Fear of falling, p.24
Fear of Falling, page 24
Which meant they couldn’t interview her until she was sober.
They removed her phone, her cigarettes and lighter, the money she had in her pockets, and asked her to change her clothes. They would provide clean ones and spare shoes.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘They may offer evidence as to what happened,’ DI Cartwright said.
‘We know what happened. She said what happened.’
‘And that evidence may help confirm Chloë’s account.’
Chloë continued staring down, her face smeared with mud, fists balled tightly on her lap. I could see the old cigarette burns that spotted the back of her hands, pale discs of silvery skin.
‘Chloë’s only fourteen. We don’t want her to have to stay here overnight if we can find her a bed somewhere more suitable,’ DI Cartwright said.
‘I can take her home,’ I said. ‘We can come back in the morning.’
‘Chloë is considered a flight risk,’ DI Cartwright said. ‘She ran away earlier tonight.’
‘She was frightened,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But there’s a risk she might do that again. We need to ensure Chloë’s safety. It wouldn’t be appropriate to send her home and expect you to keep her contained. It wouldn’t be fair to Chloë either.’
I wanted to cry. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
‘Now we’ll get that change of clothes arranged,’ DI Cartwright said. ‘Meanwhile do you want anything to eat or drink?’
‘A cup of tea, please,’ I said. ‘Chloë?’ She didn’t answer me. ‘Some Coke, as well,’ I said.
It was another hour until DI Cartwright said he’d been able to find a bed for Chloë in a children’s home and had arranged for an escort. ‘We’ll start back here tomorrow at eleven,’ he said to me. ‘If you can be here for then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Chloë? Do you want to say goodbye to your mum?’
I didn’t want them to take her. I wanted to grab hold of her and run and hide her away.
‘It’ll be OK, Chloë,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.’ I kissed the top of her head.
She shivered and moved away.
‘See you in the morning,’ I said.
When the two of them had gone, my eyes flooded with tears.
My beautiful girl.
My beautiful, broken girl.
DI Cartwright arranged for someone to drive me back to Whitby.
‘Is there any news?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Please, would you ring me, please, if there is? And Bel . . . tomorrow . . . If she doesn’t answer her phone and she gets back and I’m not there . . .’
‘We’ll arrange for a family liaison officer to be at your house from nine o’clock. They’ll inform her of the situation.’
‘Chloë’s never hurt anybody before,’ I said. But that wasn’t strictly true. ‘What I mean is, whenever there’s been a fight, incidents at school, it’s been her trying to defend herself. People touching her, invading her space, it can be a trigger.’
‘We’ll talk to Chloë in the morning. If you do hear from Bel, this is my direct number.’ He passed me a card.
Getting into my car, still parked opposite the cinema, it felt like days since I’d dropped off the girls.
Oh, Freya. The reality kept rocking me, hitting me like waves, knocking me down whenever I tried to stand. Freya with her jaunty hat and her keen opinions. Her glossy dark hair, that full face always expressive.
Why hadn’t they gone into the film? How had they ended up in the graveyard? Had Chloë really pushed her? Why?
She couldn’t have survived so long in the sea, I knew that.
The cottage was in darkness, the yard and the roof lit by moonlight. In the distance I thought I could hear the thrum of the helicopter.
Inside the house was still warm but the stove needed feeding.
It was two thirty in the morning.
My stomach was gnawing with anxiety, and hunger. I made toast and honey, tea. All I wanted was to wake up from the nightmare.
My phone rang, loud in the still of night.
‘Mac?’
‘I got your text,’ he said.
‘Come home.’
‘What is it?’ Alarm alive in his voice.
My breath caught. ‘Freya . . . she . . . There’s been . . .’ An accident? I couldn’t lie. ‘. . . Freya fell from the cliffs.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘They’re still searching for her.’
‘OK, I’ll set off—’
‘There’s more.’ I gulped back tears. ‘Chloë was there. She said she pushed her.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Fuck, no. Oh, Lydia.’
