Chapter 52

It took Barbara and Harry two days and a gallon of tears to decide which of Stephanie's belongings they wanted to keep and which to get rid of. The photographs, the drawings, the teddy bears, Barbara wanted. They were personal items which were special to Stephanie and would always remain special. The duvet covers, the curtains, the carpet, the clothes, the posters were all expendable.

‘Shall I take these curtains to the charity shop?' Barbara asked. ‘There's nothing wrong with them, though I might have to give them a quick wash,' she said, smelling them.

‘You can't give those to charity.'

‘Why not?'

‘Look at the bottoms – the moths have been at them.'

Barbara looked down and saw tiny holes along the seam. ‘Oh my God, I didn't notice. I don't want people thinking we're mucky.' She sighed and looked around the rapidly emptying room. ‘Do you think we should just have a bonfire and throw the lot on?'

‘Good idea. Let's wait until dark, though.'

‘Why?'

‘Her next door has just hung out a load of washing.'

‘Fair enough. Right, we need two piles: one for what we're going to keep and one for the bonfire.'

‘I'll get a couple of those plastic crates from the garage – we can put what we're keeping in there,' Harry said.

‘Good thinking. Oh, is there anything else we want to get rid of, while we're in a burning mood?'

‘I don't think so. What were you thinking of?'

‘Your football programmes?'

‘Barbara, they'll be worth something one of these days. I'm not getting rid of them.'

Barbara rolled her eyes. ‘What about those Christmas sweaters?' she called out to him as he went downstairs.

‘Why is it all my things you want to get rid of?'

Barbara smiled and left the question unanswered. She turned back to look at the room she had spent twenty years wallowing in. It hadn't taken long to turn it from a shrine into a simple spare bedroom. The thought suddenly struck her: what would they do with it once it was empty?

By eight o'clock, everything for burning was stacked up in a pile in the back garden. Harry was getting a bonfire lit in the centre of the lawn, using old pieces of wood from the garage. While he was battling with the elements to get it lit, Barbara ran upstairs for one final box.

‘What do you think?' Harry asked, standing back and marvelling at the flames.

‘I feel like I should be holding a sparkler and making baked potatoes,' she said, smiling.

‘Ooh, I could just eat a jacket spud, with baked beans and melted cheese on top.'

‘Shall I pop a couple in the oven? They'll be ready by the time we've burned this lot.'

‘Go on then.'

Harry was wrapped up in a thick winter coat with gloves and a bobble hat. Despite the heat of the roaring bonfire, he was cold. Barbara came out to join him. She stood well back while Harry added items to the flames. Dressed in layers like Harry to stave off the cold, she fought back the tears, watching the last remnants of her daughter's life going up in flames. It was too late to change her mind now.

She looked down at the pile still to be burned. The last box she had added was still there.

‘You're not wanting to burn these, surely,' Harry said, rummaging through a box.

‘What?'

‘These old annuals.'

‘Harry, we've been through all this. We'll be here until midnight if you start going through them again. Just lob them on the fire. Here, give them to me.'

Barbara took the handful of books from her husband, walked over to the bonfire and threw them into the centre of the roaring mound. She turned around and slapped her hands together. ‘See, that's how you do it. Your lips are turning blue. Would you like me to make you a mug of hot chocolate?'

‘I'd love that, thank you,' he replied.

Barbara went into the cold house and set about making them both a hot drink. She looked in the fridge to see if there were any KitKats left to keep them going until the potatoes were baked. She turned around to find Harry standing in the doorway.

‘Oh, bloody hell, Harry,' she said, a hand slapped to her chest. ‘You scared the life out of me. Shouldn't you be out there, keeping an eye on the fire? We don't want it getting out of control. If her-next-door's fence goes up, there'll be hell to pay.'

‘I found this in one of the boxes,' Harry said, taking a long grey coat from behind his back and holding it out to her.

‘So?'

‘So, it isn't Stephanie's.'

‘No. Well, like I said, while we're burning things, we may as well see if there's anything else we want to get rid of.'

‘It's not yours either.'

