Little Sister Page 2

  Instinctively, Emily reached for James, slipping her arm through his as she scanned the farther rows of the small church. Chloe trailed awkwardly beside them, visibly shivering in the cold stone building, the cuffs of her coat pinched down into tight fists. Emily searched for familiarity in the faces of her mother’s friends and neighbors, and her glance lingered briefly on her old school friend Sammie Evans over on the far side, but apart from her, she recognized no one. Many of them seemed to know her, though, to nod and smile sympathetically as she, James, and Chloe passed mutely along the aisle toward the front seats, reserved for immediate family, reserved for them. That’s Emily, they’d all be thinking. That’s Emily with her widower and their baby, and that’s the teenage stepdaughter. So sad; the mother died when she was just a tot. So sad. Amazing how Emily took them on. He runs his own business, you know. Oh, yes, they’d all know who they were: Mum would have shared every proud little detail, passing it on over church tea and cake, her talk of them a poor substitute for the visits they should have made more often. When did all these people get so old? Emily wondered, her eyes taking in the sea of silvered hair and mourning gray, not one of their faces recognizable as the younger versions from her childhood. Is this the way it will go, for all of us? Daisy wriggled on James’s shoulder, and he extricated his arm from Emily’s to soothe and reposition her. Even the baby was silent, as if she understood the gravity of a funeral, the need for solemnity in the House of God. That was what Mum and Dad used to call it, the House of God, and Emily and her sister would try not to smirk or roll their eyes or any of those other things that teenagers falling out of love with religion so often did. Mum never got used to the idea that neither of her daughters wanted to carry on in the Catholic faith, and Dad, though silent on the matter, was saddened by it too, missing the presence of his daughters by his side at Sunday Mass. Of course, Jess was gone long before Emily had had the courage to pull away completely, but over the years, she and her parents found a way to skirt around the subject, to avert their eyes from the disappointment in the room. Not that it mattered anymore, because now both their parents were dead. Perhaps that was why Jess felt able to come back; perhaps it’s always easier to face our loved ones once they’re gone.

  Daisy reached out toward her, and Emily felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t brought her to see Mum in the past six months or so. She had only been three or four months old the last time Mum saw her, and she probably wouldn’t have recognized Daisy now, her early wisps of dark downy hair having morphed into soft blond curls; they change so quickly in that first year. People are always saying that, aren’t they: make the most of these early days; they’ll have grown up and left home before you know it. When Mum last saw her, she was barely rolling over, and now she had a whole world of her own: favorite toys and television shows, best friends and funny little habits. Only last week, she had them all in stitches when they caught her leaning out through the old cat flap, desperately grasping for a dropped toy she’d spotted on the other side. Mum would have loved that story. Emily thought of all the other things they’d never discussed. Jess’s disappearance. Dad’s indiscretions. Emily’s desperation to break away. Should she feel bad about these things? These missed opportunities to know her mother better, to love her more? Maybe it was just being in church again, the source of this guilt. Or maybe it was seeing Jess, sitting there, so alone, without family or friend by her side. Of course, she thought, we Catholics do a good line in those things—shame, anxiety, remorse. In reality, Emily didn’t think of herself as someone too blighted by these emotions, but even as they drew closer to the front of the church, toward the elevated coffin at the center of the aisle, she wondered if God had been watching when she shuddered in disgust at her mother’s request for burial, still wedded as she was to the old Catholic rites. When drawing up their own family wills, Emily had firmly stipulated cremation for herself and James (along with a hilltop scattering, to go the whole hog), and she wondered what God thought of that—or what He thought as she popped her daily contraceptive pill and consciously supported the concept of a woman’s right to choose. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—it has been twenty-one years since my last confession, and I’ve broken all the rules.

