by Lana Newton
‘Of course not. But I want the truth to come out. Whoever did it … I want him to be punished.’
‘Your husband has an alibi for the day of the murder,’ said PC Stanley.
‘Alibis can be faked.’
‘We don’t have any reason to believe that could be the case.’
‘Can you tell me what his alibi is?’
‘We are not at liberty to disclose that,’ said PC Stanley. Was it her imagination or were the officers looking at her with pity?
‘But if he didn’t kill my mother, who did?’
‘That’s what we are trying to establish.’ PC Kamenski looked inside her notebook. ‘Does the name Nathaniel mean anything to you?’
Nathaniel. Claire pondered it, searching her mind for the name she felt she had never heard before. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said finally.
‘You’ve never heard of your brother, Nate Wright?’
Claire thought she misheard. Did the woman just say, her brother? ‘That’s impossible. I’m an only child.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct. You had a brother.’
‘Had? What happened to him?’ When they didn’t reply, she asked, ‘Where is my brother now?’ The police officers exchanged a silent glance. ‘Please, tell me,’ Claire begged. As always, she was praying for answers and not getting any.
PC Kamenski coughed, as if there was a fish bone stuck in her throat. ‘Can you tell us anything about your years in Windsor?’
‘My years in Windsor?’
‘You don’t remember the place where you grew up?’ asked PC Stanley.
‘I grew up in London.’
‘You lived in Windsor until you were 16 and then you moved abruptly. Any idea why?’
Claire shook her head.
‘The next question is very important and we need you to answer truthfully. Where were you on the day your mother was murdered?’
‘I was in the car. You told me so yourself.’
‘Where were you prior to the accident?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Claire felt tears perilously close and clasped her fists to fight them off.
‘A neighbour saw you arrive at your parents’ house around the time the murder took place,’ said PC Stanley. Both of them were watching her closely as if searching her face for clues.
Clues or guilt? She shuddered. ‘That can’t be true.’
‘If it’s not true, can you please tell us where you were? Is there someone who can confirm your whereabouts?’
Claire felt like screaming at the top of her lungs. Instead, she whispered, barely audible, ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘Are you familiar with the terms of your mother’s will? Did you stand to inherit any part of her fortune?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’
‘Your memory loss is very convenient,’ remarked PC Kamenski, narrowing her eyes on Claire. ‘Perhaps you could try harder?’
Claire grabbed the sofa to steady herself. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘We are not at liberty to discuss that,’ said PC Stanley. But from the look in his eyes she knew that the answer was yes. ‘Can we speak to your father, please?’
‘He’s sleeping right now.’ Claire said, hoping they would go away. Her father needed his rest. He didn’t need the police poking their noses into his business, asking pointless questions. Didn’t they have real criminals to catch? ‘He hasn’t been well lately.’
If PC Kamenski understood what Claire was hinting at, she didn’t let on. ‘It’s important that we speak to him. We won’t take too much of his time. Would you mind waking him up for us?’
Claire wanted to tell them that she would in fact mind, that her father was a sick old man who didn’t want to be disturbed. But she knew there was no point. They had a determined look about them. She took them to Tony’s room and left them alone with him. More than anything she wanted to know what they were going to talk about. But the door shut firmly behind them and she didn’t want Nina to catch her eavesdropping.
Claire made herself a strong cup of tea and sat at the dining table, watching it go cold. In the kitchen, Nina was banging pots. Claire could smell cakes baking in the oven.
A possibility occurred to her, a terrifying possibility she had never considered. What if it was her? It seemed impossible and yet … how well did she know herself? What did she know about her relationship with her mother? All she had were questions that no one could answer – not her husband, who tried to avoid her as much as possible, not Angela, who was gone, and not her father, who tried to protect her from everything and everyone around. She had no one to turn to, no one to tell her what she was thinking was ludicrous.
But what if it wasn’t ludicrous?
And if by some cruel twist of fate she did have something to do with her mother’s murder, what did the phone calls mean? Did someone know what she’d done and tried to manipulate her in this sick way? Was it an attempt at blackmail or intimidation? Then why were there no demands, no accusations? Why pretend to be her mother?
She sat trembling and staring until the police officers finally left half an hour later.
‘What did they say?’ she asked her father. ‘Did they ask about me?’
Tony’s hands were on Angela’s Bible. His eyes were on Claire. ‘No, darling. They asked many questions about Paul and his relationship with your mother. You did the right thing telling them the truth.’
‘But they didn’t believe me. They said he’s no longer a suspect. That he has an alibi.’
‘You misunderstood. They still suspect him.’ He took her hand in his, pulling it to his chest. ‘Have you thought any more about asking him to leave?’
‘For the last few weeks I’ve thought of nothing else.’
‘What are you waiting for? Once he’s gone, we can be the perfect family. Just you and I.’
But not Mum, Claire thought with sadness.
She wanted to ask him other things, about Nate and Windsor and what the police meant when they said she had a brother. But Tony looked tired and gaunt, like he had aged ten years in one day. She didn’t want to burden him with more questions.
