by Roberta Kray
‘Please, take a seat,’ Mrs Sewell said. Then, as if she’d decided that a touch more hospitality might be in order, she produced the semblance of a smile. ‘And I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea?’
After a morning spent swilling endless mugs of coffee, another drink was the last thing Jess wanted but she decided not to take the risk of offending her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, sinking down on to the sofa. ‘That would be lovely.’
While her hostess marched purposefully through to the kitchen, Jess took a moment to look around. All the furniture was old but still serviceable, the dark green sofa with its matching chair, a couple of side tables, a mahogany glass-fronted cabinet filled with assorted pieces of china. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of pale pink rosebuds. But it was the mantelpiece that really drew her attention: ranged across its surface were the framed family photographs, amongst them a picture of a small girl dressed in white. Her hair was fair, her eyes wide and dark. Jess was in no doubt as to her identity. She stared at the child and the child, somewhat disturbingly, appeared to stare straight back.
‘Hello, Grace,’ she murmured.
And then Jess felt a sudden rush of guilt. Could any good really come from resurrecting the past, from opening old wounds and churning up emotions? Perhaps the truth, whatever it was, was best left buried.
But it was too late to back out now. Joan Sewell was returning with the tea. Her hands were shaking a little although it wasn’t possible to tell if it was from a temporary anxiety or some more permanent ailment.
‘Thanks,’ Jess said, as a cup was placed on the table beside her. ‘This is very kind of you.’
Joan Sewell sat down in the chair and then immediately leaned forward, her long fingers clasped together and a look of expectation on her face. ‘So you want to know about Michael?’
Jess felt that guilt nibbling at her conscience again. She did want to know about him – and a lot more too – but didn’t want to gain the information under wholly false pretences. Sometimes, as a reporter, you had to tell a few white lies but there was a difference between that and downright deception. She knew what this woman wanted – exoneration for her brother – but wasn’t prepared to raise her hopes too much. Honesty, albeit in a slightly watered-down version, could sometimes be the best option.
‘Look, Mrs Sewell, before we go on, there’s something I have to tell you. I’ve only just begun to investigate this case and I can’t put my hand on my heart and swear that anything will come of it or that I’ll ever be able to clear Michael’s name. Making rash promises like that just wouldn’t be right. All I can say is that, having looked closely at the available evidence, I can see how unfairly he was treated and how harshly he was judged.’ She paused to take a breath and to see if there was any response. When none was forthcoming, she quickly continued, ‘And so that’s why I’m here, why I’ve come to see you today. There are still too many unanswered questions and I want to find out the truth. I’m hoping you can help me do that.’
Joan, having listened carefully, frowned and took a sip of her tea while she mulled over the proposition. For the next ten seconds, she gazed intently down at her sensible brown brogues. Eventually, she lifted her head and nodded. Even this small glimmer of hope was apparently better than nothing. ‘He was a good man,’ she said.
Jess, recalling Michael Harper’s criminal record, could have begged to differ but now was hardly the time to start quibbling over the odd spot of GBH. ‘I’m sure he was.’
‘And they made his life hell,’ Joan said, ‘the police, the neighbours, the papers. Even when they knew that he couldn’t have done it, even when it had been proved, they wouldn’t leave him alone.’ Her narrow shoulders shuddered and her face flushed red. ‘Michael never heard the end of it. It was unbearable. He’d lost his daughter, lost his lovely little girl, and they still wouldn’t stop hounding him. They accused him of all sorts of terrible things.’
‘It must have been vile.’
Joan’s hands battled with each other, the fingers twisting and turning. ‘It killed him,’ she said. Her voice was strained now, tight and bitter. As if too many longhidden feelings were slowly rising to the surface, she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. ‘He tried to carry on, he tried his best but …’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jess said softly.
But the sentiment, even if it was heard, was not acknowledged. Joan Sewell had her mind on other things. ‘And her. She was the worst of them all. If it hadn’t been for her … That bitch was the one who put all those ideas into their heads.’
