The Unheard

by Nicci French

  I shut it, pulled open another. Receipts. Bank statements. Everything orderly, methodical.

  Next drawer down. Passport. Paper driving licence. Membership cards to various art galleries and theatres.

  The bottom one. A few photos. I pulled them out. Stop now. I shuffled through them. One of me in a raincoat, smiling. What did I think I was doing?

  I laid the photos on the little table and turned to the cupboard beside the television. A few DVDs, a coil of chargers and connectors, a pile of instruction manuals.

  On the bookshelves just books. What did I expect? Technical ones about solar power and wind turbines; a few novels; some biographies; a couple of unexpected volumes of poetry. If Aidan hadn’t killed Skye and Peggy, I’d never be able to prove it. I couldn’t prove his innocence by not finding a clue to his guilt.

  A sound and I froze, my hand against my bumping, jolting heart.

  A car door banged shut.

  It was getting lighter. I didn’t know what time it was because my phone was still in the bedroom, on the table next to Aidan.

  In the kitchen cupboard were just kitchen things: pots and pans, plates and bowls, a hand-held whisk, a colander. Higher up, a cupboard with glass doors: glasses, tumblers, a nice earthenware jug. Drawers of cutlery, of tin foil and cling film and baking parchment. Shelves of flour and sugar and pasta and rice. Spices and herbs in alphabetical order. Honey, marmalade, jam. A bottle of whisky and another of gin. A bread bin in which I found the remains of a wholemeal loaf. I stared at the knives, gleaming sharp in the block.

  The most likely place to hide a watch – if there was a watch to hide – was in the bedroom, among the shirts and jerseys, in the pocket of a jacket or at the back of the wardrobe, under the bed. I imagined slithering along the floor like a snake with arms outstretched, or ferreting about among his clothes, while he watched me through half-closed eyes.

  I went into the little hall. It was nearly full light now. I tried to work out what time it was, but couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed since I’d crept from the bedroom. I didn’t even know if Aidan was a light or heavy sleeper: we’d barely spent a night together, because I had always insisted he leave. There were beads of sweat on my forehead as I put my hand on the doorknob.

  Then I saw the coats and jackets hanging from the hooks by the front door to the flat. I put my hands in each pocket. On the last hook was a small, soft leather duffle bag. I reached in and touched something soft, like a cloth, and then something cold and smooth. I took it out.

  A watch, with a worn strap, a large face and Roman numerals. Classy.

  I stared at it as it lay in the palm of my hand and the minute hand quivered forward. Eighteen minutes past six.

  Not a watch: the watch. The one I had last seen in the bag of Skye’s possessions, and then not seen at Peggy’s house, the day she had been killed.

  Dead sightless eyes, brave purple hair.

  The minute hand quivered forward again.

  Clutching the watch in the same hand that held the towel, I opened the bedroom door and slid into the room. I needed to push it deep into my backpack, retrieve my clothes and phone, then get out. I tripped over a pair of shoes, gathered up my trousers, crawled on all fours towards my backpack, towel unravelling as I went.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  I stopped dead, feeling the watch press against my collarbone where I clutched the towel.

  ‘Morning,’ I managed to say. I lifted my head: Aidan was half-sitting on the bed, regarding me with tender amusement.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The watch ticked against my skin.

  ‘What are you doing down there? Have you lost something?’

  ‘I was looking for my knickers. Ah, there they are.’

  I fumbled my clothes into a pile and pushed the watch inside it, held it against me like a baby.

  ‘I’ll just get dressed.’

  ‘Come back to bed. It’s so early.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I need to get back. Turn myself around before I get Poppy.’

  He swung out of bed and crouched beside me, put his arms around me. I breathed in his particular smell – fennel, I thought, or aniseed. He kissed my neck, his lips cool.

  ‘Coffee?’

  He stroked my hair, still tangled up in its unravelling braid, and I crouched there like a sweaty animal with nowhere to hide.

  ‘OK. I’ll put my clothes on then have a quick cup.’

