Confessions Page 5

  He nodded, his eyes momentarily focusing. ‘It was me. I…’ He stretched out his large hands and pressed them on the table. ‘I suffocated her.’

  Nat waited for him to elaborate, but he’d drifted again.

  ‘Why, Brian? Why did you do that?’ she asked, the same time as her mobile beeped.

  The text was from Joshim Khan. Ask for disclosure of the GP’s statement, it said.

  She passed her phone to Robbie and nodded. ‘Why did you call your doctor, Brian? Why did you tell him about what you’d done?’

  Brian’s sudden sob made her start. He covered his face with shaking fingers, his grief so intense that Nat had to quickly swallow to hold back her own tears.

  ‘She wanted to die. My Melanie. She’d asked him, our doctor, but his hands were tied. He could only prescribe pain relief. She, she…’ He made motions with his hands on his forearms, but Nat didn’t understand.

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Morphine, she collected the morphine. Went without for days. Used it that night to end the suffering. But she was still alive, still breathing, so I…’

  Robbie pushed a note along the table towards Nat. ‘Mercy killing? Assisted suicide?’ it said, an echo of her own thoughts since she’d heard the word ‘smother’.

  She put her hand on Brian’s arm. ‘Listen carefully, Brian. The police say you admitted to it. But “it” wasn’t murder, was it? If I understand what you’re trying to say, it was an assisted suicide. Am I right? You aided and abetted your daughter to kill herself. But that isn’t murder, is it?’

  7

  Everyday Lives

  Nat sped along the motorway, spouting off about the police and justice and mercy for a good ten minutes before realising that Robbie hadn’t said a word.

  ‘Are you okay, Robbie?’ she asked, suddenly twigging he hadn’t volunteered a word on the way to the police station either.

  His tight, pallid face didn’t match the nod of his head, but Nat couldn’t focus on him right now. After finishing with Brian, she had spoken to the detective in charge again. She’d refused to disclose the doctor’s witness statement ‘at this stage’, but conceded that Melanie had been seriously ill, bedridden for years with an extreme case of ME.

  ‘Irrespective of that,’ she’d said, stifling a yawn, ‘your client, Mr Selby, has admitted to killing her. In the absence of evidence to the contrary and considering the time limits, I have no alternative but to charge him with murder. In view of the seriousness of the offence, police bail is refused and any future application for bail will have to go before the magistrates.’

  Nat’s temperature had dropped by the time they reached Heald Green. The rant had been more about the police keeping information up the long sleeve of the law rather than the outcome. Even if the charge was reduced to assisted suicide, it was still a severe offence which attracted a long prison sentence; she hadn’t for a moment supposed they would let Brian walk free. But there were feelings of shame too; she’d made blithe assumptions about Brian Selby in the past, the ‘Three Ls’ in particular. She hadn’t even known he had children, let alone a family tragedy; she couldn’t imagine how crippling it must be to have a perfectly healthy daughter who’d lived life to the full until a routine immunisation at thirteen had changed her life.

  Watched by two long-faced men smoking outside the bookies, it took Nat several attempts to reverse into her previous slot. At the first opportunity, Robbie bolted from the car, but she stayed for a few moments, picking up her mobile to call Wes. But before she’d had a chance to do so, a message appeared on the screen. Shit; the text was from Gavin. Feeling breathless and sick, she closed her eyes. However much her heart had hurt over Jose, it was a drop in the ocean compared with this. She peered at his name again. Oh God, Gavin had texted when he said that he wouldn’t.

  Inhaling sharply, she opened the message quickly, as though speed would make a difference.

  Police have made an arrest, it said.

  Her heart thumped and her hand trembled as she typed a reply. Not bad news, thank God. But nothing she composed sounded quite right. Her relief was immense and the murderous thoughts were still there, but it didn’t seem appropriate to text them. She wanted to ask after Ruthie too, but was fearful of a negative reply. So she just kept it simple: Good. Thinking of you all. Here if you need me.

