She spoke the word aloud: ‘Wretchedness,’ then frowned. What had made her say that? She hadn’t meant to say it. It wasn’t even the sort of word she would use, as a rule. She lay still for a moment, testing her feelings, and found that she was, indeed, wretched. The combined magic of bubble bath and candle scent wasn’t working. She sniffed experimentally and discovered that she could not smell the healing balm of geraniums and roses. A solitary drop of mucus fell from the tip of her nose and the massed foam fizzed and crackled as a thousand tiny bubbles burst. Her face was wet. She was crying, her head ached, and she could not think what had upset her. She lifted her hands to her face and wiped it, listening with pleasure to the musical tinkle and splosh of water droplets. Through the open bathroom door she could see light flickering — blue light, flitting from wall to ceiling — and she guessed that the TV was on. The light played tantalizingly, running along the wall of the narrow hallway, now dimming, now flashing with sudden brilliance through the glass panel that separated the hall from the living room. In the kitchen, the washing machine droned steadily.
Shona jerked convulsively, making the water crash with angry violence against the sides of the bath. The blood! She leapt out of the bath and dragged the towel from the rail, drying herself hastily, waiting until the last moment to pull the plug, for she never could watch the awful downward swirl of water without fearing that she would be dragged into its hungry maw.
She tiptoed to the kitchen as if she were afraid that she might surprise some dangerous animal skulking there. Her clothing turned and dropped, turned and dropped in the drum of the machine, tingeing the water pink. The colour of wretchedness.
‘Oh, God!’ she moaned. She had to get dressed. As she passed the open door of the living room, she glanced in and let out a breathless scream.
A body! On the settee! Blue jeans, a baggy shirt, one arm flung outwards, the other across its midriff. The image changed shape and seemed to flatten and lose its density and mass, finally resolving itself into her own clothing, clean, ironed, fresh from the airing cupboard, laid out ready to wear.
A creeping terror came over her and for a moment she was unable to move. She could not remember any of this: driving home, turning on the TV, running a bath, washing her clothes, laying out a fresh set — it was all a complete blank. Her eyes were drawn to the television set, to seek out the pictures which so often soothed her, but her vision was blurred because she had left her glasses in the bathroom and all she could see were confused colours in soft focus.
She went to the settee and shoved the clothing to one side without looking at it, afraid that it would metamorphose again into the terrible outline she had first seen. Her hair dripped down her back and, shivering, she tried to blot some of the water out of it with a dry corner of the towel, then began dressing.
The volume was still turned down, but the remote was on top of the TV set, and it seemed an impossible distance to go and retrieve it. If she screwed up her eyes, she could just make out the face of a newsreader. One of the local ones, Granada or North West Tonight — she couldn’t remember which.
Had they found him?
What if he’s dead?
They would come for her. She couldn’t go to prison. Oh, God! She was seized with a new kind of terror and began searching the shelves of her bookcase. ‘Please, God, where is it?’ In her panic, she threw books, ornaments, pens onto the floor. It wasn’t there. She’d left it on the shelf. Someone had—
She began riffling the drawers of the sideboard, and finally her hand closed on a fist-sized cylindrical object. She ran to the kitchen and threw it in the bin, then, horrified, tore the lid off it and rooted through the rubbish to retrieve it. ‘Stupid! Stupid! That’s the first place they’ll look.’ She returned to the sitting room and placed the voice changer in her big canvas shoulder bag, intending to dispose of it somewhere safe.
She shrugged into her shirt and pulled on her jeans. There was a jumbled mass of coloured blocks on screen, then a picture of a child. Of Alain? She moved closer to the TV, but already the image was gone and a new story was being related.
Alain. She had promised Jenny. Hadn’t she? Promised Jenny she would babysit. She was sure she had. Because Jenny had to go to work, and Shona understood Alain. She could help him. Jenny recognized that. She knew. Shona never broke her promises. She always . . . That’s why she had to come home. To get ready. To go to Alain. To show him that you can stop the people who hurt you, make it — make them — stop. They were just people. They could be hurt, too.
My God! Max!
