No Other Darkness (21 page)

At the front desk, two women were waiting.

One was in her sixties, five foot four, with silver hair and a softly creased face, grey eyes that chipped to ice as she saw Marnie and Noah. At her side, in a loose-fitting dark tracksuit, was a fair-haired woman about Marnie’s age and height.

Thin-faced, prematurely aged; the ghost of someone pretty hiding behind her eyes.

Barely recognisable.

She stood completely still, resting her stare on Marnie. The stare was intense, transfiguring her face. She had bad skin, pale and blotchy.

Prison pallor.

‘I’m Esther Reid,’ she said. ‘I’m the monster you’re looking for.’

Alison Oliver – Esther Reid – folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were dry, her lips parched. She repeated the first words she’d used when she came into the station: ‘I’m the monster you’re looking for.’ Her voice was like her lips, cracked and thirsty.

‘Can you give your name, please, for the tape.’

‘I’m Alison Oliver.’

‘And you don’t want a solicitor present at this interview.’

‘No.’

Marnie said, ‘Have you ever gone by any other name?’

‘You know I have.’

‘For the tape, please.’

‘I was Esther Reid. Before that, I was Esther Pryce. Now I’m Alison Oliver. It doesn’t matter what name you use. I’m your monster. The one you’ve been looking for.’

Marnie could smell remorse leaching from the woman’s skin, a sweet-sour smell like a nursing mother’s. The dry eyes were a lie. Unless she’d cried all her tears in prison.

‘Why did you come to the police station today?’

‘To save you the trouble of coming after me. Or going after Connie, my mum.’

Connie Pryce had gone with Noah into a second interview room.

‘She calls me Alison now. She’s forgiven me. Can you believe that?’ The woman made fists of her hands and laid them in plain sight. ‘I murdered her grandchildren, but she’s forgiven me. She won’t even call me Esther. She believes in my rehabilitation.’

Slowly she uncurled her fists. Her hands were knotted with scar tissue, her nails bitten to the quick. Each time she moved her head, the strip lighting found another patch of damage: old scars on her neck and under her chin, a bruised indent where she’d pressed the end of the tracksuit’s zip into her throat. It was hard to look at her.

‘You came here because you knew we’d be looking for you. Why would we be looking?’

‘Because of Blackthorn Road, the bunker. I saw the papers, I know you found them. Fred and Archie. My boys.’ She blinked her eyes. ‘You’ve found my boys.’

‘You knew they were in a bunker on Blackthorn Road,’ Marnie said.

Alison leaned forward until the light found the cracks at the corners of her mouth. ‘I put them there.’ It wasn’t a boast, but nor was it simply a confession.

It was a demand:
Look at me, your monster.

‘You told the police they drowned.’ Marnie referred to the woman’s statement from five years ago. ‘You said you drowned your daughter Louisa, and your sons Fred and Archie.’

‘I lied. I didn’t trust the police. I didn’t trust anyone.’

‘You were sick, we know that. You were suffering from hallucinations, paranoia . . .’

‘I murdered my children,’ she thrust the words at Marnie, ‘my baby daughter and my boys. They died a horrible death, at my hands. It’s on me.’

‘You served a prison term.’

‘I lied about the way they died. I shouldn’t be out. It’s not safe. We’re . . . I’m not safe.’ She licked at her lips. The tip of her tongue was an ugly mass of scar tissue.

‘This is why you came here,’ Marnie said, ‘because you feel unsafe.’

‘I came after I saw Connie. After she wouldn’t look at me, at Esther. All that forgiveness and I
knew
 . . . I knew she wouldn’t ever look at me. At what I’d done . . . Have you ever felt remorse?’

‘Of course,’ Marnie said lightly. No ammunition in her voice, nothing the other woman could twist or use.

