She groaned. ‘Oh, God. Yeah. OK.’
As I shut the door, I could see a group of fallow deer making their way down to the lake. The expanse of water lay blurred by the mist: a steely grey reflecting the sky above. Ducks swam and cormorants posed still as stone on the palings near the shore. But even the sombre weather didn’t dampen the brilliant flare of ginger and purple in the patches of heather and the blaze of copper in the trees across the lake.
I drove home via Hale. I had no obligation to Heather and Alex Carter; nevertheless, I felt I ought to show my face and see if they had heard the news. It wouldn’t be easy for them. No matter how sure they were about Damien’s guilt, his deathbed confession – or retraction to be precise – would disrupt any sense of closure they had. Everything would float to the surface again. I had an ulterior motive, too: Heather Carter would know more about Nick Dryden than Libby. And might be able to tell me whether the police had spoken to him while investigating Charlie’s death.
Valerie Mayhew answered the door. She tilted her head to one side when she recognized me. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?’
Her tone took me aback. Before I could respond Heather appeared behind her in the hallway. Smaller than her friend, her cherry-red sweater replaced by a similar one in mustard yellow. Her face was pallid, her forehead creased in dismay. ‘Valerie, it’s all right.’
‘You’ve heard?’ I spoke directly to Heather.
She nodded. ‘Damien Beswick? Just the basics. The family liaison officer we had rang me. It’s already on the local radio.’ Heather moved back and Valerie did, too, allowing me in. Alex came out of the living room. He glanced at me and gave a shy nod. Rowena’s half-brother, I realized with a jolt. They shared Charlie’s large-boned build.
‘You should close the gates,’ Valerie told Heather, ‘before they turn up.’ In the scale of things a prison suicide wouldn’t bring out the press pack but the murder itself had been a huge news story and the death of the convicted killer and his claim to innocence would rekindle interest.
‘I’ll do it,’ Alex offered and disappeared into a doorway off the hall. He was soon back and joined us in the dining room.
‘He was disturbed, wasn’t he?’ Heather asked me. ‘An addict. They said that at the time.’
‘Do you think your interest, dragging it all up again, could have contributed?’ Valerie jumped in.
My cheeks burnt; licks of shame. Had it? ‘It’s possible.’ I swallowed. Damien had resisted my probing with his attempts to distract me, rambling about trivia. Was it simply too traumatic for him to recall in detail? Had facing those memories pushed him over the edge? ‘I was invited to talk with him,’ I said, ‘by his family – his sister.’ I didn’t mention it was Libby who was footing the bill.
‘The one who wrote the letter?’ Alex asked softly. His eyes swivelled my way but never met mine.
‘Yes.’
We were sat around the teak dining table. Close to Heather was a bowl of potpourri: shards and curls of wood that smelt like cedar. She was playing with it, her nails sifting through the fragments.
‘What did he tell you?’ Valerie asked me. ‘Anything that made sense or was this change of heart something the sister dreamt up?’ Her clipped words and the brusque delivery plunged me back into the headmistress’s office. I resented her attitude. And felt sorry for the souls who were sent up before her on the magistrate’s bench. She was much sharper than when I’d talked to her at the Civil Justice Centre. I put it down to her wanting to shield her friend from fresh troubles.
I looked at Valerie steadily then shifted my gaze to include Heather, whose face was pale and intent. ‘Damien left a note,’ I said, ‘repeating that he was innocent.’
‘No,’ Heather gasped and covered her eyes with her hand. ‘Why did he confess in the first place, then?’ she demanded.
Alex looked at his mother, his face glum. I got the sense that he felt clumsy, miserable; a teenage boy at a loss in the emotionally fraught situation.
‘I think you’d better go,’ Valerie said.
‘No.’ Heather lifted her head, plucked at the neck of her jumper with one hand. ‘His new story… what did he say happened?’
Valerie looked from Heather to Alex, obviously concerned for them. Heather gave her a little nod – she could take this.
I went over the basics of Damien’s account: getting thrown off the bus, walking to the cottage, passing a walker coming the other way, finding the door unlocked, Charlie already dead, taking the wallet, fleeing.
When I finished Valerie’s voice was sharp with scepticism: ‘And had he any decent explanation as to why he admitted to the crime?’
‘Only to get out of the interview situation, to tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. As you know he was an addict and he thought they’d reinstate some sort of supply once he’d owned up.’
‘It beggars belief,’ Valerie complained, her harsh expression emphasizing the angular planes of her cheekbones.
‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But I think also he realized that if he said he was guilty he wouldn’t have to face a trial or go over events. It seemed the easier option in his head, at that time. Can I ask you about Nick Dryden?’ I asked Heather.
‘Nick Dryden?’ She was surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
Alex looked at his mother, startled.
‘He and Charlie fell out,’ I said.
‘Yes. He was a horrible man. We’d no idea at first. Charming, funny, friendly, some good business ideas. It was all a front. He was a heavy drinker. And a vicious drunk.’
Alex sighed; he’d probably remember this – seven years ago, Libby had said. Had Nick Dryden been the uncle, the family friend who turned nasty? Had Alex frightening memories of the man?
‘When Charlie discovered we’d lost almost everything,’ Heather said, ‘that Nick had been draining us dry, paying for gambling debts and fancy suits and God knows what else… thousands of pounds, we had to remortgage the house. There was a file this thick,’ she used her hands to measure it out, ‘of unpaid bills and bogus accounts: dozens of jobs where Nick had taken a deposit and never gone back. He left people a false business card. Charlie reported him. It got very nasty.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘That winter. He turned up here with a baseball bat and put the windows of the Jeep in. Then he started on the conservatory. We were terrified.’
‘Mum.’ Alex flashed a look imploring her to stop.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. She reached across the table and rubbed at his arm.
‘What happened to Dryden?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered.
Was he missing? I’d a flash of an image: the man in a shallow grave, gone a step too far, trying to con the wrong punters. Or was he elsewhere, charming more unwitting mates into an exciting business venture, a sure-fire winner, pocketing the cash and ruining more lives? Fraudsters change their names a lot but not their way of working.
‘There were rumours he’d gone to Spain,’ Heather said. ‘We never saw a penny. There were calls every now and then. He’d get drunk and ring up. Horrible calls – foul mouthed.’
‘Recently?’
‘No. They stopped.’
Because Dryden had finally got his revenge? My skin tightened. ‘When?’
‘It’s hard to remember. Last autumn?’ she said uncertainly.
‘Have there been any calls since Charlie’s death?’
She shook her head.
‘He had a family?’ I asked her.
‘They moved away. Selina and the girls – to Whitby. She remarried a dentist, Tim Darville. He has his own practice. They came for Charlie’s funeral.’
‘Was Nick from Manchester?’ I said.
‘Newcastle,’ Heather said, ‘the Geordie accent was part of his charm.’
‘Did the police speak to him about Charlie’s death?’