Tell Me I'm Wrong Read online

  Finally, a human appears on the end of the line, and I very quickly realise that I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Uh, hi,’ I whisper. ‘I’m calling because I think… I think my husband might be involved with a crime you’re investigating.’

  ‘Okay. Is he there with you?’

  ‘He’s upstairs. I’ve got to be quiet.’

  ‘That’s fine. Can you tell me which crime you’re referring to please?’

  I take a deep breath and realise it’s now or never. This is the point at which my life changes irrevocably.

  ‘The murders of Riley Markham and Kai Bolton,’ I say.

  There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Is that Operation Crabtree?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ I recognise the name from the news.

  There’s another moment of silence. I have visions of the call handler raising her hand and summoning over her bosses. It’s been the biggest manhunt in the history of the local police force, and this is the call that could finally catch the killer.

  ‘Can I take your name please, madam?’

  ‘Uh, Megan Miller.’

  ‘And your address please?’

  I give her our address.

  ‘Is this number the best one to contact you on?’

  I tell her it is.

  ‘Okay, so can you tell me what it is that makes you think your husband is involved somehow?’

  I do my best to rattle off everything I know, or think I know. I tell her about the bloodstained cap. I tell her about Chris’s box of Riley Markham memorabilia. I tell her about his lack of alibi for both murders. I tell her about his changing behaviour, how he snapped and became physical with me, how I found blood in the sink. As I’m saying it, I realise how mad it all sounds.

  She asks me for Chris’s details, including his name and date of birth. My heart’s hammering in my chest as I speak. I feel dreadful doing it, but not half as dreadful as I’d feel knowing that Riley Markham and Kai Bolton’s families don’t have the answers they so desperately need.

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ I say. ‘Asleep. We’ve got a daughter as well. She’s just a baby.’

  She must hear something in my voice. ‘Do you think you and your daughter are in any danger?’ she asks.

  This question catches me off guard. Even though it’s something I’ve thought about before, the police asking me is something completely different.

  ‘I— I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll pass the information on to the relevant officers, who’ll review what you’ve told me tonight. Is there anything else you can think of which they might need to know? Are there any weapons or dangerous items in the house?’

  ‘Uh, no. I don’t think so. No. Apart from the obvious.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Kitchen knives. Garden tools. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Would those things worry you?’

  ‘Well, no-one wants a trowel sticking out the back of their head, do they?’ I say, trying to lighten the mood and not seem quite so nervous. I sense the police officer doesn’t appreciate my efforts.

  ‘Are there any guns or hunting knives?’

  ‘No. He goes fishing. I don’t know if any of that stuff counts.’

  I look out through the kitchen window onto our garden. The streetlight from the road behind bathes the back of our garden in a warm orange glow at night. I look at it and wonder what memories this house will hold for me now. Will Evie and I have to move? I don’t see any way in which we can stay here. I’ll always be the murderer’s wife. We’ll have to start again. New names, perhaps.

  I realise I’ve completely tuned out from what the police woman has been saying to me. I hear her saying ‘Mrs Miller?’, but I can’t answer her. I’m frozen on the spot.

  In the reflection of the kitchen window, I see my husband standing behind me.

  36

  Megan

  ‘What are you doing? Who’s that?’ he asks, looking at the phone, which I’m holding next to my head.

  I end the call and quickly erase it from my call history list.

  ‘I came down to get a glass of water and I checked my phone and saw I had a voicemail,’ I say, my cracking voice betraying me.

  Chris nods. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Oh, just an old one from a few days ago. The doctor’s surgery confirming my appointment. You know how it is, sometimes it says you’ve got a new voicemail but it’s just an old one you haven’t deleted yet.’

  ‘Taken you a while to get a glass of water, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I had a headache so I went to get painkillers as well. Then I checked my phone, saw the voicemail… I’ve not been down here long.’

  ‘Twelve minutes,’ he says, in a flat monotone.

  ‘Oh. I wasn’t counting.’

  ‘I was. You woke me when you left the room.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He looks at me for a few moments, almost quizzically.

  ‘What’s wrong, Megan?’

  ‘Hmmm? Me? Nothing. Just a headache, like I said.’

  ‘No, I mean what’s wrong?’ He takes a step forward towards me. I instinctively step backwards, pressing the edge of the kitchen worktop into the small of my back. ‘That. That’s what I mean,’ he says.

  ‘What is?’ My voice is shaky and unsteady like my feet.

  ‘You stepping away from me when I walked towards you. What have I done?’

  ‘I… I don’t know,’ I answer, completely truthfully.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks, and I realise I don’t know what he’s actually asking me. Is he challenging me? Does he know that I know, or is that what he’s trying to find out? I can’t handle these sorts of mind games. I’ve got more than enough going on inside my head at the moment without having to deal with this.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask, trying to buy myself some time.

  ‘I want you to tell me what’s going on. You’ve been acting weird for days. Is it because of the doctor? Did they give you some medication?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with it,’ I say, deflecting his question.

