‘No thank you. Miss Huntingdon, would you mind? We need to talk to Dr Harrison alone.’ Randall’s attempt at dismissal is more successful than mine.
Lizzy kisses my cheek and takes the bottle from my hand as if I’d just been fetching it for her. ‘I’ll see you later. I’ve got lesson plans I need to prepare.’
‘Yes, later.’
She goes out the front door rather than over the fence. I have to agree that trespassing in front of the police is probably not a good idea.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a call at home?’ I know I sound prissy, but something about these two officers makes me start acting like a jerk.
‘Just some follow-up questions, sir. All routine.’
I take a seat and invite them to do the same. Randall sits but Lloyd stays standing, keeping me under observation from out of my eyeline. I know the routine, guys, I wrote the book on it.
I try to wrong foot them. ‘I understand that Lillian Bailey has been found alive and well?’
Randall scowls. ‘I see Miss Bridges has been busy. I told her not to interfere.’
‘I’m pleased she did. One less stupid allegation that needs investigating.’
‘As I explained before, our chief concern is the events leading up to Jacob West’s death, not the circumstantial evidence he thought he had compiled on you. Our medical examiner has concluded that it is highly unlikely that West hit his own head. There was no object in the house that showed any sign of causing the impact and he collapsed before he left the property so couldn’t have removed it himself. We are looking at murder.’
‘Fuck.’ I say it quietly but what else is there to say? ‘Look, at the risk of repeating myself, I have no motive for killing him, surely you can see that? He was well in my past, the woman we argued over has been gone five years – I can point you to her grave if you like. As for West, his death is a massive inconvenience to me. I didn’t much like the man but I had no reason to want him dead.’
‘But you did get into a fight with him on the South Bank in 2010.’
So they had found a record of the incident after all. So much for hoping it was buried in the past. ‘Correct. He was harassing Emma – screaming at her in fact. I protected her.’
‘Can you describe the incident please?’ Randall has turned to a fresh page in his notebook.
I want to say ‘do I have to?’ like some kid told to do a chore. ‘It was all highly embarrassing. Emma had left him a few months before, as I think I mentioned already. She tried to hide from him as he was obsessional about her. I think she worried for her safety – with good reason, as his later actions prove.’
‘What later actions?’
‘His ridiculous fabrications about me, for starters. Unfortunately, some months after she left him, we had a chance encounter outside the National Theatre where Emma and I had been to a matinee. By great bad luck, West was part of a demonstration on oil-company sponsorship of the arts on the pavement out front. That was his kind of thing so I suppose we should’ve known better. I wish we’d walked out the other way.’
‘Jacob West was a well-known environmental activist?’
‘Yes, apparently so. I’m all for free speech and Green campaigners, but not for the lunatic fringe who send parcel bombs to scientists, or dig up the graves of their relatives. Those people have totally lost the plot.’
‘So you thought West capable of a bombing campaign?’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth. There are enough misunderstandings going on about this case without adding to them. I am just saying that I got the impression that West was verging on that end of the scale, if not actually involved in extremist behaviour. But I’m not the expert here as I don’t move in those circles or make a study of them. I’d never heard of him before but Emma told me a few things about the kind of life she had led with him, and it sounded pretty far out – living off the land and so on.’
‘Shall we return to the incident in early 2010?’
‘Fine. We came out of the theatre and Jacob spotted Emma. He began shouting about Kaitlin.’
‘His daughter.’
‘Not according to Emma. West was delusional. She was really afraid of him, I have to emphasise that or you won’t understand. She said he was obsessed with her; he was claiming that Kaitlin was his child and that she – that’s Emma – would have to go back to him if he took the child.’
‘Go back where?’
‘To live with him in some hovel in the forest where they plotted revolution and lived off scavenging – and not in the fashionable River Cottage sense.’
‘Where did he think Kaitlin was – in fact, where was she at this time?’
‘With a childminder, I suppose.’
