Bleed for Me (15 page)

‘Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken?’

‘It tastes better than it sounds.’ She hesitates, tugging at her bottom lip with her front teeth. ‘He’s not a loser, Dad.’

At that moment I feel something stretch and break inside me. Not something vital or essential, but a single strand that floats broken in the wake of Charlie’s words.

Emma wanders out of her room. She wants a story. This wil mean reading two stories and making a third one up involving stuffed animals and the ‘tickling spider’ that lives in my pocket.

Later, when she’s final y asleep, Charlie and I watch a movie which isn’t age appropriate according to the British Board of Film Classification, but a few swear words and a token fight won’t scar her emotional y. The elephant in the room is Sienna. Charlie hasn’t mentioned her but I know she wants to ask.

The credits are rol ing. She stares at her feet.

‘Kids were talking yesterday.’

‘At school?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What were they saying?’

‘That Sienna has been charged with murder.’

‘That’s true.’

Charlie shakes her head adamantly. ‘She didn’t do it.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. She was scared of her dad. She didn’t like him. But she wouldn’t kil him.’

‘People don’t always do what we expect.’

I’m thinking of Julianne and not Sienna.

Charlie hikes up her pyjamas. ‘Are you going to help her?’

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘But you know people.’ She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Stil they shine. ‘You can find the person who did it.’

‘I’m not a detective.’

I know what she’s suggesting, but she’s asking too much.

‘You’re tired. Go to bed. Get some sleep.’

I hear the stairs creak as she climbs them. She pauses on the landing, speaking in a stage whisper.

‘Goodnight, Dad.’

15

Perched on the edge of the Bristol Channel, surrounded by nineteen acres of grounds and ringed by trees and an iron-spiked fence, Oakham House is cal ed a Regional Secure Unit. In the old days it would have been an asylum or a special hospital, but no matter what label they assign it now, the stigma remains.

Walton, the nearest vil age, is half a mile away, Bristol another ten. That’s the one abiding feature governing the construction and placement of any psychiatric unit - out of sight, out of mind. It has been that way for more than two hundred years.

Sienna is sitting at a window with one leg propped on the sil , hugging her knee, while her other leg dangles to where her toes brush the floor. She’s wearing a dress that is too big for her and a shapeless wool en cardigan. A strand of dark wool has pul ed from the sleeve and she worries it with her fingers, rol ing it back and forth under her palm.

Condensation has misted the window. She reaches out and draws her finger through it. Outside, the Bristol Channel is dotted with whitecaps, which my father cal s ‘white horses’, although I’ve never understood why.

I stand in the doorway of the lounge watching Sienna. Her movements are almost exaggerated in their slowness and everything about her body language seems to be passive and resigned.

I say hel o and she rewards me with a huge smile.

‘I thought you’d come.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I just knew. I was sitting here thinking how nice it would be to talk to someone, and here you are.’

The statement is so matter-of-fact that I can almost believe she wil ed me into being. She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pul s out three smal fruits with dark orange skin.

‘Do you know the difference between a tangerine and a clementine?’

I shake my head.

‘Tangerines aren’t as sweet.’ She hands me one. ‘Fresh fruit is real y good for you. It wil help you with that.’

She motions at my left hand where my thumb and forefinger are pil -rol ing. I fight the urge to put the hand in my pocket.

‘So why do you shake?’

‘It’s nothing.’

Sienna looks disappointed. ‘That’s your first lie.’

‘How do you know I’m lying?’

‘I can tel .’

I press my thumb into the tangerine. The skin peels easily, fil ing the room with citrus smel s.

‘I want to talk about what happened the other night.’

Almost immediately I sense her mind trying to flee. No longer looking at me, she squeezes the peel in her fist.

‘I know you’re scared.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I know, but first you have to answer some questions. The court wants me to prepare a psych report.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They want to know if you’re likely to hurt yourself or hurt someone else.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

She turns to the window again, as though frightened of missing someone arriving.

