by Sarah Hilary
Fran nodded. ‘Esther Reid confessed to killing her three children. She was diagnosed as suffering from PPP and ordered to be detained at a psychiatric hospital for treatment.’ She touched the foil strip. ‘Where did you find these?’ she repeated.
Marnie put the pills aside with her hand. ‘Forget about the haloperidol for a minute. Tell me about Esther Reid. How much do you know about PPP?’
‘Not much, but I did some research while you were on your way over.’ Fran pulled up a page of notes on her laptop. ‘One in seven women suffers from sudden postnatal depression. One in five hundred gets post-partum psychosis, or PPP. Hallucinations, paranoia, voices inciting them to murder, telling them their baby is evil, or else it’s the new messiah and everyone around them wants to harm it. Sometimes they believe the baby has supernatural healing powers and can survive anything.’
She paused, pulling at her fingers as if removing gloves, a gesture Noah had seen before when Fran was upset. ‘Suicide due to PPP is the biggest cause of death in new mothers. Every year at least ten die because of it. They were tracking the stats until 2008, when the government decided to cut funding.’
‘Is there really no cure?’ Noah asked.
‘It’s entirely curable if it’s treated properly. That’s one of the tragedies. But so many women are afraid of admitting to their symptoms. Many will have suffered depression as teenagers or young women, so they’ll be familiar with that stigma, the way treatment involves judgement. It shouldn’t, but it does. And they’re terrified of having their children taken away. Suicide starts to look like the only way out, and the worst part? These women never choose a peaceful method. Only in rare cases do they overdose and “go to sleep”. Most of the time the deaths are violent. They drink bleach, or hang themselves, or jump from high buildings. They set fire to themselves. These are mostly well-educated, well-off women and they die horrible, agonising deaths.’
‘And they kill their babies,’ Marnie said.
Fran nodded. ‘Sometimes, yes, they do.’
‘But there are pills,’ Marnie nodded at the foil strip, ‘that can treat the symptoms.’
‘If you take them. Lots of women are afraid to, especially if they’re breast-feeding.’
‘But in that case,’ Noah protested, ‘the symptoms would be obvious, wouldn’t they? Someone would notice that something was wrong.’
Fran shook her head. ‘Most women learn to hide them. They know that if they’re suspected of harming their babies, then the children will be taken away. So the condition becomes entrenched, harder to treat. It’s a vicious circle.’
‘Vicious,’ Marnie agreed. She frowned at the strip of pills. ‘Why would someone stop taking her medication if she was aware of the risks?’
‘Because she isn’t thinking logically or she doesn’t understand the risks, or, most likely, because she’s worried about the danger to her baby. If she’s pregnant again, say, or breast-feeding. Toxic contamination sounds frightening. Nothing like being made to choose between your sanity and your baby’s health.’
‘Supernatural powers …’ Noah looked at the death reports. ‘You said sometimes these women believe their children can survive anything.’
Fran pulled at her fingers again. ‘Yes …’
‘The way they were put away, Fred and Archie, in that bunker. Hidden. As if to make them safe. Maybe they were never meant to die. Maybe Esther put them down there thinking they could survive, because she thought they could survive anything.’
‘She confessed to their murders,’ Marnie said. ‘She lied about how they died, said that they were drowned like their sister. She drowned their baby sister.’
Noah looked at Fran. ‘There’s no doubt she did it?’
‘None that I could find, but I’ve only just started looking. You’ll be able to get better answers than me. I can’t even tell you where Esther Reid is now.’
Marnie looked at her. ‘You said she was sent to a psychiatric prison.’
‘She was paroled, a couple of weeks ago.’
Noah’s skin squirmed in protest. ‘Three counts of manslaughter and she’s out already?’
‘Based on her successful treatment,’ Fran said with only a hint of irony, ‘yes, she is.’
‘And recently,’ Marnie said. ‘So the prison database must have an address.’
‘I looked for a record of Esther Reid in the system, and there’s nothing current. Nothing I could find, anyway.’ Fran paused. ‘The women I read about who survived PPP but served time for killing their children? Ended up with new identities when they were released.’
