After Acquittal

By J.L. Heritage

Carly had the perfect life; great job, gorgeous house, prominent in the little community she lived in and married to her soul mate. Yep, life was perfect — until she uncovered his dirty little secret…a secret, it seemed, that only she didn’t know about. There was no going back, no forgiveness, no second chance. It was time for her to leave him.

Carly’s life starts to fall apart at her feet, taking a frightening turn when her husband dies unexpectedly. Given the circumstances — and the fact that she seems to have motive — someone suspects foul play and Carly is charged and tried for murder.

After months of harassment, and she’s acquitted, she changes her name and moves more than 300 miles away from the town she knows and loves in a bid to make a fresh start. At first, it’s bliss, if not a little lonely. After a while though, she starts to get the unnerving feeling that she’s being watched…that, somehow, she’d been found.

After too many coincidences and incidents form a pattern, she has no choice but to reach out to the local police force. Who’s following her, breaking into her home and leaving threatening notes? What lengths will this individual go to in order to dish out their own justice? With nothing to go on, can the police even protect her, and could the officer determined to defend her be her second chance? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Heritage
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781547243365

Book preview

One

Present - July 2013

I’m sitting looking at the boxes surrounding me, and I’m wondering if I can pinpoint the moment my life went to pot. I gulp a mouthful of my red wine and prop my feet up on a box labelled DVDs. Would it have been twelve months ago? Just about when the trial started and I lost my job, the one thing I clung to in the end? Or sixteen months ago when he died? Maybe it was two years ago when I found out about the affair? Or even that night after my 35th birthday two and a half years ago when he’d told me he’d changed his mind about having children?

Whenever it was, my life was now well and truly at rock bottom.

I know I should go to bed, I’m moving tomorrow. I’m getting as far away from this place and its nosy townsfolk as I can. I’m sick of the looks, whispers, and comments aimed in my direction when I go to get groceries or to the post office. They’ve finally driven me out.

I know what they’re all thinking. I did it. I managed to do it, but for some reason, I got off. The papers did a great job of covering the story, of course. I had motive, after all. Before the trial even started the townsfolk knew my guilt as fact.

The thing that gave this whole shit-storm publicity? It was who he was before he’d died. I myself had been attracted to that heroic past, so I could somewhat understand the fascination and burning desire for justice that surrounded it, even if it had been aimed in a frightening direction. My direction. Had he been someone ‘normal’, it’d have never made the press…maybe the local evening news, but not the national press. The county’s local sweetheart, a military hero and the son of a retired MP. The papers can smell a story like that a mile off, and, thanks to Mags, they sure as hell got one.

I drain my mug full of red wine (the glasses are packed), and kicked the final box whilst giving it the filthiest look I could muster. The last box…the one I’ve been dreading to pack since I decided to sell my dream cottage with its hard-wood floors, exposed beams, real fireplaces, and gorgeous rose garden. I’m a fidgety ball of relief, anger, and devastation. It was never meant to be like this. I was never supposed to be packing up my things and moving away from my forever-home. The home I put blood, sweat, and tears into making perfect. For my happily ever after that turned into the train-crash that’s currently my life.

I reach over and grumpily snatch up one of the flat boxes and quickly assemble it. I stand quickly, the inebriating effects of the whole bottle of red wine I’d guzzled down making themselves known whilst picking my not-so-perfect life apart and separating it into brown cardboard containers. These were my categories; keep, bin, charity shop, and seal away and never open.

I cross the small lounge to the bookcase and sink to the floor. My bottom’s starting to numb, and my knees are starting to ache from the amount of time I’ve spent sat, cross-legged, on the gorgeous flooring I’d spent days sanding and varnishing that, after tomorrow, I’ll never see again. Still, at least this is the last lot to be packed. With a sad sigh, I start pulling things off the bottom shelf full of photo albums.

Dan and I took photos all the time, and I always got them printed and put into albums. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now they’re just picture books of my past, taunting me. I pick up our wedding album and flick through the 50 or so pictures of Dan and I staring into the camera, smiling at one another as we wondered what the future might hold. I look at the photos that were taken without us knowing; those are the really beautiful pictures, they capture the bliss and contentment of the moment, the love between Dan and I.

