Finding Jennifer Jones (16 page)

“You could put
Alice
,” Kate said.

“Right…” Sara’s eyes stayed on Kate’s face for a few seconds. Then she looked down at the book.

“If it’s not too much trouble you could put my second name as well. Alice
Tully
.”

Sara stopped writing and looked up at her. She sat back in the chair, her shoulders dropping.

“Alice,” she said, softly. “Surely the last person in the world I expected to see.”

***

They went to the coffee bar that was in the bookshop. Sara bought the drinks and sat opposite her. Kate stared around the café. There were people there who had been in the talk. They were giving little smiles in Sara’s direction. Sara followed Kate’s eyes. They didn’t speak for a few moments. It was as if they were sizing each other up.

“I’ve had some surprises in my life but this beats them all,” Sara said. “What’s your name now?”

“Kate Rickman. I live along the coast from here. My university is here. I go back for my final year in September.”

Sara nodded, blowing on her coffee. She looked like she was considering her reply and Kate realised what she’d said:
I go back for my final year in September.
It was
as if she really meant to do it, as if she hadn’t made plans to run away.

“Is it OK if I call you Kate?”

“Sure.”

“Have you read the book?”

Kate shook her head.

“I hope my being here hasn’t upset you too much.”

“No.”

“I did extensive research for the book, Kate. I have shown it to people who work in the field of law and they say it’s a good addition to understanding why crimes like this happen.”

“Who did you show it to?”

“A couple of barrister friends of mine, a professor of criminology who I correspond with, a couple of probation officers who sometimes write articles on prison reform matters.”

“The police?”

She shook her head. “The police don’t see this kind of study as helpful to their role. They catch criminals. They’re not interested in
why
they did something. That’s for other people to sort out.”

“So the book, for you, wasn’t just about making money, making a name for yourself?”

“This book hasn’t made me much money. Nor will it. I did it because I was gripped by the case. I wanted to understand.”

“And write about it in your newspaper.”

“It’s how I used to make my living. It was my job.”

“You don’t do it any more?”

“I work for television news now.”

“Television? A promotion? You got a promotion after ruining my life?”

“No, I won’t accept that. I wanted to write a serious piece about you which did not reveal your identity. Someone in my office saw a way to make a few quid and they released the information to the tabloids. I am very sorry for what happened, but I won’t take the blame.”

Kate exhaled and rolled her eyes. Sara looked uncomfortable. She seemed to be on the brink of responding but chewed at her lip instead.

“I did my best to protect you…”

“If you’d never come in the first place –”

“Then I would never have written this book, and I happen to believe that this book will lend some understanding to what happened at Berwick Waters.”

“I know what happened there.”

“It’s not all about you, Kate.”

“Course not. Michelle and her family…”

Whatever righteousness Kate managed to summon up it was always deflated by the mention of the Livingstones. Michelle’s death hovered over her, an albatross, ready to pluck, to scratch.

“I wasn’t just referring to the Livingstone family. This crime had wider reverberations. If you read my book you would see. It affected the lives of many people. The children at the school you went to needed bereavement counselling; the head teacher was admonished for not forwarding records to social services and had to retire early. Your social worker was suspended for not making contact after you moved to Berwick. The local police were ticked off for ignoring reports from neighbours that your mother was working as a prostitute and using her house to entertain men.”

Kate flinched at the word. “My mother was not a prostitute. She was a model.”

Sara went on as if Kate hadn’t spoken. “Lucy Bussell’s family were hit badly. Her brothers had the worst of it. Even though they were not at Berwick Waters and the incident had nothing to do with them it was their possessions that were found at the lake; the
weapon
belonged to them. Their survival games, their activities, were viewed as strange aberrant behaviour. The press acted as though
they
should take some blame. The brothers foolishly spoke to journalists and showed them their belongings, the military stuff. They boasted a little and were treated like minor celebrities but really they were just being judged, tried and convicted of being oddballs.”

Kate frowned. She had never liked the Bussell brothers.

