The Murder of Graham Catton Page 2

  ‘I guess I just thought there’d be … I don’t know. More of a …’

  ‘Oh, no. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’

  ‘What?’

  She grimaces. ‘A spark.’

  ‘… Yeah.’

  She places her coffee on the file in front of her, and leans forward, her hands folded under her chin. ‘Hannah,’ she says, gently. ‘I need you to listen to me carefully when I say this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And I need you to not be offended by it.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘… You’re old now.’

  ‘You’re older.’

  ‘By two months. And the difference between you and me is, I’m at peace with it. I buy three different creams for my face. I use them in a specific order, on the advice of some ten-year-old self-proclaimed beauty expert on YouTube. And—’ She cuts off my interruption with a raised palm – ‘I’m not deluding myself by thinking that love at our age is going to feel the same as love at eighteen.’

  I lean back in my chair. I know she’s right – not that I plan to concede. ‘We’re not that old, you know. Fifty’s still a fair way off.’

  ‘I know. But what I’m trying to say is … he’s a nice guy. He loves you. And maybe comparing falling in love with him to whatever you felt when you were falling for Graham at eighteen isn’t all that healthy. Or fair. On any of you.’

  ‘Wow, Sarah – why don’t you tell me how you really feel?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, after a rare pause. ‘You know I’m not trying to make you feel bad, don’t you? I just want you to—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. And you’re right.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’d better get going. You know Amy Barker’s being readmitted this week, don’t you?’

  ‘I saw. I’m already dreading our inevitable call from her lovely mother. I still hear those awful nails of hers clicking in my sleep.’

  ‘Well, when you do speak to her – ask her where she gets her Botox done, will you? Since I’m so old, and all. I could do with a referral.’

  ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I’ll still love you when you’re really old. Colostomy bag and all.’

  ‘I can see it. The two of us, being wheeled over to the nursing home TV, just in time for Bear in the Big Blue House.’

  She winks, and lays a sheaf of papers across her desk. ‘The boys are out camping all weekend if you want to start sooner.’

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ I call as the door closes with a muffled click behind.

  5

  Dan leans over the arm of the sofa, book spread-eagled on the floor. ‘There she is.’ He makes a face as I kick off my shoes. ‘Oh dear. Long day?’

  It’s like he sees straight through me, the moment I walk through the door. After a long drive home, replaying my conversation with Sarah in my mind, I’m exhausted, and he knows it.

  But I can’t tell him why. Not this time. He still doesn’t know I found the ring.

  I hang up my jacket and bag, and smile. ‘The longest. Where’s Evie?’

  ‘Upstairs. Revising. Or sleeping. Possibly both.’ He rolls up to standing. ‘Have you heard about this thing they’re doing now? Listening to revision tapes when they’re sleeping?’

  ‘I doubt it’s tapes, somehow,’ I say. ‘And I’m pretty sure that method was doing the rounds in the eighties. Didn’t work then, either.’

  He wraps his arms around me. The smell of him is, as always, a balm. ‘All right, doc. Don’t tell her that, though. She’s convinced it’s going to change her life. And anyway, it can’t hurt, can it?’

  It could, I think, if it replaces ‘real’ revision. But then, I know Evie. Her grades are impeccable. She’s almost too conscientious, approaching her schoolwork with a focus that manages to skirt outright anxiety – most of the time.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re probably right.’

  He laughs, and lets go. ‘Even broken clocks are right twice a day. Dinner’s in the oven, so if you want to …’

  My phone vibrates in my palm, and I glance at it.

  I turn cold.

  The distinctive logo: white handcuffs, a ‘C’ on a blood-red square.

  The words, pixel-sharp: Conviction, Season Four: Trailer – The Murder of Graham Catton.

  I’ve known, for months, that this might be coming. But denial’s a powerful thing, and I thought – ridiculously, I know – that if I refused to talk, they might not have enough to go on.

  I look up at Dan, who’s still talking, though I can’t make sense of the words.

