‘Aren’t you angry with her?’ I asked him. ‘For not telling them about the … affair? It could have changed things?’
He was silent for a moment, and then he said it very quietly.
‘I am angry, but not because she hasn’t got me out of here. That’s up to the lawyers. But she kissed her own mother, slept with her own mother. How can I get my head around that? I can’t. But you know, Krissie, it’s the betrayal that makes me angry most of all. I thought she was mine. I thought we were for ever.’
Once, when I was tiny, I felt this kind of connection with someone: the same thoughts, the same feelings, at the same time as me. It was my friend Sarah, we were only wee, and it only happened for the briefest of times, but I still remembered it. Sarah, the beautiful friend I’d lost two years back. The words that had come from her mouth as we played with her doll in my garden had been my words, as were Jeremy’s now, and I felt right into him, and he into me.
Shit, I was crying. I was apologising and telling him that Chas had left me. I was sitting with a remand prisoner in Sandhill crying, and before I knew it Jeremy was holding my hand and looking into my eyes and saying thank you, thank you, for being the only one he could talk to, be with.
‘And don’t worry about Billy Mullen,’ he said. ‘That’s all sorted out now. Just hold on to the stuff for a while and I’ll let you know what to do with it.’
And when I finally stopped my tears, he added, ‘But I do wonder why no one saw her on that train.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Amanda. She drops off her hire car in Oban and then gets the train to Glasgow. She does this four-hour trip, walks home, and no one sees her. It’s just strange.’
44
Amanda Amanda Amanda Amanda, I thought as I drove back to work.
She’d done it.
She’d sought out the woman who abandoned her, angry. Seduced her, took her to the hills and killed her. She’d even managed to set up her poor husband, transferring his nail gunk from the manicure tools to Bridget’s nails.
By the time I found a parking place outside my building, I had devised a very clever plan. I was going to use an unorthodox ingenious method that may one day be labelled the Donald Technique.
*
But not yet. The office was buzzing with emergencies. I started to realise criminal-justice social work was easily as stressful as child care. Deadlines and angry men weighed on me constantly. I rarely saw my colleagues, or my boss. New cases and new reports appeared in my pigeonhole each morning and I fumbled through each day the best I could.
After an afternoon of such fumbling, I walked into the Pine Tree Unisex Hairdressing Salon to confront Amanda.
‘Did you kill Bridget?’
This was my ploy, an underused one I considered: to get to know the suspect very well, then look them directly in the eye and ask them.
Unfortunately, Amanda had just sipped an over-boiled Costa latte, which sprayed me in the face and really hurt.
‘Get out! Get the fuck out of here!’
Her boss joined in. ‘You’re crazy! Get out!’
I backed out of the salon, Amanda following me angrily.
‘Do you know what happened to her?’ she yelled as I retreated, embarrassed and ashamed, to my car.
‘It was a fucking monster.’ Amanda’s voice began to soften. She leant against the window of the salon and slid down it, crying. ‘A monster.’
All right, I thought, squatting down beside her, my hand on her shoulder. So maybe she didn’t do it, and maybe she’d already gone through all this with the police, but why had no one seen her on the train?
‘Why did no one see you on the train?’ I asked (unable to let go of the ridiculous Donald Technique idea above).
‘I told you,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘I cried in the loo the entire time.’
‘But you bought a ticket?’
‘There was no one at the station, and like I said, I sat in the loo. I didn’t not buy one deliberately; I just couldn’t get myself out of that space.’
‘But you did eventually, at Central station.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, someone must have seen you, going home, or when you got there?’
‘Why am I fucking talking to you?’ She flicked my hand from her shoulder and stood up, angry again. ‘Why won’t you go away? I was distraught. I walked home, snuck in the back door, and slept all day. Well, I didn’t sleep, I lay there and cried.’
‘I’m sorry for upsetting you,’ I said, standing up. ‘I know I’m a bit weird. I just want to be logical. I want to help Jeremy.’
‘Why are you so interested in Jeremy? Why are you spending so much time asking me questions when you should be trying to fix your own life?’
‘CCTV,’ I said. One of my probationers had been done for police assault in Central Station. Swore blind he didn’t do it, till he saw himself on camera kicking the plain-clothed cop in the head, four times. ‘Did they check for you?’
‘No, because I’m not a fucking suspect. You’re the only idiot who seems to think I am.’
*
‘Just a little favour?’ I said to Bond, whose direct line I was phoning yet again, and I realised that I was getting the hang of this job, that this was the way it worked. Be nice to people, get their numbers, talk, tell them stuff, the more information the better. It could really come in handy, and it had, because now he was going to do something for me.
‘You shouldn’t be asking me this,’ he said.
‘I can bring biscuits,’ I begged.
‘Ice cream,’ he said, so I made my way over to the station via the Derby Café.
We hadn’t finished our oyster wafers with raspberry sauce when she came out of the 0830 from Oban clear as day. Red eyes, forlorn and exhausted, dragging her small backpack alongside her and slipping past the turnstile while the ticket inspectors were looking the other way.