Jess started at the accusation. ‘Bitch’ was the last word she’d have expected to escape from this woman’s prim and proper mouth but she could tell, from the exaggerated way in which it was spoken, that it had come straight from the soul. Jess could only take an educated guess at who she was referring to and her heart began to beat a little faster. ‘Do you mean Grace’s mother?’
Joan’s lips twisted into a grimace. ‘Our Michael never raised a hand to her – although God, she gave him reason enough – and he’d have sooner died than touch a hair on the head of that little one. Devoted to her, he was.’ She stopped, as if suddenly aware that her mouth might be running away from her. She took a moment, her thin chest rising and falling, to gather her thoughts together. When she spoke again her tone was more moderate. ‘Still, I’m sure she’s got a different story to tell. I suppose you’ve already talked to her.’
Jess had a split second to consider what to do. Would it be more useful to say that she had or she hadn’t? She went with her instincts. ‘No. I thought it was more important to see you first.’
It was the right decision. Joan Sewell was obviously flattered. Perhaps it was the first time she had ever been given priority. She smiled, stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. ‘This is Michael,’ she said, taking down a picture and briefly touching the face before passing it over. ‘You only have to look at him to know that he couldn’t do anything like that.’
Jess gazed down at the photograph. Michael Harper had been tall and broad, a thickset muscular man. She could see the kinks in his nose where it had been broken more than once. He had his hands on his hips and was staring straight into the camera. She wasn’t sure what to say – No, he doesn’t look like a child killer hardly seemed appropriate – and so she simply nodded.
Perhaps mistaking her silence for a form of scepticism, Joan began to argue his case again. ‘Oh, he had a temper all right. I’ll not deny that. He drank too much and was always in trouble. He was in prison too but that doesn’t make him a wife beater or—’
‘Of course not,’ Jess said. She passed the photograph back, eager to pursue the subject of Sharon Harper.
The portrait was returned to its rightful place and Joan sat down again.
‘So it wasn’t a happy marriage?’ Jess asked tentatively.
‘No one could be happy married to a woman like that.’
‘Really?’ Jess said, hoping to prompt further revelations.
But Joan only sniffed and wrinkled her nose as if the bad smell of Sharon Harper might still be lingering in a corner of the room.
Taking a sip of her tea, Jess waited a few seconds. This was an avenue that needed exploring but she didn’t want to appear too keen. Coming across as a scandal-mongering member of the press wasn’t going to help. Joan Sewell was likely to clam up for good. Instead, Jess cleared her throat and said, conversationally, ‘I suppose Sharon must have been quite young when they first got together?’
‘Got herself in the family way, didn’t she?’ Joan sneered. ‘She was only sixteen.’
Jess couldn’t help thinking that it took two to tango – she hadn’t got pregnant on her own – but sensibly refrained from sharing the reflection. Michael had been about ten years older, old enough surely to have mastered the basic art of contraception.
‘He did the decent thing of course,’ Joan continued. ‘Other men, you wouldn’t have seen them for dust but he stood by her. He did his b
est to make it work – for the sake of the baby.’ Her hands jumped and started their restless dancing again. ‘He loved that little girl. He’d have done anything for her.’
Jess left a respectful pause before asking, ‘And Sharon? Was she close to Grace too?’
Joan made a loud snorting noise. ‘Her? She was too busy running around with her fancy men to spend time with her own child. That poor little mite was lucky to have a hot meal on the table more than once a week.’
Jess felt her eyebrows shoot up. Now that was interesting. ‘You mean she had boyfriends?’
‘She worked in a nightclub.’ As if the very nature of this occupation was proof positive of Sharon Harper’s slatternly character, Joan shook her head reproachfully. ‘What kind of mother has a job like that? Mixing with all sorts she was, out until all hours.’
