Alex looked at Libby, then back to me. ‘What are you on about?’ His eyes glittered. Drops of rain trickled from the ends of his hair.
‘Heather told Sal it was you.’ Libby was trembling slightly; it was just possible to see. ‘You were with Charlie, there was an argument, Charlie went for you, you were scared, you picked up the knife. Charlie stumbled, he fell on the knife.’
‘You’re lying.’ He scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting wildly, seeking escape.
‘Alex,’ I put out an arm, trying to still him.
‘She’d never do that,’ he shouted. But the truth had already hit him. He turned suddenly, howling, slapped his palms against the wall then slammed his head against it. The sound was sickening. He did it again. I grabbed his arms, shocked at how skinny they were and the feel of his bones, and pulled him away, turned him to face me. Keeping my voice steady, I said, ‘Alex, sit down, sit down.’
He obeyed. Sat on the floor again.
Libby was fighting back tears, her face raised, neck stretched, eyes blinking. One hand rhythmically patting Rowena’s back, keeping the baby quiet.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told him.
‘You believed her?’ he asked, injured, his voice breaking.
I didn’t answer him but asked a question of my own. ‘After you drove back to the cottage, you left your dad’s car on the drive. How did you get home?’
‘In mum’s,’ he said quietly. ‘She’d parked on the hill.’ He was crying now, silently, the tears coursing down his cheeks.
‘A Mondeo?’ I asked. He dipped his head. The car Damien had passed going up the hill, casing it for easy access to valuables, and the engine he’d heard starting up. And Alex was the man he’d passed, the one out of breath, carrying a rucksack. I recalled the shift in Sinclair’s face when I’d mentioned the cars. He must have made the connection, then. Known it was the same make as Heather Carter’s. But he’d said nothing. Did he dismiss it as a coincidence or was he past caring? Unwilling to contemplate the miscarriage of justice that had occurred.
‘Were you carrying anything?’ I said.
‘Dad’s rucksack,’ he said with difficulty. ‘She’d put the knife in an old curtain. I had to leave it in one of those bins at the supermarket. I can’t go home,’ he blurted out, fear making his voice squeak. ‘I’m scared.’ His mouth trembled. ‘I’m so scared.’ He began to rock, a desperate feral motion and he bit at his hand. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to ease his panic.
Heather had driven out there to confront her husband about his affair. They argued, she stabbed him, either intentionally or accidentally, then drove his car home and forced her son to help create the alibi. Now that the truth was bubbling to the surface she was prepared to name Alex as the killer. Ruthless, that’s how Nick Dryden had described Heather, something I’d dismissed at the time, but a label she certainly deserved. Not only had she destroyed her son by pressing him to enact the ghastly pantomime to save her skin, but as the cover-up threatened to unravel she had no qualms at betraying her only child. Of course, she still probably clung to the hope that nothing would change, that I couldn’t prove anything and that none of the authorities would take an interest in pursuing things any further.
But she hadn’t reckoned on Alex, driven by terror and desperate to know why his mother had contacted me. Alex, driven to breaking point and finally revealing a much more plausible version of events.
‘Alex,’ said Libby, ‘Heather claimed Charlie used to lose his temper. That he was violent. That he hit you. He never did that, did he?’
Alex shook his head slightly. ‘I miss him,’ he sobbed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
‘He was a good man,’ said Libby.
‘He was leaving us, though,’ Alex cried.
‘He was leaving her, not you,’ said Libby. ‘He loved you.’
Alex moaned, rolled his head back against the wall, his mouth stretching with tears.
‘He’d agreed to stop seeing me,’ Libby went on, ‘until you’d done your exams. We didn’t want to make it hard for you. And after that we hoped that you’d stay with us some of the time. He really loved you. It was my fault he lied to your mum that day. I wanted to meet up, to tell him I was pregnant. I’m so sorry.’
Alex stared at her.
‘This is your sister,’ Libby said, ‘Rowena.’
Alex looked away, weeping now, his shoulders shuddering.
When he sounded a little calmer, I spoke. ‘You need to talk to the police, tell them everything. OK?’
He nodded numbly. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but Mum said we had no choice-’
‘She was your mother. People will understand. Just tell the truth.’
‘I don’t want to see her.’ He grabbed my wrist, shivering. ‘Don’t let her near me. Please.’
‘I promise.’
Alex’s face glazed over, an expression of blank defeat, of desolation on it. He continued to rock, making a little moaning sound in the back of his throat. Whimpering. The sound of someone broken.
I hung on the phone until someone agreed to interrupt Dave Pirelli in one of his meetings. Then I gave him the option: did he want to come and arrest Alex Carter or should I call 999? I also warned him the boy was traumatized and would need medical attention and that on no account should his mother have any access to him.
They came with lights and sirens on. Some of the neighbours braved the rain to gawp and whisper as Alex was taken from the house and put into the patrol car. Dave Pirelli had the gist of the story from me and another car had been despatched to arrest Heather. I would be contacted in due time to make a full statement, as would Libby.
When they had gone, I turned to Libby. I felt drained, hollowed out, my blood too thin, my bones weak. ‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I could do with a proper drink.’
She nodded. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
Downstairs again with Libby and Rowena I poured two generous measures. The brandy scorched my throat and belly and I felt my neck loosen, a sensation of heat spread along my limbs.
‘Do you think it was an accident?’ Libby asked me.
‘No,’ I said quietly.
She tilted her head, inviting me to elaborate.
‘Heather would have tried to get help, dialled 999. You just would. She’s not stupid. If it had been an accident the evidence would have backed her up but she knew it wouldn’t. I don’t think she set off for the cottage intending to harm Charlie. If she’d planned his death she could have come up with something less messy. She went to challenge him and she lost her temper, a moment’s madness, a single blow.’
Libby drained her glass. ‘How did the pair of them cope with it? Murdering someone. Knowing that they’d done that day after day, week after week. It must have been hell.’
‘Yes. Well, you saw the state of Alex.’
Libby snorted, disgusted. ‘She’ll get life?’
‘God, I hope so.’
‘And Alex?’ She pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair.
‘Who knows? His age will work in his favour, and his cooperation now.’ I twisted my glass, watched the amber liquid spin and shimmer. ‘It’s too late for Damien, though.’
‘What a mess.’ She refastened her hair. ‘You’ll tell Chloe?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your report,’ Libby referred to the document I had promised her, ‘will you put in how it all happened, as far as you can tell, all the stuff that Damien told you, the times and everything?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
‘It’s like I need to go over it, get it all fixed in my mind. I did that before when they convicted Damien. Does that sound weird, creepy?’
‘No, I understand.’ I’d had the same reaction to traumas in my own life. Absorbing the facts, revisiting them again and again, was a way of coming to terms with the emotions.