by David Hatton
‘Hello, Michael.’
He glanced up and nodded his head before raising his palm towards the seat before him. A table separated them and two cups of water sat on top. He took a double glance at the bump on display before him.
‘When did this happen?’
‘I found out shortly after arriving here. It was a night of passion before I was arrested. Robert had booked us tickets to Portugal. I thought our marriage was on track for the first time in years but that’s all over now.’
‘I see.’ Michael fell silent. He found the courage to look her in the eye and spotted a wound over her socket.
‘It’s far from easy here but I deserve it all for what I did.’ She stroked the bruise over her eye. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars yourself.’
‘Jackie.’ He explained with few words, but a silent nod of Elizabeth’s head assured him that she understood.
‘I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here.’
‘It’s not a social visit,’ Michael snapped.
‘I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I told everything to the police.’
‘The night you saw Jackie with Suzanne, was it the first time you saw her?’
‘I used to see her privately, but that was the first time I went to her show.’
‘And during those visits, did you discuss Suzanne or Jason?’
‘I told her about Suzanne’s loss and the pain she was going through and how I missed my nephew. Come to think of it, I may have told her Suzanne was coming with me to her show when I bought the tickets.’
‘Did you tell her you killed my son?’
‘Yeah I did, but only after Suzanne died.’ Elizabeth gulped.
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her everything. That I was over the limit, I hit Jason and that Robert told me to drive on.’
‘When did you tell her this?’ Michael stroked his chin.
‘The night before they found Suzanne.’
‘Two days before she announced it on television that it was my brother’s fault…’
Michael browsed around the room. They were joined by tattooed thugs and scrawny down-and-outs. He looked to the woman before him and figured she didn’t fit in here, despite her crimes.
‘That night you went to see Jackie, did you stay for the whole performance?’
‘No we left during the intermission.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat anticipating further interrogation.
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Jackie had already given Suzanne what she wanted: a message from her son. It seemed pointless to stay beyond that.’
‘Were you not interested to hear more?’ Michael quizzed.
‘Well we might have stayed…’
‘But?’
‘Well there was an hour’s break before the second half. We weren’t hanging on for that. Have you ever heard of an intermission that long before?’
‘No I haven’t. Thanks, Elizabeth.’
Michael stood up and hurriedly paced towards the exit without warning. His sister-in-law remained in her seat, confused. She’d barely said anything but he appeared satisfied.
As he reached the exit, he removed his visitor’s pass, but before handing it to the security guard, he turned around and stared at Elizabeth, who stared back with a confused expression. He walked back to the frail battered woman and stroked her arm.
‘Elizabeth, I forgive you.’
And he left.
Elizabeth returned to her cell. Inside, Pat and Lusty sat on her bed. They stood up as she entered the room. Elizabeth turned around to find another sweaty thug with brown dreadlocks resting against the wall, blocking her path.
She didn’t whimper as they kicked her stomach. The beating continued for several minutes before a puddle of blood formed around the victim. The attackers deserted the scene, leaving Elizabeth to scramble across the floor, holding on to her tummy for support. Peering down at her stretchy jeans, she found blood on her crotch. Only then did she begin to scream.
‘Detective Morgan?’ Michael asked when the phone answered. It was she. He brought her up to date on his meeting with Elizabeth as he paced back into the city centre from the prison. ‘I’m convinced she left the show during the intermission. She followed my wife home and killed her.’
‘That’s all very well and good, Mr Walker, but fifty people saw her on stage that night and nobody saw her leave the room during the intermission.’
‘Was there another exit out of the conference suite?’ Michael said, scratching the fluff on his chin.
‘Yeah, but it’s an alarmed door. Unless you can find a way she can pass through walls or doors without causing a scene, then I’m afraid she’s got an alibi. We can still get her for your attack though, Michael. Don’t you worry about that.’
He hung up. As he reached Deansgate, he spotted the familiar branding of the Sleep Tight Hotel. He stepped in and approached reception.
‘Hi, I’m thinking of booking one of the conference suites,’ he said to the representative behind the desk.
‘Oh absolutely, come this way. You’ve come at a good time, it’s usually a little quieter in the afternoons.’
The guest service representative took the interested client through Conference suites E, D and C before getting to room A.
‘Where’s conference Room B?’
‘Now this room’s the best as it’s a double room which can be split into two with a sliding wall. We use this if we have parties of fifty or more. It opens out. A and B become one.’
He took him inside and showed him the facilities. Inside round tables filled the room and a set of drums and guitars lined the stage.
‘We have a wedding on tonight so we’re just getting ready for that.’
‘My guests would like some fresh air. We’re all smokers.’ He lifted out his cigarette pack and waved them at the concierge. ‘Is there a way we can easily sneak out?’
‘Ah yes, well there’s the door over there which goes out straight onto the patio. Just keep that open if you don’t want to get locked out.’
‘But it’s alarmed?’ Michael said, pointing towards the fire-door sign.
