Sharp glass, p.18
Sharp Glass, page 18
‘Luke had a key to the narrowboat,’ Grace says. ‘Elise, too. And you, Daniel, had a key.’
He rubs the heel of his hand at his eyes. He doesn’t argue. He wants to tell her the truth, if only he could remember it. But even if he didn’t want to tell her, she’d get it out of him. He turns his head to look at Elise’s caterpillar.
‘You told me about the key,’ Grace says. ‘That day you went running. You kept a key to the boat all that time. Why?’
‘I’m not sure. I suppose . . . I wasn’t ready to let it go.’
‘You and Luke. That summer.’
‘Me and Luke. And Elise. Knowing she loved it there.’
The thirsty sound the soil made when he fed water to her seedlings, the party when he gave her the caterpillars, Elise turning cartwheels on the grass until Tess called her to come and blow out the candles on her cake; Clark showing Owen how to level up in the video game he was playing; Luke lying on the lawn, watching Elise.
‘The vigils,’ Grace says. ‘Must have been traumatic. Shut in the pickup with him, the four of you stewing in all that violence. You must’ve hated it.’
A door slams in his head, shutting out the sunny memory of Elise’s birthday, pitching him into the rain outside Box Lane. ‘I did . . .’
‘But you didn’t stop. You fought those men, gave in to temptation like the others. Did it feel good? Before you realized what you’d done?’
‘Yes.’ He can’t lie to her and doesn’t want to. ‘I was frustrated. At work and about Jude, my inability to change anything that mattered. Dr Bowen bullying her about the cane . . .’ He draws a breath, knowing she needs more. ‘Living in that house, unable to move on. I spent my whole life keeping my head down. What good did it do me? None. So yes, it felt good to fight those men. In the moment. Before I realized what we had done.’
Grace takes custody of this admission, her expression unchanging. ‘And afterwards, when Luke threatened you? How did you feel then?’
‘Numb. Disconnected.’ He chases down the memory. ‘I couldn’t concentrate on work, had trouble sleeping. I wasn’t eating properly, stopped running because of the vertigo. Started dreaming about the boat and Elise.’
‘Then what?’ Grace leans forward a fraction. ‘What did you do about it? The dreams, the numbness. What did you do, Daniel?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember . . .’
He looks at the glass caterpillar in its little spot of sunlight. ‘But you do. You were there. You remember. Don’t you?’
26
To understand the glass caterpillar, you need to understand the doll’s house. It lived on the first-floor landing in my parents’ home. A four-storey doll’s house with a hinged door that swung open to reveal twelve rooms fully furnished, curtains at the windows, working lights and lamps, red tiles on a sloping roof. The doll family sat on upholstered sofas or stood by the side of the range in the kitchen, watching a tiny copper kettle. I was not allowed to touch the doll’s house. It was out of bounds.
‘Don’t give me that face, madam.’
The one time I played with the doll’s house, I ended up with my fingers trapped in a door (not a doll-sized door, an adult-sized door), the backs of my legs slapped silly. That might have been enough to put another child off wanting to play with the doll’s house but I coveted it all the more. Longed to touch the miniature flower arrangements, the glazed ham no bigger than the tip of my little finger. Whispered to the dolls – the little boy with his scrap of yellow hair, grandma with her wire spectacles and knitting – made up stories about them, even wrote miniature books for the family to read, including a risqué volume for the father who had a rouged mouth and a raunchy angle to his jointed hips. My greatest wish was to shrink myself to the size of a doll and creep into the house to live with the family there. No one would think to look for me in the place I was forbidden from touching. From this, you might reasonably deduce I was a lonely, fanciful child, a cliché in many ways, although like every other child I’d no way of knowing my parents’ rules were brutish, or different to those of other families. I imagined everyone had toys they weren’t allowed to touch, rules they weren’t allowed to break, legs that stung, fingers that throbbed.