She mustn’t be found here. How could she explain? And what if Dr Greenberg was dead?
* * *
‘Jen?’
Jenny closed her eyes briefly.
Mike hesitated, abashed. His interruption had been ill-timed. He glanced at Alain, who was sitting next to Jenny. The polar bear was in his lap and he hugged it, sobbing miserably. Jenny had her arms around both the boy and the bear. The devastating sobs continued, but Mike sensed an alertness, as if Alain was bracing himself for bad news.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Mike said quietly. Lee-Anne had demanded to speak to him. She wasn’t interested in talking to anyone else and he couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity to persuade her to cooperate.
Jenny nodded. She was dry eyed, but her face was pale, and the strain showed in the fine lines around her mouth and eyes. ‘We’ll be leaving soon ourselves,’ she said.
Mike checked his watch. ‘I’ll run you home. The wait’ll do her good.’
Jenny managed a smile. ‘You go ahead,’ she said. ‘We’re not ready yet.’ One hand went to the boy’s head, and she stroked his hair. It was damp, plastered to his scalp, and Mike wondered at the energy children expend in their tears, the passion with which they abandon themselves to their unhappiness.
He shrugged an apology. ‘I’ll call round later,’ he suggested.
‘Perhaps best if you leave it till tomorrow,’ Jenny replied, with a brief nod at Alain. ‘I’ll phone Max when I get home. I’m sure he’ll babysit so I can come and sit with Fraser for a while.’
Chapter 34
Lee-Anne had the kind of face that a good disposition and a ready smile could have transformed to prettiness, but the down-turned mouth, too apt to curl into a snarl of aggression or a sneer of contempt, reflected a general attitude which betrayed a customary ill temper, bordering on maliciousness.
Mike had seen hundreds of them in his years on the force: girls whose lives turn sour before they reach eighteen, girls whom fear and worry — and, too often, alcohol and drug abuse — would ravage before thirty. At just under twenty years of age, Lee-Anne had already lost the bloom of youth. She stared up at Mike, truculent, unable to convey so dignified a sentiment as disdain, resorting instead to hostility.
Mike returned her stare, wondering why she had dragged him back to headquarters, if all she intended to do was scowl at him and give monosyllabic responses to his questions. For this he had been forced to leave Jenny at the hospital, when she really needed someone with her. He hadn’t seen his family for three days, beyond a numb half hour in front of the television before crawling off to bed, and Lee-Anne was keeping him late again, wasting his time and wearing his patience.
‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s start with the new stuff in your flat.’
‘Me sister give me them.’ She lowered her head so that her chin almost rested on her chest.
‘What about that jacket?’ Lee-Anne had slipped off a little Versace number and tossed it carelessly over the back of the chair with the label showing.
She fixed him with a flat, colourless stare. ‘Got it from the Oxfam shop, didn’t I?’
Mike leaned forward. ‘We’ve got the receipts, Lee-Anne, remember?’
They could have charged her with fraudulent use of the credit cards, but Mike had persuaded his senior officer that they could get both of them for stealing the cards from the Fournier house on the day of the murder.
&
nbsp; Lee-Anne tutted and slumped even lower in the chair.
She had planned to tell Delaney everything when she asked the custody officer to call him. Lobo had kicked off on average once every half hour for the past few hours and it was getting on her tits. She was beginning to think he’d lost it all together: first putting the boot into Randy Khan, now screaming and ranting at the police, even at her. He was blaming her for the fact that he went off on a final shopping spree — blaming her for the fact he lost his rag and cracked the black feller with the cue. Blaming her!
That made her mad. She’d waited until the duty officer had come on his rounds and told him she wanted to see Mike Delaney, to tell him just what Lobo had done. Now, sitting in an interview room with a tape running and no solicitor to advise her, it seemed a stupid idea. The tape could be used in evidence, which meant Lobo would know exactly who to thank for grassing him up. She should’ve asked for a solicitor, but she’d thought if she refused legal advice they could have an informal chat, clear the air. It hadn’t turned out that way, and now Lobo would be out to get her. Delaney was trying to make her say they’d done that woman, and she didn’t know how to get out of it.
