The Birthday Girl

by Sue Fortin

  ‘Yeah, well, I forgot I had this one on me. It’s an old one. My just-in-case backup phone. It’s not a smart phone, it can barely cope with messages and phone calls, let alone anything fancy like taking a decent picture.’

  Tris took another glance at it. ‘I see you’ve got a signal now.’

  ‘Only one bar. I’m texting the kids to make sure they’re OK.’

  ‘You’d better not let the police know you’ve got that,’ said Tris, feeling agitated that she’d not mentioned the spare phone before. ‘In fact, probably best not to text the kids in case the police start checking phone records.’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s a pay as you go. They won’t be able to trace it.’

  ‘Since when did you become an IT expert?’ The agitation ramped up a level. ‘For fuck’s sake, Zoe. Put the bloody thing away. Switch it off!’

  ‘I will. Soon as I’ve had a reply.’ As if conjuring up the response, Zoe’s phone made a ping-pong sound. ‘And there it is,’ she said.

  ‘Now can you switch the fucking thing off,’ snapped Tris. Not for one minute did he believe she was texting the kids. Keeping an eye on the road ahead while continuing to watch Zoe, he saw her switch the phone off and push it into the side pocket of her handbag. Somehow he was going to have to separate Zoe and her handbag so he could take a look at that phone.

  ‘Before we go to the police station, can we stop somewhere so I can freshen up? I could do with going to the loo.’

  Tris was about to tell her that it would probably look more authentic if they arrived in a dishevelled and hurried state, but changed his mind. A stop-off might give him a chance to look at the phone. ‘Yeah, sure. There’s a garage on the outskirts of Gormston. We can stop there.’

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the petrol station.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ said Zoe. ‘I’ll grab a bottle of water while I’m in there. Do you want anything?’ She reached down for her bag.

  ‘Here, take my wallet,’ he said, before she could pick up her bag. ‘Use the cash in the side. I’ll have a bottle of water too.’

  Zoe took the wallet and trotted off into the garage. Tris wasted no time in diving his hand into her bag and whipping out the phone. It took ages to come to life, but eventually a little tune played out and the screen lit up.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ cursed Tris as he tried to work out how to get into the message box; this thing was a bloody relic. He was surprised to see an exchange of messages between Zoe’s phone and another number. There was no name allocated to the other number. Tris glanced up at the petrol station to make sure she wasn’t on her way out. He couldn’t see her, so assumed she was still in the toilets.

  He clicked open the message stream.

  Message sent: All ok?

  Message received: Yes.

  Message sent: Completely?

  Message received: 100%

  Tris frowned and reread the exchange. He checked for other messages, but there weren’t any and the contacts list was empty apart from this one number.

  The car door opened, making Tris jump. Fuck! It was Zoe and he’d been caught red-handed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as she dropped into the seat. ‘You’ve been in my handbag!’ She snatched the phone from him.

  There was no point in denying it or even pretending he was doing anything other than being nosy. ‘I wanted to know who you’d messaged.’

  ‘I told you. The boys.’

  ‘Pretty glib conversation.’

  ‘They’re teenage boys. What do you expect?’ She switched the phone off and replaced it in her bag. ‘Now, let’s get this over with.’

  Chapter 31

  Somewhere in the distance a dog is barking. It’s muffled, as if the dog is a few gardens away where fences and a double-glazed window absorb the crispness of the sound. I strain to listen. I can hear shouting. Again, it’s from afar, like Sunday- morning football noises from the park behind my house.

  But I’m not at home. I’m not dozing on the soft duck-down cushions of my sofa, while gentle meditation wave music plays in the background. It takes a few seconds for my mind to reshuffle the deck of conscious and subconscious thoughts before finally dealing a full hand of stony ground, wet feet and rushing waters.