  She started to worry what the rest of the congregation would think if she didn’t join them to receive Communion, and as they drew closer to the coffin, she became aware of the force of her breath pushing against her rib cage, straining to be released. She exhaled, slowly, silently, and when they came level with the front pew, Jess turned and looked at her, as if she’d known she was there all along and could sense her anxiety. Jess smiled, gently, and Emily slid into the seat beside her and, without thought, slipped a hand into hers. And that was how easily they glided back into each other’s lives: a simple moment of understanding, a shared point of grief in their adult lives.

  * * *

  And now here they are, three months later, in what feels like a scene from a nightmare parallel universe, small clusters posed around the house in the soft rising light of morning. They gather like portrait studies: the devastated parents bent over the dining room table, a police officer on either side; the huddle of strangers through the archway, poised to photograph the island worktop, the bloodied kitchen floor; the barely functioning aunt, a blanket around her shoulders, hovering in the doorway to the living room. Emily glances at James before she replies to the officer’s question, giving an answer that accurately matches his. “We arrived home together. At around two a.m. That’s when we found Jess on the floor.”

  She can feel her sister’s eyes on her; she feels the need in them, the way they implore her to turn in her direction, to look up and offer her hope. But she won’t do that, can’t do that. She stares at a dark knot in the wood grain of the table, focuses on the streaks and whorls of it, until she hears the faint tone of Jess from the other room, answering the inspector’s questions in an oddly blunted voice. Now feeling strangely composed, Emily knows she only has herself to blame. She brought Jess back into this family, despite everything that went on before. She trusted her. She forgave her.

  3

  Jess

  I’m sitting in the interview room at the Newport police station, and all I keep thinking is, do they suspect me? Am I under arrest? The officer said not, that they just thought it was better to continue our interview at the station, out of respect for Emily’s and James’s feelings. But still, they bagged up my clothes, ran a pick beneath my fingernails, and took my fingerprints.

  “We’ll be doing the same with James and Emily,” DCI Jacobs says. She has barely left my side since we departed Emily’s house, helping me as I signed in at the police reception desk, busy as it was in the murmuring, restless aftermath of New Year boozing and brawling. She’s told me she’ll be in charge of the investigation. Investigation.

  “You’ll be bagging up their clothes?” I ask.

  “Well, no. But then their clothes weren’t covered in blood. It’s all straightforward procedure. We need to analyze yours to establish whether that’s your blood, Jess—or someone else’s—or Daisy’s.”

  I feel sick every time they mention her name, every time a suggestion floats into the air, an unspoken implication that she could be hurt, or worse . . .

  Another officer enters the interview room and places a cardboard cup of coffee on the table in front of me. I take a sip and wince: no sugar. I have a vague sense of him, a tall man in his forties, bearded, but my attention is focused on DCI Jacobs. She’s the one I have to convince. He takes a seat beside her and fiddles with the recorder as she turns to a fresh page in her notebook, jotting down the date and some other words I can’t make out from my position across the desk. And so the interview begins, going over all the same questions as before, and all the while I do my best to follow DCI Jacobs’s advice, slowing down my thoughts before I answer, trying to visualize the scene. But it’s hard, so hard, with these great slices of it missing.

  “What time did James and Emily leave for
their party?” DCI Jacobs asks, seamlessly returning back to the beginning again. Her expression is unreadable, the sharp lines of her face showing no clues as to what she really thinks of me, what she believes might have happened here.

  “Just after seven,” I reply.

  “Do you know where the party was being held?”

  I look back at her blankly. “No. I mean, I know it was at Marcus and Jan’s house, but I’m not sure exactly where they live on the island. Somewhere near Shanklin, I think? Fairbrother. That’s their surname.”

  The inspector makes notes, even though the lights on the recorder show it is all being captured on tape. “And how do your sister and James know Marcus and Jan Fairbrother?”

  “He’s one of James’s oldest friends. And they’re business partners—they joined their two IT companies together a few years back, I think. You’d have to ask James for the exact details.”

  “So, you say they left for the party at seven p.m.? How can you be sure of the time?” She’s clearly checking how reliable I am with the simple information, because she’s asking so many of these kinds of questions.

