Chapter 22 Carla
Carla
NOW
I’m sitting on the stool at the kitchen island at Jo’s.
Ian is working late, on the murder investigation, so Jo and I are having a girlie Friday evening in.
We’ve got the house to ourselves – Millie is with Iris at my place and Olly is at Liv’s.
Margo, presumably, is with Daniel. I haven’t heard from him since he moved out last weekend.
Wine and a film. That’s the plan. To take our minds off things.
God knows I need to think about something other than the mess my life has become and I’m grateful to Jo for the idea.
I suspect one of the reasons Jo suggested it, though, is so she can show off her shiny new kitchen.
I slowly scan the room, taking in all the unfamiliar details.
I once knew Jo’s kitchen almost as well as my own, but now it’s unrecognizable.
She and Ian had kitchen fitters in – neither of them is into DIY – and Jo couldn’t wait to show it off.
I have to admit, it’s a massive improvement on the old one – with its brown cupboards and avocado green wall tiles, it always made me feel as if I’d time-travelled back to the Seventies.
Now it’s had a make-over, the kitchen is white and glossy, the cupboards all have an opening mechanism, so you push rather than pull to open the doors, and the polished concrete floor completes the modern vibe.
Jo’s new kitchen is beautiful and I’m glad she’s happy with it, but I’m not jealous.
Ash and I chose and fitted the kitchen at Crooked Oak Cottage.
In fact, we did up the entire house. Margo’s bedroom was our last joint venture, though.
We did that room up six years ago, when Daniel and I decided that he and Margo would move in.
It’s a poky room, barely big enough to be a bedroom – I used to store all sorts of junk in it before its transformation.
But Ash helped me make it into a lovely bedroom for Margo, despite the lack of space.
It occurs to me that I haven’t done any DIY since then, unless you count fixing the leaky tap in the utility room or giving the upstairs hallway a fresh lick of paint.
One of the bathrooms has been in desperate need of a facelift for some time, but it’s not the sort of job I can manage on my own, and Daniel has always claimed to be terrible at anything manual.
Jo takes a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge – also new and bigger – and opens it with some difficulty.
I’d offer to help, but I buy screw tops precisely because I can’t handle a corkscrew, although I was a real pro at removing the metal caps from beer bottles with my teeth back when I was at uni.
Jo pours generous amounts of wine into two oversize glasses, hoists herself onto a stool at the kitchen island and slides one of the glasses towards me.
‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass to chink with hers.
‘Cheers,’ Jo says.
I take a big gulp of the wine and look at Jo.
Her blonde hair is scraped back into a high ponytail and her brown eyes lock onto mine.
She’s made up beautifully, but hasn’t quite succeeded in concealing the dark bags under her eyes – she works so hard, not just at her lessons, but at all the extra-curricular activities she’s involved in at the school, and she’s always exhausted come the end of the week.
‘So,’ she says, ‘how are you holding up?’
I’m not sure whether Jo is referring to the situation with Daniel or the one with Iris.
I’m clinging to the hope that Daniel will come back, preferably after apologizing profusely, and that this is just a temporary glitch in our relationship.
I tell Jo this, and shrug as if it’s no big deal.
I’m a bit worried that if I talk about it too much, I’ll end up bawling my eyes out.
I make out that it’s all due to a stupid argument.
I can’t tell her the real reason Daniel has moved out – that he thinks Iris is a murderer.
As for the murder investigation itself, I don’t know how much Ian has told Jo – knowing him, everything.
He and Jo have always discussed his work and hers.
He once joked that it’s actually Jo who solves the crimes, not him.
She must know that Ian and his colleague have talked to Iris.
Perhaps she knows they found a footprint at the scene of the crime, but I’m not going to tell her I found Iris’s shoes in the bin.
I haven’t told Ash yet, but I will. If I tell Jo, though, it will get back to Ian.
But Jo is my best friend, so I’m used to confiding in her.
