Unspoken (22 page)

‘Thanks, Nadine. I owe you.’ I blow my nose.

‘No. You owe it to yourself to survive this.’ She clears our plates away. ‘How’s Murray?’ she asks, and I tense again because talking about Murray with his sister is always strained.

‘Murray is fine,’ I say, lying, wondering when it was that I lost sight of that.

 

When I drive into Witherly after fetching Alex and Flora, Brenna and Gradin are stepping off the school bus in the centre of the village. Brenna has tied her hair back and is wearing the correct uniform, while Gradin has his book bag slung over his back. The rock narrowly hurtles past his temple and I flinch instinctively on his behalf. He seems unaware the missile even came close to him.

‘Oi!’ Brenna yells, turning like a wildcat to the pack behind her. ‘Fucking leave him alone.’ Only then does Gradin look up from watching the trudge of his footsteps on the verge.

I pull up alongside them and wind down the window. ‘Hop in,’ I order. ‘Slide over, Alex.’ Gradin tumbles in beside my son and Brenna sits next to me in the front. I can smell the cold country air on their bodies. Their breaths are hot and grateful.

The lane narrows as we approach Northmire and the Clio drives heavily, bouncing over the potholes. ‘Good day?’ I ask. Brenna shrugs. ‘Gradin, is everything OK at school?’ I glance in the rearview mirror.

‘He’s being bullied,’ Brenna says for him. ‘The kids call him names, kick him, steal his stuff, nick his lunch money.’ She pulls a face – a frown combined with a plea:
do something
.

How can I tell them that what Murray said made sense? I doubt very much that they’ll understand why I called social services earlier; why I left a message with the woman responsible for their placements, their well-being, asking her to call me to discuss their future.

Flora begins to jiggle in the back seat. ‘Hang on, darling,’ I say out loud, and in the mirror I see the flick of Alex’s hands as he translates for me.

We swing into the cobbled yard, which looks shabby and uncared for now that Mum isn’t around to tend to it. I haven’t had the time or inclination to take care of jobs like that myself. I pull up the handbrake and my mouth drops as Murray steps out of the back door. It makes me angry that he still feels he can come and go as he pleases.

He strides up to the car. ‘I remember where Mary keeps the spare key,’ he excuses, noticing my frown.

‘I don’t need you to baby-sit me, Murray. Things are fine here.’ I am unnecessarily snappy with him but can’t help it. I lock the car and all the kids file into the farmhouse. I have no idea what to feed them for tea. Grocery shopping is something I haven’t had time for.

Murray takes me by the arms and I wince. They’re still sore from where Gradin grabbed me. ‘Listen, it’s early days but there may be some news.’

I stop. ‘Oh?’

‘The Crown Prosecution Service is demanding a review of the police evidence. It seems they’re not entirely convinced there’s a strong enough case.’

‘Come in,’ I say, trying to stay calm. I shoo Alex and Flora into the sitting room, feeling guilty because it will be chilly in there and all they have for company is a portable DVD player with a choice of exactly one film. Flora has made up her own signed version of
101 Dalmatians
.

Murray sits by the embers, pokes at them for me and adds some kindling. ‘To put it in simple terms, the CPS have to consider two main points when bringing a case like this to court. Firstly, they have to ask if there is enough reliable evidence to get a conviction. The case will be dropped if evidence is insufficient or not of a good quality.’

‘However serious the case is?’

Murray nods. ‘Yes. The Crown Prosecutor also considers if it is in the public’s interest for the case to be tried in court. Unfortunately, if the evidence is stacked against Carlyle, then of course the answer to this will be yes. But with evidence that isn’t as strong as we first believed, there may be a chance, a tiny one, of the whole thing falling apart. Bail, at the very least.’

The breath is knocked from me when I consider that some part of my life may be normalised again. ‘How can they just arrest him one minute and then suddenly decide that he’s innocent after all?’

‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Julia.’ I can tell by Murray’s expression that he doesn’t want to have to explain it to me. ‘The CPS has to decide if the recent information is reliable enough—’

‘Do they have witnesses?’