  “It was definitely close to seven p.m.—I know that’s right because Emily had been stressing about leaving on time, and Daisy was still not quite settled. I was in the kitchen, and James was putting on his coat and locking the back door. Emily was standing at the foot of the stairs, complaining that Daisy was still babbling away in her cot, and I told them to get on their way, that she’d be fine with me.”

  DCI Jacobs nods for me to continue.

  “I’ve been looking after her since October, so I’m used to getting her to sleep.”

  “Three months ago. So that was when you first moved in with your sister’s family?”

  “Yes. Emily only recently went back to work. She’s a teaching assistant at the local primary school. She’d interviewed lots of nannies and child minders, but she hadn’t found anyone she was happy with, so when I offered, she jumped at the idea.”

  “Are you a qualified child minder?”

  My stomach lurches at the question; surely they suspect me, if they’re asking questions like this? “Not as such. But I did a bit of nannying on my travels, and I’m Daisy’s aunt, so I guess Emily felt she could trust me—” The bit about nannying abroad is a lie, and I flush hotly, wondering if they can tell. Suddenly the initial fib I told to Emily seems enormous, at once of great importance, but of course it’s too late to go back on it now, all these months later. What would Emily think?

  “And you say Emily hadn’t been able to find a suitable child minder—why was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What reasons did she give for their unsuitability?”

  “Oh. I don’t know—she’s got quite high standards: dietary requirements, weaning plans, that kind of thing—and I guess some of them felt they couldn’t work with that, and others just weren’t, well, her cup of tea, I suppose. She’s a really good mum, really conscientious. You’ve got to click with the person who’s looking after your children, haven’t you? You’ve got to be able to trust them.”

  DCI Jacobs nods slowly. “Have you ever had children of your own, Jess?”

  I shake my head, finding it hard to meet her eyes. I don’t like the feel of these questions at all.

  “And what about Emily’s stepdaughter, Chloe? She’s, what, fifteen? I understand she was out for the night. How do you get along with her?”

  “Chloe? She’s a great kid. I love her. We get on really well.”

  DCI Jacobs refers to her notes. “I believe Chloe’s mother died when she was very young—and Emily and James got together a year or so later?”

  “Yes. I think Chloe was maybe two or three?”

  “Does Chloe get on well with your sister—her stepmum?”

  Is this a trick question? “Yes,” I reply, but she registers the pause in my voice, and instantly I feel as though I’ve betrayed Emily. I’m so bloody exhausted, and I know I’m getting it all wrong; even when I’m telling the truth, my voice says I’m lying. How am I supposed to behave? How are you meant to arrange your hands on the desk—to focus your gaze—to pitch your tone of voice—when all the while you know they’re on the lookout for tiny signs of nervousness and deceit? The despair washes over me, and for a moment, I can’t even remember what she was asking me.

  “Emily and Chloe?” DCI Jacobs’s eyes widen slightly, urging me to elaborate.

  “They’re just a normal family—they get on one minute, fall out the next. I was the same at that age. Chloe’s a teenager; it’s what you’d expect!”

  “But Chloe gets on well with you?’

  “Yes, of course, but I’m not her mum, am I? It’s easy for me. I try to spend a bit of time with her at weekends, to give Emily some space with Daisy. Em gets really tired; it’s hard going back to work after having a baby.”

  “How is she when she gets tired? Does she ever lose her temper?”

  “No!”

  An expression of disbelief is fixed on DCI Jacobs’s face. “Never?”

  I want to scream, the way she’s turning me in circles. “Well, of course she does sometimes,” I reply, irritation showing in my voice. “She’s not a robot! But not with Daisy, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Daisy’s such an easy baby, Emily would never have cause to lose her temper with her. She’s a baby, for God’s sake! Ems might occasionally lose her temper with James or Chloe—me, even—but never with Daisy.”

  The questions keep coming. “And what does Chloe think of Daisy? Is it possible she might feel a bit sidelined?”

