Bleeding heart yard, p.21
Bleeding Heart Yard, page 21
16 May 1998
We were all in the Crow’s Nest after school. I was looking out of the window when someone said something about Caliban. I thought about Caliban trying to rape Miranda. ‘Thou dids’t prevent me. I had peopled else This isle with Calibans.’ If someone hadn’t interrupted David would he have raped me, even made me pregnant? I suddenly saw David as an awful misshapen creature, hardly human, the way Miss Jones told us not to write about Caliban. I heard myself telling The Group about what happened. Izzy made some fatuous comment. Sometimes I hate her. But then Cassie said that David had actually raped her. Gary said he wanted to kill David. I have an awful feeling that nothing will ever be the same again.
Well, I was right about that, wasn’t I? I had completely forgotten that it was The Tempest, our set play for A level, that had reminded me of David and the infamous party. If I hadn’t said what I did, would Cassie ever have told us about her experience? I can see her now, lying on the floor, reading a book. Probably The Tempest, now I come to think of it. Chris was strumming on a guitar, one of his more irritating habits. Henry was probably writing a few million cue cards, Sonoma calmly recollecting every date in the Wars of the Roses. Gary and Izzy were mock fighting on the sofa with lots of squeals and giggles. I remember catching Henry’s eye and him making a vomit gesture. When Cassie spoke, she looked directly at Gary. ‘Changed eyes’ is the phrase that occurs to me now. I think it’s from The Tempest. ‘I’d like to kill him,’ Gary said. He may have squirmed on the sofa with Izzy, he may even have snogged her by the bins, but there was no doubt that he still loved Cassie too.
Did Izzy know this? Did Cassie?
I must have slept eventually. When I woke up it was six a.m. and a feeble light was filtering through the thin floral curtains. I could hear Mum moving around in her room.
I got up and found her in her red dressing gown shuffling along to the loo.
‘Sorry, love,’ she said. ‘Did I disturb you?’
I remembered the ear plugs. I should really apologise for disturbing her.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Has Chris gone?’
‘Yes. Are you up for a chat?’
‘Always. Just let me have my wee first.’
I made us both tea.
‘A good English cuppa,’ I said, which was an old joke between us.
‘None of your foreign muck,’ Mum joined in. I got into the bed next to her.
‘Your feet are cold,’ she grumbled.
‘Cold feet, warm heart,’ I said.
‘That’s hands.’
I warmed my hands on my mug. I’ve always loved Mum’s room: the yellow walls, the flowery eiderdown, the old perfume bottles on her draped dressing table, the pictures ranging from her own oils of Greece and Turkey to embarrassing artwork from me and Sophie. The curtains were orange and the carpet red. ‘My days,’ said one of the carers, ‘you need sunglasses in here.’
‘So, what’s happening?’ said Mum. ‘Give it to me straight. I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ She gave a grim chuckle that turned into a cough.
So I told her about Gary telling Izzy that he knew who’d killed David, about Henry insisting that I was there when it happened, about Izzy’s affair with Gary, about Chris mysteriously being arrested.
‘And you haven’t heard any more from him?’
‘My phone’s out of battery.’ And I’d temporarily lost the charger.
‘That thing’s useless. Ring him from the landline.’
‘I don’t know the number.’
‘Go round there when it’s a more decent hour.’
It was nearly seven. I could hear the buses outside.
‘Why do you think they’ve arrested Chris?’ asked Mum. ‘He hasn’t got a motive to kill Gary or Henry. Unless he’s in love with Izzy too.’
‘That’s not very tactful, Mum.’
‘Just exploring every avenue.’ The conversation seemed to have given Mum new energy. Her eyes sparkled under her red scarf, which was rakishly askew like the headdress of a 1920s flapper. I still couldn’t get used seeing her without eyelashes though.
‘I don’t know why they’ve arrested him,’ I said. ‘I wish he’d ring.’
Chris turned up when Mum and I were having breakfast. He’d changed his clothes and looked considerably fresher than I did.
‘I didn’t get away until the early hours,’ he said. ‘So I went back to the flat to shower.’
‘You could have texted.’