  I follow him into the kitchen, and cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  He looks over his shoulder, searches my face – and smiles. ‘All right. Sit. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  As he pours the tea, I sit at the table. I don’t know quite how to position myself. Hands resting on the surface: too formal. On my lap, it looks as though I have something to hide. When he turns around, I’m somewhere in between.

  ‘OK.’ He takes a seat beside me, fumbling with a packet of biscuits. ‘What’s up?’

  I hold out an open palm. ‘Give me those.’

  ‘You hate these. They’re junk food.’

  ‘I need junk food, right now.’

  ‘Wow. This must be bad.’

  ‘Not funny.’ I tear open the packet, and take a bite. The sugar dissolves on my tongue. I feel something light up in my brain, a synapse twitching in response. It’s one of the many things I’ve given up, over the years, along with alcohol, smoking (of course), red meat, bread … Dan, thanks to some (admittedly helpful) cultural conditioning, seems to think all women go through this: the gradual removal of pleasures from their lives, a slow self-sacrifice; a futile battle against ageing. All I know is this: I crave clarity more than I crave those pleasures.

  Most of the time.

  He reaches for a biscuit. ‘Is this about Conviction?’

  I freeze. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘They called me. A couple of months ago. I told them where to stick it, but—’

  ‘They called here?’

  ‘No, no – they caught me at work. Tried the whole “one hack to another” spiel, though it didn’t get them far. Obviously.’ He shifts heavily in his seat. ‘I was going to bring it up at the time, but I thought … well, since you hadn’t said anything, I figured they’d decided against it. Plumped for another story instead.’

  A shadow brushes the window outside, crossing the table between us. A bird, I suppose, or a bat. ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Did you talk to them?’

  ‘No. I … I thought the same as you, I guess. That if they couldn’t talk to me, they’d let it drop. I didn’t expect them to go ahead anyhow.’

  ‘I could’ve told you all journalists are untrustworthy bastards. Not that these guys are. Journalists, I mean.’ There’s an itch of scorn in his voice. Professional jealousy, perhaps. He’s spent his life reporting news, and had some success, until the financial crisis and the internet pulled the floor out of the market. He moved back to Hawkwood – his home town – the year before I did, to edit the county Gazette.

  Conviction, on the other hand – real journalists or otherwise – boasts a following in the millions. I know the numbers almost by heart. I’ve been refreshing their website every day since they called.

  ‘Look,’ he says, finally. He leans forward – tentatively, like he’s expecting me to recoil. He winds his fingers through mine. ‘Hey. I mean it. Look at me.’ I meet his eyes, briefly; then look away. ‘I know you don’t like talking about what happened to him. And I get that. You want to move on. But …’

  ‘Dan—’

  ‘I’m just saying … Would it be worth thinking about it? Talking about it, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t need to talk about it.’ I stare into my cup, watching the lazy curl of steam rising. ‘The thing is … I went to the trial. I heard all the evidence. And that gave me closure. Because they proved it was him.’ There’s confide
nce in my voice as I say this, though it feels empty. Like a lie. Still, I go on. ‘Going back over it all, now … It’s been too long. I don’t know that I’d be able to do it without—’

  I’m silenced by movement overhead. Evie’s footsteps creak on the beams above, and she emerges at the top of the stairs. More than ever, she’s her father’s ghost, her head tilted, an eyebrow raised in confusion. ‘Is something burning?’

  Dan’s chair screeches on the tile. ‘Shit. I forgot to …’

  ‘How did you not smell it?’ She laughs. ‘You want to know what he said to me earlier? That I needed to concentrate on “the task at hand”. Good advice, huh?’

  ‘Very.’ As she sits, I resist the urge to reach for her hair, or to make one of the comments I know she’ll parrot back, mockingly. Still, I miss being able to run a comb through her curls. To squeeze them between finger and thumb, and watch them spring back. ‘How’s the studying going?’

  ‘Fine. All on track.’ She glances at Dan. Then at me. ‘What was so interesting that you nearly set the house on fire talking about it?’

