The Verdict
‘Hello, again,’ Julia said.
He turned slowly from the TV and scanned Julia, as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Hello,’ he said and turned back to the TV.
Maybe he was shy, and she should be the one to instigate conversation.
‘I’m Julia, by the way,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said without looking at her.
‘And you’re Alan, right?’
‘Well deduced.’
His eyes remained fixed on the television. Julia was sure he wasn’t actually watching the soap opera that droned on in the background. She tried again.
‘Is there much to do around here? Do you go out much?’
This time he did make the effort to look at her.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I’ve got a girlfriend back home. All the girls round here are right slags and the guys are no better.’
His expression made it clear Julia was included in this derision.
The prospect of sitting alone in her room all evening wasn’t great, but it was better than being with Alan.
She was about to leave when he switched off the TV and swung his leg over to sit astride the bench. She automatically turned to face him.
‘What do you think of Genevieve then?’ he said.
Julia was sure whatever her opinion, he would deem it contemptible.
‘She seems nice,’ she said neutrally.
Alan pulled a disappointed face, as if this was exactly the sort of wishy-washy comment he’d expected of someone so dull-witted.
‘I saw Genevieve leaving your room the other night,’ he said.
Julia remembered his sly closing of the door as she went to the bathroom.
‘She didn’t try it on with you, did she?’ he asked.
The question shocked Julia. She knew that was exactly what Alan had intended and managed to feign nonchalance.
‘Why would you think that?’ she said.
He tipped his head to one side. ‘No reason. I thought she might swing both ways. She seems the sort and she certainly can’t resist young flesh.’
He smiled and stood up as if to leave. Julia didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of riling her but couldn’t hide her irritation.
‘If Genevieve’s behaviour bothers you, why are you still here?’ she asked.
Alan stopped and looked at her, a sneer twitching at the corner of his lips.
‘Who said it bothers me?’
‘I wouldn’t like it, someone coming into my room at night.’
Alan raised himself up and looked more superior than ever. ‘Ah, but she did come into your room at night.’
‘Not for that reason,’ Julia said.
He laughed. ‘If you say so. And anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Genevieve can drop in any time she likes. She’s hardly going to overpower me, is she?’
‘What are you talking about – she’s just missing her son,’ Julia said.
‘And what exactly do you know about her son?’
‘He’s in Switzerland.’
‘In Switzerland. Technically accurate, I suppose,’ Alan said.
God, he was infuriating.
‘What do you mean – is he in jail or something?’ Julia asked.
‘It’s a bit more permanent than that.’ Alan slowed down his speech as if waiting for her clunking brain to catch up. ‘He’s dead.’
This time Julia couldn’t hide her shock.
‘Why didn’t she say?’
‘Hello.’ Alan waved his hand in front of Julia’s face. ‘This is Genevieve. She and reality have never been the best of friends, y’know. And Valium and vodka aren’t helping the situation.’
Julia had thought Genevieve affected and melodramatic. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be grieving.
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was on a climbing expedition in the Alps. There was an avalanche. The body was never recovered, which is why she can kid herself he’s coming back.’
‘There’s no chance?’
‘No one survived.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘It was six years ago. You’d think she’d have moved on.’
Julia thought of Audrey’s miscarriages. The absent children, never spoken of.
‘She lost her son,’ she said.
‘And how is pretending he’s still alive helping her?’ Alan said. ‘You know she keeps his room exactly how it was, buys him birthday and Christmas presents for when he comes back?’
‘What about Dominic’s father?’ Julia asked.
‘Never on the scene, as far as I can tell. Genevieve was cuckoo long before the whole thing with Dominic. You know she changed her surname to D’Auncey by deed poll. That’s Dominic’s father’s name. He never married her, already had a wife and he wasn’t going to leave her. And who could blame him?’
‘Poor Genevieve,’ Julia said.
‘Ah yes, the poor Genevieve narrative,’ Alan said. ‘The script she wants us all to stick to. Well, you can if you like. I’ve better things to do with my time.’
