The police have already confirmed that our cleaner Michelle comes every Tuesday and Friday. And that that Tuesday she cleaned the utility room, including wiping down the washing machine as usual. Of course my fingerprints were on the machine. But why weren’t the killer’s?
6. Only my fingerprints were on the murder weapon.
The word ‘weapon’ throbs on the page. The buzzing starts in my head again. I know I picked the knife up. Or at least I think I did, in the panic. Trying to understand what had happened. It was there on the floor. Glinting. Slick with blood.
I force myself to remember. Yes, it was one of Robert’s expensive Japanese knives. From the block set on the counter. I remember emptying them from the dishwasher Wednesday morning. Robert must have put them in the night before – we were hurrying, trying to get everything ready for Emily’s big day.
Keep going. Keep remembering. Keep thinking. I’m the only one who can solve this. I’m the only one – apart from the real culprit – who knows I didn’t do this.
I put the knife back in the block. I’m the only person who touched it, besides the killer. They must have been wearing gloves. That explains the lack of prints on the washing machine too.
Someone hated us enough to do this. Who? There were no signs of a break-in. It was someone who had a key. Or knew where we kept ours. Then there’s the thing they think gives me motive. The final damning proof.
7. Obscene images of children were found on my laptop.
A large encrypted file. Thousands of photos and videos. But no one could think a pregnant woman was capable of that. DI Langton will see that. Mr Peterson will explain. Because they can’t possibly keep me and my baby in here. It’s got to just be a matter of time.
I close my eyes and think about how when I’m out of here I will paint the spare room yellow, for a nursery. And get a hanging mobile of planes and hot-air balloons, so my baby knows it can go anywhere. Do anything.
A cheer from another cell breaks into my thoughts. Two people finding something to celebrate in here. Then I realise something so obvious it’s terrifying. Mr Peterson said there were thousands of photos and videos of child porn on my computer. That the police aren’t sure when they were added. Emily was dropped home just before five. I was back just after half past five. There wasn’t time to kill her and download that many files. Adding the child porn to my computer wasn’t opportunistic.
This was premeditated. And I was the target.
Then
‘I can’t wait for you to meet Pip.’ Robert takes me by the hand as we walk toward his parents’ house. The sound of a swing band carries on the crisp autumn air. This is a big deal, his mum’s birthday. A chance to meet all the wider family, his parents’ friends, people who are important to the business. ‘She and Mum have been friends since school. Pip’s a riot,’ he says. ‘And my godmother. I get all my raffish ways from her!’ He tilts his Rat Pack-style hat and grins.
‘I didn’t know you had any raffish ways?’ I say.
‘Oh yes.’ He nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m a real cad.’
I pretend-shriek and run ahead, giggling, enjoying the swish of the net skirt under my fifties-style dress. ‘I promised my mother I’d never go out with a cad!’
He runs to catch up with me, grabbing my hand as we reach the house. ‘It’s not going out with me that you’ve got to watch, it’s going home with me.’ He pinches my bum. A pale-blue carpet has been rolled out from the front door, and a doorman in a fifties cinema outfit stands to greet us. I slap Robert’s hand away as the guy holds the door, nervous of what he’ll think.
‘Evening, Mr Milcombe.’ He nods to Robert.
‘I see Mother persuaded you into a costume after all, John.’ Robert loops his arm round my waist.
‘The lady of the house always gets her own way.’ John smiles.
‘Quite right,’ says Robert, squeezing me. ‘Quite right.’
Off the back of the house a huge marquee has been erected, decorated like a classic American diner. ‘Wow!’ I say. There’s an ice-cream bar, a jukebox, a dance floor, and several shiny Corvettes and Chevrolets are parked up alongside the structure. This is another world. The extravagance, the cost. ‘It looks like Happy Days!’ I say.
‘My father doesn’t do things by halves,’ Robert says. ‘Timothée! Ça va?’ He turns to an elegant couple in their sixties, him with gelled rockabilly hair, her in a wiggle dress. ‘Béatrice.’ He bends to double-kiss the woman.
‘Mon cher Robert.’ Béatrice rests her hands on his shoulders to return the greeting.
