Because She Loves Me (33 page)

We had the internet at Pete and Sandra’s, unlike most people in England back then. When everyone was out one afternoon I dialled up and searched for ways to disable a car engine. My plan was to sneak out the night before Christmas Eve, do something to the car that would mean we’d have to get the train.

I found the answer pretty quickly – or as quickly as anything could be found online in those days. Sugar in the petrol tank. Simple. I crept downstairs after everyone had gone to bed, grabbed a bag of granulated sugar from the cupboard, along with a plastic funnel, and went into the garage. I poured a pound of sugar into the tank then went to bed, confident that we would be travelling by train the following day.

But that’s not what happened.

The next day, when I got up, I asked Sandra where Pete was.

‘He’s gone to the petrol station to fill up before the journey,’ she replied.

I walked out to look in the garage. The car was indeed gone. My plan hadn’t worked. I started to tremble. But then the phone rang inside the house. It was the police. Uncle Pete had been in an accident.

What I hadn’t realised, hadn’t discovered through my internet research, is that a car with sugar in the tank will start up and travel a little way before it breaks down. Pete had been halfway across the busiest crossroads in town, the roads full of last-minute Christmas shoppers, when his car had suddenly broken down. The car behind went into his rear, another car ploughed into that; it caused a
four-vehicle
pile-up. Uncle Pete was all right apart from minor whiplash and the fact that his precious motor was written off. The woman in the car behind was less lucky; she banged her face on the steering wheel, suffered concussion, broke her cheekbone.

When the police and insurance companies got involved, they quickly discovered the sugar in the tank. When the police turned up on our doorstep and told us what had happened, questioned everybody, I had known there was only one thing I could do.

Thirty-seven

‘
You told them you saw your autistic cousin do it,’ Moseley said, tutting. He and Jones had been gone for ten minutes before returning, their expressions even graver than before. ‘Pinned it on Dominic. Seems like that’s your way of operating, isn’t it? Point the finger of blame.’

‘But I owned up in the end,’ I protested.

‘And why was that?’

I stared at the surface of the desk. ‘Pete looked at the history on my computer.’ I didn’t know you could delete it, not back then.

‘So you didn’t actually own up. You were found out. How long was this after the incident?’

I had a feeling he knew the answer. ‘About a week.’

‘During which time your poor cousin had been through hell, I bet.’

‘He denied it, said it was me. But they didn’t know which one of us to believe. Until they found the evidence.’

They both shook their heads slowly, looked at me like I was a kitten killer, the lowest piece of scum who’d ever sat in front of them. It was exactly how everyone had looked at me back then, when I’d been found out.

‘I was a different person back then,’ I said, thumping the table. ‘I was a
kid
, one who’d just lost his parents. I was fucked up, confused. Terrified of going in that car.’

‘I understand that, Andrew,’ Moseley said. He was a few years younger than me but he talked to me like I was the guilty sixteen-year-old liar I’d been that Christmas. ‘But in our job, you know what we see more than anything? Patterns of behaviour. People who do the same things, make the same mistakes, over and over again. This is your nature. You fuck up, and you blame someone else. You make accusations. You know what else I think, why you came to us in the first place? You want to get rid of this girlfriend of yours, Charlotte, but you’re too much of a coward to go about it the manly way. So instead of telling her you don’t want to be with her anymore, you go extreme and decide to get her arrested.’

‘No . . .’

‘You saw a way of killing two birds with one stone.’ He smiled at his own joke.

‘I want a solicitor,’ I said.

‘Oh really? Very well. Duty solicitor OK, or have you got your own?’

‘Duty,’ I said quietly.

‘All right. We’ll arrange something.’

He knocked on the door of the interview room and a uniformed constable came in.

‘Put Mr Sumner here in a holding cell,’ Moseley said. ‘We’re postponing our little chat.’

‘Am I allowed a phone call?’ I said.

He rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll arrange that too.’

‘Listen,’ I said, before they escorted me from the room. ‘Have you talked to Harold, the old man in the ground floor flat? He can verify what I’m saying. He’ll tell you how shocked I was when I heard that Karen was dead. You need to go round there.’

‘We have,’ Moseley said, his voice flat.

‘And? What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything,’ said Jones from behind me. I turned around and thought the look she was giving me might turn me to stone. ‘He’s dead.’

I stared at her. ‘Harold?’

‘Trying to pretend you didn’t know?’

