Elle （Past）
ELLE
PAST
I got my chance to speak to Brett Parker the following Saturday.
I purposely arrived later in St. John’s Wood and as I approached the house, I saw that the silver car wasn’t in the drive but that the black Range Rover was.
Maybe he and his wife took it in turns to take their son to his tennis games.
I stood for a moment, looking at the house through the railings.
It was mid-December and a huge Christmas tree was visible in the nearest bay window, pretty decorations dripping from its branches.
It hadn’t been there the previous week and a series of unwanted images came into my mind, of Brett Parker, his wife, and son choosing the Christmas tree together, arranging to have it delivered—it was so big there was no way they could have taken it home themselves, even on the roof of the Range Rover—and decorating it to the sound of Christmas music, a fire burning merrily in the fireplace I was sure that they had.
As the imaginary scenes played in my head, a familiar longing came over me, to be part of a family, a real family.
I was psyching myself to ring on the intercom when I saw someone on the driveway.
Brett Parker was standing behind his car, dressed casually in jeans and a jumper.
His head was bent toward the ground and, engrossed in whatever it was he was doing, he was oblivious to me standing at the gate.
As I watched, he opened the boot, threw something inside, then moved to the driver’s door.
It was another now-or-never moment. “Mr. Parker!” I called.
He lifted his head and looked to where I stood. My heart began to race, and as I waited for him to recognize me I was glad there was a closed gate between us. But his blue eyes weren’t hostile, just curious. “Yes?”
“Do you have a minute? It’s about Bryony Sanders.”
I saw the jolt of surprise on his face. “Bryony Sanders?” He stared at me, as if he was unsure what to say next and I wondered if he thought I was from the police and was realizing that to pretend he’d never heard of Bryony Sanders would be futile when he’d already been questioned about her.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” he asked, moving toward the gate.
“I’m an investigative journalist, working on behalf of Bryony’s mother.
” The words came out of nowhere and I felt a flash of admiration at my quick thinking.
I hadn’t planned to say I was a journalist, I’d planned to tell him that I’d seen Bryony getting into his car on the day she was murdered but some instinct, self-preservation perhaps, had kicked in.
He didn’t seem to know that I was the person who had shouted to him from the window that day and I wanted to keep it that way.
“I’ve nothing to say to you.” His voice was terse. “This is private property and I’d like you to leave.”
“The pavement doesn’t belong to you,” I said boldly, refusing to be intimidated. “I’ve been contacted by the person who saw Bryony getting into your car and I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
He took a step nearer and as his eyes scanned my face, he gave the smallest of frowns.
“Whoever contacted you is mistaken. For your information, it has been established that I was elsewhere on whatever date it was that the young woman was murdered.”
“Are your alibis your wife and your son?” I asked, my voice rising. “Because of course they would say you were with them if you asked them to.”
His face darkened. “You don’t know anything about my wife or my son, or about me, for that matter. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.” He took his phone from his pocket. “You have five seconds.”
I hesitated, tempted to push him further. I thought he was probably bluffing about calling the police and even if he did, I’d be gone by the time they turned up. But I’d riled him, and that was enough for a first visit.
I moved away. “See you again, Mr. Parker.”