The Wrong Mother (51 page)

‘When was this?’ asked Simon. ‘What day?’

‘Why?’ Hey was impatient. ‘It was the first of August.’

Less than a fortnight ago, thought Sam. Was it possible?

‘Carry on,’ said Simon.

Unexpectedly, Hey smiled at him. It was a humble smile, as if he was grateful to be allowed to talk. ‘There were several references in the diary to Amy’s night light.’

‘We know. We’ve had it translated, all of it.’

‘Geraldine didn’t understand one of them. She didn’t understand why Amy would have crept up on Encarna in the bath and shouted, “I won’t get electrocuted but you will.” ’ Hey made an anguished noise, then apologised. ‘I deleted the last part of that sentence, of course. Once Geraldine was dead.’

‘Tell us about Lucy,’ said Sam.

‘We didn’t know she was there. She came up behind us, we were talking . . . The
angel
eavesdropped on our conversation. I lied, told Geraldine I had no idea what Amy might have meant—I said it meant nothing to me. And then Lucy piped up, “Amy says she’s going to kill her mummy.” She looked pleased with herself, as she always did, as if she expected praise. Geraldine was furious. She told Lucy not to be rude and nasty, but Lucy wouldn’t shut up. She said Oonagh O’Hara had told her that Amy had said she was going to kill Encarna by pushing the lamp into the water next time Encarna was reading in the bath. The only reason Oonagh’s still alive is because I couldn’t see a way to get to her.’

Charlie nodded. ‘So you had to kill Geraldine and Lucy. Because they knew. They knew Amy’s secret, and you had to protect your daughter.’

‘I’d have killed Lucy with my bare hands, but I . . . cared about Geraldine, as I’ve said. I didn’t want to upset her.’

‘So you made your excuses and left,’ said Simon. ‘You went in search of a drug, something to knock them out.’

‘I couldn’t have killed Geraldine if she was . . . awake. I’m not a killer, Simon.’ There was a plea in Hey’s eyes. ‘I just couldn’t have done it. You were right. I went to see my . . . what was the word you used? Scrote? It’s a horrible, demeaning word, by the way. You shouldn’t use it.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘I saw Billy. He gave me what I needed and told me what to do with it. When I went back to Corn Mill House later that day, Lucy apologised to me. She said she’d been fibbing. Geraldine was so relieved, so pleased to see me.’ Hey’s face lit up. ‘I’ll never forget that. She said, “Thank God! I was so worried about you.” Her eyes were red, and so were Lucy’s. They never usually fought, but . . . Geraldine had obviously given her the telling-off of her life.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Charlie.

‘Nothing.’

Nothing?
The man’s incredible, thought Sam.

‘I made us all a drink. I put GHB in Geraldine’s and Lucy’s.’ Hey met Simon’s stare. ‘I didn’t want to, but . . . Lucy never fibbed. That child was obsessed with telling the truth. If even I knew that, Geraldine must have known it too; she might have started to wonder if Encarna and Amy were really in Spain.’ He coughed. ‘I’d rather not talk about the next part.’

‘The murders,’ said Simon.

‘Afterwards, I . . . found the diary file on Geraldine’s computer. I changed the names, deleted all the entries or parts of entries that were too specific to be passed off as Geraldine’s, anything with too much detail about Encarna’s life or her work. I ended up with just a few abstract-ish passages.’

‘Not that abstract,’ Simon pointed out. ‘Geraldine’s mother was able to tell us that the row about the
Big Sleep
mug had never taken place.’

‘I was in a state. I missed bits. I got things wrong.’

‘Encarna only started writing her diary in April,’ said Charlie. ‘She wrote twenty-two entries between the tenth of April and the eighteenth of May. Most people start diaries in January.’

‘She started when she found out Michelle had a new boyfriend, ’ said Hey. ‘Encarna was terrified Michelle would desert us. That was when her moods got worse, much worse. It was also when the black notebook appeared.’

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Sam said, ‘Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you for telling us the truth.’ He felt Simon’s disapproving eyes like a burn on his skin. It was the one thing Sam disliked about Simon: that he never pitied or forgave anybody.

