Who Killed Ruby?

by Camilla Way

She takes a breath then continues: ‘But the thing is, I think I was wrong back then. I think the wrong man went to prison for Ruby’s murder, and now I need to find out who really killed her.’

  Miranda pauses to take this in, and then she says, ‘I’m so sorry for what you went through. It’s not unheard of for a young child who’s experienced trauma to bury the memory as a form of self-preservation. But I don’t understand what this has to do with me?’

  Viv sits forward and says, ‘Alek told me you practise EMDR?’

  She nods slowly. ‘Yes, I do. Eye Movement Desensitizing and Reprocessing. It works by—’

  Viv interrupts. ‘I read that it can help people remember things they’ve previously buried.’

  Miranda shakes her head. ‘No, that’s not what it’s for at all. The therapy works by helping the patient cope with existing, distressing memories of a traumatic event, it’s not about recalling events they’ve forgotten, you’re talking about two very different things.’

  ‘But it can happen, can’t it?’ Viv persists. ‘I’ve read that it can.’

  Miranda sighs. ‘Look, it’s true that it happens, I have colleagues whose patients have recalled details they’ve previously blocked out, but—’

  ‘Miranda, please help me. I’m desperate. I have to remember what happened that day.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as straightforward as that.’ She looks at Viv with fresh sympathy. ‘You are clearly going through an extremely difficult time with your daughter’s disappearance, I wouldn’t want to introduce this sort of therapy into the midst of such stress.’

  ‘But you’re the only hope I have.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s too risky. I would be happy to help you in the future though. And I very much hope that you find your daughter soon …’

  Viv looks at her, and she understands that, no matter what she says, however long she stays and tries to persuade her, Miranda isn’t going to budge, that she’s just wasting her time. She gets to her feet, grief and despair crashing over her, and without saying anything else turns and leaves.

  It’s freezing in the caravan. Cleo heard the van drive off at least an hour ago, and she has no idea when he might return. She needs to get out, she needs to escape and go home to her mum, but instead she’s sitting here crying. ‘Baby,’ she mutters furiously to herself, scrubbing at her eyes and remembering how her father had told her that she needs to grow up. ‘Stop being such a big baby.’ But though she speaks in a stern brave voice she has to hug herself tightly, her arms around herself as though if she were to let go of her own shaking body it might fall to pieces.

  She gets to her feet and goes to the kitchen area where every surface including the sink is covered in a thick layer of grime. There are two drawers which she opens only to find that they’re both empty. Next she tries the door of the cupboard beneath the sink. It, too, is empty, but she notices how the door wobbles as she moves it, and on closer inspection sees that one of the hinges is half hanging off. It takes only a gentle tug for the two tiny and rusty screws to come loose, and then the thin metal hinge falls into her hand.

  She stares down at it for a second or two before running to the bathroom. There she slides the corner of it carefully into the groove of one of the screws holding the Perspex window in place and finds, with a surge of exhilaration, that it fits. With all her strength she tries to turn it, but the screw won’t budge. ‘Oh God, please,’ she says desperately, ‘please turn!’ She makes another attempt, gripping it so hard that it cuts painfully into her thumb. Still nothing. She tries again and again and again until at last it shifts. ‘Yes!’ Hope and relief explode inside her.

  When she’s home once more, Vivienne sits in the quiet gloom of her living room thinking about Miranda. On impulse she fetches her laptop, opens it and googles EMDR:

  Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing is widely used to help patients suffering from depression and anxiety caused by past trauma. Its high success rate means that it’s fully supported by both NICE and WHO as a means of combatting the symptoms of PTSD. During therapy, the patient is directed to recall the traumatic event while following the left to right movement of a stimulus, for example, a flashing light. This movement replicates the REM period of sleep and by stimulating both hemispheres of the brain the left hemisphere is able to self-soothe the right. By bypassing the part of the brain that has become blocked due to the trauma, new neurological pathways are formed that allow the patient to reprocess the memory in a more healthy way. Gradually the recollection of the event loses its power to distress.