‘Hurts, doesn’t it? Real remorse, the proper realisation of what you’ve done . . . But you’ve never killed anyone. You’ve never felt remorse for anything as terrible as murder.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘If I was devising punishments, ways to make people suffer, that would be top of my list. Remorse,
real
remorse, is the best weapon. If you could inflict it. Administer it, say, in a not-quite-lethal dose.’ She was watching Marnie’s face and perhaps she saw something there, because her next words were stinging, intentionally or otherwise. ‘If there was someone you wanted to punish, someone who’d hurt you personally, that would be the way to do it. Make them feel remorse. Inflict it on them in whatever way you could. There’s no pain like it.’

She sat back in the chair, her face grieving for a second before she stiffened it into the mask she’d worn when she walked into the station.

Marnie took a photograph from the folder at her elbow and placed it on the table, facing towards the other woman.

Alison Oliver blinked. ‘Who . . .?’

‘Do you know him?’

She shook her head, but her eyes snagged on the photo as if she couldn’t look away.

‘Clancy Brand. He’s fourteen years old.’

‘No . . .’

‘You’ve not met or spoken with this boy. Are you certain of that?’

‘Yes. Who is he?’ She blinked at the photograph. ‘He looks . . .’ Her voice dried up.

Marnie waited, but the woman was silent.

‘Have you been to Snaresbrook in the last fortnight?’

‘Of course not.’ Reflexively. ‘That would be a violation of the terms of my parole.’

Marnie took two more photographs from the folder and placed them on the table.

The other woman leaned close, her mouth twisting in recognition.

Recognition
.

‘Why are you showing me these?’ Her voice was a whisper now, scared.

‘They’re missing. Carmen and Thomas Doyle. Carmen is three and a half years old, Thomas is just two. They live at number 14 Blackthorn Road. The house where the bunker was found.’

Alison sat like a carving in the chair, her face frozen, her gaze on the missing children. ‘I don’t know them,’ she said, but her eyes blazed with recognition.

Marnie’s thumbs pricked, hotly. ‘Where were you between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. today?’

‘With Connie. I was . . . with Connie.’

‘Where?’

‘In Slough. Then we caught a train here.’

‘Which train. I need times, please.’

Alison recited the train times. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the photos. The look on her face made Marnie clench her hands under the lip of the table.

Alison Oliver knew something. About the missing children.

It was all over her face, spilling out of her eyes.

‘Did you take them? Alison? Did you take Carmen and Thomas?’

‘No . . .’ The woman looked stricken.

‘Then . . . Esther. Did Esther take them?’

Alison shook her head, but she said, ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

She put up her hands and dragged at her hair.

It made Marnie wince. ‘Tell me.’

‘Esther,’ Alison said. ‘Esther did this.’

Connie Pryce’s stare was so direct and unapologetic that Noah wondered whether it wasn’t a disguise, her way of keeping questions at bay. She stated her name for the tape, speaking in crisp syllables that didn’t belong in a travellers’ ground, or a police interview room.

‘Your DI Rome . . . does she understand about my girl in there?’

‘We spoke with Lyn Birch, Esther’s psychiatrist.’

‘Alison’s psychiatrist,’ Connie corrected.

Commander Welland hadn’t believed in Esther’s reincarnation as Alison Oliver, but Connie did, fixing on her daughter’s new name insistently. ‘Lyn talks a lot of nonsense, but she’s right about one thing. Alison’s not the one you want to worry about.’

‘Esther . . .’ Noah began again.

‘It killed her,’ Connie said. ‘The business with the boys, with the baby . . . It broke her. That’s the truth. Broke her heart, and the rest of her along with it.’

She delivered the speech briskly, as if sympathy was the last thing she wanted. The soft face was a disguise; she was hard as nails. Was she?

‘You collected Alison on the day of her parole, two weeks ago. Is that right?’ He watched the woman nod. ‘And she’s been with you, at your home in Slough, since then?’

‘Every day. Just as we agreed.’

‘Today, between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m., where was Alison?’

‘With me, in Slough. Then we caught a train here.’ She recited the train times without being prompted, picking up the mug of tea that Noah had provided.

He put the photograph of Clancy Brand on the table. ‘Do you recognise him?’

Her ice-chip eyes scanned the photo. ‘No. Am I supposed to?’

Noah added the photos of Carmen and Tommy, turning them so that Connie could see their faces while he watched hers for a reaction.