He ended the conversation by turning from her and exiting the room, leaving Julia unsure what to believe.
Chapter 14
2017 – Archway, London
I hunch next to the door and listen as two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, one a dull thud, the other a light, barely audible tap. The last time I’d been interviewed by the police, over twenty years ago, I had the arrogance of youth on my side. Now, my heart’s pounding and my palms are clammy.
As they come closer, I can hear panting and pauses. Finally, I open the door to a man in late middle age, with a heightened complexion and moist brow, his gut spilling over his trousers. The other is young, slim and slight. Barely out of breath, she’s obviously been slowed down by her boss. They introduce themselves again.
Warren has a northern twang, too soft to identify any specific location. Akande is a South Londoner, trying to sound Home Counties. She has eyes the shape of a cat’s, sharp and sly. The dislike is instant and mutual. My instinct is to slam the door in their faces, but I have little choice other than to invite them in.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask.
Warren looks at my glass of wine. It’s late on a Friday night. He can’t normally work these hours. A glass of wine would be his preferred option, or perhaps a pint of bitter. He sees me watching him.
‘Just water, thanks,’ he says.
‘Nothing for me,’ Akande says.
‘Take a seat,’ I say as I head to the kitchen.
I watch the detectives’ reflections in the window above the sink. Neither has sat down. Warren is standing where I left him and Akande is moving about the room, looking at my small collection of books, then at my phone on the table. She looks at Warren expressively. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’d be more interested if she found the one stuffed down the side of the sofa, a poor choice of hiding place. They have no right to take it, no warrant has been produced. But other than love cheats, who needs a secret phone?
I’ve been away from them too long. I fill the glass and return to the lounge.
‘So, you’re from Surrey,’ I say on my return. ‘How can I help?’
My voice sounds strained, my words contrived.
I should have been bold and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Brandon,’ or, ‘If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have contacted you.’ My breezy manner won’t fool them. They deal with liars every day.
‘I don’t know if you follow the news,’ Warren says. He’s still a little breathless from climbing the stairs. ‘And perhaps you don’t get the Surrey news up in London, but I understand you used to live in Guildford.’
‘A long time ago,’ I say.
‘At 72 Downs Avenue, owned by a Mrs Jennifer Pike.’ He observes my confusion. ‘Perhaps you knew her as Genevieve D’Auncey.’
A swish of silk. The scent of lemon and cinnamon.
‘Yes, of course. It was very sad.’
Again, my words sound forced, like lines learnt and repeated.
‘You shared the house with four other lodgers. Gideon Risborough, Alan Johns, Lucy Moretti and …’ He pauses. ‘Brandon Wells.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you remember about Brandon?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Anything?’
‘He left suddenly. Genevieve’s sister thought he’d stolen some money.’
‘Are you aware that, in 1995, his parents contacted the police and reported him as a missing person – his last known address being Downs Avenue?’
‘You know, I’d forgotten until you mentioned it,’ I say. ‘But, yes, a man did come and speak to me. I can’t remember his name.’
‘Lancaster,’ Akande says. ‘Michael Lancaster.’
‘It could have been.’
Corduroy trousers, blue parka; he waited outside my house, not two streets from here.
‘Do you recall what you told him?’ Akande asks.
‘I don’t know if I had anything to tell. Brandon’s leaving, well it was all overshadowed by the whole thing with Genevieve.’
‘Brandon never told you he was going, even though you were close?’
‘Who said that? We weren’t close. Not at all.’
‘He told a friend he was seeing a girl in the house. Her description matched yours.’
I don’t reply straight away. Akande waits.
‘I don’t recall Brandon having any friends. I can’t remember meeting any. He just hung around with people in the house.’
‘So, when you say you weren’t close at all …’ Akande says.
‘I wouldn’t have expected him to remain in contact after he left, even if he hadn’t stolen that money.’
‘You hadn’t argued.’
‘We had nothing to argue about.’
Warren looks unconvinced. ‘There were no conflicts – what about the male occupants of the house?’ He refers to his notebook. ‘Alan Johns and Gideon Risborough – did Brandon argue with them?’