  Gazing at people going about their everyday lives, she remained in the Merc. A woman in a woollen bobble hat was examining a tray of apples outside the fruit shop, a small child in red wellies was tugging his mother’s hand towards the newsagents, an elderly man was emerging from the charity shop, holding a book about crochet. Then there were all the passing cars, people listening to music or the radio, perhaps thinking about dinner and developments in Coronation Street.

  She shook herself back. The mobile was still clutched in her hand, her knuckles white. There were a million questions she had wanted to ask Gavin: about Heather, about his other kids, and particularly about Ruthie’s prognosis. Would his little girl live? But even if it had been appropriate, she’d been too frightened to ask. She still felt winded; just opening one text had knocked her so badly. Suppose it had been bad news?

  She sighed deeply. Approaching her fortieth had been hard. It had felt as though everyone but her had a family, children. She had wasted five years with Jose and she’d missed the baby boat. At Christmas Wes had touched on them trying for one, but nothing more had been said. Perhaps it was just as well; maybe she was better suited being the indulgent spinster aunt, loving her nephew and nieces and Gavin’s kids dearly, but not having the terrifying responsibility of that umbilical attachment.

  Still needing to talk, she called Wes, chatting to him for several minutes about Brian and Gavin. Eventually realising he had said very little, she paused and looked at the clock. It was nearly teatime, and yes, her stomach was rumbling. ‘Sorry, Wes. Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Of course not. Just listening. You’ve had quite a day.’

  ‘How about you? How’s yours been?’ she asked. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

  She flinched the moment the words were out. It sounded like a hint, but it wasn’t. She wanted to go home and be fed by her mum, then lie quietly on her sofa until bedtime.

  Wes’s silence went on for too long for comfort. She found herself filling it. ‘Sorry, I know you’re madly busy. You’ll be signing your post. And the rest. It was a stupid time to call.’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s just that…’

  The sense of dread spread, heavy in her limbs. Certain something unpalatable was coming, she rested her head on the steering wheel and waited.

  ‘Andrea has been in touch. She wants to see me, to talk.’

  So there it was. The ghost of the Cling-on, alive and kicking.

  No. Whatever she wants, say fucking no! her head screamed inside. ‘Right. And what did you say?’ she asked instead.

  A pause, then a sigh. ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘What’s to think about, Wes?’ The surge of anger was sudden. She couldn’t have stopped the words even if she’d tried. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but that woman has tried to ruin your life, not to mention what she did to her own flesh and blood–’

  ‘It’s complicated, Nat.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It isn’t complicated at all. She poisoned Matty last year. In all likelihood she’d done it when he was just a little boy. She made your son ill, Wes. That isn’t normal. That isn’t forgivable. That isn’t something you can cure by talking–’

  ‘Well, as you say, Natalie, it’s none of your business.’

  The call abruptly ending, Nat stared at the blank screen. What the fuck had just happened? Did Wes really say it was ‘none of her business’? The man who’d declared love and a whole lot more? Really?

  Trying to shake off the disbelief, she climbed out of the car, stepped over an abandoned brandy bottle and opened the office door. Yes, Wes did say that. Quite clearly and crisply.

  ‘Ever
ything okay, Nat?’

  She looked up at the voice. Chantelle was buttoning her faux leopard print coat.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked again, putting a hand on Nat’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Nat replied. Little Ruthie, Brian Selby and fucking, fucking Wes. Life was just fine.

  Chantelle cocked her head. ‘Everything’s tied up here for today, Nat. We could go for a drink if you like.’ She grinned. ‘I hear Joshim Khan came good.’

  Nat nodded, realising for the first time that he had. ‘Yeah, he did. Robbie too.’ She looked at the reception bench, wondering where he had gone. ‘Maybe we could go for a drink tomorrow? It sounds pathetic, but I just need my mum.’

  ‘Aw, mums. That I defo understand.’ Chantelle took a breath as though to say more, but clamped her lips when Robbie appeared with a mug. She ruffled his hair playfully. ‘You okay to lock up, honey bun?’

  ‘Unless anyone needs a lift home?’ Nat asked, jangling her keys.

  She clocked Chantelle and Robbie exchanging a glance. Was something going on between them? Unlikely, but nothing was impossible these days.

