What Amy saw was a series of snapshots, revealed to her like the flashgun of a camera, via the flickering eerie blue hue of the nightlight.
Leticia Aaron-Stanton was emitting a wailing sound, akin to that of a wounded animal, but was actually the harrowing mourn of a grief-stricken mother.
Above her, one end of a skipping rope was wrapped around the curtain pole, the other around her son’s neck while she, frantically and clumsily, attempted to take the little boy’s weight in her arms.
But it was too late.
Amy’s scream finally found its way out of her lips, it reverberated down the corridor until it reached her phone, and the ears of her friend.
31 Recovery
Rupert nearly dropped the phone when the nurse identified herself to him.
He had been trying Ashley’s mobile all evening, without reply, and had actually come to dislike the sound of her voicemail greeting.
Heron Heights Security, who he’d contacted multiple times, confirmed that Ashley’s key card had not been used all day.
She had not returned to the penthouse.
He’d called friends, colleagues, but all to no avail. He’d even found himself wondering if Ashley had ever mentioned a distant relative, perhaps a cousin or long-lost aunt, anybody from her past who she may have suddenly decided to visit.
No.
And this got him thinking.
Neither of them enjoyed talking about their families, and they both avoided the subject, but Ashley had hardly ever mentioned anything about any member of her family.
He contemplated calling the police, but weighed up their potential helpfulness versus his frame of mind. He wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions and deal with a couple of officers who fancied themselves as Relate counsellors.
He opted to call the city hospitals instead.
And was just about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang; it was a rather bubbly nurse from the A&E department at Guys and St Thomas’ Hospital. She told him that his wife had been in an accident, and that she had been treated for a mild sprained wrist, with minor cuts and bruises. However, she was fine, and needed someone to pick her up.
The nurse had hardly finished speaking and Rupert was out the door.
The drive across London was stressful; the traffic seemed particularly bad and was made worse by failed traffic lights, road works and what seemed like an endless array of pedestrian crossings.
When Rupert finally arrived at the hospital, a whole frustrating hour had passed.
It was late, the building was relatively empty, which only emphasised the drab décor and the decadence unique to government buildings.
Rupert hated hospitals. His hatred was born from the very reason that justified their existence; curing sickness.
This is where they had brought his mother, on multiple occasions, to pump out her stomach. This was also the very place where Miriam Harrison had been snatched from the brink of death, and dragged, kicking and screaming, back into the world and to the people she had so vehemently rejected; her only son and husband, neither of them deemed reason enough to live.
She had decided that life without her baby son, Ben, was not a life worth living.
Memories of those visits flooded into Rupert’s brain, resurrected by that exclusive hospital scent that was now forcing its way into his nostrils, subconsciously urging him to want to hold his breath.
He found Ashley sitting on a plastic brown chair, with her head bowed. Opposite her, sat a man and pregnant woman, each wrapped in their own thoughts, both ignoring her presence.
Ashley also seemed a million miles away. It was only when Rupert spoke her name that she looked up, revealing a patch of gauze taped to her forehead, and a strapped wrist.
His baby was hurt.
“Oh my God, Ash,” he breathed.
Their eyes locked; both of them willing to say so much yet suddenly unable to do so.
Tears immediately welled in her eyes. Her distress apparent and palpable.
She ran to him.
He folded her into his arms and allowed her to bury her head in his chest. She clung to him like a frightened child, her body a mass of shudders as she wept.
The ironic, heart-wrenching similarity of this moment was not lost on Rupert as he was immediately transported back years to the moment when a frightened thirteen-year-old boy stood in his father’s embrace.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said.
They rode home in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Rupert had so many questions but knew now was not the time, maybe later when they got back to the apartment.
All that mattered right now was that she was okay.
Ashley knew that she would have to tell Rupert the truth, what she didn’t know was how. How could she tell him that she had taken it upon herself to enter Jackie Harris’ home, in search of a manuscript and that, whilst there, she had been pursued by someone or something?
Something?
Why that word?
Oh God.
Memories of what she had seen behind that window came back to her through the blurry headache that had dogged her ever since she had regained consciousness.
She gave mental thanks to Jackie’s neighbours who, after all, had found her. If it wasn’t for them, she would probably still be lying there with blood pouring from her head and that….
…She broke her thoughts; maybe she hadn’t seen anything at all down there.
It all seemed so murky right now, a distant memory, distorted by the pain she was feeling, and the migraine that hurt so badly that she could see lights flashing in front of her eyes.
“…What’s going on?” It was Rupert’s voice interrupting her thoughts this time, as he brought the car to an abrupt halt.
Ashley sat up in her chair for she could not believe what she was seeing, nor could Rupert, in fact, for a second he thought he had taken a wrong turn, but he hadn’t.
This was their street, up ahead and to their right, Heron Heights stood over the chaotic scene unfolding all around it.