I swung round to face Moseley. ‘It must have been Charlie. She did it to stop him talking. Must have thought he’d seen her. When did you find him? How long has he been dead? Oh my God.’

That poor old man. The dark spirit that he had warned me about, that had been following me around – well, now it had visited him. Yet again, it was my fault.

‘We thought you might be able to tell us that,’ Moseley said.

I sank back into my seat. I was too shocked to respond. When had Charlie done it? Thinking that Harold had spotted her and could ID her, she must have gone straight round there this morning after I’d spoken to her, while I was being kept waiting here. Now I knew why the two detectives had left the room halfway through my interview. If I’d had any last lingering doubts about Charlie before, I didn’t now. And, I realised with a lurch, it was my fault. I had lied to her about Harold definitely seeing her. His death was down to me.

‘If he died this morning, while I was here,’ I said, raising my face, wondering how pale I looked, ‘then how can I know what happened to him?’

I could tell that Harold’s death had complicated things for Moseley. Probably, they were waiting for the coroner to tell them the time of death. I could see in the DC’s head that he was trying to work it out, figure out how I fitted in to everything. And they weren’t going to let me go till either the time they were allowed to hold me for ran out or they solved the puzzle. The most maddening thing was that I knew the solution, had told them – and they wouldn’t believe me.

‘Please, tell me,’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’

The two detectives exchanged a look and, this time, Jones answered.

‘We don’t know the exact cause of death yet, Mr Sumner. But it looks like he had a fall, hit his head on the fireplace. Whether he fell or was pushed, we don’t know yet.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately the scene, the body, had been disturbed somewhat by his dog.’

Moseley studied my face, trying to work out what was going on beneath the surface of my reaction to this horrific piece of news. Then he lifted his chin in the direction of the uniformed PC, and I was escorted from the room, my legs so shaky I could hardly walk.

The cell was small and stank of nervous sweat. I sat on a bench that appeared to have been designed to hurt your buttocks as quickly as possible, and stared at the wall, trying to wrestle my thoughts into some kind of order.

I had mostly managed to get the memories of what had happened with Pete, Sandra and Dominic back into the box, but now I forced myself to remember the rest of it, so I could play it through, exorcise it once again. Move on to the current nightmare I was trapped in.

After the truth had come out, Dominic didn’t speak to me anymore and Uncle Pete communicated with me only when he had to. He had wanted me to be charged – vandalism, reckless endangerment, I forget the rest – but Sandra had pleaded with him and he’d backed down. Because of the injuries to the woman in the second car, and the involvement of the insurance companies, it hadn’t been simple. There had been compensation claims, an out-of-court settlement that, eventually, came out of the death benefit I received. There were no criminal charges brought in the end. But the story of what had happened – in its black and white version, stripped to the facts – obviously remained on my record.

The worst thing had been how I had destroyed my relationship with my surviving family. I felt a terrible guilt. In a way, what I’d done, the blast of fear and regret that followed, helped me. It was the short sharp shock that people say should be meted out to young offenders, and it worked for me. It brought me out of the cocoon of fantasy and lies I’d been living in, made me face up to what had happened. I was finally able to grieve properly for my parents. I opened up to my counsellor at last, and I did everything I could to act like a model nephew for the next two years.

By the time I left Hastings and headed to university almost two years later, I was different. I had grown up. This doesn’t mean I didn’t have my demons. I had more than my fair share. I still felt, in my heart, out of step with the world. I found it easier to seek solitude than fall into crowds. And I guess, without trying to psychoanalyse myself, it led to the loneliness that made me so vulnerable and open – desperate, even – when Charlie came along and promised to make me whole.

None of my history with the law had crossed my mind when I’d reported Charlie. Perhaps if it had, I would have thought twice about going to the police, even though the circumstances were so different.

My thoughts returned to the present. Where was Charlie now? What was she doing? I guessed she would run, go far away. If she had killed Harold while I was at the police station, did she really think she could get away with it, that the police would blame me? Although she wouldn’t have known I was here, that I had the best alibi it’s possible to get. Was she going to go to my flat and leave something of Harold’s there, some fake souvenir? And how had she killed him?
Frightened to death
. Yet again, I thought of the dark spirit and thanked God I wasn’t superstitious, then laughed humourlessly at the irony of this.

I banged on the cell door. After a while, a policeman in a uniform with a white stain like baby sick on one shoulder, came to the door.

‘After room service?’ he said.