Chapter 14
Claire stood in front of the mirror, studying herself as if she didn’t know who she was, like she had once done at the hospital. Was it her imagination or was there something sinister and unkind in the way she pursed her lips, in the way her eyes stared? She knew for a fact she was capable of misleading those close to her. After all, she had never told anyone about her mysterious brother. She had lied about growing up in London. What other dark secrets was she hiding? Were the police right to suspect her?
They said she had been at her parents’ house at the time of the murder. Even if she hadn’t been involved, she must have seen the person who was. Had she witnessed what happened to her mother? The thought filled her with black, blinding terror. Was that what her brain was trying to protect her from by leaving her mind blank and bare of pain but also of memories?
She needed to learn what happened that day and soon, before the police arrested her for her mother’s murder. No matter how traumatic the memory, she wanted it back. Nothing could be worse than this debilitating uncertainty.
Among thousands of photographs in her albums, Claire searched for the other Angela, the mysterious woman who looked identical to her mother. Would Claire even be able to tell them apart? How did she know which sister she was looking at? She spent hours staring at her mother’s face, going through snapshots taken at birthdays, weddings, barbecues and family vacations. Soon, her eyes were aching and she couldn’t stop crying. The photographs became a blur and she could no longer see.
As she was drifting off to sleep that night, a sudden thought made her sit up in bed. What if it had been Tegan all along? What if she had been calling Claire, pretending to be Angela? Tony had told her Tegan had held a grudge against Angela for many years. But why would she do something like that? What did she hope to gain? Claire felt like she w
as missing a piece of the puzzle.
If she had indeed grown up in Windsor, was it possible her aunt had lived there too? Was she still living there?
‘Nina, how far is Windsor?’ she asked over breakfast one day.
‘I don’t know, Miss Claire.’
‘I don’t think it’s far. Would you mind driving me?’
‘You want me to go to Windsor, Miss? But these tiles won’t clean themselves and the fridge is a mess.’
Claire glanced at the spotless house. Not a thing was out of place. Everything sparkled as if a thousand elves had stayed up all night scrubbing and polishing. ‘The tiles are clean enough. And the fridge can wait.’
‘Wait for what, Miss Claire?’
‘Come on, it’s too beautiful outside to stay in. We’ll have a picnic. Just the two of us. And why don’t you call me Claire?’
‘You don’t pay me for picnics,’ grumbled Nina as she prepared a basket of fruit for the two of them to share.
The picnic was the last thing on Claire’s mind as she glanced out the car window at the English countryside – the emerald hills, the topaz skies, pure and unblemished, and all she could think of was Nathaniel and Angela’s twin sister. ‘Let’s not tell Paul about this,’ she said. ‘It will be our secret. You know how he worries.’ Claire shuddered at the thought of Paul finding out about their trip. What if he lost his temper? What if he locked her in the house and refused to let her out?
‘Too many secrets from Mr Paul, Miss. No good for relationship,’ said Nina, her eyes steady on the road ahead as she coasted towards their destination ten miles below the speed limit.
The green digits on the dashboard showed midday. At this rate, Paul would come home before them and find Claire gone. ‘Does your car go any faster? Or we won’t get there till tomorrow.’
‘But we’ll get there in one piece,’ replied Nina, slowing down further. ‘And that’s all that matters.’
Claire tried to still her trembling hands, drumming the seconds away on her knees. But her breath came out in puffs and her throat felt tight, as if her childhood memories were waiting behind the next bend of the road and she was too afraid to face them.
‘Nina, have I ever mentioned anyone called Nate?’
‘No, Miss Claire.’
‘Have I ever said anything about my brother?’
‘You have a brother?’
‘Did I ever talk about my childhood?’
‘The only thing I heard you say on phone once was how lucky you were to live so close to one of the best schools in London growing up.’
She hadn’t just lied to Paul. She had lied to everyone. But why? ‘Have you ever seen Paul and I argue?’
If Nina was surprised by the barrage of questions unleashed on her, she didn’t show it. ‘Never, Miss Claire. At first, you were most loved up couple I ever see. Then little by little you stop talking.’
‘Stopped talking? What do you mean?’
‘I think you drift apart.’
‘So you’ve never seen Paul be violent or angry towards me?’
‘Mr Paul! Of course not. He most gentle person in the world. He not hurt a fly.’
Claire wondered how much Paul was paying Nina. Clearly enough to not only spy but cover for him too. Her temples aching, Claire remained silent until they reached a turnoff for Windsor.
‘Where are you from, Nina?’ she asked. ‘Moscow?’
‘Novosibirsk,’ Nina said the word slowly, and Claire repeated the difficult syllables but they came out all wrong. Nina laughed. ‘Is town in Siberia. Very cold.’
‘How cold?’
‘Minus forty in winter. Snow everywhere. There’s nothing much to do but hide inside and drink vodka.’
‘Is it a small town?’
‘Not so small.’
‘As big as London?’
‘Nothing is as big. London is monster. Beautiful monster.’
‘I wish I could visit Russia one day.’
‘Oh, you went once,’ said Nina, taking her eyes off the road for a moment as if surprised Claire couldn’t remember. ‘With your dance company. You spent weeks telling me how much you hated it.’