‘Last time we talked, you gave us the impression you had nothing to do with Kaitlin.’
‘If you rerun the recording you’ll see that I said no such thing. I just said that I wasn’t her parent and have no responsibility for her. Haven’t you followed that up yet? Really, you don’t expect me to do your job for you, do you?’
‘Dr Harrison, withholding information is not going to help clear you.’
‘Then ask the right questions, Inspector.’ It feels good to tick him off. ‘Returning to the incident, we both got quite scared when West chased us to the underpass. He tried to grab Emma – she’d already warned me he had a temper. We scuffled. It ended with me decking him – I boxed at Cambridge so I know how to throw a punch. That was when the police came. They tried to take me in but Jacob refused to discuss what had happened – snarling something about not putting himself in the hands of the fascist pigs which, as you can imagine, pleased the officers no end. He walked off, telling Emma that this wasn’t over. He said that now he knew she was in London she wasn’t going to get away from him again. He sounded completely unhinged and, if I’d had any doubts about the lengths she had gone to in order to break off all contact with him, I would’ve now seen that she was completely justified to hide.’
‘And that was the end of the matter?’
‘Yes. After a brief conversation and advice to avoid further confrontations, the police patrol let Emma and me continue on our way. No charges were ever filed so I’m surprised there’s a record.’
‘The policemen on patrol that day remembered you. You were already quite famous for your Hendon lectures, Dr Harrison. One of the officers drew the incident to my attention when he heard that you were helping us with our enquiries.’
‘One of the drawbacks of fame, I suppose.’
‘Would you say that you are a planner, Dr Harrison?’ Lloyd is standing by the fridge where I have a calendar pinned up to remind me of household tasks like bins and maintenance calls. It was the only way to keep the place in order with Jessica’s chaotic lifestyle continually breaking in like a pirate radio signal messing up the airwaves.
‘Yes, I’m organised. I like to feel that things are under control. That’s not a crime.’ I pause, forcing myself to think professionally. They are not making idle conversation. They’ve probably read Hollin’s introduction to criminal psychology and think they know what they’re doing. ‘But you are looking for someone who plans. The crime scene was staged in a certain way, almost tidy. It must have been a single blow if you even considered he might’ve fallen and hit his own head?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal the details of our investigation.’
‘You don’t need to: I have a brain.’
‘We are well aware of that.’
‘And if I did do it, I was extremely foolish leaving the fingerprints behind to be found. As a planner, I would’ve done a better job of tidying up.’
They say nothing. I realise I shouldn’t be talking to them without the redoubtable Miss Brightwell. But it is Saturday morning and calling her in would cost a fortune. I’m not going to let anything slip to them. I can handle a couple of mid-grade police officers. I deflect. ‘Are you really sure you don’t want coffee?’
‘Positive.’ Randall passes me a photograph. It’s a
n ugly shot of a very dead body. A girl. ‘Do you recognise this person?’
I wipe my wrist over my mouth, surprised to find I’m squeamish. ‘Jesus. No.’
‘That’s Clare Maxsted. We dug the details of her death out of the files. There was some confusion because she had been using a false name but the dental records from her time with the foster services provided a match.’
I say nothing.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to her?’
‘Not really, but go on.’
‘She jumped in front of a train in April.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘At least, that’s what the coroner ruled. The platform was crowded at the time and there were some witnesses who claimed that she might have been pushed but nothing was proved.’
‘As I said, poor girl.’
‘What were you doing on the evening of 22nd April?’
I’m going to have to do the dance, it would seem. Yet more time-wasting suspicions. I get my laptop out of my bag and summon up my calendar. ‘What time?’
‘6.30.’
Damn – no tidy alibi. ‘I finished a lecture at four and would probably have been either in my office or on my way home. Where did this incident happen?’
‘Clapham Junction.’
