The Lies We Told(75)

Doug and Toby died that night. I could describe the horror of those hours, the brutal, freeze-frame panic as I watched the firefighters battle their way through the bonfire of my house, the endless awful waiting for my husband and son to be saved. And when all hope was lost, their bodies being dragged out into the cold night air, I remember the arms and hands of strangers, neighbours, police, restraining me, stopping me from running to them, the ungodly sound of my scream.

I could describe the aftermath, the blind stumbling through what remained of my derelict life. But I won’t. I can’t relive it all again. I will tell you only the facts, of what she did, Hannah, of how she paid me back.

After she left Emily, she bought petrol, two cans of it, from the local garage, then walked the streets with brazen carelessness with one in each hand. And finding the house in darkness as she’d expected (assuming, I suppose, that I too was safely tucked up in bed), she set to work. Afterwards, a neighbour saw her running from the flames across the fields. Somewhere her plan must have gone wrong because she was found by the police less than a mile away, badly burned herself. I imagine she wanted me to die too, but in the end the outcome was probably better for her. She had said she wanted to punish all of us: what greater punishment could there be than allowing me to go on living?

The trial lasted seven days. There was never any question of her being acquitted, the evidence against her was too overwhelming – not least the CCTV footage of her buying the petrol that day. And in fact I don’t think she actually cared about being caught; her aim was to destroy as many lives as possible, by whatever means, so her punishment was the least of her concerns.

The trial attracted a fair amount of media attention – the tabloids, especially, baying for her blood. TEEN SLAYS FAMILY, that sort of thing. They, like me, wanted retribution. Yet the Hannah who appeared in court defied all expectations, knocked the wind out of the jury’s sails with her doe-eyed fragility, her tears and her beauty. She looked much younger than her years as she stood in the dock wearing a simple, childlike dress, trembling and remorseful, a beautiful yet troubled waif in desperate need of help.

The prosecution tried their best: calling in a psychiatrist as their expert witness who said he was certain Hannah posed a significant and ongoing threat to society. They even got Kathy Philips, Clara’s old childminder, to describe how Hannah had set fire to her son’s room all those years before. But despite all this, despite the fact that she deliberately burnt down her family home, in the end her fate hinged on the performance she gave, the jury’s belief of whether she intended to kill or not. She sobbed as she said she hadn’t meant for the fire to spread, that she’d tried to go back to save her father and brother, that she had the burns on her back to prove it. The jury was divided, uncertain, and in the end the murder charge was reduced to involuntary manslaughter, and because of her age, she got just five years.

At first I was shocked that she didn’t come clean about the discoveries she’d made, had shied away from a heartrending description of how she’d found out, aged seven, the awful truth. Such a pitiful tale could only have worked in her favour, after all. But I think she knew that there was no need. That story was too valuable to be given up so easily, when she still had so much more suffering in store for her father, and for Rose.

I could have told the police myself, confessed to them about Hannah’s real mother, how she died, how Rose and Oliver and I were involved in it all, but what good would that have done? My child was dead. I thought of the two Lawson boys, so young still, and I didn’t think I could be responsible for destroying their lives too. I was drowning in grief, only capable of wishing with all my heart that I’d died with Doug and Toby that night, as I’m sure Hannah knew. I wish I had died too.





29


Suffolk, 2017

As Rose described the fire and Hannah’s trial, Clara felt cold waves of panic wash over her. This was the person who had hold of Luke? This murderer, this madwoman? And Rose, Oliver – they had known it all along? She stared at them, anger and shock mingling with her despair.

It was Tom who spoke first. ‘How old was he, the boy?’ he asked, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

Rose hung her head. ‘Ten. Toby was ten years old.’

‘Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ!’ He got up and paced the room, coming to a halt in front of his father. ‘She’s killed before, what’s to stop her doing it again? What’s to stop her from murdering Luke too?’

Oliver looked up at his son imploringly. ‘If she was going to kill Luke she would have done so by now, not continued to send pictures and taunt us like this. She knows if she kills him there’s nothing to stop us going to the police. It wouldn’t be in her best interests; she wants us to suffer for as long as possible. It’s a game to her, that’s all. It’s our punishment.’

As Clara listened to Oliver talk, she remembered how frequently Hannah had enquired after her father and Rose’s wellbeing during their meetings, how avidly she listened when Clara described their suffering. Her desire to see Clara wasn’t just to keep abreast of the police search; it was an opportunity to revel in the havoc she had caused.

Rose got to her feet then and, approaching her son, put her hand on his arm. ‘Tom, you have to understand that Hannah has never given us a straight answer about Emily’s whereabouts. Sometimes she says she knows, other times she denies it. She might have some information, no matter how small, that could let us know what happened to her. If the police catch Hannah before us, she’ll never tell us. She would go to prison and keep quiet just to spite us. At least this way, if we do what she wants, there’s still a chance she could tell us something, anything, that might help us find Emily.’