by Grace Lowrie
The sound was even more beautiful than I’d imagined and instantly brought a lump to my throat, while my body burned with the need to hold her. A female officer was trying to lead her away, but Mel stood firm with her fists clenched at her sides, her beautiful grey eyes determined and locked on mine. ‘It was me – I killed him,’ she said.
Chapter Fifty-eight
They swept me away in the back of a patrol car to the police station where they photographed, swabbed and printed me and took away my clothes. I sat in an ugly, over-sized, grey marl tracksuit, in a small, featureless room, on an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair, at a table with three strangers. Nothing seemed real. But I opened my mouth and I told them everything.
I started by describing my life at Wildham Hall and the fact that Gregory spent most of his time abroad, and then skipped ahead to my relationship with Liam and the events of the past week. When I mentioned the proof I’d discovered of my abduction, it materialised on the tabletop in front of me, each item neatly labelled and sealed inside clear plastic bags for me to identify. I spoke about wanting to kill Gregory; about contemplating poison; loading cartridges into the rifle and sharpening the letter-opener on his desk. I told them how I made him cry, made him confess, called him a coward, broke his nose, and then let him go upstairs alone... and I described the horror we found next.
I had no idea where my voice had miraculously come from – I didn’t recognise the sound and it felt more like vomiting up words than speaking – but I needed to get it all out. For the most part DI Fletcher, and the other people in that room – a female police officer and a duty solicitor – simply let me talk and talk and talk for hours, with barely any interruption.
I was exhausted by the time I’d finished; my mouth dry and my throat raw. The female officer took me to a cell where I curled up on my side on a hard bed, too drained and numb to cry or worry or even think, and simply fell asleep.
Several hours later I was woken and delivered back to the same interview room, where I retook my seat across from DI Fletcher, apprehensive about what he might say. This man with his pock-marked skin, receding hairline and penetrating eyes, could feasibly have me locked away for good, or even worse; have Liam locked up. Strong, gentle, loving Liam. Thoughts of him filled my head, blurring my vision and choking my airway. In that moment I could only hope and pray that I’d said enough to keep him safe.
‘It’s clear to me that you are the victim in all this, Melody. Your fingerprints confirm that you are indeed Melanie Crowe; the girl who went missing in July sixteen years ago. We could find only minor traces of the deceased’s blood on you, and so far all the evidence backs up what you’ve told us.’ Slipping a pair of reading glasses out of his breast pocket, he perched them on his nose and flipped open a file. I recognised an upside-down photograph of Cornelia clipped to the first page.
‘Cornelia Sinclair’s medical records suggest that she suffered from various mental disorders all her life, and that she did indeed have several miscarriages in the years before she committed suicide. It seems highly probable that it was she who abducted you, but without any witness testimonies that may be difficult to prove.’
I wanted Fletcher to stop talking, but the words, the voice, that had come to me so easily the day before, had gone back into hiding.
‘So far our investigation into Gregory Sinclair suggests that he too was a disturbed character. He had a chequered childhood – I won’t go into all the details, but he was almost certainly a victim of abuse himself – and we have evidence that points to more than one instance of fraud...’
I missed a lot of what the detective was saying, as my mind grappled with everything that had happened. Closing my eyes I tried to take deep breaths, silently wishing this could all be over.
‘... It’s safe to say Sinclair had a lot to hide, not just your abduction, and he’d have known that once you reported and exposed him, it would all come out. Faced with that prospect it’s possible he was motivated to commit suicide... but either way, we are ruling you out for his murder.’
As I studied the detective’s expression, I hardly dared to believe what he was saying.
‘It’s understandable that you wanted to hurt him, Melody, but we don’t believe you are actually to blame for his death.’
‘And Liam?’ I croaked.
‘I’m afraid preliminary forensics are more damning where Mr Hunt is concerned. He has a history of violence and he certainly has motive. He’ll remain in custody until we’ve established whether or not he should be tried for murder.’
I stared at him. ‘But he’s innocent; he didn’t do anything; I’ve told you!’
