Nothing to Lose

by Anna Legat

  Gillian must stay behind Rydal. He must not know he’s being followed. She puts the blue flashing light on her roof, without the siren. It flashes a couple of times and she takes it down. The damn bus driver gets the message. He puts both his hands on the wheel. Wanker!

  Rydal takes a turn to the right. Gillian vacates the bus lane and forces her way to the right. The traffic is nearly at a standstill. It is that time of day when schools are finished and school runs bring the traffic to its knees. At least she isn’t slowing anyone down. In fact, Rydal is now far ahead of her. As she begins to fear she is about to lose him, he turns into a primary school. Gillian parks her car where she can, blocking the pavement. A distraught-looking woman with a pushchair and a toddler glued to her hand pounces at Gillian. ‘What do you think you doing!’

  Gillian flashes her ID card. ‘Police business.’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ the woman shouts after her. ‘That’s abuse of authority! I’ll report this!’

  A buzzing crowd of parents and children in the school’s forecourt has swallowed Ben Rydal. Gillian searches maniacally. There! He is standing by the bicycle racks, arms folded, smiling. He waves. Gillian’s gaze follows his. A girl. She is waving back at him, a big part-toothless grin springs to her face. Gillian knows that girl. It’s Alice in Wonderland from Rydal’s garden. The one who popped out of the bushes, the relative. She runs towards Rydal and jumps into his arms.

  ‘Hi, Daddy!’

  She plants a kiss on his cheek.

  *

  She has followed them on foot for about five hundred yards. Rydal has hung the girl’s school bag on the handlebar of his bicycle, which he is pushing on the pavement. He is holding the girl’s hand, walking slowly at her pace. She can’t be more than eight. Pretty. Alice in Wonderland. She is talking, telling Rydal about her day at school. By the looks of it, it has been a grand day. How did Emma Rydal fit into this?

  They reach a row of Victorian terraced houses, front doors opening directly onto the pavement. Rydal has a key to one of those doors, the one painted in high gloss navy blue. He pulls his bicycle inside and shuts the door.

  There is a double yellow line in front of the terrace and a chain of parked vehicles on the opposite side of the road. Behind them is a pond adjacent to an old cemetery. Decrepit stone tombstones are leaning towards the pond, drawn to its cool charm. A church in the background boasts a huge bright banner spread over the arch of the main entrance. It says something about joining the bell ringers’ society of Sexton’s Canning.

  Gillian knocks as there is no door bell. It doesn’t take long for Rydal to answer. She says, ‘When you said relative, you didn’t clarify the girl was your daughter.’

  *

  ‘Vanessa and I were an item as far back as secondary school. It all fizzled out by the time we went off to uni. She went to Portsmouth, dropped out, disappeared for several years somewhere down-under, Australia... We lost touch. I met Emma, fell in love, got married. That was fifteen years ago.’

  His daughter is playing on the floor, talking to herself and her miniature dolls who live in a miniature doll house behind the door. She is not listening to her father talking about falling in love with a woman other than her mummy. Her life is perfectly straightforward and, as far as she is concerned, conventional. Daddy does the school runs and spends two hours with her after school, until Mummy comes home at five. Daddy then goes to his own house. Don’t all daddies do the same? Her name is Pip.

  Gillian is having a cup of tea, giving Rydal an opportunity to explain the strange convoluted double life he seems to be living. Does his deceit make him a killer? She wonders.

  ‘Everything was fine. Vanessa wasn’t even a distant memory. I love Emma. I loved her to the exclusion of everyone else. Do you find that hard to believe?’

  Gillian purses her lips. ‘Go on, Mr Rydal,’ she says, an unequivocal non-committal in her tone.

  ‘Emma always needed looking after. She was so... reckless.’

  ‘Yes, you did tell me that once already.’

  ‘Eight years ago, Vanessa came back. She didn’t try to contact me, we just bumped into each other. In the street, out of the blue. Fate, I think. We met a couple of times for old times’ sake. Talking, reminiscing. Having a good laugh, you know? For old times’ sake. One thing led to another...’

