by Ben Cheetham
“Shit,” hissed Karl, braking.
“What did you see?”
“A police car.”
A mixture of emotions swept through Butterfly. There was relief, but there was also disappointment. Now she would almost certainly never find out if Beech did have her sister’s necklace. Were the police at the cottage because of Jack? Or had Beech realised that someone had broken in? Either way, the end result was the same. “It’s over.”
“Depends how many of them there are. I only saw one car, but coppers are like rats – where there’s one there’s always another.”
“Give it up, Karl.”
“No!” The retort was loud enough to set Charlie off crying again. “I’ve waited too long to get you back.” Karl’s eyes searched Butterfly’s. “Besides, you don’t want me to stop. Not really. I can see it in your eyes.”
Her arms protectively encircled Charlie as Karl pulled out a pocket knife. He grabbed the bag of baby paraphernalia, emptied it out and began sawing it into strips. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to tie you up,” he explained. “I wish I could trust you, but…” he faded off with a rueful shake of his head. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Before doing so, Butterfly strapped Charlie into his seat. As Karl expertly tied her wrists, she said, “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“So what if I do? If I don’t get my Io back, I’m dead anyway.”
“That not true. You said it yourself, Io was bad for you. It wasn’t love you felt for her. It was addiction.”
“Maybe so.” Karl stroked his knuckles down Butterfly’s face. “But I did five years in Belmarsh for you. And do you know what?” His voice thickened as if he was fighting tears. “You never came to visit me. Not once. But that didn’t change the way I feel about you. Just like–” The words snagged in his throat. Grimacing as if they were fishhooks, he forced them out. “Just like when I found out you’d been fucking Bryan Hall, that didn’t change anything either. So what difference does it make whether it’s addiction or love? Either way, I can’t live without you.”
Butterfly blinked away from Karl’s gaze. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you.” Her tone was leaden with regret.
Karl rediscovered his grin. “No you’re not. Io never apologised to anyone.”
He tied Butterfly’s ankles, manoeuvred her onto her belly and tied her feet to her hands. “Not bad,” he said, surveying his handiwork. “Not as good as you could have done. You used to tie people up so tight that Houdini wouldn’t have been able to escape.” He gagged Butterfly, then leaned in to brush his lips over her ear and whisper, “I won’t be long.”
He smiled at Charlie who was burbling, “M…m…” and playing with the straps of his seat.
“See you soon little buddy.”
Karl got out of the car and closed the door softly behind himself. Butterfly strained at her bonds, but they were tied securely enough to give her pins and needles. There was no way she would be able to wriggle free. Not this time.
Chapter 22
Hayley Bray lived in a little mid-terrace cottage whose front door opened directly onto the main road through Gosforth. The place had a faint air of neglect about it – peeling white paint on the windows and door, cracks in the pebbledash. A window-box overflowing with purple and pink flowers hinted at how close to nature Hayley’s upbringing had been.
Jack knocked on the door. A woman almost as tall and well-built as him opened it. Hayley was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. She had her mum’s thick brown hair – minus the grey streaks – and her dad’s keen blue eyes. Her windswept complexion and the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes were the product of a lifetime spent outdoors. A girl of two or three peered up at Jack from between Hayley’s legs. The girl too was unmistakably a Bray – rosy-cheeked, dark-haired, strong-featured.
Jack smiled down at her and she hid shyly behind her mum’s legs. “Hayley Bray?” he asked.
Hayley nodded, eyeing Jack as if she suspected he might try to sell her something.
The little girl peeked at him as he took out his police ID. “I’m Detective Inspector Jack Anderson of Greater Manchester Police.” Seeing Hayley’s eyes widen, Jack added, “It’s nothing for you to be alarmed about, Miss Bray. I’d like to ask you some questions. If that’s OK?”
“What about?”
“Do you mind if we speak inside?”
