Walton, the nearest village, is half a mile away, Bristol another ten. That’s the one abiding feature governing the construction and placement of any psychiatric unit - out of sight, out of mind. It has been that way for more than two hundred years.
Sienna is sitting at a window with one leg propped on the sill, hugging her knee, while her other leg dangles to where her toes brush the floor. She’s wearing a dress that is too big for her and a shapeless woollen cardigan. A strand of dark wool has pulled from the sleeve and she worries it with her fingers, rolling it back and forth under her palm.
Condensation has misted the window. She reaches out and draws her finger through it. Outside, the Bristol Channel is dotted with whitecaps, which my father calls ‘white horses’, although I’ve never understood why.
I stand in the doorway of the lounge watching Sienna. Her movements are almost exaggerated in their slowness and everything about her body language seems to be passive and resigned.
I say hello and she rewards me with a huge smile.
‘I thought you’d come.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I just knew. I was sitting here thinking how nice it would be to talk to someone, and here you are.’
The statement is so matter-of-fact that I can almost believe she willed me into being. She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out three small fruits with dark orange skin.
‘Do you know the difference between a tangerine and a clementine?’
I shake my head.
‘Tangerines aren’t as sweet.’ She hands me one. ‘Fresh fruit is really good for you. It will help you with that.’
She motions at my left hand where my thumb and forefinger are pill-rolling. I fight the urge to put the hand in my pocket.
‘So why do you shake?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Sienna looks disappointed. ‘That’s your first lie.’
‘How do you know I’m lying?’
‘I can tell.’
I press my thumb into the tangerine. The skin peels easily, filling the room with citrus smells.
‘I want to talk about what happened the other night.’
Almost immediately I sense her mind trying to flee. No longer looking at me, she squeezes the peel in her fist.
‘I know you’re scared.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I know, but first you have to answer some questions. The court wants me to prepare a psych report.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They want to know if you’re likely to hurt yourself or hurt someone else.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
She turns to the window again, as though frightened of missing someone arriving.
‘I can’t make you talk to me, Sienna, which means you’re in control of this conversation. I’m not going to get upset or irritated if you don’t say anything. I’m not going to get angry or annoyed. The very worst that can happen is I walk out of here and say you weren’t able to speak to me.’
I can see her visibly relax. She pops a segment of tangerine into her mouth and crushes it between her teeth.
‘So, tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘Lonely. Homesick.’
‘You’ve been charged with the most serious crime imaginable.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘You told the police you wanted him dead - you wished for it.’
‘That’s not the same thing. That’s just using words.’ Her rope-like curls sway against her cheeks. ‘Robin says I’m supposed to separate bad memories into coloureds and whites - just like the washing - and run them through the machine. Wash them away. Put them on a heavy wash and spin cycle. I laughed when he told me that, but Robin makes it sound so normal.’
‘Who’s Robin?’
‘My therapist.’
Robin Blaxland. Annie Robinson arranged for Sienna to see him.
‘Did you talk to Robin about your father?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Will you talk to me?’
Again she shrugs.
I ask her to sit on the sofa, lean back and close her eyes. Breathe deeply.
‘Feel your nostrils opening slightly as you inhale. The air feels cooler as you breathe in and warmer as you breathe out. Feel the change in temperature. How your breath fills your lungs.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m just going to talk. If I ask you something that upsets you, or makes you frightened, I want you to raise your right hand. Just lift your fingers a little and I’ll know to stop. That’s our special signal.’
Sienna nods.
‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?’
‘Bristol.’
‘You’re the youngest.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How old is Zoe?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘And Lance?’
‘Twenty-two.’
Sticking to closed questions, I gently draw out her history, which takes a long time because her answers are devoid of detail. Sienna talks about school - her favourite subject is English, her favourite teacher is Mrs Adelaide. I ask about other subjects and other teachers.
An odd detail emerges. An omission. She doesn’t mention Gordon Ellis, her drama teacher, yet the musical is all she and Charlie have talked about for months. They have sung into hair-brushes and danced in front of the mirror.
I take her back to Tuesday and the rehearsal.
‘Do you remember getting into trouble with Mr Ellis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Ellis was quite hard on you.’
‘I’m used to it.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘You babysit his little boy.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How do you get home afterwards?’
‘He drops me.’
‘Did your father ever argue with Mr Ellis?’
