Talking to Strangers, page 15
“We’re piecing together Karen Simmons’s last days,” Caro said, “and we’re told that you visited her flat the night before she was killed.”
Sherman sat bolt upright in his chair.
“Who told you that?”
“Well, it wasn’t you, was it?” Caro said. “You said you’d never been on your own with her when we spoke the other day.”
He hesitated, and Elise wondered if he was really going to try to carry on the pretense.
“Er, yeah, sorry, I forgot,” he said, trying to shrug his shoulders as if it was nothing. “I was just dropping off a scarf she’d left at the Free Spirits thing in the Neptune.”
“What kind of scarf? What color was it?” Elise was trying to visualize the video clip of the group. Karen hadn’t been wearing anything round her neck.
“Er, was it blue?” Sherman stuttered, the lie drying his mouth. “I can’t remember. Does it matter?”
“We’ll have a look for it in the flat. Anyway, it was late for just dropping by. How long were you with Karen that night?”
“Umm, I don’t know. A couple of minutes, I suppose. Just the time it took to hand it over and for her to thank me.”
“You were there for almost twenty minutes, according to our witness,” Elise explained. “What else have you not told us, Mr. Sherman?”
“What witness? Oh, don’t tell me! Ash Woodward. Creeping around, peering in windows. You should be looking at him, not listening to his lies. Look, he hated it that Karen flirted with me occasionally. Just flirted. But he used to stare like he wished I was dead. He’s trying to drop me in it.”
“Let’s continue this at the station, shall we?” Elise said. “It appears we have things to discuss.”
THIRTY-NINE
ANNIE
Thursday, February 20, 2020
“Have you ever heard the name Ash Woodward?” Annie asked Xander when she got home.
“Who?” he said, not bothering to stop typing.
“He was there at the end of the vigil,” she said. “And I met him again today.”
“Okay,” Xander murmured.
“He said he was in Knapton Wood the day Archie died,” Annie said quietly, and Xander stood, color leaching from his cheeks.
“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad,” Annie said, reaching up to stroke his face.
“No, I’m just upset for you, Mum,” Xander said softly. “He sounds like one of those attention seekers. You know, people who try to insert themselves in a drama. I mean, why would he say that now? All these years later? Forget it, Mum.”
“I can’t,” Annie whispered.
“Have you told anyone else?” Xander said softly.
Annie shook her head, and her son put his arms around her. “Please don’t,” Xander whispered above her. “It will only encourage him—and other weirdos.”
She nodded. Annie didn’t want to put her boy through any more. She went and sat on her bed and tried to quieten her thoughts. But her unnerving encounter with Woodward had only increased her determination to dig deeper. She stood and opened her wardrobe door, then stretched her arm up to the top shelf where the secret things lived and pulled a shoebox from the deepest recesses.
The box contained pictures and notes that Archie had scribbled and made. And a letter. Only she knew it was there. Annie felt torn between triumph and despair when she fished it out and brushed off stray glitter and flakes of dried poster paint. She saw she’d even got as far as putting a stamp on it.
But she hadn’t posted it to the other mother.
The letter should have been read by Mrs. Donovan sixteen years ago. But she hadn’t sent it. She couldn’t. Henry had said he’d never forgive Annie if she contacted “that monster’s” family. And everything had been too fragile to push back. She and Henry had had to cling together, braced against a common enemy who lived with them, sitting at the breakfast table, lying down with them at the end of the day. Even after he’d hanged himself.
The man in charge of the investigation had come the morning after Nicky Donovan died. Face grave, a cigarette burn on his polyester tie. Annie hadn’t been able to focus on what he was saying, but he’d taken her hand and sat her down.
“Annie,” he’d said, “we are not looking for anyone else in connection with this. Donovan wrote a note telling us what we already knew. That he was responsible.”
“But why? Why did he kill Archie? What did he say?” she’d said, dry-eyed.
The detective had cleared his throat. “He didn’t tell us why, just that he was sorry for what he did. That he couldn’t help the way he was. And to tell his mum that he loved her.”
It was that that had undone Annie. The mention of the other mother. And she’d wanted to reach out to her. If anyone could understand Annie’s grief, it would be her. But Henry hadn’t seen that. The message had just redoubled his fury.
“He was a coward who killed himself rather than face what he’d done,” he’d said, his voice so tight it sounded as if it might shatter like glass. “How can you even think about writing to his mother? It was probably her who made him the disgusting, violent pedophile he was. You are betraying our child.”
But Annie had written the letter anyway, sitting on a bench on one of her solitary walks. It hadn’t taken long—she’d only wanted to say one thing: “I am sorry for your loss. I know what it is to lose a son.”
During the bottomless nights that followed, Annie had lain staring at the spot on the ceiling that Henry’s paintbrush had missed. Unable to close her eyes in case their child’s dead face was waiting there. And thinking. Pawing frantically at the scraps of things she’d heard.
Donovan’s sister had been on the television, telling everyone who would listen that her brother was innocent. Wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Cried at soppy films. Was a lovely man.
But how could he have been that sweet boy? And the monster? Was it possible to be both?
