‘They moved away. Selina and the girls – to Whitby. She remarried a dentist, Tim Darville. He has his own practice. They came for Charlie’s funeral.’
‘Was Nick from Manchester?’ I said.
‘Newcastle,’ Heather said, ‘the Geordie accent was part of his charm.’
‘Did the police speak to him about Charlie’s death?’
‘I don’t know. They knew about him because of the trouble, but his name didn’t come up again.’
‘You never thought he had anything to do with it?’
‘No. We hadn’t seen the man for years.’ But he’d continued to persecute the family with abusive calls, tormenting them for six years.
The phone rang. Alex moved to answer it but Valerie cautioned him to wait. Their answerphone kicked in followed by an eager voice, speaking rapidly. ‘Mrs Carter? Jonathan Gower here, Associated Press. Can you spare a few moments to comment on today’s tragedy? Are you concerned by the allegations that Damien Beswick was wrongly convicted?’
Alex stepped closer and turned down the volume. Heather sank her head in her hands.
‘You could come to mine,’ Valerie offered.
‘I’d better go,’ I told them, getting to my feet. ‘If I do learn anything I’ll let you know.’
‘Don’t you think it’s best left to the proper authorities?’ Valerie asked me sharply.
‘I’m sure they’ll be doing all they can,’ I said neutrally. ‘The gates?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Alex shambled out. He could have flaunted his size, got himself in shape, built his muscles, toned his body. But he still had that slight stoop and lack of physical confidence that many boys have. And I imagined the horror of losing his dad would have completely overwhelmed any interest in normal teenage concerns and would probably continue to do so for a long time to come.
As I turned on to the main road I passed one news van, then another. The press pack was descending.
THIRTEEN
Ray had been holding the fort since I’d taken Chloe’s call. Now I was returning and he would go to Laura’s. My apprehension grew as I drew nearer home, my throat and shoulders tightening and a weight pressing on my chest.
Ray barely expressed any interest in where I’d been or any concern for me. We exchanged practical information about the kids before he left but the air was thick with tension and neither of us was capable of diffusing it.
Although I loathed Arndale shopping, and knew I had more than reasonable grounds to renege on my earlier promise to Maddie, the prospect of sitting gnawing my knuckles and waiting for Ray’s reappearance was worse than the alternative. I tried calling Geoff Sinclair after lunch, before we left, but the phone just rang out.
We walked through the park to the local train station. The kids didn’t ask to push the buggy. Jamie had become part of the furniture as far as Tom was concerned and probably something even less positive for Maddie.
The train was full of people returning from the airport, heading for connections at the main station at Piccadilly. I manoeuvred the buggy into a space beside some luggage and stood there while Maddie and Tom found seats in the carriage.
Piccadilly was heaving: tourists, shoppers, students and footie fans. Flocks of teenagers in their various uniforms: Emos draped in black with flashes of acid colour, other kids in the oversized sportswear and gold ‘bling’ of the hip-hop scene and handfuls of girls following the current fashion trend of short skirts, thick tights, sixties backcombed hair and panda eyes. It was handy to have the buggy so the kids could hold on and not get lost. On our way down the ramp towards town, I saw the news billboard: GAOL SUICIDE PLEADS INNOCENCE!
I hadn’t really taken it in. That the man who’d joked and complained and argued with me the previous day wasn’t still around; wasn’t still prattling on about ghosts and drugs and cars. Wouldn’t smile again, breathe again. How unbearably desolate he must have felt, or how fearful, to take his own life. His death brought with it flashbacks for me to other sudden deaths that would haunt me all my life: a man dancing aflame at a petrol station, another bleeding to death as I held his hand, a child lost in a house fire. I felt like crying but I didn’t know who for. Then there was the prospect of Ray’s surprise love-child. And I had two kids, a baby and shopping hell to contend with.
