Where the Memories Lie (30 page)

DNA match between the foetus and either Tom or Chris,’ DI

Spencer said.

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I didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

‘What does that mean, then – that you can rule out the baby as a

motive for murder?’

‘We’re not sure at this stage.’

‘And we won’t know who the father was until we have a suspect

we can compare a DNA sample with,’ DS Khan said.

I felt terrible for not believing him when he said he hadn’t slept

with her. How could I have suspected he had anything to do with

Katie’s death? And if the baby wasn’t his, surely there could be no reason for him to have killed her.

But then I thought about jealousy, and how that could be a

motive, too. What if Chris knew Katie was pregnant by someone

else and he’d become insane with jealousy? Had he lashed out and

killed her by accident? Had he enlisted Tom’s help to cover it up?

I’d hoped the results would prove something but all they’d done

was give me yet more unanswered questions.

‘How did Chris take it?’ I asked.

‘He was . . . subdued,’ DI Spencer said.

‘Where do things go from here, then?’ I stared into space,

chewing the inside of my cheek, deep in thought.

‘We’re still making enquiries. We’ll be in touch.’ DS Khan did

her signature frown.

After they’d gone I walked past the shop and saw a couple of

parents whose kids went to Anna’s school. They nudged one another

and stared at me, whispering like five-year-olds. I could just imagine what they were saying.
Did she know? Daughter-in-law of a murderer!

Someone must’ve known there was a body in there.

It’s not my fault!
I wanted to scream at them. A hot flush crept up my neck into my cheeks and I kept my head down,

thankful that my phone was ringing to distract me. It was Mary

from Mountain View Nursing Home. After she’d given me her

condolences she apologised for calling but said they’d put together 226

Where the Memories Lie

Tom’s things and she wanted to let me know we could come and

collect them.

I drove over to the nursing home when I finished my shift,

wondering what was left of Tom’s belongings. When we’d moved

him in there they’d told us not to bring any valuables, so those were still in boxes in our loft somewhere. All he really had were minor

things that signified his existence in the world. Apart from Katie, of course: she would be the major legacy Tom would leave behind.

Thanks, Tom, for your generous contribution to society.

There were more condolences from Kelly on reception, who

said she was sorry for our loss. I know it’s what you’re supposed to say, but I’d always hated it when people said that. It sounds as if you’ve just misplaced something trivial. As she asked me to sign for Tom’s belongings, which had been packed up in two square cardboard boxes, it reminded me again of being in prison − anyone

would think it was
me
who had a guilty conscience! − and having your belongings returned when you were released back into society.

There’d be no chance of Tom going to prison now. No chance of

justice for Rose for whatever part he’d played in Katie’s death. No chance for redemption. Not that the Crown Prosecution Service

would’ve even tried to convict for murder with the condition he

was in, anyway.

I wanted to take the boxes and throw them off the cliffs at

Durdle Door after Tom. I imagined them hurtling through the air,

hitting the water, slowly sinking. It would probably feel good for a minute or two − that momentary release of anger and frustration.

I didn’t, though, of course. Instead, I hauled them out to

the car and dumped them on the passenger seat. I took the lid

off the first one and rifled through. I didn’t know what I was

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expecting to find. A suicide letter explaining everything that had

happened to Katie − something that said how she came to end up

buried under the garage? Something that said how remorseful he’d

been? That was obviously too much to ask, because all I found

were folded-up pairs of trousers, shirts, a couple of cardigans, slippers, one odd shoe − where had the other one gone? − and the

magic wooden box. I picked the box up and tried to open it.

I remembered Tom telling me he’d carved it for Eve as a wedding

present. Nadia had told me her mum loved it, and it had always

kept pride of place on the mantelpiece. Apparently, she never put

anything in it because she could never open it. Tom and Anna

were the only ones who ever remembered the weird combination

routine thingybob to it.

I threw it back into the cardboard box before my anger got the

better of me and I chucked it out the window or something.

When I got back to the barn the place was deadly quiet without

my family and Poppy. Normally, I loved this place. It had always

felt warm and alive. Now it was oppressive and cold and evil. Was it a good idea moving back into the barn like Ethan wanted? Would

I see Katie’s ghost in everything that happened here? Would it taint us? I wondered how long it would take to sell.

I put the boxes in a cupboard in the utility room out of sight

so I could stop thinking about Tom and everything he’d done, or

might’ve done, and trudged upstairs into my bedroom. Reaching

into the back of my wardrobe, I retrieved an old shoe box where I

kept my mementoes and old photos. Dumping everything on my

bed, I picked out ticket stubs from the first concert Ethan had taken me to. His Valentine’s cards from before we got married. Stupid little notes he’d left me around the house when we moved in together.

I smiled as I flicked through them. There were old pesos from the

Dominican Republic where we’d been on our honeymoon. Train

tickets to London − Christmas shopping trips Ethan and I and

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Where the Memories Lie

Anna had taken when she was little. A poster from a Christmas

panto we’d seen in Weymouth. Anna’s baby teeth in a clear box,

a lock of her hair, her hospital bracelet from when she was born.

A lifetime of memories.

I searched through the photos inside, wanting to find a picture

of Katie as she really was, not as the grotesque images that had

been haunting my sleep and piercing my wakefulness. And then

there she was. Standing next to me on my fourteenth birthday as

both of us blew out my candles. I knew her parents never made a

fuss for her on her special day so I had always let her share mine.

