Her Sister's Lie

by Debbie Howells

  As they followed me inside, I was still spaced out, barely registering that they watched me closely and asked if they could sit down.

  “Of course.” I wandered over to the kitchen table and joined them.

  “We wanted to ask you more about the day your sister died.” The DCI seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “We’ve been going through CCTV footage, from two areas in particular. The first is near your sister’s house. I think you already know we picked up an androgynous figure in jeans and a bulky hoodie, who arrived and left at times that corresponded with your sister’s death.”

  “Yes.” They’d already told me this. I felt myself swaying in my chair.

  “Ms. Roscoe, are you feeling all right?” DI Collins looked at me sharply.

  “I’m fine.” I sat up straighter, trying to clear my head.

  “Are you sure?” She was frowning. “You look a little shaky.”

  I nodded. “I’m all right. Really.”

  It seemed to satisfy her. She went on. “The second was the area around where Mr. Elliott works.”

  “Matt?” At the mention of his name, the haze in my mind cleared. Instantly I was alert. I didn’t understand why they were looking there. “But Matt didn’t even know Nina. Why?”

  DCI Weller paused. “We managed to identify a similarly dressed figure in the locality of his office. The person seemed to arrive by tube, hang around for an hour, then got in a taxi.”

  I was uncomfortable all of a sudden. Matt had nothing to do with any of this. “Can you tell me what this has to do with Nina?”

  He cleared his throat. “We traced the driver of the taxi, who unfortunately wasn’t much help other than to tell us he took a girl in a hoodie to a street in South London.”

  “Which street?” I cried. “You’re going to tell me it was Nina’s, aren’t you?” I knew I shouldn’t be speaking to him like this, but I was outraged.

  “Ms. Roscoe, where were you the afternoon your sister died?”

  Hadn’t they already asked me that? I stared in horror, my eyes widening with shock as they shifted between him and DI Collins. “I don’t understand.” I shook my head. “You can’t think I . . .” I broke off, flabbergasted.

  “Would you mind answering the question, Ms. Roscoe?”

  Another layer of unreality settled around me. In that moment, I knew for sure they saw me as a suspect. I began to panic. “No. This is wrong . . .”

  “Ms. Roscoe, answer the question, please.”

  “Where was I? I was here—all day—until I got the phone call telling me about Nina.”

  “You’ve already told us you went to meet Mr. Elliott that lunchtime. At about 12:30, and you waited for an hour or so for him to come out of his office before you got in a taxi and left.”

  I stared at them, starting to panic. Had I said that? Or were they lying? “When?”

  DI Collins spoke. “You told us, last time we were here. Don’t you remember?”

  I stared blankly at her. I had no recollection of what we’d talked about.

  She went on. “Also, Mr. Elliott saw you from his office. He didn’t want another confrontation with you, so he worked through lunch that day and didn’t go out until after you’d left. He happened to see which taxi firm it was. Also, I believe you made one or two calls to his secretary.”

  I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I remembered how that stuck-up bitch had been so rude. She shouldn’t be working there. “I wanted to talk to him, that was all. When he didn’t come out, I was worried about him.”

  “So why lie to us, Ms. Roscoe?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’ve clearly lied about your whereabouts on the day your sister died. What did you do next?”

  “I asked the taxi to drop me near a tube station. Then I went back to my car. I swear it’s the truth.”

  It was like trying to remember a dream, pieces of which were coming back out of sequence, while the rest hovered in my subconscious, just out of reach. I stared at them both, wanting them to stop, to give me a chance to gather my thoughts, but DCI Weller came right back with another question. “Why did you bother with the taxi? Why not just get the tube in the first place?”

  “I wanted to get away from everyone,” I muttered. “Quickly. I was upset. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “And it was a coincidence that the taxi happened to drop you near your sister’s house?”

  I stared at him. “Yes, it was. I didn’t have her address. You gave it to me . . .” That much I did remember. I turned to DI Collins. “You phoned me that evening. I told you I didn’t know where Nina lived.”

  DI Collins glanced at the DCI. “You’re quite certain about that, Ms. Roscoe?”

  “I’ve already told you. When she moved, she didn’t tell me where she’d gone.”

  “What were you wearing that day?” I could feel her eyes scrutinizing me.

  “I don’t know. Jeans?” There must have been tens of thousands of people wearing jeans in London that day.

  “And?”

  “A sweater, I think. A red sweater. It was tied around my waist until I got off the tube.”

  “Did it have a hood?”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Yes. My sweater has a hood.” My voice was dull.

  “Ms. Roscoe, we have in our possession a letter to your sister. It’s dated October fifteenth, last year.”

  “What?” I was incredulous. “I haven’t written to Nina since . . . I don’t know when.”

  She passed me a photocopy. “Would you say this is your handwriting?”

  “Yes. It looks like it.” I scanned the piece of paper, then noticed the date. I looked up at her. “But it can’t be.”

  “Are you saying someone’s forged this letter to your sister to make it look like you sent it?”

  “Yes.” I was confused. “They must have. It’s the only explanation.”