  ‘Nah, we’re good. See you tomorrow, Nat,’ Chantelle replied. Then after a moment. ‘You do know you’re on call tomorrow?’

  ‘As in?’

  ‘The duty solicitor rota.’

  Lifting her hand, Nat turned to the door. ‘I do now. See you guys tomorrow.’

  Feeling unbelievably tired, she headed the car towards home. It was less than a two-mile journey, but the roads were chock-a-block, giving her more time to dwell on bloody Wesley than was good for her. She understood things were tangled in his life. She knew about the flux, but allowing Andrea back, even in the smallest way, was dangerous. The evil woman was on remand for criminal offences, for goodness sake; she was vindictive and manipulative; no good would come of speaking to her, let alone seeing her.

  But, as Wes had firmly stated, it was none of her business.

  She pulled up the Mercedes behind her mum’s Ka. Except for some stubborn icy patches, the slush had gone, leaving the pavement gritty. What a difference a day made, she thought, as she walked into the warmth of her home. She breathed in the aroma, that comforting combination of bacon and cabbage, knowing her favourite dish was in the oven for dinner.

  Anna appeared from the kitchen, holding stripy oven gloves. ‘Hello, Skarbie,’ she said, but her eyes darted anxiously.

  Oh God, what now? ‘What’s happened, Mum?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened.’ Anna glanced at the telephone. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, but you had a call today. I didn’t want to trouble you with it. She said it could wait.’

  Nat felt an uncomfortable tingling in her toes. A ‘she’. Which she would perturb her mum so much? ‘Okay… Who was it?’

  ‘Isabella.’

  Of all the Isabella’s in the world, Nat knew only one. Bloody hell, this was nasty icing on the top of a particularly crap day. She dropped into the armchair. ‘Not Issa?’

  Her mum’s face was pale. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  She picked up a notepad and handed it to Nat. ‘I don’t know. She left her number…’

  Sighing, Nat closed her eyes. Isabella Harrow, Jose’s younger sister. What on earth did she want?

  8

  A Jiffy

  It was drizzling the next morning, the sort of half-hearted rain which didn’t appear to merit wipers but actually did. Or so the Mercedes had decided. The auto functions clearly knew better than Nat.

  She sighed. Her own auto functions were working too flaming well. Why couldn’t she turn them off? She’d relapsed by months: self-recrimination and anxiety, and an unhealthy relationship with her mobile phone. On the one hand she was fearful of a text from Gavin, yet on the other she wanted to hear from Wes. With a bloody apology. Last night she’d tried to think about his clipped words coolly and dispassionately, which of course hadn’t happened. She could only feel the hurt. Shock and surprise too, if she was honest. Her last preamble that something about his kids wasn’t ‘her business’ had been met with a swift reassurance that it was; that Wesley Hughes’s concerns were absolutely hers too.

  Then there was the call from Issa Harrow. She didn’t have Nat’s mobile number, thank God, but what the hell did she want? Something to do with Jose, for sure, and it was bound to be bad. Nat’s omission to visit him in hospital, for starters. A host of other possibilities too; from the reasons for his ill health and why she hadn’t noticed it, to her failure to return to Mallorca to deal with the bar. Blame, accusations and finances, no doubt. Though she’d tried to hide it with layers of hustle and bustle, she’d known ‘comeback’ would happen at some point. Not from Issa, who’d always seemed friendly and chilled, but from her mother, who definitely wasn’t.

  She glanced at her phone on the passenger seat. None of the Harrow family had her current number because, frustrated and drunk, she’d hurled her old one at a brick wall last year. Wes had later told her that ‘everything changed’ for him that night. That’s what he’d told her, the guy who now said his business was none of hers. She clenched her jaw. He’d known he ‘loved’ her that night. That’s what he’d bloody well said.