‘Oh that old thing… hasn’t rung in years. Here… look.’ He pushed the bar and swung the heavy duty door open. ‘There’s even stopper here if you wanted to come in and out freely.’
The guest service representative lifted the rubber wedge and slid it under the corner of the door, which bounced against it. He turned around and found the visitor had left.
Outside, Michael paced up Deansgate and passed a shop. Once again, his image caught the front pages of the newspaper alongside Jackie Wallace, who remained missing. He seethed as he considered the intrusion he’d faced at the hands of the tabloids.
But then he reconsidered. He needed to keep the momentum behind the search for Jackie going. Lifting out his mobile phone, he dialled.
‘Castlefield Report, Nathan speaking.’
‘Hi, Nathan, it’s Michael Walker. Do you fancy another exclusive?’
27.
“I believe that when someone crosses over, regardless of how we choose to define them, they are met by other friends, relatives, energies who help them understand their life and the lessons they learned.”
- John Edward (Date Unknown)
Jackie Wallace was on the run. She had ditched the white foundation, the jewellery and the purple hair, which made up her now infamous look. Instead she wore a dark brown shoulder length hairpiece and plain black clothes suitable for a late night bank robbery. Prada sunglasses covered her eyes and a spray-tan darkened her usually pale skin.
Since her escape from Manchester, she’d taken bus after bus as she travelled south down the coast. Spending her days travelling and her nights in roadside motels, she made her way to Dover where she planned the ultimate disappearing act.
The ferry to Calais was due the following morning. She put herself up in a bed and breakfast for her final night in the United Kingdom. Few had
spotted her along her journey; she had to double-take herself when she walked past her reflection in a shop window.
During her short-lived success, she’d made a considerable amount of money through television deals and sell-out tours. The production companies paid a lump sum upfront, allowing her to live carelessly before she delivered on her contract. After she left Chorlton, she emptied her accounts and escaped Manchester.
Everything she’d worked for over the last twenty years had now been lost. She shook her head, torturing herself over her choice to leave incriminating documentation in clear view of her guest. If Michael hadn’t found them, another client would have.
As she drew up her escape plans, she questioned what she had run away from most. The police? The press? Or the production companies who would have no doubt requested their money back? Her fan-base would undoubtedly hang her out to dry as her name became known for all the wrong reasons.
Jackie shook her head at her inability to remain calm when Michael confronted her. Why did she panic? She had fifty people who could witness her whereabouts that night. And on top of all that, she had Elizabeth Walker willing to take the blame.
Her plan took months to concoct. She’d worked hard to co-ordinate Suzanne’s fateful night. The victim had been chosen carefully. Her sister-in-law blabbed about her morbid situation during her one-to-one sessions with the medium. She had barely any relatives; no living children, few friends and a husband who barely recognised her existence anymore. Few people would have been hurt by a little knock to Suzanne’s head. Several newspaper articles, social media searches and a family tree provided Jackie with the ultimate message to capture not only Suzanne but also her family.
On the evening of the murder, Jackie peered through the crack of the curtains to ensure her victim was present. The blonde-haired woman to Elizabeth’s left matched the photograph Jackie had caught sight of on her FaceHub page.
‘Showtime!’ Jackie whispered under her breath.
The timing of Suzanne’s message from her son was orchestrated to ensure an early departure in the intermission. Her audience members dwindled in the second half of her shows as the bereaved left satisfied with their messages. Those remaining waited on in hope for a message of their own in the second half. Add that together with an extended intermission and she’s a goner come the break.
Bingo! She left bang on time. The room emptied, allowing her to make her escape. Placing a large black cloak over herself, she opened the fire-escape door and sneaked out into the night, leaving the rubber stopper wedged into the door to prevent it from closing entirely. She’d come across the dodgy door when setting up her stage one evening. She’d knocked into it when attempting to set up her fog machine; her heart stopped, but she had little to be alarmed about as the hotel didn’t appear to be. Typical, she thought as she glanced around the decaying building.
Jackie watched Suzanne wave goodbye to Elizabeth and wondered off into the dark. Her plan was nearly compromised as Suzanne approached a vehicle, but some altercation with the driver prevented her escape. She followed her closely, tiptoeing to avoid any sudden sounds. But her heavy boots provided little resistance. The victim turned around and spied her. There’s no going back now.
She took a deep breath and smacked the victim across the temple with one hard swing. She gagged as she cleared up her body. Upon her return, she stepped into the open fire-escape, slipped off her coat and returned to the stage as if the previous hour had never occurred.
It was no easy feat. Suzanne was not her first attempt. Over the years she’d met several widows and grieving mothers who she’d considered to form part of her plan, but her cautious targets had accepted lifts home or stayed for the second half. Suzanne’s mistake that night was to refuse Elizabeth’s offer of a ride home.
Once Suzanne was dead, she planned to remain quiet for a year. The long investment would pay off later. Too soon and she’d arouse suspicion. But later, her audience would forget the timings of that night and how long she’d really been left alone. An anniversary would be the perfect time to reveal all.
