The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Like Amy being stung in Zante by the jellyfish and you peeing on it to make it better. Like her roller-blading down the subways at Elephant and Castle. She even knew I take my coffee black and used to eat grapefruit for breakfast. It was uncanny. But I found out how she knew. It was Dana.’

  ‘Dana?’

  I like his silence as I explain everything. In the past that silence meant he was tapping on his computer or checking emails as my voice bled into the phone cradled on his shoulder. Now, though, he’s so close to the phone I can hear him breathing, the tick at the back of his throat as he goes to say something but decides instead to listen, my voice answering his questions before they’ve left his mouth.

  When I finish, there’s a pause, a muffled sob.

  ‘God . . . Beth . . . I don’t . . . after all this time.’ His tears echo mine. ‘Poor Amy. How did we miss all that . . . right under our noses?’ He sniffs loudly and his tone changes. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about these two freaks before now?’

  ‘Oh, and you’d have listened, would you? I don’t think so. It’s just as well I took them seriously or we wouldn’t be where we are now.’

  His whimpers do not move me.

  ‘We . . . let Amy down, Beth.’

  ‘We let them both down.’

  ‘Dana’s parents did too.’ He sounds defensive. ‘How could they not have known what was going on?’

  ‘We didn’t.’ I dab at my face with the sleeve of the dressing gown.

  ‘We didn’t have a child molester in the house!’

  I’m so tense I can’t breathe.

  ‘Didn’t we?’

  There’s a pause; the line crackles.

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You think I was involved in this?’

  I go to speak but no words come out. I swallow and try again.

  ‘I don’t know about anything any more, Brian.’

  I can almost see him rocking back on his heels, blank with disbelief.

  ‘Jesus!’ he says eventually. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t believe you’d even think that.’

  ‘I never would have done – if you hadn’t pulled the reward. That makes it look like you didn’t want Amy found. That you knew there was no point looking.’

  ‘But I put the cash up in the first place!’

  ‘Put up a smokescreen more like.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ He pauses. ‘Is this . . . is this what you’ve told the police? That I offered the reward to cover my tracks?’

  ‘They’ll draw their own conclusions.’

  ‘I swear, Beth . . . I had nothing to do with this . . . You’ve got to believe me.’

  I do – even if I can’t forgive him about withdrawing the reward.

  ‘I’m coming up there, Beth,’ he says. ‘Right away. I’ll get the next flight.’

  ‘There’s nothing either of us can do. Except wait. You’re not very good at that.’

  ‘I’ll be better at it if I’m with you.’

  He goes to hang up.

  ‘Beth? Tell the police I’m on my way, won’t you? I don’t want them thinking I’ve done a runner.’

  I’m glad he’s coming. I need someone to cling to even if it is only Brian. Already I’m aching to be in his arms. I pick up my phone and call Jill.

  ‘Beth! Oh, I’m so glad you called,’ she says. ‘I would have rung you but . . . well, I’m a silly old woman who should be beyond having stroppy sulks by now. And I always was stubborn. You know that better than most.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘I was only trying to protect you. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know. But you were wrong.’

  ‘To want to protect you?’

  ‘About Libby and Esme. Because of them, I know now what happened to Amy.’

  The line is so quiet as I tell Jill the whole story that I have to keep asking if she’s still there. Each time she gives a breathy ‘yes’ and tells me to go on.

  ‘Oh Beth . . . this is so . . . too, too awful. I’m so sorry,’ she says when I finish. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel.’

  ‘I’m better for knowing the truth, however much it rips me up.’ I put my hand over my heart and hold it there.

  ‘Really? I’m not sure I would be.’

  ‘You haven’t lived in limbo for the last ten years.’

  ‘No, of course.’ She sniffs. ‘Dan Bishop. Who’d have thought it?’

  Dan Bishop. I have his name now. And I can see where Dana got hers. She was branded as his from birth.

  ‘Of course!’ I say. ‘You knew him.’

  ‘Clearly I didn’t. None of us did . . . not really.’