Hayley hesitated. Her gaze moved past Jack to an old lady walking a dog on the opposite pavement. The lady was eyeing Jack with open curiosity. Hayley waved to her. “Hello, Mrs Madden.” She ushered Jack inside, saying matter-of-factly, “That’s my neighbour. She’s one of the village gossip mafia. I can do without it getting around that the police have come knocking on my door.”
She led Jack along a short hallway cluttered with coats, shoes and wellies. The little girl ran ahead of them into a small living-room furnished with a shabby but comfortable-looking three-piece suite. A circle of dolls and stuffed toys were arranged around a plastic tea set in the middle of the carpet. “Annabelle and I were having a dolls tea party,” explained Hayley.
“That tea looks lovely,” Jack said, smiling at Annabelle again. “Can I have a cup?”
A gap-toothed smile lighting up her face, Annabelle nodded and set about pouring Jack an imaginary cup of tea. “Thank you,” he said as she handed him a plastic cup and saucer. He took a pretend sip. “Mm, delicious. Just what I needed.”
“So is this about what happened at Hawkshead Manor?” asked Hayley. “Because I already told the police my family had nothing to do with those people. They came to the house a few times wanting to buy hay, but we had none to spare.”
“That’s not what I’m here about. I’m looking into the Ridley murders.”
Hayley’s eyebrows lifted high. “The Ridley murders. That was twenty years ago.”
“Murder cases stay open until they’re solved.”
“If you haven’t solved it by now, seems to me it’ll stay that way.”
“Most likely, but we still follow up any new leads.”
“What new leads? And why are Manchester police interested in the case?”
“New leads is perhaps overstating things. As for our interest, the Ridleys lived in Prestwich.”
“Oh yes. I forgot.” Hayley looked down as Annabelle tugged at her jeans.
“I’m thirsty, Mummy,” said the little girl.
“I’d better get this one a drink,” Hayley said to Jack. “Would you like a real cup of tea?”
“Please.”
Hayley left the room with Annabelle trailing after her. Jack’s gaze travelled around the room. A cast-iron mantelpiece was decorated with photos of Annabelle and Hayley. Jack noted there were no photos of anyone who appeared to be Annabelle’s dad or of Hayley’s parents and brother. A bookcase overloaded with toys, board games and children’s books occupied an alcove to the left of the fireplace. Jack approached it and ran a finger over the spines of the books. He turned at the sound of Annabelle entering the room. She was clutching a cup of milk in one hand and a biscuit in the other. She clambered onto the sofa, pointed at Jack and said through a mouthful of biscuit, “Dad.”
A sharp pang went through him as he found himself wondering whether he would he ever hear Charlie say that to him.
“That’s not your dad, Annabelle,” said Hayley, returning with two mugs of tea. “Sorry,” she said, handing one to Jack. He waved away her apology as she explained, “Annabelle’s going through a phase of calling any man with dark brown hair dad.”
“Do you mind me asking where her dad is?”
“He lives in Carlisle. He doesn’t bother with Annabelle.” Hayley spoke with the fatalistic air of someone used to rolling with whatever life threw at her. It was the same matter-of-factness Pam had displayed when talking about her husband’s illness, but without the world-weary resentment.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. She’s better off without him.
We were only together a few months. He was working on Shaw Farm over in Wasdale. He took off not long after I got pregnant.”
“What’s his name?”
“Martin Price. Why?”
“Is he the reason you fell out with your parents?”
Hayley frowned. “How do you know about that?”
“It’s like you said, people in villages do a lot of this.” Jack made a talk-talk signal.
Hayley stared into her tea for a moment. “Martin was part of the reason.”
“Was your dad’s illness the other part?”
Hayley looked up, her eyes narrowing. “Who have you been talking to?”
“I spoke to your mum earlier today. Your dad was too ill to get out of bed.”