“He confessed. In his suicide note,” Henry had screamed at the telly, and Annie had sat in silence.
* * *
—
Now, she turned the envelope over in her hands and looked at the address. She’d overheard two reporters outside her parents’ house the day after Nicky Donovan was arrested and had written it down.
“Can you get over there to doorstep Donovan’s family?” one of the journalists had said, reeling off the address. “I’ve already knocked, but the mother wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t open the door.”
Annie wondered if she would today.
She didn’t even know if Mrs. Donovan would still be there—she might have been forced to move to escape. Like they had. But the address was only twenty minutes from where the Curtises lived now. Annie got her things, called good-bye to Xander as if she was popping to the shops, and climbed into the car.
The other mother’s house was in a scruffy town-center terrace next to a bus stop. The tiny front garden had empty crisp packets and fried-chicken boxes stuffed in the hedge. There was a sign on the door warning against cold callers and junk mail.
Annie’s hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t keep her finger on the bell, and it rang in shouty blasts.
“Who is it?” a woman called from inside.
“Annie…Annie Curtis…” she squeaked. The door cracked open. A sliver of face appeared. One eye took her in, and a tear formed.
“Mrs. Donovan,” Annie started, but she was crying, too.
“You’d better come in,” the older woman said, leading the way.
They sat in the front room clutching tissues—Annie still in her coat and Sylvie Donovan in her pink slippers—and looked at each other. She wasn’t what Annie had imagined. But people rarely were, were they? She was bigger, somehow. In Annie’s head, she’d always been tiny—withered by what had happened. A tragic, lonely figure frozen in time. A Miss Havisham. But the photographs of babies and wedding couples on the mantelpiece showed that Mrs. Donovan’s life hadn’t stopped in 2004.
“Why have you come?” she spoke into the silence. And Annie pulled out the letter. It had got creased in her pocket, but Mrs. Donovan smoothed it on her soft lap and waited a moment before she carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. She sat staring at the handful of words without saying anything.
“I wrote it a long time ago,” Annie said, unable to bear the growing tension. “Just after your son…Well, afterward. But my husband said he wouldn’t talk to me again if I sent it. He was too upset. Too angry with everyone.”
“Of course he was,” Mrs. Donovan said quietly, and looked Annie in the eye. “Thank you for writing this. It’s funny, isn’t it? That no one else understood. Just you. You know, I thought about you every day. Dreamed about you. And still do, sometimes. You and little Archie.”
Her son’s name being spoken by Mrs. Donovan made Annie cry again and she couldn’t speak. Nicky’s mum just nodded and patted her arm.
“But why have you brought your letter today, Annie?” she asked.
“Someone else has been killed in Knapton Wood.”
Mrs. Donovan nodded again and got up. “I know. Shall I make us some tea?”
* * *
—
Tentatively, they told each other about their boys while the ancient gas fire popped and the tea went cold in the pot.
“Nicky struggled with who he was,” Sylvie Donovan said. “I knew from very early on that he was gay—it didn’t make any difference to me. He was my child and I loved him. But his dad wouldn’t have it. There were terrible fights, and Nicky left home as soon as he could. He went off to London to stay with his big sister. And got himself into trouble. I visited him in prison without my husband knowing, and Nicky came back to live near me after his dad died. It said emphysema on the death certificate, but he never got over Nicky being put in jail.”
She twisted the thin wedding ring on her finger. “I still miss him,” she whispered. “Both of them.”
“Why did Nicky kill my son, Mrs. Donovan?” Annie suddenly asked, and the other woman closed her eyes.
“He didn’t,” she said. “I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but Nicky told me he didn’t. He wouldn’t have lied to me.”
Annie sat like a statue, her legs aching with tension. “But,” she tried to say, but her mouth was so dry she gulped the word. Mrs. Donovan passed Annie her cup, and she took a sip. “But he committed suicide,” Annie said. “And said he was sorry for what he did to Archie. In his note.”
“Archie?” Mrs. Donovan said quietly. “No. That’s not right.” She looked away, struggling with a mixture of emotions that Annie couldn’t read, then stood on shaking legs. “I won’t be a minute,” she said. “You need to see.”
When she returned, she pushed a sheet of paper into Annie’s hands.
Annie unfolded it. It was a photocopy of the short note Nicky Donovan had written before he hanged himself. It was just three lines: “I’m sorry for what I did to the boy. I can’t help the way I am. Mum knows. Please tell her I love her.”
“He said he was sorry, that’s right.” Mrs. Donovan spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. “Sorry for what happened with the boy—see.” And she pointed to the line. “But he’s not talking about Archie.”
“How do you know?” Annie whispered. A mother always knows echoed in her head.
“He told me on my last visit. He was very, very low and frightened. He said the police just kept hammering at him, telling him he must have murdered Archie. But Nicky said he hadn’t. He confessed to me what he’d done to your other son, Xander. How he tried to touch him in the wood. He said there was something inside him that made him do these things. I tried to tell the police, but they weren’t interested. I’ll never forgive them. My son killed himself because they wouldn’t listen. I think he just couldn’t see any other way out.”