‘I know it's not. It belonged to Angela,' she said, referring to her sister. ‘Remember, when she died, I cleared out her house. I kept a load of her clothes and just stuck them up in the attic. They've been there fifteen years or so. May as well get rid of them now.'

‘And what about this?' Also from behind his back, Harry produced a black shoulder-length wig.

‘It's what she wore when she had cancer, Harry. Don't wave it around like that, just throw it on the fire.'

Harry didn't say anything. He stood there with a stony expression, glaring at his wife.

‘Harry, what's wrong?'

‘A long synthetic black hair was found in Dominic Griffiths' house the day after he was killed.'

‘What?' Barbara asked, steadying herself against the worktop.

‘Those men who beat Dominic half to death said they were interrupted by a couple coming up the path. The woman was wearing a long grey coat and she had dark shoulder-length hair.'

‘Oh, come on, Harry, you don't seriously think it was me, do you? How long have you known me?'

‘I know you've wanted Dominic dead ever since he was released. I know you've been trying to convince me from day one that he should have paid with his life.'

‘Well, he should have.' She tried to laugh off his ridiculous notion. ‘Harry, wanting a person to spend their life in prison, or wishing them dead, is one thing. It doesn't mean to say I'm going to go out there and actually do it.' The kettle boiled, and she turned to finish making the hot chocolate.

‘I need to call Terry.' Harry turned away and went into the living room.

She slammed the kettle down on the worktop. ‘What? Why?' she asked, running after him.

‘They can do tests. See if that synthetic hair matches this wig.'

‘Harry, don't be ridiculous. All synthetic hairs are the same. It will probably match with a thousand different wigs. Harry, please,' she said, pulling on his arm.

Harry stopped as he reached the telephone on the coffee table. He turned to look at his wife. ‘Barbara, look me in the eye and tell me you didn't kill Dominic Griffiths.'

‘Why are you even asking me that? You should know I couldn't do something like that.'

‘Then say it.'

‘This is ludicrous.' She half-laughed.

‘You're not denying it, though, are you?'

‘Okay. I didn't do it.'

‘Look me in the eye and say it.'

‘Harry,' Barbara pleaded, on the brink of tears.

‘Oh my God.' He sank into the sofa. ‘You did, didn't you? You killed him. What did you do? Did you put those three men up to beating him up, too?'

‘No, of course I didn't,' she said, lowering herself to his level.

‘I can't believe this. I was a detective inspector. I worked for the police for almost thirty years. How did I not see this?'

‘Harry.' She sat on the armchair. She allowed a silence to develop for a few seconds, though it felt like hours. She softened her voice. ‘I didn't do it for you. I didn't do it for me. I did it for Stephanie,' she said, tears rolling down her face.

‘Stephanie's dead!' he screamed.

‘I know she is. And her killer should be too. That's the way it should be. A life for a life, Harry.'

‘Not in the eyes of the law.'

‘The law isn't working. How many times do I have to tell you? For people like us, the law is not working. We're left to suffer and grieve and be in pain for the rest of our lives, while people like Dominic Griffiths are allowed to carry on as if nothing's happened. The law isn't on our side. It looks after the criminals but not the victims and not the families of victims. God forbid you put a murderer in solitary confinement – it's against his human rights. What about my human rights?' she screamed, slapping herself on the chest. ‘What about Stephanie's human rights?' She pointed at the photograph on the wall.

‘Nobody has the right to take the law into their own hands,' Harry said, slowly losing the will to continue the argument.

‘When the law allows killers and rapists to go free, we have to act to show we're not going to give in to them. The liberal do-gooders in their ivory towers make the law, but they're never on the receiving end of the consequences. How many politicians in the cabinet do you think live within a five-minute walk of a paedophile, or a rapist, or an arsonist, or a killer? None. And why? Because they don't give a toss about the regular people. All they think about is what's in it for them. They give themselves pay rises above the rate of inflation, they line their own pockets, and fuck the regular hard-working members of society like me and you, Harry. So, yes, from time to time, we have to take the law into our own hands, because we cannot trust the lawmakers to do it for us.'

‘I'm phoning Terry,' Harry said eventually, turning to pick up the phone.

‘No, Harry, please,' Barbara begged. ‘Please don't. I'll be arrested. I'll be sent to prison.'

