The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  I push it all away and make my way down to court, but try as I might, thoughts of his call continue to distract me. I watch the proceedings for most of that day from a point in the courtroom high above my own head. Edward and the officer in the case read the transcript of police interviews out loud, their voices droning, No comment repeated like a mantra. At one point I almost nod off, jerking awake with a sense of falling.

  The only time that I’m fully engaged is when the police officer is asked about seizing the laptop and the fact that no iPad was to be found. The officer confirms to Barbara that Freya’s phone is a basic Nokia, with no internet access, and that her laptop is a PC, running on an outdated version of Windows.

  “Many teenagers are very technically proficient,” he says, “but that was not my impression of the complainant. Her devices are very out of date.”

  “Was there anything on the laptop to indicate that an iPad might be connected to it?”

  “Nothing at all. I mean, there wouldn’t need to be—it’s no longer necessary to sync them with a computer.”

  “But there is nothing to suggest that she actually had an iPad, is there?”

  He pauses, shrugs. “Only her word for it.”

  “And is there anything to show that she used the Viber app to communicate with the defendant as she alleges?”

  “Nothing there at all,” the officer says.

  “So there’s nothing to support her account that this is an app she used?”

  The officer shrugs again. “No. Nothing other than her account.”

  Barbara only has a couple of questions left in cross-examination.

  “Did you seize every electronic device you found in the possession of the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you find any messages from the defendant to the complainant?”

  “No. We didn’t.”

  That concludes the prosecution case. I scrutinize the jury and they don’t look impressed, at least not to me. Three women on the front row, their mouths tight, I can almost picture them knitting as the tumbril rolls past. Edward looks underwhelmed, too. He knows it can only get worse from here.

  The afternoon has worn on and I’m stiff from sitting all day—I try to stretch my neck out without making myself conspicuous. Barbara rises to her feet.

  “Your Honor, there are a few matters of housekeeping I’d like to address in the absence of the jury. Given the time, might I suggest that they are dismissed for the day?”

  The judge agrees, telling the jury to return tomorrow at the usual time. They troop out, looking over at Jeremy and the public gallery as they go. I follow their glance to see Freya sitting there, right at the front.

  She’s sitting on her own.

  The excitement of Jeremy’s fan club has died down and now there are only a couple of teenage girls in court, glaring at Freya. She’s leaning against the balcony of the public gallery, knuckles clenched white. I turn back, bowing my head.

  “Your Honor,” Barbara continues once the jurors have gone, “I’d like to make a submission of no case to answer.” The judge nods, inviting her to continue. “I intend only to address you in brief. You are, of course, aware of the test as laid out in R. v. Galbraith. I am not suggesting that there is no evidence that the defendant has committed the offenses as outlined on the indictment. My submission is that what evidence there is, is inherently weak to the point of making it nonexistent. We have essentially heard only from the complainant, and I would submit that her version of events is entirely vague and unsubstantiated by any external corroboration.

  “There is no evidence whatsoever from any other source that supports the existence of the alleged relationship. Despite her assertion that there was a trail of correspondence between her and the defendant, no trace of this has been uncovered, either on any of her devices or on the phone of the defendant, which was also examined in detail by the police. I appreciate that my learned friend will argue that Your Honor should take the view that the complainant’s reliability goes to the heart of this case, and thus that it should rightly be put before the jury for them to decide upon it, but in my submission there simply is not enough for the jury to consider. This is essentially a borderline case in which I would invite you to exercise your discretion to dismiss the case.”

  Edward shakes his head throughout, and when Barbara has finished, stands up.

  “I will be even briefer,” he says. “I am grateful to my learned friend for stating in advance my reply to this submission. The credibility of the complainant is indeed at the heart of the case, and it is only proper that it is deliberated on by the jury at the end of the defense case, not dismissed at this point.”

  “I am inclined to agree, Mr. Kayode,” the judge says. “However, there is merit to Miss Carlisle’s contention that there is no other supporting evidence in this case.” She looks up at the clock—it’s half past three by now. “Given the time, I am minded to consider this application overnight.”

  She shuffles her papers together and stands. Court is dismissed for the day.

  Barbara and Zora confer outside the robing room. They both look thoughtful as I approach them.

  “We’re discussing how best to play this,” Barbara says. “As I said at the start, Jeremy has a lot of character references.

  We have two of them prepared to attend court. We had provisionally arranged for them to attend on Monday, but the bishop has emailed and he can now only come tomorrow.

  I’m thinking of asking the other if he can come tomorrow as well.”

  “What if the case is thrown out?” I say.

  “Better to be prepared.”

  “You’d call them before he gives evidence?” Zora says.

  Barbara nods. “Not orthodox, I grant you. But it’ll set the tone.”

  “The judge might not like it,” Zora says.

  “Perhaps not, but if the bishop is only available tomorrow, what choice do we have?” Barbara says. I look at her closely, suspicious of the timing, but her face and tone are entirely innocent, her smile bland.