Murray looks away; shuts his eyes and gathers up our little girl in his arms when she comes back into the kitchen, bored with the movie. ‘Not as such, Julia.’ He glances down at Flora and makes a face, as if we shouldn’t say anything with her present.

‘She can’t hear you, Murray. For Christ’s sake, just tell me who. What do the police know?’

He pauses and lifts his eyebrows before he speaks, bracing me for a shock. ‘The police believe that David was . . . involved with Grace Covatta. They have witness statements, CCTV of them in his car together and . . .’ He’s trying to be gentle.

‘So?’ I say immediately, defensively, not daring to ask what comes after the ‘and’.
Grace was in David’s car?
I feel sick. I consider the implications but nothing makes sense. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ My voice is a whisper but then deepens to an indignant tone. ‘So what if Grace was in David’s car? I’ve driven her home once before. It doesn’t mean I assaulted her.’

‘Look, most of the evidence is just as flimsy. Don’t fret. Remember what I said about the CPS. If they can’t stick this one together with solid facts, then in the bin it goes.’

‘Are you sure you’ve told me everything you know?’

‘Really, that’s it. Really, it is.’ He hoists Flora up high and makes her squeal as he pretends to drop her. Suddenly Murray stops messing about. ‘Julia, it’s a serious charge with serious implications. Don’t expect to hear things that you’re going to like.’

He’s right, although I don’t want to admit it. I’m stuck in a time warp, still back at David’s house, waiting for the moment when he returns so we can pick up where we left off. I want to rewind to the point just before Ed and his officers arrived.

‘The washing-up,’ I say slowly, as if it is the solution to all my problems.

‘What are you talking about? What washing-up?’ Murray isn’t looking at me. He is swaying one way then the other as Flora tries to outwit him at tag around the kitchen table.

Enough! I sign and she pouts. I’m trying to talk to your father.

No! she gestures back, pushing her luck. I raise my eyebrows at her and widen my eyes in warning.

‘The washing-up is still sitting in the kitchen at David’s house. I’m going to go and do it.’ For some reason the thought of dirty dishes and pans going mouldy in David’s home is more than I can stand. I don’t want him to come home to a mess, to feel that everything’s been neglected. Murray sees the tremor in my arms.

‘Julia, you’re out of your mind. What are you thinking of?’ He doesn’t understand. ‘You want to do the washing-up? ’ Then he pauses, frowns and lifts Flora to one side. ‘The house will be sealed off to gather evidence. What are you going to do, break in?’

‘No, dummy,’ I say, reaching for my bag. ‘I’m going to use the front door keys.’

And, after a second’s thought, Murray takes the keys I’ve plucked from my bag and slams the door as he leaves.

After all this time, the house still smells of their cosy dinner. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s a sweet fermented blend of lamb and rosemary hanging in the stale air with the dizzy scent of lust mixed in. A semi-evaporated glass of red wine sits forgotten on the worktop.

All the curtains are closed, and even though it’s dark outside, there’s no way I’m putting the lights on. My torch is risky enough. If I’m caught here, they’ll take me off the case. Hang the lawyer who simply couldn’t help himself. Briefly, I think of Sheila and what she would say if she knew I was here, stalking through my client’s house.

I have to find out if Dr Nice is hiding something. Getting him out of prison is one thing, and may well keep me my job and prove to Julia that I’m not a loser. But if he walks free, there is of course a chance that he did attack Grace. I have to assume the worst. I don’t want him anywhere near my wife and kids.

I’m surprised that there isn’t a police guard on duty, but then again, if Ed has already scoured the place, and forensics have taken what they wanted, then the cost of manning such a remote property is unlikely. It makes my job easier.

I decide to get straight to the heart of the matter. The bedroom. I need to know how far it went.

I kick open a random door off the landing, hoping it’s his. But I am wrong. It looks like a guest bedroom, sparsely yet comfortably furnished with few personal belongings. I pick another door and open it. Behind it, I half expect to see Julia and David entwined on the bed.

My heart thumps as my hand touches the door with a tissue sheathing my fingers. I push it open and step inside, flashing my torch around to get a quick look, a sense of the size, the contents. Apart from the torchlight, the whole house is dark.