On my doorstep. ‘Then I might very well have been delayed along with thousands of other commuters, as I assume services were suspended afterwards?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Inspector, you should be more suspicious of me if I claim to have crystal-clear recall. How many times has your journey to or from work been disrupted by jumpers? It’s a sad fact that some desperate people see it as a solution to their problems, and they are far too distressed to consider that they are creating a tidal wave of knock-on effects, not least for the poor sod driving the train. I’m sorry I can’t provide you with chapter and verse on my movements that day and I can’t remember them at this distance. If I had been involved in the incident, I assure you I would’ve prepared a better alibi than this.’
‘But you don’t have an alibi.’
‘Quite. That was rather my point.’
When they go, I pour myself a Scotch. I don’t care that it’s only eleven. What does it matter if I’m paralytic by lunchtime? I bolt the back door to stop Lizzy returning, bolt the front door just in case, and retreat to my bedroom cradling the bottle. The police haven’t returned the picture of Emma yet so I’ve got out one from our wedding album and propped it up on the dressing table mirror. She looks so lovely – so happy. I lie in bed with the bottle resting at my side, glass balanced on my chest.
‘Cheers, darling.’ I toast her as I get serious about finishing the bottle.
Chapter 33
Emma, 13th February 2010
What were the odds – running into him at the South Bank today? In a city of millions, we had to come face to face. I saw him a fraction too late, waving his banner, his eyes wild while he spewed profanities at global business. This was exactly the man I fled – the out-of-control, fixated one. I pulled Michael’s arm to go back inside the National but he’d seen me.
‘Ali! Ali!’
‘It’s him – the guy I used to live with,’ I muttered to Michael. ‘Jacob West. I really don’t want to speak to him.’
Michael clicked into protection mode – I was impressed and immensely grateful for his six-foot-one frame and visits to the weights room at the college gym. ‘Then you don’t have to.’ We start walking fast, then running towards the bridge over the river, past the wall of graffiti and the boys doing stunts on the skateboard park. I’m not so fit as I once was, finding I get very tired since having Kaitlin. My PT instructor would be very disappointed to see me clutching a stitch in my side. In my defence I was wearing heels and a tight skirt – you try running in them.
He, however, was as lean and mean as ever. He caught up.
‘Ali, what the fuck are you doing here – and with this… this suit?’ He glared at Michael. Being a ‘suit’ is one of his worst insults. ‘Why are you fucking dressed like that? And where’s Kaitlin?’
That really should’ve been his first question. ‘Leave me alone. We’re over. I’m not coming back.’
‘She’s my daughter – you can’t just cut me out of your life!’
‘She’s not yours. There’s no father listed on her birth certificate – oh, but you don’t believe in registering your presence for the fascist state, do you?’
He reached out to grab me by the front of my coat. ‘You can’t keep me away from her.’
Michael stepped between us. ‘Yes, she can, West, so step back. We’ll get a restraining order if necessary.’
‘Fuck off. That’s my woman you’re holding.’
‘Wrong. This is my wife – and I will protect her with all the force of the law.’
‘Fuck the law!’ Jacob swung at Michael and they entered into a scrappy brawl. I had never seen my husband fight before; he didn’t fight dirty like Jacob, which hampered him, but he must’ve had a punch like a sledgehammer because he had Jacob flat on his back after only a minute.
Unfortunately, a police patrol happened upon us just as Michael was standing over Jacob. I had a moment’s panic that the whole business was going to unravel and I couldn’t keep Kaitlin safe and out of this crap – which is absolutely my priority. Fortunately, it went no further, though, because Jacob mouthed off as usual about the police state, the same one that educated him, gave him benefits and looked after his health for free. Yeah, we’re really oppressed in England.
Sorry, what little respect I had for Jacob’s convictions evaporated after a couple of years living with them. He is a hypocrite and doesn’t see it.
Jacob ran off after spewing a few more insults at how I had ‘sold out’ and ‘kidnapped’ his daughter.
‘That was ugly,’ commented Michael, wiping away a trickle of blood from his lip.
‘That’s classic Jacob. Now you can see why I’ve always been careful about keeping my identity and Katy’s offline as far as possible.’
