I was crying. I was in a state of shock. I went back through the house, searching for the killer, searching for clues. I went into the garden … [Crying.] … It all felt like a blur. It didn’t feel like fifteen minutes. It just didn’t.

  POLICE: And then?

  TF: My son returned. At some point. I don’t really know when. And then we sat in the hallway and waited for the police to come.

  POLICE: Thank you, Mr Fitzwilliam. I think we’ll take a break here.

  64

  As the 218 had pulled into Melville Village the previous evening, Jenna’s heart had begun to pump at the sight of blue lights flashing. She’d burst through the doors of the bus as they slid open and peered upwards towards Melville Heights: there was a ribbon across the lane and a policewoman standing guard. ‘You can’t go through, I’m afraid. There’s been a major incident.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. Do you live up there?’

  ‘No,’ she’d said. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘In that case could I ask you to leave the vicinity. We need full access for our vehicles.’

  She’d dashed back down the lane and towards her house. Her mum sat in the living room, her e-cigarette in one hand, a mug of tea in the other.

  ‘Mum!’ Jenna had said, dropping her bag on the floor and going to her side. ‘What the hell’s going on up there? In Melville Heights.’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘There’s blue lights! And a police cordon.’

  ‘Well,’ her mum had said, ‘I was up there earlier. Got back about half an hour ago. There was nothing happening when I left.’

  ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘Watching him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom Fitzwilliam. He was supposed to be hosting a big meeting. All of them.’

  ‘All of—?’ She’d stopped. ‘You didn’t do anything, did you, Mum? Tell me you haven’t done anything?’

/>   ‘What? Of course not. What on earth do you think I might have done?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She’d sighed. ‘Nothing. Of course not.’

  The next morning it’s all over the news. A murder in Melville Heights. Tom Fitzwilliam’s wife. Stabbed in her kitchen, more than thirty times. The husband held for questioning. An employee of the Bristol Harbour Hotel in the city coming forward to say that Mr Fitzwilliam had checked into a hotel room the night before, just after a blonde woman called Josephine Mullen, who was also now being held for questioning. The local neighbourhood in a state of shock.

  Jenna sits cross-legged in her pyjamas watching the news. Her mum sits at the dining table watching too.

  ‘There,’ says Mum. ‘You see! It’s all going to come out now. All of it. He’s killed his wife. Probably because she knew too much. If only they’d listened to me earlier. If only.’

  Jenna’s head spins. Mr Fitzwilliam. Genevieve Hart. The woman two doors down. Mr Fitzwilliam. Genevieve Hart. The woman two doors down. There’s something linking them all together: she knows there is. ‘Mum,’ she says, ‘tell me again exactly what you were doing up there last night?’

  ‘I told you. Watching.’

  ‘But you didn’t see anything?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see anything. Just the blonde woman coming home. And then a few minutes later I saw her round the back of the houses on the secret path.’

  ‘The blonde woman?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I took a photo …’ Her mother takes her camera from her handbag and switches it on. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘it’s the last one I took before I gave up and came home.’

  She turns the back of the camera towards Jenna. Jenna takes the camera from her and presses the zoom button into the tangled blotchy mass of grey and green and brown and black. There at the back is a figure, shadowy and vague, eyes reddened to pinprick rubies by the distant flash. It’s impossible to see what colour hair the person has, even what gender the person is. But the flash has picked up something else on the figure: a splash of white light just at the centre. Jenna zooms up close on it and then pans out again. It’s a button, a single oversized button. She’s seen a coat with a button like that somewhere recently; someone she knew had been wearing it. And then she remembers, in a flash. The woman in the photo Freddie had shown her, the one talking to her mum. She’d been wearing a big, black coat, held together just above her pregnant bump with one large button. Ice plunges through Jenna’s heart.