‘I see,’ Jess said, trying to convey by the tone of her voice a similar level of disapproval. ‘And was there anyone in particular she … er, ran around with?’ Noticing Joan purse her lips at what had perhaps been interpreted as a rather prurient inquiry, Jess immediately sought to clarify the question. ‘I’m only asking because it all sheds light on what Sharon was really like, what her true personality was and what Michael had to put up with. I mean, I think it’s essential that people understand that.’
‘When it came to that woman, he had the patience of a saint,’ Joan said.
Jess was beginning to wish she’d been born with the same attribute. It seemed like every time she got close to prising open what could possibly be a can of worms, the lid was firmly slammed shut again. It was all so frustrating. Did she dare follow up on the subject of Sharon’s boyfriends or should she wait and approach it later from a different angle? As it happened, she didn’t need to make the decision. Joan Sewell was unable to resist another opportunity to put the knife in.
‘Anything with a few quid in its pocket would do. She wasn’t fussy. Money-mad, she was, always wanting new things, new clothes, shoes, holidays abroad. Michael worked his fingers to the bone but nothing was ever good enough. She’d rather be out gallivanting than at home taking care of her daughter.’
‘And did he know that she was …?’
Joan scowled and flapped a hand. ‘Oh, he knew all right but he always made excuses for her. He’d have put up with anything so long as she didn’t leave him, so long as she didn’t take Grace away.’
Jess smiled sympathetically. This was a very different picture to the one the press had painted twenty years ago, that of a devoted and doting young mother, but she wasn’t sure if Joan Sewell’s testimony could be entirely trusted either. There was too much anger colouring her opinions, too much bitterness. ‘But what I still don’t understand,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘is why Sharon should suggest that Michael had ill-treated her. Why would she do that?’
Joan expelled an audible sigh as if the answer was beyond the obvious. ‘Well, it suited her, didn’t it? She had to find some way of justifying herself, of explaining why she spent so little time at home. She didn’t want the papers getting hold of any gossip and by suggesting that Michael had … had abused her, provided the perfect excuse for her behaviour. No one was going to blame her then, were they?’ Her eyes brightened with what could have been rage, spite or simply justified resentment. ‘She was only concerned about herself. Sharon loved playing the victim; she always had to be the centre of attention.’
Jess nodded, wondering at the same time whether it could really be true. Even if Sharon Harper had been unfaithful, even if she had been a less-than-perfect wife and mother, these were still harsh judgements. The disappearance of a child had to be devastating to any parent and it was hard to imagine anyone actually trying to take advantage of the situation. These thoughts, however, she kept to herself. It was best to move on. ‘Tell me about Grace,’ she said. ‘Was she happy, do you think?’
‘Happy enough,’ Joan said. ‘Considering.’
Sensing a return to the subject of Sharon’s possibly endless inadequacies, Jess tried to move the conversation on. ‘Did she come round often? Did you see much of her?’
‘Not as much as I’d have liked. Sharon didn’t like her visiting me.’
‘And why was that?’
Joan pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin. Sitting ramrod straight, she recited the words as though she was giving evidence in court. ‘She was worried about what Grace might tell me.’
‘And did she tell you anything?’
‘She didn’t need to,’ Joan said. ‘I could see it in her face.’
It was the kind of comment that made great tabloid copy but didn’t go far towards providing any actual proof. ‘So Grace wasn’t happy.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Joan snapped. ‘Michael took good care of her. She loved her dad. She loved coming round here too until …’
Jess put her cup down carefully on the table. ‘Until?’
There was a long pause while Joan looked directly at her. A shadow passed across her lined face and the fingers of her trembling hands clenched together. Her gaze flickered and then dropped down towards the floor. ‘Until she went missing,’ she said.
Convinced she’d been about to say something else, Jess frowned. There was a clue being dangled right in front of her but she couldn’t figure out how to reach for it, never mind pull it in. The woman wasn’t being honest but she couldn’t risk a confrontation. Jess had to keep her on side. ‘It must have been awful. I can’t imagine how you coped.’