  Clutching backpack, shoes and clothes, with the towel still around me, I backed out of the room and into the bathroom. I locked the door, put the watch at the bottom of my backpack, hurriedly pulled my clothes on, then was hit by the sudden realisation that I’d left the pile of photos on the living-room table.

  I got there at the same time as he came into the room, knotting his towelling robe around him.

  ‘I could make us breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I said and sat down on the table, feeling the slide of photos beneath me.

  He ran his fingers down my cheek. I bared my teeth in what was meant to be a smile.

  ‘Just coffee then,’ he said.

  ‘You know me. It takes me time to get going in the morning.’

  I was trying to remember how a normal person behaves, but it felt sketchy and transparent. I swept the photos into my backpack when his back was turned. I wrapped my hands around the cup and heard Aidan talking about a friend of his who was a family lawyer: would I like him to ask his advice, in confidence of course, about Jason’s threats?

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But wait a bit first to see what happens.’

  I need to be careful, I said to him. One step at a time. The stakes are so high. Perhaps it will all just blow over.

  He knows everything, I thought. I told him every last thing.

  And then, finally, I was at his door. He held my face in both hands and stared into my eyes and I tried to gaze at him, not to look away, but I thought I wouldn’t manage it. I wanted to scream and howl and strike out with all the strength in my body.

  He kissed me again. I let him kiss me. I kissed him back. Bile rose up in me, a physical recoil that it took all my will not to give in to. When I got home, I would scrub my teeth until my gums bled and shower until my skin was raw.

  I smiled at him and left.

  And when I was out of sight of his windows, I ran and ran.

  It had been in my house all the time. It had never been outside. It had been inside. It had been me: I had brought the danger home.

  Poppy, I thought as I ran, my breath tearing like strips of adhesive tape being ripped from my lungs. Poppy Poppy Poppy.

  FIFTY-SIX

  I was in a police interview room. Another police interview room. An officer had asked me if I wanted to make a statement, but I said I needed to talk to the detective in charge of the inquiry. I told them that it was about the murders of Skye Nolan and Peggy Nolan. I knew who had committed the murder and it was urgent and I would only talk to the detective.

  The young police sergeant looked confused and also irritated. He said that it was a Saturday, people were at home. I said it didn’t matter what day it was. I could see him thinking hard. If this was all rubbish, he would get into trouble. But what if it wasn’t?

  ‘You’ll need to wait a long while,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to reach someone. And they’ll have to come in.’

  I said that I could wait and so I found myself in another interview room where there was nothing to do and nothing to look at. I supposed that must be deliberate. Pictures on the wall would be a distraction. And there were nails and pieces of string that could be dangerous, maybe.

  While I waited, I took the photos I’d filched out of my bag and leafed through them. At first I didn’t see it, but then I did: a group photo of Aidan and his colleagues on some work outing, Aidan at the back. He was wearing the cap. I put the rest of the photos away and kept that one out on the table.

  Finally the door ope
ned. I’d hoped that it might be Kelly Jordan, but I wasn’t sure if she was formally connected with the inquiry – only connected with me. It wasn’t her. It was Ross Durrant. He was wearing trainers and blue trousers and a polo shirt with a blue and white wavy pattern. He looked like he might have come straight from the golf course. I expected him to be angry but he was entirely expressionless and simply sat down opposite me.

  ‘Go,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

  It didn’t take very long to explain. I told him about the things that had been found on Skye Nolan’s body that Peggy had shown me and how I’d seen them scattered on the floor when I’d found Peggy’s body. He interrupted to say I had already told him that. How I’d known that something was missing and then I realised it was the watch. He said I’d told him that as well. I described my feeling when I’d remembered that Aidan used to wear a watch but now did not. And then how I’d discovered the watch hidden in his bag, a trophy perhaps, or why would he have had the nerve to keep it. It was entirely distinctive. It would have led back to him. So he must have gone to see Peggy Nolan and killed her and taken the watch.

