The Murder of Graham Catton

Most of the time.

He reaches for a biscuit. ‘Is this about Conviction?’

I freeze. ‘How did you know?’

‘They called me. A couple of months ago. I told them where to stick it, but—’

‘They called here?’

‘No, no – they caught me at work. Tried the whole “one hack to another” spiel, though it didn’t get them far. Obviously.’ He shifts heavily in his seat. ‘I was going to bring it up at the time, but I thought … well, since you hadn’t said anything, I figured they’d decided against it. Plumped for another story instead.’

A shadow brushes the window outside, crossing the table between us. A bird, I suppose, or a bat. ‘Apparently not.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘No. I … I thought the same as you, I guess. That if they couldn’t talk to me, they’d let it drop. I didn’t expect them to go ahead anyhow.’

‘I could’ve told you all journalists are untrustworthy bastards. Not that these guys are. Journalists, I mean.’ There’s an itch of scorn in his voice. Professional jealousy, perhaps. He’s spent his life reporting news, and had some success, until the financial crisis and the internet pulled the floor out of the market. He moved back to Hawkwood – his home town – the year before I did, to edit the county Gazette.

Conviction, on the other hand – real journalists or otherwise – boasts a following in the millions. I know the numbers almost by heart. I’ve been refreshing their website every day since they called.

‘Look,’ he says, finally. He leans forward – tentatively, like he’s expecting me to recoil. He winds his fingers through mine. ‘Hey. I mean it. Look at me.’ I meet his eyes, briefly; then look away. ‘I know you don’t like talking about what happened to him. And I get that. You want to move on. But …’

‘Dan—’

‘I’m just saying … Would it be worth thinking about it? Talking about it, I mean?’

‘I don’t need to talk about it.’ I stare into my cup, watching the lazy curl of steam rising. ‘The thing is … I went to the trial. I heard all the evidence. And that gave me closure. Because they proved it was him.’ There’s confidence in my voice as I say this, though it feels empty. Like a lie. Still, I go on. ‘Going back over it all, now … It’s been too long. I don’t know that I’d be able to do it without—’

I’m silenced by movement overhead. Evie’s footsteps creak on the beams above, and she emerges at the top of the stairs. More than ever, she’s her father’s ghost, her head tilted, an eyebrow raised in confusion. ‘Is something burning?’

Dan’s chair screeches on the tile. ‘Shit. I forgot to …’

‘How did you not smell it?’ She laughs. ‘You want to know what he said to me earlier? That I needed to concentrate on “the task at hand”. Good advice, huh?’

‘Very.’ As she sits, I resist the urge to reach for her hair, or to make one of the comments I know she’ll parrot back, mockingly. Still, I miss being able to run a comb through her curls. To squeeze them between finger and thumb, and watch them spring back. ‘How’s the studying going?’

‘Fine. All on track.’ She glances at Dan. Then at me. ‘What was so interesting that you nearly set the house on fire talking about it?’

My perceptive little girl. I could throttle her sometimes.

Dan doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Over to you, he’s saying. Play this however you think is best.

I sigh. ‘We were … We were talking about what happened to your dad.’

If there’s a reaction I’m expecting, it doesn’t show. Her face is blank, detached. Calm.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of a podcast called Conviction—’

A blink. ‘The one about Barry Gibbons?’

I nod. Gibbons, the subject of Conviction’s second season, was exonerated after serving twenty years in prison for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. The podcast’s army of fans – every one of them, it seemed, a kind of armchair detective – went on to uncover evidence that not only proved that he hadn’t committed the crime, but that the real killer had gone on to repeat his attacks for almost a decade after Gibbons had been locked away, seemingly without the authorities making the link. It was enough to turn Conviction from a poor imitation of better-known true-crime podcasts to a global sensation in its own right.

Evie gnaws at the cuff of her hoodie. It’s a habit I’ve warned her against, but today I let it go. She puts the pieces together with awful quickness. ‘They’re doing a series on him – on the guy who killed Dad?’

‘Yeah.’ I glance at Dan, who offers an encouraging smile. ‘I don’t know why—’ I begin. ‘I mean … I don’t know what they’ve found to make them think there’s something wrong there, but—’

‘Wow.’ She’s thinking. Processing. ‘Do you think …’ She pauses, choosing her words. ‘Do you think it’s possible? That it wasn’t him?’

