Come Back For Me Page 14

  ‘Aunt Stella.’ Harry breaks into a grin as he answers the door. ‘Mum said you’d gone away.’

  ‘Hi, Harry.’ I kiss him on the cheek as he lets me pass. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’

  ‘I’m sick,’ he says and coughs loudly. ‘Mum’s in a weird mood,’ he adds quietly. He raises his eyebrows at the sound of a pan crashing to the kitchen floor, followed by Bonnie swearing. ‘Are you sure you want to stay?’

  ‘I’d better,’ I say, confident he’s unaware of what’s happened.

  Harry follows me through to the kitchen, announcing my arrival like I am the Queen. It’s something he’s done since he was little but today his mum barely looks up. ‘See,’ he whispers, loud enough so he knows Bonnie will hear. ‘Weird mood.’

  ‘Harry, give us some space,’ she says, straightening her back and rubbing the base of her spine. ‘Please,’ she adds softly, and I wonder why Bonnie only ever reveals her fragility with her children.

  As soon as he’s left, she turns to me. ‘Our brother.’ She shakes her head, her face pale. She’s taking deep breaths and I can tell she’s trying to control herself.

  ‘I feel as sick as you do,’ I tell her, taking her hand and leading her to the sofa by the back door. My stomach has been churning for the last seventeen hours. ‘Tell me what the police said to you. I don’t really know any details.’

  As we sit she tells me what little she knows. That this morning Danny was taken to Dorset to be questioned regarding Iona’s death.

  ‘From where?’ I ask but she shrugs, shaking her head.

  ‘I don’t know, and I’m not sure what evidence they have. It must be pretty substantial.’

  ‘Bonnie,’ I say, realising she doesn’t know everything, ‘he walked into a police station and admitted it. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

  She pulls her hand away and swivels on the sofa until she is glaring at me. ‘No. God. I didn’t.’

  ‘But I don’t get why he would have done it,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ Every time I think of the possibility that my brother could have killed Iona, waves of nausea surge through me.

  ‘The bastard. The bloody bastard. Why would he kill her?’

  ‘I thought he liked her.’ I slip off my shoes, pulling my feet on to the sofa and hugging my knees against me. This is what I can’t stop playing out in my head. That every time they were together, I believed Danny liked her.

  ‘He was obsessed with her. And that’s a big difference to liking someone as a normal person would. We should have known,’ Bonnie says. ‘Urrgh. You remember that bird, don’t you?’

  I nod, feeling sick as I had then.

  ‘Mum was picking feathers out of Danny’s jumper for days. Even she didn’t know what to say for once.’

  ‘He said he’d found it like that,’ I murmur, though his story had conflicted with the one Iona told Bonnie, and I’d seen his drawing for myself. The bird didn’t look right. It was so unlike his other pictures.

  ‘We should have guessed he’d do something like this one day,’ Bonnie says. ‘I just never thought he already had.’

  ‘Bonnie, don’t talk like that.’

  ‘You’re not seriously defending him?’ she spits out. ‘You’ve just told me he’s admitted it. He’s kept this a secret for twenty-five years and, shit, our parents must have, too.’ She hangs her head in her hands, her fingers digging into her skull. ‘I thought it was my fault. All this time and I thought it was my fault we left.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I bend my head to look at her. ‘Why would you think it was your fault?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does—’

  ‘No,’ she snaps. ‘It doesn’t.’

  After a moment I say, ‘Because you and Iona had that argument?’

  ‘Just forget I said anything,’ she says angrily, and I turn my head to look out the window. I’m about to speak when she says, ‘Danny followed her once. When she left our house he followed her to the clearing by the cliff. She had to shake him off and lose him.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Danny.’

  A picture of my brother springs into my head. His big hulking frame, his head always hung low as if he wasn’t looking where he was going. I never saw him like they did. To me he was just my brother: lost, but above all gentle. My heart sinks with pain that my brother could have done this, because it doesn’t make sense that he was capable of it. ‘It must have been an accident. Danny’s never hurt anyone.’