  While I was talking a uniformed officer came into the room and handed a cardboard file to Ross Durrant. He laid the file on the table in front of him and nodded at the officer who sat down to one side.

  When I had finished, there was a long silence.

  ‘Aidan Otley,’ said the female officer. ‘That’s your boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I trusted him.’

  I looked across at Durrant, but he seemed to be ignoring me. He had flicked open the slender file and was looking at the contents – apparently just a few sheets of paper. He tapped on them with a pen. He took out a piece of paper and looked at it with a frown and then turned to me once more.

  ‘I make that ten interactions with the police force,’ he said. ‘Eleven, including this one.’

  ‘What about what I’ve just told you?’

  He continued as if he hadn’t heard me.

  ‘You first made a report that involved no crime and no perpetrator, but there was a vague accusation made against your ex-partner. Secondly, you contacted Inspector Jordan about a crime that you said was the one you had reported on the previous occasion, even though it hadn’t yet been committed.’

  ‘I’ve explained that.’

  ‘Thirdly, Inspector Jordan did you the courtesy of coming to your home to inform you about the inquiry.’

  ‘And I told her about the doll that had gone missing and reappeared.’

  ‘Yes, there’s some mention of a doll,’ said Durrant in a steely tone. ‘Fourthly, your daughter was interviewed by a child protection officer. Fifthly…’ He paused and looked at the female officer. ‘Fifthly. Is that a word?’ She shrugged in response. ‘I met you for the first time and we actually diverted officers to interview a number of men that you mentioned. Nothing productive emerged from this. Six: Inspector Jordan once more did you the courtesy of informing you about the progress of the inquiry.’

  ‘It wasn’t just informing me of the progress of the inquiry,’ I said, feeling angry now. ‘You’d discovered it was murder, just as I said it was.’

  ‘She also told you that no connection with Skye Nolan had been found with any of the men we interviewed. Seven: you phoned Inspector Jordan about a supposed break-in. Nothing was stolen. It says here in Jordan’s report: “Ms Moreau said: ‘I know that your heart must sink every time you hear my voice.’ ” I’ll leave that there. It doesn’t require comment. Next, as an added bonus, you pitch up at the inquest and engage with the mother of the victim.’

  ‘What’s the point of all this?’

  ‘It’s a useful exercise. It helps clarify the mind. Eight: you phoned Inspector Jordan once more after seeing Peggy Nolan. And then, nine: you phone Inspector Jordan from the scene of Peggy Nolan’s murder. She tells you not to touch anything but, by your own admission, you interfere with the scene anyway. It also emerges that your child is at school and that you haven’t arranged for anyone to collect her.’ He looked up from the file. ‘I assume that someone is looking after your child now. Or have you left her in front of the TV with a packet of crisps and a fizzy drink?’

  ‘She’s being looked after,’ I said. I had a feeling of dread. What if he found out about me breaking into Jason’s computer? What if he found out about the legal threat?

  ‘And ten, which is in some ways the most significant, you phone Inspector Jordan, who you seem to be practically stalking by now, and who has not done her career any good by the way she has gone along with your paranoia, to confirm that Aidan Otley has an alibi for the day of Skye Nolan’s killing and she confirms that he does indeed have an alibi. He was at a conference in Birmingham. He checked in, he attended a seminar and he spent the night there.’

  He put the file down and closed it and looked across the table at me.

  ‘That was what confused me,’ I said. ‘So before coming here, I phoned a colleague of his. A man called Frederick Gordon. He went to the conference with Aidan. He went to the seminar. But he can’t remember seeing Aidan in the evening and he wasn’t at breakfast the next morning. He remembers Aidan telling him that he’d overslept.’

  ‘He’s still been proved to be at an event fifty miles away.’

  ‘He could have got back,’ I said. ‘Easily.’

  ‘So let me get this straight: you’ve accused your ex-partner, you’ve accused his housemate—’

  ‘I never accused anybody. All I did was to try to do what was right. I reported a crime. I was asked who Poppy might have interacted with and I answered. I didn’t want to cause trouble to people.’

