Make Believe - [13]

On the screen the girl was yelling at Clive, he tried to reach her and she moved sharply away. ‘Your child went missing and you lied to the people trying to find him. For what? To cover up some seedy affair? Or was it more than that? What else are you lying about?’

‘She’s my daughter!’ he looked at Janine aghast. ‘My bloody daughter, Phoebe.’ That was the last thing Janine expected though it did answer her doubts as to the public setting for the liaison.

‘How dare you imply… and then you think I hurt Sammy!’

‘You lied to us. You’d better have a very good reason for doing so,’ she said coldly. ‘I’d like to hear it.’

He heaved a sigh then began to talk. ‘When Felicity and I split up, I hoped to still see plenty of Phoebe. That’s why we bought the house, it was near enough for her to come round. But Felicity, my ex, she’s very volatile, needy.’ He shook his head. ‘She made our lives hell: coming to the house, abusive calls, turning up at work, threatening to kill herself. All these grand gestures. It was horrendous. In the end, I promised Claire a clean break. But that didn’t work either. Felicity just wouldn’t let go.’ He paused for a moment, biting his lip, then said, ‘The very day Sammy was born, Felicity took an overdose, Phoebe had to call an ambulance.’

‘When did this all start?’

‘I left Felicity when Claire got pregnant,’ he said. Janine thought of Pete, how it had been the other way round, leaving her when she got pregnant. Except now…

‘So you were seeing Claire while you were still married to Felicity?’

‘Yes,’ he said, jutting his chin forward slightly as if to defend that behaviour but Janine could tell he wasn’t proud of it.

‘How long had you been seeing each other?’

‘Does this matter?’ he said bullishly.

‘That’s for us to decide, not you,’ Janine replied.

‘Almost two years. Then I left but Felicity kept harassing us until Sammy was about six months old.’ His eyes filled with sudden tears and Janine guessed he had remembered afresh why they were here, that his child was missing presumed dead. ‘Things calmed down then and recently, well, I felt bad about Phoebe, I wanted to try and see her. I’d been there for the first eleven years and then, the way Felicity was it made it impossible for me to see her. Felicity poisoned her against me. But now she’s that bit older, I hoped… I thought…’

‘And the argument at the hockey match?’ Richard said.

‘I went to watch her play, tried to talk to her. But she’s still angry. She told me to piss off.’ He gave a shake of the head.

‘Where did you go?’ said Richard.

‘Just drove around, sat in the car.’

‘Around where?’ said Richard.

‘I don’t remember,’ said Clive Wray.

They persisted for a while trying to get more on his movements but he kept repeating he couldn’t recall anything until returning home. True or a fudge?

‘Why did you conceal this from us?’ Janine said. ‘And from the missing persons inquiry?’

‘I didn’t want to upset Claire,’ he replied. ‘With Sammy gone and everything. She’d have hated me trying to see Phoebe, I just felt it was too much. And it didn’t matter.’

‘What matters,’ Janine said through gritted teeth, ‘is that you have wasted my time and resources and my officers’ time while we’ve been investigating your false account. Time that we could have otherwise spent trying to find out who killed a three-year-old child.’

He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you have to tell Claire?’

‘No,’ Janine replied, ‘but you do.’

Lies and secrets – the damage they did. Was that really all he’d been lying about?

Janine stood with Richard beside the windows of the incident room watching Clive Wray leave, crossing the tram lines towards Central Library, hunched over against the rain.

‘Still no alibi for the afternoon,’ Richard said.

‘Still no motive,’ said Janine.

‘Maybe he thought he’d made the wrong choice, that the argument with Phoebe brought it home. Perhaps he felt Sammy was an obstacle?’

‘If he wanted to go back to Felicity,’ Janine said, ‘he could have just upped sticks and gone, he wouldn’t need to kill his son. Let’s talk to the girl.’

Felicity Wray’s house reeked of incense. Mobiles and wind charms hung from every available place. Batik throws and Indian cottons threaded with gold and silver thread served as coverings for the furniture and curtains in the living room. But the chilled out vibe had little apparent effect on the woman herself, Janine swiftly realised. Felicity Wray seemed close to hysterical, nervy and melodramatic with a latent hostility that simmered behind her words. She swished about in a maxi dress, her arms adorned with bangles and love-beads around her neck, smoking a small cheroot.

Phoebe, a dark-haired 14 year-old was a typical young teen, a mix of innocence and cynicism. Switching between disaffection and naivety within a few sentences. They were trying to talk to Phoebe, who was perched, arms firmly crossed, on the end of a huge sofa, but Felicity kept interrupting.

‘Clive says he wanted to try and make contact again,’ Janine said.

‘He thought he could just say sorry and make it all better. Like – hello?’ Phoebe was trying for disaffected teenager but Janine sensed a fragility behind the act.