‘I did. I bet your phone was out of battery.’
I ignored this.
‘What happened?’ I said, bringing him through to the kitchen. Mum was eating toast, more than I’d seen her consume for ages. She greeted Chris affectionately.
‘How were the cells? Did they beat you up?’
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ said Chris, sitting at the folding table. ‘They didn’t have anything on me. Linden saw that immediately.’
‘How could they arrest you, then?’ said Mum. ‘I mean, you have rights.’ She was a great one for rights. I remember being dragged along to marches for A Woman’s Right to Choose and The Right To Die amongst others.
‘I think DI Kaur was just chancing her arm,’ said Chris. ‘Wanting to see if I’d crack.’
I put a cup of coffee in front of him and refilled my mug. Mum was back to drinking hot water with lemon.
‘And did you?’ said Mum. ‘Crack, I mean?’
‘Linden told me to answer “no comment” to everything,’ said Chris. ‘She wanted to see what they had, which was nothing really.’
‘Did you really do one of those “no comment” interviews like on TV?’ said Mum. ‘Didn’t that make them think you were guilty?’
‘It’s standard advice, apparently,’ said Chris. ‘But it did feel a bit awkward, especially with that Geordie policeman glowering at me.’
‘Didn’t DI Kaur interview you?’ I asked. It was what I had been imagining.
‘No. She was probably watching on a monitor somewhere. Any chance of some toast, Anna? I’m starving.’
‘But why did she issue a warrant for your arrest?’ I said. I thought Chris was being too breezy about the whole thing. Also, I wasn’t keen on the request for toast. Just because we’d slept together, it didn’t mean that I was his handmaiden. Nevertheless, I put bread in the toaster.
‘Someone saw me with Gary just before he died,’ said Chris. ‘And an insulin syringe was found at the scene. I’m diabetic though I use a pen, not a syringe.’
I didn’t know that he was diabetic. It made me wonder what other secrets Chris was keeping.
‘Were you with him?’ I asked.
Chris took another gulp of coffee. ‘We had a brief disagreement which may have been overheard.’
‘A disagreement? What about?’
Before Chris could answer, there was a knock at the front door.
‘Another visitor,’ said Mum. ‘How exciting.’
I had been worried that all the drama would be bad for her but she looked better than she had for days, eyes sparkling like the Star of old.
‘Probably just Roxy,’ I said.
But Roxy, like all the carers, used the key safe. The visitor, incognito in a hat and black pashmina, was Izzy.
Feeling resigned, I took her through to the kitchen, although it was standing room only now.
‘This is Izzy,’ I said to Mum. ‘Isabelle Istar.’
‘Oh, we saw you on telly the other day,’ said Mum. ‘You were getting up to all sorts in a gondola.’
‘And very uncomfortable it was too,’ said Izzy. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Vance.’
‘It’s just Star, dear. I’ve never been a Mrs.’
Izzy had never been to Attlee Towers before. I’d been quite defensive about it as a child. I wasn’t ashamed of living in a council flat but the contrast between my home and, say, Gary’s, was so huge that I was scared of becoming a debating point. ‘Living conditions in Inner London still define life chances. Discuss.’ Chris had visited, of course, and Henry had managed to invite himself once or twice. Funnily enough, it was Cassie who had seemed most at home here and we had spent most of the time in my room discussing the iniquity of men.
I gave Chris his toast and slid butter and marmalade towards him. Then I suggested he took his plate and we move to the sitting room. Mum used a stick when she walked now but Chris offered his arm with a courtly gesture that pleased her, I could tell. Izzy followed, pashmina trailing. I put on more coffee.
When I entered the room, Mum and Izzy were talking about films.
‘Who’s that actor,’ Mum was saying, ‘the one who looks like a tree? An evergreen?’
Izzy, understandably, looked rather baffled. Chris crunched his toast.
‘So, Izzy,’ I said. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Izzy.
