Someone Else's Son (28 page)

‘It’s been a long forty-eight hours. Gruelling and ghastly for all concerned, but we’re making progress.’

Carrie suddenly sat upright. Her head tilted in anticipation and her fingers were clasped tightly together on the table, Fiona noticed. She was nothing like she was on the television. Her poise, confidence, aggression – it was all gone. Carrie Kent was a brittle shell, devoid of colour or life. Fiona was intrigued by just what kind of woman Brody had once been attracted to.

‘CCTV footage from the streets surrounding the school has been analysed and some promising images sent away for further enhancement. A group of youths was tracked leaving the area at around the time of the stabbing.’

No mention of Max’s name, Fiona noticed, just
the stabbing
as if the incident itself had become an entity. She glanced at Brody. He stared straight ahead. He’d removed the tissue from his wound, which had thankfully stopped bleeding. White bits of lint were stuck to his skin.

‘Who? What group of youths?’ Carrie said with a waver in her voice.

‘Five of them, Carrie. They were on camera running away from the school area, although we can’t be sure they were ever on school property unless we can get a positive ID from the witness. Unfortunately at the time of the stabbing, the school’s security system was down. There’s no money to fix it.’ Dennis sighed – exasperated, apologetic, resigned. ‘We’re tracing some clothing and, when the enhanced images come back, we’ll show them to the witness.’

‘The witness . . .’ Carrie stiffened. Fiona noticed Brody’s shoulders pull back.

‘Yes. As you know, there was a witness at the scene. A girl.’ Masters was scant with his words. ‘On top of that, we’re searching the area for the murder weapon. The autopsy report will be with me by the end of the day. Forensics have a number of leads to report on, hopefully by—’

‘A girl?’ Brody stood, knocking the table and sloshing the coffee as he did so. ‘What’s her name?’ Fiona’s eyes flicked across the detectives’ faces. For Brody’s sake, she had to remember everything.

The other detective spoke. ‘We’ve been taking statements from a young female witness. She was at the scene and we believe holds key information. However, she’s in a fragile state and we have to be careful not to push her too far.’

‘Fragile?’ Carrie was also on her feet. She circuited the table to stand beside Brody. Fiona felt a line of sweat break along her top lip. She could see how they’d been a couple, both striking in their own broken way. What they would have looked like once, strong, together, a family with Max, momentarily took Fiona’s breath away.

‘Sometimes witnesses can suffer a kind of post-traumatic stress,’ Dennis continued. ‘They block out what they’ve seen, especially children and adolescents. It’s a protection mechanism. The girl is reacting beyond her control. She saw a catastrophic event. Life-changing. Some people aren’t equipped to deal with the consequences and their brains shut off everything as if it never happened. But we’ll get her to talk.’

Carrie’s cheeks burnt red. ‘That’s all very well but—’

His hands came down on her shoulders. ‘I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. She needs time. If necessary, I’ll get a child psychologist to work with her.’

Fiona’s eyes flicked between Brody, Carrie and the detective. ‘What’s the witness’s name?’ she asked, probing on Brody’s behalf.

Dennis frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.’

Carrie loomed in front of him. She was close to tears. Her eyes begged him for details – anything to keep the hope alive. She was shaking, waiting for a snippet of information to show her that things were progressing.

‘Her name’s Dayna,’ Dennis said reluctantly. ‘But I can’t tell you any more than that.’

Each knew what the other was thinking. They held back smiles – knowing flickers of understanding that only they would pick up on – and they turned to face the altar.

‘Do you, Caroline Elizabeth Kent, take Brody Nathan Quinell to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day . . .’

They’d done it at rehearsal; God knows she’d read it to herself a thousand times in her bedroom, gleaning every last drop of meaning from the words she was now hearing in the chapel. But what did it all really mean? She looked up at Brody. His eyes sparkled and occasionally he gave a small nod. Carrie thought that his collar looked too tight round his neck.

For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health
. . .

