How I Lost You (20 page)

‘You didn’t see anyone?’

‘Do you see me waving at the camera?’ The stress is making me snappy and sarcastic. ‘Sorry.’

‘Well whoever it is, we can’t do anything about it now.’ Nick affably ignores my barb. ‘What did you get out of Mark?’

I tell them everything. Every detail of our conversation is etched into my brain and I repeat it practically word for word. I tell them about the money and the photos, even the sofa. Cassie is furious when I mention that my ex-husband is actually secretly loaded.

‘What? How did he get away with not revealing that in the divorce?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ I reply simply. ‘His lawyer offered me a decent sum and I took it.’

‘We’ll contest it,’ she continues, oblivious of what I’m even saying. I didn’t fight the divorce; I didn’t ask for anything. I was grateful for what I was given.

‘I don’t
want
to contest anything,’ I insist. ‘The money wasn’t anything to do with me; the payments stopped long before we even met. I just want to know why he never told me about it. Or
her
.’

I won’t admit it, but the photos of Mark and the girl have upset me far more than the hidden money. Granted, he never lied to me about her exactly; he just never told me about her. The fact that the mystery woman is absolutely gorgeous doesn’t help, of course.

‘The question is,’ Nick muses, ‘does any of it mean anything to us?’

He’s used the word ‘us’, as though this is his problem as much as mine, when we both know he could just walk away right now if he wanted to. I look from him to Cassie and wonder what they’ve been talking about all day, this odd pair who yesterday hated each other’s guts. I hand Nick my phone with the pictures of the accounts, and an address book I took from the office. He frowns slightly at this, as though he doesn’t approve of me stealing it, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Did you guys find anything?’ I ask Cassie while Nick’s still deep in thought.

‘We got these,’ Cassie replies, excitedly pulling out her own sheaf of notes. I see the header ‘ZBH Solicitors’ emblazoned across the top – they’ve been sent from my lawyer’s office. ‘They’re copies of the case files on your trial. ZBH blocked us every step of the way. Their bitch of a secretary only emailed them over when I pretended to be you on the phone and threatened legal action. Nick had me quoting all sorts of laws that entitle you to your own case notes.’

I start flicking through, my eyes falling on more and more that I don’t understand.

‘What do these tox results mean?’ I ask, scanning the page. ‘What’s ketamine? Isn’t that for horses?’

‘It’s a drug that was found in your system when they admitted you the day of Dylan’s death,’ Cassie explains.

That’s news to me and I tell her so. Annoyingly, Nick is poring through the address book and says nothing.

‘We figured as much,’ Cassie says. ‘It doesn’t seem to have been brought up at the trial. Ketamine is used as a date rape drug, rendering the victim dizzy, disorientated and unaware of what’s happening around them. It can also cause blackouts.’ She sounds like a trainee pharmacist and looks proud of her investigative skills.

‘What? How could I not know about this? Why did Rachael not mention it at the trial?’ I thought Rachael Travis had done a pretty good job as my defence lawyer. Mark had taken her on when the evidence against me had seemed watertight, but she had still fought my corner. Or so I’d thought. Maybe she hadn’t had access to my medical records?

‘Oh she had access all right.’ Nick speaks at last when I suggest this. ‘You signed a waiver when you took her on giving her full rights to all of your records. It’s in there somewhere.’

‘So she knew I had ketamine in my system and didn’t think to bring it up in my defence? Would the police have seen these records?’

Nick shrugs. ‘That’s a good question. We only have the statements and details released to the press; we have no rights to the actual police notes, and short of hacking the system we have no way of finding out. Either someone on the case didn’t do a very thorough job, or they knew about the drugs and they were left out of the investigation.’

My head is hurting. ‘What does all this mean?’

‘It could mean nothing,’ Nick admits, ‘Matthew Riley was a conscientious doctor and had no reason to lie. The ketamine I can’t explain, but with such an open and shut case . . . Sorry,’ he apologises quickly when he sees the look that crosses my face, ‘but it did seem that way at the time. You were found next to Dylan’s body, the cushion used to suffocate him was still in your hands with your skin cells and his saliva all over it—’

‘I
was
at the trial, remember?’ Immediately I feel terrible. Nick and Cassie are here helping me and I’m just being difficult. ‘Sorry.’ I lean forward and rub a hand over my face and eyes, suddenly tired again.