Incredibly, Hey said, ‘Thank
you
, Sergeant. All of you. You’ve made me feel more real than I have for a long time. You’ve made me understand that I have to be genuine before I can be happy. I only hope I get a chance to explain everything to Sally one day. Simon?’

Unwillingly, Simon looked at him.

‘Remember the most important part of what I’ve told you,’ Hey said. ‘Amy tried to save Encarna. That’s why she ended up in the water. She died a . . . a good death.’ A shaky smile spread slowly across his face. ‘The moment she died was the moment she decided to try and save her mother.’

 

 

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ said Charlie. What could the Snowman want? There was no vacancy in CID; Sam Kombothekra had Charlie’s job.
That’s the way you wanted it, remember?

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Sergeant.’ Proust traced the rim of his ‘World’s Greatest Grandad’ mug with his index finger. ‘Even to discuss the unsavoury matter of Encarna Oliva’s diary. Am I right in thinking we’ve ended up with
three
versions of the perishing thing, not including the Spanish original?’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

‘And those three versions are . . . ?’

‘Geraldine Bretherick’s first literal translation, Geraldine Bretherick’s tweaked translation, and a third translation by an ex-colleague of mine from Cambridge, Manolo Galan.’

‘Whose interpretation bears little resemblance to Geraldine’s second version.’ Proust frowned at his mug. ‘It’s a translation of the same text, yet it somehow manages to be completely different.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You agree?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Describe the difference, as you see it.’ Proust leaned back in his chair.

‘Geraldine’s tweaked translation—’

‘Will you stop using the word “tweaked”? Do you mean “edited”?’

‘Geraldine’s edited translation is . . . I don’t know, more energetic, more . . . I know it sounds sick, sir, but more entertaining.’

‘Professor Galan’s version is bland and toneless, and all the more bleak for that,’ Proust snapped. ‘Geraldine Bretherick’s is . . . in places it’s almost as if she wants to make us
laugh
.’

‘I know what you mean, sir.’

‘Why would she? What’s your take on it?’

‘What do Simon and Sam think?’ Charlie avoided the question.

‘That Mrs Bretherick was too good, kind and naïve a person to allow Encarna Oliva to come across as the monster she undoubtedly was,’ said Proust. ‘You disagree?’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Out with it, Sergeant.’

Charlie thought about the Brethericks’ wedding anniversary cards, the messages inside that were so elaborately formal, so . . . courteous. It must be hard to be polite to your husband all the time, however much you love him. She thought about Lucy Bretherick, and how difficult Geraldine might have found it, trying to be the perfect mother at the same time as realising the daughter she adored wasn’t perfect, was capable of hurting other children.

‘I wondered if Geraldine sympathised with Encarna ever so slightly,’ Charlie said. ‘With her frustration. If you sympathise with someone and understand how they feel, maybe feel that way yourself sometimes . . . well, you’re bound to portray them more sympathetically.’ She sighed. She’d got this far: might as well let Proust hear the rest. Being a man, he would no doubt react dismissively. ‘Perhaps Geraldine was sick to death—sorry, bad choice of words—sick of being the perfect wife and mother. At the same time as wanting to help Jonathan Hey with his non-existent custody case, she used the opportunity of translating the diary to develop a bit of an alter-ego. She’d been given licence to speak in the voice of a bad girl, a convenient vehicle for expressing thoughts that would be utterly forbidden if she’d said them as herself . . .’ Charlie saw Proust’s eyes hardening against her words. She stopped.

‘You can’t be suggesting, surely, that Geraldine Bretherick felt the way Encarna Oliva did about motherhood?’

‘Not at all. But, I don’t know, maybe she’d felt a tiny amount of something similar once or twice, and . . .’

‘And what, Sergeant? Spit it out.’

Charlie decided to be brave. ‘Haven’t you ever allowed yourself to recognise feelings that you would never want to own? And there’s a certain pleasure in that recognition?’

