Read Online Try Not to Breathe by Holly Seddon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Holly Seddon
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back then, and no one reported a car acting suspiciously.
Did you know they’d done a
Crimewatch
re-enactment? Might be one to look into.
The mum, Joanne, killed herself a year or so after Amy was abducted.
The stepdad left the area and changed his name. He’s now living in Devon and is known as Robert Bell. You CANNOT tell anyone where you got that from though, seriously. I doubt he’s particularly savvy—he changed his name himself, I didn’t get that from police records, I got it online—so you may turn up his info with a quick search too.
Good luck. And please do look after yourself.
Matt
As hard as it was not to reply and say everything, Alex sent Matt a friendly but brief thank you and tried to put the source of the information out of her mind. She knew that he was laying himself on the line just by talking to her about this stuff. No doubt out of pity, which stung.
The pedophile neighbor was almost certainly a red herring, the church guy just sounded unfortunate. And it wasn’t the stepdad.
Alex had never been a roving reporter, never wanted to be. But there was something about this static victim that chewed away at her, something that sat just outside of her eye line at all times.
She had wanted to find out what really happened out of journalistic curiosity. But now that Matt was involved in a whisper of a way, she wanted to nail it. To present him with proof that she still had something about her, besides the whiff of ethanol and ammonia.
Alex carefully worded a letter to Robert Stevenson/Bell, asking him politely to put his side across and help her fill in some gaps for a sensitive feature on Amy. There was one Robert Bell with the right date of birth listed in Uffculme, Devon. With no phone number, no email address and none of the tools of the trade her crime reporting peers would employ, it seemed the only route to reach him.
—
Two days later, at 2:45 p.m., a man’s voice spoke carefully and quietly into Alex’s voicemail.
“This is a message for Alex Dale. My name is Bob. You sent me a letter about my daughter, Amy. I might be willing to answer some questions but I’d like to talk to you first…I don’t use the name Stevenson anymore and I’d need to know that you wouldn’t publish my name now. I mean, the name I have now. Can you call me back, please, on 07781 257 539? Thank you.”
Bob spoke in an oddly formal voice; it sounded rehearsed. Alex wondered how long it had been since he dealt with “the press.”
“Hello?” Bob’s voice was gruffer and less practiced than on his voicemail message.
“Hello, it’s Alex Dale here, returning your call.”
“Thanks for calling me back.” A long pause. “I got your letter. I don’t wanna talk about any of this but I know what you journalists are like and I don’t want you turning up at my door.”
Alex was taken aback. Writing her fluffy features and naval-gazing pieces, she tended to forget that to most people “journalist” meant “doorstepper.”
“Thank you, but I would never do that. I hope you don’t think I’m trying to do anything disrespectful to Amy or your family.”
Bob murmured something.
Alex took a deep breath and trudged on. “Mr. Stevenson, I’d really like the chance to interview you.” She waited a second to gauge his reaction but silence was the stern reply. Alex realized she’d used his old name.
“I would really like to sensitively portray what happened in your life after Amy was found and get a better understanding of Amy’s life in general.”
No reply, but she could hear breathing, she knew he was still there.
“I could transcribe our interview afterward and send it over for you to look at, to make sure you were happy that I’d written everything accurately? Give you what’s called ‘copy approval’?”
The deeper the silence Bob held, the more Alex was giving up to him. She could never be a tabloid hack, she’d be eaten alive.
“All right,” came the gruff voice, finally.
Did you know they’d done a
Crimewatch
re-enactment? Might be one to look into.
The mum, Joanne, killed herself a year or so after Amy was abducted.
The stepdad left the area and changed his name. He’s now living in Devon and is known as Robert Bell. You CANNOT tell anyone where you got that from though, seriously. I doubt he’s particularly savvy—he changed his name himself, I didn’t get that from police records, I got it online—so you may turn up his info with a quick search too.
Good luck. And please do look after yourself.
Matt
As hard as it was not to reply and say everything, Alex sent Matt a friendly but brief thank you and tried to put the source of the information out of her mind. She knew that he was laying himself on the line just by talking to her about this stuff. No doubt out of pity, which stung.
The pedophile neighbor was almost certainly a red herring, the church guy just sounded unfortunate. And it wasn’t the stepdad.
Alex had never been a roving reporter, never wanted to be. But there was something about this static victim that chewed away at her, something that sat just outside of her eye line at all times.
She had wanted to find out what really happened out of journalistic curiosity. But now that Matt was involved in a whisper of a way, she wanted to nail it. To present him with proof that she still had something about her, besides the whiff of ethanol and ammonia.
Alex carefully worded a letter to Robert Stevenson/Bell, asking him politely to put his side across and help her fill in some gaps for a sensitive feature on Amy. There was one Robert Bell with the right date of birth listed in Uffculme, Devon. With no phone number, no email address and none of the tools of the trade her crime reporting peers would employ, it seemed the only route to reach him.
—
Two days later, at 2:45 p.m., a man’s voice spoke carefully and quietly into Alex’s voicemail.
“This is a message for Alex Dale. My name is Bob. You sent me a letter about my daughter, Amy. I might be willing to answer some questions but I’d like to talk to you first…I don’t use the name Stevenson anymore and I’d need to know that you wouldn’t publish my name now. I mean, the name I have now. Can you call me back, please, on 07781 257 539? Thank you.”
Bob spoke in an oddly formal voice; it sounded rehearsed. Alex wondered how long it had been since he dealt with “the press.”
“Hello?” Bob’s voice was gruffer and less practiced than on his voicemail message.
“Hello, it’s Alex Dale here, returning your call.”
“Thanks for calling me back.” A long pause. “I got your letter. I don’t wanna talk about any of this but I know what you journalists are like and I don’t want you turning up at my door.”
Alex was taken aback. Writing her fluffy features and naval-gazing pieces, she tended to forget that to most people “journalist” meant “doorstepper.”
“Thank you, but I would never do that. I hope you don’t think I’m trying to do anything disrespectful to Amy or your family.”
Bob murmured something.
Alex took a deep breath and trudged on. “Mr. Stevenson, I’d really like the chance to interview you.” She waited a second to gauge his reaction but silence was the stern reply. Alex realized she’d used his old name.
“I would really like to sensitively portray what happened in your life after Amy was found and get a better understanding of Amy’s life in general.”
No reply, but she could hear breathing, she knew he was still there.
“I could transcribe our interview afterward and send it over for you to look at, to make sure you were happy that I’d written everything accurately? Give you what’s called ‘copy approval’?”
The deeper the silence Bob held, the more Alex was giving up to him. She could never be a tabloid hack, she’d be eaten alive.
“All right,” came the gruff voice, finally.
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