36
Cassie
Thursday
It felt very strange to be going home, just when I’d convinced myself that I would never see my family again. It was only eleven o’clock when I let myself back into the house. I could hear Pete on the phone upstairs. For a moment, I wondered where Kevin was and then I remembered that Pete would have dropped him off with the dog walker on his way back from the school run. I stood in the kitchen staring at a letter from Lucy’s school about the forthcoming ski trip. I remembered seeing it this morning and thinking, almost with relief: I won’t need to worry about that, I’ll be in prison. Now, all the everyday worries came flooding back, replacing the existential dread that had been with me for twenty-one years. Pete thought skiing was too dangerous and too expensive but Lucy wanted to go. I was in favour partly because I thought it would cement her friendship with Sasha and Rosie. Did I worry about this too much because I always felt like an outsider at school? What about Sam and Rhys? Would their friendship survive if Sam stopped playing football? Should I let Lucy quit the violin? Was Kevin too fat? Was I?
‘Is that you, Cass?’ Pete shouted down the stairs.
‘Yes.’ Who did he think it would be?
‘Any chance of a coffee?’
I put the kettle on and spooned coffee into the cafetière. Was this my life now, making hot drinks for my husband, worrying about school trips? If I had to leave the police, there would be even less money for such things. But Harbinder hadn’t said anything about firing me. She’d told me to see a therapist, mentioned PTSD, but she hadn’t told me to resign. ‘The David thing, it’s so long ago, I can’t see any merit in reopening the case.’
If Harbinder didn’t think I had killed David, perhaps I hadn’t?
Pete showed no sign of coming to collect his coffee so I took it up to him, feeling even more like a surrendered wife. But at least he seemed grateful. There was only one chair in the study so I leant against the door, signalling that I wasn’t staying long.
‘How did your meeting go?’ he asked.
I’d almost forgotten about the mythical meeting.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I think I might be back at work soon.’
‘You know, Cass,’ Pete’s voice was gentle, ‘you don’t have to go back.’
‘I want to,’ I said.
‘How’s the enquiry going?’ said Pete. ‘It was a real shock about Henry. I always liked him.’
‘I don’t know. They can’t tell me.’
‘But Harbinder can’t suspect you of any involvement?’
I edged closer to the landing. I didn’t want to get into this conversation with Pete, who knew me so well. I tried to think of something that would take his attention away from me.
‘I think they’re going to arrest Chris Foster,’ I said.
Why did I say it was Chris? I’d always liked Chris, although he didn’t take much notice of me at school. He was one of those effortlessly popular boys. He didn’t have to try, not like Gary with his Lenin hat or Henry with his Machiavelli quotes. Chris could even get away with being quite geeky, playing the guitar or organising sponsored sleep-outs in aid of Shelter. He got enthusiastic about things at a time when the rest of us were pretending to be world-weary cynics at the age of eighteen. ‘The circus is coming to town!’ he shouted once, coming into the sixth form common room with a leaflet announcing that Mr Flight’s Fantasy would soon be appearing on Clapham Common. ‘You know the circus is cruel, don’t you?’ said Anna, hardly looking up from her book. ‘And naff,’ said Gary, who was writing an essay. But I think Chris went anyway.
I tried to keep in touch with Chris after we left school. It wasn’t easy when he became famous. I didn’t want to look like a groupie. Pete was always unselfconscious about following the Chris Foster fan page on Facebook or telling people ‘Cassie went to school with him’. But I was careful. I sent Christmas cards to his London address and, occasionally, received one back. Once, I found an old photo of me, Anna and Chris taken in the music room at school. I made a copy and sent it to Chris. About a month later I received a postcard of a Jackson Pollock splatter with Chris’s loopy handwriting on the back, ‘Love the pic! OMG we look so young. Have you seen Anna lately?’ I didn’t reply to the question, which seemed almost rhetorical. In a funny way, though, the card reminded me of Anna, who used to send me pictures of strange statues when she was a student in Florence. I remember one of a naked man holding up a woman’s severed head, her blood solidified into a bronze braid. ‘Who sent you that?’ Freddie asked. ‘Just someone I knew at school,’ I answered.