‘No,’ said Proust impatiently. ‘Let’s not get bogged down in analysis, Sergeant. We got a result. That’s all that matters.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Charlie was at the door when Proust muttered. ‘Lizzie agrees with you. About the diary, Geraldine . . .’

‘She does?’

‘No wonder women are still lagging behind men in terms of achievement, if that’s the way your minds work. Lizzie also said I must congratulate you. Congratulations, Sergeant.’

Charlie nearly laughed; he’d never looked grumpier or less enthusiastic. ‘On what, sir?’

‘You and Waterhouse. Your impending nuptials.’ Proust tapped his mug. Evidently he wanted the conversation to be over, and he wasn’t the only one.

Charlie felt her mouth drop open. ‘Sir, I . . . it’s not quite as—’

The Snowman held up his hand. ‘I don’t need the process, Sergeant, only the outcome. No doubt you have your reasons—your
emotional
reasons—for hatching such a plan.’ He shook his head. ‘Since you haven’t asked for my opinion, I won’t give it to you.’

What could Charlie say? She mumbled her thanks and fled, red-faced and in a silent frenzy.
Bloody Simon—that stupid, arrogant, misinformed . . . mental case.
He’d told Proust they were getting married? What the hell was he playing at?

I am immensely grateful for the help I received from the following people: Mark and Cal Pannone, Kurt Haselwimmer, Caroline Fletcher, Guy Martland, Isabel Galan, Tom Palmer, James Nash, Ray French, Wendy Wootton, Narmal and David Sandhu, Dan, Phoebe and Guy Jones, Jenny, Adèle and Norman Geras, Susan Richardson, Suzie Crookes, Aimee Jacques, Katie Hill, and Joanne Golenya.

This is my third crime novel, and it’s high time I gushed in a most un-English way about the dedicated and inspiring people who have helped me from the start: the brilliant Peter Straus, Rowan Routh and Jenny Hewson at Rogers, Coleridge & White, and the fantastic team at Hodder: Tanya, Lucy, Laura, Liz, Richard, Ron, Aslan, Martin, Jamie, Lisa, Nick, Sue, Kelly, Pippa, Helen, Suzie, Alex, Alix, Auriol, Diana, Rebecca, Anneberth, Francesca, Jen, Toni, Kerry, Leni, Emma, Emma, Will, Peter, and Henry, all the reps: Ian, Julia, Phil, Jack, Bob, Andy, Bettina . . . when I say everybody I really mean everybody! Extra huge thanks to Carolyn Mays, Kate Howard, and Karen Geary—in the leisure industry, there’s a prize called ‘The Seven Stars and Stripes Award for World-level Perfection’, and you all deserve to win its publishing equivalent!

Thank you to John Gould for kindly allowing me to use the lyrics of his song
Mon Ami François
, and to David Wood for helping me to find John to ask his permission.

Sophie Hannah’s first novel is available from Penguin in paperback.

Read on for the first chapter of . . .

ISBN 978-0-14-311408-6

 

 

I am outside. Not far from the front door, not yet, but I am out and I am alone. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think today would be the day. It didn’t feel right, or rather, I didn’t. Vivienne’s phone call persuaded me. ‘Believe me, you’ll never be ready,’ she said. ‘You have to take the plunge.’ And she’s right, I do. I have to do this.

I walk across the cobbled yard and down the mud and gravel path, carrying only my handbag. I feel light and strange. The trees look as if they are knitted from bright wools: reds and browns and the occasional green. The sky is the colour of wet slate. This is not the same ordinary world that I used to walk around in. Everything is more vivid, as if the physical backdrop I once took for granted is clamouring for my attention.

My car is parked at the far end of the path, in front of the gate that separates The Elms from the main road. I am not supposed to drive. ‘Nonsense.’ Vivienne dismissed this piece of medical advice with a loud tut. ‘It’s not far. If you followed all the silly rules these days, you’d be terrified to do anything!’

I do feel ready to drive, though only just. I have recovered reasonably well from the operation. This could be thanks to the hypericum that I prescribed for myself, or maybe it’s mind over matter: I need to be strong, therefore I am.