Four days earlier
A hundred or so people have loosely gathered in the fading light at Brookscroft Park, a fenced off square of lawn in the shadow of Westhaven’s imposing town hall. Most stand in quiet reflection with their heads bowed, while others shuffle up to the old bandstand to lay flowers, or light candles – of which there are already a good number, burning brightly on the stage, their flames barely flickering in the still evening air.
Flowers, cards and handwritten notes cascade down the bandstand’s steps, spill out onto the gravel path and pool around the splayed feet of an easel that holds a large picture of Evan in his school uniform. Music plays from a portable speaker behind an empty podium – tinkling piano under an over-earnest vocal – though the most notable sound is that of the crowd; low murmurs of consolation, and the occasional sob bursting out from behind a fist pressed to someone’s lips.
I reach over, put a hand on Chloe’s shoulder.
‘You sure you’re OK being here?’ I ask her.
She nods. ‘Look at all these people,’ she says. ‘I never knew he was so popular.’
I think back to Amy’s vigil; this very park was packed with strangers, the whole town having turned up to say tearful goodbyes. People who’d never known she existed before they read her name in the papers were openly weeping, and kids from school who wouldn’t give her the time of day when she was alive, were talking like they’d been her best friend now she was dead. It annoyed the hell out of me. Not for one second did I believe all those people who came – first to her vigil, later on to her funeral – were there for Amy. For a time I suspected they were there simply because they wanted to be a part of something, like when the funfair would come to town and people would get caught up in the excitement of it all. But as I’ve got older, I’ve come to understand that their reasons were more complex. That when a child is murdered, a community experiences a special kind of grief.
I stand on tiptoe and scan the crowd. Some faces I recognise, but can’t put names to – local shop workers I was once on nodding terms with perhaps, or old schoolmates who have aged out of recognition – while others are more familiar. There’s Mr Harrington, the long-serving headmaster of Westhaven High, who is standing with a handful of pupils dressed in their school uniforms – some of them are in tears, though who’s to say if they actually knew Evan or not. There’s Joanne Hugard, the reporter from the Westhaven Chronicle, who was so helpful when I was making Born Killer. Next to her is George Tombs , one of Mum’s old colleagues from the town council. And there, standing just thirty feet away from me, is Amy’s mum, Elaine. She is as elegantly dressed as always, in a long, flowery print skirt and cropped blazer, and she’s in conversation with another woman I don’t recognise. At the sight of her, I feel a brief flash of warmth, of love, even – then reality crashes in and I remember how she feels about me, how she thinks I betrayed Amy’s memory. I hope one day to prove her wrong about that, but today is not that day, and fortunately, the crowd is thick enough, and the light low enough that, as long as we keep our distance, she probably won’t know I’m here.
I see no sign of Bill, though have no doubt he’s around too, but there are police here and there: a pair of officers over near the entrance, either side of the gates; half a dozen more scattered throughout the crowd. Likely there’ll be a good number in plain-clothes too, eyes peeled for anyone acting suspiciously.
We edge our way towards the bandstand, and when we get there a lady offers us each a candle from a box. We take one, and she carefully lights them for us, and we crouch down and add them to the pool of flickering tea lights on the gravel path.
Chloe looks on. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, her eyes shining.
I remember how Amy’s vigil hit me like a punch in the gut, made her death real in a way it hadn’t been until then. I put an arm around Chloe’s shoulders and give her a gentle squeeze.
I leave her with her thoughts for a moment, then we step aside and others take our place. More candles are lit, people join hands in prayer. The music is louder near the front. Robbie Williams sings about angels, and John Lennon sings about all the people living for today, while I stand on tiptoe and search the crowd for John Dalton.
So far, there’s no sign of either him, or his sister. I only hope we haven’t missed them.
‘Do you think the killer’s here?’ Chloe asks, her voice a little too loud for my liking. ‘That happens sometimes, doesn’t it? They like to come to things like this, rub people’s noses in it.’
A couple standing nearby shoot me a disapproving look, perhaps assuming that Chloe is my daughter, like Peter Rand did, and that I’ve failed to impress on her the solemnity of the occasion.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe. And keep your voice down.’
She goes on, a little quieter this time, ‘Do you think Amy’s real killer might have been at her vigil?’
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t think so.’
Not that I didn’t view the local news footage a hundred times, examining every face in the crowd, not sure exactly what I was looking for, but somehow convinced I’d know it when I saw it.
But there was nothing.
‘Come on,’ I say, and we edge our way over to the side of the bandstand, where the crowd is a little thinner. If Chloe wants to ask questions, I’d rather not risk being in earshot of any of Evan’s extended family.
‘Do you think it would be OK if I filmed some video?’ Chloe asks, as she takes out her phone.
There are other press in the park. Photographers, with heavy cameras slung around their necks, even a couple of reporters doing pieces to camera.
‘Sure, why not,’ I say, and Chloe opens her camera app, hits record and starts shooting.
I reach over her shoulder and turn the phone ninety degrees. ‘Shoot in landscape, like this. Remember, you’re not filming a video for TikTok. You want to fit as much information in the frame as you can.’