  “What about this?” She passed me a photo of a woman in jeans, wearing a hoodie. Her face was mostly shielded by the hood, with enough of her hair visible around her face to make out its color. Looking more closely, I managed to make out the shape of her chin. “Is there any chance that’s you?”

  I stared at it, then shook my head. I could see why she might think so. The hair was a similar color, even the shape of the figure, in as much as it was possible to see under the shapeless clothing. I shook my head. “It isn’t me. I don’t even have clothes like that.”

  “You’ve just told us you were wearing jeans and a red top with a hood.”

  I was shaking my head again, wishing I could remember more about that day. “I never wear the hood up. It’s just not something I’d ever do. It isn’t me.”

  “When we spoke to Mr. Elliott, he told us he almost didn’t see you before he went to lunch. Not until he looked more carefully. There was a reason for that.”

  As she looked at me, I knew that whatever she was about to say wasn’t going to help my cause.

  “Your hood was up.” She paused, then put her notebook down. “You’ve consistently lied to us, even when presented with evidence to the contrary. I’m suggesting you went to your sister’s house that afternoon. Perhaps you had a few drinks, then you argued. Then you lost control. Unable to listen to her any longer, while she was sitting on her bed, you hit her on the head from behind, then as she fell, she hit her head a second time on the chest, before collapsing on the floor.”

  I gasped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She was so wrong. I had to stop this, somehow, but before I could speak, she went on.

  “Hannah Roscoe, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Nina Tyrell. You have the right to remain silent. If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with a lawyer and have that lawyer present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you if you so desire.”

  “You can’t do this.” My voice was shrill as I stood up. “You haven’t any proof.”
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  “We have a statement from Mr. Elliott and the CCTV footage, which, along with what the taxi driver told us and your own inconsistencies, is enough to hold you,” DI Collins said quietly. “Unless there’s anything you can tell us that proves otherwise.”

  Abe

  You’re so like your sister, Hannah. Both of you existing in a dream world of distorted facts and crazy conspiracy theories, where you see yourselves as powerless, subject to circumstances beyond your control. But we both know you’re not.

  Being a victim is a cop-out, Hannah. Makes it too gloriously easy to pile up reasons why not to do something. To say I can’t, or it isn’t possible, when if you want something enough, you should make it happen.

  But you and your sister are the same. Any excuse to escape reality, because confronting the truth is too painful. Drugs and alcohol are a safe place to hide, until they become more than that, taking over every aspect of your life, ruining everything, because though you won’t admit it, you’re an addict.

  You’ll close your ears, refuse to face the truth, but then you hide from everything that’s difficult. Like the past, all there, folded away in the drawer in your sitting room—your old photos of the band you were in, the interviews ripped out of magazines. Your glory days of fame, the dazzling future that was so full of promise. With so much going for you, what could have gone so wrong? But that’s there too. The press cuttings, the speculation about why the Cry Babies only had one hit.

  It took a while, but in the archives of your life, the vague online references, the grainy photos, in other people’s indiscretions, in the most subtle details, I found it. The real reason the Cry Babies fell apart. And it’s not good, is it, Hannah, because it’s you; it adds up to a person you’re not proud of, reminds you of the most selfish decision you’ve ever made—not that you can ignore it any longer, not with the boy in your house. No wonder the chinks in your armor are showing. It’s impossible to keep up the pretense.

  Be careful. Once or twice, you’ve almost given yourself away, creeping around his room, going through his stuff, convincing yourself you’re tidying up—that you’re really not invading his privacy; that if he didn’t want you to find things, he’d have hidden them out of sight, wouldn’t he? I’m talking about the letters, Hannah, but you know that. Do you wonder if he reads the guilt written on your face, if he knows you’ve sneaked them out of his room to read them?

  He knows everything. And the letters tell a story, don’t they? A story of lives you had a part in, a story you know so well, of a time you wish hadn’t happened. But it’s a story that, much as you want it to be, isn’t quite over. Not yet. While you’re fumbling along trying to make sense of these strange things happening around you, you don’t imagine that there’s a purpose to it all, that the final chapter is being written.

  But somewhere inside, you have a sense of time slipping through your fingers, of the past creeping closer. It’s in your shifty glance, your restlessness, your sense of being ill at ease, the dim light in your kitchen at night, the air of oppression that pervades your house. It’s no coincidence that so many strange things are happening around you. They’re called justice, Hannah. Karma. You’ve been deluding yourself for years. It was inevitable that at some point the past would catch up with you. Ten years of nothing and now, every day, it seems there’s something.

  The boy’s seen it too, in the way you speak, the way your mind works, twisting everything, trying to make it fit, until you start to question your sanity. It’s a feeling that leaves you on edge, and when it gets to be too much, you numb it in the comfort of alcohol; in the haziness of your mind, anything makes sense; words churn around, their meaning changing, until you turn them into something you can live with.