‘So Esther Reid could be someone else by now?’
‘Very possibly, yes.’
‘Out, and with a new identity … She could have left the peaches. She could have been back to the crime scene. Is that what we’re saying?’
Fran put her hands up. ‘I’m just saying she might not be Esther Reid any more, and good luck getting the new identity from the system. Last time I had to do that – and we’re talking about a corpse here – it was like wrestling a greased weasel.’
‘Esther’s in the Old Testament,’ Noah said. ‘She was an exiled Jewess.’
Fran looked bemused, so Marnie explained: ‘We think we know where to find Esther’s mother. Connie Pryce. She was living near Blackthorn Road before the houses went up. A neighbour remembered her daughter having an Old Testament name. He also remembered her grandchildren, Fred and Archie.’ She glanced at Noah. ‘Denis didn’t mention Louisa?’
Noah shook his head. ‘Just Fred and Archie.’
‘And how quickly Connie left … Overnight, wasn’t it?’ Marnie looked at Fran. ‘Connie went with the travellers who were living over the bunkers.’
‘You don’t think Connie knew the boys were down there?’
‘If she hadn’t gone so suddenly … Why didn’t she stay and help her daughter through the trial, the treatment? She ran away, and we need to know when, and why.’
Marnie turned to Noah. ‘What else did Walton tell you about Connie’s daughter?’
‘Just that she worked for Ian Merrick. She and Connie fought about the development.’
‘Merrick’s the man who built the houses over the bunkers,’ Fran said. ‘So Esther could have known about the bunkers. Yes, I see. It’s less clear why she lied about how Fred and Archie died, although I suspect you’re right.’ She nodded at Noah. ‘She thought she was putting them somewhere safe. Maybe she did imagine they could survive down there.’
‘The police stopped looking for them because she lied,’ Marnie said. ‘If she’d told the truth, it might not have been too late. Why didn’t she tell the police where to find them? After they’d arrested her, after they’d found Louisa. When it was all over for her and she knew she couldn’t get back to the bunker to feed them, or take care of them. Why didn’t she tell the police where they were?’
Fran shook her head. ‘In that state of psychosis? She wouldn’t have been lucid. If she thought the boys were superhuman, all-powerful … She was keeping them safe, inside the bunker. The danger was telling someone else where to find them. I doubt she was rational enough to realise they’d starve without food. She probably believed they didn’t even need oxygen. They were her little gods, her miracles.’
But she was cured now, otherwise they wouldn’t have released her.
Noah tried to imagine how that must have felt for Esther Reid, the moment in her treatment when she came upright enough to realise what she’d done, burying her boys alive.
‘What about her husband. Matthew Reid. Might he know where she is now?’
‘I couldn’t find him in the system either,’ Fran said. ‘Hopefully you’ll have more luck.’
‘What I want to know,’ Marnie said, ‘is how Esther’s pills ended up in a house that wasn’t built when she buried her sons down there.’
‘If these are her pills,’ Fran said. ‘We don’t have a prescription.’
‘They were hidden in a bag that Clancy Brand t
ook from Blackthorn Road.’
‘You think he found them? Took them from the bunker? We know someone had been down there recently. But why would Esther leave pills she was no longer taking in the bunker with her boys? That makes no sense.’
‘None of this makes sense.’ Marnie looked angry, and sad. ‘There’s the tin of peaches, too. Who left those? If it was Esther, why? As a gift, or as a warning? Why risk her parole by going back there? And straight away, within a fortnight of being released … That smells like planning to me. What’s she up to?’
She stood. ‘We need to find Esther Reid.’
46
We took the train to Slough. Right to the edge of our parole perimeter. Any closer and we’d be in violation. That word’s playing in my head like violins: violation.
We’re in violation, Esther and I.
The windows on the train have two layers of glass, giving us twin reflections.
We take up a table seat for four. No one wants to sit next to us, as if we’ve created our own force field, repelling all boarders.
We’re growing, and it scares me. But I’m excited, too.