Fletcher closed the file, removed his spectacles and pushed them back into his pocket. ‘We’re releasing you today without charge. Is there anyone you’d like us to call for you? Someone who could bring you a change of clothes or—’
‘I’m not leaving here without Liam.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Melody, your parents – Carol and Stephen Crowe – have been informed that you’ve been found – they’re on their way here now...’
‘I don’t want to see them,’ I said. They might be my flesh and blood but they were strangers to me, and the idea of having to face them now, while Liam was still locked up, was too much.
‘You don’t have to see them, of course; that’s your right, but they’ve waited a long time to find you... surely they deserve to see for themselves that you are alive and well...?’
I stared down at my hands in my lap. I’d never felt less alive and well. I wanted to crawl into the warmth and safety of Liam’s arms and sleep for a year.
‘Obviously we can arrange for you to speak to a counsellor first – that’s standard procedure in cases like these...’
I wished he’d shut up. I didn’t want to be a case, I just wanted Liam back.
‘And I should warn you – we’ve taken precautions, but even so – there’s a good chance the press will get wind of your story sooner or later and they’ll want statements, interviews...’
I shook my head, desperately trying to tune out what he was saying. ‘I only want to see Liam, no-one else, just Liam...’
He started to speak again and I covered my ears with my hands, squeezed my eyes shut and began humming loudly, aware that I was finally losing it.
Chapter Fifty-nine
What on earth had possessed her? Why had Mel confessed to a murder that she clearly didn’t commit? When I think back to all the times when she should have used her voice – to defend herself or to call for help, like when she almost drowned in the lake for example, and instead of screaming she’d stayed resolutely mute – and now she’d finally spoken up only to incriminate herself. Would I ever understand the eccentricities of Mel’s mind?
The nightmarish process at the police station seemed to go on forever – the prying, the prodding, the poking and the relentless questions; the same information repeated over and over again, approached and re-hashed a hundred different ways. Yes I loved Melody, and yes we were both angry and upset about what Sinclair had done to her; but no, we didn’t kill him.
I was confident they wouldn’t find my prints on that letter-opener, I hadn’t touched it, but would they find Mel’s? Would that be enough to charge her? Surely not. Even so the situation looked bad. People didn’t just suddenly slit their own throats – slaughter themselves like animals – did they? I wouldn’t have even thought it possible if I hadn’t seen the evidence with my own eyes. Statistically speaking it couldn’t be a common method of suicide, you’d have to be pretty crazy to even try it, and yet, he had, the stupid bastard. Was Sinclair deliberately hoping to frame us? My only hope was that the autopsy and blood analysis results would support the truth.
Yesterday they’d granted me a phone call and I’d used it to call my brother. He was shocked to say the least, but he’d contacted Will Cranston, our family solicitor, on my behalf, who in turn had provided a clean set of clothes, a toothbrush and two packaged sandwiches, along
with his legal advice.
But I was more worried about Mel than myself. They wouldn’t tell me anything about what was happening to her. I had no desire to end up in jail, but at least I was physically big and strong enough to look after myself. Mel was so vulnerable in so many ways and she had already suffered so much; I couldn’t bear the thought of her in prison. If it came to that, I would confess to murder myself. Cranston wouldn’t like it, but tough shit. I wasn’t going to leave the woman I love to rot in a jail cell.
By Sunday morning I figured that I must be nearing the thirty-six hour mark of my detention. Unless a judge granted an extension the police would have to charge or release me soon. A solemn face appeared at the hatch in the door to my cell, before it was unlocked and opened.
‘Come with me,’ said one of the two uniforms standing in the corridor. I was tempted to ask what was happening, but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of withholding the answer, so I simply ducked through the doorway after the first officer whilst the second followed close behind.
We navigated the utilitarian maze of corridors in near silence, my mind racing. Was this it? Had all the forensic test results come back? Was I finally going to be charged with murder? Was Mel...?