  ‘Those sorts of tablets quite often have side effects, Megan. You should have told me you were taking them so I could keep an eye out for things.’

  What, so you could gaslight me? I want to say. ‘I’m not on any medication.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Megan. I found the tablets.’

  I look him in the eyes and see emptiness. Where once stood my husband, now stands an empty shell.

  ‘You went snooping through my stuff? I put them there because it’s private, Chris. You don’t just go rummaging through—’

  ‘I lied,’ he says. My heart stops for a moment. ‘I didn’t know anything about any medication, but I said it to see how you’d react. So you have been on tablets.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Chris. What sort of game are you trying to play here?’

  ‘There are no games, Megan,’ he says, stepping forward again. I move to the side to give myself some space. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I say, my confidence building as I look him in the eye. ‘Don’t you dare try to make out it’s me that’s got a problem, that it’s me who’s hiding things. I don’t have any secrets, Chris. But I know yours.’

  His jaw tightens as he clenches it, around the same time as I tighten my grip on the knife on the kitchen worktop behind my back. I need to hear it. I need to hear him say it. But I know there’s a chance things might not go quite to plan.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he says, as if he genuinely has no idea. But I saw the flash in his eyes just a moment ago. I saw the fear. The realisation. The panic.

  ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. The long days out fishing. The dash to the shower as soon as you get back in. Putting your clothes straight in the washing machine without me seeing them. The anger. The short temper. I know
what you’ve done, Chris.’

  He looks at me, our eyes locked for what seems like an age. I can almost see the cogs turning inside his brain as he tries to figure out what I know, desperately fumbling for an escape route which could save him some face. But what if he doesn’t find one? What if he decides there’s no other option but to preserve his secret?

  ‘Go on, then,’ he says, finally. ‘Tell me what I’ve done.’

  The look in his eyes is cold and daring. We both know this is it. We both know this is crunch time. Is this where it all ends? My marriage. My family. My life.

  ‘I know what you did to those boys,’ I say, my voice a hesitant whisper, my eyes misted with the beginnings of tears.

  ‘What?’ Chris says, his face contorting.

  ‘Riley and Kai. I know what you did to them.’

  He cocks his head slightly, his face a twisted wreck of disgust and anger.

  ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, do you?’

  ‘I found the evidence, Chris. The blood in the sink. The drawings and notes. The poor boy’s cap. What did you do with it? I know you took it out the bin again afterwards. What did you do? Burn it?’

  ‘Megan, you need to stop this right now…’

  ‘I know what you did. I know you killed them.’

  I see something welling up inside Chris. I don’t know whether it’s anger, realisation or what, but it comes out as a sort of reverse snort. He goes to step towards me and I bring the knife round in front of me, pointing the sharp end of the blade at him.

  ‘Don’t come any closer. I’m not afraid of you, Chris, but if I have to defend myself I will.’

  ‘Megan, put that knife down and we’ll talk about this.’

  ‘No,’ I say, moving it an inch or two closer towards him. ‘I’m not putting anything down. I want you to step back away from me.’

  ‘Megan, you’re ill. The tablets have clearly given you some sort of —’

  ‘Get back!’ I yell, jabbing the knife forward and missing Chris’s upper arm by millimetres.

  ‘Megan. Put it down.’ His voice is calm and measured now, and that’s the scariest thing of all.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice cracking.

  ‘Fine.’ Before I can even decode his response, his hand flashes up at lightning speed and grabs my arm, wrestling the knife from me as it clatters to the floor. I reach down for it. Before I can get there, Chris picks me up and holds me against the wall.

  He looks deep into my eyes, and I into his. I see nothing but murderous rage.

  And that’s when I hear the knocking on the front door.

  37

  Chris

  From what I can gather, she’d already phoned the police. That must have been who she was on the phone to when I came downstairs. While I was being read my rights, I overheard one of the officers speaking to her, telling her the woman she’d been speaking to had detected some panic in Megan’s voice. When they heard my voice in the room and Megan suddenly ending the call, they made the decision to put the call out to nearby units. The two police officers had been just a couple of minutes from our house.

  I told them it was ridiculous. I mentioned the fact Megan has been on antipsychotic medication, but they were having none of it. They wanted to speak to me under caution, they said.

  They offered me a solicitor. I turned the offer down. I’ve got nothing to hide from them and I certainly don’t need some smart-arsed Legal Aid shark inadvertently fitting me up. It’s all so preposterous, I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything to worry about.

  I keep seeing that look in her eyes as she told me I’d killed Riley and Kai. She honestly, truly believed it. She actually thinks I killed them.

  That was the moment I knew my marriage was over. I’d suspected for a while, but that was the point at which I knew there was no going back. How on earth do you go back from something like that? At that point, all trust is broken. One partner having a secret from the other is bad enough, but when the other suspects a secret and gets it so badly, horribly wrong, there really is no way to repair that damage.

  The interview room feels like a claustrophobic classroom without the decoration. The walls are an insipid magnolia, the floor a collection of cheap blue carpet tiles. The ceiling tiles are interspersed with horrendous polycarbonate-covered lighting squares. The whole place looks soulless. I suppose it’s hardly surprising.

