(2011) Only the Innocent

by Rachel Abbott

  ‘Yes, but not through my own efforts. A chief inspector doesn’t do badly, but I was left a lot of money by my brother - in his will,’ he said with difficulty.

  Laura seemed genuinely distressed by this news.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I don’t see much of my brother but I would be devastated if anything happened to him. How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking.’

  Tom paused. Even after all these months he still found it difficult to talk about.

  ‘He was smart, my brother, but not in any traditional way. He had no interest in going to university and from the age of about fourteen he was always fiddling with electronics in his bedroom. I was the sensible and studious one. His first computer was a little thing called a ZX Spectrum - which I’m sure you’ve never heard of - but despite its limitations he could make that computer do the most amazing things. By the time he was eighteen, he was being paid to write programmes for all sorts of people, and by the age of twenty-five he had made his first million. He built up a multi-million pound Internet security business, and sold it a few months before he died.’

  Tom paused and looked at Laura, to see if this was all too much. But she was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on clasped hands, and she appeared to be truly interested.

  ‘He went on an atypical spending spree, and amongst other things indulged himself in the fastest speedboat he could buy. And that was it. There was an accident, a real freak according to the boat manufacturers, and he died. His body was never recovered.’

  He spoke in a matter of fact voice, trying to disguise his emotion but he guessed that Laura wouldn’t be fooled. He gave himself a moment, and Laura kept a respectful silence.

  ‘So now that I’m loaded, Kate wants to come back. If I don’t agree, she’s threatening to take Lucy back to Manchester. I only moved here to be close to them, and now I’m being held to ransom again. So there’s the rub. Do I give in for Lucy’s sake?’ Tom said. He looked at Laura. ‘You seem happy to make the ultimate sacrifice for a child that isn’t even your own - so surely I should be able to live with Kate for Lucy’s sake?’

  Tom watched Laura carefully to gauge her reaction. She paused for a moment before speaking.

  ‘You know, Tom, I’m really the last person to give advice on relationships. But I do remember growing up as a child in a household where I loved both parents. The problem was, the parents didn’t really love each other. Oh, they tried. And they certainly weren’t nasty to each other, although there were a few cracking arguments. But the love just wasn’t there. Will and I had a stable life, but I think that I would sum it up as a house that was devoid of joy. I think children need that joy in their lives. If they exist in a world where they are forever watching their parents tiptoeing around each other - even if they’re not arguing - it gives them a false set of values. In retrospect, I would rather have been with one parent who was genuinely happy than with two who had so many axes to grind you could almost hear them being sharpened.’

  Tom thought that this was very perceptive. Having been brought up in a happy working class home with two parents who worked hard but made each other laugh more often than they made each other cry, this had been the sort of relationship that he craved.

  But this conversation had gone on long enough. He didn’t have time to dwell on his own issues. Bloody Kate. He thought the days of her intruding in his thoughts had long gone. A fat lot of detecting he’d done in the last five minutes. He pulled himself together.

  ‘I’m sorry - we’re not here to talk about me. I apologise, Laura. I really shouldn’t have let my personal problems intrude.’

  *

  Laura was sorry that the moment had gone. Listening to Tom had reminded her that other people had problems too, although perhaps not of the same magnitude. She had felt a brief pang of envy when he first started to talk about his ex-wife, imagining how it would be to be married to this slightly gruff but undoubtedly sensitive man. But now he was back to being a policeman and she needed to focus.

  ‘There are a number of things that I need to talk to you about, Laura, but after the news of the will I’m not sure if you’re up to it. How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine. Ask away.’ Laura knew that she needed to give herself a moment to stop being a sympathetic friend, and return to the role of the bereaved wife. ‘I’m just going to open a bottle of wine, which I think I deserve - presuming of course that his lordship has decreed that I’m still allowed to drink wine. Would you like some?’

  ‘I shouldn’t, but I don’t think a small glass would hurt. It sounds like a great idea. Thanks.’

  Laura left Tom leafing through his notebook. The questions were inevitable, and she was sure Tom didn’t understand her indifference to Hugo’s will. How could she explain that she had known that he wouldn’t have been kind to her without making herself seem even more feeble in Tom’s eyes.

  She returned to the drawing room with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, and poured the drinks, leaving Tom to his notebook. She handed him a glass, and proposed a brief if somewhat ironic toast to Hugo. She didn’t miss the fact that Tom barely took a sip and felt a twinge of guilt.

  ‘Sorry, Tom. I forgot that you’re on duty. That was thoughtless of me.’

  Tom gave her a good-natured smile.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I could hardly let you drink alone, could I?’

  By silent but mutual consent they sat down again, and Laura braced herself for the questions, reminding herself that, considerate as he was, Tom Douglas was still a policeman.

  ‘What can you tell me about Hugo’s family, Laura? We know his mother died in the year before you were married, but what do you know about them as a family?’

  What a strange question, Laura thought. What bearing can Tom believe this has on Hugo’s murder? She answered as simply as possible.