Sienna’s hand rises. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘You don’t want to talk about your dad or Mr Ellis?’
Sienna’s hand rises again. As promised, I change the subject and ask her instead about Danny Gardiner.
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘It was ages ago. He went to school with Lance.’
‘But you hooked up with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early last year.’
‘Does he pick you up after school sometimes?’
She nods.
‘Where do you go?’
‘The cinema or the mall or just for a drive.’
‘Where did you go after Danny dropped you off last Tuesday?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘You mentioned your therapist, Robin. Is that where you went on Tuesday?’
‘No.’
‘Where then?’
Her fingers begin to rise.
‘You don’t want to tell me.’
She nods.
‘Who are you protecting, Sienna?’
‘No one.’
I back off again, asking her instead about later that night.
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About ten-thirty.’
‘Did someone drop you?’
‘I caught the bus to Hinton Charterhouse and walked the rest of the way.’
Two motorists reported seeing a blonde-haired girl in a short dress walking down Hinton Hill on the night of the murder.
‘That’s a two-mile walk.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Were there lights on in the house?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Think back. Put yourself outside the house again. It’s late. You’re tired. You’ve walked home. You step through the gate. What do you see?’
‘A light in the hall.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Mum normally leaves it on.’
‘Where is your key?’
‘In my schoolbag.’
‘Can you see yourself getting the key out, unlocking the door?’
She nods.
‘You’re opening it.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you see?’
‘I look on the phone table to see if there are any messages on the answering machine or letters for me. Mum sometimes leaves me a note.’
‘What about this time?’
‘No.’
‘What do you see?’
‘The door under the stairs is open. Daddy’s overnight bag is inside. Unzipped. I see his shaving gear and dirty clothes.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘He’s not supposed to be home until Friday.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘I don’t like being alone with him.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘A light at the top of the stairs.’
‘What about downstairs?’
‘I can hear the TV.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘If I can get to my room I’ll be OK. There won’t be a scene. I can lock the door and go to bed and he won’t bother me.’
‘How does he bother you?’
Her fingers rise and fall. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘What happens next?’ I ask.
‘I creep up the stairs, trying to be quiet. The fourth step has a squeak. I step over it.’
Her breath quickens.
‘What is it?’
‘I hear something.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘A toilet flushing, then a tap running . . . in the bathroom.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘He’s upstairs. I have to hurry.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the top of the stairs. My room is just there. I have to be quick. I have to get inside.’
Her hands go to her mouth.
‘What?’
‘I’m falling.’
‘Down the stairs?’
A long pause. ‘He’s lying on the floor . . . Daddy. Not moving. I’m on top of him.’
Her whole body is shaking.
‘What do you see?’
‘Blood. Everywhere. The floor is wet. I’m sitting in it. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. And I’m wiping my hands over and over, but I can’t get it off.’
‘Can you hear anything?’
‘A rushing sound in my head - it’s like the wind only louder and it fills every space and blocks out every other sound. I can’t make it stop.’
Sienna covers her ears.
‘Is there someone else in the house, Sienna?’
She’s not listening. I hold her face in my hands, making her focus on me. ‘Is there someone in the house?’
A whisper: ‘Yes.’
‘Can you see who it is?’
‘No.’
Fear floods her eyes. Suddenly, she’s on her feet, trying to run. I catch her before she can take more than two steps, wrapping my arms around her, lifting her easily. She’s fighting at my arms, her legs pumping. Mucus streams from her mouth and nose.
‘Shhh, it’s OK. You’re safe. You’re with me.’
Slowly the fear evaporates. It’s like watching an inflatable-pool toy spring a leak and sag into a crumpled puddle of plastic. I put her back on the sofa and she curls her knees to her chest, closing her eyes. Spent. Raw.
The interview has taken three hours but Sienna can tell me nothing more. Her emotions can’t be detached from her memories. I risk traumatising her if I keep pushing.
Whoever killed Ray Hegarty was still in the house when Sienna came home. SOCO found blood in the S-bend of the sink. The killer was cleaning up. Wiping the blade clean.
An intruder? A robbery gone wrong? There were no signs of forced entry, yet Sienna’s laptop is missing. Far more expensive items were untouched.
Ray Hegarty wasn’t expected home until Friday. Helen Hegarty worked nights. Sienna spent most evenings alone. Whoever killed Ray Hegarty was inside the house. Waiting.
Who were they waiting for?