Both the children had spending money to get what they wanted and we were also looking for new trousers and a winter top for each of them. I knew we’d make more progress getting the clothes first. Market Street was busy; hard to believe we were in the grip of a recession. Along the central area of the pedestrianized thoroughfare were men with stalls selling whistles and kites and hats with ear flaps. I heard the blues guitarist before we saw him, shielded with an umbrella, his portable amp blasting out ‘Buddy Can You Spare A Dime’. I gave Maddie and Tom fifty pence each to drop in his box.
H&M did a reasonable line in kid’s clothing and although everything took twice as long with buggy and baby in tow it was pretty straightforward. Maddie got deep-red corduroy trousers and a red and black striped fleecy top. Tom found some grey combat pants and a hoodie with sharks on that he thought was extremely cool.
Diane texted me asking how I was. Had she heard about Damien and remembered that he was who I’d been to visit? Or was she waiting for news about the situation with Laura and the baby? I texted back that I was OK and would ring later.
Like most children the kids wanted to buy toys with their spending money but Manchester didn’t really have a decent toyshop in the city centre. There had been a Daisy and Tom’s on Deansgate but it had closed and Toys R Us was out of town and required a car and browsing on an industrial scale. However there was a German market running in St Ann’s Square and we found toys and playthings in among the gingerbread and sausages and beer. Tom seized on a wooden frog that made a lifelike croak when you stroked its back with a wooden stick, and a jester’s hat with bells on that he thought would be good for pirates. Maddie bought a string puppet and a wooden hula hoop. Sorted.
They were flagging by then and the walk back to the train took for ever. Thankfully Jamie didn’t start crying for a feed until we were on the train. It’s a quick journey, eleven minutes, but her shrieks were enough to make ears bleed. I’d have given anything for a soother but if she was used to one surely her mother would have left one in the bag. I had made up a bottle of boiled water in case she got thirsty and tried to give her some but she screwed up her face tighter and screamed even louder. We were nearing our stop and I was busy gathering our bags and avoiding eye contact with the rest of the passengers, when the crying became more muffled. A rest at last? No, just Tom, standing there with his hand over her mouth.
An hour later, calm and quiet reigned and still no sign of Ray. I got through to Geoff Sinclair. ‘You’ve heard about Damien Beswick?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Not totally unexpected, though.’ He sounded a little breathless, reedy.
‘You think?’
He sighed. ‘The lad was damaged; it didn’t take an expert to see that.’
‘But he was never deemed to be a vulnerable prisoner? He wasn’t on suicide watch or anything?’
He grunted. ‘Don’t know the ins and outs of it.’
‘But this changes things,’ I said.
‘In what way?’ I heard the reserve in his tone.
Surely he could see that. ‘He retracted his confession at the end; he left a note. That makes his claim to innocence much more plausible, surely? And I saw him yesterday. I used some of those techniques, the cognitive interview techniques.’
‘Did you now?’ He didn’t try to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
‘Yes. There were things that he’d not remembered before and odd things that didn’t fit.’ I pictured the house in darkness, the unlocked door, the car – still warm to the touch. ‘I wanted to ask you: the man he passed, the one who never came forward – could it have been Nick Dryden? Charlie’s ex-business partner.’
There was a pause. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, �
�could have been. Could have been the Count of Monte Cristo, an’ all.’
‘Had you an alibi for Dryden? Did you speak to him?’
‘No. The man had gone to ground.’
‘How hard did you look, once Damien was in the frame?’
The pause went on longer. I wondered if I’d overstepped the mark.
‘It wasn’t deemed to be a productive use of resources. I’d say that’s still the case,’ he said crisply.
My mind went back to the car. Charlie driving out there, too fast. He always broke the speed limit. His one flaw, according to Libby. A new idea came to me. Could he have upset someone with his speed? An encounter with another motorist turning to road rage. The other driver following him to the cottage. An altercation, a knife on the counter. I clutched at my head trying to concentrate, grasp the whole picture.
‘What if,’ I said to Sinclair, ‘and this is off the top of my head, Charlie had cut someone up on his way out there. He always drove too fast . . .’
‘Sounds like a fairy tale.’ He was dismissive. ‘An imaginary traffic incident, an imaginary unknown attacker. We work with facts, we follow the evidence.’