‘Can you believe it’s a year since we visited the chateau?’ Robert beams, at total ease in these surroundings. With these people. ‘I must introduce you to my girlfriend – Jenna.’ He turns to me, and I feel myself blush. ‘Jenna, Timothée and Béatrice make the most exquisite award-winning champagne. We are the only establishment in the country to stock it. It is a great honour.’ I nod and smile, unsure of what to say.
‘Nothing but the best for David and his family.’ Timothée smiles.
After several more rounds of introductions to foie gras suppliers, other hoteliers, an ambassador, and several people from David’s Freemasons club, we find ourselves in the relative quiet of the kitchen.
‘Mother, there you are!’ Robert says to Judith, resplendent in a white satin fifties dress and a little pale-blue cardigan. She is inspecting canapés before they go out.
‘Oh darling,’ she says. ‘Don’t you both look delightful?’ She takes his hands and grins at us.
‘Happy birthday, Mummy.’ He hugs her to him.
‘You daft so-and-so.’ She pats him away. ‘Why aren’t you out there dancing? Your father spent ages auditioning the bands.’
‘It looks incredible,’ I say, stupidly. ‘You look incredible.’
‘Thank you, darling, you are sweet.’ Judith blushes.
‘We came in here looking for you,’ Robert says. ‘Where’s Auntie Pip?’
‘Oh, she’s not coming.’ Judith turns and stops one of the fifties cinema girls who is carrying a tray of mini hamburgers to align a tiny bun. Her attention to detail is extraordinary.
‘Is she sick?’ Robert sounds concerned.
I give a little smile to the waitress as she passes.
‘Oh no,’ Judith says, checking the next tray they’re lining up. Tiny striped boxes of popcorn. ‘Your father thought it was best she didn’t come.’
I feel Robert bristle next to me. ‘But it’s your birthday,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ Judith says wistfully. ‘But you know Pip – she is very . . .’ She trails off. Picks up one of the boxes of popcorn. ‘Try one of these – they’re salted caramel, what do you think? I’m not sure.’
Robert doesn’t move, so I take one and pop it in my mouth. ‘Delicious,’ I say.
‘I can’t believe he told you to un-invite her.’ Robert sounds cross. I feel like I shouldn’t be here for this conversation. Can I make an excuse and get out? ‘Do you want me to speak to him?’
‘Don’t make a fuss, darling,’ Judith says, alarm flickering in her eyes. ‘Pip has always been a bit trying.’
‘She’s your best friend!’ Robert says.
‘Oh, we really don’t see each other that much any more.’ She looks wistful again, just for a second. ‘I’m quite happy. Really, darling.’
‘Let me talk to him,’ Robert tries again.
Judith’s hand snakes out and grabs him quickly, startling us both. ‘You mustn’t, Robert. Promise me you won’t?’
A chill runs down my spine. She looks genuinely frightened.
‘Okay, Mummy,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t. I promise.’
The look is gone in an instant, and the smiling ethereal Judith is back. ‘Wonderful, now why don’t you two lovebirds run off and enjoy the party. Your father will want you out there.’
‘Okay, Mummy,’ Robert says.
I smile at Judith, want her to be happy on her birthday. ‘I’ll meet you back outs
ide,’ I say to Robert. ‘I just need to powder my nose.’
‘Miss you already,’ he says.
On the way back down from the loo I get lost. The stairs on the left go down to the drawing room and the orangery in the left wing, don’t they? Or is it the stairs on the right? It’s mad to have more than one staircase. I keep wanting to pinch myself. I can’t believe this is real. I lift my fingers to my nose and smell the expensive almond-scented hand cream Judith keeps in this bathroom. Through the window I can see the party in the garden. At least I’m on the right side of the house.
Downstairs there are more closed white doors, and I feel like Alice in Wonderland, unsure of where to go. Voices drift through one. David and Judith. This must be the kitchen entrance, from the other side. I’ll fess up. Tell them I got lost.
The handle is cool against my palm. I’m smiling in a bid to laugh off my mistake.
The second I open the door I feel it.
David has hold of Judith’s hand. But her wrist is at the wrong angle. Her face is contorted.