‘I’m terrified that Iris will end up a suspect in this …
murder case,’ I admit. I find it hard, even now, to spit out the word ‘murder’.
It’s something you hear about on the news or read about in crime fiction, not something that happens this close to home.
‘I just think she must be the obvious suspect after what Joshua Knoll did to her.’
‘Hmm. She has motive,’ Jo agrees.
‘Not helpful, Jo,’ I say.
‘Sorry. I doubt Iris was his only enemy, though.’
Ah, that’s more like the sort of thing I want to hear. Does Jo know something I don’t? ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
‘Well, Ian is keen to talk to Joshua’s latest girlfriend, Sasha Spencer-Lyles, but the family seem to be stonewalling the police’s requests for an interview with her.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Not indefinitely, no. This is a murder inquiry and Sasha knew the victim well.’ Jo pauses to take a sip of her wine. I take another gulp of mine. ‘I don’t know why the family are trying to wriggle out of talking to the police,’ she continues. ‘It strikes me as a bit suspicious.’
‘Do you know Sasha?’
‘I did. I taught her last year. Bright kid. I know her mother, too. Not well, but well enough to say hello to, you know. Saw her on Tuesday evening, actually, at my Zumba class. She’s a bit up herself, but she’s all right. Friendly.’
Jo gets up and fetches a packet of olives and some dips from the fridge, and two small bowls, a packet of Twiglets and a packet of crisps. It takes her two attempts to find the right cupboard for the snacks.
‘Don’t know my way around my own kitchen anymore,’ she grumbles. We both laugh. She goes to top up my wine. I’d told myself I’d only have one drink, and I put up a reluctant objection, covering my glass with my hand. ‘Ian will drop you home when he gets in,’ Jo says.
I don’t need any more persuading than that. The alcohol is taking effect and some of the tautness has eased from my shoulders. I can easily cycle over to pick up my car tomorrow.
‘Come on, let’s take this through to the living room. You can choose the movie.’
We sink into the sofa and wrap the throws around ourselves. But rather than deciding on a film, we continue to talk.
‘So, in other news – sort of – the headmaster has postponed the official reopening of the sports centre,’ Jo says. ‘Indefinitely.’
‘Oh.’ Why’s Jo telling me this? I honestly couldn’t give a toss. I’ve got other things on my mind. And what does she mean, ‘sort of’? ‘Why’s that, then?’ I ask, trying to inject a modicum of interest into my voice.
She doesn’t answer and I sense an awkwardness now. Jo regrets bringing this up.
‘Jo? What’s going on?’ I still don’t get why she has mentioned this, but she now has my undivided attention.
‘The headmaster had invited Richard Knoll to come to the school for the reopening of the sports centre at the beginning of the school year. They’d organized basketball matches and a fencing tournament and so on for the occasion.’
At the sound of his name, my fingers curl into fists. ‘You make him sound like the guest of honour.’
‘I mean, he was, in a way.’
‘Why?’
‘The Knolls pour money into that school, you know,’ Jo continues.
‘Have done for generations of Knolls – Richard’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather were all pupils there, along with God only knows how many of their brothers, long before the school accepted girls.
’ She pauses just long enough to pop an olive into her mouth.
‘Last year, Richard Knoll paid for the refurbishment of the sports hall as well as for a whole load of sports equipment. The centre reopened at the beginning of the month, for the start of the new school year, but Brook wanted to mark the event formally. I think he was pretty sure when he came up with the idea that the video wasn’t going to come back and bite him in the arse.
And he goes to great lengths to keep the school’s benefactors buttered up. ’
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
But all of a sudden, the school’s attitude to Iris’s ordeal seems clearer.
The headmaster promised to take immediate action when Iris’s video was first diffused.
He harped on and on about the school’s strict IT Acceptable Use Policy and he promised me that anyone found in breach of that policy would be punished.
But the weeks went by and nothing happened.
The pupils, including Joshua, were all forewarned and had time to delete anything incriminating from their phones.
No one was disciplined. No one except Olly, who broke Josh’s nose.