  ‘You accused your ex-partner and now you’re accusing your current partner. Is that something worth thinking about?’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re saying all this,’ I said desperately. ‘Didn’t you hear what I’ve been saying? I found the thing that you’ve been looking for all along: the connection between Aidan and Skye Nolan.’

  Durrant tapped the tabletop several times with the pen and then laid it down.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The watch.’

  ‘Yes, the watch.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Whose watch is it? I mean originally.’

  ‘I told you. Aidan’s. That’s the whole point.’

  ‘So we go to Aidan’s house and find Aidan’s watch in Aidan’s drawer. What good does that do us?’

  ‘You don’t need to go there. I’ve got it. Look.’ I bent down and felt in my bag, feeling the slide of photos under my fingers, then finding the smooth round face of the watch. I pulled it out and held it towards him, expecting him to take it, but he drew back.

  ‘You took it?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to see it.’

  ‘You’ve committed an act of theft.’

  ‘But it’s evidence.’

  He rested his eyes on me; there was an almost-smile on his lips.

  ‘According to you.’

  ‘I told you. I saw it among the possessions that Skye had on her body. That was why he had to get it. That’s why he killed Peggy.’

  ‘Do you have any record of it? A photograph?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. But I’m absolutely certain. I saw it. But what about you? Don’t you have photographs of her body? Don’t you take photographs of the crime scene?’

  Now Ross Durrant looked slightly evasive.

  ‘As you know, it wasn’t considered a crime scene at first. It was treated for some days as a suicide. The possessions would have been collected at the hospital. There’ll be an inventory of some kind, but it’s just a list. There’s no photograph.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘I do know. There’s no photograph.’

  ‘But I saw what I saw. Don’t you believe me?’

  Durrant looked above my head as if he had seen something interesting behind me, but I knew that there was nothing interesting behind me. Only a blank wall.

 
‘I’ve got this as well,’ I said and slid the photo of Aidan and his work colleagues across the table.

  ‘I fail to see the relevance of this,’ he said, glancing at it.

  ‘He’s wearing the same cap that Skye Nolan is wearing in a photo her mother sent me. I can show you.’

  I started fumbling with my mobile, but he put up a hand.

  ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘This is unproductive meeting number eleven. You know what the rulebook says? It says I should charge you with wasting police time. That can be punished by a fine or up to six months in prison. But some people looking at you carrying out your little battle with your boyfriend and your ex-boyfriend, and getting involved in an inquiry and talking to witnesses and interfering with a murder scene, might think it’s not just wasting police time but perverting the course of justice, and then we’re talking some serious consequences. You can get anything up to life in prison for that.’

  I looked at the two officers. I had thought it was going to be all over and I was just starting to realise I’d made a terrible mistake.

  ‘Do you really think I made all of this up?’

  Ross Durrant shook his head.

  ‘You know, over the years I’ve gone into court with eyewitnesses, fingerprints, DNA, and I’ve still seen the cases fail. The eyewitness was too far away, the fingerprints were smeared, the DNA may have got contaminated in the lab. And what have we got in this case? A child’s drawing and a watch that you say you saw in one place and then in another place and now you’ve stolen it.’

  ‘I’m not expecting you to immediately charge him with the two murders,’ I said, feeling defeated. ‘Although I’m absolutely certain that Aidan committed both of them. Are you just going to do nothing? Except maybe punish me for trying to be a good citizen.’

  Ross Durrant looked away from me, glancing at the female officer, and when he turned back to me, he spoke in a tone that didn’t sound quite so much as if he hated me.

  ‘Our investigation is continuing. We will investigate anything that seems productive. In the meantime, Ms Moreau, maybe you just need to sit back and look at your life. I’m not a psychiatrist, but if you think your ex-boyfriend is a murderer and then you think your current boyfriend is a murderer, then possibly it’s not about the boyfriends. I suppose there are people you can talk to about that. And also you’ve got a little daughter to look after.’