‘Who else had any motive?’ I asked. ‘Heather Carter, but she was with Valerie Mayhew all afternoon – unless she got Valerie to lie for her. They are friends. Valerie is . . . formidable,’ I chose the word with care ‘ . . . but she’s straight as a die. I can’t see her flouting the law at all – not even a parking ticket. She’d risk her whole reputation.’
‘We could corroborate their accounts,’ Geoff Sinclair said flatly. ‘Phone records. There were calls made from the Carter house that afternoon. Third parties who could confirm that they spoke with Heather.’
‘Could she have hired someone?’
‘A hit man?’ he scoffed. ‘There were no financial irregularities, no lump sum payments to suggest anything like that, and no phone traffic between Heather Carter and persons known to the police. All these things were checked. We did our homework.’ Which put me in my place?
‘But maybe not on Nick Dryden,’ I countered.
‘I wish you luck,’ he said dryly and hung up.
I was in the drive, emptying the rubbish into the wheelie bin when Ray arrived back. I saw him first, head lowered so his black curls hung over his face obscuring his expression, hands shoved in his pockets.
I froze. He sensed me and looked up, his face bleaching. He walked down the drive and I stopped breathing, felt the blood slow in my veins.
‘Jamie’s not Laura’s,’ he said quietly, his face looking tired, old.
My heart bucked with elation. I gasped with relief. Why wasn’t he smiling? ‘So, it was all a mix-up?’ I asked him. ‘She never was pregnant?’
He blinked and stretched his head back, his Adam’s apple prominent against the column of his neck. ‘She was,’ he said and ran a hand through his hair. I glimpsed the paler skin on his wrist, the tracery of veins.
‘She was?’ I echoed, my voice wavering.
Ray looked down at the ground, nudged his shoe against a piece of loose concrete there.
‘Ray?’
A magpie screeched high in the eucalyptus tree, then I heard the clatter of its flight.
‘She has a boy,’ he said. He glanced up briefly; a look of sadness shadowed his features. ‘My son, Oscar.’ He swung his head away and I saw his nose redden.
‘Ray.’ I moved in towards him, releasing my hold on the bin bag but he shook his head. ‘Later. OK?’ He walked away.
I stared at the black bag at my feet, the stew of eggshells and packaging and scraps, the rubbish of our lives blurring in my eyes.
Waiting for the computer to boot up, I picked over Ray’s news, still astounded at the very fact of it. How could we not have heard? Manchester may be the country’s second city but it’s more an urban village than an anonymous metropolis. People talk, natter, gossip. Circles overlap. Everyone knows someone in common; six degrees of separation becomes three. Laura only lived a couple of miles away. How long did she think she could keep it a secret from Ray? Why did she?
His withdrawal from me, his retreat into dealing with this on his own rather than us tackling it together filled me with resentment. What prospect was there for us as a couple if when the going got tough he shut me out? Yes, it was his bombshell; he’d suddenly acquired a child he never knew about. It was huge news to try and absorb but it affected me, too. I wanted us to share the shock and upheaval, support each other in coping with it. And there was the other big issue to address: if Jamie was not Laura’s child, then who was she?
Online, I began to search for Nick Dryden, setting off several search engines and trying variations like Nicholas, too. I concentrated on any hits that linked to business. I felt sure he’d keep operating in the field he knew. In his comfort zone. A Nick Dryden came up twice in the north east, once linked to an insolvency hearing ten years ago. Before he’d conned the Carters. The same old scams. Spain had been mentioned so I tried that and found a link to a newspaper report from Benidorm in the Costa Blanca. Nicholas Dryden was wanted by the Spanish authorities for fraud: selling non-existent land plots and bogus timeshares. It was believed he had left Spain and may have returned to the UK. That was last summer. I couldn’t find any more recent reference to him online.
Was it likely, really, that after seven years Dryden would seek out Charlie in his weekend cottage, stab him and slip away? Revenge is best eaten cold but assuming it was Dryden something must have been a catalyst for him to act then. Had his misfortunes in Spain triggered fresh antagonism against the Carters? His abusive calls had stopped around the time of Charlie’s murder. Was there a connection?