  Viv closes the laptop, feeling none the wiser. She has no idea if such a thing would work on her, but an instinct had told her she could trust Miranda, she’d sensed a sympathy there. And then the realization hits her: the type of therapy is immaterial; the memory of what happened that day is in her mind somewhere, hiding in her subconscious, of that she’s certain, she just has to make the decision to find it. For thirty-two years she has actively avoided thinking about the day Ruby died, an avoidance born purely out of self-preservation. But now she has someone far more important than herself to protect. There could be nothing worse than losing Cleo. And if she’s going to fight through her panic to see what’s on the other side, she wants Miranda there to help her.

  She thinks about Alek. How desperate for money must he have been to do what he did? She remembers how he had talked about his own daughter – had his sadness for her been a fabrication too? Yet he had seemed so sincere when he talked about her. Something about his involvement in Cleo’s disappearance doesn’t add up. Suddenly, and with a jolt of adrenaline, she remembers he had once given her his email address and she flicks through her messages until she finds it. If his phone is turned off to avoid detection by the police, her calls and messages won’t get to him. An email, however, might, assuming he’s anywhere near a computer.

  Quickly she begins to type. I cannot get Cleo back until I remember what happened to my sister. You have to help me, Alek. You have to make Miranda Auerbach help me. I’m not interested in you, or what you’ve done or where you are, but you need to convince Miranda to see me. Otherwise Jack won’t get what he wants, and I will never get Cleo back. Please, Alek, please help me.

  She doesn’t know if she’s appealing to him as a father, as someone who might have cared for her once, or as someone who might not get paid until Jack gets what he wants. All she knows is that she’s desperate enough to try anything, even if it means grovelling to the man who’s helped destroy her life.

  She has no hope of meeting Jack’s deadline now. All she can do is try to reason with him. She picks up her phone and types out her text: I need more time. Please, give me a little longer. I will find out who killed my sister, I promise. I just need one more day.

  His reply comes almost instantly. I warned you.

  Frantically she hits the reply button. I will find out. I will, I promise. Give me a few more hours. Please.

  His next text arrives immediately. Too late, it says.

  There, alone in her kitchen, she shakes her head in disbelief. ‘No,’ she says, ‘No!’

  If you hurt her I’ll tell the police, she types desperately. They’ll find you. They’ll trace your phone. Please don’t hurt her.

  They won’t find me, they’ll never find me. But if you do tell them, I’ll kill her. Your choice.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispers as the sheer horror of his words sink in. ‘Oh please God, no.’

  Cleo doesn’t notice the small black holdall in his hand at first. He doesn’t look at her as he stands at the table and unzips it. It’s only when he meets her gaze that something in his expression makes her look down and see what he’s doing, what he’s pulling from the bag. And she understands then, and her terror is so absolute that she is beyond shouting out, beyond screaming or crying or begging for mercy.

  Instead she squirms away from him, pressing herself into the back of the bench. The low wail escaping from her mouth is unintelligible. She can’t take her
eyes off the meat cleaver in his hand.

  ‘Keep still and this will be over with quickly,’ he tells her. ‘The more you struggle, the longer it’s going to take. If I have to, I will knock you out.’ Without warning, he lunges at her and grabs her chin, holding it tightly, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. ‘Is that what you want?’

  She shakes her head.

  Satisfied, he pulls a piece of rag from his holdall and ties it tightly around her mouth.

  ‘Put your hand into a fist,’ he says. She stares at him in uncomprehending panic. ‘Do it!’ he shouts.

  Whimpering with fear, she does as she’s told. He takes her fist and lies it on the table, pulling out her index finger so it alone points out. Then, pinioning her hand to the table with his own, he raises the cleaver. Instinctively she tries to pull away, but his grip is too strong and the blade falls in one quick movement.

  For three seconds she feels nothing, only stares dumbly at the blood that spurts from the wound where he’s cut it just below the top joint. And then the pain and horror arrive all at once and she is screaming against her gag.