  While all the time, the boy watches you. You tell yourself that it just takes time, that things are getting easier between you, but you don’t see him go up to his room, throwing open his window, only now that he’s alone letting the chilled night air flush away your slurred words and the memory of your breath, clinging to the sense of peace that steals over him. You didn’t see his face when he found out the police had come—you’d been taken away by then. Have you thought about how he felt, poor Abe, whose mother was killed and whose aunt has been arrested? How, apart from his absent brother, he has no one?

  But he has a strength that would scare you if you knew about it. Somehow, he holds onto a kind of faith, because the truth is slowly coming out, the way it has to. He knows he has to let things unfold the way they’re meant to. What matters most is that his mother’s killer is found. And he knows, if he bides his time and tells the police what he knows, it’s only a matter of time before it happens.

  22

  Arrested on suspicion . . . I played the words through in my mind, over and over. The police believed I killed Nina. I didn’t understand. Why would they think that? It made no sense. I could never have hurt my sister.

  Feeling like a criminal, I was escorted by DI Collins and DCI Weller out to their car, then driven to Lyndhurst, where my mobile phone was taken from me and I was put into custody. When I was asked if I wanted to make a phone call, I thought of Curtis. But I couldn’t run the risk of him not answering, which so often happened. The only other person was Erin. She probably didn’t recognize the number, but mercifully she answered.

  “Erin? Please don’t hang up . . .”

  There was a brief silence. “What is it, Hannah?” Her voice was neutral.

  “I’m with the police, Erin. They’ve arrested me. It’s a mistake . . . But could you meet Abe after school? Explain? I’m sorry to ask you. Hopefully everything will be cleared up soon. And I’m sorry, about the other . . .”

  But she interrupted. “I’ll meet him.” She spoke abruptly. “As long as you understand, I’m doing it for Abe.”

  Her words stung. I knew what she was saying. She was prepared to put herself out for Abe, but I could rot in hell. She hung up before I could thank her.

  After they took photographs, my fingerprints and a DNA sample, I was put in a small locked room and left to wait. As I sat there, listening to the unfamiliar sounds that echoed through the building, the realization of where I was started to sink in. I had no way of contacting anyone. I was alone. It was too much, and I felt my mind start to close down again, until it became blank, so that I stared at the wall in front of me, thinking of nothing.

  I had no way of knowing how much time had passed when my door was unlocked and a police officer came in. “Ms. Roscoe? Would you come with me, please?”

  Getting up, I blinked, trying to remember where I was. As it came back to me, a nauseous, light-headed feeling washed over me. While the officer escorted me along the corridor to a small interview room, thoughts were tearing through my head again. This was a terrible mistake. I had to tell someone, make sure they realized that.

  The room was dingy, with a dirty table stained with coffee. When I went in, a man was already in there, waiting for me. I’d already been asked if I had a lawyer. As I didn’t, legal representation had been arranged for me. I had a sinking feeling as Julian Hill, the duty solicitor, introduced himself to me. Even as he outlined what the police had found and explained that I could refuse to answer any questions unless he was there, nothing about him instilled confidence.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” I told him urgently. “This is a mistake. The police have missed something . . .”

  “Ms. Roscoe, if that’s the case, all you need to do is answer their questions honestly, and it will be resolved.”

  I knew from the way he spoke, his defeated manner, that he wasn’t going to be much help to me. He should have been asking me why I thought the police were wrong. I needed someone stronger, more dynamic, who understood, who was more obviously on my side.

  “You should probably sit on one of those.” He indicated one of the four mismatched chairs, arranged in pairs either side of the table.

  I sat down. Nervously, I tried to gather my thoughts. It wasn’t long before DI Colli
ns and DCI Weller joined us.

  “Is this necessary?” Standing up, I blurted it out, not sure of the correct form.

  “Ms. Roscoe, would you sit down, please? We’d like to get started.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian Hill nod as DCI Weller sat down opposite me, while DI Collins went over to the tape recorder and turned it on.

  “This interview is being tape-recorded and may be given in evidence if your case is brought to trial. We are in an interview room at Lyndhurst police station. The date is April 15, and the time by my watch is three pm. I am Detective Inspector Collins. The other police officer present is Detective Chief Inspector Weller. Please state your full name and date of birth.” She paused, looking at me.

  “Hannah Emily Roscoe.” My voice sounded small. “July 11, 1986.”

  The DI went on. “Also present is Julian Hill, duty solicitor. Before the start of this interview, I must remind you that you are entitled to free and independent legal advice either in person or by telephone at any stage. At the conclusion of the interview, I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes and how you or your solicitor can get access to them. Caution: you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

  “Ms. Roscoe, we’ve spoken to Matthew Elliott. He’s confirmed that he was unaware you were planning to meet him the day your sister was killed.”

  I stared at DI Collins, not sure what she wanted me to say.

  “He did also say that you’d been calling him constantly since he left you. It’s why he blocked your number.”

  I frowned at her, then shook my head. She’d got this wrong. I put her straight. “Matt hasn’t blocked me. He’s been busy, that’s all. He must have told you so.”

  “Is this relevant, Detective Inspector?” My solicitor’s interruption bought me time for what she’d said to sink in. Not even Matt was on my side.