‘I really can’t remember. Why are you asking me all of this?’
Warren looks to Akande.
‘A body’s been found on the Downs, less than a quarter of a mile from the house you shared. We believe it to be Brandon Wells.’
A dull thud lands in my guts. However much I expected this, it’s a shock, hearing the words from a policeman. The identity of the body is no longer confined to website supposition and all hope that the past week was some surreal nightmare is erased.
‘It can’t be him,’ I say.
‘Forensics are sending DNA confirmation, but we’re pretty certain that the body discovered is Brandon Wells.’
I place my hands on the back of the sofa to support my weight. What else will Forensics find?
‘Do you know how? I mean, what happened to him?’ I ask.
Warren looks at me hard, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘We’re undoubtedly looking at a homicide, though we’re not releasing further details at the moment. But you can see why we need to talk to all the people Brandon knew from that time,’ he says.
‘Have you spoken to the others?’
‘Both Mr Risborough and Mr Johns are on holiday in Italy, with their families.’ Does either of them notice me wince? ‘But we’ve spoken to Lucy Moretti. Was there anyone else living in the house back then?’
‘Only Genevieve.’
‘We’re also trying to find any photographs from that time,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you have any?’
My nose burns in memory of the acrid smoke from the small bonfire we made, fulfilling our pact to destroy all records of the time. The thought of current social media existing back then makes me shudder. Whenever I saw Sam posting on Facebook or whatever the hell kids use these days, I used to say, ‘You’re only seventeen. You don’t know when you’ll want that information to disappear.’
He’d laugh at me. ‘Why would I want it to disappear?’
‘Ms Winter?’
Warren asked me a question – what was it?
‘Sorry … I …’
‘I asked if you had any photographs from that time,’ he says.
‘No. I didn’t own a camera,’ I say.
‘Unfortunate.’
‘Do you recall exactly when Brandon left?’ Akande asks.
‘You know what happened to Genevieve?’ I ask.
Akande nods.
‘There were so many people coming and going,’ I say. ‘Everything was muddled. I was working hard, seeing friends, trying to find somewhere else to live. I can’t be sure when he moved out. I think it was Genevieve’s sister who noticed he’d gone.’
Akande glances towards Warren. He runs his fingers around his collar and takes a deep breath. ‘A friend in London heard from Brandon in the fourth week of August,’ he says. ‘Brandon was going to move into his place over the bank holiday weekend, but never turned up. The friend didn’t think anything of it at the time, thought Brandon had changed his mind. We’ve worked out this was Saturday 27th August 1994, the last definite contact we have from Brandon. Twenty-three years later his body is found buried on the hillside opposite Downsview Villa.’
Warren continues to study me.
‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ I say. ‘No one wished him harm. And if they had, he was a big lad – he could take care of himself.’
The detectives exchange glances. I’m being played. I must stay calm.
The stairs creak and I realise Audrey’s awake.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the detectives.
I leave the lounge and meet her on the small landing. She’s wrapped in my dressing gown, which is far too big for her. I rarely see her like this, without the armour of tailored clothes, her face free from powder and lipstick. She looks small and vulnerable.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘It’s nothing, Mum. Just some trouble across the road – kids. Go back to bed.’
‘Really, I don’t like you living here, Julia. It’s dangerous.’
‘Please, Mum, it’s not a big deal. Get some sleep.’
When I return, Warren and Akande are whispering to one another. They stop when I re-enter the room.
‘I wasn’t aware you lived with your mother,’ Warren says.
‘She’s just staying over,’ I say.
Something about her presence has made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s reminded of his own mother, because his tone’s almost apologetic as he explains, ‘You see the significance of where he was buried – not four hundred yards from where he lived. It’s unlikely he left then somehow ended up back there.’
‘I suppose so,’ I say.
‘It’s more probable he was killed while still living there,’ Warren says.
‘But what happened to his stuff?’ I ask.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘And he took that money.’