  My perceptive little girl. I could throttle her sometimes.

  Dan doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Over to you, he’s saying. Play this however you think is best.

  I sigh. ‘We were … We were talking about what happened to your dad.’

  If there’s a reaction I’m expecting, it doesn’t show. Her face is blank, detached. Calm.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of a podcast called Conviction—’

  A blink. ‘The one about Barry Gibbons?’

  I nod. Gibbons, the subject of Conviction’s second season, was exonerated after serving twenty years in prison for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. The podcast’s army of fans – every one of them, it seemed, a kind of armchair detective – went on to uncover evidence that not only proved that he hadn’t committed the crime, but that the real killer had gone on to repeat his attacks for almost a decade after Gibbons had been locked away, seemingly without the authorities making the link. It was enough to turn Conviction from a poor imitation of better-known true-crime podcasts to a global sensation in its own right.

  Evie gnaws at the cuff of her hoodie. It’s a habit I’ve warned her against, but today I let it go. She puts the pieces together with awful quickness. ‘They’re doing a series on him – on the guy who killed Dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I glance at Dan, who offers an encouraging smile. ‘I don’t know why—’ I begin. ‘I mean … I don’t know what they’ve found to make them think there’s something wrong there, but—’

  ‘Wow.’ She’s thinking. Processing. ‘Do you think …’ She pauses, choosing her words. ‘Do you think it’s possible? That it wasn’t him?’

  I feel Dan’s attention sharpen at the question. He couldn’t ask it outright. But she can.

  ‘Honestly, Evie, I don’t know. I didn’t, until this happened. I thought the case against him was pretty clear-cut, but it was a long time ago, and I was … I was a bit of a mess. And I have to think, rationally, that if they’ve decided to devote a season to looking into the case, then … they must think there’s something there to find.’

  She glances at the blank face of her phone. She isn’t reading anything. She’s just buying time to think.

  When she puts it down, she’s resolute. ‘I guess that’s good, then. If he’s innocent. If he’s been in prison all this time and he didn’t do it, then it’s a good thing someone’s looking into it.’

  Her faith takes me aback – both in vague notions of innocence and justice, and in me. The possibility that I might have something to do with it – that I might have anything to hide, at all – doesn’t appear to have occurred to either of them.

  She sees something in my face, and her expression changes. The look in her eyes breaks my heart. ‘Mum. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I know.’ Another lie. ‘I’m just … I’m nervous about what they’re going to dig up.’

  Dan laughs. ‘Come on, Hannah. What do you think they’re going to find? That you got a B in one of your GCSEs? That it took you three attempts to pass your driving test?’ He gasps. ‘I just remembered that time when you called in sick with the “flu”. You’re screwed if that comes out.’

  Evie groans. ‘Oh my God, Dan. Never talk about that stuff in front of me. Ever.’

  I laugh, in spite of everything. Being with them – watching them joke together, cosy and familiar – warms me.

  ‘Seriously, Hannah. I get why you’d be concerned. It’s going to dredge up a lot of stuff from the past – and you won’t be able to stay out of it. You were married to the guy. But you’re as strait-laced as they come. Aside from the fact you leave wet towels on the bed, and you never use a coaster, you’re almost perfect.’

  Evie rolls her eyes. ‘Look at him, trying to be romantic.’

  He grins. ‘A for effort, right?’

  I do my best to force a smile. ‘You’re probably right.’ It’s another lie. Once the series begins, I know there’ll be no escaping the past. The things I might have done. The things I know I’ve done. This story I’ve spent ten years wrangling, in my own mind: now, it’s someone else’s to tell.

  ‘Thank you,’ I add. ‘Really. For being so …’

  He waves a hand, batting the thought away, before I have to say it.

  Thank you for believing in me, I want to say, though I can’t. Thank you for thinking the best of me. I’m sorry it isn’t true.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he says. ‘And trust me. Whatever happens, with all this … we’ll get through it. You, me, and Evie. As long as we’re together, we’ll be OK.’ There’s a brief pause, just long enough for the words to settle. And then, he does me another kindness. He moves on. ‘So … what are we going to do about dinner?’