‘I know.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘I don’t know. They shouldn’t even have been there. Chloë was drinking, and smoking weed. She hasn’t really explained. The police are interviewing her in the morning. They’ve found a place for her overnight.’
‘Ah, Christ,’ he said. Then, ‘OK. Be there are soon as I can.’
The sun rose over the horizon, a big peach-coloured ball, climbing into a soft blue sky, washing the fields pink. I watched the light spread, I was dizzy with fatigue, crippled by backache, my eyes scratchy. I hadn’t slept, hadn’t tried, but I had lain on our bed for a couple of hours in the dark, my eyes closed, phone in hand. Terrified that Bel would call.
Now the sound of Mac’s van on the lane sent me running outside.
He pulled up in the yard and jumped down. Came and held me.
I could smell his sweat and cigar smoke. Felt his chest heaving, heard him gasp a sob.
My phone rang and we broke apart.
‘Lydia, it’s DI Cartwright. I wanted to let you know that a body has been recovered from the water near the west cliffs.’
‘A body,’ I said, my mouth dry.
‘Yes. A girl. I am sorry. We won’t be releasing the name until next of kin have been able to confirm the identity.’
Bel. ‘Yes. Thank you for . . . Thank you.’
Mac was gripping his brow bone, a thumb and finger pressing into each temple.
I took his arm to go inside and a flock of gulls passed overhead, yelping and shrieking, bound for the boats coming in with the night’s catch.
Chapter Forty-six
Bel wasn’t back by the time we left for Scarborough, though the police liaison officer had come. We gave her a spare key so she could let Bel in to collect their things.
We drove there separately, not knowing what the day would hold. Mac and I were shown to a waiting room at the police station. Shortly after, a woman arrived and introduced herself as Naseema, the duty solicitor. She wore black jeans, a yellow jumper and a gold-coloured scarf over her hair. ‘I’ve just been talking to Chloë.
She’s OK – ah—’
The door opened and Chloë came in then, escorted by a police officer.
‘Hello,’ I said to her, trying to smile.
‘Dandelion.’ Mac’s voice was gruff.
Chloë blinked and looked away. She sat down, her heels raised, knees moving, dancing on the balls of her feet. She was terrified.
‘I’m here to represent Chloë, to advise her,’ Naseema said. ‘I’ll attend all interviews, and everything will be filmed and recorded. We need either you or your husband to be there as an appropriate adult.’
‘Me,’ I said. Mac nodded his agreement.
‘You are there to make sure Chloë understands everything that’s said. If you think she’s confused or not clear about anything, you ask the detectives to repeat it or put it more simply. If she becomes distressed or tired we can request a break. I’ll be representing her from a legal point of view, if you can focus on her welfare.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Did you follow all that, Chloë?’ Naseema said. Chloë nodded. ‘I wanted to check, does Chloë have a social worker?’
‘No.’ I almost laughed. ‘We’ve asked for help. Never got it. But she is having counselling, privately. She’s being treated for an attachment disorder.’
‘Is she on any medication for that?’
‘No.’
What if she won’t talk? I thought. What if she flies into a rage?
I expected we would be going to a small bare box of a room but it was more like a relaxed office space or a work lounge. Low easy chairs and a table. A video camera and a separate recording machine.
DI Cartwright unbuttoned his jacket and sat back in his chair, looking relaxed, calm and sympathetic. He invited Chloë to describe in her own words what had happened.
Chloë said, ‘We were up on the cliffs and I pushed her and she fell.’
‘You pushed Freya?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you push her?’ he said.
Chloë didn’t answer. She had her left hand on her right forearm, pinching the skin there.
DI Cartwright smoothed his moustache with finger and thumb, and said, ‘It’s my job to build up a full picture of what happened to Freya, and I need your help to do that. Let’s start with earlier on. Your mum dropped you both at the cinema. What happened next?’
‘We went to the cliffs.’
‘You didn’t go into the Pavilion?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Why was that?’
