‘How on earth have they managed to stay together?’ Will asks as he stands in the queue at the crowded deli with Joanna.
‘Hmm?’ she murmurs, running her eyes over the blackboard in front of them which soars above their heads to ceiling height. ‘Who on earth would ever want tuna and banana in a sandwich?’ she asks nobody in particular, a look of disgust on her face as she moves over to the drinks fridge next to them in the cramped space.
‘Your sister and Rob,’ Will answers, taking the two bottles of San Pellegrino that Joanna passes him. He shuffles forward in the line behind two suited men, heads bent to their iPhones. ‘I’ve always wondered. Because I mean,’ he says, his voice low to prevent anyone overhearing, ‘it’s a common phenomenon. Couples breaking up after the death of a child. Particularly after a murder.’ He glances at Joanna to check she’s OK with this line of questioning. Sometimes she can be robust about Kirstie’s death but often she will clamp down and not want to discuss anything about more personal details relating to her family. ‘It’s much rarer for them to stay together.’
Joanna shrugs, taking one of the waters and rooting through her handbag for her purse. ‘Debbie was pregnant with Ben at the time. So they had to stay together to look after him. And,’ she moves to the counter, putting her bottle on top, ‘they do just love each other. I don’t know what Deb would do without Rob. Tuna mayo and sweetcorn on a baguette, please,’ she directs to the woman wearing a hairnet behind the counter. ‘Really, I think they were just lucky. It brought them together rather than pulling them apart.’
‘I sometimes wonder about the Bowmans, though,’ Will says. ‘Ham and cheese on brown, thanks.’
Joanna gives him a sharp look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did they manage to stay together? They were put under so much stress themselves.’
‘Nothing by comparison to Rob and Debbie’s suffering,’ Joanna retorts.
‘No, of course,’ Will says, handing a twenty-pound note over the counter. ‘But imagine dealing with it nonetheless. Your own child responsible for one of the most horrific crimes the country has ever seen. Having to live another life, in secret.’ He grabs the white paper bags containing the sandwiches along with his change, not noticing the wide eyes of the woman behind the counter. Joanna gives her a quick reassuring smile, raising her eyebrows as if to say: What’s he on about, eh?
‘How do you ever get past that? How can you live your life knowing that someday, somewhere, someone could turn around and point a finger and say – “I recognise you. You’re the parents of that murderer.’’ ’
They exit the shop into a clear and cold January day. ‘Seriously, Will? I have absolutely no pity for them whatsoever,’ Joanna says as they walk together along the pavement, edging past a woman with a double buggy. ‘They raised Laurel Bowman. They have to be held responsible.’
‘Really? Is that what you think?’ He looks surprised. ‘Ah, look, never mind. We probably shouldn’t talk about this.’
‘It’s fine,’ Joanna says. ‘It’s nothing I haven’t thought about before. Been asked about by the liberal media . . .’ She smiles at him.
‘Well, OK,’ Will goes on tentatively. ‘So, there was never any evidence of abuse or bad treatment of Laurel, was there? She did well at school. She had piano lessons, for God’s sake,’ he snorts. ‘They were so bloody middle-class. It’s hardly the stereotype the Daily Mail would have us believe. Under-privileged, abandoned, angry little match girl.’
‘That would be the Guardian’s view,’ Joanna corrects him. ‘The Daily Mail would just say that she’s wicked. And they’re not wrong. I mean,’ she halts outside the door to the Bang to Rights office, putting her key into the lock, ‘like you say, she had no reason to do it. None. One day, she just wakes up and decides to kidnap a toddler. Kirstie, as it turns out.’ Her voice is bitter. ‘Do people – kids – do that unless they’ve been primed for it, unless something in their background has led them to that point? Meaning they’ve watched it on films, played video games – like the Bulger murderers, Thompson and Venables. Normal kids don’t just think one day: Oh, I know! I’ll go and torture and abuse a baby girl. Either they’re nurtured into it or they’re just born evil.’
‘Thompson and Venables didn’t play video games. That’s apocryphal. Presumably the judge mentioned it in his sentencing to give some – any – kind of rationale for a crime he considered incomprehensible. But there’s no evidence they were playing violent games,’ Will says, following her up the stairs. ‘Anyway, what you’re saying is that Laurel Bowman must have been genetically wired to be wicked.’
‘Yep. And that explains the parents too,’ Joanna says, sinking down into the chair at her desk and pulling open the sandwich bag. ‘It lets them off the hook to a certain extent. Which,’ she points her baguette in Will’s direction, ‘I know negates my earlier point.’ She looks down, thinking. ‘I just don’t feel any pity for Amy and Gregor Bowman. I can’t. Because whatever they’re suffering now, or have suffered in the past, is nothing – nothing – to what Debbie and Rob have been through. There’s no comparison,’ she repeats. ‘And even though they are still together, they were destroyed by it. Destroyed. We all were to a certain extent.’ Joanna puts her sandwich down, her appetite gone. ‘That day, all those years ago, it changed everyone’s lives. None of us will ever forget it.’
‘And what about if you don’t believe in evil?’ Will asks. ‘What’s the answer then?’
Joanna is silent, contemplating this. She picks up her barely touched sandwich and flicks it into the bin. ‘Then you’ve got a problem,’ she says.