  ‘And Pip is the product of that?’

  He nods and smiles in the direction of his daughter who is blabbering to herself behind the door. ‘She is the apple of my eye.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get divorced, marry Vanessa, be a proper dad to Pip?’

  ‘I love Emma, I couldn’t do it to her. I know it sounds bloody pathetic, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And Vanessa... she’s such a free spirit! If you met her, you’d see. She’s not the settling down type.’

  ‘Yet she settled on having your child out of wedlock and bringing her up on her own.’

  ‘She’s full of contradictions. So yes, she wanted Pip. She was already in her thirties when Pip was born. If she wanted a child that was her last shot. But I don’t think she’d have married me even if I could have. She just doesn’t care for such... what would she call it? – nuance! Or nuisance rather. She’s happy with what we have. She works for Sexton’s Herald, long unpredictable hours. I look after Pip, bring her home from school, give her dinner. We have more quality time together than any full-time father could wish for.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. And that explains the gap in your daily schedule – much better than sight-seeing bicycle rides. But I still can’t see how this is enough for you. Surely, you’d rather have it out in the open? What about the weekends? What about Pip’s birthdays and Christmas time? Surely, with Emma out of the way, you could have all of that.’

  ‘I loved Emma. I couldn’t hurt her.’ He exhales heavily, stares Gillian straight in the eye – a very clever tactic. He says, ‘I couldn’t hurt her anyway, but you know that already. I wasn’t anywhere near that carriageway that morning. I was here, getting Pip ready for school.’

  ‘There are ways of causing harm from afar.’

  ‘How? How did I do it?’

  ‘I’m not saying you did. I’m just trying to understand your motives. It’s not easy. You are in a childless marriage and yet you have a daughter whom you clearly adore and want to be with all the time. The only person that stands in your way is your wife. Does this look to you like a motive for getting her out of the way? Because it does to me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t want Emma out of the way, as you put it. I wanted to bring Pip into our lives. But how do you suggest I was supposed to achieve that? After years of trying, we couldn’t fall pregnant. I knew it wasn’t me. I couldn’t just bring Pip into the equation and say, “There you are, we can still have a child. She is mine. If only you wanted...” And what about Vanessa?’

  ‘Conundrum.’

  ‘I thought, if Emma and I succeeded at having a baby of our own, this could work. It wouldn’t hurt Emma as much if I then introduced Pip into our family. It happened. Pip happened. She didn’t undermine my love for Emma. We could put it all together –’

  ‘And live happily ever after?’

  ‘Exactly that! No need for sarcasm.’

  ‘I’m not being sarcastic. I’m just observing facts and the fact is that Emma did not fall pregnant. There was no baby on the way. The status quo could go on indefinitely: you hiding the existence of Pip, lying, struggling to keep your secret away from Emma. It must’ve been pretty exhausting.’

  ‘I didn’t want Emma dead. I loved her.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘I was going to tell her about Pip. Once I was sure we weren’t going to try any more. I was beginning to get the impression Emma had given up, she didn’t care for a baby. I was beginning to think it wouldn’t hurt her to know about Pip after all. When she brought that dog home, I thought that was it. I was going to make Pip official and,’ he fixe
s Gillian with an iron stare, ‘I was going to do everything in my power to keep our marriage together. There are happy families out there with half-brothers and half-sisters, all living in perfect harmony. Why couldn’t it work for us?’

  ‘Because Pip wouldn’t have a half-brother or a half-sister, would she? Because Emma couldn’t have a baby and knowing that you already had one would’ve destroyed her. It’d be kinder to her if she died.’

  His jaw tightens. He speaks through his teeth, ‘You are a stupid, nasty person. I gave Emma time. Seven years. And I would’ve given her more. However much time she needed. It’s called loving someone too much to hurt them. If this arrangement had to go on for ever, so be it! But, like I told you, I was slowly discovering that a baby wasn’t that important to Emma. We could hold on to our marriage without a baby, and with Pip in the picture. I was just waiting for the right moment to tell Emma...’

  ‘But the moment didn’t arrive. Now she’s dead and you still keep Pip secret. Why?’