‘I can’t
make
you talk to me, Sienna, which means you’re in control of this conversation. I’m not going to get upset or irritated if you don’t say anything. I’m not going to get angry or annoyed. The very worst that can happen is I walk out of here and say you weren’t able to speak to me.’

I can see her visibly relax. She pops a segment of tangerine into her mouth and crushes it between her teeth.

‘So, tel me how you’re feeling.’

‘Lonely. Homesick.’

‘You’ve been charged with the most serious crime imaginable.’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘You told the police you wanted him dead - you wished for it.’

‘That’s not the same thing. That’s just using words.’ Her rope-like curls sway against her cheeks. ‘Robin says I’m supposed to separate bad memories into coloureds and whites - just like the washing - and run them through the machine. Wash them away. Put them on a heavy wash and spin cycle. I laughed when he told me that, but Robin makes it sound so normal.’

‘Who’s Robin?’

‘My therapist.’

Robin Blaxland. Annie Robinson arranged for Sienna to see him.

‘Did you talk to Robin about your father?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Wil you talk to me?’

Again she shrugs.

I ask her to sit on the sofa, lean back and close her eyes. Breathe deeply.

‘Feel your nostrils opening slightly as you inhale. The air feels cooler as you breathe in and warmer as you breathe out. Feel the change in temperature. How your breath fil s your lungs.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m just going to talk. If I ask you something that upsets you, or makes you frightened, I want you to raise your right hand. Just lift your fingers a little and I’l know to stop. That’s our special signal.’

Sienna nods.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?’

‘Bristol.’

‘You’re the youngest.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How old is Zoe?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘And Lance?’

‘Twenty-two.’

Sticking to closed questions, I gently draw out her history, which takes a long time because her answers are devoid of detail. Sienna talks about school - her favourite subject is English, her favourite teacher is Mrs Adelaide. I ask about other subjects and other teachers.

An odd detail emerges. An omission. She doesn’t mention Gordon El is, her drama teacher, yet the musical is al she and Charlie have talked about for months. They have sung into hair-brushes and danced in front of the mirror.

I take her back to Tuesday and the rehearsal.

‘Do you remember getting into trouble with Mr El is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr El is was quite hard on you.’

‘I’m used to it.’

‘Do you like him?’

‘He’s OK.’

‘You babysit his little boy.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘How do you get home afterwards?’

‘He drops me.’

‘Did your father ever argue with Mr El is?’

Sienna’s hand rises. She doesn’t want to talk about it.

‘You don’t want to talk about your dad or Mr El is?’

Sienna’s hand rises again. As promised, I change the subject and ask her instead about Danny Gardiner.

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘It was ages ago. He went to school with Lance.’

‘But you hooked up with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early last year.’

‘Does he pick you up after school sometimes?’

She nods.

‘Where do you go?’

‘The cinema or the mal or just for a drive.’

‘Where did you go after Danny dropped you off last Tuesday?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘You mentioned your therapist, Robin. Is that where you went on Tuesday?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

Her fingers begin to rise.

‘You don’t want to tel me.’

She nods.

‘Who are you protecting, Sienna?’

‘No one.’

I back off again, asking her instead about later that night.

‘What time did you get home?’

‘About ten-thirty.’

‘Did someone drop you?’

‘I caught the bus to Hinton Charterhouse and walked the rest of the way.’

Two motorists reported seeing a blonde-haired girl in a short dress walking down Hinton Hil on the night of the murder.

‘That’s a two-mile walk.’

She doesn’t reply.

‘Were there lights on in the house?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Think back. Put yourself outside the house again. It’s late. You’re tired. You’ve walked home. You step through the gate. What do you see?’

‘A light in the hal .’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Mum normal y leaves it on.’

‘Where is your key?’

‘In my schoolbag.’

‘Can you see yourself getting the key out, unlocking the door?’

She nods.

‘You’re opening it.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you see?’