‘Someone took the money,’ Akande says.
‘You see where this leaves us?’ Warren says.
‘Not really.’
‘Brandon was killed while he lived at 72 Downs Avenue by someone who had access to his room.’ Warren pauses. ‘And perhaps Mrs Pike’s money.’
‘Which suggests someone living in the house,’ Akande says.
She allows the words to hang between us.
‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘Someone would have noticed.’
‘You’d think,’ she says.
‘You said yourself, the house was in confusion,’ Warren says. ‘All sorts of people coming and going.’
‘No one in the house would have wanted to harm him,’ I say.
‘Who else had the opportunity to clear out his room?’ Akande says. ‘We really do need to get to the bottom of any disagreements.’
‘Honestly, I can’t remember any.’
‘Three boys and two girls living in a house and there were no conflicts, no jealousies?’ Warren says.
‘Nothing major.’
‘What about minor?’
‘I …’
‘Don’t remember?’ Akande crosses her arms.
‘It was over twenty years ago. What can you remember from back then – were you even at primary school?’
Akande opens her mouth to reply, but Warren gets in there first. ‘Did you know, Ms Winter, that Mrs Pike had been giving Brandon money?’
I tear my gaze from Akande’s sneering face and back to Warren.
‘She let him off the rent, because he wasn’t working,’ I reply. ‘She took a shine to him.’
‘Was there any resentment about it?’
‘Not from me.’
‘Ms Moretti recalls a good deal of resentment,’ Warren says.
‘Memories vary.’
‘They certainly do,’ Akande says under her breath.
‘One more thing,’ Warren says. ‘You left Guildford in September that year. Not just the house but your job too – why was that?’
How did they discover so much in such a short space of time?
‘The whole thing with Genevieve shook me up. I just wanted to get away and forget about everything.’
Akande raises her eyebrows.
‘You know, it’s getting late,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.’
‘We’re pretty much done,’ Warren says. ‘Just one more thing – your phone.’
‘What about it?’ I say too quickly.
Akande notices and looks at my mobile sitting on the table. They can’t know about the other one, though it’s less than three feet away.
‘Can we get your number please?’
I breathe again. ‘Of course,’ I say and recite my number.
Does my voice tremble? Do they notice?
‘Thank you,’ Warren says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
I don’t close my door until I’ve heard them descend all the stairs and the front door shuts.
I knew the police would contact me. I should have been better prepared.
My landline starts ringing. I dive to answer it.
‘Hello.’
Nothing.
‘Hello,’ I say again.
The line goes dead.
Chapter 15
1995 – Archway, London
Pearl’s presence lingered in the room Julia had taken over from her after leaving Guildford. Her Magritte print still hung on the wall and used gig tickets were tucked behind the mirror. Julia missed her and Andre. But not enough to risk meeting them.
She closed the door and wedged it shut with a chair. Not that anyone was likely to come in. She removed her shoes and a couple of large bags, lifted the wardrobe floor and removed the envelope. She took it over to the lamp and pulled out its contents.
A clever place to conceal something. Brandon had only betrayed his hiding spot through carelessness. She would never have found it without the backpack strap trapped in the gap.
There was a knock on her door. No one ever visited her in Archway.
‘Who is it?’
Silence. The knock sounded real. Not a ghost. Not an echo amplified by her mind. A solid knock, the door vibrating slightly against the frame. She knew that knock. She stood, staring at the door, half expecting it to fly open. Another knock.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
She knew that voice.
‘Just a moment.’
She hurriedly replaced the envelope and its contents and put the shoes and bag back on top of it. Sliding the chair from under the handle, she opened the door. It was the first time she’d seen Gideon since Guildford.
‘We agreed no contact,’ she said. ‘Ever.’
‘I need to see you.’ He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘There’s a private detective—’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes. How did you find me?’
‘I had your home number from Genevieve’s address book. Your mother told me.’
Bloody Audrey.
‘What did you tell Lancaster?’ Gideon asked. His jaw was tense.