  ‘Because I’m afraid of what people like you may say. What conclusions you will jump to. And oh boy, am I right! Bigotry, passing judgments...’

  Gillian lets this second insult go unanswered. She is not here to cross swords with the man, nor to debate the finer points of true love. She is here to establish facts and add them to her inventory. Someone else will make the call on the reasonable doubt. She needs to know one more detail.

  ‘The day you found out about the collision, that evening when Emma was so late that you knew she wasn’t coming home –’

  ‘Yes, I lied about that. I didn’t stay home alone. I didn’t go to bed. I came here. I know how it sounds... I came here to be close to Pip, to make sure she was well and alive. It was irrational, I can’t explain it, but yes, I came here and asked Vanessa if I could spend the night here, on the sofa in the lounge. I had to be here to hang on to Pip. I love her and what happened to Emma frightened me. I just had to come here to check on Pip. She’s all I’ve got left. I wanted to make sure... I don’t think I can explain, don’t think you can understand...’

  Bizarrely, his actions make perfect sense to Gillian. Still she is duty-bound to write a report and submit it to Scarface. God knows what he will make of it. All she has to do is to tie all the loose ends, put the puzzle pieces where they belong. Moral judgments are outside her remit. She gets up to go. She says, ‘I’d like to talk to Vanessa. Could you ask her to call or to come to the station to talk to me tomorrow? Just to verify a few things for me. You’ve got my card.’

  *

  She is walking back to her car abandoned in front of the primary school, two wheels on the pavement, the other two on the double yellow line. She wonders if there is a ticket flapping behind the windscreen wiper by now. Soon her mind wanders off to the case. Does Ben Rydal sound too noble to be true? She comprehends the reasons behind his unorthodox actions: hanging on to Emma, having a baby with her, bringing his love child into the lap of a happy family. So far-fetched, and yet why not? Because, Gillian explains to the inner idealistic self, the odds were against him – there was no baby on the way, never would be; his wife could go deranged with pain if she found out about his double life; it’d be so much more expedient to take her out of her misery, let her die without her ever knowing, and start afresh.

  But how?

  An idea niggles at the back of her head. It tickles and pinches and yet it refuses to take on a tangible form. What is it? It is something someone has said or done earlier today. She goes back to the morning at the coroner’s court. The witnesses. Jon Riley reconstructing the sequence of events. The new guy from Forensics talking about the damage to Emma Rydal’s car. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  She moves forward in time. The surprise of running into Trevor Larkin, all squashed up and bruised, limping on a crutch. He wasn’t called to take the stand as a witness – he has no recollection of what happened. Plus he was ahead, couldn’t have seen much, at least not until after the explosion of the tanker, but by then it was all over for Emma Rydal. So why did he come to the inquest? Something about him... Something he said.

  Gillian remembers Trevor Larkin’s words: Such a beautiful woman. Young, beautiful... How did he know Emma Rydal was beautiful? He had never met her. He didn’t know her. No photos of her had been released into the public domain. Ben declined. It happens often – families refusing to see the images of their loved ones dragged through the treadmill of the media, preventing them from putting their dead to rest. So how did Trevor Larkin know she was beautiful? And how did Trevor Larkin know Ben Rydal? Gillian remembers vividly the moment of instant, automatic recognition. Oh hello!... I’ll see you... That is precisely what Rydal said to Larkin. He was mildly surprised to see Larkin at the inquest hearing and Larkin didn’t appear enthusiastic to see him. They didn’t come across as close friends, but somehow they knew each other. How?

  There may be nothing to it but a fleeting and irrelevant acquaintance, yet Gillian needs to get to the bottom of it.

  *

  It is a huge hangar of a house, sprawled wide and ungraceful in the middle of a decent size garden. Neither the house nor the garden have any discernible character. The house, if anything, suffers from a split personality disorder. A typical eighties edifice, boastful and pretentious, it has a cathedral-style entrance and arching windows. And then there is the Tudor façade on the two wings of the overhanging first floor. A curiosity.

