Three Little Lies Read online

  ‘Yes, I’ve already said that. But that doesn’t mean —’

  ‘Just answer the questions please, Miss Mackinnon.’ She fixes Ellen with a gimlet stare, and I cheer inside.

  ‘Yes,’ Ellen says. She’s getting quieter and quieter, and I’m glad.

  ‘When you saw the two of them heading for Daniel Monkton’s room just after ten p.m., was Mr Monkton pulling or forcing Miss Barton in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hear her say she didn’t want to go upstairs with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t in the room when the alleged rape took place, were you?’

  ‘No, of course not —’

  ‘And you didn’t see Daniel Monkton inflicting any injuries on Miss Barton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you saw Miss Barton running past you at the party at around eleven p.m., so upset, did you not see any blood on her, or notice any scratches or other injuries?’

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘Just answer the questions, please.’ She smiled with her mouth only, her eyes watchful.

  ‘No, I didn’t notice anything like that.’

  ‘So, you do not have any reason to believe, any evidence at all – apart from what she told you after the event – that Daniel raped Miss Barton, do you?’

  ‘Well…’ She looks around, as if for help.

  ‘Do you, Miss Mackinnon?’

  ‘No,’ she says to the floor.

  ‘So is it possible that Miss Barton and Daniel had entirely consensual sex, and that the injuries that you saw on her thighs later were actually inflicted after she had left Daniel’s room, either by another party, or by Miss Barton herself?’

  ‘But why would she —’

  ‘Is it possible, Miss Mackinnon?’

  She looks down at her hands, one clasped around the other to hold them still.

  ‘Yes, it’s possible,’ she says.

  There are a few beats of silence. We all wait.

  ‘I want to take you back to the day in mid-December, the day you say you heard Miss Barton and Daniel having sex in Daniel’s bedroom.’

  Ellen’s face is composed, as if she feels more certain here. A wave of unexpected nausea rises in me. I think myself reasonably worldly. I know what teenagers get up to, but the thought of these conversations, these desires, bubbling under the surface of those candlelit evenings in the kitchen of my house makes me question everything. No, not everything; I mustn’t question Daniel’s innocence. I can’t, or I will be lost.

  ‘Did you at any point come out of the room you were in – Sasha’s bedroom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see Miss Barton and Daniel at any point?’

  ‘No. After they’d… finished, they both left the house. I don’t know where they went.’

  ‘Mr Monkton’s position has always been that he had never had any sort of sexual contact with Karina Barton before the night of the thirty-first of December 2006. Can you be absolutely sure that it was Daniel that Miss Barton was with?’

  I can’t be certain but I think a shadow of doubt crosses her face, mixed with something else. Fear?

  ‘Yes,’ she says firmly.

  ‘What did you hear Daniel say?’

  ‘I… I couldn’t make it out, exactly. I —’

  ‘So you couldn’t hear him clearly enough to know what he was saying, yet you are certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was Daniel Monkton that you heard having sex with Miss Barton?’

  ‘They were in his bedroom!’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry to repeat myself but I believe this to be an important point: you could neither see him, nor hear him clearly enough to make out what he was saying?’

  Ellen glances around, as if looking for support, but none is forthcoming. The jury stare implacably, their faces unhelpfully blank. She looks back at the barrister, incredulous.

  ‘I know it was him. I recognised his voice.’

  ‘Answer the question, please. Could you see Daniel Monkton, or hear him clearly enough to know what he was saying?’

  She twists her hands into her hair and then lowers them quickly, conscious of the advice she has no doubt received to appear calm.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘But —’

  ‘Thank you,’ the barrister cuts her off smoothly. ‘You also said you heard Miss Barton say, “You’re hurting me”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if you couldn’t hear well enough to make out what the man in the bedroom was saying, how can you be sure that you heard that correctly?’

  ‘He was speaking quietly. She said it louder.’

  ‘You didn’t hear Miss Barton asking him to stop, did you? You didn’t hear her say no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So is it possible that whoever was in there with Miss Barton was indeed doing something that was hurting her, but inadvertently? Perhaps he was lying on her hair, or squashing her? And when she told him that he was hurting her, he remedied the situation? Is that possible, Miss Mackinnon?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but —’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Mackinnon. No further questions.’

  I can tell as she descends the steps from the witness box that her legs are barely carrying her. I try to stem the ceaseless flow of questions running through my mind, the fears, the dark suspicions. I must concentrate on Daniel, on being here for him. Standing straight in the dock, he has his mask firmly in place, his skin perhaps a little greyer than it was earlier. He tries to look straight ahead, but at the last moment before Ellen steps down and out of his eyeline, he turns. The pain and distress that I have seen on occasion over the past few days have been extinguished. All that is left is pure, unadulterated fury, and for a second I wonder what the hell Ellen Mackinnon has done.