My fists are clenched so tightly now that my nails dig into my palms.
Iris is at South Lydacombe on a full scholarship and Olly on a bursary.
Ash and I would have struggled to cover full fees for both of them.
We never respond to the numerous requests for donations.
Ash, Daniel and I all volunteer every year to help out with the school fête and I practically run the annual Book Fair, but it’s clearly a poxy contribution in comparison with the Knoll family’s philanthropy.
No wonder the school didn’t do more to help Iris.
‘There’s something that will make you even madder.’ Jo encroaches on my thoughts. ‘But I think I should tell you before you hear it from someone else.’
I unclench my fists, pick up my wine glass from the coffee table and take a slug. ‘Go on,’ I say.
‘South Lydacombe is organizing a vigil for Joshua next week.’
Several swear words run through my mind and one or two escape under my breath.
‘There will be candles, a minute of silence, solemn music, pupils can share their memories of Joshua, and so on.’
‘But he’s not even a pupil at the school anymore.’
‘Yeah, I know. But his brothers are – Jordan and Jasper.’
‘I know their bloody names,’ I growl. ‘Oh, God. Sorry, Jo. Thanks for letting me know.’
She puts her hand on my knee. ‘I get it,’ she says. ‘The school are doing so much for him when they did so little for Iris.’ She really does get it.
‘Christ, they’re making him out to be not only a victim, but also a bloody martyr.
It’s as though all his sins have been washed away now he’s dead.
He’ll forever be remembered as the poor kid who was stabbed to death in the woods instead of the utter bastard who ruined Iris’s life.
’ I glance at Jo, but my outburst doesn’t appear to have shocked her.
‘D’you know what?’ she says. ‘In a few months’ time, maybe even in a few weeks’ time, no one will remember him at all. This will all blow over.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I say. I’ll hold on to Jo’s thought. I’ll be able to relax once this has all died down and everything has gone back to normal.
For a minute, Jo and I just sit there and munch on snacks.
Then I pick up the remote controls from the coffee table.
A film will lend me some essential escapism, if only for a couple of hours.
And Jo doesn’t want to sit here all evening talking about Joshua Knoll any more than I do.
Poor Jo has provided a shoulder to cry on since the day I was summoned to the headmaster’s office to pick up Olly and ended up having to take Iris home, too.
But just then, we hear the front door open and Ian’s voice bellow from the hallway, ‘Jo, you there?’
‘In the living room,’ she calls.
He storms into the room, clearly annoyed about something. ‘Those fecking Knolls,’ he starts, then stops as he sees me. ‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ he says, his voice notched down a few decibels, ‘I forgot it was your girlie night in. Hi, Carla. How are you doing?’
‘Good, thanks, Ian.’ I slur my speech noticeably in just those three words.
Jo jumps in before I can ask Ian how he is. ‘What have they done now?’ she says.
Ian looks from Carla to me, no doubt trying to weigh up what he can and can’t say in front of me. ‘They’re offering a substantial reward for anyone who can give information leading to the arrest of Josh’s murderer.’
My stomach plummets at the same time as a wave of nausea rises to my throat.
‘We advised them against it,’ Ian continues, ‘but Richard Knoll went to the North Devon Echo – it’s already been posted to their website and it will be in print in this week’s paper edition. And it will be broadcast on ITV News West Country, too.’
‘How much?’ Jo asks.
‘Fifty grand,’ Ian says. I splutter on my wine.
‘It’s already causing us a real headache.
Crank calls, mediums offering their services.
It’ll only get worse. It means we’re using up valuable police resources, wasting time, dealing with a whole load of nonsense and checking out fake information.
But we have to do it in the unlikely event that one honest witness rings in with a useful lead. ’
My nausea abates a little. The offer of a reward isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
It might send the police on a wild goose chase.
I feel selfish for having that thought – I should feel sorry for Ian.
But I welcome any red herrings the public can throw into the mix because they may help keep the suspicion off Iris.