Three Little Lies Page 13

  And Olivia – does she genuinely not know where he is, or was she lying to me? What about Tony – has he seen Daniel? It could have been Tony upstairs at the corner house that day, but if so, why didn’t he come down? I can’t face going there again; can’t cope with more hostility from Olivia. There is one person, though, who might know something: Nicholas. I have no idea how much contact he has had with Daniel since the trial. Did he visit Daniel in prison? Did anyone?

  I go to Nicholas’s page on LinkedIn. It’s a Monday, shortly after 2 p.m. – he’s probably at his desk at AVI Solutions. There’s no part of me that wants to pick up the phone and call him – in fact, it makes my skin itch to think about it – but I keep Sasha firmly in my mind: her face, her strength, her ability to make me laugh even in the deepest despair. I am doing this for her. I pick up the phone.

  ‘AVI Solutions, can I help you?’ She sounds bored, watching the clock hands as they creep unbearably slowly around to 5 p.m.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Nicholas Monkton, please?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  Oh shit, I was so busy psyching myself up, I didn’t think about this. I don’t want him to refuse to speak to me.

  ‘Sally… er… Wright.’ I pluck a name from the air.

  There’s a few seconds silence, and then a man’s voice says, ‘Nicholas Monkton.’ He is peremptory, as if I’ve interrupted him in the middle of something important.

  For a moment, I think I’ve got the wrong person. He sounds so different. But his LinkedIn page is still open in front of me. It’s definitely him.

  ‘Hi, Nicholas.’

  ‘Yes? How can I help you?’ he says impatiently.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry, it’s not Sally Wright.’

  As I say it, somebody asks him a question on the other end. It’s a woman, and I imagine the bored receptionist poking her head round the door, telling him his next appointment is here.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ he says to the woman, and turns back to the phone. ‘What? Sorry, who is this?’

  I am tempted to blurt out something about a wrong number and put the phone down, but I can’t, I mustn’t. I force myself to speak.

  ‘It’s Ellen Mackinnon.’

  Silence echoes down the phone line.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Daniel,’ I go on, stumbling over my words now I’ve started. ‘And Sasha. She’s gone missing, and Karina said she thought she’d seen Daniel in London, although apparently she sees him everywhere when he’s not there, and —’

  ‘Hang on!’

  I stop, out of words anyway.

  ‘Can you give me a minute?’ he says, and for a moment I think he means me, but he’s talking to whoever’s in his office. ‘Sorry, Ellen, you’ve taken me a bit by surprise here. I can’t really talk now, I’m at work.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Could we talk later?’

  He doesn’t speak, and I wait. He owes me nothing.

  ‘OK, do you want to meet for a drink tonight?’ he says. ‘Presuming you’re still in London?’

  ‘Yes, that would be great. I live in Clapham. I’ve got to be at work at seven, though, in Wandsworth. What time do you finish?’

  ‘I won’t be able to get out till around five. I could pop over to you for an hour, if it’s easier? It’s on my way home, anyway. You don’t want to come into town for an hour and have to go back again.’

  I hesitate. ‘OK.’ It will make it easier for me, it’s true.

  I give him my address and put the phone down, drawing a long, juddery breath. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him since New Year’s Eve 2006, and it’s plunged me back in time. I feel eighteen again, and not in a good way.

  A few hours later, I watch from the kitchen window as he strides briskly along the pavement with the air of a man who knows exactly where he is going, both geographically and in life. There is no trace of the diffidence that dogged him in his youth. Although they were alike, Daniel was always the better-looking one, but Nicholas has grown into his looks, the heavy features, too much on a teenager, striking on a grown man. I wonder how Daniel has fared as he’s grown older, what those years in prison have done to his dark good looks.

  The door goes and I buzz him up, waiting for him to emerge out of the gloom. When he does, he’s taller than I remember, broader. We halt, uncertain how we’re going to greet each other, settling on an over-long handshake, topped off with a self-conscious kiss on the cheek. He follows me inside.

  ‘Nice flat,’ he says politely, looking around. ‘Is it… just you?’

  ‘No… I live with Sasha.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know you two were still close.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why…’ My face twists with the effort of not crying.

  He looks alarmed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s been a tough few days. I haven’t slept much… Can I get you a drink? Or a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d love a glass of wine if you’ve got one,’ he says, looking relieved to be back on firmer ground. ‘Any colour will do.’

  I go into the kitchen and pour us both a glass of wine. When I come out he’s still standing awkwardly in the hall, looking at a collage of photos of me and Sasha together, taken over the years.

  ‘Oh!’ I say, coming to an abrupt halt, wine slopping on to my hand.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure where to go,’ he says.

  ‘Come through here,’ I say, leading him into the lounge. I’m reminded that he was always the more gauche of the two, and that I liked him the better for it.