Chloë shrugged.
‘Whose idea was it to go to the cliffs?’ he said.
‘I didn’t want to see the film. She could go if she wanted.’
‘Freya could go on her own. And were you planning to do something else instead?’
‘Just hang out,’ she said.
‘With anyone?’
‘Don’t know,’ she said.
‘Did you meet anyone that evening?’
‘Yeah.’
I was startled.
‘Can you tell me about that?’ DI Cartwright said.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Who was it?’ DI Cartwright said.
‘Don’t know his name.’
‘Is he your friend?’
‘No.’
‘Why were you meeting him?’
‘To get some weed.’ An edge in her voice. Defiant.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
In dribs and drabs Chloë’s story came out. Bare and perfunctory at first, a sketch. Then the detective elicited elaboration and went over it again. And as Chloë coloured it in, I could see it all in my head, like a film.
Freya is furious when Chloë wants to go off and leave her to watch Ghostbusters on her own. She threatens to tell me. Chloë doesn’t care one way or the other. She walks off towards the steps that lead down from the whalebone arch and Freya, I guess not wanting to be on her own in an unfamiliar town, goes after her.
Down on Pier Road, near the bandstand, Chloë meets the dealer and buys weed from him. He disappears.
Freya wants to know what Chloë’s going to do and Chloë tells her she’s going to chill out. ‘Have a picnic,’ she says, waving the little glassine bag. ‘Up there.’ She points across the harbour to the abbey, floodlit on the west cliff.
I don’t know whether Freya goes along because she feels an obligation to stick with Chloë or because she decides to make the best of the situation.
The girls cross the bridge to the other side of town, take the lane and climb the steep steps. They walk through the graveyard and scale the wall to the small tract of land on the prow of the cliff’s edge. Sitting there, they are out of sight. They can see the waves, the North Sea, churning below.
They smoke some weed and take turns drinking swigs of vodka from the bottle Chloë has stolen and carried hidden in her backpack.
The skunk is strong and after a while Freya gets very giddy. Then she feels sick. She stands up. She wants to go home. She wants Chloë to ring me so I can go and fetch them.
Chloë refuses.
Freya asks her again. ‘Don’t be a cow.’
Chloë ignores her.
Freya lunges for the bottle, snatches it.
Chloë scrambles up. ‘Give it back.’
‘It’s not even yours. You’re a thief.’
‘Give it back.’
‘Or what? You’ll have one of your tantrums? You’re like a little kid. You’re pathetic.’ Freya is furious, all righteous indignation.
Chloë smiles.
‘It’s not funny. Ring her now.’ Freya doesn’t realise the wide smile is not a sign of humour. It’s a warning.
‘No,’ Chloë says.
‘I’ll ring my mom, then. Tell her what you did.’
‘I didn’t force you. She won’t care, anyway,’ Chloë says.
‘Just cos you’re adopted, you expect everyone to feel sorry for you. I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re a little freak and you just make life horrible for everyone.’
‘Fuck off.’ Chloë is laughing. Her eyes are cold.
‘You’ve ruined their lives, you know. Your dad wants to send you back into care.’
‘Shut your fucking mouth.’
‘Ask him. Your mom can’t work because she’s got to home-school you. They had to leave Leeds because you were crazy, out of control. If your mom won’t put you back in care your dad’s bailing. Dumping both of you. My mom told me.’
‘She’s a liar and you’re talking shit,’ Chloë says. She spits on the grass.
‘Whatever.’
‘You think she’s at work, your “mom”? She’s not at work,’ Chloë says. ‘She’s off fucking her boyfriend.’
‘You are so full of shit.’
‘He’s married. He’s got kids. You’re not supposed to know.’
‘That’s crap. You’ll say anything—’
‘It’s true. I heard them shouting about it. That’s why you came for the weekend, so she could dump you and go shag her toy-boy.’
My own words in Chloë’s mouth.
‘She can’t stand you anyway. She probably wanted a break.’