  A young man answers the door. He is in the throes of severe acne. His hair is long, forced onto his face to cover as much of it as possible. One eye peers at Gillian from under the fringe. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Trevor Larkin.’

  ‘Who is it, Bradley?’ A stern female voice demands from the depths of the interior.

  Another young man, resembling the first one to a very disturbing degree, inclusive of the acne and the fringe, appears in the hall. He shouts, ‘It’s a woman to see Dad.’

  ‘He’s not home,’ the first young man tells Gillian.

  ‘A woman?’ Mrs Larkin pops up. Gillian knows she is Mrs Larkin. They’ve met briefly by her husband’s hospital bed. Neither then nor now does Mrs Larkin appear particularly patient. ‘Are you from the school? From the Council? Are you the police?’

  ‘Gillian Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID.’ As the procedure requires, Gillian presents her ID.

  Mrs Larkin looks alarmed. Her eyes grow huge and fierce. There is hesitation in them. She is unsure what strategy to adopt for this battle. It is clear however that she’s gearing herself up for a battle.

  A third boy, a younger replica of the other two, is descending from upstairs. ‘Is it Dad?’ he’s asking.

  Mrs Larkin has made up her mind. She will take Gillian on single-handedly. ‘Go upstairs, Ross! All of you – upstairs! Go to your rooms. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Meek as a flock of sheep the three clones fade into the background. Their mother’s word seems to be the law around here. She leads Gillian to the kitchen and shuts the door behind them.

  *

  ‘He moved out ten days ago. Didn’t say anything. Nothing. Just packed up and left. No forwarding address. He is not answering his telephone. The boys have tried to contact him. He doesn’t care to speak to any of us. I’m at my wits' end. Don’t know what to make of it. Don’t know where the next month’s mortgage instalment will come from. Don’t know if he’s coming back or found someone else, or is it some post-traumatic stress disorder...’ Mrs Larkin blows her nose into a Kleenex tissue. Her stern, iron-woman exterior has peeled off her like layers of old paint from the wall. She has bared her vulnerability for Gillian to see. And Gillian does see – a woman in a bad way, and she feels great pity for her. A discarded woman with four pimply teenagers and a hell of an ugly house into which she has to pump money that she doesn’t have.

  ‘Doesn’t the school know where to find him?’

  ‘He never went back to work after the accident. He was signed off for three weeks, should’ve gone back on M
onday, three days ago. Didn’t. They called. I didn’t know what to say. What do you say? I lied. I said he was still unwell, couldn’t come to the phone, caught some nasty bug in the hospital – I just made it up, spur of the moment. I want him to keep his job. Until he’s back to himself. And the mortgage! Oh God, what do I do?’ She wipes a sob into the Kleenex tissue. ‘I thought the school had found out he wasn’t here anymore and they sent you. I didn’t mean to lie. I just don’t know what else to do!’

  ‘No, I’m not here because of Mr Larkin’s work absence. I just need to clarify something he said today at the inquest.’

  ‘You saw him – today!’

  ‘Yes, he came to the inquest hearing into the death of Emma Rydal. It struck me he knew her. I just wanted to find out how-’

  ‘You saw him, and you let him go!’ Mrs Larkin is shaking with anger. ‘Could you not see the man is not in possession of his faculties? He should’ve been brought home, in handcuffs if need be!’

  As much as Gillian feels sympathetic towards the woman (God knows, she is familiar with that sense of rejection when your loved one refuses to communicate with you), it isn’t her place to offer counselling. She is here to gather information and must stick to her mandate. ‘I had no idea Mr Larkin had gone missing. Did you report him missing?’

  ‘Did I?! And did I swallow the embarrassment of people staring at me as if I was an idiot? "Poor woman! Can you blame him?" No, I didn’t report anything. He is not missing! I can see what happened. I don’t need to be told!’ Mrs Larkin laughs through her rapidly drying tears. ‘He has left us, he isn’t missing! I have four boys to take care of. A mortgage. I’m looking into going back into full-time employment, after twenty years! Do you realise how daunting this is? He has just left us...’ she is back to crying.