  He sits down straight-backed on the sofa, looking around him as if he’s drinking in every detail. I sit on the armchair across from him.

  ‘So… you said Sasha’s gone missing?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Three days ago. She didn’t come home from work on Friday and no one’s seen her since. I went to see Karina today and —’

  ‘Karina Barton?’ he breaks in. ‘My God, I haven’t seen her for years, not since… you know. How is she?’

  ‘Not great. I don’t think she ever got over it. What happened.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose she did,’ he says grimly. ‘Fucking Daniel.’

  ‘That was what I wanted to talk to you about,’ I say, grabbing my chance. ‘Karina said she’d seen Daniel, in London, the week before last. I thought he was living in Scotland, though? Didn’t he go there, after he came out?’ The questions tumble out in a rush, my words tripping over each other.

  ‘Yes, he’s been living in Scotland,’ Nicholas says. ‘As far as I know, he’s still there. But I haven’t been in touch with him for years, Ellen. I wouldn’t have a clue where he is or what he’s up to. For all I know he could be living next door.’

  My face must have given away my horror, because he puts his hands up as if I’m waving a gun in his face.

  ‘Hey, it was just a figure of speech. Sorry, I didn’t mean to… God, Ellen. I guess it’s not only Karina who’s not over it.’ He presses the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea.’

  No idea about what? I want to say. No idea that your brother would still be scaring the shit out of me more than ten years on from violently raping my friend? No idea that the thought of him being back in the country makes me want to hide away and never come out? No idea that the repercussions of what happened in your house on New Year’s Eve 2006 would still be reverberating through my life?

  ‘That’s OK,’ I mutter instead, taking a big gulp of wine. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Five years ago, when he got out. He lived at home for a bit – at Mum and Dad’s, I mean. I tried to avoid him, to be honest. I had my own place by then, so I stayed away, but I did see him once or twice.’

  ‘Your mum didn’t tell me that.’

  I think of Olivia, wielding the washing-up brush like a weapon.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Mum?’ He sounds suspicious, angry.

  ‘Yes, I went to see her. Sorry, should I… I thought she might know something, might have
heard from Daniel. I… I’m scared, Nicholas. That he might be back; that he’s… taken Sasha.’

  ‘What makes you think that, though?’ He sounds genuinely confused.

  ‘Well, where is she, then? She’s disappeared off the face of the earth at the exact time when your brother is apparently back in London, and nobody except me seems to give a damn! He wrote to us, Nicholas, after he got out of prison. Threatening letters. Accusing us of lying at the trial. If he hasn’t got her, where is she?’

  Nicholas looks at me strangely, as if he knows he has to tell me something unpleasant, something he can’t believe I don’t already know.

  ‘But Ellen, don’t you think… I mean, isn’t it typical of Sasha to do something like this? Take off without telling anyone? It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

  ‘I know,’ I say, careful not to lose my temper this time. ‘But I can’t believe she would go without telling me. Not now.’

  ‘But…’ he spreads his hands helplessly, ‘after… everything that happened, she disappeared on us. She lived with your mum and dad, didn’t she, for a while? And then she went off to university and Mum never saw her again. She can… I don’t know, cut people out. She had this ability to switch off her feelings if they were no longer… appropriate. Maybe it’s because of her mum.’

  ‘What do you mean? What about her mum?’

  ‘Oh. Do you still…? I thought you and her were close?’

  ‘What do you mean? We were… We are.’

  He slides a finger inside the cuff of his shirt and fiddles with the button. ‘Mum said it was up to her to tell people, so we never… I thought you would know. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Please, just tell me.’ A sick feeling starts in my stomach and spreads upwards. I swallow it back down.

  ‘OK… What has Sasha told you about her mum?’

  ‘That she was a model and they lived all over the world, and her mum wanted her to have some stability and get her A levels, so she came to live with you. She lives in America.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s what she’s told you?’

  ‘Yes… What do you mean? I figured they don’t get on as they don’t see much of each other, but Sasha obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, so I’ve never asked.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it odd that you’ve never met her?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got lots of friends whose parents I’ve never met and they don’t even live abroad.’ Rachel, for example, I’ve never met hers. I try to stem the whisper in my head that says Rachel and I are nowhere near as close as Sasha and me.

  ‘She doesn’t live abroad, Ellen.’

  ‘What?’ I slide my hands under me, trying to stop myself biting the skin around my nails.

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his face looming towards mine. ‘She’s a druggie. Homeless, probably, although no one’s heard from her for years. She might even be dead for all we know.’

  The room swims around me and I close my eyes for a second.