  Evie peers at the blackened tray. ‘What even is that?’

  ‘It’s what the French call flambé,’ Dan says, pointedly. ‘But I think we might have to write it off. Not sure you two are developed enough in the palate.’

  ‘How about pizza?’ My tone is too bright, too sharp. Both stare at me blankly.

  Evie’s the first to react. ‘You want pizza?’

  ‘Well, it’s my fault dinner’s ruined. The least I can do is suggest something hideously unhealthy to make up for it.’ I wince. I’m a psychiatrist at an eating disorders clinic. I know better than to demonize food in front of a teenage girl. ‘It’s not so bad once in a while, anyway.’

  Evie brings up the menu on her phone. ‘It says they can deliver in an hour.’

  I see my opportunity, and grab it. ‘Order it for collection. You guys order whatever you want and I’ll go fetch it.’

  Dan mimes an expression of shock, one hand clutching his chest.

  ‘Not a word, mister. Or you’re going to get it. On foot.’

  I leave them on the sofa, some laugh-tracked American sitcom blaring on the TV. Evie seems thrilled at the way the night’s unfolded, our usual rules relaxed to accommodate my ‘news’. Dan, too, appears to be enjoying himself – though I’m sure later he’ll want to ‘check in’ and ‘make sure everything’s OK’.

  I love him for it. I do. But right now, I need to be alone. Just for a minute.

  Just while I work this out.

  I pull off the main road, down an old dirt track, gravel crackling under the wheels. I drive on through the trees until they part, and I stop. The old limestone quarry opens up beyond, the water still an eerie blue in the darkness. Either side of me are warning signs: Think! Would you swim in ammonia or bleach? And, This water is known to contain: Car wrecks. Dead animals. Excrement. Rubbish. Swimming may result in death.

  In the distance, I see the shadow of Hawkwood House, moonlight illuminating the broken windows, the gaping holes in the roofs and walls. Looking out at it soothes me, as it always does: it’s an anchor, a tether to the past. Coming here feels like coming home.

  With the engine off, I can hear the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the
faint scratch and call of creatures overhead. I think I see something moving, there, between the trees. My pulse quickens in response, though I know it’s silly. I’ve lived here long enough by now to know that the woods have a life of their own. There’s always something moving in there.

  I glance at my screen, and click play.

  ‘In our next season of Conviction …’ the host, Anna Byers says, her voice roused with theatrical flourish. The music swells, staccato strings straight out of a Hitchcock noir.

  I recognize the first voice instantly. He’s older now – the tell-tale smoker’s rattle in his throat. But it’s him. Stevens. The officer who questioned me for hours on that first night, and watched me, every day, in court. ‘There was something about the crime scene that just wasn’t right. It was like something out of a film. I’ve seen a lot of homicides in the years since, but … That’s the one that keeps me up at night.’

  A click. A whirr of rolling tape. I hear my own voice, playing back. ‘I told you. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know.’ I feel, bone-deep, the exhaustion; the frustration I’d felt, after hours of answering the same questions, of repeating my answers again and again. I feel the press of Evie’s head on my lap. The steel desk under my bare, cold arms.

  But none of that comes through in these words. All I hear is callousness. The voice of a woman who doesn’t care that her husband is dead.

  Another voice. Another spark of recognition. ‘They went to incredible lengths to make themselves look like the perfect couple.’ I can see him now: those small, sunken eyes in ashen skin, always a little slick with sweat. Darren. The best man at our wedding. My husband’s closest friend. ‘But I always knew something was off. After they charged that kid … It never seemed right to me. I just thought she had everybody fooled.’

  And another. A woman. Someone I don’t know. ‘I thought my son would get a fair trial. That’s what they tell you: trust the process, the system works, and all that … But the system doesn’t work. My son isn’t a murderer. He’s a victim.’

  I close my eyes. Grip my hands tight around the steering wheel, the ridges carving knots into my palms.