Mummy's Little Secret

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘Has she? You think turning up at a virtual stranger’s house with homemade soup isn’t just a bit weird? For all we know she’s probably poisoned that like she did the meat yesterday.’

  There is an edginess to Charlie’s voice when he speaks again, a kind of low growl. ‘It was only you who got sick, Jess. The rest of us were fine. You seriously need to get a grip. Are you still taking your pills? Because you’re really starting to worry me. We don’t want another episode, do we?’

  ‘How dare you! For all we know it was those bloody pills that caused what happened. And in answer to your question, yes, I’m still taking the bloody pills. You can check the bottles if you don’t believe me.’

  I don’t want to be listening in to any of this argument, but if I suddenly appear, they’ll know I’ve overheard what’s been said. I need to remain where I am until it blows over, and then plead ignorance if they ask.

  ‘Meeting her at the park,’ Jess continues, ‘then running into her in Waitrose, then the barbecue, now the soup… It’s like she’s trying to crowbar herself into our lives.’

  ‘Jess, can you hear yourself? Do you think Morag is some kind of stalker? Don’t be ridiculous. I for one think it’s very sweet of her to be so concerned about someone she barely knows. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  His voice is growing nearer, and I sense he is now just the other side of the door, but he hesitates.

  Jess is closer too when she next speaks. ‘Nobody in this day and age is that kind without reason, Charlie. I’m not being paranoid. There is something… odd about her.’

  ‘Listen, she’s probably just lonely,’ Charlie says, barely audible, and much softer now. ‘You said yourself they’re new to the area – maybe she’s just trying to make friends so she’ll have someone to natter to in the playground before school. It’s obvious she’ll probably be one of the oldest mums at the school, and maybe she’s feeling nervous about that. Who knows?’

  This is my moment. Pulling open the door, I pretend to be startled to see them both so close. If they think I’m a lonely old woman, maybe they’ll also buy that I’m hard of hearing, even though it’s as sharp as a tack.

  ‘I’ve left the pot on the stove,’ I explain, removing my oven gloves, and tucking them beneath my arm. ‘There should be enough for four to five servings. No rush to get the pot back to me. And if it’s easier you can give me a call, and I’ll come and collect it when you’re done.’

  I’m desperate to get out of their house, before they start questioning what I might have overheard. Pushing my way past, I head for the front door, before realising that Charlie’s car is now blocking mine in. He hurries after me, and confirms he will move to let me out, and it is only then that I see Grace is still strapped into her seat, and I wonder how long they would have left her there had I not insisted on leaving. She looks dejected as she stares out at me from the back seat, and I can’t help but wonder whether they realise how unhappy their daughter is, and whether there’s anything more I should be doing to help her. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a child in need.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Now

  Mike Ferry grimaced as he tasted the lukewarm dregs of the Americano, and almost spat it back into the cardboard cup. Only DS Nazia Hussain remained in the office, still poring over the security camera footage she’d brought back to the station with her.

  ‘You should head home when that one’s finished,’ Mike said, stifling a yawn. ‘No point in watching it with tired eyes; more likely to miss something vital.’

  Her eyes remained on the screen. ‘I think I might have found our suspect arriving at the house.’

  Practically leaping from his chair, Mike hurried to her desk.

  ‘This is from a private security camera across the road from our crime scene,’ she said, pointing at the screen. ‘You can just make out the taillights of a vehicle pulling away from roughly where the house would be. Not enough to confirm registration number, but if you keep watching the screen…’ She paused the grainy image and tapped the monitor with the tip of her pen. ‘There, woman in a wheelchair. Can’t say for certain that she was in the car, or whether it was just blocking the view.’

  Mike stared closer at the screen. ‘Is there any way we can sharpen the image? The long hair suggests a woman, but a fancy defence barrister could argue that that’s someone else in a wig.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the technicians upstairs, but the important thing is, it gives us a timestamp. If this is our suspect, then she arrived at the house a little after five this evening. First responders weren’t on the scene for another ninety minutes. So did she go to the property with the intention of killing the victim?’

  ‘Have you seen our John Doe arrive yet?’

  ‘Not so far, Mike, but I’ve barely broken the surface of the feeds I confiscated. You want a fresh coffee? I’m making myself one.’

  ‘I told you, you ought to get yourself home for a few hours’ kip.’

  She cocked her eyebrow at him sceptically. ‘I’ll go when you do, Mike. Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Neither. Thanks.’

  Locking her workstation, she pushed her chair back from the desk, picked up her mug and headed out of the room, turning right in the direction of the small kitchen at the end of the corridor.

  Dropping into Nazia’s chair, Mike leaned back, closing his eyes, and focusing on their suspect’s face, trying to determine whether she could be cold-blooded enough for the stabbing to be premeditated. And why that house?