As we reached the doorway to Interview Room 2, the officer in front paused to speak to a colleague, and my attention was drawn to the far corner of the room. A small figure was hunched in a chair, head down, feet drawn up and arms wrapped tightly around their knees. At first I thought it was a child; the standard police-issue grey tracksuit swamped their tiny frame and hid their hands and feet completely. But then, sensing my presence, the figure raised their head, a pair of eyes peeking out from beneath lank strands of hair, and my legs almost gave way with an agonising stab of recognition.
Mel...?
Chapter Sixty
Liam...? Was that really him? He looked stooped and haggard, half of his face disguised under nearly three days of stubble, but his eyes, his lovely hazel brown eyes were unmistakable, locked on me and widening with surprise.
Leaping up I darted across the room, tripping over my wretched tracksuit bottoms as I went, but he took two powerful strides towards me and caught me up in his arms; clutching me to his chest as if I was a part of him gone too long. The warmth and reassurance of his embrace as I was engulfed in his familiar scent was overwhelming, triggering tears I hadn’t realised I was holding back.
‘God, Mel, what have they done to you? Are you OK?’ he asked as I sobbed into his matching sweatshirt. ‘Look at me, baby, are you OK?’
As I dragged my gaze up to his he stroked my hair back, anxiously searching my face. I wanted to reassure him, but couldn’t speak past the knot of emotion in my throat, so I reached up and kissed him with all the energy I could summon. After days of bad food and stale coffee, nothing tasted as good as he did right then.
Someone cleared their throat in the doorway and we broke off our kiss, dragged back to the reality of our surroundings with a bump.
‘Take a seat, both of you,’ DI Fletcher said. Liam lowered me to the ground with obvious reluctance, but kept a firm hold of my hand as we sat down across the table from the detective.
‘You’ll be relieved to hear that we’re releasing you without charge Mr Hunt.’ I pressed my face into Liam’s shoulder, shaking with relief.
‘What about Mel?’ Liam’s voice was deep and urgent as it rumbled through his chest.
‘She was released yesterday, but she wouldn’t leave here without you,’ the detective said.
‘Jesus, baby,’ Liam muttered, pressing a kiss to my head and stroking my hair.
‘The coroner has ruled Gregory Sinclair’s death a suicide, so we won’t be pursuing any further action. You’re both free to go. I’ll give you a minute alone and then you’ll need to see the custody sergeant to reclaim your personal effects...’ I tuned the detective out as I focused on trying to calm down. Were they really letting us go? Was it really over?
Once we were alone, I wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve and Liam urged me to look at him.
‘Did you hear that, Mel? We’re free. Everything’s going to be OK, I promise .’
His earnest expression made me want to melt with love for him – my gorgeous man. I swallowed hard, focusing on the feel of my vocal chords and the words I’d wanted, needed, to say for so long.
‘Liam, I love you.’
A huge smile split across his face. ‘You have no idea how good it is to hear you say that. I love you too,’ he said, leaning in to kiss me.
Epilogue
‘Can we go swim in the lake now?’ Ferne says.
‘Yeah, can we, Uncle Lim?’ Aster tugs my trouser leg and cranes her neck to squint up at me. Six-foot-six is a long way up when you’re just four years old.
‘Only if Mummy and Daddy say it’s OK,’ I say glancing over at Maire who is already helping Ferne strip down to a spotty pink bathing costume.
‘You’ll need sunscreen, Aster,’ Maire says, tossing a plastic bottle in Lester’s direction. Catching it he uses it to beckon Aster towards him.
‘Come here, sausage.’
‘Maybe we should all go down to the lake? I’m up for a paddle,’ Dad suggests.
‘Aye, I can’t wait to dip my swollen feet in there,’ Maire agrees.
‘You sure you can waddle that far, sweetness?’ says Lester, while smearing sun cream across my niece’s scrunched up nose.
Maire pulls a face at him. ‘I’m not a duck! My walk is all swagger, I’ll have you know. Anyway you’re coming with us, husband of mine; you can carry me if I get tired.’ Lester sighs heavily but can’t keep the grin off his face. He never could refuse Maire anything, even before she fell pregnant with his third child.
‘Yes, let’s all go,’ my mother-in-law says, gathering plates from the table.