We were caught on camera mid-blow, goofy-looking expressions

on our faces. The next one was from about a year later. Katie and

I had been in our favourite park in Dorchester in the school sum-

mer holidays, hanging out, sunbathing, eyeing up the boys, making

stupid plans for the future and sharing our dreams. We posed on

the grass in skimpy tops and short skirts. She was pouting for the

camera, her long hair falling down on one shoulder, her eyes half-

closed in a sultry look.

There were more. Katie and I on holiday when my family took

her with us to a caravan park in Devon one year, standing against

the railing in front of the sea, arms wrapped around each other, my head resting on her shoulder. Katie at our school disco on our very last day at secondary school. Katie on the village green outside the pub with a cigarette in her hand.

I put the photos back, a heavy sinking feeling in my heart. For

a long time we’d been so close, but when she vanished from my life

I’d abandoned her when she needed me most and slowly erased her

just like everybody else had, as if she was inconsequential. As if she was nothing.

I had to try to apologise to Rose again.

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Sibel Hodge

I knocked on Rose’s door a few times but the place looked the

same as every other time I’d been there, neglected with the curtains closed. I was about to turn away and walk back up the road when

the door opened and she stood there, pale and skeletal, her short

hair flattened and stuck to her head.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve coming round here,’ she rasped.

‘I just wanted to come and tell you how sorry I was. I . . .

I know you probably don’t want anything to do with our family,

but we didn’t have a clue. We didn’t know anything. I mean, we still don’t really know anything.’

‘
I
know!’ She swayed a little before leaning on the door frame for support. I could smell the alcohol permeating the air between

us, thick and heavy. ‘Tom Tate killed her and that’s that. He’s a

murderer. A monster!’

‘I’m so sorry. I . . . I don’t really know what to say. I feel terrible.

She was my friend and I let her down.’

‘Don’t come here again. I don’t want to talk to you. Any of you.

You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you, with your big

house and your fancy cars? But your family’s a damn sight worse,’

she spat. ‘Don’t come round here again!’ As she closed the door,

I stuck my foot in it and put my arm out, hand pushing against it.

She glanced up, surprised.

‘Rose, what did Katie mean in her letter? When she said you

know what you’ve done and that she hoped you’d rot in hell? What

did she mean by that?’

‘What? You trying to put the blame on me now?’ She let out a

deranged cackle. ‘Oh, that’s rich. That’s fucking rich.’ But there was something in her eyes that I recognised. Fear.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe I should’ve just

left things rather than stirring up trouble. Rose was grieving, too, after all. But I couldn’t let it lie. I still needed to know the truth.

Needed to know why it happened.

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Where the Memories Lie

‘Was Jack abusing her? Did you know about it and not do any-

thing? Is that what she meant? Or did Katie tell you and you didn’t believe her?’

‘Don’t you dare go round spouting accusations against us!

Sullying Jack’s memory. Making up lies!’ She glared at me. ‘You

don’t have a clue. You don’t have a bloody clue.’

‘So tell me. Why did she want to get away from here so badly?

Why did she want to run away from all of us? What did you and

Jack do to her?’

She tried to push the door closed but I was stronger, and I

wanted an answer. No.
Needed
an answer.

‘We didn’t kill her! Your bastard father-in-law did.’

‘But if she hadn’t been running away that day maybe none of

this would’ve happened. What did she mean in the letter? What

happened to her?’

She scowled in return, her facing turning a mottled red.

‘She just wanted to be loved. What’s wrong with that? You and

Jack didn’t care about her, did you? All you cared about was the

drink. You neglected her, let her fend for herself. You can’t deny

that, can you?’

‘Don’t you dare try and pin this on me,’ she screeched. And

with an almighty push using both hands, she shoved the door

closed. I just managed to retrieve my foot before it got crushed in the process.

Well, that apology had gone swimmingly well.

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Chapter Twenty-Six

The Tate family was cursed. It was as if Tom’s confession

had unleashed something dark and destructive. Some foul

black ripple effect that kept coming at us, leaving us splut-

tering and gasping for air, threatening to drown us all in it.

I stared at the computer screen in the nurses’ room, totally

unprepared for what I was seeing. With everything going on I’d

completely forgotten about her appointment. I scrolled backwards

to the main menu and went into her records again, just to make

sure I was looking at the right ones.

Yes, there it was.

The blood test results had come through earlier that morning.

Charlotte. Too many white blood cells. Not enough platelets.

Not enough red blood cells. But the real kick was that there were

blasts
− immature cells that aren’t normally found in blood. It was highly suggestive of leukaemia. She’d need a sample of her bone

marrow cells examined to make sure, but the blood test seemed

pretty conclusive. It explained all her symptoms, too. The nose-

bleeds, fatigue, pale skin, loss of appetite, being unable to shake that virus. How had I missed it all? Taken individually, maybe they didn’t add up to much. Nadia had been adamant the nosebleed was

Where the Memories Lie

an accident. And weren’t all teenagers stressed and run down during exam times? None of it had seemed that drastic on its own. But in

context, it was glaringly obvious. And I’d missed it all. I’d been so busy worrying about everything surrounding Katie’s murder that

I’d overlooked something so vital. I was a disgrace as a nurse, and an aunt.

Charlotte. Leukaemia.

I rested my forehead on the desk and closed my eyes, too

shocked to even cry. My beautiful niece had leukaemia.

Was she going to die? Was this all some kind of family karma?

Redemption? A life for a life?

How much more could we all take? It was cruel and unfair

and . . . why? Just, why? What had Charlotte ever done to

deserve this?

The only thing that helped me was doing something proactive,

and that meant sorting out the immediate next steps for Charlotte