  I open my eyes, now fully aware of my surroundings. I’m lying on my back on the riverbank. Water is lapping around my ankles and light rain tickles my face. I roll my head to the right and can see the river tumbling along. When I move my head to the left, I see Alfie. He’s sprawled on his back, with one arm flung across his body and the other outstretched. His eyes are closed and his skin is pale, with blueness tingeing the edges of his lips.

  We had gone into the water, been dragged downstream through the rapids and somehow ended up being spat out the other side. I’m not quite sure how we’ve ended up here.

  The dog has stopped barking and the shouting is reduced to one voice. A male voice. I follow the sound with my eyes and see several people line the other side of the river. A guy in a suit and waterproof jacket has his hands cupped around his mouth. I can hear his voice but I can’t pick out the words. The man next to him is wearing a purple weatherproof jacket and a dog, also wearing a purple jacket, sits by his side. Search and Rescue?

  There are two police officers in uniform standing next to the dog and several others are making their way down the embankment to join them.

  Relief brings a trickle of tears and I rest my head on the ground as exhaustion overwhelms me. All I can think is that we have been found. We’re going to be rescued. All sense of time was lost as I drifted in and out of consciousness, fatigued from hauling ourselves out of the river, fully clothed and drenched, coupled with what I suspect is a touch of hypothermia, adding to the tiredness.

  From my first-responder training, I know that the point of rescue can be the most dangerous time. This is where the brain and body can give up fighting for survival, lured into a false sense of security that they are being rescued, passing over the responsibility to the rescuer. I fight to stay awake and alert. I can’t let myself slip past that point now.

  ‘Alfie,’ I say. ‘Alfie. The police are here. We’re going to be OK.’ I move to reach out to him, but pain shoots up my arm, preventing me. I look down and can see blood coating my hand like a moth-eaten glove. I don’t think my arm is broken, I can wriggle my fingers, but it hurts like hell.

  I either lapsed into unconsciousness again or fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, I’m not sure, but the next thing I’m aware of is the thundering sound of a helicopter above me and the downdraught from the rotor blades whipping up everything below, sending water spraying over me.

  There’s a thud and two black boots land on the ground a few metres away. A guy in an orange jumpsuit and a white safety helmet hurries over to me. He kneels beside me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder and then leans down so I can hear him.

  ‘Hi. My name’s Rick and I’m here to help you.’

  ‘My son, Alfie – he needs help,’ I say. ‘Help him first. Please.’

  They haven’t been able to tell me anything about Alfie yet. All I know is that he’s under observation. I’ve emerged relatively unscathed: no broken bones, superficial cuts and bruises that the medical staff would expect to see from someone who has been tossed about in the water like we were. My injuries are minor. The most serious being my badly sprained wrist and a particularly nasty cut to my head which warranted shaving a small section of my hair and applying steristrips.

  Alfie’s injuries, however, are rather more serious.

  ‘We’re keeping him sedated for now,’ says the doctor as we gather beside his bed in ICU. ‘The brain’s a marvellous thing; in situations like this it rests in order to repair itself. We’ll give him a CT scan in the morning. By that time the swelling will hopefully have gone down.’

  ‘What’s your gut feeling?’

  The doctor gives me a sympathetic look. ‘I’m a doctor, I can’t go on gut feelings. It wouldn’t b
e fair of me to do that to you.’

  I fiddle with the hem of the blanket which has been placed over my knees. The nurse insisted on bringing me down in a wheelchair, despite my assurances that I’m capable of walking. I feel such a fraud being pushed around.

  ‘You should return to your own ward now, Mrs Montgomery,’ says the doctor. ‘You need to rest too.’

  ‘One more thing,’ I say, as I feel the nurse behind me lift the brakes from the wheelchair. ‘How is Andrea Jarvis? Is she going to be OK? I did ask earlier but all they could tell me was that she had been rescued and brought here. Other than that, I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Your friend is going to be fine,’ says the doctor reassuringly. ‘A broken leg and hypothermia, nothing we can’t sort out. She was very lucky to have a good emergency survival pack with her.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I’ll go and see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Please get some rest now,’ says the doctor. ‘Good night, Mrs Montgomery.’