But then she was offered an opportunity. She couldn’t believe it when she received the list of guests for her show from the hotel. By the time they’d given up their credit card details, they’d stopped listening and just wanted to end the call. Most skipped over the question around sharing their personal details with the organisers and third parties with a hurried ‘yes’. The hotel thought she was adding them to her mailing lists and was glad to share the details with their guests’ consent. Jackie’s heart skipped a beat as she read Michael Walker’s name on the sheet.
‘It’s time!’
Solving the second mystery surrounding Jason’s death was pure luck. She’d struck gold with the Walker family and Elizabeth’s guilt-ridden conscience. The hardest part was convincing Michael of her work. While she had a couple of names up her sleeve, she required something remarkable to undermine the atheist. Her friend Stuart, the supposed historian at her séance, helped her to orchestrate an evening of wonders.
A conjuror himself, he was invited by her to her underground tours for fifty percent of her takings. While she took centre stage, he remained in the background, playing sound effects and opening doors to allow gusts of wind to enter the tunnel. The Ouija board’s success was down to an ideomotor phenomenon whereby her gullible guests moved the glass unconsciously, with a little support of Stuart to guide them in the right direction. He also sourced her some freaky contact lenses from a fancy-dress shop in the Arndale Centre. As for her transformation into Frederik Gilmore? Well that A-Level in drama had finally paid off.
Once she’d checked into her B&B in Dover, she stepped out into a local pub. She’d spent the previous nights in her room, too frightened to leave in case she was spotted. Comfortable that she could now travel unnoticed, she sought out a beverage. The bar next door had a Tudor exterior. Inside, a coal fire and framed documents filled the walls, highlighting the pub’s ownership since the 1500s. A painting of dogs playing cards hung on the stone wall besides a snooker table.
Ordering a glass of red wine, she took a seat at the bar on a stool and nibbled on the peanuts left out in a small glass bowl. It was a quiet night. Two regulars played chess to her right and a lone farmer with a green fleece and flap-cap supped an ale alone at the other end of the bar. She relaxed, confident that few would bother her.
‘Jackie?’ A familiar voice sent a chill down her spine just as her drink arrived. She turned around and found a recognisable face. His black wavy hair had a tinge of white, and a goatee wrapped around his lips.
‘Geoff?’ Her heart skipped a beat. He still wore the black turtleneck sweaters after all these years.
‘I’ve not seen you in, what? A decade?’ He laughed and embraced her. ‘I can’t believe it!’
‘How’s Holland?’
‘I left there years ago. I’ve been in France for the past few years, I was offered an opportunity to go back over there but that’s all over now. I’m moving back to Manchester tomorrow.’
‘Ah good for you. A bit of surprise though, you left me for Holland.’
‘I left for a great promotion. I wanted you with me, but like me, you focused on your own career. Talking of which, are you still a medium?’
‘Shhh!’ She pulled him away from the bar and whispered, ‘No, I gave that up a long time ago. I don’t like to talk about it.’
‘Oh I see, you were always very good at that.’
‘People change.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘Have you seen the news recently?’
‘No I’ve been too busy moving. I only arrived in the UK this morning and I’ve been walking the coast today. Why, what have I missed?’
‘Oh nothing, just some road closures. I didn’t want you struggling to get back up north.’
‘You could always join me on the journey. We can be stuck in traffic together?’
‘I’m afraid I’m leaving Manchester, Geoff. I’m moving to France in the morning.’
&
nbsp; His beaming smile evaporated. ‘I see. We keep missing each other. What a shame.’
Geoff leaned closer to her to stroke her dark hair. She brushed his hand aside and shuffled her stool back.
‘So what do you do these days if you’re not a…’ he mouthed psychic.
Jackie sat and considered what role she’d have landed had she avoided the path of a medium. She thought of the man who she once called a friend and considered his choice of career.
‘I’m a recruitment consultant.’
‘Wow, I hear that’s quite a lucrative career these days. Why are you moving to France? Is there a big drive for that sort of thing there? I didn’t even know you spoke French. Vous m’impressionnez, Madame Wallace!’
‘I have to go, Geoff.’ Jackie hopped off the stool, downed her wine and left a note on the bar. She collected her handbag and kissed her companion on the cheek. ‘I’m up early in the morning.’
‘Have dinner with me?’
She looked him in the eyes and saw a familiar pain she’d uncovered a decade previous when she refused to leave with him to start a new life in Holland. Weighing up her options, she saw few reasons to turn down the only man she’d ever loved before they parted ways for eternity.
They shared tapas at a local restaurant. The conversation flowed as quickly as their wine. They laughed, cried and reminisced about the good old days. He shared stories of his progressions within his company in Holland and the oddballs he’d dated since they departed, while she excused her life as uneventful.
‘You haven’t changed.’ Geoff laughed and stroked her hand.
‘Oh I have, Geoff.’ She bowed her head. ‘If only you knew.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Oh nothing much. An extra wrinkle here and there. A little extra weight.’
‘It’s the same for us all, Jackie. But I see the beautifully innocent woman I knew all those years ago.’