From the window of the train, we watch the river running away to London. The tracks swing us close then suck us back, as if subject to the Thames’s tides. The world’s seen a lot of rain since we were last out. The river is swollen all the way to Slough, like a belt that’s been doubled into a strap. I think of her little body in that tide, pushed and pulled. The thought brings the strap down on to my back and drives a knife into my chest.
The river looked so gentle that morning. It was like lying her down on a bed of brown silk. If I concentrate, I can see her face, smiling up at me. She doesn’t haunt me like the boys.
Fred and Archie would never have gone into the water the way she did, quietly and with a smile. Archie would’ve dived in after his baby sister. He had bravery in spades. They both did, such fierce boys. Archie would’ve fought Esther, if I’d let him.
The train runs parallel to the river for a moment, so close I can see my face in its swollen back. I think about the fisherman who found her.
Esther and I didn’t just hurt the children, you see. There were so many other people involved. The fisherman who found Louisa. The jury who convicted us. Connie, and Matthew, and all their friends. I sometimes think about that boy, Saul Weller, who fought with Archie until they became best friends. And now this new family, the ones living in the house that Ian built, over the bunkers. The ones who found Fred and Archie.
It’s in the papers. It can’t be long now before they piece it together and pick up the phone to the parole board. We’ll be back inside soon. But not before we’ve taken our proper punishment. Not before we’ve looked into the mirror.
Lyn gave us an uptight farewell, one last volley of shots: ‘Be-kind-to-yourself-and-take-care.’ Rat-a-tat-tat.
Be kind to yourself.
Why, I wanted to ask, with what purpose?
Perhaps I should feel pity for our plight. Thrown out of the place that was keeping us safe, chucked to the wolves of real life. Sharp objects and tall buildings, rivers and bridges and cheap aspirin and razor blades. The public gaze.
Mirrors, everywhere.
How are we going to survive this?
Perhaps – oh, this is clever, this is brilliant – perhaps this is our punishment.
47
Ron said, ‘Shit. Shit.’ He swung a fist at the whiteboard, making it rattle.
Debbie covered her mouth with her hand, eyes glassy with tears.
Marnie said, ‘We need a photograph of Esther Reid. We need dates for her arrest, for her confession and her trial. I want the name of the arresting officer, and the psychiatrist who treated her in prison. We need to know where and who and what Esther Reid is now.’
‘Who?’ Ron echoed.
‘We think she has a new identity. She’s been rehabilitated.’
‘Why’re we even looking, if she’s done her time?’
‘Because someone left this,’ Marnie set the tin of peaches on the desk, ‘outside the Doyles’ house, last night or early this morning. If it was Esther, it’s a breach of her parole. She lied about the deaths. She said the boys drowned. We need to interview her about that.’
‘We’re going to charge her with new offences?’ Debbie said. ‘When she’s just been released?’
‘If she’s committed any, yes.’
‘Shit,’ Ron repeated. He looked beaten.
‘We have names for the boys. Archie and Fred Reid. Put them on the board. And find a picture of Esther Reid.’
Marnie understood the team’s despondency. They’d imagined they were chasing a psychopath, a paedophile or worse. All the time they’d been looking for the boys’ mother, driven mad by her body’s reaction to giving birth; one of nature’s sicker tricks. Perhaps the boys had suffered less than they would have done at the hands of the monster they’d all imagined, but it was so desperately sad.
Marnie wasn’t sure she didn’t prefer their earlier theory to this terrible reality.
She tapped the tin of peaches, looking across at Debbie. ‘How are you getting on with the press? Has anyone sent in photos they took of the crowd yesterday?’
‘Not yet. A couple have said they’ll cooperate, but I’m already getting excuses about press freedom thrown at me …’
‘Stick at it. Noah, you and Ron found a website that sells these tins? See if you can get customer records for recent orders in the London area. What do we have on Connie Pryce?’
‘Council records are coming,’ Noah said, ‘for the flat. I’ve asked for the date she moved out, and anything else they have.’