  ‘Not a lot, really. This house is full of portraits of long forgotten ancestors, but I never knew much about his parents. He was very close to his mother. That I do know, but he would never show me any pictures of her. She died of cancer shortly before I met him, and I think it was quite tough just before the end. She’d been bed-ridden for a good few years. It seems she took to her bed when Hugo’s father died, and rarely got out of it from then on. Annabel was her nurse for a while, but she said there was actually nothing really wrong with her, and if she’d been born in a different class she’d have just got up and got on with it. I don’t know if that’s just Annabel speak. Eventually she did become genuinely ill, and I think she really suffered with the chemotherapy.’

  ‘You say his father died. Do you know what happened to him?’

  Hugo had only mentioned this to her briefly before they were married, and with a note of such disgust in his voice that she should have realised then that empathy wasn’t his strong suit. But she had put it down to distress at the facts - as always excusing Hugo’s less benign characteristics.

  ‘He committed suicide. Hanged himself in the woods. Hugo blames his sister Beatrice, because apparently she ran away when she was just fifteen, and his father was devastated. So a few months later he took himself off into the woods with a rope.’

  ‘And Beatrice? We haven’t been able to find any trace of her, but do you know if she ever showed up again?’

  ‘Hugo only talked about this once. He said he wanted the subject closed. Beatrice was never heard of from that day to this. It’s so long ago now that I suspect nobody will ever find her, unless she wants to be found, of course.’

  Tom appeared to be reading his notes, but Laura could see that he wasn’t. He was staring at the page, and she knew that he was trying to find the right words for the next question. She felt a cold trickle down her back.

  ‘I do need to move on to some more personal aspects of your life, Laura. It may not seem relevant to you, but I’d like to understand a little more about your illnesses. I hope that won’t be too painful for you.’

  As this was cle
arly not a direct question, Laura wasn’t sure how to respond. But Tom hadn’t finished, and his next words nearly took her breath away.

  ‘Becky also told me that she overheard some of your conversation this morning. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she got the impression that you’re not sorry that Hugo is dead. She also heard mention of Rohypnol. These might be sensitive areas, but we do need to discuss them.’

  Laura composed her face into a stony mask, and told herself to calm down. Her salvation came from an unexpected source as Tom’s mobile rang again.

  She heard him curse under his breath, but having checked the caller ID, he apologised to Laura and answered. Laura could only hear one side of the conversation, but Tom suddenly seemed much more animated.

  ‘Thanks Ajay, that’s really interesting. I’ll talk to you later. Keep me updated.’ He clicked his phone shut, and turned to Laura, his eyes glinting with excitement.

  ‘Sorry about that, Laura. I’d like to come back to those topics later if I may.’

  He smiled as if he were going to give her some good news.

  ‘We’ve had a result. We found a red hair at Egerton Crescent. Human hair, but from a wig. One of the wigmakers told us that Hugo’s mother used to be his client in the last years of her life, when she lost her hair as a result of the chemotherapy. He came here several times to measure her for new wigs, and he said he’d made five for her altogether.’

  Tom paused, but Laura knew exactly what he was going to say, and her body tensed in preparation.

  ‘He also said that every one of them was made of human red hair.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Telling Tom that she had a pretty good idea where the wig box might be, Laura escaped to the attics. She needed some breathing space; time to slow her racing heart.

  And she had to think. Not only about the wigs, but also how to answer his questions about her mental health - not to mention the Rohypnol. How had they been so careless? She had known her depression would come up, and she was prepared for that. But Becky had apparently heard way too much. Tom already knew that Hugo was far from perfect now that he’d heard the terms of the will. But the real Hugo could never be revealed. Not ever.

  A shout came from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Laura? Are you up there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretending to look for something for the police.’

  Imogen’s face appeared in the stairwell, followed by her body. Laura knew that she’d been working since lunchtime, but was glad of her support now.

  ‘How did the meeting with the lawyers go? Rich lady, are you now?’

  Laura scoffed.

  ‘Don’t be silly. This is Hugo we’re talking about. I’ll explain it all later, but I’ve got other things to worry about now.’

  ‘What on earth are you hunting for up here anyway?’

  ‘Wigs. Well, I’m not hunting. I know where they are. But I’m pretending to hunt.’

  ‘What? Jesus, I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone. What the hell has happened? What have you said?’

  Sometimes, Laura mused, Imogen treated her as if she didn’t have a single brain cell. She explained quickly everything that Tom had told her about the wigs. Then she pointed at a large round box on the floor.

  ‘Well, there’s the wig box.’

  She stared at it, but had no desire to touch it. She knew it would be like Pandora’s box - the minute she opened it the evil and all the associated memories would come flooding out to engulf her - but she had no choice. Taking a shuddering breath, she bent down and removed the lid and the contents. She rummaged around, separating the wigs several times. This wasn’t right. The hair was all matted together. Perhaps she was wrong. She had to be wrong. She pulled them apart again, holding down the panic until she was certain. She looked up at Imogen.

  ‘Shit, Imo. There are only three.’

  Laura sat down on an old trunk. Her mind was blank. She had no explanation. She had no answer for the police, either. Imogen pushed her way onto the other end, and put her arm round Laura’s shoulders.