  I get the feeling that Jeremy might be hovering in the hope of another drink, but I leave as fast as I can, desperate to collect Robin. The tube can’t come fast enough; I get to the school gates with minutes to spare. It takes me a moment to realize how tense the atmosphere is, something strained in the groups of parents who cluster together even more tightly than normal. I look around to see if there’s anyone I recognize and eventually find Nicole, deep in the heart of a circle of concerned women. I make my way over and touch her on the shoulder. She gives me a quick hug.

  “There’s a photographer there,” she hisses into my ear.

  “Where?”

  “There.” Nicole points discreetly. It takes me a moment to spot the man. He’s standing on the opposite pavement, camera with zoom lens in hand.

  “Why is he here?”

  “There’s been a leak,” Nicole says. “It’s turning into a scandal. Look.”

  She pushes a copy of the evening newspaper into my hands.

  “IS THIS HOTHOUSE KILLING CHILDREN?” says the headline, emblazoned above a photograph of the school. I scan through the piece. Questions are beginning to be asked about the academic pressure at the highly prestigious Ashams School following the hospitalization of a Year 6 girl in circumstances yet to be explained. The matter is currently under investigation by the police. This leads on from the death by drowning last year of Zoe Leonard, whose…

  Nicole pulls the paper back out of my hands before I can finish reading. I look at her.

  “It’s awful that they’ve dragged it up again. Her poor family. She was a little girl in Pippa’s class last year,” Nicole says. “It was a terrible accident—she drowned when the family were away on holiday. Their only child. Absolutely devastating.”

  “That sounds horrific,” I say. “Why hasn’t anyone told me about this before?”

  Nicole looks away for a moment, looks back. “You have to understand, it was awful.
They’re from overseas—her father’s something high up in the diplomatic service, they went straight back home after it happened. It upset everyone so much; the children especially…”

  “Hi, Mom,” Robin says from behind Nicole, who stops talking immediately. She moves aside to let Robin reach me.

  “You OK, sweetie?”

  “Yeah,” Robin says. She doesn’t sound entirely sure. “Can we go home now?”

  “You don’t want to come for hot chocolate with Pippa and me?” Nicole says.

  I look at Robin, who shakes her head. “I’d like to get home,” she says again.

  “I think we’d best get off,” I say. “Thanks so much for having her.”

  Pippa walks ahead with Robin as we head off from school. They have a quick chat before she stops to wait for Nicole. She’s looking tired, eyes heavy and hair uncharacteristically greasy.

  “She’s really worried about Daisy,” Robin says after they’ve gone. “I’ve been trying to cheer her up, but she feels really bad.”

  “Have you heard anything about a girl called Zoe?”

  “The one who died? Yes, they were talking about it earlier. It spooked me a bit.”

  I stop walking, turn to my daughter. Robin is pale, a bit shaky. “Why did it spook you?”

  “I think it’s her place I took. Her locker. They said no one had joined the school until I did. Dead girl’s shoes…”

  I can’t think of an answer to this. I pull Robin close to me and give her a long hug, waiting until she’s finally calm before letting go.

  41

  Once Robin is in bed and asleep, I open my computer to do some further research on Zoe. But I can’t find out much more. A holiday gone wrong, a brief Associated Press report, no journalist named who I could contact. Perhaps because the parents are foreign nationals, perhaps because it happened abroad, but the story hasn’t warranted even a short paragraph other than in the report about the challenges that the school is facing. The emphasis in that story is far more strongly on Daisy’s ongoing coma and speculation about the cause, with extraneous detail about the fact that Julia and her husband, Paul, divorced two years ago in an acrimonious split, which ended up in court over the division of assets.

  I message Nicole asking if she knows any more about it, but I receive no reply. I think about texting Julia, but I’m not sure whether she would find it intrusive. I’m sitting alone in the living room, the house quiet around me, and I know if I go upstairs and stand outside Robin’s room, I’ll hear her breathing, little sounds of sleep and the creaking of the mattress as she turns. Without bidding, the image of Daisy on the stretcher comes into my head, and my imagination takes it further, into a hospital bed, the girl surrounded by tubes and machines with flashing lights. And from there it goes further still, to an unknown villa in an unnamed country, a dark pool and the still body floating on the top of the water, the screams of the mother as the child is found.

  I hug my knees close to me, holding myself safe against the intrusion of the thoughts, the horror of it, until my phone beeps and breaks the spell.

  Nicole. I’ll tell you about it when I next see you properly. Can’t text. I’m so sorry for Julia. Bad enough without the press poking in too.

  How is Daisy? I reply.

  Nicole takes a moment to compose her answer. I can see the gray dots dancing at the bottom of my phone screen. Still the same. All very worrying.

  We sign off and I go to bed, though I don’t sleep for hours, my thoughts unsettled, veering from Daisy to worrying about what Andrew might be planning and back again. In the end I take my duvet and some cushions through to Robin’s room and make a nest for myself on the floor, matching Robin’s breath in, out, in, out, and in time, I sleep.

  Robin is slow to dress and eat breakfast in the morning. She’s dragging her feet deliberately, but I do my best to ignore it. It’s only when Robin complains of a sore tummy that I say something.

  “Are you worried about going in?”

