2 January, 2025
Dear Marianne,
Well, it’s only taken me fourteen months to start and finish this letter.
When I read yours to me, I thought, ‘I’m not letting that stand.
I’m writing a reply.’ I thought I meant soon, or soonish, but it’s taken me this long to work out what I want to say, and then change it and change it again to get it right. Luckily, I’ve had time to do that.
Having more time – time left – is a great thing. You’ll have to take my word for it.
I made it clear right from the start: this is my story and no one else’s. That’s the only reason I’m writing to a dead woman: because you tried to turn me and my life, all my romantic relationships, even my planned death … You tried to turn all of it into part of your story.
You failed. It’s still my story and only mine.
In it, I’m no longer a murderer. You still are and always will be, even though you didn’t kill anyone.
You’ve run out of time to change for the better and make adjustments to how you will be remembered by everyone you cared about (I won’t say ‘loved’, since your version of love wasn’t anything deserving of the name).
The bald fact is: you died wanting, and fully intending, to have me killed. That can never change, so redemption is beyond your reach.
It’s funny to think that even Tom Tulloch (I know you’d see him as your inferior) has fallen accidentally into a happier ending than you’ve had.
Simon Waterhouse visited him again and put the fear of God into him in a way that made sweat ooze from his pores, apparently, after which Tom vowed, repeatedly, to be a fully law-abiding citizen for the rest of his life.
Will he stick to that? Who knows – but at least there’s some hope for him.
Here’s how I like to look at it: the only person in this story who got a true and significant punishment was you, Marianne.
That’s as it should be. Most people I’ve written about in this …
whatever it is did plenty of things wrong, of course, but there’s only one of us who doesn’t deserve another chance, and, by happy coincidence, it’s the only person who isn’t getting one.
Simon Waterhouse believes this outcome was created by the internal politics at Spilling police station; he sneers at me when I tell him it’s what the universe wanted to happen, but I’m going to believe my preferred narrative.
And, though he’ll never admit it, he loves it when I disagree with him and has occasionally phoned me so that we can argue about it.
I think he finds it reassuring to hear the strength of my certainty.
He’s admitted that, even in the unlikely event of his superintendent having agreed to his demands, he and his team would never have divulged what they knew about what Dad did, what Ollie did, what Tom Tulloch and I planned to do …
Clearly it would make him feel better if he could convince himself, or if I could convince him, that keeping the truth to himself would have been – no, is – acting in accordance with the universe’s idea of justice.
The last time I spoke to him was about a month ago.
He rang me at eleven at night and mumbled something about loose ends and peace of mind before asking me if Ollie knew what he was doing when he attacked you in 2012, or if he lost control and wasn’t responsible.
‘I can imagine it happening either way,’ he said.
‘The thing is, by Mayo’s own account, the two of them did have a glass of wine together in the kitchen after he read the diary entry about the DNA test—’
‘So what?’ I said. ‘Why does it matter, after all this time?’ I knew why he was asking, though: he wants to think of Ollie as someone who would never do something so violent while in his right mind.
At first I didn’t want to answer (I mean, for God’s sake, Waterhouse, you’re a murder detective who’s decided to let people who are technically criminals walk free, so why not own it?) but then I took pity on him and told him exactly what Ollie had told me: ‘All he knows is that there’s a gap in his memory,’ I said.
‘One minute Marianne was fine, and talking, and the next she was on the floor bleeding from her throat. He says it doesn’t matter if he chose to do it or lost control and did it, because he remembers not ringing an ambulance, not doing anything to save her life.
That was a deliberate choice he remembers making, and that’s bad enough, he says. ’
I don’t know if I agree with him. Obviously it’s not ideal ‘in the best of all possible worlds’ (as Ollie would say), but I think it’s totally understandable that he behaved the way he did, and that I did, and that Dad did.
It’s funny how quickly healing happens once the poison is removed.
Ollie and I are blissfully happy together, and Dad and Paddy look as if they’re both heading towards happiness too, each with their new partner.
It’s early days for both relationships, but Dad’s girlfriend Janet has the patience of a saint and is trying to train Dad to work out what his own wants and preferences are, instead of just saying what he thinks will please her most. Paddy’s new partner seems to think he’s wonderful for just existing, which I freely admit has brought out the best in him.
He and I were totally ill-matched and brought out the worst in each other; I can see that now.
Our relationship is so much stronger and more relaxed now that we’re not together.
The main thing is that Lottie is massively happier.
She doesn’t know the truth about what happened to you, Marianne, and she never will – she and Spilling Police have that in common.
For them, and for most of the world, your removal will remain a mystery, with no responsible party ever identified.
Unless Lottie reads this one day, which …
I could take steps to make sure that doesn’t happen. Suzanne says the only way to be as certain as I want and need to be is to delete and destroy.
I might. One day. Not yet.
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