The paper sat in front of me. My words, stark, in black and white. A picture of my beautiful daughter. Ingrid Devlin had at least been true to her word. She hadn’t gone into any salacious detail about Laura’s death – just that she’d died unexpectedly at a tragically young age.
I knew it was journalist code for ‘killed herself’ – everyone reading would know that – but at least it wasn’t spelled out. My fears that there’d be lurid details of how she’d done it were assuaged, for now at least.
Had I made DI Bradley angry with me? I didn’t know, and part of me felt guilty for talking to the press, but what choice had I been given? I’d done this to protect my grandchildren. To protect my son-in-law. To protect me, if I was honest. Not that I felt ashamed of how she died. Ashamed maybe that I hadn’t seen how bad she was feeling. That I hadn’t seen how much she needed me.
No, that wasn’t shame. That was guilt. People would judge me for letting her slip through the net. They’d blame me. It had already happened before.
I wasn’t surprised when the police knocked at my door later. Nor was I surprised that my phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and that journalist after journalist walked up through the farmyard and knocked on my door.
‘I have nothing more to say on the matter,’ I told them all. Each eager reporter with their phone set to record. ‘Any statement from now on will be issued through Ingrid Devlin at The Chronicle and you can contact her if you have any further queries.’
They looked disappointed. As did the police. Constable King arrived and sat opposite me at my kitchen table, barely touching the coffee I’d made for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered. ‘She didn’t give me much choice and I was just so frustrated by it all. If anyone else had been hurt, I’d never have forgiven myself.’
Constable King was as pleasant as she could be about it, I suppose.
‘The difficulty now is that our investigation lines have been rammed with calls from people wondering if they’re at risk, or what measures they should take, or just trying to find out all the insider information. The team is flat out trying to sift through all that.’ She rubbed her neck, the tension obvious in her face. ‘We fear the attention might make the killer bolder. They might thrive on it, take risks.’
I felt wretched. Had I inadvertently made things worse?
‘They’re very clever,’ Constable King continued. ‘They’ve left us no clues. We still haven’t been able to locate Clare Taylor’s phone or laptop, and nothing of use showed up on the records from her phone company.’
‘I’ve done this all wrong,’ I said and I could feel my composure slip.
I was just a stupid old woman. It wasn’t the first time I’d been called that, but it was the first time I truly believed it.
‘You’ve been manipulated by a very clever journalist,’ Constable King soothed. ‘Try not to feel bad about it.’
Her facial expression didn’t match the comforting nature of her words, however. She was clearly annoyed. DI Bradley was probably fuming.
I was angry with myself. I never seemed to be able to do anything right any more. I deserved everything my life had become.
‘So, where do we go from here?’ I asked, hoping she wouldn’t suggest I leave the house.
I wanted to cling to it even more now. It felt like the only constant in a world that wasn’t making much sense.
She took a breath and told me patrols would be increased further. Police would look into fitting panic alarms to the house and I’d be given a panic mobile phone for when outside the house.
‘I know this must sound scary, Elizabeth, but we’d rather be overly cautious than sorry. Normally, these measures are reserved for when a direct threat has been made to someone’s life. I want to stress, we don’t feel this is the case for you, but given that the suspect still hasn’t been identified and is therefore still at large, we don’t want to take any chances. Extra resources are being drafted in to work on this investigation. I want you to understand that we’re doing everything within our power to get this person apprehended. We’d ask, again, if there’s someone you could stay with or who could come and stay with you? Being here must feel quite isolated at times.’
‘It never has before,’ I said, and it was true.
I was able to cope with the isolation before – I’d spent too many years caught up in noise and trauma and constant activity. I didn’t know if I could take it any more. I cursed Paddy for being dead. Laura for leaving me. Aaron, too, for running away and not working through his grief properly here.
‘Okay,’ Constable King nodded. ‘Now, Elizabeth, you’re aware that it seems to be the opinion of Ms Devlin that there’s a direct link between this murder and your daughter. What do you think?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t see how that could be the case,’ I said. ‘And I told Ingrid as much. I think it’s just some twisted coincidence. Laura was never friends with Clare.’
‘Can you give me any names of any of Laura’s friends from school who’d have any information about the girls from back then?’
‘I don’t see how it’s relevant,’ I bristled. ‘It was more than twenty years ago. They left school in the mid-Nineties. Built their lives.’
‘Mrs O’Loughlin, the notes the other ladies received seemed to make reference to their schooldays. I know this is difficult for you, but any information, any names you can give us, may really help to close the net on who did this.’
I didn’t want to tell Constable King. It felt wrong. It felt as though I was betraying Laura. It felt as if I was telling the world she was anything less than perfect and worthy of love, which was nonsense. She’d always been perfect to me. She’d always been worthy of love. She’d been the sunshine in my life.
‘I can’t tell you the names of her school friends,’ I said, my heart cracking a little. ‘Because she didn’t have any.’
A couple of friends had come and gone, but Laura had struggled to maintain friendships. She’d tell me that people would like her for a few months but then grow bored. She wasn’t cool enough. She didn’t have the same interests. She preferred to stay at home on the farm. She didn’t wear her hair in a perm, or follow Bros or Take That or any of the bands her classmates did.
I reassured her as often as I could that it was okay to be her own person. That I was exceptionally proud of her for being so steady in her beliefs, in walking her own path. But I knew she was lonely at times. I thought things would get better – in that way mothers do. I thought she needed some time to settle in. To find her tribe. There was bound to be someone she could bond with …
Every time she brought a friend home it was almost as if we welcomed the prodigal son to the house. I made sure we had the best spread in for tea. I knew I was stupid playing a game to fit in when Laura had been happy enough to be her own person, but I didn’t want to give any of them even half a chance to cast aspersions about her.
We had branded treats – Coca-Cola, Tayto crisps, McVitie’s biscuits – even though times were tough and we normally stayed with supermarket own-brand goods or value-pack treats. I’d hire movies from the video shop, make big bowls of popcorn. I’d encourage them to listen to music as loudly as they wanted, but every time I heard some pop tune I knew that Laura didn’t like blast through the house my heart would sink.
Every now and again she’d try to fit in. She’d mould herself. And although I’d always been proud of her individuality, a part of me hoped that these changes would make the difference.
After a while she stopped bringing people home for tea. When I asked her about friends, she’d tell me that she had a few people she chatted to in class and at breaktime. She’d smile and then we’d go back to talking about our usual subjects. She seemed content.
It was only when my friend at work took me aside one day to ask if Laura was okay that I realised I’d been kidding myself all along. Even as I smiled and said my daughter was happy and settled with friends, I knew it didn’t ring true.
‘It’s just my Fiona says she wanders around the hockey pitch alone at breaktime. In all weathers. She looks a bit lost.’
Of course ‘her Fiona’ didn’t think to reach out a hand of friendship.
When I asked Laura about it, her face had burned red. Tears pooled in her eyes and then she’d stomped off defiantly, shouting that it was none of my business and I should ‘just keep my bloody nose out of things’.
I wanted to go to the school – see what they could do to help her – but she’d refused to allow me. ‘I don’t want people being friends with me out of pity,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m happy enough on my own.’
She’d smiled so brightly when she’d said it that I’d believed her. I liked my own company; it stood to good reason that my daughter would, too. And there was always someone to talk to in the farmhouse, so it wasn’t like she was totally isolated. She’d smile and tell me that as she helped me cook the dinner. It was only after she died that I came to realise that Laura had been incredibly good at faking smiles.