The Mother, page 9
Like this meeting with AY that had never taken place.
16
I do a few quick Google searches on AY, combined with Parliament, MP, Westminster. Nothing seems to jump out.
The next entry for that day is not until midday, a lunch meeting. In the afternoon, long-scheduled parliamentary stuff that he would have added weeks or months before, once his office populated his electronic diary. All specific, clear, unambiguous.
Not at all cryptic. Not like the 8 a.m. entry. I assumed AY were someone’s initials, or maybe a place? I flick back through the pages, looking for any other meetings scheduled in with AY. But I can’t find any. Then I check against our home address book, but there’s nothing that corresponds there either.
The police had had access to his phone, his electronic diary, almost from the start of their investigation. It was one of the first things they asked me, that nightmarish first day when I’d discovered his body. But had they seen this too, his paper diary? I wasn’t sure. They were almost the same anyway, with just a few extra personal items added to the hardcopy.
Which might mean AY was something other than work.
A personal meeting. Private. Illicit, perhaps.
No.
I don’t want to go there, not at this moment. Not when I’ve only just rediscovered this keepsake from my old life, this little book that Liam had held in his hands a hundred times, that he had carried in his jacket next to his heart.
The weekend he’d died, the entries look normal, recognisable. The event he’d been invited to on the Saturday after his morning constituency surgery. Theo’s football match on Sunday morning, and one other notation for the evening of that day.
Another cryptic one.
8 p.m. – cl N
Cl was his shorthand for call. So, a call scheduled for 8 p.m. on a Sunday. By which time he’d already been dead more than thirty-six hours, and I had already been charged with his murder. Maybe N was another colleague? A member of his staff? The only one he tended to call out of hours was Christine Lai, his office manager.
I flick to the back of his diary. Most of the notes pages are taken up with more of his handwriting, most of it relating to constituency work, follow-ups and action points to be raised about local issues. A half-page of text that is mostly crossed out, thick black ink obscuring the writing below. A few other elements are just about legible, on one of the lines.
Two more initials, or names, or whatever they are.
AT → NS?? 10/6/13 CUTOFF
Below it I find one further reference to AY. Buried among more text obliterated with crossings out until a final looping arrow points to the initials, circled twice in ink so heavy it has almost torn the page.
It’s only as I look closer that I see the ragged leftover where the next page has been torn out. Not neatly, not cut with a blade, but ripped away as if in haste or anger. That was weird; it wasn’t like him at all to tear out pages wholesale. Why not just cross it through? I read back over everything again, trying to discern pattern or meaning – if there even is one.
Eventually, I close the diary and tuck it carefully under my pillow, turning to the few other items sorted into the ‘useful’ pile. The stack of business cards, wrapped tight in its elastic band, might be interesting. Near the top I find a card for Owen Tanner, the journalist, presumably from an effort years ago to contact my mum for comment on my case or my appeal. There is a mobile number and an email address. The mobile number just gives me an automated voice, This number is out of service, please check and try again, so I open a fresh email instead, attaching a link to the article of his that I’d found on the library computer. I used to write dozens of emails a day at work, but it’s been so long that I have to concentrate hard to summon the format from memory, like hauling water up from a very deep well. I write the email several times, debating with myself how much detail to include, but decide in the end to keep it simple.
Dear Mr Tanner,
I was very interested in the story you wrote a few years ago about my case. I’m back in Bath and would like to talk to you. Are you free to meet?
Heather Vernon
It was time to find out what else Owen Tanner knew about my husband’s death.
17
The door to the dormitory room flies open and Jodie bursts in, grinning widely.
‘Oy oy!’ she says, her voice loud. ‘You still here?’
‘Still here,’ I say.
‘No suites available at the Royal Crescent Hotel then?’ She gives me a lopsided wink, but I don’t think she’s drunk. Just a bit manic.
‘Overrated.’ I shrug. ‘And this place has got a much better rating on TripAdvisor anyway.’
‘Ha! Yeah right.’ She kicks her shoes off. ‘Thought you’d be up and out and on your way by now though, missus.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Another night in paradise for us then.’ She flops down on her bed with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Hey, how’d you get on yesterday anyway? With old whatshisname?’
‘Who?’
‘You know. Your probation meeting with Boyle.’
‘Oh, him. Yeah, he was . . . all right, I suppose.’
‘I can’t stand him. Wanker.’ She points to a shopping bag on the end of her bed, an edge of belligerence creeping into her tone. ‘What’s this? Who’s been dumping all their shit on my bed then?’
‘It’s for you,’ I say. ‘If you still want it.’
‘What is?’
‘Open it and you’ll see.’
She opens the bag, the grin slowly returning to her face. She pulls out my old jacket, the one she had tried on yesterday morning while I was sleeping, and the trainers too.
‘Are you winding me up?’ she says. ‘For me? Seriously?’
‘Sure. If you still want them.’
She shrugs off her own threadbare cotton jacket and delightedly pulls on mine, popping the collar and posing in the little mirror by the door, turning this way and that with her hands in the pockets. She was right – it was a perfect fit. She pushes her bare feet into the shoes, pulling each one on quickly without bothering to tie the laces.