  ‘You’re defending him again,’ she cries. ‘Just like Mum and Dad always did. I don’t know what’s wrong with you all. Can’t you accept he’s not right and that he’s done something horrendous? He needs to be punished.’ Her voice rises and we hear a thump on the floor above us. Bonnie raises her eyes to the ceiling and her words are quieter when she says, ‘I haven’t told Harry. I’m not going to tell either of the boys, and Luke’s not here so he doesn’t know yet. Of course you’ll have to speak to Dad about it, that is if he hasn’t already been locked up too.’

  ‘Bonnie, we don’t know any of the details, you can’t start assuming—’

  She storms over to the patio windows, her fists clenched tightly by her sides as she stands with her back to me. ‘I’m not speaking to Dad,’ she says. She is taut with tension, like a coiled spring about to burst. ‘I don’t want anything to do with any of it. I’m not going to let my family suffer.’

  This is your family, I want to say, but she doesn’t see it like I do. While Bonnie can and will distance herself from them, I’ll be the one picking up the pieces and trying to put them together. Because this is the only family I have.

  I rest my head on the back of the sofa, trying to make sense of those pieces. ‘If they did know, do you think that’s why Mum let Danny leave?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know. Our family is screwed up.’

  I can’t argue with that. ‘They must have thought they were protecting him, doing the right thing. Wouldn’t you do it for your boys?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ Bonnie cries. ‘Don’t you dare compare my boys to Danny.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say softly. ‘I’m just asking what you would do if they’d done something awful. If there was nothing you could do about it. What would you do, Bon? I’m asking you to help me understand,’ I plead, when she doesn’t answer.

  ‘If they killed someone I would not cover it up,’ she says, but how can she say this for certain unless she’s been in that position? Surely a parent would do anything to protect their child?

  ‘Do you remember that drawing pad?’ I say after we’ve fallen into a silence. ‘The one Danny used to sketch people in?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He seemed to get people. He wasn’t interested in the trees or the beach or the sea, but he was interested in people.’

  No one was allowed to look in his book. It was always tucked under his arm when he went up to the treehouse but he never once showed anyone. Then one day, Jill and I went up to the treehouse ten minutes after he’d come down. He can’t have realised he’d left it behind, but I saw it poking out from beneath one of the cushions.

  Only when Jill left did I pull it out, flicking through its pages, expecting to see reams of words that I told myself I wouldn’t read. But there weren’t words. It was filled with cartoon drawings, caricatures of people, speech bubbles coming out of their mouths, and they were good. Really good. And even though I knew I shouldn’t be looking, I couldn’t help it because it was clear his characters were based on people we knew.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let me see him?’ I say.

  Bonnie swings around, her face aghast. ‘Why would you even want to?’

  ‘I want to talk to him.’

  ‘No! No way. I don’t want to be one of those families you watch on the news, standing by a killer. I don’t want people thinking we condone him. I just want �
�� I want this to go away,’ she exclaims. ‘I don’t want to deal with everyone knowing my brother’s a murderer. I can’t deal with it,’ she says, covering her face with her hands. ‘I can’t deal with any of it.’

  I stand up and pull her in to me; her body shakes against mine. ‘It isn’t going to go away,’ I say. ‘We have to face it.’

  ‘No, we really don’t,’ she says, pulling back and looking up at me. Her face is streaked with tears. ‘We’ve had nothing to do with Danny for eighteen years. So, there’s no need to start now.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Bonnie.’

  ‘Why isn’t it?’ she says in a childish demand.

  ‘Because you’re not considering what I want.’

  ‘You’ve done what you wanted. You went back to that place when you shouldn’t have. Now we just need to leave this alone. Please, Stella, I’m begging you. Stay out of it.’

  But all I can see is my brother, his long legs dangling out of the treehouse, clutching his book to his chest like nothing else mattered. Whatever he did, I don’t believe he intended to.