Joan kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Jess persisted. ‘I know this is a difficult question but do you have any idea of what might have happened that day?’
Finally, Joan looked up again but only to shake her head. ‘If her mother had taken more care, Grace would still be alive.’
Realizing that she’d reached the end of the line, that Joan Sewell had said as much as she was going to, Jess got to her feet. There was no point outstaying her welcome. ‘Well, thank you very much for your time. I really appreciate it. And thank you for the tea.’ She took a card from her wallet and placed it on the table. ‘This is my number. If you think of anything else I should know, please just give me a ring.’
Glancing over towards the mantelpiece, she gazed for a moment on the picture of Grace before returning to Joan Sewell. She had spent over twenty years waiting for news of her niece and Jess felt sorry for her, pity for her dreadful grief, but couldn’t quite bring herself to like the woman. She pulled on her coat and headed for the door. She’d be glad to get away; it was a house full of bitterness and ghosts.
Out in the fresh air again, Jess breathed deeply and trotted towards the park. She needed to get home, to write everything down while it was still fresh in her mind. It was a shame she couldn’t have taken notes or even taped the conversation but she had sensed that Joan would not talk freely if her words were being recorded.
Ten minutes later, while she was crossing the grass, she paused to turn her phone back on and almost instantly it started ringing. A sigh escaped as she read the caller ID; it was her editor, Toby Marsh. What did he want? Reluctantly, she picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘Please tell me it isn’t true,’ he said sharply.
She flinched as she heard the anger in his voice. For a second, irrationally, she thought it had something to do with Joan Sewell. Had she called up the paper already and made a complaint? ‘What?’
‘That you were present at a murder scene last night and didn’t even call it in?’
‘Oh,’ she said, momentarily relieved before the full implication of what he was saying began to sink in. Her heart took another dive. ‘How did you hear about that?’
‘Never mind how I heard about it. Why the hell didn’t you ring me?’
‘I’m on leave,’ she mumbled defensively.
His exasperated breath hissed down the line. ‘You’re a bloody reporter, Jess – you’re never on leave. What’s the matter with you?’
She felt her hackles rise. He might well be j
ustified in his complaint but she wasn’t in the mood for his bullying reproaches. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let me put it another way: I’ve just lost a close colleague, a friend, and I’m still trying to deal with it. That’s why I asked for time off, time to try and get my head together. Now yesterday, by some weird freak of fate, I accidentally stumbled on a corpse and I’m sorry if it disappoints you but the very last thing on my mind after seeing that body, after throwing up and then spending hours down the nick, was how good a story it was likely to make. And maybe that makes me a lousy reporter, I don’t know, but I’d rather believe that it just makes me a fairly normal human being.’
There was a silence from the other end of the line. Jess dug the heel of her boot into the wet grass, still angry but also worried that she’d just put her job on the line. Having a go at your boss wasn’t the best career move in the world. She waited for him to come back with some caustic retort but her bargaining power was stronger than she’d anticipated.
‘Well, okay,’ he said, his tone coming about as close to apologetic as it ever could. ‘I can understand that. I’m sorry if you felt I was criticizing you. It’s been a difficult time for all of us.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It has.’
‘But I hope you can see it from my point of view. I have a reporter right on the spot, right in the middle of it and …’ He gave a small ingratiating laugh. ‘Anyway, let’s not go over all that again. It’s not too late. If you come into the office now, we can still—’
‘I can’t,’ Jess said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I mean I can’t talk right now. Can I call you back?’
‘When?’
‘Soon,’ she said. ‘Half an hour.’ Jess hung up before she said something else she’d regret. Shoving the phone back into her bag, she grabbed a cigarette and lit it. She wished she had the guts to tell him what to do with his point of view but insulting her editor wasn’t going to pay the rent. Still, at least she could have the pleasure of making him sweat for the next thirty minutes.