I feel Dan’s attention sharpen at the question. He couldn’t ask it outright. But she can.

‘Honestly, Evie, I don’t know. I didn’t, until this happened. I thought the case against him was pretty clear-cut, but it was a long time ago, and I was … I was a bit of a mess. And I have to think, rationally, that if they’ve decided to devote a season to looking into the case, then … they must think there’s something there to find.’

She glances at the blank face of her phone. She isn’t reading anything. She’s just buying time to think.

When she puts it down, she’s resolute. ‘I guess that’s good, then. If he’s innocent. If he’s been in prison all this time and he didn’t do it, then it’s a good thing someone’s looking into it.’

Her faith takes me aback – both in vague notions of innocence and justice, and in me. The possibility that I might have something to do with it – that I might have anything to hide, at all – doesn’t appear to have occurred to either of them.

She sees something in my face, and her expression changes. The look in her eyes breaks my heart. ‘Mum. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

‘I know.’ Another lie. ‘I’m just … I’m nervous about what they’re going to dig up.’

Dan laughs. ‘Come on, Hannah. What do you think they’re going to find? That you got a B in one of your GCSEs? That it took you three attempts to pass your driving test?’ He gasps. ‘I just remembered that time when you called in sick with the “flu”. You’re screwed if that comes out.’

Evie groans. ‘Oh my God, Dan. Never talk about that stuff in front of me. Ever.’

I laugh, in spite of everything. Being with them – watching them joke together, cosy and familiar – warms me.

‘Seriously, Hannah. I get why you’d be concerned. It’s going to dredge up a lot of stuff from the past – and you won’t be able to stay out of it. You were married to the guy. But you’re as strait-laced as they come. Aside from the fact you leave wet towels on the bed, and you never use a coaster, you’re almost perfect.’

Evie rolls her eyes. ‘Look at him, trying to be romantic.’

He grins. ‘A for effort, right?’

I do my best to force a smile. ‘You’re probably right.’ It’s another lie. Once the series begins, I know there’ll be no escaping the past. The things I might have done. The things I know I’ve done. This story I’ve spent ten years wrangling, in my own mind: now, it’s someone else’s to tell.

‘Thank you,’ I add. ‘Really. For being so …’

He waves a hand, batting the thought away, before I have to say it.

Thank you for believing in me, I want to say, though I can’t. Thank you for thinking the best of me. I’m sorry it isn’t true.

‘You’re all right,’ he says. ‘And trust me. Whatever happens, with all this … we’ll get through it. You, me, and Evie. As long as we’re together, we’ll be OK.’ There’s a brief pause, just long enough for the words to settle. And then, he does me another kindness. He moves on. ‘So … what are we going to do about dinner?’

Evie peers at the blackened tray. ‘What even is that?’

‘It’s what the French call flambé,’ Dan says, pointedly. ‘But I think we might have to write it off. Not sure you two are developed enough in the palate.’

‘How about pizza?’ My tone is too bright, too sharp. Both stare at me blankly.

Evie’s the first to react. ‘You want pizza?’

‘Well, it’s my fault dinner’s ruined. The least I can do is suggest something hideously unhealthy to make up for it.’ I wince. I’m a psychiatrist at an eating disorders clinic. I know better than to demonize food in front of a teenage girl. ‘It’s not so bad once in a while, anyway.’

Evie brings up the menu on her phone. ‘It says they can deliver in an hour.’

I see my opportunity, and grab it. ‘Order it for collection. You guys order whatever you want and I’ll go fetch it.’

Dan mimes an expression of shock, one hand clutching his chest.

‘Not a word, mister. Or you’re going to get it. On foot.’

I leave them on the sofa, some laugh-tracked American sitcom blaring on the TV. Evie seems thrilled at the way the night’s unfolded, our usual rules relaxed to accommodate my ‘news’. Dan, too, appears to be enjoying himself – though I’m sure later he’ll want to ‘check in’ and ‘make sure everything’s OK’.

I love him for it. I do. But right now, I need to be alone. Just for a minute.

Just while I work this out.