‘I look on the phone table to see if there are any messages on the answering machine or letters for me. Mum sometimes leaves me a note.’

‘What about this time?’

‘No.’

‘What do you see?’

‘The door under the stairs is open. Daddy’s overnight bag is inside. Unzipped. I see his shaving gear and dirty clothes.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘He’s not supposed to be home until Friday.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘I don’t like being alone with him.’

‘What else do you see?’

‘A light at the top of the stairs.’

‘What about downstairs?’

‘I can hear the TV.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘If I can get to my room I’l be OK. There won’t be a scene. I can lock the door and go to bed and he won’t bother me.’

‘How does he bother you?’

Her fingers rise and fal . She doesn’t want to talk about it.

‘What happens next?’ I ask.

‘I creep up the stairs, trying to be quiet. The fourth step has a squeak. I step over it.’

Her breath quickens.

‘What is it?’

‘I hear something.’

‘What do you hear?’

‘A toilet flushing, then a tap running . . . in the bathroom.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘He’s upstairs. I have to hurry.’

‘Where were you?’

‘At the top of the stairs. My room is just there. I have to be quick. I have to get inside.’

Her hands go to her mouth.

‘What?’

‘I’m fal ing.’

‘Down the stairs?’

A long pause. ‘He’s lying on the floor . . . Daddy. Not moving. I’m on top of him.’

Her whole body is shaking.

‘What do you see?’

‘Blood. Everywhere. The floor is wet. I’m sitting in it. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. And I’m wiping my hands over and over, but I can’t get it off.’

‘Can you hear anything?’

‘A rushing sound in my head - it’s like the wind only louder and it fil s every space and blocks out every other sound. I can’t make it stop.’

Sienna covers her ears.

‘Is there someone else in the house, Sienna?’

She’s not listening. I hold her face in my hands, making her focus on me. ‘Is there someone in the house?’

A whisper: ‘Yes.’

‘Can you see who it is?’

‘No.’

Fear floods her eyes. Suddenly, she’s on her feet, trying to run. I catch her before she can take more than two steps, wrapping my arms around her, lifting her easily. She’s fighting at my arms, her legs pumping. Mucus streams from her mouth and nose.

‘Shhh, it’s OK. You’re safe. You’re with me.’

Slowly the fear evaporates. It’s like watching an inflatable-pool toy spring a leak and sag into a crumpled puddle of plastic. I put her back on the sofa and she curls her knees to her chest, closing her eyes. Spent. Raw.

The interview has taken three hours but Sienna can tel me nothing more. Her emotions can’t be detached from her memories. I risk traumatising her if I keep pushing.

Whoever kil ed Ray Hegarty was stil in the house when Sienna came home. SOCO found blood in the S-bend of the sink. The kil er was cleaning up. Wiping the blade clean.

An intruder? A robbery gone wrong? There were no signs of forced entry, yet Sienna’s laptop is missing. Far more expensive items were untouched.

Ray Hegarty wasn’t expected home until Friday. Helen Hegarty worked nights. Sienna spent most evenings alone. Whoever kil ed Ray Hegarty was inside the house. Waiting.

Who were they waiting for?

16

The journey to London takes just over two hours by car. I leave after the morning peak and arrive before midday, pul ing into a side street off Fulham Palace Road where I’m held to ransom by a parking machine.

Walking back to the main road, I head towards the echoing shadows of Hammersmith flyover past empty shops and ‘For Lease’ signs. London is bleeding. It’s like a virus that is spreading from the top down. No job is secure enough. No mortgage smal enough.

London has changed in the past two years. People have changed. I thought it would be something violent and shocking that altered this city - an outrage like the July 7 bombings or our version of 9/11 - but it was something else: a financial meltdown, a banking crisis triggered on the far side of the world by poor people who couldn’t repay their loans.

As I get near the Thames I can smel the mud flats and brine. I’m visiting a friend - a former detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police cal ed Vincent Ruiz, who retired five years ago.