‘Nothing,’ Julia said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Why would I talk to him?’
Gideon seemed to relax. He took a moment to look around the room.
‘Why are you living in this dump?’
‘It’s cheap,’ Julia said.
‘But you’ve got … I mean …’ His brow creased in confusion. ‘What have you done with it?’
She looked away from him and didn’t answer. Just moments ago she had it in her hands.
‘You can’t leave it lying around,’ he said.
‘I can’t spend it,’ she said.
‘Guilt won’t turn back the clock. Nor will grand gestures. Alan and I invested it in the business.’
‘Alan? We weren’t to have any contact.’
‘Let’s just say he’s not coping too well. I thought if he worked for me, I could help him out.’
‘Keep an eye on him.’
‘Support him. You could work for me, if you like.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I could pay you enough to live somewhere better than this.’
He spread his arms to indicate the small room, its tiny ineffectual radiator emitting more noise than heat, the worn carpet and sagging, single bed.
‘I don’t know how you can live in that town,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know how you can just carry on. It’s getting worse. I hear him. I smell him. Don’t you?’
Fear flashed across Gideon’s face. ‘I think you’re unwell, Julia.’
‘And what about his parents? They’re looking for him. We could still go to the police, say it was an accident.’
Gideon moved so fast, Julia had no time to react. He thrust her against the wardrobe door. Her head banged onto the wood. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘But it wasn’t an accident, was it, Julia?’ he said.
She wanted to push him off but was afraid what her struggling would provoke.
‘You don’t talk about this to anyone,’ he said. His eyes drilled into her. ‘We were protecting ourselves. We were protecting you. What would have happened if Alan and I hadn’t turned up?’
‘Everything all right up there?’ someone called from the bottom of the stairs.
‘You’d better go,’ Julia said.
‘Hey, is everything all right?’
‘Thanks, Mica. Gideon’s leaving,’ Julia shouted.
Gideon let her go and glanced at the wardrobe behind her.
‘You need to be careful,’ he hissed, then turned and left.
Mica came up the stairs and put his head around the door. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Mica asked.
‘No,’ Julia said. ‘He’s no one.’
Mica nodded and left.
Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.
Dear Mr and Mrs Wells
Chapter 16
1994 – Guildford
Over the next couple of weeks in Guildford, there was no repeat of Genevieve’s coming into Julia’s room and crying on her shoulder. And if Alan received any more nocturnal visits, Julia was unaware. His tales of Genevieve’s seduction attempts rang hollow. She had no lack of attention from men her own age, several of whom used to call at the house. Genevieve would provide them tea then hurry them away. Edward, never Eddie or Ted, was the only one who came regularly and sometimes stayed the night, though no one was allowed to call him her boyfriend, and not just because he was in his fifties.
When there were none of her gentlemen to entertain, Genevieve spent much of her time with the gardener, a dumpy woman with a downturned mouth that made her look permanently disappointed as she plodded about, moving soil back and forth in an ancient wheelbarrow. Julia was surprised to learn she was Genevieve’s sister, Ruth. They were so unalike – one exotic, the other almost invisible, lumbering around, trowel in hand.
Lucy came back from the Netherlands and turned out to be far more sociable than Alan. She’d broken up with her boyfriend and would be staying after all. She and Julia started chatting in the kitchen and meeting for after-work drinks. Alan had been no friendlier and far less communicative than the first time they’d met. That Tuesday evening, as Julia was reheating the remains of her previous evening’s macaroni, he sat down and switched on the TV without saying a word, or even acknowledging her.
Moments later Genevieve burst into the kitchen.
She stopped and clasped her hands together. ‘Well, I know you’ll all be so glad. You’ve got a new housemate,’ she said.
‘We’re ecstatic,’ Alan said.
For a moment, Genevieve looked disconcerted, but her features quickly settled back into serenity.
‘He’s one of our New Zealand cousins,’ she said. ‘Or their friend’s son, or something. Anyway, Ronald – he’s my first cousin, I haven’t seen him since we were both at school – he says Brandon—’