When, having become a packer, I discovered how other families treated their children it would have been easy to become jealous or resentful. I’ll confess to wishing I might return to the too-big house to confront my tormentors with their many casual cruelties, and I even fantasized about burning it down (after first rescuing the doll’s house). Ultimately, if perhaps now ironically, becoming a packer was what saved me from sinking into the iron grip of my past. Instead, I became obsessed with other people’s families, in particular children. Young children, like Elise Franklin. Old children, like me.
My favourite room to pack is a child’s room. All those treasures that mean so much, cheap trinkets and toys with their faces worn smooth. I longed to pack a doll’s house but nowadays most are made of smooth sturdy wood, nothing like my forbidden house with its many and varied choking hazards. Just sometimes there is a box of childish pieces tucked away, sharp-edged toys from another era. Over these I will pore, stirring my fingers to see what will prick and nick. Tin soldiers with pin-sharp bayonets, jointed wooden dolls with splintery hands and feet, sick-glass eyes. Toy milk bottles chipped and deadly at their lips; it only takes a little damage to turn glass into a weapon.
Mirrors are my other passion. Every house has mirrors, even in the children’s rooms. Elise had one on her dressing table next to the pin boxes where she kept the grips and spidery nets used to control her hair for her gymnastics. Every day when I was packing her room I set time aside to sit looking into that mirror, conjuring Elise. There wasn’t anything morbid or gruesome in my curiosity. It was simply that I missed her. What people don’t understand is that it is perfectly possible to miss someone you have never met, whom you will never meet. I’d never heard of Elise Franklin before I was hired to pack her room after her sudden, unnatural death. But after only one morning amongst her treasures, I felt I knew her. I know I loved her. In one sense, she was like all murdered girls – full of shine and promise. Beautiful, a for-ever angel. In another sense, she was unique because she was mine. My first murdered girl. And my first real mystery.
I want very much to solve the puzzle of who killed her. Because it is wrong that she is dead and her killer still alive but also because my job – the relocating of her bedroom – feels incomplete without this resolution.
The glass caterpillar is a token of my faith, the promise I made to Elise to find her killer if I can. Of course, a thief will always find an excuse for stealing, just as a bully will find one for trapping your fingers in a door. I’m under no illusions about that.
The key to the narrowboat was different. I feel guilty about taking the key in a way I don’t about the caterpillar. Stealing keys goes against all I hold sacred. But I spent such a long time in the Franklins’ house I felt I had to know where else Elise had been. Had, at least, to look. My parents would have been horrified to discover their constant lesson ‘None of your business’ led to this conviction that everything is my business. Well, not every lesson lands.
One thing struck me as odd about the evidence.
Elise was strangled and her clothes torn but there was no definitive proof of a sexual motive. Perhaps the killer was disturbed. Or, as one of the detectives speculated, her clothes were torn to mislead the police into assuming her killer was a sexual predator, most probably a man. For all my faults, I’m not an eavesdropper. But the Franklins’ old house was so full of whispers, it would have been harder not to hear what was said.
To anyone else, the narrowboat might seem less promising than, say, the forensic evidence, or lack of it. But to me, the idea of the boat is irresistible, linked as it is with romance, stealthy escape. Elise kept a key to the boat on a chain attached to a little cork buoy so it wouldn’t be lost if it landed in water. This made it easy to identify among her other treasures.
I searched for her pendant too, of course. The one Tess said she’d worn every day since her eighth birthday and would never have taken off. From photos in the house, I knew the pendant was a tiny glass gymnast on a slim gold chain. It wasn’t found on her body. The police considered this significant, enough for them to refer to the pendant during a courtesy call at the house while I was packing, at which they informed the Franklins no new evidence had come to light. It was clear to me that left to the police this crime would never be solved, her killer never brought to justice. Months of investigating and the police had nothing to show for it. No wonder Tess wept.
I wasn’t present in the immediate aftermath of the murder, never saw the wound when it was raw. But I know Tess hasn’t healed, that if she makes it through a day without weeping, it is only because she is exhausted, hollowed out by grief.