  Without releasing her hand, he puts the cleaver down and picks up a bottle of dark liquid, takes the cap off with his teeth, then pours it over the wound. It fizzes and burns and the pain is excruciating, but the bleeding stops at once. Spots of light flicker at the periphery of her vision, nausea rises in her throat and blank with shock she can only stare dumbly as he gets his phone and takes a photograph of what he’s done: the mutilated finger, its severed tip beside it, the pool of blood. When he’s finished, he takes out a roll of bandage and sets about dressing the wound with the sureness and dexterity of a doctor. ‘Perhaps your mother will do as she’s told now,’ he says.

  18

  Vivienne has not moved since receiving Jack’s last text, staring without blinking at his words, ‘I warned you.’ It is only the thought of his further promise, that he would kill Cleo if she doesn’t do what he wants, that jerks her into action and she picks up her phone and searches for the number of the Bird’s Nest pub.

  There’s a low burble of voices and music when the phone is picked up. ‘Bird’s Nest?’ a woman’s voice says distractedly.

  ‘I need to speak to Carl,’ Viv says.

  ‘Yeah, hold on.’

  The phone clatters on the other end and there’s an agonizing wait until she hears Carl’s cheerful boom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Carl,’ she says, ‘it’s Vivienne Swift.’

  There’s a brief, stunned pause. ‘Oh, hey, I was about to—’

  ‘Listen to me. Did you find out where Declan Fairbanks lives?’

  ‘Are you OK, Viv? I’ve seen the news about your daughter. Couldn’t believe it. I had no idea when you came to see me, I only just put two and two together when I read your name. I’m so sorry—’

  ‘Carl,’ through gritted teeth she tries to keep her voice level as she cuts him off, ‘I need to speak to Declan Fairbanks. Did you find him?’

  ‘Oh, sorry … yeah, well kind of. My aunt seems to think they moved to Southend. She and his wife Linda exchanged Christmas cards for a bit. Apparently, she divorced Declan shortly after they left here.’

  ‘Does your aunt have a phone number for him?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah. Only she can’t remember where it is. She’s eighty-two, love her, and a bit forgetful, but she never chucks anything away, so she’ll have it stashed somewhere, don’t you worry …’

  Viv’s heart sinks. Shit. ‘Southend,’ she prompts. ‘Is that all you know?’ Something occurs to her. ‘Do you know what he did for work?’

  ‘Yeah, Auntie Sue said he was a surveyor, but of course he’d be long retired. Listen, Viv, does Declan have something to do with your daughter going missing? I don’t understand …’

  ‘I can’t explain. But I have to track him down and I need your help. Please, please can you try to find him for me, Carl? It’s extremely important.’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll do my best anyway.’

  ‘Thank you … And, Carl? It’s very urgent.’

  ‘Yes, right, understood. I’ll get on it straight away. But I don’t understand what—’

  ‘Please, as soon as you find out anything, call me back.’

  No sooner has she put the phone down than it bleeps and she picks it up, her heart shooting to her mouth when she sees that it’s another message from Jack. He has sent her a photograph and when her eyes make sense of the horrifying image she gives one low guttural wail of dismay and disbelief before flinging the phone away from her and running to the kitchen where she’s violently sick into the sink. She stands there, gasping in panicked disbelief and when she hears the phone bleep from the other room she runs to it, snatching it up to read the new message:

  You have until this time tomorrow before she dies.

  She must call the police, she should call them this minute … but she doesn’t move. ‘If you tell the police I’ll kill her anyway,’ he’d said. ‘They won’t find me. They’ll never find me.’ She feels instinctively that he’s right. After all, they hadn’t so far. Her one hope is to find Ruby’s real killer, otherwise her daughter will die. She’s standing there, frozen in miserable indecision, when her phone begins to ring. Her first thought is that it’s Carl calling her back, but the number flashing on her screen is a London one she doesn’t recognize. ‘Yes?’ she says when she picks it up.

  ‘This is Miranda Auerbach.’

  Vivienne grips the phone more tightly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I will help you.’

  ‘Oh thank God, thank you,’ she begins to sob.

  There’s a pause, and then, ‘Alek emailed me.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘But … does he—’

  ‘He has nothing to do with your daughter’s disappearance. I believe him. He asked me to help you, and I will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Vivienne cries. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’m leaving now.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be waiting.’