  “No,” Robin says immediately. A long silence. “Yes. A bit. It’s just with all this, and the English test too…”

  “Try not to worry about the test,” I say. “As long as you do your best.”

  “But I don’t think I can do my best,” Robin says. “Not when I’m thinking about how I took the place of a dead girl. I’m probably using her locker. Maybe it’s haunted.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Just try and get through it. And don’t think of it like that. Even if it was her locker, it wouldn’t matter. You know there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “I suppose.” Robin shrugs.

  “So there you are. It’s OK. And Daisy is going to be OK, too. I promise.”

  Robin hugs me and finishes her breakfast off more cheerfully. I sip my coffee, hoping to God I’ve made a promise that can be kept.

  Drop-off goes smoothly enough. We arrive at the same time as Nicole and Pippa, so the girls run into school together. I was planning to ask Nicole more about Zoe, but she’s looking tired and pale and I don’t want to press her.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I didn’t sleep well,” Nicole says. “It’s brought it all back to me. Pippa’s been really unsettled too. God knows what effect this will have on the tests.”

  “Surely that doesn’t matter right now?”

  Nicole shakes her head. “I suppose not,” she says. “But they’ve worked so hard. I hope it doesn’t all fall apart.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”

  Nicole takes hold of my hand and we stand together for a minute. “You’re right,” she says. “I mustn’t let it get to me so much. The girls are well, that’s the main thing. Imagine being poor Julia…”

  “Is there any news?”

  “Nothing,” Nicole says, withdrawing her hand. “Daisy isn’t worse, but she isn’t better, either. And until she wakes up, there won’t be any way of knowing how affected she is.”

  I shake my head. Streams of people are moving past us, parents and children going into school, but it’s as if we’re on our own island, isolated from everyone else.

  “I’ve said it before,” Nicole says, “but I really don’t know what I’d be doing if you weren’t here. I know we’ve only been friends for a few weeks but it feels like so much longer. I’ve always found it tricky, making friends with the other mums. So it’s lovely to have met a kindred spirit. It’s made such a difference, having your support. And Robin is so good for Pippa, too.”

  “You’ve been a big support to me, too,” I say. “I don’t know how I’d have managed this trial. Robin is really enjoying being friends with Pippa. When I think back to the start of term, how much everything has changed…”

  “We will just have to stick together, and we will weather all this,” Nicole says. “Now, don’t you have to get to court?”

  I laugh, say goodbye. I’m still concerned, but Nicole is right, I need to focus on the trial now, nothing else. By the time I get to Inner London Crown Court, my worry about Daisy is packed away, pushed down. I’m ready for the day ahead.

  SUNDAY, 12:57 P.M.

  The house is shuttered up, its face closed to invasion. I hammer on the door until my knuckles are bleeding. Every part of me aches, my arms, my knees from the shock of the fall, my head throbbing. I’m screaming, “Let me in, let me in!” at the top of my voice, but no one comes to the door. It’s quiet; dead inside.

  I need to calm down, regroup. Plan what to do next. I stand back and examine the building closely. No chink, no opening. Every window is covered. There’s a door at the side that leads into the garden and I go to it, test its handle, shove at it a few times, but to no avail.

  “Can I help you?” a woman says from the pavement and I turn, a shock of hope and relief running through me. But it’s not her—it’s an older woman, glaring at me.

  “I’m a friend,” I say, approaching the woman hurriedly. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I’m sure that if she wanted you to know wher
e she was, she’d tell you,” she says with immense hauteur. “Thumping on her door like that and making so much noise is not the way to behave.”

  “I’m looking for my daughter,” I say. “I think she’s got my daughter.” I’m trying to hold it together as I speak to the woman. I know I look crazed. But I can’t hold the tears in now, great jags of sobbing, snot bursting from me—it’s stress, worry about my daughter’s whereabouts, emotion so uncontrolled it can only leak out like this. All of it caught up together, brought to a head by the woman’s icy words.

  She takes a step back. “If you don’t get away from this house, I will call the police,” she says. “I’m on the Neighborhood Watch scheme for this street and you are behaving very suspiciously.”

  I look at her, searching for some trace of humanity, any help at all, but there’s nothing there: cold, hard, mouth pursed tight shut. The woman starts reaching into her bag as if to pull out a phone, and I turn and walk away, head lowered, controlling myself with some effort.

  I’ll be back, though. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do it.

  I’m going to find my daughter.

  Whatever it takes.

  42

  Jeremy and his mother are both edgy when I get to court. They’re standing in a huddle with Zora and Barbara.

  “It’s the hope that kills you,” Alexandra is saying. “Do you really think there’s a chance the case might be over?”

  Barbara shrugs. “It’s possible. But best to proceed on the basis that we will have to put up a defense.”

  We’re approached by two men who look to be in their sixties, both wearing suits. One of them is impeccable in his tailoring, his jacket well fitted, his silk tie a tasteful hue; his look is formal, his manner assured, but he has a weak chin and a petulant mouth. The other is less sleek, but with a greater air of gravitas. An ecclesiastical air, at a guess. It must be the bishop. The character witnesses have arrived.