49
The cold air is biting and I decide to wait inside for Carl Weston. When he walks in, I have no doubt about who he is. He looks like a police officer, he walks like a police officer; when he sees me he deduces quickly who I am – like a police officer – and approaches the table.
‘Ms Webster?’
I nod. ‘Please, sit down.’
He takes a seat. He’s older than I expected, I’d say in his sixties, and he’s looking at me with caution, as though I might suddenly bite him.
‘Did Mrs Whitaker tell you why we went to see her?’
Carl Weston nods. ‘She said you wanted to know about Bethany Connors. You’re Webster’s ex-wife.’
‘Did you meet Mark?’
Another nod. ‘It was a good many years ago now, more than twenty, but I do remember your husband. We tried to interview him a few times.’
‘Tried?’
Carl Weston looks up and smiles as a young waitress comes to take our order. He asks for two teas, then looks at me questioningly, as though he’s forgotten what he was in the middle of. Or maybe he’s forgotten why he’s here at all.
‘You say you tried to interview Mark?’
‘Oh yes,’ and he’s back in the room. ‘Not very successfully, mind you. The first time we saw him, he was a mess. His father had got him a hotshot lawyer – not that he needed one: his alibi was cast iron and there was no reason to believe he might have been involved. He just wouldn’t stop crying. I had to stop the interview at one point for him to be sick. Anyone would have thought we were interviewing him as a suspect.’
‘Is it unusual? For someone to be that upset?’
Carl shakes his head. ‘Oh no. People react to loss in different ways, Mrs Webster.’ He looks embarrassed. Of course, he knows.
‘Of course they do.’ My eyes drop to the table so he doesn’t see them tear up. Thankfully the waitress arrives with our drinks, giving us both a reason to shake off the awkward moment.
‘I’m afraid I can’t be much help to you.’ He throws me another embarrassed look. ‘If I knew anything worth knowing, I’d have found a better explanation than Lee Russon.’
‘So you definitely don’t think he did it? Killed Beth, I mean.’
‘There’s just no way. After we brought him in, he was babbling incoherently. He claimed to have stolen a car to take Beth’s body to the wasteland, but he couldn’t remember where he’d left the car.’
‘Was he mentally ill?’
Carl nods his head. ‘He couldn’t afford a decent lawyer and the courts accepted his confession. The thing is, Russon had nowhere to sleep and no way of getting his next meal. Inside he had a bed, a roof over his head and three meals a day. We see it all the time, vagrants confessing to just about anything to get themselves taken care of. We never usually take them seriously which is why it boiled my piss to see Russon go down for Beth’s murder.’
‘Jennifer Matthews said something about him having Beth’s purse? And blood on his T-shirt?’
Carl blows through his teeth; he looks disgusted. ‘He could have got the purse from anywhere, a bin, a ditch. It was by chance that we brought him in, for pickpocketing. When he saw the purse, it was like he’d just remembered that he’d killed somebody. The blood was on a T-shirt under his coat, which didn’t have any traces on it. No blood on his filthy hands or anywhere else for that matter. Like he’d cleaned it off the rest of him but forgotten his shirt. Rubbish.’
This is all well and good, but like Carl said, he didn’t know who killed Beth then, and he doesn’t know now.
‘What about the boy who told you Beth had been selling herself for cash? Matthew Riley?’
Carl frowns. ‘Yeah, that was another inconsistency. He said it, then took it back almost straight away, the next day I think. We couldn’t find anyone to back up his story about Beth soliciting, but the rest of the team took it as read anyway. I always figured he saw wrong, that his girlfriend convinced him to change his statement. Pretty little thing, practically frogmarched him into the station. I can still picture all that bleached blonde hair and her bright red face. Funny what we remember, isn’t it?’
Bleached blonde hair . . .
‘Do you remember her name?’
Carl smiles. ‘Memory like a hawk, me, still sharp after twenty years. It was Kristy.’
So Kristy Riley was at university with my ex-husband when his fiancée died. Funny how she neglected to mention that.
‘Lovely name, Kristy. Kristy Travis.’
‘Travis?’ It has to be a coincidence. There’s more than one Travis in Bradford. It doesn’t mean that Matthew Riley’s wife is connected to Rachael Travis, my lawyer.