‘Did I go in winter? I’m not much for vodka.’ Claire smiled sadly. ‘Do you go back often?’
‘Every year. Good to see family but also to see familiar places. Everywhere are memories. You know what I mean?’
‘I wish I did.’
‘You walk down street and suddenly you go back in time. You are 10 years old when you fell off bicycle in that park. Or 15 having first kiss in that cinema.’
‘You miss home,’ said Claire. She wondered if her old self felt the same way. And if she did, why keep it a secret from everyone? Why pretend she had grown up somewhere else?
Before Claire knew it, they were driving around the castle that presided over the lively town. She could see a string of shop windows, dull and unappealing, and a smattering of pubs advertising meat pies and traditional Sunday roast. Is this where I lived for the first sixteen years of my life? she wondered. It didn’t seem possible. She felt she had never set eyes on the place before. Then again, she felt that way about her house in London and her parents’ house. What did she expect, her childhood memories to come flooding back the moment she stepped out of the car?
They turned around the corner. The houses were squeezed close together, vying for space, their walls touching like teeth of a giant animal. With trepidation Claire stared inside each window. Most were closed, with their curtains tightly drawn, but a few were open, welcoming the rare sunshine. She saw a young girl reading on the sofa and a middle-aged man playing with a dog in his living room. She wondered if perhaps one of these houses had once belonged to her family, whether as a child she had walked down this street, holding her mother’s hand. She liked Windsor. It was quiet and peaceful. No hustle and bustle of the big city. The air smelt fresh.
When they finally found a place to park, Claire emerged cautiously, giant sunglasses like a shield over her face. What if someone recognised her, cried out to her from across the street? A childhood friend, perhaps, or a teacher from her old school? But wasn’t that what she had come here for, to find answers? She pushed the sunglasses to the top of her head.
‘Where to now, Miss Claire? You like to have our picnic?’ asked Nina, her face mournful, as if she would rather be at home scrubbing tiles than out meandering aimlessly through the streets of a town she had never visited before.
Claire didn’t have a plan. She assumed she would know what to do once they got here. With no particular direction in mind, they ambled down the street past residents and visitors sipping their lattes and chocolate milkshakes. Claire thought they looked relaxed and happy under the big café umbrellas, like they didn’t have a care in the world. Wondering if once she’d been one of these relaxed and happy people, she felt a longing – to remember, to belong, to understand. She stared at every coffee drinker and shop-goer, hoping to spot one familiar face in the sea of strangers.
They walked past a Waitrose and behind it, tucked away in a narrow side street, she spotted a ballet studio. A dozen little girls in white tutus like a flock of exotic birds chattered excitedly nearby. Claire wondered if once she had been one of these girls, whether this was where she had first learnt to dance. If so, this place had a tremendous significance for her. It must have shaped her career and her entire life. She closed her eyes and touched the door handle, waiting for memories to seep through her fingertips.
She heard Nina’s voice. ‘Miss Claire, you okay?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Nina. Wait here for me, please.’ Opening the door, Claire walked up the stairs to a brightly lit studio. It was deserted, and she crossed the wide hall to the window, placing her hands on the barre, her feet moving into the ballet position. In the mirror, she could see a tired young woman, her eyes bleak from lack of sleep. She needed to look past her, to the little girl she had once been, practising twirls and pirouettes in this room.
‘Can I help
you?’ The stern voice made Claire jump. Spinning around quickly, she removed her hands from the barre, as if touching anything without permission was a misdemeanour she would be punished for. A tall woman was watching her from the doorway. She wore a summer dress and a pair of high-heeled sandals. The way she moved, the way she held her shoulders betrayed a ballerina.
‘Yes,’ Claire stammered. ‘I was just wondering … do you know me?’
‘Am I supposed to?’
‘I might have been a student here many years ago.’
‘Might have?’ There was the familiar look of pity and curiosity on the woman’s face. And then something shifted in her eyes and she squinted at Claire in surprise. ‘I do recognise you.’
‘You do?’ Claire’s breathing quickened. She had come here looking for someone who would remember her, and now someone did. The woman looked similar age to Claire. Perhaps they had attended this school together, even been friends once. Claire grabbed the barre, steadying herself.
‘Of course. You’re Claire Wright.’ It wasn’t a question but Claire nodded anyway. The woman continued, ‘We all went to London to see you dance in Cinderella a few months ago. You were magnificent.’
‘Oh.’ Claire felt her shoulders stoop with disappointment. ‘Thank you.’
Her feet in third position, her face lit up in admiration, the ballet teacher devoured Claire with her eyes, as if wishing to commit her face to memory. ‘If you were a student here once, I’m sure I’d know. Fancy someone like you starting out in our little studio.’
‘How long have you been teaching here?’
‘Not long at all. Miss Alison, the previous teacher, passed away four months ago. I took over from her.’
Claire wanted to ask if they kept photographs of former students here. Would she even recognise herself as a little girl?
‘Our classes are over for the day but you must come back tomorrow. The girls would be ecstatic if you could teach a lesson. I can imagine their faces—’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘Of course, you must be so busy. How about a photograph for our wall, of you and me together?’