Blimey, it was hot that day. So hot that I’d almost expected to see a couple of hobbits throw a ring into our tiny chapel. It was thirty-seven degrees in St Lucia when we got married and, me? I was in a traditional wedding dress, sweat pouring down my back like Niagara Falls, whilst Dan had sensibly opted for linen trousers and a linen shirt. We deliberately got married abroad so that my parents wouldn’t come. My mother’s an alcoholic mess who freely admits she should never have had me, and my father has spent more time in prison that he has out of it. The media loved reporting on that. A drunk as a mother and an abusive father who’s been inside for battery and robbery; how could I not be a murderer?

I shove the album into the box. I have no intention of keeping it, but can’t throw it away here. Since the trial, I’ve had people going through my rubbish, trying to find some sort of evidence that I’m the monster they believe I am. Not that throwing the album away would be an omission of guilt, but I just don’t want it handed to the press so they can do some conclusion story using a photo of me on my wedding day, and that photo they managed to get of me in my ratty old dressing gown bringing in the milk a few weeks back.

I pick up the next album. Rome. That was a lovely holiday, we did as much as we could in 5 days and promised each other we’d come back. I was planning on surprising him with a week’s holiday to Rome for his birthday, until I found out about her that is. I shove that in the box too.

Over the next hour, I torture myself by flicking through photographic evidence of mine and Dan’s perfect, happy life. Photos of us at Disney World, at the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State building when he proposed, on holiday in the Dominican with gorgeous golden tans, on safari watching the giraffes and, finally, outside the Segrada Familia in Barcelona. I cram all the photo albums into the box, seal it up with masking tape, and write ‘Do Not Open’ in black marker on the top. I’ll take it to the dump in my new town when I get there. Or maybe I’ll burn it, I haven’t made my mind up yet. At least I don’t have any photos of us in frames anymore, I boxed those up as soon as the trial started. I didn’t want to have to look at his smiling, gorgeous face any more. I had loved him once.

I drag my tired body up to my bathroom and stare at my reflection. My once shiny, blonde hair hangs lankly around my face. It’s freshly dyed a muddy brown colour, and reaches just past my bra strap.  I’ve decided that as soon as the moving vans have pulled away from my new little bungalow, I’ll have my hair cut short in a bid to remain unrecognised in my new town. My deep brown eyes, usually so full of sparkle and character, peer out through heavy lids. The dark circles have gotten worse over the last few months, so much so, I have invested in an expensive concealer…that still doesn’t mask them. My skin looks grey and tired, I look far older than thirty-seven, but then, if being on trial doesn’t age you, I don’t know what will. My cheekbones are more pronounced due to the weight I’ve lost, once a healthy size twelve, I’m now a skinny eight to ten that doesn’t suit my five foot eight frame. I’m a mess. I clean my teeth and promise myself that my life starts again tomorrow. Once I’m settled in my new home, I’m going to put on some weight, get out in the sunshine, and have my hair cut into a trendy bob.

I walk to my bedroom and crawl into bed, hoping for at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Since the trial finished I’ve had people banging on the door, breaking into the garden in the dark and looking through my windows trying, and successfully achieving, to frighten the living daylights out of me. I’ve had bricks thrown through my beautiful lead paned windows, and I’ve even had ‘murderer’ sprayed on my front door. I call the police, but they act as though I deserve it. Last time I had a hooded figure in the garden, it took them twenty-three minutes to respond to my call, then I watched them escorting the man out laughing with each other; they didn’t even bother to come in to see if I was okay.

This is a small town, and the community is as close as you’d ever find…great when you’re on the inside, like Dan and I used to be, awful when you’re not, though.

I wake up the following morning to find some flower pots smashed and my bin upended, but that’s about it. The noise of the bin being pushed over is so familiar, I didn’t even bother to get out of bed and look out of the window. It only takes me a few minutes to tidy that up and I’m thankful that today is the start of my new life. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to walk the seven or eight-minute route to the bakers and get some fresh bread, a bacon roll and a coffee without stares, whispers or the absolute certainty of being unwanted; a dirty stain on the town’s precious image. Today is the day I go from ‘Carly Bartlington - widow and acquitted murder suspect’ to just ‘Carly Whitmoore’ after I’d paid the extortionate fee of eighty quid to change my name online. I thought about going back to my maiden name, but the thought of having to use my father’s name, linked to untold crimes, in order to try and escape the hell I’m living in was just ridiculous.

I make myself a coffee once I’ve rinsed out last night’s dregs of red wine and go to get dressed. The moving team should be here soon so I need to supervise them loading my possessions. I wait patiently, sipping my coffee until I hear a van trundling up the cobbled lane. I jump up and dash to the front door, I can’t wait to get away from this place.