  Ellen

  September 2017

  ‘Did you know about Sasha’s mum?’

  ‘What about her?’ Leo sounds confused, as well he might be given that I’ve launched into my questioning with no preamble. He’d been reluctant when I called to ask him to meet me for a drink in my local pub, the Forresters, but was too polite to refuse.

  ‘That she wasn’t a model. She didn’t live in America. She was an addict. Sasha was taken away from her by social services.’

  ‘What? No, I had no idea. Who told you that?’

  ‘Nicholas. I saw him last night. That’s why I thought you might have known. You were good friends with him, weren’t you? Back then?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so. But he never said. Poor Sasha.’

  ‘I know. She never said a word to me.’

  My relief at having somebody sympathise with Sasha rather than accusing her of something is short-lived.

  ‘Doesn’t this make you think, though,’ he says cautiously, ‘that you don’t know her as well as you think? Can you be absolutely sure she hasn’t taken herself off?’

  I sip my drink, unable to let the words pass my lips, the words that admit the possibility that he is right.

  ‘You’ve still got her on a pedestal, haven’t you?’ he says, but kindly. ‘After all these years. Even now, when you know she’s been lying to you.’

  ‘She was only sixteen when she said that about her mum, though,’ I say, desperate for an explanation that doesn’t hurt. ‘We’d just met. I can understand why she wouldn’t want to tell me the truth.’

  ‘Later, though? When you became so close. Why not then?’

  ‘It’s hard, when you’ve told a lie,’ I say slowly. ‘To go back on it. It’s much easier to carry on with it. And the longer it goes on, the harder it gets.’

  ‘How do you know she wasn’t lying to you about other things, then? If you had no idea about this, can you honestly say you believe that was the only thing she lied about?’

  ‘What is your problem? Why are you so keen for me to stop looking for her?’ I’m aware that I’m being overly harsh on him, but I can’t allow myself to believe she’s been lying to me. I can’t go there.

  �
��I’m not!’ The couple at the next table look at us, and he lowers his voice. ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt, I suppose.’

  ‘Thanks.’ There are hot tears pressing behind my eyes. I don’t want him to see them fall. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come,’ I say, standing up, my drink unfinished. ‘Silly idea. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Stay and finish your drink at least.’

  ‘No, I’d better go. I’ve got to get to work anyway.’

  I can feel his puzzled stare on my back as I thread my way between the tables. I’ve nearly made it to the door when someone says my name and there’s a hand on my arm.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Rachel.’ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see her here – the Forresters is our local, we’re in here all the time. She’s texted me a couple of times over the last few days, asking if I’ve got any news, but we’ve not spoken since Saturday.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her eyes roam over the tables, looking to see who I’ve been with.

  ‘Oh, I was meeting an old friend for a drink. No one you know.’

  Her gaze halts on the table I’ve recently vacated and her eyes widen. ‘Were you with Leo?’

  ‘Yes.’ A hollow feeling creeps into my stomach. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s an old friend of Sasha’s, isn’t he? He was at a party we were at, about a month ago. I met him there.’

  ‘Oh. You never said.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen you since then, have I? Anyway, I hardly spoke to him. It wouldn’t have been worth mentioning.’ I get the sense she’s backtracking, trying not to give away her emotions, whatever they are.

  ‘Did he and Sasha… spend much time together?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not even sure she knew he was going to be there.’ She looks quickly over at him again.

  ‘Have the police spoken to you?’ I ask. I gave them her details on Saturday.

  ‘Yes, they called. Not sure I was much help, though. Do you want a drink or…?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve got to be at work soon.’ Not for an hour or so, in fact, but I hadn’t anticipated that my meeting with Leo would be so brief.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Am I imagining it or does she seem relieved? ‘Let me know if you hear anything about Sasha, won’t you? Anything at all?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  At a loose end, I decide to walk to work instead of getting the bus. It’s still light and there are plenty of people around. I shouldn’t feel vulnerable, but I start to get the feeling someone is watching me. I don’t have any specific reason to think it, but once the idea is in my head, it’s hard to shift. There’s a shortcut across a small park, and at the gate, I stand aside to let out a mother clutching a grubby, wailing toddler with one hand and struggling to push a buggy containing a baby, also screaming, with the other. She smiles her thanks through gritted teeth. The last families are leaving the brightly coloured play park, and as they do, a group of teenagers, smoking and drinking cans of cheap beer, climb over the perimeter fence, the girls climbing on to the roundabout and screaming as the boys spin them around.