  ‘What are you worried about? Look at it rationally. Don’t let something this trivial throw you off balance. Absolutely anybody could have taken a wig from here at any time. Mrs Bennett could have taken one to sell at a car boot sale, for all you know. And also, if the old witch kept having wigs made you can only assume that some fell into disrepair or something, and were binned. Two missing wigs doesn’t have to mean anything.’

  ‘No, maybe not. But will the police think that?’

  She genuinely had no idea why there were only three, and that fact alone left her shaken.

  They sat in silence as Laura tried to pull herself together. After a few moments, she pushed herself decisively from the trunk.

  ‘Okay, here’s what I’m going to say, and let’s hope he believes me. When Alexa was a little girl we use to play at dressing up and we used a wig. She’s too young to remember, of course. I’ll say I’ve no idea what happened to it. And now I come to think about it, I seem to remember Hugo saying his mother was buried in one of her wigs. That accounts for both of them, and the other three are all here. Does that sound reasonable, do you think?’ She looked at Imogen hopefully.

  ‘Brilliant. Hopefully that will take the wind out of the chief inspector’s rather delicious sails, although quite why you think you have to justify it, I really don’t know.’ Imogen jumped up. But Laura was only too aware that making up a story for the police didn’t actually remove the fundamental problem. There should have been more than three wigs, and it didn’t make any sense at all.

  She thought she had better tell her friend the rest of the bad news.

  ‘Hang on, Imo. Before you go charging off downstairs, there’s another problem. Tom wants me to explain my illness to him - what happened and why I was locked away for so long. What do you think I should say?’

  Imogen looked up at Laura and shrugged.

  ‘You need to give him the evidence that they had. You don’t need to give him the cause.’

  ‘But he’s not daft is he? He’s going to want to know what had happened to me that had sent me like that.’ Laura thought she had been prepared for this, but she hadn’t been prepared for Tom Douglas, and his ability to weasel his way under her skin.

  ‘Perhaps you should tell him the truth.’

  Laura raised her hands to grasp both sides of her head in frustration at what had to be the most stupid statement she had ever heard from Imogen.

  ‘What? Are you completely mad? What do you expect me to say - well, you see Tom, my husband had slipped me a roofie, but I was smart enough not to drink my wine that night. So I caught him playing his sickening games, spewed out my disgust and abhorrence for what he was doing - and my punishment was incarceration for two years in a home for the mentally disturbed.’

  ‘Laura, what on earth are you talking about. Roofies! I thought we’d been through all that.’

  ‘I realised a long time ago that he had drugged you, Imogen. But in spite of that, it took me a long time to recognise that he was doing the same to me.’ Laura was puzzled. ‘Haven’t you read the letters?’

  Imogen bowed her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been taking it slowly. I know you want me to read them, honey, but it feels voyeuristic, somehow.’

  ‘I know I’m asking a lot. I didn’t want you to read them at first, and now I need you to read them. Go Imogen. Go and read. God knows if I can’t tell you everything face to face, I certainly can’t tell Tom. Just read the next one. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Laura sat down again and put her head in her hands. She suddenly realised that she’d forgotten to tell Imogen that the police knew about their conversation that morning, but its importance diminished as her memories caught up with her.

  ***

  MARCH 2004

  Dear Imogen

  I’m going to start writing to you again, even though I can’t see you or speak to you. It allows me to pretend that life is normal. I
stopped writing years ago, because I honestly didn’t have anything to say. Every day was the same. Every evening was the same. Only Alexa brought me any joy. I love that child so much, but I don’t know what I can do to help her. Her mother’s no use, of course. But I’m rambling again. Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps they’re right.

  I’m in a mental home, you see. Oh, they wrap it up with nice words - a care home for the mentally deranged (they don’t really say that, of course). Hugo sent me here. It’s the only way he can be sure to cover everything up. Anything I say now will just be considered part of my illness. Bastard.

  I don’t know if I can write about how I came to be here. I’m going to try - but I’ve already been here for months, and I still can’t come to terms with it. That’s why I’m writing to you again. Maybe it will help.

  Of course I need to start at the beginning and see how far I get before I can’t stomach writing the rest. I’m sure that point will come. I’m not going to dwell on the years between my last letter and this. Suffice it to say that it was much of the same. On the surface, all was fine; underneath, it was anything but. Never an angry word - because by then I always did as I was told.

  Hugo’s made a mistake, though. He thinks that sending me here will make me even more obedient. But he’s wrong.

  I’m in here because of what I discovered, and it all began with a glass of wine. One that I didn’t drink. I’d been waking up feeling heavy eyed, and not at all refreshed. I thought maybe it was too much wine, but when Hugo poured me my customary large glass, I couldn’t refuse it. He would take it as a personal insult to his choice, and any chance of harmony during dinner would be shattered. He’d inevitably find some subtle way of punishing me for the perceived slight. So instead, I barely sipped it during the first course. As I stood up to take the plates into the kitchen, he noticed.

  ‘You haven’t been drinking your wine, Laura. Is there a problem? Is my choice unacceptable to you?’