BBC and SKY television trucks were parked up on the pavement on opposite sides of the road, access to which had been blocked off by several police cars. In front of them, a cordon of police tape and officers was holding back a crowd of onlookers, journalists and camera crews.
“What’s going on?” Ashley asked, incredulously.
“I don’t know,” Rupert uttered, distractedly, thinking that none of this circus was here a couple of hours ago. He had never seen anything like it.
A short rap on his window startled them both; a police officer dressed well against the night chill shone a flashlight into the car as Rupert buzzed down his window.
“What’s going on, officer?” He asked, slightly affronted by the man shining the light straight into his face.
“I’m afraid you can’t get through this way, Sir,” the officer said, officiously, as his breath smoked out in the bitter cold night.
“Why? What’s happened?” Ashley asked, urgently.
The officer observed her and her wounds and said, slowly, “I’m afraid this road is blocked off to everyone but residents.”
“We are residents,” Rupert said, quickly.
“Could I see some ID, please Sir?”
“Of course,” Rupert said, pulling his wallet out of his jacket and handing his driving licence over to the officer, who studied it under the beam of his torch.
“Would you like to come with me, please Sir?”
“Of course, but can you please tell us what’s going on?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
“What kind of incident?” Ashley asked, not believing that her amateur investigative antics could have warranted so much police and press attention.
“I’m afraid there has been a death in your building.”
Ashley gasped.
“What? Who? How?” she asked, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Please follow me,�
� is all the officer would say.
“Wait, what about the car?” Rupert asked.
“Just leave it here for now, Sir, give me the keys, we’ll take care of it.”
The officer led them into the throng of people, most of whom were indifferent to the newcomers, until they realised exactly who they were.
Suddenly, a microphone was shoved in front of their faces.
“… Mr Harrison, Mr Harrison, you live here, do you have any comment?”
“Mr Harrison, did you know the little boy?”
“What little boy?” Rupert found himself asking, as more officers encircled them and rushed them through the rest of the crowd.
“Miss Marshall, did you know the Stantons?”
“Mr Harrison!” “Miss Marshall!” “Any comment?” “Will you be moving out?”
Video cameras appeared out of nowhere, bright lights dazzled them, camera flashes fired.
Eventually, they reached the entrance gate, which was guarded by more police officers. It opened, allowing them and their escort to pass through.
The walk up the path to the entrance seemed particularly long tonight. The whole building was ablaze with light and the bustle of investigating officers.
They entered the lobby to find Paul, the security guard, and his partner being interviewed at their station by two more police officers. In front of them, seated on one of the divans, was a black woman in a brown, well-worn trouser suit. She was talking to Tom, but stopped when their escort walked up to and whispered in her ear.
She looked over at Rupert and Ashley, said something to the officer, and then walked up to them.
“Mr Harrison?”
“Yes.”
“I am Detective Inspector Julianne Taylor.”
Rupert nodded.
“And you must be Miss Marshall,” she said, weighing up Ashley’s bandaged wrist, and the gauze on her forehead.
“Yes,” Ashley said feeling suddenly self-conscious.
“What happened?” The D.I. asked, nodding at Ashley’s forehead.
“Oh, I fell…. over,” she said, quickly.
“Must have been one hell of a fall,” Taylor said.
“It was.”
“What’s happened here, inspector?” Rupert interrupted. He hadn’t even had a chance to speak to Ashley yet. He certainly didn’t want the whole thing played out in front of a complete stranger.
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” Taylor said.
“We heard. But what happened? A journalist out there mentioned a young boy,” Rupert said.
“Did you know the Stantons?”
“Well yes, who doesn’t …?”
Ashley gasped as realisation dawned, “Oh my God. Their little boy?”
“I am afraid so,” Taylor said, gravely.
“What happened to him?” Rupert asked.
The inspector hesitated and then, nodding at a nearby divan, said, “Why don’t you take a seat.”
32 The PropOSAL
It was almost an hour later when, weary and somewhat shell-shocked, they finally found themselves riding the elevator in silence. Both, seemingly mesmerised by the perpetual change of the floor indicator, as it made its way up to the penthouse.
D.I. Taylor had asked them a battery of questions about their neighbours, building security, and even personal questions about each other, such as how long they’d been living together.
The D.I. also showed a lingering, and somewhat unnerving interest in Ashley’s injuries.
However, they both did a pretty good job of steering the conversation back to the Stantons, and what they both knew about the celebrity couple, which wasn’t much. They explained that they actually saw little of the Stantons and, as far as they knew, they didn’t actually spend much time at Heron Heights. When they did, it was clear that they valued their privacy. They didn’t speak to anybody and if they could avoid contact, they appeared to do so.
But then, most of the building’s occupants were like that.
Asked about Amy, the Stanton’s nanny, both denied ever meeting her.