‘Just leave that, Carol,’ I say. ‘We can clear up later. Do you know where Mel’s gone?’
Stephen breaks off mid-conversation with my dad. ‘She wandered off into the trees in that direction,’ he says, pointing. ‘I asked her if she wanted any company but she said she needed to stretch her legs and wouldn’t be gone long...’
I nod with what I hope is a reassuring smile. The Crowes were reunited with their lost daughter seven years ago now, but Mel’s parents still get anxious whenever she’s out of sight, and with Mel being the free spirit that she is, that’s frequently. ‘You guys head on down to the lake and I’ll go find her.’
I watch for a while, waving off assorted family members as they abandon the remains of the picnic and wend their way down through the grounds, chatting and laughing as they go.
Time to find Mrs Hunt.
As I head into the cool shade of the trees, I can’t help counting my blessings. Thinking of Mel as my wife still gives me a rush of pleasure. It’s been three years since our modest town hall ceremony and the intimate family picnic reception that followed afterwards, here in the grounds of our home. It was such a wonderful day that the party warranted repeating. We’ve held the same picnic each summer since, and it’s fast becoming a tradition.
From the moment Mel told me she loved me in the police station that day, I wanted to marry her. We were both worse for wear at the time, having spent most of the weekend locked in separate prison cells, fearing the worst. But my relief at being reunited with her again, and the look in her eyes as she declared her love for me, with her very own voice, well, that was it for me – I wanted her to be my wife. Mel, on the other hand, perhaps understandably, was not sold on marriage and took longer to come around to the idea.
Even without a media furore, the Crowe family reunion was always going to be tough on Mel. After sixteen years of quiet solitude and self-dependency, the sudden raw and unconditional love and devotion of two parents she barely remembered was hard to accept. And the scandal of her childhood abduction and subsequent reunion with her parents was big news in a place as small as Wildham. With the help of my friends, my family and my solicitor, I did my
best to shield her from the worst of the press attention, but it was a difficult time. She and I spent a good few months holed up at Wildham Hall where Mel threw herself into a major re-decorating project – stripping, sanding, re-papering and re-painting every room with unswerving gusto. Together we rode out the media storm, and in the process made the big old house our own.
Eventually the story became yesterday’s chip paper, people lost interest and life settled into a new kind of normal. I returned to landscaping and now I have my own team of lads to work for me, Olly included of course. Hunt Landscaping is going from strength to strength as word of our garden transformations spread.
When no living heirs could be found, Mel accepted inheritance of the entire Sinclair family’s wealth, but she has never been comfortable with it. She has donated large sums to various charities and set up her own independent publishing company, which, though young, is already flourishing.
Mel has become more sociable with time. She is still the headstrong, quirky enigma I fell in love with – sweet and stubborn and still driving me crazy, but in many ways she has integrated into society more easily than I had anticipated. Despite her up-bringing, Mel has successfully rebuilt a relationship with her parents, embraced the role as auntie to my nieces, and befriended all of my mates; Kat and Cally included.
As a group we still support the Wildham Warriors at their matches, and we still meet at The White Bear on Tuesday nights, but for the most part we leave the actual playing to the younger players. Lester retired from playing rugby four years ago – his leg was never the same after his injury – and with my fortieth birthday fast approaching I’m considering giving it up too.
Maintaining the grounds of Wildham Hall is a workout in itself. It’s my home now and I enjoy every minute spent here, but it’s a never ending job. The first thing Mel and I did after I moved in was reinstate and replant the Édouard Marcel rose garden to his original design. Seven years on, it is maturing nicely and has become such a draw for gardening enthusiasts that two weekends a year we open it to the public to raise money for charity. Visitors come from all over to revel in, and gush over, the abundant perfumed blooms. We’re both proud of it, but for Mel it’s especially important; a beautiful garden sprung from a weedy quagmire; a public triumph over her unhappy past; a garden that says “look, there is goodness here; the Sinclairs didn’t destroy everything; they didn’t win; they did not break me.” Like a rose cut back hard, Mel has come back stronger than ever.