‘I need to talk to DC Moseley or DI Jones.’

‘You’ll have to wait,’ he said. ‘Try to enjoy the facilities.’

‘But Charlie will be getting away. She’s probably planting something in my flat right now, trying to frame me.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘What about my phone call? I want to call my sister. And my solicitor? You can’t keep me here indefinitely.’

‘Patience is a virtue,’ he said, shutting the door in my face.

Fifteen minutes later, it opened again. I rose from the bench, expecting to hear that I could make my call or talk to my solicitor. But it was the policeman with the baby sick stain again, and he was escorting someone else into the cell.

It was a tall middle-aged man, balding but fit-looking. I must have gawped at him because he gave me a dirty look before going to sit on the bench and putting his face in his hands. A moment later, he sprang up and stared pacing around, muttering to himself.

‘What are you staring at?’ he snapped.

His voice was middle-class, private educated. He was wearing an expensive watch and the kind of suit I could never afford.

I had recognised him the moment he’d entered the room. Had seen his picture on his own website.

It was Lance.

Thirty-eight

I was sharing my tiny cell with the man who had terrified and attacked my best friend. I had never met him before, despite the work I’d done for Wowcom, so he had no idea who I was. The police must have gone to talk to him after Sasha’s call this morning, had brought him in for questioning.

I could have kept my mouth shut. But I was so agitated that I couldn’t help myself.

‘I know who you are,’ I said, as Lance continued to pace the cell.

He stopped dead.

‘You’re Lance Hendrix. From Wowcom.’

He eyed me warily. I expect he thought I had seen his profile in
Wired
or a Sunday newspaper, that I was going to hit him with a business idea, pitch for an investment. Or, more likely, he was worried that when I got out of this cell I would leak news of his arrest. I am sure he had a lawyer to match his expensive watch and suit, someone who would be doing everything they could to not only get their client off but keep his face out of the papers.

‘You deserve everything you get,’ I said.

I wished in that moment that I could have taken a picture of his face, of his jaw literally dropping, and send it to Sasha.

‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ he said when he’d recovered.

I stepped closer to him. ‘I’m talking about what you did to Sasha.’

He stepped back. ‘You know that little bitch?’

‘She’s my best friend. And she’s told me everything – your sordid affair, what you did to her in that hotel room, the threatening texts, the way you set your wife on her. All of it.’

He sneered at me, though his face had turned white. He looked me up and down. ‘What are you doing in here? Did she tell a pack of lies about you too?’

‘What? No. But I know—’

He jabbed a finger at me. ‘I have no reason to explain myself to you, whoever you are. But this girl is a liar. I never had an affair with her. In fact, for your information, I have never, ever been unfaithful to my wife. I certainly never attacked the silly girl.’ He twisted and turned as he spoke, a ball of kinetic energy. ‘I was barely aware of her existence until the police turned up at my office this morning.’

‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘How can you say that? She works for you.’

‘Hundreds of people work for me. Do you think I know them all?’

I ignored him. ‘And I know you had an affair. She told me all about it. She told me all about your . . . proclivities.’

‘My
what?
’

‘She told me what you like to do in bed.’

He stared at me, then burst out laughing. ‘Did she indeed?’ He seemed genuinely amused. ‘Tell me, does your friend have mental health issues? We normally screen for that sort of thing, but a few slip through the net. Psychometric tests aren’t foolproof, unfortunately.’

Now it was my turn to be affronted. ‘No, she hasn’t. Is that going to be your defence in court?’

He sat down on the bench, suddenly calm and collected. ‘It will never get to court. Sarah or Sasha or whatever her name is – she’s a liar. A fantasist. She’s invented the whole thing.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘You know what? I don’t care.’

Before I could say any more, or make sense of this, the door opened and the officer with the baby sick stain beckoned me out.

‘You can make your phone call now.’

He pointed to a pay phone on the wall opposite. I hadn’t used a pay phone in years, was barely aware they still existed. I picked the receiver up and realised I was going to have to pay for the call myself. I fished in my pockets and found two 20p pieces. I pushed one into the slot and dialled Tilly’s mobile number, one of the few phone numbers I knew by heart.

She picked up after four rings, but all I could hear was a great rushing howl. It was like she was standing at the centre of a hurricane, or there was extreme interference on the line.

‘Hello?’ I said. Then, raising my voice when there was no response, said it again. The howling continued, a blast of static that looped and roared. I pulled the handset away from my ear. It was like I was trying to call someone in Hell.