‘Sounds like a movie star, doesn’t it?’
‘Did she have a sister, do you know?’
Carl makes a face. ‘Do I. Now there’s a woman even twenty years can’t erase. Kicked up such a fuss about us bringing the university into disrepute that I almost framed her for the murder. I’m happy to say I’ve never clapped eyes on Rachael Travis again.’
50
‘Nick, where are you?’ I struggle to catch my breath as I throw my handbag in the car and slam the passenger door. ‘I’m on my way to see Kristy Riley, can you meet me there? I’ve just been with Carl Weston. Kristy lied to us when we spoke to her the other day. She was at Durham with Mark and Matt and she knew all about Beth. I’m going to find out what else she’s been lying about. For all we know she’s got Dylan in her spare bloody room. And her maiden name was Travis, as in Rachael Travis. Call me the minute you get this message.’
I left Carl with the promise that I will call him if I get any new information about Beth’s murder. The information he gave me only backed up what Jennifer had to say yesterday: Beth had found something out about her fiancé that scared her, something he was involved in with the elusive boys Jennifer referred to as the ‘Durham elite’. Yet a week later they were still together, playing happy families as though none of it had ever happened. When she’d changed her mind about telling Jennifer, had she given up? Calmed down and gone back to Mark, only to be raped and murdered the following Friday? I don’t think so. I think she turned to a new friend, someone whose boyfriend was equally implicated in what Beth had seen. I think she went to Kristy Travis.
The Range Rover is parked on the driveway and I pull in right behind it as close as I can.
No escape,
I think to myself.
I’m going to knock on the front door and demand that Kristy Riley tell me exactly why she didn’t tell me about knowing my husband, and exactly what she knows about my son’s whereabouts. I’m not going to leave until she tells me everything. Or calls the police.
Despite the car being on the drive, the house looks deserted. There’s no answer, no matter how hard I bang on the front door, and a quick look through the front window shows that the TV is off and no lights are on. I’m about to give up and go away – I know, so much for my not leaving until I have the truth – when I notice something that makes my blood run cold. Through the living room window I can see into the dining room beyond, which I know from the last time I was here leads to the conservatory. What is different from the last time I was here is that the beautiful crystal vase that sat in pride of place on the dining room table is now scattered in pieces on the floor. Flowers fan out around it and water seeps around them like blood from a head wound.
I could overlook a smashed vase, dismiss it as an accident, a woman in too much of a rush to clear it up – although I don’t think Kristy Riley would be that kind of woman – but that isn’t all. Through the doorway of the dining room I see a heeled shoe, cast aside as though dropped carelessly. And next to the shoe is a foot.
I should get back into my car, call the police and go. Before this sensible thought can properly register in my mind, I’m making my way around the back of the house to the conservatory.
Kristy Riley is dead, unrecognisable but for the shock of blonde hair and the designer clothes she is still clad in. Her beautiful face is a mess of blood and bone, not one of her striking features left unharmed.
I stifle a scream. My body spasms and I kneel down in preparation for what I’m sure is going to be a flood of vomit spilling from my throat, but nothing comes.
Call the police
, my mind screams.
Call 999 now.
But you can’t, can you?
a more rational part of me says slyly.
How’s that going to look? A paranoid convicted murderer, convinced that Kristy Riley knows something about her son’s disappearance, heads around to her house and conveniently finds her dead? No Oakdale for you this time, love, this is prison for sure.
Shit. What do I do? My morals tell me to trust the justice system, do the right thing and report this. I’ve been brought up knowing right from wrong, and to leave the scene of a crime is wrong. But that was before. That was before I was falsely accused of my son’s murder and everyone around me started lying their asses off. Now I know the truth: that the people running our lives are as corruptible as everyone else, and honesty is
not
always the best policy. That’s why I do what I do. I run.
I’m in the car and halfway down the road before I consider the implications of this for Rachael. As much as I want to hate her for being a part of what happened to me, I can’t forget the help and support she gave me at a difficult time of my life, and this is her sister. I can’t tell her that she’s dead, but it’s hard to go from being grateful to someone to wishing them harm in such a short space of time. I have to warn her she might be in trouble. And as much as I hate to even consider the possibility, it might be my ex-husband she needs to watch out for.