‘What’s this?’ she said sharply.

‘Carmen and Thomas Doyle. They’re missing. From number 14 Blackthorn Road.’

Connie leaned closer to the photographs, her mouth pursed in concentration. And something more . . . Alarm? She was scared of what she was seeing.

‘Mrs Pryce? Do you know these children? Carmen and Thomas Doyle. Do you know where they are? Do you know anything that can help us to find them?’

Alison’s mother put down the mug of tea. Her hand was shaking.

‘Your DI Rome needs to leave my girl alone,’ she said. ‘And I need my handbag.’

‘Mrs Pryce, if you know
anything
that can help us find Carmen and Tommy . . .’

‘I need my handbag!’ Fiercely, with tears in her eyes. ‘Fetch my bag! You want to see missing children? Fetch me my bag.’

When the handbag arrived, Connie pulled out two photos,
both crumpled, and put them on the table next to the pictures of Carmen and Tommy.

‘There,’ she said, sounding out of breath. ‘There. Do you see?’

Two little blond boys, one older than the other. Solemn, mischievous faces under rough-cut hair, high cheekbones, long eyelashes.

‘That’s Fred,’ Connie said, pointing to the smaller boy. ‘And that’s Archie.’ She touched their faces in turn with the tips of her fingers. ‘Do you see?’

 • • • 

‘Well?’ Ron asked Noah when he broke the interview with Connie. ‘What’s she’s saying? Did she do it? Take the kids?’

Noah shook his head. ‘She’s not saying anything that helps. Just that the boss needs to leave her daughter alone . . . What’s the news from house-to-house?’

‘No one saw anything.’

‘Where’re the Doyles? We sent a car for them, didn’t we?’

‘Debbie says they’re waiting for Beth to wake up. The midwife’s a bit of a guard dog, she says.’ Ron rolled his eyes. ‘Ed Belloc’s over there, so I figured we’d better not get too heavy-handed . . . I’ll find out what’s happening.’

Noah walked to the whiteboard, where Ron had pinned photos of Carmen and Thomas Doyle. He added the crumpled photos of Fred and Archie Reid.

‘Finally.’ Ron moved close enough to study the faces. ‘Good-looking kids. Archie’s a proper tyke . . .’ He touched a finger to the photo of Esther’s older boy. ‘Poor little sod.’

Both boys were fair like Esther, but with determined chins and bright eyes. Fred’s hair was a shade paler than Archie’s, and his eyes were a lighter blue. Archie had a wicked smile, but his eyes were serious under very straight brows.

‘She’s going to confess, right?’ Ron dropped his hand to
his side. ‘The boss is working on her. She’ll get a confession, a location for the kids. Carmen and Tommy . . .’

Carmen Doyle wasn’t smiling in the picture, her chin pointed up at the camera. Tommy was in his mother’s arms. He had Beth’s eyes. Both children had their father’s nose and brows, arrow-straight.

‘Noah.’ Marnie carried a cup of water to where they were standing. ‘How’s Connie?’

He shook his head. ‘Worried about her daughter. Otherwise, not much help.’

The phone rang, and Ron went to answer it.

‘Photos at last. From Connie?’ Marnie studied the whiteboard.

Up close, Noah could see how tired she was. Her eyes burned in her face, and she looked strung together with wire.

‘Nothing from house-to-house,’ he told her. ‘Not yet, anyway. The Doyles are on their way, once Beth’s been given the all-clear by the midwife.’

Marnie was studying the whiteboard, not speaking.

‘She’s sleeping. The midwife wants to wait for her to wake up . . .’

‘Noah . . .’

Marnie reached up and unpinned the photographs from the whiteboard, one after the other. Four photos of four children. Fred and Archie Reid. Thomas and Carmen Doyle.

‘Look.’

She put the photographs side by side on the desk.

Noah peered at the children’s faces.

‘Are they . . .? Shit. They look alike. Are they
related
? They have to be related.’

He straightened and stared at Marnie.

She was looking towards the interview room, where Alison Oliver was sitting.