  ‘I don’t want you digging any more,’ she says, and my mind drifts to the threat which I’d tucked into my coat pocket before I left.

  Bonnie looks fearful, as if there’s more she doesn’t want me finding out. She pulls out of my grip and wanders away. With her back to me, she braces herself before opening up the dishwasher and unloading it.

  No, I’m sure she’s just worried about what will happen to her and the boys following Danny’s confession.

  ‘Bon, why did you say you thought it was your fault we left?’ I ask her.

  She pauses; a mug in her hand stops midway between the dishwasher and the counter before she slams it down. ‘I was once told something,’ she says. ‘But it was a lie.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bonnie snaps. ‘And you still haven’t reassured me you’re going to drop all this raking over the past.’ She straightens and turns to me. ‘Stella?’ she prompts when I don’t answer.

  ‘I will,’ I say, though I already know that is impossible. My brother is sitting in a police cell and I need to know if he should be there, because I can’t deny there’s a part of me that doesn’t believe he should.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have barely stepped off Bonnie’s front steps when I get a call from a Detective Harwood who says he would like to speak to me. I agree to meet him in two hours and he gives me the address of a house near Bournemouth, so close to where I have just come from this morning that I wish I had known before making the forty-minute drive back to Winchester.

  As soon as I get home I peel off my clothes and stand under a shower, piping-hot water raining down on my skin until it almost scalds me. I need this sting of pain to focus on as my head is a mess. In many ways thinking about my brother and what I can do is easiest, because as soon as I stop my head is filled with thoughts too difficult to accept: that everything I once believed was a lie.

  When I’m out of the shower I grab my scrapbook and take it to my bedroom. Relieved to be lying on my own bed again, I let the book fall open at the first page. Mum and I started it when I was ten. Its first entry is a newspaper clipping of the islanders protesting against the proposed development of a boutique hotel. There’s a picture of us all gathered together in solidarity – Mum and Annie at the front of the group. Annie Webb and Maria Harvey lead protest to keep island a sanctuary, the headline reads. I had proudly cut out the article and pasted it into the book.

  I flick to the last page, an entry made on 3 August 1993. I remember the day clearly. It was burning hot, I had stripped down to my swimming costume and was standing under a sprinkler in the garden when Mum came out and turned off the tap.

  ‘We need to save water. Let’s play something,’ she’d suggested. ‘How about the alphabet game?’

  This meant taking turns to find something on the island that started with a particular letter. I had stuck in various things we’d found and had written up others like the caterpillar I’d spotted crawling up a tree.

  Now I rub my fingers gently over a daisy and a feather stuck side by side in my book, both long ago turned brown and limp. The list stops at M. I don’t recall if we finished it or not. I can’t even remember how the day ended.

  I flick through the pages one at a time, poring over them, searching for clues I know don’t exist, and eventually toss the book across the bed, letting out a scream. Rolling on to my side I thump my clenched fists against the pillow, burying my head in it, grabbing handfuls of white cotton until I can’t squeeze any tighter. Pain and frustration rip through me.

  This is my family. These are the people I’m supposed to trust most.

  But I no longer trust any of them.

  The interview suite in Dorset is in a room at the back of a house. High ceilings and intricate coving are the only interesting features in what is otherwise a blank canvas. The walls are magnolia, bare apart from a digital clock that flashes bright red, and two cameras pointing towards each of the sofas.

  ‘You’re here as a witness,’ Harwood tells me once he has pointed out that the interview is being videoed. ‘You’re free to leave whenever you want. But as we explained to you earlier, your brother is under arrest for murder.’ I nod as he goes on, ‘There will be times when this may be frustrating for you, but this is a one-way interview. If you have questions we’ll never lie to you but there may be times when we won’t be able to give you information.’

  ‘Okay.’ I smile weakly as I pick up the glass of water that sits on the small table in front of me. My blood burns as it speeds around my veins like cars on a race track and I can’t sit still on the sofa as I lean forward, then back, before shuffling to the edge again, folding my hands in my lap.