‘Good. Find out about Esther’s other relations, and her friends. Anyone she might have gone to when they let her out. Her parole officer should have what we need. Ron, where’re you up to with the travellers?’
‘About here.’ Carling held the flat of his hand to his eyes. ‘They might be on a site near Heathrow. I was going to take a recce in that direction this morning.’
‘Let’s wait until we have a photo of Esther, and some dates. If she was released into Connie’s care, then we’ll want to come with you.’ Marnie nodded at Noah. ‘After we’ve been back to see what Ian Merrick wasn’t telling us the first time round.’
• • •
The Isle of Dogs was deserted. No workmen on-site, Merrick’s mobile office locked and empty. It was like seeing a school playground after dark, the whole shape of the place altered by the absence of people. ‘Where is everyone?’ Noah wondered.
‘UXB stops play?’ Marnie stepped out of the way of a chip wrapper breezing towards them. She took out her phone and called the station, asking the team to get hold of Merrick.
‘Do you think he lied to us?’ Noah said.
‘It looks that way. Either Esther found out about the bunkers and didn’t tell him, or they both knew the bunkers were never filled in. If he got the land cheap, cut corners … Didn’t Denis Walton say the houses were thrown up? Then I imagine Merrick knew. If Esther was working for him, and she knew?’ Marnie shrugged. ‘He knew.’
‘D’you think he lied about more than just the bunkers? He must’ve known Esther was arrested, and for what. We told him we’d found the bodies of two little children down there. He could have put two and two together. Maybe he did put two and two together.’
‘And decided it was best to keep his mouth shut? Maybe.’
They were quiet for a moment, standing in the empty chill of the site.
Noah broke the silence by asking, ‘Does it matter?’
Marnie pushed her hair from her face, knotting it at the nape of her neck. ‘Because Esther was punished? Because her children are dead and there’s no killer to catch? It matters.’
‘The tin of peaches,’ Noah deduced. ‘If Esther left them … Why? Why would she go back? There’s nothing there for her.’
‘Nothing obvious,’ Marnie said. The wind whipped her hair loose again. She narrowed her eyes against the st
ing of it. ‘Come on. Let’s talk to Fergus Gibb.’
‘The fisherman who found Louisa? Can he give us anything we don’t already know?’
’Maybe not, but if I was Esther Reid? I’d want to go back to where I last saw my children alive. We’ve been concentrating on the bunker, but perhaps she’s been to the river too. The place she put Louisa. The place she said she put the boys. I want to see it.’
48
The river moved reluctantly, resisting the tug of the tide. A long bank led to the road where Marnie had parked.
Slippery mud hauled at their boots as she and Noah made their way to the water’s edge. She didn’t know how the fishermen stopped their camping stools from sinking into it. Three men were fishing, their lines in the water, hooded yellow oilcloths worn to keep the damp out. The mud was like the river, hungry, belching at their boots. The sound rose from deep inside the wide muscle of water coiling across London, carrying God knows what out to sea.
Fergus Gibb hadn’t been down here by the water in five years. Not since he found the body of a baby girl floating in a polystyrene box.
‘The kind they pack fish in,’ he’d told Marnie and Noah, ‘for market. You find all sorts washing up there. It wasn’t the first time I’d found something that shouldn’t have been in the river. But it was the worst time. She was so,’ he framed a foot with his hands, ‘small.’
‘We’re sorry,’ Marnie said, ‘for making you go through this again.’
‘Never stop going through it,’ Fergus replied. ‘Not a day goes by. I gave up the fishing, can’t even walk the dog by the river now.’ The dog was at his feet, grizzled chin tucked into its paws. ‘Time was I’d have said you couldn’t lose anything in the river, not for long. The mud’s like a magnet, but it sends everything back up eventually. We used to joke it was the best place to lose a pound, and the worst place to bury a corpse. The river sends it all back up.’ He leaned to put a hand on the dog’s head. ‘Not the boys, though.’
The river had sent back Louisa Reid. It hadn’t returned her brothers, Fred and Archie, because it’d never had them.
