Without a word, I closed the door and walked back to what was left of my family. They were poring over the laptop, looking at photographs of you. I joined them. Holiday snaps, birthdays, Christmases, school plays, special occasions and everyday life – we lost ourselves in them for a few hours. Let laughter mingle with tears at the memories, jarred occasionally when your killer made an appearance here and there. There you and Chloe were, arms wrapped round each other, beaming identical smiles. She had taken your life. Another brick slotted into my wall of bitterness and anger.
Eighty-One
DS Devonport looked tired and brittle when she came over on Saturday afternoon. Her hands went in and out of the pockets of her coat, as if she didn’t know how casual or official she should look. It was quite good to know that even the generally together Devonport had been knocked by your passing. I felt bad for not warming to her, though, when she had worked so hard to untangle the village’s conspiracy and identify your killer.
‘Good to see you. Thank you for coming,’ acknowledged Jacob.
‘Mr and Mrs Oak. I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
Wiggins put his silken head in the officer’s lap, and sighed in contentment as his ears were fondled.
‘I’ve come to let you know that Chloe Clarke has been charged with murder.’
Murder. I hadn’t expected that. I felt a surge of triumph.
‘Is there any chance of it being plea-bargained down to manslaughter?’
‘Possibly. It’s possible she will offer to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, but deny murder. In which case…’ The detective made a flip-flop gesture with her hand. ‘But we’re confident murder can be proved, so we’d be disappointed if that happened. Although there was no malice aforethought – the attack wasn’t premeditated in any way – by her own admission Chloe deliberately hit Beth with the branch to hurt her. She then left her out in the cold, and didn’t call for an ambulance. These are calculating acts. Even when you called her and spoke with her asking about Beth’s whereabouts, she didn’t tell you. Circumstantial evidence definitely corroborates murder.’
‘What sort of sentence will she most likely get if she’s found guilty?’
DS Devonport pulled a face. ‘It’s not my job.’ She took in our expressions. ‘But, if pushed… Chloe is fourteen, and therefore deemed above the age of criminal responsibility. She knows right from wrong. The maximum sentence for manslaughter is life, but the term is at the judge’s discretion. It’s highly likely Chloe will receive a custodial sentence in a young offender institution until she is eighteen, when she will be moved to a prison to serve out the remainder of her sentence. I’d hazard a guess that she’ll get between three and ten years.’
I should have felt happy. Justice was being done. Punishment meted out. But it wasn’t enough. Three measly years for killing you, Beth. For extinguishing the light in my life. That was it?
Jacob looked stunned. ‘It doesn’t seem right. But… then again… I don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
Although I had a feeling I knew.
‘Well, she’s a kid. She’s got to live her entire life knowing that a fit of temper caused the death of her best friend. It was a stupid, tragic mistake, and she’ll be punished for it her entire life. She’s a good kid, she just…’ He shrugged, the words failing him.
‘She’s a good kid?’
I ducked from under his arm. Stood and grabbed the photograph that he had printed the night before. There you were, a six-year-old with sunshine glowing through your golden hair. A butterfly net in your hand, on the marsh, lips pouting with determination, eyes full of hope as you scanned the grasses for insects. I brandished the photograph now, like a weapon.
‘Chloe took this beautiful, perfect child away from us. She hit our daughter because of a stupid row, then left her to die. If she or her mother had called an ambulance, then Beth would have got treatment quicker. Maybe she wouldn’t have died!’
‘But Chloe did what a lot of teenagers do. Overreact, lash out, then panic,’ said Jacob.
He looked so reasonable. So calm and dignified in the face of everything that had been thrown at him. I wished to find that peace in forgiveness, but there was no way. This wasn’t some case we had watched unfold on television, then calmly discussed with no emotional involvement. This was our little girl. We would never have the bathroom hogged for so long it caused a row. Never hear you singing at the top of your voice. Never hear you come down the stairs like a herd of elephants. The hugeness of it took my breath away.
No punishment could be enough to pay for that.
‘I’ll never forgive Chloe. I hate her,’ Jacob added. ‘But… I also feel sort of sorry for her. Two young lives with bright futures ahead of them were destroyed that night.’
I sat back down and folded my arms. ‘I’m glad her life is destroyed. I’m glad she’ll be haunted by her actions, find it hard to get a job, to move on and live the life she would have lived if she hadn’t killed our daughter.’
Jacob’s eyes were soft with kindness beneath the heat of my anger. I couldn’t go back to the happy, forgiving woman I’d been before.
When you died, Beth, the best of me died too.
The clearing of a throat reminded Jacob and I that we weren’t alone.
‘There is one more thing,’ DS Devonport added. Each word weighed and measured. ‘All three of the Clarkes have received bail to their home.’
There was every chance we would bump into each other.
Jacob – solid, warm, dependable – wrapped an arm around my shoulder once again. A show of solidarity. ‘Thank you for everything, detective sergeant. Now, if you don’t mind, we’d like to be alone.’
DS Devonport stood. ‘Yes, I’d better be going; I just wanted to give you this update myself.’
‘Of course.’ Jacob held out a hand. ‘Goodbye, detective sergeant.’
Once we’d seen her out, Jacob gave me a hug.
‘It’s not right, but Ursula and Steve were only trying to protect their daughter. Wouldn’t we have done the same?’
‘Oh, Jacob,’ I despaired. ‘You want too much from me just now.’
I slid from under his arm and stood, shaking my head. ‘I can’t deal with this right now.’
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to deal with it. Not with so much anger and bitterness clawing at my soul. I wanted the world to stop, for it to cry tears of blood, for every single person to mourn. But even that wouldn’t be enough.
Eighty-Two
On Sunday morning, my broken sleep ended at 5.03 a.m. As usual. I slipped away from Jacob’s embrace and into the bathroom. Looked at my face in the mirror. Tired, grey, thin and lank-haired.
‘I’m no longer a mother,’ I told myself.
The reflection disagreed. Your physical presence wasn’t needed for me still to be your mother, Beth.