‘No offence, but I look better in them than you did anyway.’ Seeing my shrug, she bursts out into a hacking laugh. ‘Only joking, Heather! Just winding you up, love.’
‘There’s a few other bits in there as well, if you want them. I was in Boots so I got some stuff.’
She delves further into the bag and pulls out bottles of shampoo and conditioner, shower gel and toothpaste.
‘Bit of freetail therapy,’ she says. ‘Nice. Can’t give you nothing for ’em though. I’m completely and utterly skint.’
‘I don’t want any money for them.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘So what do you want?’
‘Nothing.’ I shrug. ‘Like I said, I was in Boots anyway. They had some deals on.’
‘Deals? Like, you mean, you didn’t swipe it? You paid for all this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seriously?’ she says again, her face relaxing back into a smile. ‘It’s like Christmas! Cheers, mate.’
Jodie gives me an awkward hug, patting me on the back. She smells of smoke and sweat and berry-flavoured chewing gum. Sitting back down on her own narrow bed, she produces an unopened half-size bottle of vodka from her old coat and offers it to me.
‘Want some?’
I try to think of a reason to abstain, but can’t think of one. The hostel has a no drugs, no alcohol, no guests policy, among its other rules, but it doesn’t seem to be enforced.
‘Why not?’
I take the small bottle from her and unscrew the cap, putting it to my lips. It’s been so long since I’ve had a drink that the vodka is like pure fire going down, lit petrol blazing its way down my throat. I gasp, covering my mouth with a hand.
‘Looks like someone’s out of practice.’ She laughs and retrieves the bottle from me, taking a long slug herself. ‘You know what? We should go out, me and you. Get a proper drink one night, I know some great places we could go.’
There’s an unfamiliar buzz from the bedside table. My new phone, vibrating against the cheap laminate. One new email. It’s a reply from Owen Tanner, sitting there in my inbox only minutes after I had emailed him.
Hi
Thanks for getting in touch glad to hear you’re out.
A talk would be interesting.
Out of interest how did you get my email address?
O
I reply with a quick explanation about finding his card among the possessions my mum had put into storage. His response is a single line. No greeting, no sign-off.
Email not secure use Telegram instead send me your mobile no
What the hell is Telegram? I assume he doesn’t mean an actual telegram. Seems a bit old school. After several minutes of fruitless searching on my phone, I go to Google, to Wikipedia and from there to the App Store to download the Telegram app which promises ‘fully secure, encrypted end-to-end messaging’. I hastily set up a new account and send him the username and number for my new phone.
Jodie is stretched out on her own bed, still fully clothed, staring at her own mobile between long, slow blinks.
The Telegram app pings with a new message from a user called O$INT17614.
Where did you go on holiday after your oldest son was born?
I frown, thinking that perhaps I don’t understand this app and I’ve stumbled into someone else’s conversation by mistake. It takes me a moment to realise what this is: he’s testing me. Checking I am who I say I am. God only knows how he is aware of this obscure fact about my old life.
I type:
A little place called Appledore. Near Barnstaple in Devon.
Theo had been ill for most of it, colicky and snotty and awake half the night, then it had rained for two days straight before we had to pack for the long drive back up the M5.
The phone buzzes again.
Meet tomorrow 10.30 a.m.? There is a place called Ollie’s Cafe in Fishponds.
On the bed across the room Jodie is snoring gently now, mobile on the pillow, the half-empty bottle of vodka cradled against her chest.
I type a quick reply.
OK. How will I recognise you?
There is a pause before he responds, three terse messages arriving in rapid succession, stacked one on top of the other on the phone’s small screen.
Tell no one where you’re going.
Make sure you’re not followed.
Come alone.
Saturday, 13 July, 2013
3.35 p.m., Bath Police Station
DI Musgrove rearranged himself on the chair, turning his body to face me more fully.
‘Did you argue when your husband got home last night?’
I frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘With him sleeping downstairs. Hence my question about any . . . strain there might have been in your marriage.’
‘As I said, sometimes he just slept downstairs if he was working late, that’s all.’
‘It’s just that we’ve had officers going door-to-door today on your street. One of your neighbours said she heard raised voices last night between nine and ten. Shouting, arguing. A woman’s voice.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Does it matter?’
I felt myself redden, blood rushing to my face, hot tears of shame rising. The regret that my last words to my husband had been angry, accusing. Regret that I already knew I would carry with me until the day I died.
‘There was a phone call,’ I said slowly. ‘He said he was talking to a colleague but it wasn’t her. It was someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. A woman, calling on his work phone. He said it was some sensitive work thing, a constituent. He wouldn’t tell me her name. He told me some other stuff too but I thought he was making a lot of it up as he went along.’ I described the rest of our conversation – as best as I could remember it – up to the point where I had slammed the door and stormed upstairs.
Musgrove paused to make another note in his pad, tight blocky capitals underlined twice with heavy slashes of his biro.
‘So he lied about this mystery caller and then you argued.’ It was no longer a question.