“And if they’d not had their things up at the lake…” Sara said.

“There would have been no weapon.”

Sara shrugged. Kate tried hard to remember. If there had been no baseball bat might she have picked up something else?

“Lucy Bussell went into foster care and so did her brother Joe. Separately. The older brother, Stevie, was unemployed and lived in a hostel. When Mrs Bussell was well enough she and Lucy and Joe lived together as a family. Stevie joined them. They lived like that for a few years. Joe left college and got some apprenticeship work but then, months later, inexplicably, he committed suicide.”

Kate sat forward, alarmed. “Because of what happened at the lake?”

“I don’t think so. I spoke to Mrs Bussell when I was researching the book. This took place two years ago. A long time after the business at the lake. Mrs Bussell said he was depressed.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No reason why you should.”

Kate pictured Joe as she remembered him in Berwick. He’d been fourteen or so then, big for his age, always wearing army combats. His brother Stevie was much older but smaller and leaner. They were a nasty pair, she remembered. Now she might view them as idiots but as a ten-year-old girl there had been something
dangerous
about them. She wanted to ask how Joe had committed suicide but it seemed prurient.

“So, you see, the book is about the wider effects of the crime.”

Kate frowned. “Are you saying that these things happened because of me?”

“No. Cause and effect are never easy to pin down. The whole thing didn’t start with Michelle’s death. Maybe it started much earlier. Maybe Michelle’s death was as much a result of other things as was that of Joe Bussell. That’s the kind of stuff I’ve written in the book, Kate. Why not read it? Before you judge me.”

Sara’s phone beeped. She looked at it. Then she pulled her bag off the floor and dropped it in.

“The Livingstones moved to Scotland. They live just outside Edinburgh. They had another child, I believe, a boy,” Sara said even though Kate hadn’t asked. “I have to go now, but here’s my card… You can call me whenever or email me. Best to use your new name. If I can ever be of any help to you, Kate, I will.”

She placed a card on the table. It was dark pink and had the words
Sara Wright, Journalist
in bold italics. Kate picked it up. Underneath was her address
, 1, North Street, Angel, Islington.
The word
Angel
made her think of churches and graveyards.

“Goodbye, Kate.”

She watched Sara walk away. She put the card in her bag and then continued to drink her lukewarm coffee. She thought about Joe Bussell who hadn’t been in her mind for eight years. Had she ever, once, thought about him? She doubted it. Now he was dead. And Lucy, in her letter, hadn’t mentioned a word about it.

Twenty-two

When the tourist information office closed on Saturday afternoon Kate flopped down in a chair exhausted. Grace, who still seemed to have lots of energy, was tidying up the leaflet displays. Moments later Aimee emerged from the staff area holding a tray on which there were three elaborate cupcakes. Kate couldn’t help but smile when she saw them. They were small works of art. Swirls of icing topped with what looked like mini marshmallows and silver balls. Grace clapped excitedly.

“This is to say goodbye, Kate,” Aimee said. “You’ve been really hard-working and we’ve loved having you here, isn’t that right, Grace?”

“It certainly is. We’ll miss you!”

“And here’s a small gift from Grace and me!”

Aimee held a package out in her hands. Kate took it, feeling embarrassed.

“Open it!” Aimee said, picking up her cupcake and taking a bite.

It was a mug. It felt like porcelain and had a curved side like a tulip. It was a dusky pink colour. Kate threaded her fingers through the handle.

“It’s great,” she said.

“And when you’re back from camping, come in and have a cup of tea with us. We won’t be so busy then and you can tell us all about it.”

“I will,” she said, looking away, feeling emotional all of a sudden.

“When are you off to Exmoor?” Aimee said, pulling at the paper encasing her cupcake.

“Tomorrow morning. I’m meeting my friends at Taunton. One of them has a car.”

“Two weeks in a tent!”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Rather you than me. I like a nice hotel. En-suite facilities. If I had the money I’d go to Spain tomorrow!”