I pull off the main road, down an old dirt track, gravel crackling under the wheels. I drive on through the trees until they part, and I stop. The old limestone quarry opens up beyond, the water still an eerie blue in the darkness. Either side of me are warning signs: Think! Would you swim in ammonia or bleach? And, This water is known to contain: Car wrecks. Dead animals. Excrement. Rubbish. Swimming may result in death.

In the distance, I see the shadow of Hawkwood House, moonlight illuminating the broken windows, the gaping holes in the roofs and walls. Looking out at it soothes me, as it always does: it’s an anchor, a tether to the past. Coming here feels like coming home.

With the engine off, I can hear the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the faint scratch and call of creatures overhead. I think I see something moving, there, between the trees. My pulse quickens in response, though I know it’s silly. I’ve lived here long enough by now to know that the woods have a life of their own. There’s always something moving in there.

I glance at my screen, and click play.

‘In our next season of Conviction …’ the host, Anna Byers says, her voice roused with theatrical flourish. The music swells, staccato strings straight out of a Hitchcock noir.

I recognize the first voice instantly. He’s older now – the tell-tale smoker’s rattle in his throat. But it’s him. Stevens. The officer who questioned me for hours on that first night, and watched me, every day, in court. ‘There was something about the crime scene that just wasn’t right. It was like something out of a film. I’ve seen a lot of homicides in the years since, but … That’s the one that keeps me up at night.’

A click. A whirr of rolling tape. I hear my own voice, playing back. ‘I told you. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know.’ I feel, bone-deep, the exhaustion; the frustration I’d felt, after hours of answering the same questions, of repeating my answers again and again. I feel the press of Evie’s head on my lap. The steel desk under my bare, cold arms.

But none of that comes through in these words. All I hear is callousness. The voice of a woman who doesn’t care that her husband is dead.

Another voice. Another spark of recognition. ‘They went to incredible lengths to make themselves look like the perfect couple.’ I can see him now: those small, sunken eyes in ashen skin, always a little slick with sweat. Darren. The best man at our wedding. My husband’s closest friend. ‘But I always knew something was off. After they charged that kid … It never seemed right to me. I just thought she had everybody fooled.’

And another. A woman. Someone I don’t know. ‘I thought my son would get a fair trial. That’s what they tell you: trust the process, the system works, and all that … But the system doesn’t work. My son isn’t a murderer. He’s a victim.’

I close my eyes. Grip my hands tight around the steering wheel, the ridges carving knots into my palms.

‘That’s all to come,’ Anna Byers says now. ‘This season, on Conviction.’

6

There are worse things to be haunted by than ghosts.

My husband wrote that, I’m sure of it. It was one of those lines he was a little too proud of. The kind he’d say out loud, proudly, for me to groan at.

I’d smile, pretending to be teasing – but we both knew I wasn’t.

Now, though, as I run through the woods, the wet earth sucking at my feet … I think he might be right.

Today, the first episode of Conviction goes live. The past seems to catch at my ankles and tug at my hair; the voices of strangers and people I used to know whip through my mind, pulling the breath from my throat.

Dan told me not to google it. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said, meeting my eye in the bathroom mirror. ‘You won’t find anything on there that makes you feel any better. About anything.’

So I didn’t.

Until last night.

Late last night.

Now, I run faster, the branches reaching for me as I pass.

She had everybody fooled, Darren had said, in the trailer. And he’s right. It’s a skill of mine, to be able to make everyone think I’m something that I’m not.

Everyone. Including myself. But I can’t outrun the things I read. The rabid delight of strangers, all calling for justice – for my husband’s death, and for the boy convicted of his murder – without knowing either man at all.

The thought makes me run faster still, though my lungs, my calves, all ache in protest. But still, I run – towards my destination. Towards the place that never fails to soothe me. The place I need to be.

I’ve never told anyone why I really moved here. As far as Sarah, Dan, and Evie are concerned, it was a pin-in-a-map decision. I saw a patch of green earth, a mass of water I thought was a lake, a few rolling hills – and after all that had happened in the city, it was enough. As soon as Graham’s life insurance paid out, I bought a cottage plucked straight from a picture book, and I started over again. A clean break – this, as good a place as any.