I nodded, eyes on the table. ‘It was stupid. It was nothing.’
‘Have you argued a lot recently?’
‘What? No.’
‘Had you been drinking last night?’
‘I had a few glasses of wine after the boys went to sleep.’
Musgrove nodded slowly. ‘How many’s a few? Three or four? Did you finish the first bottle and start on the next?’
‘Maybe two, I don’t know. It could have been three. We don’t normally drink during the week, but it was Friday night.’
‘I understand there was an empty bottle of wine on the kitchen counter and also an unfinished glass of whisky on your bedside table. A little nightcap, was it?’
The honest truth was that I couldn’t even remember pouring a whisky, let alone taking it upstairs. Whisky had always been more Liam’s thing than mine: he would usually bring out the single malt if his parents were visiting, at the end of the evening.
‘I might have had one.’ I shook my head. ‘I was tired, it was late.’
The detective lowered his voice. ‘I understand you’ve complained of blackouts before when you’d been taking your sleeping pills, when alcohol is added into the mix. You asked your doctor to lower the dose. Is that right? Do you think you might have blacked out last night?’
‘Why are you asking that? How is it helping to find the person who killed Liam?’
’Because if – for example – there is a reason why you might not have heard a struggle, an altercation downstairs, then we need to know about that reason. Do you see? We need to get these questions out of the way and it might as well be now, while it’s fresh in your mind.’
There was a rap on the door and a young woman appeared, a police ID on a lanyard around her neck. I had met her earlier – when I was cautioned and fingerprinted on first arrival – but I couldn’t remember her name.
‘Boss?’ The woman leaned around the door, her tone clipped. ‘Can I borrow you for a second?’
Musgrove reached across to the recorder. ‘Interview suspended at 15.41.’ He hit a button and the red light winked off. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Heather. Is there anything I can get you while I’m out? Another cup of tea?’
I shook my head. Musgrove left the small room, heavy door swinging shut against the frame with a percussive bang that made me flinch.
I tried to force myself to focus on practicalities, on the boys, on where we would stay tonight while police forensic teams remained in our house. This afternoon, the boys were with my in-laws, Peter and Colleen, at their house in Bathwick. I would pick them up and take them to my mum’s. They would prefer that; they always preferred my mum’s house where she would let them eat biscuits and make a mess in the way that small boys did. Rather than the big old house on Cleveland Walk where they were allowed only healthy snacks and football in the garden was forbidden for the sake of the flowerbeds.
It was almost half an hour before Musgrove reappeared, his expression a little darker than before. On the table between us, he placed a clear plastic evidence bag and a brown cardboard folder.
‘Interview resumes at 16.04.’ He cleared his throat. ‘All previous attendees present.’
Sealed inside the bag was a small black plastic phone, smaller than a regular mobile, a basic model with a small screen and a regular keypad. It looked like the kind of phone that had been around when I had been a teenager in the late nineties, when they still had some novelty value.
‘Is this your phone, Heather?’
‘No. Mine’s an iPhone, you took it off me when I came in.’
He tapped the edge of the plastic bag with a thick index finger.
‘Not Liam’s?’
‘He had a Samsung for work and an iPhone for personal stuff.’
‘So you’ve never seen this device before?’
I leaned forward, peered closer at the handset. Smooth black plastic, a small screen, new looking but cheap with it. It looked almost like a toy, a child’s phone. I’d not heard of the brand name: Doro.
‘No. Never.’
‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’
‘Yes.’ I sat back in my chair, an unpleasant tightening in my stomach. ‘Why? Whose is it?’
‘We believe it’s your husband’s. His burner phone.’ He pushes the evidence bag across the table towards me. ‘So you’re saying you haven’t seen the pictures on here either?’
‘What pictures?’ I felt a sudden lurch of panic, like a passenger on a platform as my train was starting to leave, hurrying alongside and trying to climb aboard before it picked up too much speed. ‘Pictures of who?’
From the folder, he pulled a selection of colour printouts, fanning them out across the desk like a casino dealer with a deck of oversized playing cards. Photographs of a long-haired blonde woman – or women plural, it wasn’t immediately obvious – some in lingerie, some semi-naked, all close-up and extremely intimate. All dark or artfully shot, cropped or deliberately blurred so they didn’t show the woman’s face; all of them looked like selfies.
‘Showing Mrs Vernon evidence items numbered JX191 to JX202,’ Musgrove said. ‘Is this you?’
‘What?’ I recoiled, frowning. ‘No. Of course not. Who is this person?’
‘That’s what we were hoping you’d be able to tell us.’
I paused, turning a couple of the pictures to see them better. A flash of memory from my last conversation with Liam – the new intern in his office. Could it be?
‘There’s a junior member of his staff,’ I said carefully. ‘A young woman, early twenties, blonde. She’s an intern.’
‘Francesca Walker-Clarke?’
‘Yes. I’ve only met her once but she’s—’
‘She was the other side of London last night,’ Musgrove said. ‘At a family gathering in Surrey, with a dozen witnesses.’