They look up. Jump away from each other.
‘Jennifer, darling, where did you come from?’ Judith’s fingers flick up and over her hair, like she’s performing a magic trick and is about to pull a card from behind her ear. She’s coming toward me, arms open, a swoosh of petticoats and bangles.
‘I . . .’ I gesture behind me to signal I’m lost. Did I imagine that?
David joins her, his arm looped over her shoulder. Kissing the top of her head. Judith smiles up at him, adoration in her eyes.
‘Can you fetch Jennifer a drink, my darling?’
‘Of course, my love.’ David kisses Judith’s forehead again. She blushes like they are just courting. Dating is too modern. Courting implies gentlemanly behaviour. Manners. Flowers and dancing. I made a mistake. I saw something that wasn’t there.
‘Let’s go find one of those waitresses with the Bellinis.’ David places his hand on the small of my back.
‘Thank you,’ I smile.
As the heavy wooden door swings shut behind us I see Judith massaging her wrist.
Now
At the time I’d thought I was mistaken, seeing David hurting Judith. As if I’d brought elements of my own dysfunctional childhood, and projected it onto Robert’s home life. But what if I wasn’t? I know David is hardworking and excessively proud when it comes to the company and the family name. And he holds those around him to the same high standards. He’s created the perfect brand, and he’s never tolerated anything that doesn’t fit with that vision. Pip had to go, despite being Judith’s oldest friend. Was that a one-off or was David violent toward Judith regularly? Someone’s framed me. And it was planned, because whoever put that stuff on my computer wore gloves. And they used my jumper to mop up the blood to ram the implication home. David is smart enough, but is he really capable of it? Of hurting his own granddaughter?
‘You bored yet?’ Kelly’s head appears from above.
I jump, bunching the papers together. I can’t let her see them. It’s all there, the horrible things I’ve been accused of. The words flash up at me like burning coals. Obscene. Children. Murder. Blood. Forensics. I shove them under my pillow.
I try to sound carefree. ‘Yeah, had some stuff to figure out.’ Like whether my future father-in-law framed me for murder. That’s ridiculous. But is it? A month ago I would have said it was ridiculous that I would ever be locked up for Emily’s murder. For child porn. And David had access to my computer. Once, I came home and found him alone in our house. He’d let himself in, and he was there, bold as brass, using my laptop in the kitchen. Said he had to do some work while he waited for Robert. What if that was a lie? If he was covering up what he was really doing? But David wouldn’t hurt Emily, surely. He loved her. Didn’t he? I think of Judith rubbing her wrist. David might have had a funny way of showing love.
‘Earth to Jenna!’ Kelly said. ‘Did you hear any of that?’
I look up as she lowers herself down. ‘Sorry, no – I’m feeling a bit tired actually.’
‘You all right?’ Kelly drops onto her haunches to look at me with concern.
I feel the paper burn hot and angry behind me.
‘You not gonna puke again, are you?’ She looks worried.
‘No.’ The nausea, at least, has eased off this last week. I hadn’t had it earlier in my pregnancy, otherwise I might have cottoned on sooner. It had obviously been triggered by the van ride, or the stress of that first day. Whatever the reason it had waned, it was a relief.
For a second I think about telling Kelly about the baby. About the list of evidence from Mr Peterson, about my doubts about David. But the look on her face when Kev ran his pudgy hand over her stomach makes me stop. It’s too risky. No one can know. Thank god I have stopped being sick: I’m already panicking about what to do when my bump starts to show. I don’t think I could hide my pregnancy from my roommate if I was hurling every morning.
‘Good magazine?’ I say, changing the subject.
Kelly beams. ‘Oh yeah. You would not believe what Cheryl Cole’s been up to.’
Kelly talks on and off about celebrities all afternoon. Your typical teen girl. Except she’s locked in here. I nod and make polite noises, all the time thinking about David. Spinning backwards and forwards between certainty and doubt. He did have opportunity. But he couldn’t really hurt Emily, could he? Unless he lost his temper. Unless things got out of hand.