It’s not that I told anyone that was the reason. It’s a story they wrote themselves, built out of clues accidentally dropped – reading meaning where there was none. I simply didn’t correct them.

Because psychiatrists, as a rule, avoid words like ‘crazy’, or ‘nuts’. Our job is to remove the stigma around mental health.

But it’s these words I hear, in my mind, when I think about the real reason; when I see it, looming up ahead, turrets and chimneys spiralling up behind the wall around the grounds. Hawkwood House – or rather, its ruins – seems almost to glow against the grey sky and loamy green hills, the black woods and cliffs behind.

It is nuts. It is crazy. But it’s a place that’s fascinated me since before Evie was born. And when Graham died – in that strange and eerie after – it seemed like the only place I could go.

I like to imagine it alive, still a working hospital – a home – for women who needed respite from their lives. It had music rooms, chapels, an aviary – even a spa, of sorts, a pool set under a coloured glass dome – all of which, its founders seemed to think, would help its patients to find joy in their lives again. That intention spoke to me. It still does now, when I’d do anything for a break from this life that I’ve built, and from the one I lived before.

It gives me something like peace, even though it’s derelict, long abandoned. If anything, I’m grateful for that. Because with no one else around, it feels like mine.

My heart pounds faster as I reach the gate – and stop. A clumsy stop that’s almost slapstick, like a cartoon character hitting a pane of glass.

In the shadow of the open door, I see her. A woman dressed all in white, long black hair spilling down her back in loose curls. In the early-morning light, she’s a blink away from a ghost. As she walks the building’s perimeter, I see the car parked behind the moss-covered fountain: a black Mercedes, low-slung and glossy as a beetle.

The realization makes my cheeks burn hot. From the way she looks at the building, the frank, businesslike assessment of its flaws and scale; the way she chatters into her phone, hands gesturing, as though giving instructions, I know: she’s a property developer. A vulture, come to pick over the bones of Hawkwood House. In a year, more than likely, it’ll be no more than another block of soulless luxury flats.

She turns towards the gate, squints at me, and smiles. She waves and takes a step in my direction.

I turn around, and I run.

‘You can’t spend the rest of your life obsessing over the past,’ Sarah said. Has said, over and over again, in the ten years since I moved here. Now, for the first time, I start to think she might be right.

7

I swipe my card through the scanner. The unit doors heave open with a pneumatic whoosh.

My favourite nurse, Joanna – everyone’s favourite nurse, beloved by patients and staff alike – emerges from behind the reception desk and beckons me over. ‘Borrow you a sec?’

My stomach drops. She disappears again, before I can read anything in her face.

‘What’s up?’

She hands me the department’s tattered iPad. ‘I thought you should probably see this.’

The screen blinks, threateningly, as it always does when unplugged. She reattaches the charging cable, and the words The Ten Commandments glow at the top of the screen.

I glance at Joanna. ‘What am I looking at?’

She blushes. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t, but … I’ve been keeping an eye on Amy online since she left, last time. Now she’s back … I thought you should know what she’s been writing. On her blog.’

I’m not entirely sure how to react, as far as my professional obligations go. Monitoring patient activity online – especially after they’ve been discharged – has always been a bit of a grey area. Officially, it isn’t something we do. And most of our patients have private accounts – with aliases neither we, nor their parents, could ever reasonably be expected to guess.

Still, that doesn’t stop us trying, sometimes.

Call it curiosity. Call it an invasion of privacy. Or call it extended patient care.

I look down at the screen. Number 1: You will do whatever it takes to achieve your goals. Number 2: Willpower is EVERYTHING – do not lose it.

I wince. Warning signs, for a patient like Amy, whose anorexia turns supposed self-control into slow death, self-destruction. ‘Oh dear.’

Joanna nods. ‘I just thought you should know. Because she’s saying she’s fine. I’m not sure if she’s in denial, or what, but …’

‘I’ll let you know. We’ve got her phone, right?’

‘Yeah. She’s checked in and ready for you.’

‘Great.’ My own phone vibrates in my pocket. I hand the tablet back. ‘Let me know if anything else comes up.’

I glance at the notification as I walk towards the day-room, calves still aching from my morning run.