  I cut across the middle of a large area of scrubby grass beyond the play park. On hot days, groups of friends gather here for picnics and illegal barbecues, but today there’s no one around apart from a homeless man asleep under a tree, surrounded by tatty carrier bags. Every now and then, I snatch a look behind me, but there’s no one there. The last part of the shortcut is through a small wooded area. It’s so quiet in here, the traffic just a distant hum. A twig snaps in the undergrowth and I can’t help it, my feet speed up and then I’m running, my armpits prickling with sweat, heart pounding, bag banging against my hip. I take another look behind me as I turn the corner on to the path that will lead me back to the street, and as I do so I run smack into someone. I give a half-scream, and he takes me by the shoulders.

  ‘Hey, Ellen, are you OK?’

  It’s Matthew from work.

  ‘Has something happened?’ He looks behind me. I still can’t speak, my chest heaving. ‘Ellen, what is it?’

  I force myself to take a long, slow breath. ‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘I spooked myself walking through the woods.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ I plaster a smile to my face.

  ‘All right. Well… I’ll walk you back to the studio,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  I don’t argue, and Matthew distracts me with his usual enquiries about Sasha, insisting on taking me right to the door and waiting until I’ve been buzzed into the building. It’s not until I’m ensconced in the studio, headphones on and ready to play my first piece, that I realise I’ve had Simply Classical on all day today and Matthew wasn’t presenting. He lives way across town, so what on earth was he doing here?

  Ellen

  December 2005

  ‘Take a book, that’s my advice,’ said Mum. ‘I had a boyfriend years ago who thought it’d impress me to take me to the opera. Oh my God, it was the longest night of my life.’ She flipped up the lid of the bin and chucked the teabags in. ‘I had literally no idea what was happening, and it seemed to go on and on…’ She trailed off as she handed me my tea and saw my stony face.

  ‘Sorry, love. I’m sure it’ll be good.’

  ‘Olivia’s one of the most well respected sopranos in the country, Mum. It’s not some am-dram production in a village hall. This is at the Barbican.’

  ‘I know, I know. Like I said, I’m sure it’ll be very good.’

  I refused the proffered cup of tea and swept from the room, sensing Mum’s worried gaze on my back. She was doing my head in. She didn’t understand what life was like at the Monktons’. Her and Dad had no interest in music, or politics, or books. Their conversation revolved around people they knew, what was on the telly, what room in the house to do up next. It was all so bloody boring. The other night at Sasha’s, they’d had this journalist over for dinner and they’d all got embroiled in a long debate about the Iraq war. I couldn’t get a handle on exactly what was what, or who I agreed with, but it was electrifying to be in the middle of all this passion. To be around people who cared about stuff, and who made their opinions known. Sasha had rolled her eyes at me during one particularly heated exchange, and Daniel and Nicholas were having their own private argument at their corner of the table, but I’d ignored Sasha and immersed myself in the words and ideas that flew back and forth across the kitchen.

  Up in my room, I flipped through the hangers in my wardrobe. What did people wear to classical concerts? Olivia had her own style, of course: bold colours, lots of floaty layers, dramatic jewellery. Sasha, too, had an innate ability to dress in a way that was completely unlike anyone else, and yet was somehow perfect for the occasion. I couldn’t attempt to emulate either of them – I’d look ridiculous. It would be humiliatingly obvious, too, that I was trying to copy them. In the end, I settled on a dress with a bold (for me) print and knee-length boots, hoping I looked the right amount of dressed-up without appearing try-hard.

  ‘You look very smart,’ said Mum as I came down the stairs. I cringed inwardly at her attempt to wheedle her way back into my good books, her shaming need not to lose me to an experience she would never understand. God, I hoped she wasn’t going to try and get herself invited to the Monktons’ some time. The thought of her trying to engage Olivia in a conversation about how they’ve moved the coffee and tea aisle at Sainsbury’s was more than I could bear.

  ‘Thanks.’ I studied my make-up critically in the hall mirror.

  ‘You look fine,’ Mum said. ‘It’s only a concert. You’re not going to Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’m just checking I haven’t got lipstick on my teeth. If that’s all right with you.’ I grabbed my coat and bag from the newel post. ‘I’ll see you later. I’m going to stay at Sasha’s tonight.’

  ‘Again?’ said Mum as I opened the front door, letting an icy blast in.

  ‘Oh, for God’s s
ake, Mum. Olivia wouldn’t give me all this crap. Sometimes I wish she was my mum.’ I slammed the door behind me, but not before I’d seen the look of utter devastation on her face.

  I hurried down the road, guilt coursing through my veins like a noxious chemical, until I reached the Monktons’, where Daniel opened the door.