‘Oh, right.’ She holds the phone steady, pans back and forth.
‘Look for the little details that tell the story,’ I tell her, and she presses two fingers against the phone’s screen then widens them, making the camera zoom in on the bandstand and the flowers.
‘Like this?’
‘Exactly.’
She lingers on the candlelit portrait of Evan, then pinches the screen to zoom out, and as she does, the front of the crowd parts to let through a group of people, at the head of which is John Dalton.
He’s given plenty of interviews since Connor’s release, but it’s a while since I’ve seen him in person. Normally clean cut, this evening he is unshaven, grey-faced and exhausted looking. He is supporting Evan’s mother on his arm, a small, narrow-shouldered woman with her head bowed, her long brown hair covering her face. She takes unsteady steps forward while he whispers in her ear, and he walks her over to the podium then steps back, and the press swoop in like hungry gulls. Microphones are thrust under her nose, and she shields her eyes from a lightning storm of camera flashes.
‘Thank you …’ she says, and what little noise the crowd was making falls away. ‘Thank you, everyone, for coming. I just want to say …’ She chokes up, tries again. ‘My son, Evan, meant the world to me and I miss him so, so much … I don’t understand why someone would do this … I don’t know why someone would want to hurt him …’
Tears set her shoulders shaking. She sways backwards, looks like she’s going to go down and Dalton hurries up behind her, takes her arm and ushers her away from the podium and into a huddle of friends and family. A moment later he returns to stand before the press and speaks in a voice that is loud and clear, but thick with emotion.
‘Evan was a sweet, kind boy, who never hurt a fly. Whoever did this to him is a monster, plain and simple, and they’re going to pay. We want justice for Evan. That’s what’s important right now. So, if anybody knows anything about what happened to my nephew, please come forward and do the right thing.’
Chloe’s elbow nudges against mine, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not.
Dalton surveys the crowd for a moment, then steps away from the podium, goes back to his sister and folds his arms around her, anger, pain and sadness radiating from the pair of them.
I wanted to get the measure of their grief, and now I have, there’s no doubt in my mind it’s as real as it gets.
It was a mistake coming here. I might not be shoving my camera in their faces, like the photographers who are crowding round them, trying to get the shot that will grace tomorrow’s front pages. But maybe I’m just as bad. Maybe I’ve become one of those people, the sort who came to Amy’s vigil, not for her, but for themselves.
I turn to Chloe. ‘I think we should go now,’ I tell her, but she doesn’t respond. She’s filming again, has zoomed in on Dalton and his sister.
I tug at her elbow. ‘Chloe, come on. Time to go.’
‘Just a minute,’ she says, then a shout goes up.
‘What’s she doing here?’ I lift my head, see that John Dalton is looking right at us.
There’s a half-hearted attempt from his sister to stop him – John, please! – but he brushes her hand away and her head drops, as if even that small effort was too much for her, and Dalton starts making his way through the crowd towards us.
Fuck. I feel a rush of panic in my chest, and the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.
‘Are you filming?’ Dalton shouts. He must have seen me helping Chloe. ‘Who said you could film here? Who gave you permission?’ Never mind the dozens of press he’s walking right by.
I step in front of Chloe.
‘Here to make money from another dead kid, is that it?’ he says, as he draws near.
I glance over my shoulder in search of an escape route, but the crowd has bunched up behind me, closing me in.
Dalton comes to a stop, just three feet away. He’s so hot with anger that I can feel it.
‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ he says. There is a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
‘I’m just here to pay my respects, John,’ I say. ‘I know you’re upset—’
‘Upset?’ He is all teeth and spittle, eyes wild.
We’ve got to get out of here. I turn to grab Chloe so we can go, but she isn’t there. Where the hell has she gone? She was right behind me, just a moment ago …
‘This woman …’ Dalton is addressing the crowd now. ‘This woman helps murderers get out of prison,’ he says, and I see people nodding, hear more murmurs of agreement.
‘John, please—’ I say, trying to calm things down, but there’s no talking to him. He takes another step forwards and I attempt to take a corresponding step back, but collide with someone. I have nowhere to go.
Dalton points a finger at my chest. ‘If I find out he had anything to do with what happened to Evan …’
He doesn’t say Connor’s name. He doesn’t have to, because everyone in the crowd knows exactly who he means, and the threat is as clear as day.
‘He never should have been let out,’ a voice says.
‘He wants stringing up,’ says someone else.
All those faces in the crowd I sort of know but can’t put names to – the shopkeepers and old school friends – are turning against me.
Where the hell are the police? Shouldn’t they be putting a stop to this?
And where the hell is Chloe?
I make a move, try to push forward, but a hand closes around my arm, starts dragging me back. Someone is pulling me into the crowd, and God only knows what will happen if I let them. I try to shake them off, but whoever’s got hold of me clings on tight, pulls me with such force it feels like my arm might come out of its socket.
‘Let go of me!’ I shout, then a low voice speaks into my ear.
‘Come with me.’