The man who would be her husband in just a few minutes listened intently to the chaplain as he recited the service. He would have delivered these words a hundred times before; they would hear them just the once. It was a contract, she knew that much. A promise that whatever life threw at them, they would suffer it together. They would ride the storm side by side and, without wanting to be too maudlin on her wedding day, Carrie also knew that it was an exciting agreement to share and delight in each other’s minds and bodies for ever. It was nineteen ninety-three and for ever seemed a long way off.

A peal of anticipation spiralled through her as she longed for the reception to be over with so they could be tucked away in the honeymoon cottage.

Till death do you part
. . .

There was a void so huge it filled her entire soul, sent a line of inexplicable fear from her head to her feet, to the earth. It cut straight through her heart. She was suddenly freezing in the simple white dress she’d chosen.

‘Caroline?’ The chaplain’s voice was filled with warmth and calm.

She thawed and smiled. ‘I do,’ she said sincerely, recognising her cue. And she meant what she said as she stared into Brody’s eyes – dark eyes that bound their world together. How she loved waking up next to him, watching his lids flicker through beautiful dreams. Brody was a secret man, an intelligent man, a man who spent his life dreaming, whether asleep or awake. He was ambitious yet careless with the consequences. Carrie adored this about him – the myriad surprises his creative genius brought home.

Brody Nathan Quinell, do you take
. . .

How they danced. Neither of them had much in the way of family present, even though Brody had a plethora of cousins and uncles and aunts still living back home in Jamaica.

His parents had come to England when he was a baby and done well for themselves as market traders. They’d owned their own home in a respectable neighbourhood, had many friends, built up a solid fruit and vegetable business, and worked hard all their lives. It saddened Brody greatly that they weren’t with him to celebrate his marriage to Carrie. He wanted a bond with her like his parents had shared, even to the very end. They’d died within a week of each other – his father falling down at the stall one morning, succumbing to a massive heart attack. His mother had also suffered from heart problems, her friends said afterwards. A broken one.

Brody pulled Carrie close. They were the stars of the show, the spotlight on them as they swirled alone around the spangled dance floor. He loved her tiny waist, her strong legs turned him on more than he could stand, and her arms wrapped around his neck while her painted nails toyed gently with his tight collar. It made him want to lose his clothes right there and then.

‘I love you,’ he growled against her ear. In response, Carrie nipped his lips with her teeth. Their friends, all clustered round the edge of the dance floor, laughed and clapped for them. Weddings were like that – they reminded everyone about precious relationships, whether it be with a partner, a child, a parent. It was a day full with emotion, with hope, and an insight to the future.

A happy future. On days like today, everyone believed the best.

There was a buffet and Brody grudgingly made chit-chat to people he didn’t know, mostly Carrie’s work colleagues. He piled his plate with sea bass and mango salsa, feta tarts topped with roasted figs, and chicken baked with lemons and rice. He ate and smiled and made comments and watched his new wife skirt around the hall that she’d had decorated with white lilies because his mother was called, he’d told her on many occasions, Lily-Mae.

‘The house needs work,’ Brody said to the tenth person at least who asked him about their new investment. ‘But we’ll get there.’ What he really wanted to say was he didn’t care if the house was a rundown mess for the rest of their lives, as long as he could live in it with Carrie.

He manoeuvred his way to her side. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said. He plucked a prawn off the plate she’d been holding for the last hour and yet hadn’t taken a bite of the food. Brody popped it in her mouth. ‘Eat. You’re going to need all your energy.’

Carrie’s eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. She poked him in the ribs but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Everything was all set, their stage perfectly prepared. Fine, so ask him a year ago and he wouldn’t have guessed at any of this, but even Brody Quinell had a heart to be played with.

‘How’s the work going, mate?’

He turned reluctantly. From the corner of his eye he noticed Carrie slip away into the celebrating hordes of their friends once more. The sleek lines of her simple dress left a white flash burnt on the back of his eyes.

‘Got it all added up yet?’

‘Nick. Good to see you.’ The men exchanged hearty slaps on their backs.

‘Congratulations. She’s beautiful.’

