How I Lost You (26 page)

He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He pulls down the class of ’90 and opens it at the first page.

A familiar pang of nostalgia hits me when we find Mark’s photograph. He looks fresh-faced and full of excitement, nothing like the man he was the last time I saw him.

‘That’s him,’ I say, placing a finger on the photo. Nick raises his eyebrows.

‘Nice-looking guy,’ he remarks. It’s the second time I’ve seen him act this way and it doesn’t suit him. It’s funny, because although he’s right and Mark
is
a good-looking guy, he’s not a patch on Clark Kent sat next to me.

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ I say.

‘Do any of these girls look like the one you saw in the photos?’ he asks, ignoring my teasing. I shake my head.

‘No, I’d definitely recognise her.’ It’s disappointing; there are sixteen colleges at Durham University and we have no idea which one our mystery girl is from. Not to mention the fact that she could have started any year between 1988 and 1992 to have crossed paths with Mark. More disturbing still is the thought that she might not have been a student at all; she might have been a girlfriend from home or a waitress at the local pub for all we know.

Determined not to let our bad start put us off, we pull down book after book and study photographs from each one. It’s nearly an hour before I see the familiar deep red hair and green eyes that I’ve been unable to put out of my mind for the last two days.

‘That’s her!’ I exclaim a little too loudly. Looking around and seeing no one, I still lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Sorry, but that’s her.’

‘Bethany Connors.’ Nick runs his finger over the photograph and reads the name from underneath. ‘History of art at Trevelyan College. She’s . . . beautiful.’

The picture is the only mention of Beth in the yearbook, which is a little disappointing, but at least we have a name, a year and a degree subject, which is more than we had before. Seeing her photo makes me feel vindicated somehow: here is definite proof that I didn’t imagine her. Nick is right, she really is beautiful, and I get a stab of jealousy when I think of her and my ex-husband, the man I loved, sharing intimate moments, walks around the college grounds and candlelit picnics in the park.

Nick photocopies the picture and pockets it. We spend some time browsing photos of Durham sporting events through the years and framed newspaper articles telling of the achievements of the university’s alumni. When we find no other mention of Bethany Connors we decide to call it a day and head home to eat. It’s already 3 p.m. and the two-hour drive back after our eventful journey here isn’t particularly appealing.

‘Feeling better?’ the girl at the desk asks us as we go to sign out and hand back our passes. She looks like she’s run a brush through her drab locks and applied some lipstick, but other than that she’s still unremarkable. Her dark brown eyes look full of concern. I nod.

‘Yes thanks.’

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Oh yes, thank you,’ Nick responds with a smile.

‘I didn’t think to ask before, were you looking for anyone I might know?’

Nick takes the picture out of his pocket and hands it to the woman. ‘Bethany Connors,’ he replies. ‘Did you know her?’

The woman’s face changes abruptly. Her smile becomes a scowl and her busy eyebrows knit together. She looks at Nick as though she wants to strike him down.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she practically spits. ‘Who are you? Are you reporters? Don’t you think we had enough of this twenty-one years ago?’

Nick is as shocked as I am but tries not to show it.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,’ he says, taking back the photo. I watch stunned as the woman points to the front doors.

‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ she snaps at us. Funny how she’s gone from addressing only Nick to suddenly acknowledging my presence. ‘Or I’ll call the police. You’re here under false pretences and the university doesn’t take kindly to liars
or
journalists.’

Despite the fact that we are both liars and one of us is a journalist, I feel more than a little insulted. Before I can object to her libellous outburst, however, Nick ushers me out of the library door, mutterings of ‘dogs with a bone’ ringing in my ears.

‘What the hell was that about?’ I explode as soon as we’re outside.

Nick says nothing, just looks confused.

When we get back to the car, he immediately navigates us to a café that boasts free Wi-Fi and ‘the best coffee in Durham’. I test out the second claim while Nick boots up the laptop.

‘Well I think I’ve found the reason Mrs Hyde switched her personality so quickly,’ he announces after a few minutes.

‘Why?’

He turns the laptop to face me, and a picture fills the screen.

‘Because Bethany Connors was murdered in 1992.’