  ‘Look, Ellen, I’m sorry to be laying all this on you. I can see it’s unexpected. But you might as well know. Sasha’s never lived in America. She didn’t come to live with us because her mum wanted her to get her A levels. She came because her mum couldn’t look after her any more. She… hurt Sasha.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Mum knew that was the story Sasha told everyone, and she let her – it wouldn’t have helped for Mum to have barged in and told everyone it was a lie. She thought if it helped Sasha, it wasn’t hurting anyone. Mum didn’t even tell us the full story at the time, although we knew what Sasha was telling people about Alice – that’s Sasha’s mum – wasn’t true. Mum made us swear not to tell anyone. It’s only recently that Mum told me the details. Alice was her best friend when they were younger, but she went off the rails. Mum had stayed in touch, and she saw a lot of them when Sasha was a baby, helped her out with babysitting and stuff. But then Alice went right off the radar, living in some dodgy squat in north London, and after that they moved up north somewhere, Hebden Bridge, I think, and Mum lost touch. The year Sasha came to live with us, Mum had got a call from Alice, saying social services had taken Sasha away from her. Sasha was fifteen, so she couldn’t get her own place, and Alice didn’t want her to go into foster care.’

  My entire world, which since Sasha’s disappearance has been spinning wildly on its axis, flies off into outer space, leaving me utterly disorientated.

  ‘What happened? Why was Sasha taken away from her?’

  ‘Do you remember her face, when she came to live with us?’

  ‘Yes.’ The warmth of the sun on my forearms, the rough brick wall pressing into the back of my thighs, the pungent tang of blue nail varnish, the thud my heart gave as her golden hair swung round to reveal the scar on her cheek.

  ‘Did you never ask her how she did it?’

  ‘She said she did it on a piece of broken glass. Forgot her keys one day and had to break a window in her own house to get in.’

  ‘That wasn’t true. Alice did it. She was drunk, or on something, and she was flailing around and somehow… accidentally pushed Sasha, who fell and hit her face on the corner of the fireplace.’

  ‘Accidentally?’

  ‘Quite. That was Sasha’s story, and Alice’s, but I don’t think social services bought it. Even Alice realised it wasn’t working out, so she asked Olivia if Sasha could stay with us for a while.’

  ‘For a while?’

  ‘Yes. Sasha was supposed to be going back, but Alice just… disappeared. She called a bit, at first, to speak to Sasha and Mum. But the calls petered out, and one day Mum rang her at the house where she was staying and the bloke who answered the phone said she’d gone, no one knew where. She didn’t have a mobile phone, so that was it. Mum tried social services, and the police, but no one was able to trace her. Mum never heard from her again.

  ‘When was all this going on?’ I try to remember the times Sasha spoke about her mum – what she told us and when.

  ‘It was about six months after she came to live with us that she last heard from Alice.’

  ‘But this flat… Sasha owns it outright. She said her mum bought it for her.’

  ‘I know Sasha’s grandmother – Alice’s mother – left Sasha some money in some kind of trust. I think she got it when she was eighteen. Maybe she used that. So you pay her rent, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ If you can call it that. It’s a paltry sum compared to what she could get renting it out on the open market. I’ve always thought she did it as a favour, because she knows how little I earn. But I wonder now if she has some other reason for wanting me around. If she needs me as much as I need her. More, maybe.

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ All those times we pressed her about her mum, Karina and I, wanting to meet this elegant model, who in my head resembled a mixture of Jerry Hall and Cindy Crawford. I can’t believe now I didn’t think it odd that I never saw a picture of her.

  ‘She was embarrassed,’ says Nicholas. ‘She didn’t want anyone to know, to judge her by her mum’s actions. She wanted a fresh start, I suppose.’

  There’s a dull ache inside, a pain that’s partly for me, for the lies I’ve been told. But it’s for her too, for what she’s had to endure, what she’s had to hide.

  ‘Maybe that’s what she wants now – another fresh start?’ he goes on.

  ‘Not without telling me,’ I say stubbornly, more to convince myself than anything else. ‘You don’t understand. You haven’t seen her for years, and yet you waltz in here and tell me what she’s like, what she’s done. You don’t know her. You don’t know her at all.’ Heat rises inside me, staining my skin red.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been the bearer of unpleasant news,’ says Nicholas, draining his wine and standing up. ‘I’d better be going.’

  I walk with him to the front door. There’s no question of a handshake or a kiss this time, but as I’m closing the door behind him, he turns.
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br />   ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he says. ‘Maybe I don’t know her. But you know what, Ellen? Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do either.’

  And with that he is gone, leaving me alone again in the flat I share with Sasha – my best friend, who has been there all my adult life. Yes, she has dipped in and out at times, but she has never before felt as she does now: a phantom, twisting and hiding as I reach for her, forever slipping out of my grasp.

  Olivia

  July 2007

  ‘Miss Mackinnon, on the night of the thirty-first of December 2006, when you saw Miss Barton and Daniel Monkton kissing and touching each other, Miss Barton appeared to be a willing participant, didn’t she?’ Daniel’s barrister smooths an imaginary out-of-place hair away from her forehead.