  ‘You don’t seem too shocked or upset, Mr Miller,’ the detective asks. It’s that same woman who spoke to me before. McKenna.

  ‘About what? Being arrested?’

  ‘About anything much.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? The whole thing’s ridiculous. If there was a grain of truth in it I’d have something to worry about, but it’s just so laughable I don’t really see that there’s any point in me getting upset about it.’

  ‘Would it be fair to say that you deny killing Riley Markham and Kai Bolton, then, Mr Miller?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes it would.’

  McKenna exchanges a glance with her colleague. ‘So where were you on the afternoon of the ninth?’

  ‘I went fishing.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  I swallow. ‘No. Nowhere else.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Miller? Now would be a good time to tell us.’

  I think about this for a moment, then decide the best thing to do is to plead ignorance until they can prove otherwise. I know their game. They make out like they know something, hoping I’ll admit to it and tell them everything. In reality, they know fuck all. All they’ve got to go on is the demented ramblings of my psychotic wife.

  ‘We’ve spoken to you a couple of times now, Chris, and your story’s stayed pretty consistent.’

  ‘That’s because I’m telling the truth,’ I say.

  ‘Can we just run through it again? For our own benefit.’

  I nod. They can try whatever they like. I’ve got everything straight in my own head and I’m not about to start changing it now.

  ‘Let’s start with the day Riley Markham died. You left the house about what time?’

  ‘Just after midday. I had an early lunch then headed out.’

  ‘Who else was home at that time?’

  ‘Megan was.’

  ‘And she was in when you got home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just after five.’

  ‘That’s a long time to spend fishing.’

  ‘I like fishing,’ I say. This woman seems to have a knack for winding me up with the tone of her voice. It’s a horrible sort of cynicism.

  ‘Where do you fish?’

  ‘About two miles out of the village, upstream. There’s a quiet little spot I like to go. A few people fish there early in the morning, but come lunchtime it’s deserted. I can sit with the sun on me and enjoy the peace and quiet. I like it.’

  ‘Did anyone else see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, all day? The whole five hours?’

  ‘It’s very quiet up there.’

  ‘Five hours on a warm day in the school holidays and not a single person walked past?’

  ‘Not up that far, no. That’s why I go there.’

  She settles back in her chair and folds her arms. ‘I see. And did you go straight there from home?’

  ‘Yes. I usually walk up when the weather’s nice.’

  ‘And you did the same on that day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which way do you walk?’

  ‘Down Falconer’s Lane to the stream, then up the river bank.’

  ‘That’s a long walk.’

  ‘Like I said. Two miles. It keeps me fit.’

  The detective is silent for a moment. Then she looks me in the eye.

  ‘You see, the funny thing is, you were seen speaking to Riley Markham that afternoon, a couple of hundred yards from where his body was found.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Do you want to comment on
that?’ the detective asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll give you a little more information. See if that jogs your memory. You were walking along the side of the stream towards the village at about half past three and Riley was walking the opposite way. You both stopped and spoke to each other for a few seconds, then carried on the way you were going. What did you say?’

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I decide it’s best I tell them the truth. This little part of the truth, at least. ‘I said hello. Asked him if he was alright. He said he was heading home. And it was three thirty-three. I remember looking at my watch.’

  ‘Why?’

  I don’t know why I said that. ‘Because he was out on his own. I was going to offer to walk him back home to make sure he got home safe.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You were only out fishing. And what were you doing that far downstream? You didn’t come home for almost another two hours.’

  ‘I had to grab something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A new reel. I left it in my car.’

  ‘Where was your car?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  She leans forward and puts her arms on the desk.

  ‘So you walked all the way home. Two miles. For a new reel. Then you walked back again?’

  ‘Mmmhmmm.’

  ‘Why not just stay at home? You could’ve gone fishing with the new reel the next day.’

  ‘I was enjoying myself.’

  ‘Enjoying yourself enough to walk eight miles in a day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something doesn’t quite ring true here. Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  I run my hands through my hair. ‘I dunno. I forgot all about it.’

  ‘You forgot all about walking a four mile round trip, during which you happened to bump into Riley Markham minutes before he was brutally murdered? Forgive me for asking, Chris, but if that somehow managed to slip your mind, it does make me wonder what else you aren’t telling us.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to be told two of your pupils have been killed by a madman? Do you know what that feels like? The guilt I’ve been carrying around with me, knowing I should have walked him back home? Knowing how selfish it was of me to think my own day was more important and to leave him to… to what happened to him? It looks as though I was the last person to see him alive. That’s the sort of thing that eats you up from the inside out.’ She looks at me, and in that moment I think I can see that she’s buying this. ‘Look. I’ve spoken to your lot three times now. I didn’t mention seeing Riley because I felt so guilty about leaving him there, and I knew how bad it would look. But you know it’s not me who killed those boys. You know my DNA wasn’t at the scenes or on their bodies.’