  But I am grateful for his kindness when he asks me if I’m okay to proceed. And I’m also grateful for the fact that at least someone is telling me they won’t lie to me even if they can’t give me everything I need.

  The detective asks what I know about the incident and I tell him there’s absolutely nothing. He seems to accept this as he moves on to wider questions about Iona and my family. Did we see her often? How well did I get on with her? How about my sister? My mother? My father?

  To start I tell him that during that summer I had always thought Iona was friendly and good fun, but that it was Bonnie who had formed a very close friendship with her. Though I don’t add it was closer than anyone else before and possibly even after.

  I say that Mum was the one who instigated the dinner invites so I’d assumed she liked her, but what I don’t say is that at some point those invites must have dried up because in the last couple of weeks Iona stopped coming over. I realise I’d never given this any thought before now.

  And Dad? My chest is tight as I tell Harwood that Iona and he got on well, that he made her laugh with his stories. I push my clammy hands beneath me, willing the fabric of the sofa to dry them out.

  My omissions sit in hard lumps in my throat and it crosses my mind that one day I may have to tell a courtroom why I never said more.

  But Harwood isn’t pressing me; instead he wants to know what other friendships Iona formed on the island. His question surprises me and I can’t work out where he is going with it when surely he must only be interested in my brother.

  ‘It was so long ago,’ I say, ‘and I was only eleven.’ It feels as if all my answers have been vague and I have a strange desire not to disappoint him.

  ‘I appreciate that, Ms Harvey,’ he says. ‘But can you think of anyone else she used to hang out with or talk about?’

  ‘Well, there was one girl,’ I say, the only person I ever saw her laughing with. ‘Tess Carlton.’

  Harwood searches through the pages of his pad. ‘Susan and Graham Carlton’s daughter?’ His eyebrows are raised when he looks up. I nod and he continues to look at me for a moment too long. ‘And you say they were friends?’

  ‘I saw them going to the mainland t
ogether, so yes, I suppose they must have been.’ Now I think about it, it was an odd friendship, with Tess only fifteen.

  I suddenly wonder whether Tess was the cause of Bonnie’s argument with Iona, but I can’t consider it for long as Harwood is talking again. ‘Tell me about your brother’s relationship with Iona Byrnes.’

  Even though this is what I’ve been anticipating, the air sticks in my throat like sickly treacle. I swallow loudly. ‘Well, to be honest I saw no relationship between them. I mean, my brother, he …’ I pause and take a sip of water. ‘Danny barely ever spoke to her even though she was at our house a lot.’

  ‘How did he behave when she was around?’ he asks.

  As I remember it, Danny was no different with Iona than he was with anyone else, but I do recall the way she was with him. ‘She tried to talk to him a lot,’ I say. ‘I mean, she was always asking him questions, trying to bring him into the conversation. We all knew better than to push Danny, but I guess Iona showed him a lot of interest.’

  ‘More than other islanders did?’

  ‘Yes. None of the other girls gave him the time of day.’

  ‘Why do you think Iona did, then?’

  I shrug. ‘At the time I thought she was being friendly.’

  ‘And how did Danny respond to the attention?’

  ‘I think it made him feel awkward. He wouldn’t have liked it. And he didn’t really engage with her.’

  ‘What about the things that weren’t being said?’ Harwood asks. ‘The mannerisms, behaviours.’

  The things that people don’t say are, of course, what I’ve learnt to look out for in my job. But back then? I shake my head as I realise I didn’t really notice.

  Harwood doesn’t speak. Instead he regards me as if he’s waiting for more. I recall Bonnie’s words about Danny always watching Iona that summer, but I never saw it for myself.

  As far as I knew Danny was up in his trees drawing. My mind flits to his book and the pictures inside.

  ‘What is it, Ms Harvey?’ the detective asks and I realise my lips have parted.