Hayley’s annoyance turned to concern. She heaved a sad sigh. “He’s been like that on and off for years.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We don’t know. He gets pains in his joints. Migraines. Sometimes he’s so tired he can’t stand up. The doctors did all sorts of tests but couldn’t find anything wrong. They wanted to put him on antidepressants, send him to a therapist. Mum refused. Depression’s a dirty word to her. She said dad just needed to rest. But resting didn’t do him any good. He just got worse and worse. I kept trying to tell her we should do as the doctor said, but…” She faded off with a shake of her head.
Her words transported Jack back to Rebecca, the months she’d spent in bed debilitated by depression. His own eyes had once been haunted by the same hopelessness he now saw in Hayley’s. “And how long has this been going on for?”
Hayley puffed her cheeks. “It’s difficult to say. I suppose dad first started feeling off about six or seven years ago.”
“Was anything going on at the time? Was something stressing him out?”
“Only the usual stress and strains of keeping the farm going.” Hayley gave Jack a probing look. “I don’t see what any of this has got to do with the murders.”
“I’m just trying to look at things from a fresh angle.”
“And you think what? That my family might have something to do with what happened?”
“I know it’s uncomfortable, Miss Bray, but it’s my job to ask these–”
Annabelle interrupted Jack with a high-pitched, “Mummy!” She held up her now empty cup. Its plastic lid had come off and a cushion was spattered with milk.
“How did that happen, Annabelle?” Hayley asked sternly. “Did you take the lid off?”
The girl shook her head.
Sighing, Hayley picked up the cushion. “We’d better get this cleaned up, hadn’t we?”
“Yes Mummy.”
“Excuse me a moment,” Hayley said to Jack. This time, Annabelle remained where she was as her mum left the room with the cushion. The sound of running water came from the kitchen.
“Whoopsie,” Jack said to Annabelle.
Wiping a ring of milk from her lips with the back of her hand, the little girl got off the sofa and tottled over to the bookcase. She pulled out a book and turned to give it to Jack. It was a slim hardback with a spine frayed by age and use. On its cover there was an illustration of a smiling gingerbread man running along a winding path. He was being chased by an old man and woman, a horse and a cow.
Jack’s smile faded. “Is this your book?” His question was answered by what he saw as he opened the book. ‘To Hayley. Love from Mum and Dad’ was written on the first page. ‘Hayley’ had been crossed out and ‘Neal’ had been inserted in its place. In turn, ‘Neal’ had also been crossed out and replaced once again with ‘Hayley’. This was repeated three times.
Annabelle prodded the book, giving Jack big blue eyes as if she wanted him to read it to her. His gaze skimmed over the text ‘Once upon a time a little old woman and a little old man lived in a cottage…’ He flicked through well-thumbed pages displaying pictures of the gingerbread man escaping from an oven and jumping out of an open window, then the old woman and man chasing him. They were joined by a pig, then a cow, then a horse. The gingerbread man was smiling until he came to a river. Then his arms were flung up in dismay. In the next picture he was talking to a fox.
Creases of curiosity clustered on Jack’s forehead. The text next to the picture had been altered from ‘A sly fox came out from behind a tree’ to ‘Wendy came out from behind a tree’. Likewise the following sentence had been changed to ‘“I’ll help you cross the river,” said Wendy.’
Jack looked up as Hayley came back into the room. “Who’s Wendy?” he asked, fixing her with an unwavering stare.
She blinked as if taken aback, then made to take the book from him. He drew it away from her reach, rising to his feet and repeating, “Who’s Wendy?”
Hayley’s eyebrows twitched with annoyance. “I don’t know. Now give me that book back.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. This could be evidence.”
“Of what?”
Jack wasn’t surprised by Hayley’s confusion. It had never been made public that the killers taunted Tracy with lines from The Gingerbread Man. The police hadn’t wanted to risk spurring them to destroy evidence. “Sit down, Miss Bray.”