‘Suze, are you sure you’re up to this?’ Cassie asks gently. She reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You know, dragging up all this stuff over and over must be pretty upsetting for you.’

‘No.’ It’s all getting a bit much and I’m not too proud to admit it. ‘I’m not sure I am.’ It’s hard to hear details of the day I lost my son related so easily by an impartial observer. Much to my annoyance, I see Cassie shoot Nick a look. It’s quick but not too quick for me to see what it means. They’ve clearly been expecting me to react like this. I decide I liked it better when they couldn’t stand each other.

‘We thought it might get too much for you,’ she says, her tone still gentle, as though she might be dealing with a child. I think it’s the final ‘we’ that tips me over the edge; what is it, the hundredth time since she walked in?

‘Oh
we
did, did
we
?’ I snap, rounding on my friend and conveniently forgetting that only seconds earlier I was admitting that I’m not coping.

‘We just thought it might get difficult for you, you know, reliving what happened.’

‘Quite the little couple these days, aren’t we? When only yesterday you wanted to bash his head in with a picture frame. Any more thoughts about my mental state, Dr Reynolds?’

Cassie looks shocked and more than a little hurt. Nick just watches me with interest. His lack of reaction pisses me off even more. Which admittedly isn’t too difficult at the moment.

‘Don’t get upset, Susan,’ Cassie pleads. ‘We . . . I mean
I’m
just concerned, you know, with your history . . .’

She knows me well enough to know instantly that she’s said the wrong thing.

‘My
history
?’ I practically scream. ‘What
history
is that then, Cassie? My depression? Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m a murderer? Well you should know all about that, shouldn’t you? If we’re going to talk
history
, I mean. After all, I’m not the one who planned to murder my husband in cold blood because he slept with someone else.’

Cassie and Nick are stunned into silence. This should make me realise I’m being a bitch, and that Cassie doesn’t deserve it. The knowledge of either of those facts doesn’t deter me, though. Nope, I am on a big fat roll.

‘So which is it, oh friend of mine? What is it that concerns you so much? Because there was me thinking we’re trying to prove I
didn’t
kill my son in a depressive rage. Or are you just humouring me?’

‘That’s enough, Susan.’ Nick’s deep voice cuts into the middle of my rant and I stop like a naughty schoolgirl chastised by the head teacher. When I see Cassie looking close to tears, I suddenly feel very ashamed of myself.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Cass,’ I apologise. ‘I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry.’

Cassie reacts in true best friend form and smiles. It’s hard to believe sometimes that this kind, loyal woman has done the thing she’s done.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she replies, coming across to the chair I’ve thrown myself in and putting her arms around me. ‘It was a stupid thing to say. Would you like to carry on, or should we call it a day?’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘You two have gone to a lot of trouble today and I’d like to know what else you found. God knows I’d prefer it to be over, but that’s not an option, so the only thing to do is push forward.’

Cassie is relieved that I’ve calmed down and Nick remains silent. I wonder if he’s finding it easier and easier to believe I’m a manic depressive. I’m certainly acting that way. He waits a second, probably to check that I’m not going to lose it again, then he leans over and turns a few of the pages until I’m looking at a report. A doctor’s report.

‘What does it say?’ I ask, scanning the page. Nick doesn’t answer, just waits for me to read it for myself.

It’s a report written by my former GP, Dr Choudry. It’s dated 13 August 2009, three weeks after Dylan’s death. Certain sentences leap out at me.

Mrs Webster showed typical concern with regard to her son’s slow weight gain . . . no suggestion of any depressive symptoms . . . unlikely to be suffering from puerperal psychosis . . . no sign of hallucinations or disordered thought processes . . .

I look up at Nick. ‘What does this mean? Why wasn’t this used in court? He’s saying I didn’t have depression.’

Nick flicks a couple more pages, this time to another doctor’s report, a name I don’t know, Dr Ingrid Thompson. A scan of this one makes rather more disturbing reading.

Patient shows signs of severe post-natal depression . . . she is unresponsive, at times catatonic . . . the patient has no recollection of the incident . . . patient becomes agitated and upset at the mention of her son . . . the patient does not wish to discuss her child . . .

The date is 30 July, just seven days after the death of my son.