The two men who are moving me aren’t from around here so they don’t recognise me or ask questions, especially as I’ve booked the removal under my new name. They carefully load all of my worldly possessions and wait for me to get into my car and lead them to my new home, some three hundred miles away from here. As I drive away from my gorgeous cottage, I see the curtains twitch in the neighbouring homes. I’m filled with relief, sadness…and guilt.

***

I drive through the tree lined roads and towards my new life. The roads are narrow and quaint with bungalows and town houses mixed together, their occupants already out in the sun, mowing lawns or trimming trees, bushes, or climbing plants. I roll my window down and turn the radio off so that I can hear the sea. The smell of the salty water assaults my nostrils and makes me think of fish and chips and the feel of my toes in the cool sand. I drive past a bakers, a butchers, a small grocery store, a hairdressers, and a post office; if I never wanted to go into the big town, I probably wouldn’t have to. I could shrink away into an idyllic village life…and that was exactly what I was intending.

My new home is a quaint bungalow in a little town outside of Brighton that’s just a five-minute walk from the seafront. It’s small but homely, and is in need of some basic aesthetic work. I’m planning on going to the local hardware shop tomorrow to get some paint, some shelving, and some plants for my new — and very overgrown — garden.

We pull up outside and I unlock the stiff front door, letting the men who are helping me with my house move in with the first of the boxes. I got the house relatively cheap, the old lady who owned it had moved into a nursing home six months previously and had sadly passed away. The bungalow had been made accessible for her wheelchair, so I had already been down to stay at a local B&B and spent hours ripping up the ramps, and unscrewing the many rails, so much so that, apart from the wider than normal doors, you’d never know it was modified. I’d had new carpets laid, so all that was left was to paint.

The air is stale so I decide to open the back-patio doors that lead onto a paved area, just before the jungle of a garden starts. The rose bushes are overgrown and in need of a serious trim and the grass will need to be hacked back before it’s mowed. I’m just about to go back inside and make sure the removals men are okay when I hear a timid meow. A tortoiseshell cat wanders out of the long grass, she’s really quite tiny, probably only just a year old. I slowly crouch down, worried she might bite or scratch, and she immediately starts rubbing herself against me. I hold my hand out and let her nudge her head against it, letting her get used to my smell before I dare to stroke her. I run my hand along her spine as she purrs loudly. She’s terribly thin and not wearing a collar, but is remarkably friendly, so she can’t be a stray. I grab a flower pot saucer and go back into the kitchen and tear the masking tape off one of the boxes and rummage for a can of tuna, luckily, it’s a ring pull as I’ve no clue as to where the tin opener is. I strain the can in the sink and empty its contents onto the saucer that I’ve rinsed and go back into the garden, placing it on the ground. The little cat comes over and eats frantically, as if it’s been a long time since she’s had a meal. I take my phone out of my pocket and take a picture of her, deciding I’ll ask the neighbours if they know who she is or who she might belong to.

After a few hours, my belongings are in my new home, my furniture has been put where I’ve asked and the boxes are ready to be unpacked. I spend a couple of hours unpacking some essentials and making up my bed. When hunger gets the better of me, I decide to walk to the shop to stock up on some basics and stop at the local fish & chip shop on the way home to get something to eat. I come down to the lounge and find the little cat fast asleep on my armchair. I don’t want to wake her, so I shut and lock the backdoors but leave the smaller kitchen window open, pick up my keys and purse, and head out.

As I walk up my front path to the pavement, I decide to knock next door and see if my new neighbour can shed any light on the little cat. I tap lightly and wait for a moment whilst I hear shuffling behind the door. It’s opened a crack, the white-haired lady in her eighties behind it taking me in.

What do you want? Whatever it is you’re selling; I don’t want it. Bugger off! she says, almost shutting the door in my face.

Wait, I’m your new neighbour! I say quickly. She opens the door again and peers at me through her bottle-bottom glasses.

You’ve moved into Beryl’s? she asks.

Yes, my name’s Carly Bar…Carly Whitmoore, I just wanted to ask you about this cat, I say, showing her the image on my phone. She inches her head closer, readjusting her glasses and looks at the photo.

Oh, that’s Lola’s kitten, she says matter-of-factly.

Who’s Lola? I ask as I put my phone away.