  Shaking her head, Nat parked up outside Savage Solicitors, or ‘SS’ as Joshim called it. There was no use dwelling; it was now time for work. She was ‘on call’ as today’s duty solicitor, apparently, whatever that entailed. Pulling back her shoulders, she took a big breath and stepped into the office. Flipping heck, that rotting Penny Bun smell. Surely there was something they could do about it? She had intended to ask her mum if the fungal aroma had travelled with her to Cheadle last night, but other concerns had been more pressing.

  Like the message from Issa Harrow. Oh God.

  She looked around the chilly reception and rubbed her arms. The plastic seats lined beneath the window and on one side of one wall took her back to her childhood dentist. Feeling that same tummy churning, she turned to the counter. Empty. And no sign of Chantelle behind her partition either. Hmm… a good start. She made her way to Gavin’s office and opened the door. A man with more than a passing resemblance to Santa Claus was sitting at the desk.

  Immediately regressing fifteen years, the words popped out before she could stop them. ‘Oh. Good morning, Your Honour.’

  Lawrence Lamb QC had been a county court judge at some point; she’d once appeared before him to apply for a matrimonial ouster injunction against – unusually – an abusive wife. He’d granted it, but the application being ex parte, she was the only person there and he had kept her chatting afterwards for a good fifteen minutes. He’d looked benign and twinkly even then.

  ‘A very good morning to you too. Do call me Larry.’ He stood and saluted. ‘Larry Lamb at your service, Miss Bach.’ He motioned for Nat to sit on the chair. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m invisible.’ He patted his waistcoat pocket. ‘If and when the call comes, I will be here in a jiffy.’

  Mesmerised, Nat watched him delicately lift a checked tweed jacket from the old hat stand, brush it down and slip it on. Then she rallied. ‘The call?’ she asked.

  ‘The call for our rota of duty today, dear lady.’ He beamed. ‘Duty solicitor at our local constabulary, in other words.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ She absently opened the desk diary and peered at today’s page. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  He raised a white eyebrow. ‘Yes, but only if you wish.’

  ‘Not Robbie?’

  ‘Young Robert doesn’t go in cars. I do go in cars, but I don’t drive one.’ It was not quite a ho ho ho, but he chuckled. ‘Not unless I have to.’

  Resisting the urge to ask if he preferred to travel by sleigh, Nat sat in the warmed seat and watched him leave. Then she shook herself back to reality, standing again and giving chase. ‘Where are you going now, Your… Larry?’

  He turned at the door, gesturing to the selection of newspapers beneath his arm. ‘The local public house, dear lady, where else?’ He tapped
his nose. ‘Early doors. The licencee and I are acquainted.’

  Shaking her head, Nat retraced her steps to Gavin’s office, almost colliding with Robbie who’d appeared from a door opposite.

  He flushed and dropped his gaze. ‘The boss said it was okay if I kipped here,’ he said, shuffling his feet. ‘You know, just for now? To keep an eye on the office.’

  ‘Of course; that’s fine.’ She had forgotten Gavin lived in the flat above. Her stomach clenched; at least he had been until Sunday. Now he slept in a hospital camp bed next to his seriously injured child. The thought reminded her of Brian Selby, his family tragedy and the visit to the police station.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me yesterday, Robbie. You really helped a lot.’ She peered at his face, needing to say something. ‘Judge Lamb… Larry says you don’t go in cars.’ Oh God, he was frowning, his blush deepening. ‘That was… brave of you and your help was fantastic.’ She touched his shoulder lightly and smiled. ‘Hope my crazy driving didn’t freak you out even more…’ Bloody hell, she was talking too much; there were times she should just keep flaming shtum.

  Robbie messed with his long fringe, pulling it over one eye. ‘It was okay, actually.’ He nodded towards reception. ‘The phone’s ringing. I’d better answer it.’

  ‘Okay. I have a question…’ Grabbing Gavin’s diary, she followed him in. ‘There’s an appointment for a Mr Lee. What’s that all about?’

  ‘A mental health tribunal hearing next week. He’s the dad.’

  She read further down the page. ‘And Marcella Bates?’

  ‘Went to the pub for a day, leaving her kids home alone.’

  ‘And Chantelle?’

  He looked perplexed for a moment before smiling. ‘Photo shoot today. She does some work for an online magazine.’