  ‘But you saw him every day at the school!’

  ‘He was inside most of the time,’ she says. ‘I was at the crossing – and then only for a couple of hours a day.’

  ‘You never found him creepy?’ I squirm on the bed. ‘Did he ever say anything . . . about the kids?’

  Jill pauses.

  ‘I’m not sure we ever spoke to each other,’ she says vaguely, ‘apart from saying good morning or something inane . . . We were both just there . . . doing our jobs. Oh God, it makes you wonder who else was involved.’

  ‘Like the vicar, perhaps? See. I wasn’t so far from the truth, was I? That picture Ian sent me was a clue. It might have been a reference to Bishop, but it could easily have been pointing at the vicar too.’

  I hear Jill suck in her breath.

  ‘Is that what the police think as well?’ she says quickly.

  ‘They’ll have to look into it.’ I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder and tighten the belt of the dressing gown.

  ‘No . . . I just can’t believe that . . . that a vicar would be part of this.’

  ‘Why not? Because he’s a man of God?’ I say indignantly. ‘Look at what went on in the Catholic church for all those years.’

  ‘The vicar isn’t Catholic.’

  ‘Oh, and Anglicans wouldn’t abuse kids, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s just that they don’t have . . . you know, the same . . . reputation.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re innocent. Just better at not being caught.’ My upper lip lifts in contempt. I wriggle further down the bed, fighting back tears.

  ‘There was one teacher,’ Jill says, ‘I can’t remember his name – Sanders? Anderson? He was a bit . . . odd. Oily. You know, the type you’d expect. If you’d told me it was him, it wouldn’t have been such a surprise.’

  ‘Dana didn’t identify any of the others,’ I say, wiping my eyes, ‘but the police will get the names from Dan Bishop.’

  ‘So they haven’t found him yet?’

  ‘It can’t be long before they do. They’re just going over things with Libby first. They’ll probably want to talk to you too.’

  ‘Me?’ She sounds flustered. ‘But . . . I can’t tell them any more than I’ve just told you.’

  ‘Even so. I’ll give them your name,’ I say. I sit up slowly. ‘Better still, why don’t you come up here? I need you.’

  ‘Oh Beth, I only wish I could. But I’m going to look after my sister in Essex. She’s just come out of hospital after a fall.’

  ‘Isn’t there someone else who can take over?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Jill says. ‘She’s on her own, you see, since her husband died. I’m sorry. I’m literally on my way out now. I thought your call was the cab company saying the driver was outside.’

  ‘How long are you going for?’

  ‘Not sure yet. I’ll have to see how we go.’ I can picture Jill at the other end of the phone, hand on her forehead, like she does when trying to make arrangements with reluctant jumble-sale volunteers. ‘But if I can get away early,’ she says, ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘Maybe the police here can call you?’

  ‘Of cour
se – but reception’s not great in my sister’s neck of the woods. It’s a bit of a backwater, but . . . they can give it a go.’

  ‘What’s the landline number there?’ I look around the room for a pen.

  ‘My sister doesn’t have one,’ Jill says. ‘She’s quite an odd fish. Thinks mod cons are just that – a con. She doesn’t even have central heating. Or a TV! Gets by with the radio. So my mobile is the best bet.’

  There’s a rustling noise at the other end of the line.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jill says, ‘I’ve got to go, Beth. I can see my cab outside.’

  ‘One more thing, Jill.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please don’t mention this to anyone. Not even your sister.’

  ‘Of course not. I won’t breathe a word.’

  It’s as if the last ten years haven’t happened. Brian sits beside me on a blue plastic chair in a cramped, stuffy room with bars on the window and a view of the squad cars outside. Every so often car doors slam, sirens wail, tyres screech. The urgency is always elsewhere.

  Meanwhile, we wait. Minutes are dragged around by the hands of the clock above the door.

  I remember how we held one another when Amy first went missing. How we whispered encouragement through the tears and kisses, stroked each other’s hands, taking it in turns to pretend to be strong.