‘I really want a contour kit, you know,’ Kelly says happily as we head out for dinner. ‘Like that photo I showed you of Kim Kardashian’s one. But they’re not on the canteen. So Abi and I are gonna do what we can with what we got.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, scanning the line of women queuing at the kitchen trolley for Gould. Still no sign. Maybe she’s not coming on the main wing.
I’m so busy surreptitiously checking the chatting and laughing women approaching to join the back of the queue for Gould, I don’t realise Kelly has stopped talking. She has a pensive look on her face. And is watching Vina, who is balancing her plastic tray of what looks like brown curry and rice in one hand, and a pack of loose-leaf papers in the other, on the way back to her cell.
‘You okay?’ I say.
‘Mind if I join yous.’ Abi arrives to the side of us. Her red hair in a topknot today, her green prison trousers low on her hips to reveal her abs.
I glance at the small woman behind us, who has the wide-eyed petrified look of a new arrival.
‘She don’t mind,’ Abi says, waving her hand dismissively and turning me back to face her.
I try to give the lady behind a reassuring smile.
Kelly stops staring after Vina, and looks at me. ‘What are you writing?’
Her question startles me. Did she see my notes after all? I fight the panic rising in me. The cacophonous sounds of the hundreds of women around us fill my ears. Not here. Not now. ‘I . . . err . . .’
‘Not another book?’ Kelly says.
‘What?’
‘You writing one too?’ Abi slaps her hand against my shoulder, grinning.
‘Look, bloody Vina’s got a load of paper – I bet she’s doing one,’ Kelly points, looking miserable.
I don’t understand what’s going on. ‘Not a book,’ I manage. ‘Notes. ’Bout my case.’
Abi’s face is still alight. ‘Want to see mine?’
‘Err, sure,’ I say.
Kelly folds her arms and pouts.
Abi sprints off to her cell, her bun bouncing.
‘Wish I hadn’t brought it up,’ Kelly says.
Abi returns clutching a bundle of what look like clear plastic folders. ‘Here.’ She passes them to me.
I see that each page is full of neat bubble-shaped black handwriting, little hearts above the ‘i’s. Abi has encircled each paragraph in a different colour of pencil and shaded it in, then added intricate borders round each one. Tendrils of flowering plants, ribbons, scrolls of paper, bouncing balls, and bubbles border each page
, carefully coloured by hand. This is hours of work. And they’re not in plastic files, but each page, the number written and decorated at the top, has been laminated.
‘Wow!’ I say.
Kelly seems to be fighting with her grumpiness and her clear impressed pride. ‘Look at this one.’ She turns to one page whose coloured border is made up of hand-drawn monkeys dangling, topsy-turvy, hand-to-tail from top to bottom.
The two women in front of us have turned around to look as well.
‘That’s really good,’ says the taller one.
I see Kelly’s smile falter.
‘Wish I could draw like that,’ says the one with a tight-gelled ponytail.
‘Did you do all this?’ I ask Abi. My handwriting is barely legible.
She nods and beams. ‘It’s my book. Have you read The Secret?’
I have a dim memory of a self-help book. ‘No, but I think I’ve heard of it,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s all about visualising what you want. The law of attraction.’ Abi has become incredibly animated.
I scan some of the words on the laminated pages: ask, believe, receive. But Abi is fast turning pages, back to the front, where the title reads: ‘About Me’.
‘This bit is like my introduction. My story. I was abused for years by my dad, all kinds of different abuse, the whole lot.’ She turns the pages over and over, and I realise all the drawings that border this section are monochrome. ‘I won’t go into it, won’t get emotional.’ Her voice gives slightly. Kerry puts an arm round her.
The words slap against me.
‘Then I was in care and that,’ she says, turning the page. ‘That bit’s about my mum. She’s a user.’ She flips more pages over and we’re back in the brightly coloured section. ‘And like, I tell other people’s stories,’ she says.
‘There’s one about that boy never believing he would get to go on holiday, like travel, and that he wasn’t worth it – but how he kept hoping, clutching this little stone that his mum gave him. Then he’s holding it one day and his brother calls and says he’s getting married to a Spanish woman and he’s taking him to the wedding in Spain,’ Kelly says excitedly, all her earlier antagonism apparently forgotten.
On My Life Page 11