“No. I’ve had enough of your insinuations.” Hayley stabbed a finger towards the door. “I want you out of my house.”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll leave, but I’ll be back and next time I’ll have a whole team with me – constables, detectives, Forensic officers. And we’ll turn your house upside down while the entire village watches. Is that what you want?”
Hayley’s voice rose. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m simply telling you what will happen. Look, I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’m here to find out who shot and stabbed to death two adults and a child less than a mile from where you grew up. There are circumstances here you’re unaware of. If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain.” Jack motioned for Hayley to sit.
She eyed him uncertainly before stooping to sweep Annabelle into her arms. She sat down on the sofa with the child on her lap as if Annabelle provided a buffer between her and Jack. She stared expectantly at him.
He tapped the book. “When did your parents give you this?”
“It was a birthday present.” Hayley thought for a moment, then added, “I think I was six.”
“From the inscription in the front, I take it your brother Neal wanted it for himself.”
“He loved the pictures. He took the book and wrote his name in it. Mum and Dad made him give it back, but he kept taking it until they got him his own copy.”
“If you were six, that would have made Neal what?”
“Eight.”
“Eight,” echoed Jack. “A bit old for The Gingerbread Man.”
“A bit,” agreed Hayley. “But then again Neal was always young for his age.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was a slow learner. Always bottom of his class. He was small too, at least at that age. People used to think we were twins. All the more so because…” Hayley faded off as if she’d thought better of voicing what was on her mind.
“Because of what?”
Seemingly without realising she was doing it, Hayley stroked Annabelle’s shoulder-length wavy hair. “Well because we had the same hair and mum used to dress us in matching clothes.”
“What type of clothes?”
“Just normal stuff. T-shirts, jeans...”
Jack noted the stress Hayley put on the word ‘normal’. In his experience, normal people – whatever that meant – didn’t feel the need to emphasise their normality. He opened the book at the picture of the fox and gingerbread man and pointed to the altered text. “Did Neal do that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He had an invisible friend called Wendy. It was just one of those silly childhood things.” Hayley gave a little laugh, but Jack saw no amusement in her eyes.
Glancing thoughtfully at the book, he flipped forwards to a picture of the fox with the gingerbread man
in its mouth. “The fox promises to help the gingerbread man cross the river and, after doing so, eats him. That doesn’t sound like the sort of invisible friend I’d want to have.”
“Yes well, Wendy was…” Hayley paused for the right word, “mischievous.”
“In what way?”
A rise of irritation came into Hayley’s voice again. “Oh I don’t know. It was all so long ago. Look, you said you’d explain what these other circumstances are.”
“Run, run as fast as you can. Stop. We want to eat you. Are those lines familiar to you?”
Hayley narrowed her eyes as if she suspected Jack was trying to trick her. “Of course they are. They’re from the book you’re holding.”
“When Tracy Ridley was running away from her attackers, they shouted those words at her.”
Silence followed this revelation. Jack watched every movement of Hayley’s face. He saw nothing but surprise in her eyes.
“Run, run as fast as you can,” repeated Annabelle, a broad smile of recognition spreading across her rosy-cheeks. She pointed a chubby finger at the book and, struggling to pronounce the ‘g’, said, “Innerbread man, Mummy,”
“Yes darling.” Hayley’s voice was as hollow as an empty coffin. She looked from the book to Jack, her eyes haunted with confusion. “What does it mean?”
“Tell me more about Wendy.”
Hayley was silent for another moment as if searching her memory. “Like I said, she was mischievous. When Neal was naughty, she’d get the blame. She liked to play pranks. You know the kind of thing. Salt in your cereal. A spider in your lunchbox. Neal first mentioned her when he was five or six. I think it was because mum was reading Peter Pan to him. That’s why Dad got rid of that book.”
“Your dad didn’t approve of Wendy?”
Hayley huffed through her nostrils as if that was a serious understatement. “He hated her. He said it wasn’t normal for Neal to have an invisible friend.”