  I remember how the words became harder to find, until a suffocating silence was easier. That too became unbearable. I remember the stench of cadged cigarettes, the darkening shadow of stubble around Brian’s jaw, the heavy eyelids, the pulse of the dots in his digital watch.

  I remember the way the door opening could make my heart stop still, make my head turn to see who was there and whether I could read their expression. I remember that a single shake of the head suddenly had different meanings.

  No, there is no news, but that still gives us reason to hope.

  We’ve found her. No. I’m sorry. I promise we’ll get whoever did this.

  No. No news, no body, no leads. No more time. No more detectives. No more inquiries, posters or appeals. No hope. No future. No end.

  The mushroom-coloured coffee in the plastic cups is lukewarm and tastes of yesterday, but that doesn’t stop Brian drinking it. He runs his hands through his hair. It’s thinner than it was back then, greyer. I thought I saw it grow lighter with every minute he spent listening to Dana’s testimony. He ended up on the bed in my hotel room, curled in a ball, hugging the computer to him and sobbing into the duvet.

  Every word Dana spoke ripped him apart, but he insisted on listening to the recording several times over, because, he said, if he hadn’t been too wrapped up in himself ten years ago, Dana and Amy might still be alive.

  He takes his cup from the table, swirls the coffee around and tips it into his mouth.

  ‘I’ll get another one,’ he says. ‘You want anything?’

  I shake my head. He’s just got to his feet when the door opens.

  Harding’s expression is too blank to read. Earnshaw’s is almost bored and detached. They sit down at the table. Harding takes his jacket off and hangs it on the back of his chair. Earnshaw places his elbows on the table and puts his hands together in front of his face, as if in prayer.

  ‘Well?’ Brian’s voice is tight. ‘You’ve found Bishop?’

  Harding nods.

  ‘Alive?’ I say.

  Harding nods again.

  ‘Bishop has been arrested.’

  The hunt is over. I’ve got Amy’s killer. Now I can lay her to rest.

  I stare at Harding, senseless not with the news he has delivered, but with my reaction to it. I have dreamt of this moment for the last ten years. An end to the wait, if not the agony. The satisfying smack of justice. The chance to move on.

  But now it is here, I feel nothing. Just empty. And the look on Harding’s face makes me anxious.

  ‘Has he confessed?’ I say in a whisper.

  ‘To rape, yes,’ Earnshaw says. ‘Not to Amy’s murder.’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t, would he?’ I say impatiently.

  Earnshaw coughs.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ he says.

  ‘You can’t possibly think he’s innocent?’ I screw my face up, baffled and angry that they’re not pressing Bishop harder.

  ‘He’s guilty of rape – at the very least. But murder?’ Harding says, shoulders hunched. ‘That’s not so cut and dried.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Bishop has been quite forthcoming, Mrs Archer,’ Harding says. ‘Remarkably so, seeing as the only testimony against him is from someone who’s dead. Even perverts can have a conscience, it seems.’ He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘Bishop’s an old, not particularly well man, chewed up by guilt. He almost seems pleased that we’ve caught up with him and given him the chance to make peace with himself. I think if he’d killed Amy he would have told us.’

  ‘But what about Dana’s evidence?’ I say. ‘Bishop told her he did it. You’ve got it right in front of you.’ I look around at them all, blank and mystified.

  ‘Ah.’ Harding drops his head. ‘Actually, he didn’t.’

  He slides a printout of Dana’s A to Z across the table. The pages are covered in handwritten notes, underlinings and question marks. Harding runs his finger along a couple of sentences.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about this, okay? Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nor do you. Get it? Keep your trap shut and I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘But that’s not him saying he didn’t kill her!’ I shout.

  ‘No, but it’s not Dana telling us he owned up to it either,’ Harding says, pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘The reverse in fact.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ My hands curl and clench in frustration. ‘That’s just him telling her to keep quiet.’

  ‘That’s how we see it. Hopefully a jury will too,’ Earnshaw says. ‘But it’s vague enough to give his lawyers some wriggle room.’

