I could describe the aftermath, the blind stumbling through what remained of my derelict life. But I won’t. I can’t relive it all again. I will tell you only the facts, of what she did, Hannah, of how she paid me back.
After she left Emily, she bought petrol, two cans of it, from the local garage, then walked the streets with brazen carelessness with one in each hand. And finding the house in darkness as she’d expected (assuming, I suppose, that I too was safely tucked up in bed), she set to work. Afterwards, a neighbour saw her running from the flames across the fields. Somewhere her plan must have gone wrong because she was found by the police less than a mile away, badly burned herself. I imagine she wanted me to die too, but in the end the outcome was probably better for her. She had said she wanted to punish all of us: what greater punishment could there be than allowing me to go on living?
The trial lasted seven days. There was never any question of her being acquitted, the evidence against her was too overwhelming – not least the CCTV footage of her buying the petrol that day. And in fact I don’t think she actually cared about being caught; her aim was to destroy as many lives as possible, by whatever means, so her punishment was the least of her concerns.
The trial attracted a fair amount of media attention – the tabloids, especially, baying for her blood. TEEN SLAYS FAMILY, that sort of thing. They, like me, wanted retribution. Yet the Hannah who appeared in court defied all expectations, knocked the wind out of the jury’s sails with her doe-eyed fragility, her tears and her beauty. She looked much younger than her years as she stood in the dock wearing a simple, childlike dress, trembling and remorseful, a beautiful yet troubled waif in desperate need of help.
The prosecution tried their best: calling in a psychiatrist as their expert witness who said he was certain Hannah posed a significant and ongoing threat to society. They even got Kathy Philips, Clara’s old childminder, to describe how Hannah had set fire to her son’s room all those years before. But despite all this, despite the fact that she deliberately burnt down her family home, in the end her fate hinged on the performance she gave, the jury’s belief of whether she intended to kill or not. She sobbed as she said she hadn’t meant for the fire to spread, that she’d tried to go back to save her father and brother, that she had the burns on her back to prove it. The jury was divided, uncertain, and in the end the murder charge was reduced to involuntary manslaughter, and because of her age, she got just five years.
At first I was shocked that she didn’t come clean about the discoveries she’d made, had shied away from a heartrending description of how she’d found out, aged seven, the awful truth. Such a pitiful tale could only have worked in her favour, after all. But I think she knew that there was no need. That story was too valuable to be given up so easily, when she still had so much more suffering in store for her father, and for Rose.
I could have told the police myself, confessed to them about Hannah’s real mother, how she died, how Rose and Oliver and I were involved in it all, but what good would that have done? My child was dead. I thought of the two Lawson boys, so young still, and I didn’t think I could be responsible for destroying their lives too. I was drowning in grief, only capable of wishing with all my heart that I’d died with Doug and Toby that night, as I’m sure Hannah knew. I wish I had died too.
29
Suffolk, 2017
As Rose described the fire and Hannah’s trial, Clara felt cold waves of panic wash over her. This was the person who had hold of Luke? This murderer, this madwoman? And Rose, Oliver – they had known it all along? She stared at them, anger and shock mingling with her despair.
It was Tom who spoke first. ‘How old was he, the boy?’ he asked, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
Rose hung her head. ‘Ten. Toby was ten years old.’
‘Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ!’ He got up and paced the room, coming to a halt in front of his father. ‘She’s killed before, what’s to stop her doing it again? What’s to stop her from murdering Luke too?’
Oliver looked up at his son imploringly. ‘If she was going to kill Luke she would have done so by now, not continued to send pictures and taunt us like this. She knows if she kills him there’s nothing to stop us going to the police. It wouldn’t be in her best interests; she wants us to suffer for as long as possible. It’s a game to her, that’s all. It’s our punishment.’
As Clara listened to Oliver talk, she remembered how frequently Hannah had enquired after her father and Rose’s wellbeing during their meetings, how avidly she listened when Clara described their suffering. Her desire to see Clara wasn’t just to keep abreast of the police search; it was an opportunity to revel in the havoc she had caused.
Rose got to her feet then and, approaching her son, put her hand on his arm. ‘Tom, you have to understand that Hannah has never given us a straight answer about Emily’s whereabouts. Sometimes she says she knows, other times she denies it. She might have some information, no matter how small, that could let us know what happened to her. If the police catch Hannah before us, she’ll never tell us. She would go to prison and keep quiet just to spite us. At least this way, if we do what she wants, there’s still a chance she could tell us something, anything, that might help us find Emily.’
‘Christ!’ Tom shook off his mother’s hand. ‘What the fuck are we going to do, then? How are we going to find Luke?’
There was silence, and then Clara said, ‘She doesn’t know that I know who she really is, yet. She thinks I still believe she’s Emily.’
Tom looked at her. ‘That’s true.’
‘So if I arranged to meet her again, one of us could follow her, to see where she goes.’
Mac shook his head. ‘It’s too risky, she knows what we all look like, even me, she’d spot us a mile away.’
‘Then who?’ said Tom.
The following morning, Tom, Mac and Clara sat in a café in Greenwich, nervously looking at the door. ‘Do you think she’s going to come?’ asked Mac.
Clara nodded. ‘She wouldn’t let me down.’
A moment later, a tall, auburn-haired woman with a baby strapped to her chest walked through the door.
It took nearly half an hour to bring Zoe up to speed. When they’d finished, she looked at them, speechless with shock. ‘Holy fuck,’ she said at last, shaking her head. She looked at Clara. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this was going on?’
Clara took hold of her hand. ‘I’m sorry. But will you do it? I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t absolutely desperate. We just need you to follow her as far as you can.’
‘If there’s any sign of anything dodgy, if you feel like she’s spotted you, or you feel nervous in any way, turn straight around and come home,’ said Mac.
‘Only follow her as far as you feel comfortable,’ Tom added. ‘If she leads you somewhere isolated, don’t go any further.’
Zoe looked from one to the other of their tense faces, then down at a fast-asleep Oscar. Finally she looked up and, meeting Clara’s gaze, said, ‘Of course I’ll do it.’
Clara closed her eyes. ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’
Zoe gave a wry smile. ‘Are you kidding? A chance to leave Oscar with Adam and go and do something more exciting than puree carrots? Hell yeah.’
While Mac and Tom breathed a sigh of relief, Clara chewed her thumbnail unhappily. She felt a fresh surge of anger towards Rose and Oliver. This was their mess, their doing, yet they’d jumped at the chance to send a young woman they didn’t know, a young mother, into danger to help clear it up. ‘What if it goes wrong?’ she asked.
‘Like you said, Hannah doesn’t know me; she doesn’t know what I look like. I’ll keep way back. Listen, Clara, I’m going to do this, you’d do the same for me. I’m not stupid, if I start getting a bad vibe, I’ll back the fuck off. But let’s give it a try, yeah? Let me help you find Luke.’