The police searched their house thoroughly after her murder. By the time I arrived to pack it, months later, it had been cleaned several times by Tess. Even so, I found traces of fingerprint powder, the tackiness left by latex gloves; I could see at a glance everywhere the police had poked and pried. I was glad Tess and Clark had decided to move, and not just for their peace of mind. I was glad because it brought me into their orbit – someone new to love their daughter, a fresh pair of eyes over the evidence. And because we became friends, Tess and I. Or so I believed.
Daniel Roake didn’t come to either of the houses while I was packing and unpacking for the Franklins. Just as well or I’d never have been able to pass myself off as Gwen as long as I did. I had, however, heard his name. The first time I heard it, Tess and Clark were talking about Luke, sufficient friction in their exchange to make me pay attention.
‘It’s fine,’ Clark was saying. ‘Luke’s okay.’ His voice was monotone, almost automated. I had the impression he’d been saying this about Luke for a long time, perhaps all his life.
‘Dan’s worried about you.’ Tess used the light voice she used when she was trying not to cry.
‘Is he?’ Clark’s tone was dull.
‘He wondered if we might like a few days away, says his parents’ holiday house is free. We could be off-grid, a proper break . . .’
‘I’d never be able to get time off work, love.’
That shocked me. I put down the box I was packing, listening more keenly. Nothing more was said. Not long after that, Clark left the house.
I was shocked because I’d seen him at 8.26 the morning before, as I was parking up for my day’s work. He was leaving in the big black pickup with the chrome bull bars. On a whim, I followed. It was too early for me to knock on the door; I’d intended to sit and read for forty minutes. I was always early for work, keen to get started. I followed because I wanted to see where Clark worked, collect another piece of the puzzle. Only he didn’t go to work that morning. Or any of the other mornings when I followed him, trying to understand why he would lie to Tess. It made sense he might have lost his job or resigned, unable to bear the charade of carrying on as if his life wasn’t in ruins. But not to tell Tess felt to me like cheating. He kept up the pretence day after day, driving off at 8.26 a.m., in his suit and tie. Most days he parked by the school, watching Elise’s classmates going through the gates. Once he drove out of town, up towards the Peaks. I didn’t follow as I’d have been late for my day’s work and Tess would have worried about me.
Later, when I looked it up on a map, I realized the narrowboat was out in the direction Clark had taken. He’d spent the day there, I decided, sitting with her plant pots; I pictured him pressing seeds into soil, sprinkling water. Now I think he sat in silence, weeping. Or else he walked the towpath looking for trouble, hoping for a fight. There is a lot of anger in Clark, too much for him to sit for any length of time. It is why he keeps going back to Luke who feeds the fire in him, stoking it. From what Tess said, Daniel was trying to pull Clark in the opposite direction but I didn’t trust either man, back then. Men find such comfort in anger, a place to put their grief without acknowledging it. Women are different. We have the patience to let pain take shape, ebb and flow. Perhaps it is our bodies, the way we learn to live with inconstancy. Tess carried Elise for nine months. She kept carrying her after the murder, holding the pain close. She wasn’t at risk of going mad from it, the way Clark was.
‘Dan’s worried about you,’ I heard Tess say.
‘Is he?’
As soon as I found the cork keyring in her dressing table, I knew I had to see the narrowboat, Elise’s safe place, searched by the police as her bedroom had been. Clark’s dad had tried to sell the boat; this meant it wasn’t hard to find. There were pictures online, details of its mooring. An address. I went to see for myself, expecting to be alone, but I wasn’t.
The black pickup was parked at the top of the towpath. Clark’s car. I’d followed it often enough. I saw it again, six nights before I was lured out here to Daniel’s holiday home and locked in his cellar. After dark as the canal froze, on the night that changed everything.
Sometimes you get a feeling, don’t you? A sense of being given vital information, like a note slipped into your skull. That night I knew I’d find Elise’s killer on the narrowboat. Her killer, her pendant and death.
27
‘You were there that night.’ Dan sits forward. ‘On the boat.’