  ‘So who does he say did kill Amy?’ Brian asks, taking my hand.

  ‘Simon Palmer,’ Earnshaw says.

  He looks at me as if it’s a name I should recognise, but I don’t.

  ‘He used to run the mobile library,’ Harding says. ‘Amy’s school was on his route.’

  I remember him doling out the books from his cramped little van. Small but wiry, dirty blond grey hair and glasses that fell so far forward on his nose he had to squint over them. He was the one who christened Amy the Girl Who Never Read Anything Else. We joked together about Amy always taking out the same book and I joined in when he tried to interest her in something else.

  I understand now that all Amy wanted was to get out of the van and away from Palmer; it was quicker to just renew the same book. And the story itself was a clue I’d missed too; the Man Didn’t Wash His Dishes had to live with his own dirt until the pile of dishes grew so large it trapped him for ever.

  I bury my head in my hands. How did I miss all of that? How could he have killed my little girl? Could that quiet and helpful man with the easy rapport with children really have done it? I shudder at the man behind the mask, the real man. The pervert. The killer. The man I joked with every fortnight when Amy renewed her book.

  I feel humiliated and foolish. Vengeful. I look up at Harding.

  ‘He must be put away for this,’ I say, tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘For ever. Promise me you won’t let him get off.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Harding says. ‘Once we’ve found him.’

  Brian stands up.

  ‘You haven’t got him?’ he shouts. ‘What the bloody hell are you waiting for? An invitation?’

  ‘We’re going full out on that, I can assure you,’ Harding says. ‘Bishop doesn’t know where he is. Hasn’t had any contact with him since the Bishops moved to Birmingham.’

  I sob with frustration. He can’t get away again.

  ‘Did Bishop tell you what happened to Amy?’ I say. I want to know for my own peace of mind, but there’ll be no real peace in the knowledge. Just a differ
ent kind of hell. Another shade of black.

  ‘He says he wasn’t there.’ Earnshaw gives a little shrug, as if there’s nothing he can do about Bishop’s explanation.

  ‘What about Amy’s body?’ I say, my voice barely a whisper. ‘Where is she? I want my little girl.’

  Earnshaw sighs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Archer,’ he says. ‘Bishop says he doesn’t know. How can I if I wasn’t even there? But we’ll track Palmer down and get it from him. I promise.’

  I imagine Palmer gloating like a dog over a buried bone, just enjoying knowing it’s there. His prize and his alone.

  ‘You have to find her,’ I say, my voice fading away into nothing. ‘You have to. I need to say goodbye.’

  ‘We’ll find your daughter, Mrs Archer,’ Harding says, crouching down and resting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘One way or the other. You can count on that.’

  Brian pushes the glass towards me. Melted ice cubes bob like spit. He sits down opposite me, taking quick sips of his iceless whisky, his second in fifteen minutes. The room smells of the smoke blown back in through the hotel window as he stuck his head out to evade the hotel’s detectors.

  He gave up years ago – we both did – but so far I haven’t succumbed. Not like I did when Amy first vanished. The stench lingers, as pervasive as despair, only despair can’t be washed out or masked with a dose of Comfort.

  The last Marlboro Gold pokes from the packet. I bite my lip and look away quickly. When Harding rings, asking us to go into the station, Brian takes the last cigarette from the packet. By the time we get back, I’ve got a packet of my own.

  Palmer still hasn’t been found. He’s still getting away with murder.

  Bishop is hiding behind his plea of guilty to rape and his policy of cooperation with the police.

  Libby, Esme and Ian have been allowed to walk free. Insufficient evidence, apparently. The police have failed me once more.

  Fuck off, detective, for believing Libby’s lies. For not trusting what you can see with your own eyes. It seems that having a file on her computer isn’t proof she knew it was there, tucked away in the bowels of a machine she didn’t know how to use.

  Can’t you see she was acting when asked to switch it on and log in? Befuddled, blinking and hapless? I bet she was. Ignorant of the password and a stranger to email, the web and the mysteries of voice files? Of course.