Brody nodded. ‘Didn’t expect all this, to be honest.’

‘You surprised us all.’ Nick handed Brody a drink. ‘For the groom,’ he said. ‘So where are you working now?’

‘I’m still at the university. I’ll probably die there. You?’

‘Same old same old. Still chugging it out with aerospace. The pay’s good, though, and I might just be following you down the aisle soon.’

The men stared at each other for a moment, wondering what it all meant, trying to fathom – even though they knew it was impossible – how things could change in what seemed like only days since they were undergraduates together.

‘Doesn’t add up at all really, does it, eh?’ Nick laughed too loudly.

‘Never heard that before.’ Brody pulled a face and raised his glass. They drank silently together. The days when he and Nick shared a poky flat during their years of study seemed long gone. This was real life now.

‘What does she do?’ Nick trailed Carrie with his eyes as she swept between her guests, being the perfect bride and hostess even though Brody knew she just wanted it to be over, for them to be alone.

He felt a tinge of jealousy; healthy, he told himself. ‘She’s a journalist.’ He didn’t want to expand, even though he could have gone on for hours about how good she was at her job, how she cared about researching her stories almost as much as she cared for him. That she was making a name for herself with the local BBC news team and how she hoped, one day, to work in television.

‘Nice,’ Nick said. ‘Well, take it easy then. I’d better go and speak to . . .’ And he trailed off, raising his pint at a woman across the room who had clearly caught his eye. Brody didn’t think Nick knew her but reckoned he would by the end of the night.

‘You too.’ And Brody retreated to the edge of the flower-festooned hall to lean against the wall. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t long until his life began.

 

Carrie wasn’t sure who caught her bouquet. She couldn’t, in all honesty, remember much about her special day, as everyone kept calling it. It was all over so quickly, yet would fill the rest of her life. She meshed her fingers with Brody’s as they left the reception for the Cotswold cottage they’d taken for a few days. Brody had work commitments and couldn’t spare any more time off. Besides, a lavish, overseas honeymoon was out of the question financially, what with the house they’d just bought and all the work that needed doing.

The stone cottage just outside Chipping Norton was owned by one of Brody’s colleagues at the university. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’ Carrie stood at the leaded window and stared out at the dark fields beyond. She swept the curtains closed. ‘But I think I’d miss city life.’

‘Bob comes here most weekends. No doubt brings a pretty young student along with him too.’

‘Brody, that’s a terrible thing to say on our wedding night. Is that what you plan on doing when I’m old and grey? Have fun with one of your bright young things? Give them a bit of personal coaching?’ Carrie was laughing as she slipped off the grey cardigan she’d worn over a new silk blouse and black trousers when they left the hotel reception.

‘I don’t even need to answer that.’

Carrie shivered as Brody’s large hands deftly undid each of the tiny buttons down the front of her blouse. The fabric shimmied from her shoulders as he released her bra clasp, causing her to catch her breath as the cool air fanned over her skin. They moved closer to the log fire that Brody had lit as soon as they’d arrived. The cottage owner had made sure there were plenty of logs and kindling in the grate, as well as champagne in the fridge.

‘We have good friends,’ Carrie said. Brody’s hands were all over her, his face buried in the mass of hair she’d let down around her neck. He didn’t reply, rather let his mouth travel over her skin as if she was someone new entirely just because they’d got married.

Later, wrapped in blankets beside the fire, sipping the champagne and hungrily eating the boxed canapés that had been delivered earlier that day from Oxford, Carrie rested her head on Brody’s shoulder.

‘It’s for ever, all this, you know,’ she said. She chewed and sipped, utterly contented. ‘You, me, the house, the kids, the dog, the holidays. Nothing bad will ever happen to take that away, right?’

Brody looked down at her. He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

Dayna had overheard the other girls talking about who they’d had loads of times. It was what they talked about between lessons, if they bothered to go – the number of lads they’d scored with, how they’d had to take the morning-after pill, how much they did or didn’t remember because of how pissed they’d been, if they’d caught anything, how big he was, or how small, and if they’d gone down on him.