  I take one last look at Alfie before the nurse turns the wheelchair to face the door. He looks so peaceful lying there. I haven’t seen such ease on his features in a long time. Not since Darren died anyway. I’ve yearned for the return of those days when life was simple, without complications. When Darren and I were a young married couple with a little boy, both of us deeply in love. Before life weighed too heavy on all of us. And now, it looks like I might be getting my wish, but not in the way I could ever have imagined.

  I wipe away a tear that has found its way to my cheek.

  ‘He’ll be OK,’ says the nurse reassuringly. ‘You can come and see him in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take one last look at my son before I’m wheeled through the door and out into the corridor. The nurse gives me a pat on the shoulder, a gesture to let me know that everything will be OK. I don’t correct her. I allow her the indulgence.

  TUESDAY

  Chapter 32

  I’m sitting in the chair, looking out across the hospital grounds, when the nurse comes in with the telephone in her hand.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Adams wants to speak to you,’ she says. ‘Apparently, it’s important.’

  I take the phone from her and wait until she has left the room. ‘Seb?’

  ‘Hey, hiya,’ he says. His voice is a balm to soothe the pain in my heart. ‘I had to pretend I was phoning on official police business, otherwise they wouldn’t put me through. Are you OK?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice,’ I say, my own voice cracking with emotion. ‘It’s been such a terrible weekend. Did they tell you what happened?’

  ‘Yep, I got a call from your mum. The police contacted her, but she’s away on holiday and it’s going to take her a while to get home. She phoned and asked me to come up. If I’d known, I would have been there sooner. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. You weren’t to know. Is my mum all right?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s worried, obviously, and frantic that she has to wait for the next available flight.’

  ‘Did they tell you about Joanne?’ I can feel my bottom lip begin to tremble.

  ‘Well, not exactly. They wouldn’t say much to me, but I’ve made a few discreet enquiries … I know what’s happened.’

  I note the hesitation. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That Joanne is dead. Her husband, Tris, is it …?’

  ‘Yeah. Tris.’

  ‘Tris and Zoe turned up at Gormston police station and reported Joanne’s death, along with Andrea being missing.’

  ‘And me? What did they say about me?’ Another hesitation, reminiscent of the days of satellite delays on long-distance calls, sets the alarm bells ringing. ‘Seb, you must tell me. What did they say about me?’

  ‘Look, Carys, don’t be alarmed, it’s all talk right now. The police will need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Seb, please. You’re stalling. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘OK … Tris and Zoe have been interviewed separately, which is standard procedure, but they’re both saying the same thing.’

  I bite back my frustration at Seb’s inability to tell me straight and after yet another pause, he continues. ‘They say you were the last one to see Joanne alive, and you argued with her. Tris is saying you two had an ongoing disagreement. They said you took off, taking Alfie with you. Is that true?’

  My turn to hesitate. ‘Sort of. Well, it is the truth, but it’s not how it sounds.’

  ‘You need to be more convincing than that when the local police show up there to interview you,’ says Seb.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At the moment, it’s not looking great for you.’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything!’ The volume of my own voice surprises me. I check myself. ‘I didn’t kill Joanne. It was Tris. Or at least, I think it was. He’s been having an affair with Zoe, for goodness’ sake. He’s got money problems. He’d be the one to benefit from her death.’

  ‘Hey, hey, Carys, calm down. Listen, I’ll try to get there before the police interview you, but if I can’t, you must stay calm when you speak to them. Don’t get yourself all agitated, it won’t do you any favours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s been such an awful weekend.’ Before I can say anything else, the nurse returns. She makes an apologetic face and nods towards the phone. ‘I’ve got to go now. The nurse needs her phone. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘All right, remember what I said. Stay calm, tell the truth and everything will be all right. I promise. I love you, Carys.’