Aimee’s eyes had a faraway look as though she was imagining herself on a plane. Then she seemed to collect herself. She pointed to the plate.

“Eat your cake,” she said. “It cost a small fortune!”

On her way home Kate stopped at a cash machine. The sun was shining but there was a chill breeze coming off the sea. She queued behind a group of teenage boys in patterned shorts and flip flops. They were talking about the evening ahead, the bands who were playing at the harbour as part of the bank holiday weekend festivities. One of the boys was swigging from a bottle of beer. Another was staring at the screen of his mobile phone, complaining
Every five minutes my mum texts me! It’s driving me nuts!
She watched them walk off, one pushing the other so that he had to step off the pavement onto the road. Some teenage girls across the way squealed and shouted to them and then continued to do so across the slow-moving cars.

Kate withdrew cash and pushed it into her back pocket. As she walked up the incline towards her road the noise of the town grew quieter. Now that she was away from the seafront she felt warm. Gulls were squawking, swooping from roof to roof, a couple on the ground tearing at a bag that they’d plucked from a rubbish bin. Turning back she looked at the sea and could see the ferry making its way out of the harbour. The water glistened in the late afternoon sun.

She felt an aching sense of loss. She had lived here for six months and in Exeter for eighteen months. She loved being near the sea. In the winter it was quiet, the beach looking vast and empty; the people walking their dogs seeming tiny and lost in the landscape. Sometimes the sea looked solid and hard, as if you could walk on it. Then there were days when it appeared to roll from side to side and other times when it broke apart with creamy cracks. In the summer it always seemed tame, dotted with boats and jet skis, speedboats, wind surfers and swimmers.

She would miss seeing it every day.

She liked the house she lived in with Sally and Ruth and even Robbie who never seemed to go home and was always frying an egg or making toast when she wanted to do something in the kitchen.

She had a boyfriend, no matter that he carried a torch for someone else. He felt something for her she could tell. And she felt easy being with him.

Now she was going to leave it all behind.

Back at home she moved around her room, wearily checking that she’d packed the right things. She pushed the cash she’d withdrawn into the front zip compartment of her rucksack where the rest of her money was. Then she slipped her box of antidepressants alongside it. On the floor was her holdall in which she’d packed her laptop and papers and the books she wanted to take with her. The rest of her belongings would stay here until Sally and Ruth decided what to do with them. Maybe Julia Masters would arrange to have them boxed up.

She felt weak all of a sudden, her legs rubbery. She wanted to lie down but there was a knock on the door.

“Hi!” Sally poked her head in. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Sally sat on the corner of Kate’s bed. She looked at the packed bags.

“All done?”

“Mostly.”

“You sure you don’t want to come to this party tonight? It was an open invitation and all you’d need is a bottle of wine. Lots of interesting people there.”

“I’m going down to the beach with Jimmy and his housemates.”

“It’ll be cold!”

“I’ll dress up warm, Mum.”

“Oh, don’t. Why am I always trying to
mother
people. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.”

“How was the last day at work?”

“It was good, but I’m glad it’s all over.”

“Not long till college starts again. Almost as soon as you’re back from camping.”

“I know,” Kate said, fiddling with her rucksack.

Sally’s eye settled on her holdall that was on the floor.

“You’re taking a lot of stuff with you!”

“Just warm stuff. It’s cold on the moor. That’s what my friends say.”

“Fancy spending two weeks out in the elements. How will you manage all this? Do you want me to come to the station with you in the morning?”

“No, thanks – I’ll be all right!”

“OK, OK, I’m leaving before I tell you to brush your teeth before you go to bed. Come in and say goodbye to me in the morning. Doesn’t matter how early.”

The door closed behind her.

One day, in a couple of weeks, Sally would walk into her room concerned because she hadn’t come back from her camping holiday. She’d look among her things and wonder what had happened to her. She would most definitely go to the police and inform them about a missing person. Then they would discover that there had been no camping trip.

Sally would feel cheated, lied to.