  I laugh, and I can tell from their expressions that it’s not appreciated. “No! If you think Chloe has anything to do with this . . .” I can hardly believe what they’re implying. “Chloe loves her sister! And anyway, she was staying with a friend last night. She wasn’t even there. She was at Beth’s house.”

  The other officer jots down a few notes.

  “So,” DCI Jacobs continues, “let’s get back to last night. After Emily and James left, did you check on Daisy at all?”

  I think hard, walking myself through the unremarkable moments of my evening, careful to get it straight in my head before I answer. “Yes, I did. I remember now. Daisy carried on, chattering away in her cot for a while after they’d gone—I had the intercom on in the living room—but after about half an hour it turned into crying, and I could tell she wouldn’t stop unless I went up to her. As soon as I went in, I could smell she needed changing, and I ended up having to give her a quick bath, she was in such a mess. I changed her sheets and put her in a fresh sleep suit, and then I sat with her on my lap for five or ten minutes before she eventually dropped off. Then I put her in her cot and went back downstairs.”

  “Could someone have been in the house during that time, while you were upstairs?”

  “No-o,” I reply cautiously, pausing a moment while I consider it. “No, I really think I’d know. I definitely didn’t hear anything or notice anything different when I got back downstairs. And if someone had got in, then they would have had to hang around for, what, another four hours or so before snatching Daisy?”

  But now I’m thinking, could there have been someone in the house with me all that time? Watching, listening, waiting for their moment?

  “So when you got downstairs, what did you do?”

  “Nothing—I told you, the TV was on, but I wasn’t really watching it. I flicked through a few magazines; I probably snoozed a bit. I ate a few chocolates.” Both officers are staring at me, waiting for more. I don’t know what they want me to say; what should I say? “Quality Streets, I think.”

  “Did you drink at all?”

  I think about the bottle of prosecco that James opened in the kitchen before they left, surreptitiously pouring me a glass while Emily was starting the car. He handed it to me with a little smile, an our-little-secret kind of smile, and he returned the bottle to the fridge before racing out after her. “No,” I reply. I know they will judge me more h
arshly if I tell the truth, that they’ll suspect me. More than anything, I couldn’t bear for Emily to know, for her to think that my having a drink was the cause of all this. I wasn’t even drunk, I mean, not drunk drunk—just a bit looser around the edges. It was New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake! Who doesn’t have a few drinks at New Year? “No, just tea,” I say. “I remember making a cup of tea around eightish. Maybe eight-fifteen.” I know I finished the bottle, because I remember going out through the back door to carefully push the empty far down into the recycling bin, to conceal it beneath the milk cartons and mustard jars and cheese cracker boxes. Did I lock the back door again? Yes, I’m certain, because I remember testing the handle before I went back to the living room, and then I know I dozed off for sure.

  “And after that? Do you remember anything at all?”

  “Nothing,” I tell DCI Jacobs, because, after that, I really don’t remember a single thing.

  * * *

  I like to think of myself as the kind of person who finds it difficult to lie, but if I search myself, I know that’s a lie in itself. We all lie, don’t we? Little fibs, everyday untruths, the tweaking of facts to help us sail through life more smoothly. We lie to our dentists about daily flossing, to doctors about our units of alcohol, to friends about why we arrived late; and, let’s face it, we lie daily to ourselves about how we’re really feeling, what we’re really thinking. Are they lies? Not if they harm no one, surely? It must be true that if their intention is only to make others feel better, to reassure, to remove the prospect of disappointment—surely that has to be a good thing? Not lies, perhaps, but mere fine-tuning. Take the lie about my nannying experience, for example: it was at Mum’s funeral, when both Emily and I were giddy with the joy of our effortless reunion, that Emily had impulsively blurted out her idea that I could care for baby Daisy. My stomach had flipped over—yes, I knew, I would love that—but as quickly as Emily had suggested it, a flicker of doubt or regret passed across her face like a dark cloud.