Grace draws up her knees, resting her narrow feet on the bar beneath the chair’s seat. ‘I was there.’ Her face is smooth and pale, her gaze fixed on his face. ‘And so was your best friend. Elise’s dad, Clark.’
Torchlight moving across water, windows lit like eyes, darkness in the shape of a man. Was that Clark?
‘His pickup was parked on the road near the allotment.’ Grace props her chin on her knee. ‘It’s where you parked too, isn’t it?’
‘Not always but yes. It’s the nearest parking place to the towpath. I told you why I went back . . . What were you doing there, really?’
‘I was looking for Elise.’
‘Looking—’
‘For some sign of her. After they moved, I missed her. Packing her room, being with her in that way, was the safest I’d felt in a long time. And the saddest.’ She doesn’t smile, wholly serious. ‘Her room was special. Everything in it’ – she reaches a finger to the glass caterpillar – ‘was special.’
Dan shivers. Her madness is different to his own yet it feels so familiar. As if they were drinking, miles apart, from the same poisoned river.
Grace studies him. ‘Tell me about Elise. When you talk about Jude, I can picture her so vividly. I want to see Elise the same way.’
He looks past her shoulder to where the window is carved with light. Two weeks ago, he’d have refused to answer. Elise is none of her business, she belongs to Clark and Tess. But Grace isn’t a stranger, not in the way he thought. There is a strangeness to her obsession with Elise but given the state of his head, he doesn’t feel equipped to judge her for that. In her own way, she loves Elise. He tests that thought, the way he’d examine a patient’s eyesight after surgery, for evidence of distortion or acuity. She loves Elise. It feels authentic. In any case, what choice does he have? This is her plan, not his. Her rules. Her vengeance. Her knife.
‘She was loved.’ The memory comes easily, as frictionless as one of Elise’s gymnastic moves. ‘We all loved her. She was smart and kind and she wasn’t always happy but she was always very . . . real. She had this fire. She was just a thirteen-year-old girl but she was unstoppable—’
He breaks off, aware he has used the wrong word. Because Elise was stopped. Someone stopped her in the most vicious way imaginable. Anger stirs under his sadness, a last thin flame from the fire that’s been burning in him for the past year.
‘You loved her,’ Grace says.
‘Everyone loved her.’
He’s aware of having spoken these words before, aware she corrected him: Not everyone. Unless you think her killer loved her. People do kill for love. Is that what happened to Elise?
‘That’s how we know it was a stranger who killed her. No one who knew her would’ve hurt her. Everyone loved her.’
At Elise’s funeral, he remembers Tess saying this to comfort Owen: ‘No one who knew her would’ve hurt her,’ signalling to Dan for his help. He’d put his arm around Owen, hugging him hard, ‘Come here, kiddo,’ Owen in his best suit and tie, trying to keep tidy the way he had at her christening.
Grace says, ‘When Luke made you watch Box Lane, did you believe you’d find the killer?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘It was about warning the other girls who used the shortcut. Too many of them didn’t know.’
‘So you thought the killer was local, close to home. How close?’
He has no answer to that. He knows where she is going with it, hasn’t forgotten what she said about the pickup parked by the towpath that night.
Sure enough: ‘Tell me about Clark,’ she says next. ‘Why did he keep lying to Tess? About the fight with those three men. And about losing his job.’
She was in their house for days. Not just the old house, the new one. Moving Elise’s room from one place to the other. When Tess gave him Grace’s name, Dan was sick at the thought of a stranger in Elise’s room. But the police had already been there, Tess reminded him, and besides, Grace was careful, respectful: ‘Honestly, Dan, she’s a godsend.’
The godsend sits at the side of his bed, waiting for his answer to her question. The godsend has a knife.
‘Clark didn’t lose his job,’ Dan admits. ‘He quit. Because he couldn’t get time off for the vigil.’
‘On Friday afternoons. What was so special about Fridays?’
‘It’s when it happened. On a Friday afternoon. She was walking home from school. It was raining. That’s why she took the shortcut, we think.’