43

Carl: 16 December 1992

‘What do you mean, got him? What the hell’s going on?’

David was already making his way out of the door. If Carl wanted information, he had to follow, and quickly. He was reluctant to leave that jumped-up little prick Jack Bratbury, but he was getting nowhere with the kid, and none of it might matter now.

‘Name’s Lee Russon,’ David read from a sheaf of papers as he walked. ‘He’s a known vagrant, got a record for petty theft, been moved on from sleeping on university grounds a coupla times. He was pulled in for pickpocketing a student, name of Harvey. They found him covered in blood and with Beth’s purse hidden under his stuff and brought him in. He’s waiting for us in room twelve.’

‘This is bollocks and you know it.’ Carl walked into the Chief’s office without preamble. It had been three long weeks since the discovery of Bethany Connors’ body and they still didn’t have one single lead. The university had got fed up of the police hanging around, making the students uncomfortable, bringing their reputation down. Potential witnesses had clammed up, even the girl’s friends were becoming hostile. Now, after all this time, they just had him?

The Chief Inspector stepped backwards.

‘Carl, please, be reasonable. He confessed, for God’s sake. I’ve got people in every direction demanding we wrap this one up, and a blood-soaked junkie found with the girl’s purse confesses to killing her. What do you want me to do, say “Sorry, mate, there’s a detective in Homicide who doesn’t think you did it, so back off to the streets for you! Be a good chap and don’t kill any more students.” Come on.’

Carl gritted his teeth. ‘Her name was Beth, Bethany Louise Connors, and most junkie tramps don’t have the strength to wipe their own arses, let alone carry a body to the middle of nowhere and dump her.’

‘He says he stole a car.’

‘So where is it? Has he told you where she was killed? What he did with the murder weapon?’

‘He says—’

‘Oh fuck what he says!’ Carl exploded. ‘Do we have any evidence to back it up? You do remember
evidence
, don’t you, John? That stuff we used to use to prove a case?’

‘Look, Carl, I can see you’re angry. For some reason this case has struck a chord with you. It’s hard to accept that this girl, sorry, Beth, died for no reason. But sometimes that just happens. Sometimes there is no motive, no good explanation. Sometimes fucked-up people do fucked-up things. We just have to make sure those people go down for it. And he will, I promise. For a very long time.’

Chief Inspector John Barnes turned to walk out of his office, expecting Carl to follow him. ‘And what if I’m right?’ Carl called to his retreating back. ‘What if you’re putting away the wrong man?’

44

Bethany Connors was just twenty when she was abducted from outside her college, raped, murdered and her body dumped three miles away, sending shock waves through the entire university. She was a bright young talent, well on track for a first-class degree in art history, and had already been accepted by two prestigious art galleries for internship programmes. She had been due to meet her fiancé, Mark Webster, at St Chad’s student bar, and when she hadn’t arrived by 11.30 he had called her best friend, Jennifer Matthews, who alerted the supervisor at Trevelyan. Mrs Whitaker had called the police and a search had been mounted by fellow students. Bethany was found dead at 7 a.m. the next day – twelve hours after she had last been seen alive.

I now knew why my husband had never mentioned his relationship with Beth. According to the newspaper reports, he’d been questioned, but had never been made an official suspect owing to numerous corroborations to his alibi. Still, it was hardly a story one shared over dinner.

Trevelyan College campus is a short drive from the café, and we make it in silence. A group of giggling students direct us to the supervisor’s office and confirm that Mrs Whitaker is still in charge. I have no idea what we’re going to say to her and hope, as usual, that Nick has a plan and that we won’t be threatened with the police again as soon as we mention Beth’s name.

‘Hello there, can I help you?’ Mrs Whitaker is in her office. She is a small, homely-looking woman who I’m sure makes her students feel at ease in their scary new surroundings. I wonder if Beth felt safe here.

‘Mrs Whitaker, my name is Nick Whitely, and this is Susan Webster.’ We both shake her hand and I see no flicker of recognition at my name. ‘We were wondering if we’d be able to speak to you regarding a former student of yours.’