‘Fourteen hundred on a new bed, bedding and curtains in Lewis’s. Eight hundred and odd on carpets — feel free to correct me, I’m working from memory here,’ Mike said. ‘Five hundred on kitchen goods, including a washing machine from Comet, three-fifty on a couch from Uno.’
‘Sofa.’ Lee-Anne spat the word, making it sound like a threat.
‘Sorry,’ Mike said, smiling. ‘Sofa.’
‘What’re you laughin’ at? Have you seen where I live? Oh, of course — you’ve poked your big fat nose into everything, lookin’ for evidence haven’t you?’
She was sitting up straight now, her hands flat on the table, ready to spring over and grab him by the throat. The WPC who was chaperoning stirred, but Mike signalled for her to be still. Lee-Anne bunched a fist.
‘Yeah, I s’pose it is funny, paying out fifty quid a week for a flat with no heating, and light switches that spark when you touch them — I near piss meself laughin’ every time the bastard comes round for the rent. The leccy man won’t go into the basement to check the meters no more ’cos he near broke his neck falling through the steps down. Rotten they were. I bet he laughed all the way to the hospital. The windows threaten to fall in if there’s a breath of wind — probably all that’s holding the bloody things together is the plastic and sealing tape I use to try and keep out the draughts.’
She was breathing hard, and little black spots came and went in front of her eyes.
‘I’ve got silverfish in me bathroom and woodlice in me kitchen. What’s so funny about tryin’ to make it nice — looking decent?’ Her voice rose to a scream.
‘Nothing wrong with that, Lee-Anne,’ Mike said, quietly. ‘Except you used a dead woman’s credit card to bring about all your home improvements.’
Lee-Anne slammed the table with her fist. ‘What’m I supposed to do? D’you even know what you get on the dole these days? Fuck all is what!’ she shouted. ‘Fifty quid a week he gets for twelve flats in that bleeding death trap. Two years I’ve lived there. You know how much maintenance the landlord’s done?’
Mike raised his eyebrows, like he was interested.
‘He put a timer switch on the hall light, so’s we wouldn’t waste the leccy leaving it on. Six hundred quid a week he gets, all told, and you think I’m the criminal!’
‘You were desperate, you needed the money and . . .’
‘And . . .’ she mocked him, her face twisting with hatred and bitter, bitter disappointment. ‘And we took what we needed.’
‘Took it,’ Mike said softly.
Lee-Anne felt her eyes bug as she screeched, ‘Well, she wasn’t gonna have no use for it no more, was she?’
‘Wasn’t she?’
‘Are you thick, or wha’?’ Stupid big lump. Mike looked at her. ‘She was dead, wasn’t she?’ Lee-Anne flung herself back in her chair, exasperated.
‘We know that, Lee-Anne. We also know that you stole her credit cards. What we don’t know is who killed her.’
‘Well, don’t look at me! She was dead when we got there. We never done it.’
‘Didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘Do it, I mean.’
‘She was dead! We got in round the back. The door was unlocked. She was already dead when we got in.’
‘Was she?’
‘There was blood everywhere!’ She blinked, realizing she was supposed to stick to the story that they’d found the cards, and she’d just admitted to being inside the Fournier house with blood all over the place. ‘No. No! It’s not what you’re thinking, it wasn’t us. We never touched her.’
‘What I’m asking is, are you sure she was dead? Did you check, either of you?’
‘You didn’t need to.’ She couldn’t look him in the eye. She was thinking about that dream, the obscene gurgling gash in the woman’s neck, the words . . . Help me . . .
‘What time was it when you arrived?’
‘I don’t know! Eleven? Half past?’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘You know about the boy . . .’
‘Ah, look . . .’ For the first time in the entire interview Lee-Anne seemed chastened. ‘If I’d’ve seen the little lad, I would’ve—’
‘What, Lee-Anne? What would you have done? Called the police?’
‘Fuck off!’ she snarled, sick of being judged. ‘I never touched her, and neither did Lobo. All you can do us for is credit card fraud.’