When I invited Chris to the twenty-first reunion, I added a PS. Lots of the old gang will be there including Gary, Henry and Anna. I knew that would get him. I also knew that Anna would come to the reunion if she thought that Chris would be there. She said that she was in London anyway, visiting her mother, but I think she would still have travelled from Italy. The lure of the twenty-first anniversary worked for most people, plus the chance to see Sonoma in her kingdom. I knew that Sonoma had invited Gary personally, which was why I was so shocked that she wasn’t there.
Why was I there? You’d think that I’d have wanted to stay a million miles away from that place. But even murderers get nostalgic. I wanted to see my old friends again. For years, I couldn’t see Manor Park except through the pall of David’s death. Even looking at the location on a map was difficult. I once hyperventilated in Preston Manor because of the M word. But I thought that, just for one evening, I would try to forget. And I suppose I also wanted to show people that mousy little Cassie had done all right for herself. That’s why I wore that top and put glitter on my shoulders.
As soon as Chris and Anna met at the reunion I knew that they still had feelings for each other. Anna was back to her brittle, bantering best. Chris just smiled goofily at her. Izzy was being quite proprietorial towards him too. It was wonderful to see everyone. I remember dancing with Henry and thinking that life was simple really. All you needed were a few friends, some cheap wine, some cheesy music. I was in such a good mood that it was a shock when, going out for some air, I saw Chris and Gary by the loos and heard Chris’s voice saying, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’ I’ll never forget the venom in his voice.
Why did I tell Harbinder? I suppose I was just trying to be helpful.
37
Harbinder
Thursday
As soon as the door shuts behind Cassie Fitzherbert, Harbinder calls Kim and Jake into her office. Briefly, she outlines Cassie’s allegations against Chris Foster. She doesn’t mention David Moore.
‘Could Foster really be the killer?’ asks Jake. The unspoken words ‘but he’s famous’ hover in the air.
‘He was in the right place for Garfield,’ says Harbinder. ‘He may well have had the means, an insulin syringe, and we have a credible witness who heard them arguing. I think it’s worth bringing him in.’
‘Arresting him?’ says Kim.
‘If I can get a warrant. If nothing else, that should shake him up a bit.’
‘He’ll get lawyered up,’ says Jake, who clearly thinks this is a cool thing to say.
‘Let him,’ says Harbinder, trying for a bit of bluster in her turn.
‘What about Henry Steep?’ says Kim. ‘Do you think Chris killed him too?’
‘It’s possible. Henry was probably on his way to meet someone he knew. Chris doesn’t have an alibi for Tuesday night. We need to get hold of his phone records.’
‘“I’ll never forgive you”,’ quotes Kim. ‘Any idea what that was all about?’
‘No, but it certainly sounds like Chris was feeling passionate about something,’ says Harbinder. ‘I’ll apply for a warrant. In the meantime, Jake, carry on with the MPs. Kim, you and I need to visit Paula Rice.’ She overdoes the Italian accent on the first name because she knows it irritates Jake.
‘Sure thing, boss,’ says Kim. ‘Why?’
‘She wrote the bleeding heart notes,’ says Harbinder, showing them handwriting sample two. ‘We need to find out why.’
‘Yes, I wrote them,’ says Paula. She hardly seems surprised at the question. She sits very upright on her vintage sofa with a neon sign over her head saying ‘Fun’.
‘Why?’ asks Kim.
‘I knew he was seeing her. Isabelle Istar.’ She hisses the sibilants like a pantomime villain. ‘So many things gave him away. A different scent on his clothes, a bill from a different mobile phone company, a sudden knowledge of filming terms. I knew they were having an affair. They were childhood sweethearts, that’s what Gary used to say. I was even quite impressed that he’d been to school with Isabelle Istar and Chris Foster. But, about a year ago, they must have got in contact again. Maybe at one of those bloody reunions. I’ve never known a school have so many reunions. In Italy, you leave school, that’s it. Over. But in England, it seems, you keep reliving your schooldays for ever.’
And it was a reunion that killed Garfield Rice, thinks Harbinder.
‘That must have been tough,’ says Kim.
The empathy works. ‘It was,’ says Paula, twisting a cushion fringe. ‘Gary used to go to meetings at a place called Bleeding Heart Yard. I thought, what about my bleeding heart?’