Annie sat, stunned, and reread the words with fresh eyes. Had the police made a mistake? She felt her world tilt, and she clung on to the edge of her seat with one hand.
She took a deep breath. “But then, who did kill Archie?” she blurted. Her whole body ached to know.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Sylvie Donovan said. “I don’t have an answer to that. Nicky didn’t know. He said he ran back to his motorbike after your eldest son pushed him off, and he rode here. He didn’t know anything had happened to Archie until later. Neither of us did. Nicky looked a bit pale and sweaty when he got home, but it was a hot day. I sent him up for a shower, and I’d just made him a ham salad for his tea when the police knocked and took him away and…” She trailed off.
Annie hugged her close when she got up to leave. She wanted to feel that the other mother was real. That Nicky Donovan had been real. “Can I ring you if I need to?” Annie asked, and Mrs. Donovan nodded.
Annie sat in the car after Mrs. Donovan had closed the front door. What would she tell Henry when she got home? The truth? Or nothing? Would she keep it a secret—a splinter to go septic in the flesh of their marriage?
FORTY
ELISE
Thursday, February 20, 2020
After five days of intensive work and not nearly enough sleep, Elise was flagging, but there was so much to do. Caro hadn’t got any further with the manager of the Lobster and his hastily arranged solicitor. “Sherman says he and Karen were just talking at her flat—and there are no photos of Karen on his phone. He’s being swabbed at the moment. Reluctantly.”
“Okay,” Elise said, bracing her shoulders as she called the team together. “We’re being told that Barry Sherman was in a sexual relationship with the victim,” she said. “Our witness is Ash Woodward. A man who admits he was devoted to Karen. He says he saw Sherman visit the flat the night before her death and that Sherman was a regular visitor. Mr. Woodward claims he wasn’t watching Karen. It was a coincidence.”
“But he lives miles from her place,” DC Lucy Chevening pointed out.
“Yes,” Elise said. “So we are looking at both men. Where was Woodward all evening? He says he was on his bike. Let’s see if he’s on any of the town’s cameras. And send Sherman’s vehicle registration to the ANPR bods. He’s got no alibi after his last member of staff left at eleven.”
“I’ll do that,” Lucy chirped and started making notes for the task.
“And then…” Blank. Elise froze and groped blindly for her next thought.
“We also need to identify all the men at the vigil last night,” Caro said, deftly taking up the baton, and Elise gave her a grateful smile.
“We know some of them already, but who are these two for a start? This one looks very young. How did he know Karen? Have we heard from the website Karen was using?” Elise asked.
“Fishing for Freaks?” Andy Thomson grinned. “Well, that’s what people call it, and there’s definitely pond life—you should see some of the photos. Anyway, they’ve agreed to cooperate with the police investigation. There was an email this afternoon.”
“Why are we hearing this for the first time now?” Caro said, frowning.
The grin disappeared. “Er, everyone was busy.”
“Apart from you, it seems.”
“Okay.” Elise cut short the bickering before it could turn into something—it was getting late and everyone was tired and irritable. She sat at a computer and downloaded the file containing Karen’s account details and password. Caro pulled up a chair beside her, and Andy Thomson drifted across to look over her shoulder.
“Let’s see who was looking at you,” Elise muttered, clicking on the first contact.
* * *
—
Half an hour later, Elise was still clicking through them. She knew she needed to leave it to someone else, but she couldn’t stop looking for a face she recognized from the vigil.
At her side, DC Thomson was making a list of the names. Elise wondered how many would cooperate.
“Shall I check the free apps as well?” Thomson said when they took a break. “They’re more…well, free.”
“Better for predators,” Elise muttered. “Well, that’s who we’re looking for. Where do we sign up?”
“I’ve got an account,” Thomson said. “Everyone does it now. All my friends. For a laugh,” he added quickly.
“Okay, if she’s on these apps, we’ll need a female, won’t we?” Caro said. “To look for the creeps. You’ll have to sign up as a woman, Andy.”
Thomson’s face fell. “Why doesn’t Lucy do it, then?”
“Because you’ve just offered,” Elise said impatiently. “And DC Chevening is busy with other lines of inquiry. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. What shall I call myself?”
Elise felt her personal phone vibrate in her pocket.
“I’ll leave that to you,” she said, hurrying out into the corridor. “Er, hi,” she said, trying to lose the professional clip to her voice. “Mal?”
“It’s Mum, love. Are you still at work? Sorry, I thought you’d be home by now.”
Disappointment flooded through Elise as the adrenaline drained away. Not him. Why hadn’t he rung?
“Is something wrong, Mum?” Elise murmured, steeling herself for her mother’s minor domestic dramas.
“No, it’s just I haven’t heard from you for a week and I know your checkup is coming up.”
She knew, of course she did, but it still jolted her to have someone say it out loud. Her checkup meant she couldn’t pretend the cancer was history. “Sorry, Mum.” She gulped. “I should have called. The appointment’s next week, and I promise I’ll ring and let you know how I get on. Are you and Dad okay?”
When the call ended, she stood for a moment and took a breath. He’d call. Wouldn’t he?