The bell sounded and the doors slid open.
They entered the penthouse. It felt unusually cold, and oddly unwelcoming.
This didn’t help Ashley’s mood, for she felt lonely. It was the kind of loneliness commonly experienced by the love-stricken who are unable to eat, sleep or think about anything else other than the object of their affection.
In this case, Ashley could not settle anywhere, nor draw comfort from anything because her mind was jammed with thoughts of Jackie, the visit to her house, the events that had taken place downstairs, the manuscript, Rupert’s silence so far, and the explanation he would inevitably be expecting from her.
“Ashley!”
The voice startled her. “What?” She snapped.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I'm all right,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Only, I called you three times. You were miles away.”
“I’m sorry.” she said, sitting down on the sofa and pulling a white, furry throw over her.
“I’ve poured you a brandy,” he said, handing her the glass.
“Thank you.”
He checked the thermostat, which was already turned up high, then sat down opposite her, allowing that familiar silence to return once more, as he watched her sip from the glass.
Her eyes were wild, and she seemed to be looking every which way but at him.
A police siren wailed somewhere off in the distance, then, after a few more seconds of thought processing, Rupert said, “So, are you ready?”
Ashley finally gave him her eyes. They were glazy with exhaustion. “For what?” She said, although she knew full well what he meant.
“Are you going to tell me what happened to you tonight?”
Her heart skipped a beat.
For some strange reason, she was afraid. She did not know if this was due to Rupert’s potential reaction, or more to do with the fact that she would have to, albeit mentally, return to that place, and she did not want to.
“Rupert, I’m exhausted and aching. I just want to have a bath. Do you mind if we do this tomorrow?”
“Of course I mind,” he said, waiting patiently. And it was clear from his expression, and the anticipatory way he was leaning forward in his seat, that he wasn’t going to let her go anywhere without an explanation.
Ashley set her glass down on the coffee table and looked up at him.
“I know you’re going to be disappointed.”
He forced a laugh. “Disappointed? I’m not your father, Ash. I just want to know what happened.”
“I went over to Jackie Harris’ home,” she said, quickly.
Rupert frowned. “You what?” he said, incredulously, “Why?”
She shook her head slightly, and stared at the granite in the coffee table in front of her. “I don’t know,” she said with conviction. “I really don’t know why.”
“I have an idea. Could it be Harris’ bloody manuscript?” He said, angrily.
Ashley flinched at his raised voice, which didn’t go unnoticed.
He took a few seconds, sighed, and said, “I just don’t get it. What is it with you and that woman, Ash?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea. You seem obsessed with her. Jesus, even after her death. Why won’t you just let it rest?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because the truth needs to be told!”
Rupert stood up, “Oh for God’s sakes, Ash. The truth was told in a court of law. We’ve been through this.”
He began to pace behind the sofa.
“Only because some of them lied.”
“Yep, here we go again. How do you know? Were you there?”
“I know what she told me and what I feel.”
“What you feel? Ash, I was going out of my mind tonight, wondering where the hell you wer
e, while you were busy breaking into some dead woman’s home…”
“…I didn’t break in. I had a key.”
“Oh that’s okay then,” he said, sarcastically. “You didn’t even bother calling, or even sending a text.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d be that long. I left the phone in my car.”
“You could have got yourself into some serious trouble tonight. Is that what you want, huh? Is it?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure? Because from where I’m standing, it seems that you’re hell bent on pissing off the police, and getting yourself killed at the same time.”
He ran his hands through his hair, “I mean, Jesus Christ, Ash. I think you’re at work and next thing I know, I get a call from the hospital. So, if we’re talking about people’s feelings, let’s talk about mine. Let’s talk about how bloody scared I was tonight when I thought something awful had happened, when I thought I’d lost you, or aren’t my feelings important?”
Ashley was taken aback by Rupert’s words and uttered, “Of course they are.”
“But obviously not as important as some woman you barely knew.”
“There’s no comparison.”
“No, she’s much more important.”
“Now you're being childish.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are...”
“…And your excursion to some dead woman’s house wasn’t childish?”
Ashley wanted to say something, but it just so happened that she agreed with him.
I’m sorry, Rupert.
He was clearly upset. His eyes were glistening, and Ashley could not tell if they were tears or just the glaze of rage. Then, as if to hide his real feelings, he turned from her and walked over to the window, where he stared out into the night.
“I’m sorry if I worried you,” she said, quietly, like a child who had just been chastised.
Rupert said nothing, and she felt his silence hurt more than any abuse he could hurl at her. She did feel thoroughly foolish for what she did, but, like most of life’s greatest blunders, it seemed right at the time. And now, no matter how much they argued about it, it was too late. The damage had been done, the painkillers were wearing off, her head was pounding, her arm was aching and Rupert’s heart was hurt.
Unspeakable Page 22