‘What do you think?’ Nick probes when I show no reaction.

‘This was given in evidence at the trial,’ I reply, remembering now. ‘She, Dr Thompson, was there; she gave evidence for the prosecution. Why wasn’t Dr Choudry called for his opinion? I don’t remember seeing him.’

‘Your solicitor’s notes indicated that Dr Choudry was an unreliable witness, that the prosecution was likely to suggest his report was covering his own back, making excuses for the fact that he missed your depression at your post-natal checks. It was deemed more likely to hinder than help your case.’

‘I suppose she had a point.’ I speak slowly, rereading Dr Thompson’s report. ‘But these comments . . . I mean, of course I was in shock, I’d just lost my son. What was I supposed to be acting like?’

‘It doesn’t seem very in depth,’ Cassie agrees. ‘Those were our . . . I mean my thoughts too. And only one expert diagnosis after one interview. It all seems a bit rushed.’

‘It’s still very circumstantial, though,’ Nick warns. ‘Let’s not get carried away with ourselves. We need to decide what we’re going to do next.’

‘Is there nothing else?’ I ask, thumbing through more pages of notes.

‘Not that I could see, but you’ll need to go through it all and see if you can find anything. Wait, we got this too.’ Cassie excitedly hands me a small file with the words ‘Dr Riley’ pencilled on the front. Inside are journalistic notes on Dr Riley’s disappearance, interviews with friends and family, a statement from his wife and records of his finances. All come to the same conclusion: Dr Riley had no reason to run away, or to kill himself. He was a happy man with a good marriage, no apparent affairs they could uncover, two little girls and no financial problems. He had been quiet the last few weeks, his wife had told the journalist, but nothing to indicate what was to come. There had been no warning.

‘I thought you were the reporter on this case?’ I ask Nick, confused. ‘These aren’t your notes.’

‘I just wrote the article,’ Nick explains. ‘I didn’t do the legwork on that one. I think maybe it’s time I did.’ I look at him questioningly. ‘I think we should go and see Mrs Riley.’

I shake my head. ‘No way. I’ve dragged the past up for enough people already. The last thing Mrs Riley needs is us turning up on her doorstep with wild conspiracies about her husband’s death.’

‘I’ve already spoken to her,’ Nick surprises me by saying. ‘She’s more than happy to see us. She says it’s about time someone started asking more questions about her husband’s disappearance.’

‘Does she think there’s more to it than suicide?’ I ask. I’d not thought about that prospect. ‘If he was murdered, surely we could be in some serious danger if we start poking around?’

‘I think we’re well beyond “poking around”. But no, I think she’s accepted it was suicide, she just never got a good enough reason why he would kill himself.’

‘And she thinks we can provide her with that?’

‘What I think,’ Cassie cuts in, ‘is that she’s a lonely woman and your friend Mr Whitely here has a very good telephone manner.’

‘Is that true?’ I demand, noticing the use of ‘your’ rather than ‘our’. ‘Did you flirt an interview out of her?’

‘By any means possible,’ Nick replies, his right fist over his heart and making a three-fingered salute with his left hand. ‘It’s the journalist’s motto.’

‘So when do we go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

No time like the present, I guess.

‘That’s not it, Susan.’ Cassie takes my arm. ‘There’s something else. Something big.’ She looks at Nick, who can’t meet either of our eyes.

‘What? What is it? What’s happened?’ Panic rises like bile in my throat.

‘It was him. I told him you’d be mad, I was furious when he told me, but now I see it might be for the best, even though it meant going behind your back, which is not cool.’

‘You’re worrying me now – what the hell is going on here?’

‘Cassie’s right, it was me. Do you remember the hairbrush?’

‘What hairbrush?’

‘The one that was in the box with Dylan’s blanket.’

I almost can’t believe I’d forgotten. The small blue hairbrush that had been placed on top of my son’s blanket. I was so blindsided by the appearance of the blanket that I’d put it to one side, unconcerned with an item I’d never seen before. What use was a hairbrush to me when I’d thought my dad had been sending me vicious puzzles?

‘What did you do?’ My words are slow and measured, because I’m trying to breathe. I’m struggling not to panic, because I know what he’s done. It’s what I’d have done if my mind hadn’t been so clouded over, if I hadn’t been so bloody-minded about my father.