  I can’t answer. Even if the nurse wasn’t there, I wouldn’t be able to say anything. Emotion overwhelms me and I rest my forehead in my hand, willing Seb a speedy journey. I need him right now.

  Despite leaving me in bits, I’m grateful for Seb’s call. I’m heartened that he is at this moment on his way to me and, although I’m not looking forward to the local police turning up and questioning me, at least now I am prepared. I try to decide what sort of demeanour to adopt but after considering and dismissing several options, I come to the conclusion it is probably best to be myself. The police will no doubt see through any attempt to portray myself in a different light, and it will only serve to convince them I’ve got something to hide.

  I don’t have to wait long before I receive my official visit. I’m not sure whether this is a good omen or not.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Montgomery?’

  I turn in my chair to face a man I estimate to be in his mid-forties. ‘Yes. Hello,’ I say, taking in the dark hair, flecked with white at the sides, and friendly eyes which crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Matt Chilton.’ He holds out his police warrant card. I nod and he returns it to the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Can I call you Carys?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘OK. Considering.’ I adjust the blanket that covers my knees, more for something to do than for modesty’s sake.

  ‘May I?’ Chilton indicates the plastic chair in the corner of the room. I nod and he picks it up with one hand, brings it over and places it opposite me. He sits down, gives me another smile and then begins: ‘The nurse says you’ve had stitches.’

  My fingertips automatically go to the dressing on the side of my head. I touch the self-adhesive square lightly. ‘Three stitches and a drop of glue,’ I say. ‘Not to mention this rather fetching hairstyle.’

  ‘You were very lucky, by all accounts,’ says Chilton.

  ‘Was I?’ I drop my gaze to my hands, which nervously tease the ribbon-edged blanket as I try to push away the still-frames in my mind of what happened on the river.

  ‘Carys.’ The detective’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘Yesterday afternoon, Tris Aldridge and Zoe Coleman walked into Gormston police station and reported the death of Joanne Aldridge. Mr Aldridge was very distressed, as you can imagine. They both were. They also reported Andrea Jarvis as missing, along with yourse
lf and your son, Alfie Montgomery. I’m here to try to get to the bottom of what happened.’

  ‘Yes. I realise that.’ His patronising tone irks me. ‘What did Tris and Zoe say?’

  ‘That’s not something I can discuss right now. What I want to do is to get your version of events.’

  ‘Have you arrested Tris?’

  ‘We are making enquiries. No one has been arrested, yet.’ His voice is firm and his gaze steady. ‘So, Carys, I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Can you run through the events of the weekend, just so I have them from your point of view.’

  I take a deep breath. I remember Seb’s words from earlier: stay calm and tell the police exactly what happened.

  ‘I was invited to come away for the weekend by my friend, Joanne Aldridge. We arrived at the croft Friday lunchtime. Everyone was in good spirits. We had lunch and then went for a walk. In the evening we sat around chatting. Saturday morning, we went on a longer walk to Archer’s Falls.’

  ‘And how was the general mood of the party?’

  ‘Fine. We were having a good time.’ It’s a rather audacious lie, but I haven’t got the energy to go into the undercurrents of the weekend. I’m not sure how much Chilton’s been told and I decide to keep what I say to the bare minimum. ‘Myself, Andrea and Zoe then returned to the croft by kayak.’

  ‘Not Joanne?’

  ‘No. She returned to the croft on foot, as far as I know.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She left us to abseil down to the riverbank. She said it was a bit of fun. A challenge, I suppose, to see if we could get back on our own.’

  ‘This was an outdoor-adventure-type weekend, is that right?’

  ‘I guess so. As I said, Joanne planned it all. It was a surprise for us.’

  ‘OK. So, what happened when you returned to the croft?’

  ‘We had tea. Joanne and I had a chat in the garden. I went indoors and later Zoe went out looking for Joanne. She found her … dead.’

  ‘If we can go back a step: what did you and Joanne talk about when you were outside?’