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As for the carelessness in leaving the murder weapon in a place only she and her sister had access to, rather than, say, throwing it off the Cobb into the sea – pretty handy after all, no? – for me that hints at someone almost not in their right mind, someone so bent on the destruction of another that they lose all ability to think logically. And don’t even get me started on her thinking she could sell a dead woman’s house in a matter of weeks, or leaving her bank account in her own name.
Alternatively, she must have truly believed she and Jo would never be found… in Guernsey. If it hadn’t all had such unspeakable consequences for my beloved Sam and Joyce, it would be laughable.
Maybe they watched too many crime dramas on television. Maybe Naomi’s horoscope said,Now is the time to get away with murder.I don’t know. I can only suppose that with great arrogance come delusions of grandeur: in Naomi’s case, thinking she was so much cleverer than she was, cleverer certainly than anyone she knew. Perhaps this is how you feel when you’re pulling the wool over someone’s eyes; perhaps that’s part of the thrill. I get the impression the Harper girls’ mother was a fierce if misguided champion of her daughters, but they lost her. Their father, by all accounts, was a poor substitute. In that sense, perhaps, I feel almost sorry for them. Almost.
CHAPTER 63
In late September, after a thorough investigation, and perhaps taking into account Sam’s spotless record, his GP’s diagnosis of his complete nervous collapse, and the Baxters’ desire to forgive and forget, the CPS decide not to press charges against him, concluding that it is not in the public interest. When we hear the news, both Sam and I cry for a long time.
A week or so later, when the dust has settled, I drive to Bridport one evening and call on the Baxters without appointment. When they open the door, I simply say that I was passing and thought I’d swing by and ask after little Tommy. It is a white lie; I have come here quite on purpose. They recognise me immediately and invite me in. Tommy is sitting on the living-room floor playing with large Lego bricks. My first thought is that he has grown, my second that he looks even less like Sam now. They offer me coffee. I say, sure, thanks, and sit in the armchair where Sam had to hear the annihilating truth of his situation. Over coffee, they ask after him.
‘He’s getting better,’ I begin. ‘But it’s going to take a long time.’
A small silence stalks across the room.
Harry edges forward. ‘Was there… was there anything specifically you wanted to discuss?’
‘There was actually.’ Nerves rise. But I have come here encouraged by their refusal to hate the man who took their child, by the CPS deciding not to prosecute.
‘They had such a deep bond,’ I say. ‘It might not have been founded on the truth, but Sam really did love this little chap, and I think one reason why he’s so low now is because he feels like part of him is missing.’ I smile down at the kid. His hair is turning strawberry blonde now, more like his mother’s. ‘Obviously he knows he’s not Tommy’s father. He’s not in any way delusional about that, trust me, and he has no idea I’m here. What you’ve got to understand is, he is the sweetest, kindest guy. He’s so good with my daughter. I trust him with my life. I trust him with my daughter’s life. I know he did a desperate thing at a desperate moment, but he would always have brought Tommy back. It was the first thing he said to me when we found him. He just wanted to have a few more minutes, you know? Just to hold him one last time, maybe keep the lie alive for a little longer before he said goodbye.’ My voice breaks, but I cough and get myself under control. ‘He just wanted to say goodbye.’
Harry nods. ‘I think we know that. We’ve talked about it a lot, haven’t we?’ He glances at his wife, who nods then meets my gaze.
‘So what are you saying?’ she asks.
‘I’m saying… I suppose I’m asking, really, without any expectation at all, if there’s any chance you’d let him see Tommy? I know I’m asking a lot, but it could be supervised?’
Harry exhales heavily, his head tipping back a little. I wonder about apologising and getting out of there, but Cheryl has begun to nod, her head inclined slightly to the left.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I have no right to—’
‘I think,’ Cheryl interrupts, one hand rising, ‘I mean, we saw him, you know? We didn’t even know what had happened to his gran that night, but when we heard that Naomi had donethatas well as everything else, and apparently told him in a letter? I mean, well, how does anyone recover? We just felt so incredibly sorry for him, didn’t we?’
‘We did,’ Harry agrees. ‘I mean, we do, but I’m not sure…’
We talk for over an hour, round and round. The Baxters have had their own share of gutter-press commentary. They are scarred too. But eventually Cheryl gives a deep sigh and turns to her husband.
‘We could let him see Toms, couldn’t we? With us there? Maybe in a park or something? Just let him see him, give him some closure?’
Harry pushes his bottom lip up against the top. ‘I suppose. If we’re there with him.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘Thank you so much.’
CHAPTER 64
That pretty much brings us to December 2021, when I started my attempt at getting this whole thing straight in my head. The threatened lockdown hasn’t happened. The virus has not gone away, but there is talk of learning to live alongside it. With it. What choice do any of us have with something so beyond our control but to try and learn to somehow absorb it into the narrative of our lives, make some sort of peace with it and just… live as best we can?
Cheryl and Harry did let Sam see Tommy. They met him at a park and stayed on a bench at a discreet distance, allowing Sam to say goodbye properly. This extraordinary kindness helped him a great deal. We don’t yet know if any future relationship will be possible, but we are in touch with them, and they send us updates on WhatsApp, the occasional photo.
From that point on, Sam got stronger and stronger. He still lives with Betsy and me, and we look after one another. Every evening, after Betsy is in bed, we put on our PJs and pour ourselves a glass of something and just chat or pore over a garden design together. On the landing, we hug, and kiss each other’s cheeks, and say goodnight. In the morning, we say good morning and how are you and did you sleep OK? I call him love, without thinking. He calls me Mimes. We talk about working together again soon.
Darren has been brilliant at filling in and at taking Sam out for a pint and a chat here and there. When I can, I go walking with him over the cliffs he loves so much. We have talked and talked and talked, and he is also talking to a therapist once a week.
Last week, it was cold and the sun was out, so we decided to head for Cannington Viaduct while Betsy was at nursery. As I packed flasks and sandwiches, I asked him if he was sure, and he told me, yes, he wanted to face it. We took the tree-shaded path towards Uplyme, headed along the field by the cricket club, up the hill and down the lane.
At the looming sight of the viaduct, we stopped.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked him and reached for his hand.