@ConvictionPod tweeted: Four hours to go. Episode One goes live at 1 p.m. GMT. Get ready for our most twisted season yet.

The floor seems to give way beneath me.

I regain my balance and walk on, as though everything’s fine. But it isn’t. And I’m not sure it ever will be again.

‘Amy.’

She tips her head back over the rim of the tattered day-room sofa. ‘Doc.’

It’s an affectation that reminds me of another patient, on another ward. A girl I couldn’t save. The thought of Amy ending up the same way sends a chill through me. I force a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s have a chat.’

She rolls up and shuffles towards me. As she passes, I touch her shoulder lightly with my palm. Through the layers, I feel the nub of her shoulder, all sinew and bone. She’d been doing so well, before. Automatically, I wonder what’s caused her to relapse – although deep down, I know better. Illnesses like hers fight with claws and teeth. Sometimes, they just come back.

This is her fourth admission under section, though she’s been a patient, on and off, for almost nine years. As I follow her to the consulting room, I pause to let her make cheery conversation with one of the cleaning staff. I smile and nod along, realizing uneasily that she – a patient – is on first-name terms with a staff member I couldn’t pick out of a line-up.

I wonder if this is the sort of thing that will be held up as evidence of my bad character, once people realize this season of Conviction is about me.

I commit his name to memory.

Just in case.

Finally, we’re alone. ‘So. Ames.’ She sits, instantly picking at the fraying threads of the old armchair. I take a seat opposite, my elbows on my knees, eyes level with hers. ‘I’d say it’s good to see you, but … well, you know we were all hoping this time it’d stick.’

‘I’d say I’m glad to be back, but … yeah.’

I smile. She smiles back, a toothy grin. I wonder, sometimes, whether we’re supposed to like our patients. During my training, it seemed as though clinical detachment was the goal – the defining characteristic of the good doctor. But I can’t help but feel a kind of attachment to Amy, and the other girls who pass through the unit.

I want them to get better – of course I do. But I also understand what makes them the way they are. It’s not the desire to die that makes them choose hunger; compulsive, relentless exercise; or both. It’s a need to control the way they live.

‘So, tell me. What’s been going on since we last caught up?’ Her eyes flit to my hands. I show my palms. She won’t talk as freely if I’m taking notes, so – today, at least – I don’t. ‘No pen. The floor is yours.’

She laughs. It’s brittle, a snicker at the gallows. ‘I thought I was doing OK. Which, I know it doesn’t look like it, but … I was, for a while. You can look at my weight chart. I maintained for seven weeks.’

‘I saw. That was really, really good. The longest stretch you’ve had as an outpatient – right?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Did anything happen, that week, that made things start to take a turn? Anything that you can pinpoint as a trigger, perhaps?’

She purses her lips. One of the advantages of having worked with her for so long: I know whatever’s coming next will be a lie. ‘No. I kept wondering what it was, even when it was happening. I just … I couldn’t control it. It just came back.’

‘Well, you’ve done the right thing. And you’ll be thrilled to hear you’ve made it back just in time to catch movie night tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yay.’ She clicks her tongue. No one rails against the department’s poor choice of films with quite as much heart as Amy. I’m glad to see she’s still as ferocious as ever. ‘What classic 1980s B-movie do we have to look forward to, this time? Tell me it’s Back to the Future again, please.’

‘Back to the Future isn’t a B-movie. It’s a classic. And you’re always welcome to suggest alternatives.’

‘Pfft. Remember how much trouble I got into when I asked for The Hunger Games?’ She raises her palms. ‘A genuine mistake. It’s not my fault if they’re going to give these things triggering names.’

I laugh. I can’t help myself. ‘You know I can’t condone that kind of thing.’

‘Yeah, well … I watched it while I was out, and it was fine. You’d like it.’

I wonder what I’ve done, or said, that’s given her this impression; what hint of personal information I’ve given, accidentally, over the years we’ve worked together. ‘Would I?’

‘Yeah.’ She doesn’t elaborate, and a silence falls. Already, I know this will bother me for the rest of the day. It’s almost certainly nothing, but it feels like a slip: evidence of a mistake I’ve made, some vital piece of personal information I’ve handed over without thinking.