‘I'm a detective, Barbara. I can't sit back and watch a crime go unreported.'

‘You're not a detective anymore. You're retired. You're just a member of the public, like me. Dominic killed our daughter, Harry. In cold blood. He kidnapped her, and he killed her.' She ran over to the picture on the wall and snatched it down, holding it up to show Harry. ‘Look at her. Look at our daughter. She was thirteen years old, and Dominic stole her from us. He killed her and cut her up. He deserved to die.'

Harry, with the phone receiver in his hand, stopped and turned to his wife.

‘I don't know you at all. I'm calling Terry.'

‘No!' She snatched the phone out of his hand, gripping it firmly in both hands, holding it tight against her chest.

‘Barbara, give me the phone,' he said, holding out his hand.

‘I'm sorry, Harry, but no. I won't let you do this.'

They were at an impasse. Neither of them moved. Their eyes were locked on each other.

The doorbell rang. Barbara's eyes widened. Still, neither of them moved. The doorbell rang again.

Slowly, Harry headed for the door.

Barbara went over to the sofa and slumped down onto it. She placed the phone on the cushion next to her and picked up the framed photograph of Stephanie. She looked down at the smiling face with tear-filled eyes. She was suddenly aware of Terry's voice in the hallway. Why had he come here? What did he want? Barbara jumped up from the sofa and ran into the kitchen. Her mobile was on the windowsill next to the back door. She grabbed it, scrolled through the contacts and made a call. She impatiently chewed her bottom lip while waiting for it to be answered.

‘It's me. Harry's found out,' she said quietly. ‘I need you to come round. Bring everything with you.' She hung up.

‘Barbara, Terry's here,' Harry called out.

She replaced the mobile on the windowsill and walked slowly back into the living room. She didn't want to look at Terry, her godson. She knew she would see disappointment all over his face. When she finally looked up, the tears came.

‘Barbara, it's not true. Surely?' Terry said.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said, barely above a whisper.

Terry went over to her, put his arms around her shoulders and guided her to the armchair. He sat her down. ‘Barbara, tell me everything that's happened.'

‘I don't want to hear this,' Harry said, making to leave the room.

‘Harry, sit down,' Terry instructed.

‘No. I refuse to listen. She knows the law. She knows how I feel about vigilantes. There's no excuse for what she's done.'

‘And there's no excuse for going into a prison cell and beating up a young man because he won't confess,' Terry said, looking at Harry over his shoulder.

‘What?' Harry asked.

‘Is this true?' Barbara looked up at her husband.

Harry took a deep breath. He walked over to the sofa and sat down. He closed his eyes and composed himself, releasing the breath he had been holding.

‘When Dominic was arrested all those years ago, he wouldn't talk at first,' Harry said, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘He refused to admit what he'd done. Ian was doing everything he could to get him to talk, but… Anyway, I went into the cell, and I… I hit him.' He looked down at the floor in shame.

‘You hit him?'

‘I know. I know it was wrong. As soon as Ian dragged me off him, I felt guilty. I regretted it. If Dominic had told anyone, I could have jeopardised the whole case.'

Barbara stood up and walked slowly over to her husband. She sat on the sofa next to him and took his gloved hand in hers. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I didn't want you to think any less of me.' He looked up at her. There were tears in his eyes.

‘I would never have done that,' she said. She reached out to touch his face, but he recoiled.

‘The thing is, Barbara, I felt guilty straightaway, and there hasn't been a day that's gone by when I haven't thought about how low I sank. If you tell me that you regret what you've done, I'll find it in my heart to forgive you.'

Barbara took a deep breath and looked into her husband's eyes. ‘If I feel regret, it will mean that I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm not. He stole my daughter away from me.' Tears began to fall. ‘He snatched an innocent thirteen-year-old girl from the streets for his own sick pleasure. He cut her up into fifteen pieces and hid her in his attic. Imagine the pain and fear she must have gone through in her final moments. My only regret is that I didn't get my hands on him twenty years ago.' She spoke slowly and calmly, but anger flashed behind her words.

It was a while before Harry spoke. ‘I don't know who you are anymore.'