  When Vivienne knocks on her door, Miranda opens it immediately, ushering her through to the same practice room as before. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me,’ Vivienne says when she’s seated in one of the armchairs, Miranda at her desk. It’s dark outside and rain begins to beat against the window. The lamp gives off its soft golden glow.

  Miranda regards Viv frankly. ‘This is obviously a very unusual situation,’ she begins.

  Viv nods. ‘What did Alek say?’

  ‘Not much. I don’t know where he is, or what his … situation is. I only know that he is concerned about you and insistent that I help you.’

  Vivienne wonders bitterly if Alek’s ‘concern’ is down to him not being paid until Jack gets what he wants, but keeps it to herself. Instead, she says simply, ‘I think he helped the man who has my daughter. If you know where he is, you have to tell me – or at least tell the police. My daughter’s life could depend on it.’

  Miranda shakes her head. ‘Vivienne, I have no idea where Alek is, but I’m as certain as I can be that he had no involvement with your daughter’s disappearance. I know Alek well, he’s a deeply troubled man, but he would never hurt a child. Never.’

  She wonders if Miranda is aware of his false identity, whether she might even know what happened to the real Aleksander Petri, but the thought has no sooner entered her head before she dismisses it: it doesn’t matter; she has no time for any of that. Her only concern is Cleo.

  As if reading her thoughts, Miranda puts her hands together, leans forward and says, ‘I said I’d help you. How do you think I might do that?’

  Vivienne is glad of her no-nonsense tone, and, echoing it, says, ‘As I told you earlier, when I was eight years old, my sister Ruby was murdered. I was in the house at the time. I believe the evidence I gave back then put the wrong man in prison. I’ve blanked out most of what happened that day. I need to remember as much as possible, even the smallest detail that
might help me to find out who really killed her.’

  ‘I see.’ She regards Vivienne. ‘And what exactly do you remember?’

  ‘That I was watching TV in the living room when there was a knock on the door. Ruby went to answer it thinking it was Jack, her boyfriend, but it was someone called Morris from the local butcher’s, dropping off something for our mum. Not long after he left, there was another knock on the door and this time it was Jack. Then they went upstairs and they started arguing. I heard Ruby scream, then silence, and Jack ran down the stairs and out of the house. I went up to see if my sister was all right, and … when I found her in her bedroom she was dead.’

  Miranda is silent for a while, then she asks, ‘And what makes you think that those memories are wrong? That someone else might have killed her?’

  ‘Because I’ve never been sure that it’s the truth. I know it’s the story I told the police at the time, but I’ve always had a sense that there was something more, something I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘And what happens when you try to remember?’

  ‘I can only get to a certain point before I start to panic. It’s like a huge weight pressing down on my chest. I can’t breathe, it’s terrifying. It’s impossible to go any further. As a result I’ve spent my entire life avoiding thinking of it.’

  Miranda nods. ‘You were very young, at the time,’ she says. ‘It’s understandable that you buried certain details of the trauma as a coping mechanism.’ She pauses, then says, ‘May I ask, what has your life been like in the intervening years? Do you drink or take drugs, for example, engage in any risky, sexual behaviour …?’

  Vivienne looks back at her impatiently. ‘Sorry, is this necessary? I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time to go through the ins and outs of my life. I only need to remember that day.’

  If Miranda is offended, she doesn’t show it. ‘I understand, but it’s important that I get a sense of you, of how you’ve coped with the weight of Ruby’s death in the years since it happened, and how you typically deal with stress.’

  Viv folds her arms and sighs. ‘I drink too much, always have. I used to be very promiscuous, and had a period when I took far too many recreational drugs. I had a nervous breakdown in my twenties. I still have frequent nightmares, in which I open the door to my sister’s room to see her murderer standing over her body, though I never see who that person is.’ She looks at Miranda. ‘When I wake I have the sense that the nightmare is what really happened, that I really did see Ruby’s killer that day, and that the story I told the police is not completely accurate.’