Unspoken (44 page)

‘From time to time? By my calculations, you’ve been around every street corner, behind every lamppost, spying on my wife every month for the last three decades.’ I don’t want him to see the veins on my neck stand out. I glance at my watch. If I’m too long, Julia will worry.

‘Is it so wrong to want to see your daughter grow up?’ He asks a question I can’t refute. ‘The photographs were all I had. When Mary and I . . . when Mary got pregnant, it was not an act of hate on my part I just wanted her so much; so much that it hurt.’ He pauses, reliving it. ‘I was stunned that it went to court and even more stunned to learn that she was pregnant. She was pregnant with my child.’

In my mind, the punch lands cleanly on the side of his face, toppling him back off his chair with a broken jaw. ‘You gave up your right to fatherhood when you raped Julia’s mother.’

‘I was eighteen. I was stupid and irresponsible, and at the time I truly believed Mary wanted me to . . . to . . .’ Carlyle actually has the guile to show remorse. His delusions don’t wash with me. ‘We’d been drinking, taking drugs. She said no but . . . but she always said no. That was the thing with Mary. Sometimes no meant yes.’ His head sinks into his hands. ‘I don’t know any more,’ he whispers.

‘Whatever Mary claimed about the . . . the sex, I wasn’t responsible for her wounds.’ Carlyle speaks freely, anticipating my questions. ‘After . . . after we’d . . . when it was over, I went back to the wedding party. It had stopped raining. I walked rather than take the boat across the lake as we’d done earlier. It was quicker. I assumed Mary would join me once she was dressed. Looking back, I shouldn’t have left her alone at night. I was drunk and didn’t realise how much she’d had. Combined with the drugs she’d taken . . .’ Carlyle wipes his hands down his face. ‘Mary’s perception of what happened is so different from what I intended. But I did not cut her afterwards. I swear I did not do that to her.’

‘Yes, I know you didn’t hurt Mary with that knife,’ I say. I have Carlyle’s full attention.

Slowly, slotting together the pieces, his eyes squinting, he shakes his head. ‘How did you know that Mary was hurt with a knife?’

‘I know more than that. I know it was your knife.’ I dodge the question. ‘And it was Mary that used it. She did it to herself.’

Shock seeps over Carlyle’s face – every molecule soaking up the implications. His mouth forms an open bow; an expression of realisation, understanding even. I continue. ‘She hated herself after what you did to her. She felt dirty, wretched, as if her life had ended. Nothing surprising there. She’d been raped.’ If there was a window in this pit I would be at it, staring out, gripping the sill to stop me thumping him.

‘I let her down,’ he says. ‘I can understand why she did it. At the trial, part of me believed I deserved to go to prison. Part of me even hoped I would.’

‘Oh you’ll be going to prison all right.’ I circle the table, my fists itching to take a swing. ‘For the kidnap of my daughter at the very least. And DI Hallet still has your card marked for Grace’s murder. Fine retribution, don’t you think?’

‘I did not kill Grace Covatta,’ he says. Back to the expressionless state. Carlyle banks his shoulders defiantly. ‘I was so sorry to learn of her death.’

I check the guard is out of earshot. ‘I doubt if—’

‘I saw Mary with Grace on the night she was attacked.’ He interrupts with flat, emotionless words. I let him speak. I need to know what he knows.

‘Grace was a patient of mine. A problem patient. She had trouble with her parents; she’d got herself pregnant. I’d diagnosed depression, too. She came to see me about once a month to begin with. I would listen and advise. She trusted me. But then her visits became more often – once a week, sometimes three times a week. Then she started calling me at home, insisting we meet. I was worried that it wouldn’t look good professionally. People at the practice were talking. I was stupid. I cared for the girl. I met with her a few times out of the surgery, and from that she assumed we had something going. In the end, it was her crush that killed her.

‘On the day she was attacked, Grace called me a dozen times, making a terrible nuisance of herself.’ Carlyle shakes his head at the memory. ‘I suggested she change doctors but she got hysterical and told me she loved me. She threatened to tell her parents that the baby was mine if I didn’t let her come to my house that night. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘And was the baby yours?’

‘Of course not,’ he replies indignantly. Against my better judgement, I believe him. ‘During that night, there was a terrible noise at my door. It was Grace. She was in a state. When she threatened me again, I explained that a simple paternity test would prove I wasn’t the father of her baby. I took her in for a short while but then offered to call her a taxi or phone her parents. She wanted none of it. She became hysterical again and took off into the night. She was wearing very little and the weather was atrocious. I was worried about her freezing to death and insisted she take my coat.’ Carlyle takes half a glassful of the water that’s set between us. He is sweating as if the story is a cross-country run.

‘But just as I was going back inside, I heard voices in the lane. I strained to see who was out there. Someone was with Grace. I walked to the end of the front path and listened. She was definitely talking to someone.’

‘Who was it?’ I have to know if he knows.

‘I couldn’t tell who was out there with Grace. It sounded like a woman’s voice. Then a vehicle started up. A big, noisy thing. When the lights came on, I could just make out the rear numberplate. It was unusual and easy to remember – an old-style or private plate. I ran after them, hoping to identify the driver. But I was too late. They drove off.’ Carlyle stops as the guard suddenly knocks and opens the door. I nod at him and he leaves again.

‘When Julia was showing me around Northmire Farm a few days later, I saw that same vehicle in the barn.’ Carlyle stands up and paces about. ‘I know it was Mary out there that night with Grace. It was her Land Rover I saw in the lane.’

I take a breath and a second’s thought. ‘Then why didn’t you tell the police all this when you were arrested the first time?’

Carlyle shakes his head. ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘I still love Mary. I’ve always loved her. If it had been necessary, I would have gone to prison instead of her. There was no way I was pointing the police in her direction. She’d suffered enough.’

‘Loved,’ I say quietly, and at first he doesn’t understand. ‘You
loved
Mary Marshall. She’s dead, David. She took an overdose last night.’ I can’t watch the landslide of pain on his face. I believe that somehow, in his sick and twisted way, he did love Mary; I believe that he is hurting as much as if I’d been told the same news about Julia.

‘Mary . . . is
dead
?’

I nod. ‘And so are her secrets. She’ll never tell now. And you will be going to prison for a few years on her behalf.’ It seems Mary got her revenge, even if it did cost a young girl’s life.

Carlyle sits down heavily as if his bones have dissolved. He doesn’t say another word, and that’s how I know that Mary’s secrets will be safe.