My breathing quickens. It’s a small room used as an office. I see an antique desk, a filing cabinet, and piles of files and papers everywhere. I beam the torch over the four walls and notice that the wall above the desk is dotted with dozens of drawing pins, Blu Tack and peeled paint where tape has been ripped off. ‘Photographs?’ I ask myself quietly, and I wonder if the police seized whatever was up there as evidence. ‘Or perhaps Carlyle got there first,’ I ponder.

Being careful not to touch anything, I twist my head to read some labels on the stacks of files. Bank statements, insurance, credit cards, mortgage . . . the regular household files of a man who keeps his affairs in order. By torchlight, I see that there is a darker square in the dust on the desk and a couple of loose cables feeding up from behind. I can’t help the smile. The police have seized Carlyle’s computer.

Using the tissue, I try to pull open a filing cabinet drawer but it’s locked. I have a quick scan around with the torch for a key but I don’t see one. It’s then that I notice the corner of shiny paper poking out from beneath the base of the cabinet.

Heaving my shoulder against the metal drawers, I tilt it enough to pull the paper out. I forget to hold it with the tissue, and now that my prints are firmly marked, whatever it is will have to come with me when I leave.

It’s a photograph with tiny holes punctured in each corner – one from the wall, perhaps? I turn it over and shine the torch right at it. Julia is standing beside a car –
my old car
– getting something from the boot, her gaze set to the distance and the wind lifting up her hair.

‘I
remember
this,’ I whisper incredulously. My heart is really thumping now. ‘We went for a picnic but it was ruined by the bad weather. Alex was only seven or eight.’ And sure enough, there’s my son in the background, carrying a red toy car. A quick calculation confirms that this picture is at least four years old. Why, I ask myself while turning it over and over, does David Carlyle have it?

The sudden voices downstairs make me forget the implications of the picture – what it actually means that a photo of my wife and son is in David’s study. I stuff it in my shirt pocket.

‘Hell,’ I whisper. I edge up to the window and see a police car parked in the lane. As the smell of Indian spices and garlic wafts up on to the landing, I realise that the police guards had taken a chance and slipped out for a curry. Just my luck, then, to have come calling when the coast was temporarily clear.

‘Hallet won’t even know,’ a young voice says to the tune of rustling packaging. ‘Don’t see the bloody point of us sitting here all night when nothing’s going to happen.’

‘You’re right about that. This place is so remote, I doubt even the bloke who lived here managed to find his way home every night.’

‘Probably exactly why he did live here. It was safe to lure young girls back. Wants his balls chopping off.’

There is a pause, laughter, and the crack of a can. Then they are chattering again, forks clattering, mouths full.

‘I overheard the boss. Reckon he knows for sure that this bastard did it. Says he has a sixth sense about it. Don’t say anything, but Hallet’s worried all right. Worried there isn’t a strong enough case. If you ask me, they did the right thing hauling him in. He could’ve been planning another attack. It could have been my Sally next.’

‘Mmm,’ the other one agrees. ‘Or my sister.’ But I don’t wait around to hear any more. They’ll be up to use the bathroom before long. There’s no way I can go down those creaky stairs without being heard, so I tread as carefully as I can down the landing to a room I’m praying is on the end wall of the house. I remember a lean-to, a kind of conservatory, and it’s at the opposite end of the house to the cops. There’s a chance I can slip out on to its roof, shimmy down a drainpipe, or jump for my life. Either way, I can see myself limping back across the fields with a broken ankle to the gateway where I left the car.

Carefully, slowly, I open the door at the end of the passage, shutting it behind me before I turn on the torch. With a little bit of light, I can see quite clearly that I’m in Carlyle’s bedroom. My eyes widen and focus on the bed; the thing that drove me here in the first place. It’s huge, perfectly made up with an undisturbed quilt. I stare at it, just to make sure. Holding my breath, I silently open the window.

‘So? David’s allowed to have a picture of me.’ Murray is holding a photo in front of my face, clasping it triumphantly.

‘This picture was taken about four years ago when we went on a picnic. Do you remember that day?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ I take the photograph, stare at it. I was heavier then; rosy and plush. ‘Alex broke that toy car on the way home and howled.’ I smile at the memory. I like it that David has a photograph of me. He kept it in his study.