‘She didn’t pay!’ said Bond.
‘So nail the bitch!’ I said, tossing the remains of my ice cream into the bin.
*
I felt bad when I rang Amanda. She had been my friend, as much as I knew she shouldn’t have been, and yet I had suspected her. But not any more. She was already on the train when Bridget died at 0900.
‘I know I was on the fucking train,’ Amanda said, and hung up.
*
On the way home, I dropped in on Mrs Bagshaw. She let me in, and returned to the half-smoked cigarette on the table. At least fifty butts indicated she’d been sitting in that position for some time, looking at the river, waiting.
‘Have one,’ she said, and over the next hour I realised that this was a woman who had both dosh and arrogance, who did not answer questions just because they were asked. She told me nothing. She didn’t know Amanda, had only met her once, hadn’t seen her in Glasgow because she’d wanted it that way, a secret. Yes, that’s Bella, in the garden at Oxford. She’d be twenty-four tomorrow.
I’d come to beg her to tell the truth about Jeremy’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.
‘He was with you, wasn’t he?’ I prompted.
Mrs Bagshaw was silent for a while, and then threw me a cold stare that made me shiver.
‘I am almost ready to forgive him,’ she said.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
45
I collected Robbie, went home, and soaked him in for a while. As he laughed at the video he was watching, I found myself marvelling at his simplicity, and praying that he would grow up to be happier than me.
I was desperately sad. I missed Chas. I wanted him. Where the hell was he?
With Robbie in bed, I couldn’t help reaching for the bottle of wine that I couldn’t help buying on the way home from work.
I wiped the blackboard clean and poured another glass. The Hamish column, the Kelly one, the Amanda one, the Jeremy one, then the Rachel one, which was the only column with nothing in it. I stopped myself. Rachel.
*
&n
bsp; ‘Rachel McGivern,’ I said to the duty social worker in Stirling first thing Monday morning. I’d had no sleep that weekend and no quality time with Robbie. It was a shit time, wishing Chas would phone me or turn up, putting my boy in front of too many videos while I drank either red wine or soluble Anadin.
‘She’s eighteen, not sure of her birthday,’ said the duty social worker.
‘Oh aye, here she is …’ She tapped on the computer. ‘Not allocated, but there was a report once, to the children’s hearing. Let me see. A fight with another girl. She was fifteen, had a knife, outside the school. There was no further action. The case was closed.’
‘Could you fax me the report?’ I asked.
‘Sure.’
Everyone was in the office. Robert, who was reading out bits of the report he was writing …
‘When asked if he had molested her on the train,’ he read, ‘Mr Jones replied that he had merely attempted to disembark … “I tried to get aff, but she was a fat bastard!” he informed the writer.’
Penny didn’t laugh, being on the large and bastardy side herself.
But Danny did, and I saw this momentary lapse in shut-off-ness as an opportunity to apologise, at last.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Interfering with you.’
‘That’s all right. Jesus, how much did you have?’
‘A couple of bottles of this and that. I hadn’t really had any for two years, shouldn’t have. Do I have an alcohol problem, do you think? Am I one of the social-work casualties?’
‘If I said to you that you can’t have one tonight would you feel panicky?’
‘No.’
‘Then you don’t.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you do.’
‘I’m not going to have one tonight.’
‘Good idea.’
I sighed, panicky already, and then walked to the fax machine.
On the way, I spotted the elusive Hilary, finally back at work. She was in her office, looking deadly serious as she spoke on the phone.
The report slid out of the fax machine and I devoured it in reception. Rachel McGivern, truant, offender. Ran away from home continually in early teens, mother reported drinking episodes and anger problems. Rachel herself argued simply that her mother didn’t care, that she was obsessed with work and other things. The report concluded that it was attention-seeking behaviour, that there was enough openness, support and determination to resolve matters, and that statutory measures were not required.
Nothing new. Except that Rachel was always an angry, jealous girl who craved her mother’s attention, who had carried an offensive weapon before, and who had a history of violence.
46
I was a genius investigator. If investigating were my job, I would be promoted. I would be given a bigger car and a more powerful gun and an easily impressed partner. If investigating were my job.
It all became so clear. Rachel, the angry mother-hater, was more put out than anyone at the arrival of this new family member.
I did a risk assessment using assessment tools I’d not yet been trained in using – LSI-R, RA1-4, GUT-FEELING-313b – and it all added up. Rachel was at least at medium risk of violent re-offending, I reckoned – past history, alcohol abuse, suspected drug use, suspended from school twice, poor relationship with her mother, mates who’d been in court, unemployed … the list went on.
I rang the solicitor’s office.
‘Have you checked out Rachel McGivern?’ I blurted. ‘She has a history of violence.’
‘Listen,’ the lawyer said, excited. ‘He’s on the scraper, in the wee bit at the end. There’s loads of him, and loads of her.’
Bingo.
‘You are a genius!’ the lawyer said. ‘But that’s not all. This morning, Mrs Bagshaw came through with it. She rang an hour ago. Said you convinced her.’