There was no listing on Yell.com or similar sites, and nothing on People Finder. I tried another tack: his ex-wife. A recorded announcement told me Darville’s dentist surgery in Whitby was closed at weekends but there were three Darvilles listed in the local phone directory. I hit the jackpot first time.
Selina Darville was reluctant to talk to me and I had to push hard and think fast to stop her hanging up. Just the mention of Nick Dryden was obviously an unwelcome intrusion for her.
‘I’m trying to trace him,’ I hadn’t gone into any details why, ‘and all I need to know is if he’s any family he would keep in touch with.’
She sighed. ‘Only when he was after something.’
‘Who?’
‘His mother. If she’s still there.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘I don’t know if I should give out the details. It’s not like you’re the police or anything.’
I pleaded my case, gave her assurances and got an address. When I found a phone number to match and rang it, I learnt Mrs Kemp (she’d remarried later in life) had moved to sheltered accommodation in South Shields. The number there was busy but on my third try I got some sort of switchboard: they took my details and put me through.
I apologized to Mrs Kemp for ringing her out of the blue, and told her I wanted to get in touch with Nick Dryden. She hung up on me. Some people just don’t want to help.
Frustrated, I switched my attention to the other details of the case: rereading my notes on Damien’s story and attempting to draw a sketch of events. How far was it from the bus stop to the cottage? Although I’d seen pictures of the house and the village on news coverage I’d no accurate grasp of the location and the geography. Now, it seemed vital that I understood it. I should visit.
My phone went. ‘Sal Kilkenny,’ I answered.
There was a crackle of static, silence then faint breath sounds on the end of the line.
‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’ Was it someone in trouble?
The breath came louder, not hurried – measured, ominous. The silence was deliberate. My heartbeat picked up. I held my own breath, straining to listen to see if I could discern anything about the person on the other end. It was impossible. Just the steady intake and exhalation of air. So close, so intimate it made my flesh crawl. Slamming down
the receiver, I got to my feet. Paced up and down, trying to shake off the shiver of fear that had spread down my back and tugged at my guts. I dialled 1471 but of course they’d withheld the number. Was it coincidence that the call had come so soon after my attempts to track down Nick Dryden?
Ray stuck his head round the door. ‘We’re off to my mum’s,’ he said. ‘Probably stay over.’
And leave me in the dark? My chest ached, I wanted him to stay. When I spoke, I tried to modulate my voice. ‘And when can we talk?’
A flicker of irritation pinched at his mouth. ‘Soon. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘This is really hard, Ray, you shutting me out.’
‘It’s not like that,’ he said.
‘It is.’
‘I need a bit of time.’
Stalemate. What was I now? The enemy? No longer the lover? Not even a friend? ‘Hold me.’ I hated the neediness but I wanted to be honest about my own feelings.
He hesitated. If he leaves now, I thought, without touching me, that’s it. It’s over. Whatever else, if he can’t give me that basic reassurance then why would I want him any more?
I met his eyes, tried to brighten my face a fraction, show a glimmer of hope in the misery. He came towards me. In silence we embraced. I drank in the smell of him, salt and musk, felt the soft, brushed cotton of his shirt collar, the breadth of his chest, the way the bones in his shoulder blades fit beneath my hands.
I could have slept there.
Then he left.
FOURTEEN
Diane came over, bringing food: a Moroccan stew. Chickpeas, turnips and dates in a glossy marinade full of garlic and spices.
Diane listened out for Jamie while I got Maddie ready for bed. I have to hang on to this, I told myself. Whatever happens with Ray, I still have Maddie and Diane. Count my blessings. I imagined Chloe Beswick putting her kids to bed, numb and trying to make sense of her brother’s death. And Libby, who had never been able to watch Charlie bathe Rowena, never seen him cradle his daughter or gaze at her. What of Laura, who had denied Ray the knowledge of his second son? Did she hate him? Had he broken her heart when he got entangled with me? And now that he’d found out about the child, what would she do? What would he do?
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