Noah said, ‘They’re not
her
kids. Carmen and Tommy can’t be hers, she was inside . . .’

‘Terry,’ Marnie said.

She touched the photos of Fred and Archie Reid. ‘They’re his boys. Look at their noses. And their eyebrows.’

All four children had the same noses and brows, more defined in Archie because he was the oldest, but even little Tommy had the start of Terry’s straight nose.

‘
Shit
 . . .’ Noah breathed.

‘We know their father was given a new identity, just like Esther.’

Marnie’s hand stayed on the photos. Her fingers were twitching.

‘Their father . . . It’s Terry Doyle.’

She lifted her eyes to Noah. ‘He’s Matthew Reid.’

You hide in the kitchen. You’re getting the boys’ supper ready, that’s what you tell yourself, but what you’re doing is hiding.

Esther doesn’t come into the kitchen any more. It used to be her favourite room in the house (the oven, the knives), but since you made it safe, she’s lost interest.

It’s hard to cook without knives or heat, but you manage. The boys like cold stuff anyway, bananas and ham rolls, oranges and crisps. Fred used to like grated cheese, but you got rid of the grater when you disconnected the oven. Now the cheese is pre-sliced, like the ham.

Their favourite food comes in tins. You bulk-buy, decant the contents (sweetcorn, ravioli, peaches) into plastic containers. Feeding Louisa is harder, because you’re supposed to heat her bottles, but you hide the kettle between feeds. Esther’s good at finding stuff; you have to be so careful. She could find a needle in a haystack. She’s got a sharp eye for sharp things.

The wire coat hanger was the worst.

You’ll never forget the coat hanger.

Blood on the bathroom tiles.

Her handprints, red, everywhere.

She’d straightened it out, somehow. The hanger. It must have taken her hours.

She unwound the hook so that she had a sharp end. A weapon.

You tried to replicate what she’d done, to fill another gap in your understanding, but you couldn’t do it, not without a pair of pliers. She did it with her bare hands.

The things she can do with her bare hands . . .

It makes you wonder if you’re kidding yourself, hiding the cheese grater, switching off the gas. You can’t switch off the electricity; the boys like TV too much.

There’s only so much you can do.

‘I can’t watch her every second of every day,’ you told them.

You have to go to work. You have to work up the courage to leave in the mornings, not knowing what you’ll come home to.

The coat hanger was bad, but she’s capable of worse.

You can see it in her eyes.

It’s your job to keep them safe. Louisa and the boys. They discharged Esther into your care. You have a job to do. You’re a husband and a dad.

The man of the house.

You’re hiding in the kitchen making soft rolls for supper because you daren’t have anything sharper than a spoon in the house.

All your suits are on plastic hangers now. The armpits smell of sweat. You can’t stop sweating and it stinks. Fear, a hundred per cent proof. At work they’ve started avoiding you. You’ve stopped taking the lift in case someone remarks on the smell. And anyway, you can’t risk being stuck in there. You might start punching the walls.

Who would take care of the kids if you got carted off like a crazy person?

You missed your tube stop that day, because you hadn’t slept and you dozed off. You ran all the way home, but when you got there you stood like an idiot (coward) for a full minute before you went inside.

Fred and Archie were in the living room, watching TV.

Louisa was sleeping in her cot.

Esther . . .

Esther was in the bathroom, lying on the floor, with the coat hanger.

You could see the wire bent double in her fist, but you couldn’t see the rest of it because she’d buried it inside herself, out of sight.

Blood, thick, all over her thighs and the floor.

Ever since that . . .

Every time she goes into the bathroom, you start sweating.

You count the seconds, minutes, until you can’t stand it any longer and you tap on the door with your knuckles, out of respect. She’s on the floor. Nine times out of ten, she’s lying on the floor, staring at the place where the light bulb used to be.

Bile burns in your throat. ‘Esther?’

She rolls her head at the neck and looks at you.

She’s fine. Not dead. Not bleeding.

You let the breath out of your lungs and realise, with a fresh wave of self-loathing, that you were hoping for something else.

The kids are fine. The kids are safe.

And you’d allowed yourself to hope that it might be over.