Her eyes narrow slightly but her face doesn’t lose its friendliness, yet. She motions for us to come in and closes the door behind us.

‘Please, take a seat. What brings you to Durham?’

Nick sits down and so do I, hoping this will make it harder for her to kick us out. I let Nick do the talking.

‘We’re in the middle of an investigation of sorts,’ he says, and I wait to see what story he is going to come up with this time.

‘An investigation? Are you with the police?’ She looks at me as though she seriously doubts I’m an officer of the law.

‘No, we’re not with the police; it’s an investigation of a personal nature. We’re here to ask about Bethany Connors.’

Her eyes narrow further and this time she looks distinctly less friendly.

‘You’re journalists,’ she states flatly.

‘Well yes, I am a journalist,’ Nick admits to my surprise, ‘but we’re not here for a story.’

Mrs Whitaker stands up, but Nick stays seated and I follow his lead.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything to say about what happened to Beth. I can’t help you.’

Nick nods. ‘Yes, I thought you might say that. Perhaps you could just hear us out? Then if you still don’t want to talk to us we’ll go quietly and leave you to your work.’ There is an open book on the table and it’s clear she wasn’t doing any work, but it’s a nice touch. He’s good at this.

After a pause, Mrs Whitaker shrugs. ‘OK,’ she replies. ‘Go ahead.’

Nick turns to me. ‘Perhaps you’d better take over. It is your story, after all.’

I’m shocked. Does he want me to tell the truth? I can’t think fast enough to lie and I look beseechingly at him. Mrs Whitaker is waiting patiently and Nick gives me a small nod. He wants me to be honest, and so I take a deep breath.

‘As Nick said, my name is Susan Webster,’ I begin nervously. ‘Four years ago I was married to a former Durham student, Mark Webster.’

Mrs Whitaker nods. ‘I knew Mark Webster and I know who you are, dear.’ There’s no judgement in her eyes. ‘I’d like to hear what you have to say, if you can manage it.’

I like her. She reminds me of my mother, a woman who always thought the best of people until they proved otherwise. I have a feeling her students rarely let her down; you can’t help but try to please people like her. I nod in reply.

‘Mark and I thought our family life was perfect,’ I continue. ‘Well, he seemed to, at least. I had no idea he had anything in his past he would want to hide from me, but I was hiding something from him. I wasn’t coping as well as I thought I should. I doubted my ability as a mother and at times I thought they would both be better off without me. When Dylan was twelve weeks old, he was smothered in his sleep and I was accused of his murder.’ Saying the words out loud hurts less now that I’m starting not to believe them, but it’s still difficult to tell people how I was a less than perfect new mum.

‘Go on.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I spent almost a year on remand, awaiting trial and was diagnosed with puerperal psychosis then found guilty of second-degree manslaughter. I was sent to Oakdale Psychiatric Facility, where I spent two years and eight months. I was released almost five weeks ago. Last Saturday I received this.’ I hand her the photograph with my son’s name on the back and watch as she studies it, watch her eyes widen like everyone else’s when she reads the words written on the back.

‘Believe me, I was as surprised as you. I went to Mr Whitely for help. I believed that as a journalist he might have details of the trial that I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for, and other knowledge that might have some bearing on my case – like the disappearance of the medical examiner who gave evidence at my trial. As it turns out, he’s been more help than I could have imagined.’ I glance fleetingly at Nick and plunge on.

‘When I went to confront my ex-husband about it, he claimed to know nothing. That’s when I found the photographs of Bethany Connors. I need to know whether what happened to Bethany has anything to do with what has happened to my son. I need to know whether my son is still alive.’

When I finish, I’m well aware that my eyes are glistening with tears and my hands are shaking. Mrs Whitaker gets to her feet again. It hasn’t worked, I’ve blown it. Nick relied on my honesty and I’ve messed it up.

‘I think we all need a drink and a more private setting. The students know where to find me if they need me. Why don’t you both follow me to my house and we can talk in comfort?’

I let out a sigh of relief and Nick smiles encouragingly. As we follow Mrs Whitaker across the campus to her house, his eyes look distant and I wonder what he’s thinking.