‘ZBH Solicitors, Gemma speaking, how can I help?’
‘Gemma, it’s Susan Webster, could you put me through to Rachael, please.’
‘I’ll just see if Mrs Travis is availa—’
‘No you won’t
just
anything, Gemma, this is serious, a matter of life and death, in fact. And you will put. Me. Through. To. Rachael.
Now
.’
Gemma cleverly senses that I am deadly serious and the phone begins to ring again.
‘Rachael Travis speaking.’
‘Rachael, it’s Susan Webster.
Don’t
hang up. This is very important.’
‘Susan.’ Her voice adopts a fake ‘so glad to hear from you’ tone. ‘I wouldn’t dream of hanging up. How are you?’
‘Have you spoken to Mark today?’
There’s a pause, and I can tell she’s surprised. I swing the car left on to the dual carriageway and pick up speed. I need to put as much distance between myself and that house as possible, and I need to find Nick.
‘Of course not, why would I—’
‘Cut the crap, Rachael. This is important. Life or death, mine, my son’s and maybe yours, so let’s get something straight. I know you are related to Kristy Riley. I know your brother-in-law and my husband were frat brothers or something ridiculously childish like that, and I know you knew I was innocent and you fucked up my case on purpose.’
‘I don’t know—’
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about. Of course you don’t, and I’m not expecting you to admit you do, so just shut up and listen. If Mark calls you, do not answer. If he shows up at your office, do
not
let him in. Do you understand?’
‘Why?’ She tries to sound defiant but she just sounds scared.
‘I think he’s dangerous, Rachael, and I think he might be trying to get to the people who know the truth about Dylan. Just do as I say and stay as far away from him as possible.’
‘I spoke to him.’ Her confession is panicked now; she’s no longer the cool customer I’ve always seen her as. ‘He called about an hour ago demanding to know where Kristy was.’ My heart sinks. Even after all that’s happened, I’d still hoped my ex wasn’t to blame for Kristy’s murder.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him she was at home, as far as I knew. He wanted to know what she’d said to you; he said he knew you’d been there the other day. He went on and on, asking what you’d said to me, what I’d told you. He wanted to know who the guy with you was and where you were staying. Should I call the police?’
‘What will you tell them? That you knew I’d been set up for murder and now one of your co-conspirators is after you? You do what you have to, Rachael; I’ve done my bit by warning you.’
I hang up, hoping I’ve said enough to save her life. I don’t know whether she’ll call the police; I suspect she won’t. They are going to want to speak to me and I don’t have time for questions. I need to find Nick and then get to Mark and find out what he’s done with my son.
As I pull into the offices of the
Star
, my eyes sweep the car park for Nick’s car. There’s no sign of it that I can see, but there are a lot of cars here and he might even have his own spot round the back.
‘Hi there, I’m just wondering if Nick Whitely is still about? It’s imperative I speak to him,’ I tell the pretty young girl on the front desk.
‘I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen him leave yet.’ She frowns, trying to remember. ‘Most of us stay until six around here. I’ll just buzz up. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Su— Emma,’ I correct myself immediately, and wonder uneasily if he will be mad at me coming here. I’m in too much of a state to care. ‘He’ll know who it is.’
‘Sure thing.’ The girl picks up the intercom and even in my panic I wonder briefly if she and Nick have ever got together. I presume most women would fall into his bed given half the chance. It takes me a minute to remind myself that I don’t care about Nick’s personal life.
‘Nick? There’s a woman called Emma here to see you.’ She replaces the receiver. ‘He’s on his way down. You can wait over there if you like.’ She points to a seating area and smiles.
‘Thanks.’ I smile back, trying not to convict her of an offence she’s only committed in my mind.
My fingers tap nervously against my thigh as I wait. I wonder if Kristy Riley has been found yet. Will Rachael have called the police and told them my fears about Mark? It seems to take a lifetime for the lift to sound, and my head snaps up, but it’s only an elderly gentleman who steps out and crosses the foyer. He looks slightly eccentric in his white pinstripe shirt stretched over a portly belly, and his burnt orange bow tie. The top of his head is bald and shiny, with tufts of brown and grey around the sides. He walks over to where I’m sitting and smiles warmly.