She was Beryl’s cat. About a year ago, she had two kittens. One got run over, poor thing, but that’s the other one. When Beryl died, she’d signed up to some scheme where this cat charity came and got her cats, promising to re-home them. They got Lola no trouble, but that little one’s fast as a fox. They came back loads ‘a times to try and catch her, but after a while she stopped coming back to the garden; they thought she’d run away for good. Looks like she’s back. Do you want the charity’s card? I’ve got it somewhere. The daft woman told me to have it just in case I was able to catch her. Me! With my arthritic knees!

Yes, if you wouldn’t mind, that would be great. She’s currently asleep on my armchair! I laugh.

The old lady shuffles down her hallway to the telephone table, and rummages through her drawer before coming back.

Here you go. My name’s Martha. Sorry about earlier, I get all sorts knocking on the door asking me to give to charity, or trying to sell me something or another. Takes me so long to get to the door, so it makes me bad tempered, she says by means of an apology.

Not to worry, I can imagine what a nuisance they must be. Well, I best dash, it was nice to meet you, I say, waving as I walk towards the pavement. Martha waves back as she closes the door and bolts it.

I walk to the shop with my purse and a reusable carrier bag, once inside I’m impressed with its size. I grab some milk, squash, bread, eggs, sugar, some more decaf tea bags, and head to the checkout. On my way up the aisle, I notice the cat food and my mind wanders back to my new lounge, and the tortoiseshell cat curled up and sleeping on my armchair.

That poor thing has had a rough start, first her sibling is run over, then her owner dies and her mum gets taken away by the cat charity.

I reach out and take a water bowl and double food bowl from the shelf, and pick up a box of cat food pouches and a bag of biscuits, then head to the checkout. Once I’ve paid, I go into the fish & chip shop next door and my mind wanders to my childhood whilst I wait for my food.

I’ve never had a pet before, unless you count the fish I won at the fair one year that lasted 2 weeks. My mother never allowed me to have anything nice, but I often petted next door’s big, fat, ginger, tom cat called Boris. He adored me and used to follow me around, especially when I would leave the house after dark to get away from my parents fighting during their brief encounters together when my father wasn’t in prison.

Denise, my mother, has struggled with alcoholism ever since I can remember. I don’t think there are any memories that I have of her that don’t involve her either being inebriated or on her way there.

Our house would be cluttered with empty bottles of vodka and whiskey; the place was filthy, and every surface was covered with the same sticky grime. When I was old enough to understand that this wasn’t normal, I started to clean. I would relish in the satisfaction of wiping away the dirt, wiping away the disappointment Denise felt for me. Eventually, I started looking after her. I’d clear up after her, secretly take her empty bottles to the bottle bank so that the neighbours couldn’t see them in the back garden. When I worked out how to work the microwave, I could at least ensure that we’d eat once a day.

I didn’t have friends at school; who wanted to be friends with a little girl with grubby clothes whose mother drank and swore like a pirate?

As anyone with an addiction will be able to tell you, the addiction comes first before all other things, even those you love. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t even come second…Nigel, the man she is ‘more than 70% sure’ is my father, held that spot.

Denise had an ordinary upbringing in one of the towns outside of Manchester. Her father, my grandad, died when she was little leaving her mum (my ‘Granny Joan’) to bring her up by herself.

Granny Joan never remarried, she mourned her husband for the rest of her life. She didn’t know how to handle Denise when she became an adolescent and started acting out. Soon after her nineteenth birthday, she started drinking more heavily and Granny had no choice but to kick her out of her house.

Denise sofa-surfed for six months before she ended up back on Granny’s doorstep, weeping, and pregnant.

Granny Joan died when I was one. I don’t remember her, so I don’t miss her, but Denise always insisted I called her that. Nigel told me that it was after Gran died that Denise’s drinking took over her life.

Nigel was so in and out of my life that I think my brain overwrote all the memories with him in them. I have some, of course, but they’re just of him and Denise fighting; sometimes even fist-fighting. That’s when I’d leave and Boris would follow me to keep me safe. My urban tiger and fierce protector.

Nigel was only ever out of prison for three or four months before he did something that landed him back inside for another few years. Denise’s drinking was always at its peak after he’d returned to prison, and it’s then that I’d have to try and pick the pieces up again.

When I was sixteen I finished school, and started working at a tiny corner shop that was mainly a newsagent, although it sold all manner of things one would expect to need desperately should the larger supermarket be closed. It was after I’d been there for a little over six months when Denise went AWOL for a few weeks, as she so often did. I confided in my boss at the time, Angie, and she offered me a room in the flat above the shop for a quarter of my earnings each week. I moved out and never went back.

Angie helped me apply for some jobs in an office that had vacancies for telemarketers in the city when