‘Really?’
At this point I noticed that Danny, who had been listening to me with a worried look on his face, had been beckoned into Hilary’s office.
‘Aye,’ said the solicitor. ‘After she was discharged from hospital, he spent all night and all morning at her house. Jeremy couldn’t have killed her. He was four hundred miles away. I’ll have him out by the end of the day … He’s asked if you could collect him. I’ll pass on your concerns about Rachel, but leave it to the police, eh?’
‘What are you doing?’ came a hard-as-nails voice. I looked up to find Hilary hovering over me angrily.
‘Say goodbye,’ she said with none of that feathery-soft jargon bullshit she’d used when we first met.
‘Come to my office now.’
My face was burning as I walked past Danny, Penny and Robert and into Hilary’s office. Hilary slammed the door behind us.
‘Just had a nice chat with PC Wilkinson.’
‘Bond?’
‘Wilkinson. He mentioned you’ve been working as a private detective. And Danny tells me that was a defence lawyer on the phone just now.’
‘I …’ She didn’t let me continue. She had lots to say, including the following: I was unprofessional, naïve, silly, making an idiot of myself, who did I think I was, she could investigate me for misconduct but she wasn’t going to. What she was going to do instead was limit my caseload to road traffic offences for six months. Till I realised who I was and that it was not my place to play fucking homicide detective.
‘But he was innocent. Because of me he’s getting out.’
‘It’s not your job or your concern. You can get yourself into serious trouble crossing the line like you have. Tell me, why did you became a social worker, Krissie?’
‘What?’
‘Why did you do social work? You’re a straight-A student. First-class honours degree in history. Why social work?’
‘Why not?’ was my response.
I knew what she was asking. Did I think I was too clever for the job? Was I using social work as some kind of therapy, as a quest for justice because some bastard had abused me and poor Sarah? I knew what she was asking because I’d heard the same questions banging around in my head sometimes. If I’m honest, the answer to both questions was yes.
‘You have a lot to learn, Krissie,’ said Hilary.
Blimey. Numbed the good news of Jeremy’s release a bit. Not so much as a thank you for being a genius investigator, a saver of the universe, for rescuing Jeremy from ten years behind bars, from being beaten by large hairy men with scars and fists, for saving Amanda from a life without the love of her life.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But he’s expecting me to collect him.’
‘After that I have three court reports for you – all of them for driving with no insurance.’
*
When I sat down at my desk, Danny made a kind of apology. ‘She asked me and I just told her I was worried about you. It’s not your fault. You’ve had no training or support at all through this.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Penny kindly. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
Farty woman. Posh huffy old bird. As she held out her hand to offer her support, I realised that she had the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. If I was a client, it’d be her I’d want to talk to.
‘I’d love one,’ I said, and it was the most comforting cup of tea I’ve ever had.
*
When I phoned Amanda afterwards, she didn’t swear at me for a change. She was excited, thankful and apologetic.
‘Do you want a lift to the prison?’ I asked her. ‘I’ll call as soon as we know what time they’ll be letting him out.’
Next I phoned Mrs Bagshaw to ask her if she wanted me to take her too. She was as odd as ever. ‘Yes, I told the police he was with me. I am ready to forgive him now. I’ve asked them not to tell him I confirmed his alibi, because I want to surprise him here, at the apartment. Don’t tell him yet. Would you bring him here, Krissie? I’ve made his favourite meal – you reme
mber? I can’t face the prison, but I still want to surprise him.’
‘I’ll drop him off as soon as he’s out,’ I promised, shaking my head at her persistent weirdness.
*
I drove to Mum and Dad’s for lunch. It’s funny, when you have good or bad news, you need to tell everyone immediately, as if saying it over and over makes it real, somehow. But when I got to Mum and Dad’s I realised that this news wasn’t real to them, it had nothing to do with them, me either really, and so it became less exciting by the second.
‘You need to make up with Chas,’ Dad said over stew.
‘I think he’s with someone called Madeleine,’ I said.
It was like taking home a trophy won gloriously, before crowds. I had helped Jeremy, helped Amanda, but now I was home and all I had was a bowl of stew. I was miserable.
Even Robbie looked miserable. ‘Potion!’ he said in between swear words, and I tried to mix flour with fairy liquid and be excited about it, but he could tell it wasn’t really magic potion, wouldn’t really give the fairies faster wings, that it was just soap and flour and very messy, and we both sighed at each other in Mum and Dad’s kitchen and wished for two weeks ago.
Mum and Dad felt almost as bad. They loved Chas as much as they loved me, and him being with someone else hurt them the same. But they couldn’t believe it – he was their boy, their lovely Chas, the best thing to have ever been in their daughter’s life.
‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked.
‘I keep seeing them together. Since the party, when I kissed Danny, he’s been with her, putting roses in her hair, telling her she’s his best friend and his light, and I heard them kissing.’
‘Heard them kissing?’ (Mum’s moment of hope)
My Last Confession Page 16