‘Shut up, you bitch.’ Freya ditches the bottle. She grabs at Chloë, catches her shoulder. Chloë rears back. Freya moves in, seizes her again. ‘You loser, you fucking weirdo.’ Chloë feels the spit on her face. She wrestles to break free.
‘You ruin everything, you just mess up. They don’t love you – how could anyone love a fuck-up like you? They’re stuck with you. They should never have said yes to you. They should have given you back soon as they realised what a retard they had. What a total psycho.’
Chloë doesn’t speak. With both hands she shoves Freya hard in the chest.
Surprised, Freya lets go, staggering, grunting as she tries to keep her balance. She rights herself and springs at Chloë. ‘You bitch.’
Chloë, rage boiling through her, shoves Freya again. Once. Twice. Freya goes flying, tumbling back, kicking out her heels searching for purchase, for solid ground. As she flails, arms flung out, the earth drops away. There is only air. Down she plunges, like a stone. Swift and silent.
Chloë kneels on the grass, breathless. Freya is gone. Far below there is nothing but the roar of the waves against the crumbling rock.
Why did I let them go to the cinema? The unease I had, the concern about Chloë’s behaviour, why didn’t I listen to my instincts? Act on them. Christ!
I felt sick, my stomach ached. I was holding myself together, calm on the surface, but it was as if my bones were brittle, my skin paperthin, and only willpower kept me from breaking apart.
I went to the toilet and splashed my face with cold water. I met Naseema on my way back to the waiting room. ‘Please, can you find out if Bel is back? If she knows about Freya?’ I said.
‘I’m not sure if that information can be—’
‘Please. If you could just ask, please?’
‘Let me try.’
Naseema came back to me very soon and said, ‘She’s been notified. She’s here.’
A spike of fear ran the length of my spine. ‘At the police station?’
Her face softened. ‘In Scarborough. They’ll want her to make a formal identification.’
I pressed my hand to my mouth, saliva clogging in my throat.
Oh, Bel. ‘Could I—’ What? See her? Send her a message? Talk to her? My thoughts collided, fractured. I shook my head.
During the lunch break Naseema explained to us what was likely to happen next. The police would present the evidence they had to the Crown Prosecution Service, who would decide if it was strong enough to press charges.
I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.
‘She didn’t mean to hurt Freya,’ I said. I glanced at Chloë. She didn’t appear to be listening.
‘Intent, or lack of it, will be part of any defence. They may not go ahead if they decide—’
‘I want a cig.’ Chloë stood up, legs jiggling.
‘You can’t smoke here,’ Naseema said. ‘We can see about getting you some Nicorette, or a patch. But I’ll have to get a doctor to agree. It might take a while.’
Chloë fell back into her chair in disgust.
I wanted to yell at her then: Freya’s dead and you’re having a tantrum about cigarettes! It was a horrible aspect of her disorder, the inability to show remorse. But she wasn’t a stone-cold killer, she was a damaged child, and I had to make them understand that.
*
DI Cartwright’s colleague, DC Gidley, read back Chloë’s statement out loud and Chloë and I were asked to stop her if there was anything we wanted to hear again or anything we thought was inaccurate.
Neither of us spoke. Chloë was fidgeting, flexing her arms and messing with her hair. Was she really listening? Did she understand the severity of what she’d done?
Chloë signed the statement and we were taken to the waiting room again.
I stepped into the corridor and rang Mac to tell him what was happening.
‘And if they charge her?’ he said.
‘There’ll be a trial. Naseema says it will be up to the magistrates’ court, the youth court, what happens in the meantime.’
When I went back in, Naseema left to buy another parking ticket. I sat down next to Chloë. ‘It’s so sad, all this. Freya didn’t deserve what happened, no matter what she said. I can’t believe she’s—’ I sighed. ‘Chloë, those things Freya said, that wasn’t right, she should never have said that to you. We love you, Chloë, we always have. We always will. You’re our daughter. Nothing can ever change that.’