‘Completely.’ Michael checked we weren’t being followed and we resumed our walk to the Underground. ‘He shouldn’t be able to trace us. You’ve got a new surname now and gone back to using your first name. Unless he recognises me somehow, there’s no connection to make.’
I squeezed his arm, resting my head briefly against his bicep. ‘Thanks. Hazard of the job, I suppose you could say.’
‘But, Emma, I have to ask, is he Kaitlin’s father?’ Michael glanced over his shoulder. We were both anxious.
‘He thinks he is – I had her while I was living with him – but he’s never been a father to her.’
‘That’s not quite a “no”, is it?’
‘He’s not her father, Michael. I swear.’ And that’s the truth in my mind. I’m her mother and that’s all she needs.
Chapter 34
Jessica, 26th August
This has been a week from hell. Drew has been trying to manoeuvre me into having ‘a conversation’ but I’m avoiding it. He’s going to ask me to leave, I can just tell. He is killing me with his kindness, so considerate, but that’s what has clued me in to his intentions. That’s the way he would deliver bad news, with a hug and an ‘I’m so sorry – it’s not you, it’s me’ line when we both know it is completely me. And if he saw the whole picture, the ‘being nice’ to Max part of my life, my suitcase would be outside the door like that pathetic character in Evita. I should put it there myself but where would I go next?
The cutting is getting worse. I’m doing it in places I don’t think anyone will see. Add to that the fact that I’m a chemical stew. Can’t sleep. Seeing the Scream – or fearing to see it – every time the lights go out.
I don’t want to talk about me right now.
The irony is that Lizzy has asked me over to supper at Michael’s to cheer him up – as if I could be anyone’s cure. Maybe seeing me so wretched will bring sunshine into his life, I don’t know. I didn??
?t want to agree, as that house has nothing but bad memories for me and I’m not in a good place to go back there; but there is something about Lizzy that is hard to resist. She has been so kind to me, standing by me when others didn’t, introducing me to Drew, so when she laid it on thick about how Michael fears his career is in ruins, I found myself saying ‘yes’. I wanted to say that he should’ve thought about being nicer to people on the way up, but what is the point of ‘I told you so’?
Drew knows I’m going but doesn’t approve. He must be wondering by now about all my mysterious evenings out but that’s another thing I’m not letting us talk about. Fortunately he’s got his own plans for tonight: tickets for a Kraftwerk gig with a mate from his schooldays. He said weeks ago how he queued up for hours at the box office to get hold of good seats. I tell him to go ahead and enjoy it. A couple of hours with Michael won’t kill me.
After Drew leaves on the moped bound for Hammersmith, I dress carefully, trying for the ‘I’m flourishing away from you, you bully’ look, which translates as a red dress for confidence and black high-heeled shoes. I scrutinise my face in the mirror. I’m looking pale and unhappy. That won’t do. I apply blusher and a bold red lipstick. Shit, now I look like a clown. I tone it down a little but I still seem a little manic even to my own eyes. Psyched up, I arrive at the house only to find no one home. Brilliant. A little of my attitude escapes like air from a balloon, leaving me sagging. I go along to Lizzy’s, thinking maybe I misunderstood her message and she is holding the supper party at her house. I’ll look a complete chump if I’ve got the wrong day. She comes to the door, up to the elbows in flour.
‘Oh, Jessica, sorry, I’m running way behind. Flossie got a stick lodged in her throat so I had to make an unscheduled visit to the vet. Then Michael got summoned to see the Principal at Royal Holloway at the last moment but he shouldn’t be long.’
‘Is it serious?’
She smiles grimly. ‘Flossie or Michael?’
‘Both.’
‘Dog’s fine but as for Michael, I don’t know. Maybe. He’s certainly going to need us. Look, I’ve got the keys. Would you be an angel and feed the cat for me and lay the table? My kitchen is a mess – I’ve totally gone overboard with what was supposed to be a simple meal.’