‘Tilly, are you there?’

‘Hello? Andrew?’ Her voice was faint but it was unmistakeably my sister.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Sorry, it’s really windy here.’ She laughed. ‘It’s like the start of the
Wizard of Oz
.’ Her voice was a little clearer now, though I had to press the receiver hard against my ear. Beyond her voice and the roar of the wind, I could hear the faint background sound of seagulls, their cries cutting through the static.

‘Where are you?’ I asked, gripping the phone with frustration.

‘Beachy Head.’

‘What the hell are you doing up there?’

Beachy Head is a famous chalk cliff on the outskirts of Eastbourne and is a notorious suicide spot. It’s well known as the most popular place in England to kill yourself. I remembered reading that around twenty people a year throw themselves off the cliff, its fame no doubt adding to its popularity among the suicidal. The Samaritans had a huge billboard on the clifftop, encouraging people to call the charity helpline to be talked around. Despite its bloody reputation, it was a beautiful place, offering breathtaking views of the churning English Channel below, the red and white stripes of the lighthouse, the continent just beyond the horizon.

Her reply was swept away on the wind and as I said, ‘What?’ the phone beeped and the display flashed
Insert another coin
. Jesus. I stuck my second and final twenty pence piece into the slot.

‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should call you back when I’m inside. I think we’re going in the pub in a minute.’

She sounded happy and I wondered if she was on a date. Or maybe Rachel had turned up. But I needed to tell her about my own predicament – it was important that someone knew where I was – so I said, ‘Listen I need to tell you something . . .’

She wasn’t really listening. I heard her say, ‘It’s Andrew,’ to whoever she was with.

‘Tilly . . .’ I said, impatient.

‘What’s the matter? You sound really worried. Don’t tell me you think I’m going to wheel myself off the cliff?’

‘No, Tilly . . .’

‘That thing at the start of the year, it wasn’t that serious. I’m absolutely fine now, OK? How many times do I have to tell you. I. Am. Fine.’

I heard her say something to whoever she was with. Then she addressed me: ‘I think I should call you back. Do you want to talk to her first?’

Little shivering tendrils of dread reached out for me. ‘Tilly,’ I said. ‘Who are you with?’

‘Charlie.’

It was as if the gales blowing across the clifftop came down the wires and through the phone, knocking me backwards, a blast of ice that penetrated my entire body. The police officer who’d escorted me to the phone furrowed his brow as I staggered, grabbing hold of the payphone on the wall and almost collapsed.

I could hear Charlie’s voice from just a few hours ago.
You swore on your life. You swore on your
sister’s
life.

I frantically tried to work it out. Could Charlie have got round to Harold’s in north London then down to Eastbourne in the time I’d been here? Yes, just about, with the hours I’d been kept waiting in the interview room and then in the holding cell.

‘Yeah, she came to see me,’ Tilly said in her chirpiest voice. ‘She wanted to take me out as a treat. Hold on, she wants to talk to you.’

Before I could shout out a warning to Tilly, Charlie came on the line.

‘Hello Andrew.’

Her voice was calm and measured. As she spoke, the wind seemed to drop, the roaring noise dropping to a low, undulating hiss.

‘Charlie. Whatever you’re planning to do, please, don’t do it. Tilly has never done anything to you.’

She laughed. It was the coldest sound I’d ever heard.

‘We’re having a lovely time,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to believe that so many people die every year in such a beautiful place.’

‘Charlie!’

There was a pause of a few seconds and I figured that Charlie was taking a few steps away from Tilly so she wouldn’t be overheard.

‘Tilly doesn’t know what you did to me,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I blurted. ‘She’s innocent. Charlie, I’ll do anything, say anything. Just please, please don’t—’

The police officer was watching me even more closely now.

‘I can’t hear you,’ Charlie said. ‘Too much interference on the line. You know, this is probably the last time we’ll ever talk.’ She sighed, sadness entering her voice. ‘I loved you, Andrew.’

‘Charlie, I loved you too.’ My voice was shaking. ‘Maybe we can—’

‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘You betrayed me. Do you really think I could forgive you?’

‘Charlie—’

The phone beeped.
Insert another coin.
I didn’t have any more coins.

‘I’m going to go now, Andrew. I’ll hand you back to Tilly.’

‘Please—’

The phone beeped urgently.

‘Say goodbye to your sister,’ Charlie said, and the line went dead.