‘I think we can do a little better than that, Lee-Anne,’ he said. He charged her with the theft of the credit cards, and with failing to report the murder of Jeanne-Louise Fournier, then he concluded the interview, repeating the caution and informing of her right to a solicitor.
As he reached the door, with the sealed interview tapes in his hand, she called to him and he turned.
‘What?’
‘D’you think they’ll let us keep all the stuff we bought?’
Chapter 35
Sallis called Mike on his mobile as he was heading for home. ‘We’ve got an address for Ligat.’
‘About time,’ Mike said.
‘It is the weekend, Sarge. We had to get his secretary’s home address and call round. He’s got a little flat in Sefton Park.’
‘What? Here, in Liverpool?’
‘Apparently.’
‘How come he didn’t come forward when we splashed his son’s picture all over the news, then?’
‘His mum said his business takes him from South Devon to North York. The TV reports on the lad were only broadcast in the North West region.’
‘And if Mr Ligat happened to be selling an AVC to a kipper-smoker in Whitby on the day of the broadcasts . . .’
‘Precisely,’ Sallis said.
‘Have you spoken to him yet?’
‘No . . .’ Sallis said. ‘But I could go round now if you want?’ He didn’t sound too thrilled at the prospect, and Mike couldn’t blame him.
‘All right,’ Mike sighed. ‘Give me the address — I’ll have a word with him.’
‘You finished with Lee-Anne?’
‘She coughed to the break-in, and to stealing the cards. Claims Jeanne-Louise was dead when they got there.’
‘Aren’t you gonna have another go at her tonight?’
‘I’ll need a few hours’ sleep before I can stand to look at that snarling face again,’ Mike said. ‘Anyway, we’ll have to give her a chance to talk to a brief — if she did have something to do with Jeanne-Louise’s murder, we need everything watertight.’
‘Well, if you’re sure — only, it’s my nephew’s birthday, and I promised I’d pop in before his bedtime . . .’
Mike smiled. Sallis was full of surprises — he hadn’t seen him as a dutiful uncle.
‘Go and eat some cake,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a call to make in the area before I head home. Ligat’s is on my
way.’
Mike jotted down the address as Sallis dictated it. He would call in on his way to Jenny’s. Despite what she’d said about leaving it till the morning, he wanted to be sure that she was all right before knocking off for the night. He glanced at his watch — with a bit of luck he’d manage dinner with his family tonight.
* * *
For a long time, Alain couldn’t stop crying. But Jenny was kind and patient. She murmured little cooing sounds, over and over, like the wood pigeon he heard during the early hours outside the Irregular’s dorm at school, and after a while he felt sleepy. She wrapped him in a blanket she must have borrowed from the hospital and carried him into a waiting taxi.
On the journey home she continued her murmured reassurances, and Alain lay comforted in her arms, though he was aware of every jolt of the taxi, and the rattle of its diesel engine and the squeal of its brakes seemed unbearably loud. Because, as they had left the building, his heightened senses had noticed something that had set his nerves a-tingle. A smell, perhaps, or a sound — Yes, he thought, it was a sound. He had been in a pleasant state between waking and sleeping, when distant noises become woven into snatches of dreams. Then suddenly he was alert, vigilant — for what, he could not quite recall, but he remembered the feeling of old, and it meant danger.
* * *
Neither Jenny nor Alain would notice the car following them from Prescot Street, lagging two cars behind, speeding up when traffic lights threatened to separate them in Upper Parliament Street, falling back again on the long, straight stretch of Smithdown Road, with its built-up, soot-blackened terraces of shuttered shops and warmly lit restaurants, its four lanes of traffic and its thin band of sky, narrow as a lath.
There was no need to follow this time. The Campbells’ address was circled in red on the map on the passenger seat. This was purely for the thrill. Whatever happened next was meant to be. It was ordained. The car was directly behind them as they turned into Ullet Road. From here, they entered the broad avenue of Aigburth Drive, astonishing in the suddenness of its green and open vistas, with Sefton Park on one side and Victorian mansions on the other. The following car pulled in a hundred yards down the road and waited.
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 27