  The phone ringing at his own desk startled him out of near-sleep, and lurching for the handset on Nazia’s desk, he sent her pot of pens flying.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ he stammered into the phone.

  ‘Mike? It’s Vikram in the custody suite. A Dr Wanda Savage is down here, demanding to speak to whoever’s in charge. Reckons your suspect is one of her patients. Are you free to come down and speak to her?’

  Mike thanked him, hung up the phone, and finished what remained of the lukewarm coffee. Fresh caffeine would have to wait for now. Leaving Nazia a note, he headed out of the office, along the corridor, and down the two flights of stairs, swiping his pass to allow him access to the custody suite. The woman in the dark jeans and red hooded top didn’t resemble any kind of psychiatrist he knew of, but given the late hour of the day, he shouldn’t have been surprised that she wasn’t more formally attired.

  He offered his hand, but she ignored it, crossing her arms, clearly not afraid to challenge him in front of his colleagues.

  ‘You’ve no legal grounds to be holding my patient Mrs Jess Donoghue. She is in a vulnerable state and needs to be treated with care. I have it on good authority that she hasn’t been taking her prescribed medication, and until I can confirm that she is mentally sound, she is not fit to be interviewed by you.’

  Mike took a step back and allowed himself a moment before responding. ‘Good. We’ve been waiting for you. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private where we can discuss your patient’s mental state?’

  Dr Savage puffed out her cheeks. ‘Not until I see her to check she is okay.’

  ‘I’m happy to arrange for one of my colleagues to take you to her. Mrs Donoghue isn’t under arrest, but from what I’ve been told by our on-call medical team, she is in an agitated state, and so, for her own safety, we wanted to keep hold of her until an exact diagnosis could be made. It was our team that reached out to you, correct?’

  The counsellor nodded. ‘I’m Dr Wanda Savage.’

  Mike smiled again. ‘And I’m Detective Inspector Mike Ferry. To be honest with you, I’m glad you’ve come in. You mentioned Mrs Donoghue is off her medication; are you able to confirm what you’re treating her for?’

  ‘You know that’s confidential.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to break your patient-doctor privilege, but I believe Mrs Donoghue witnessed a horrifying crime this evening, and I need to determine whether she could have been the aggre
ssor in the situation. Now, if she’s a potential threat to my officers because she hasn’t been actively treating her condition, then I think I have a right to know.’

  Dr Savage narrowed her eyes. ‘I can’t comment on the safety of your officers until I’ve spoken to her. I would like to undertake an assessment of my own, and it might be that I need to temporarily have her moved to a secure facility until her condition, as you describe it, is under control.’

  Dr Savage’s unwillingness to say that Jess wasn’t capable of violence told Mike all he needed to know. ‘Very well, please carry out your assessment, but I’d like to observe too.’

  She considered his request. ‘I’ll ask her if she minds, but I can’t guarantee it. If she’s not under arrest then she’s within her rights to leave here of her own volition, and there’s nothing you can do to stop her.’

  Mike knew she was right, but he was reluctant to allow his key witness, and a possible killer, to leave the station without a fight, even if it meant playing his hand and having her arrested.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Before – Jess

  I start as the alarm sounds loud on the bedside table, and quickly reach over to snooze it, conscious of disturbing Grace upstairs. The curtains are doing little to shut out the bright sunshine, and as I feverishly rub the sleep from my eyes, I notice the space in the bed beside me. As always, Charlie has folded his pyjama shorts and T-shirt set, and left them on top of his pillow. There’s also a travel mug of tea on the bedside table in front of the clock. The gesture always makes me smile, a reminder that he does love me despite all the difficulty my condition has caused to our lives.

  I adjust the pillows behind me, so I can sit up in bed and drink the tea without slopping it all over the summer duvet. Incredibly, there was no middle-of-the-night insomnia to contend with, and I genuinely feel well rested. I have two days of Grace to myself before school starts on Wednesday, and am determined to make the most of every second. I haven’t felt this level of energy coursing through my veins in several days, and the positivity is washing through me like waves.

  Reaching for the travel mug, my eyes widen when I catch a glimpse of the clock display.

  That can’t be right! It can’t possibly be half past eight.

  Arriving in the hallway, I’m surprised to hear voices behind the living-room door. Pushing it open with the chair, I gasp as Grace’s cheery face greets me. She’s stretched out on the sofa, and some cartoon is playing on the television.

  ‘Morning, Grace,’ I say, keeping my surprise in check. ‘What are you doing up?’

  Her eyes remain glued to the screen as she responds, ‘I woke up and came downstairs. You were asleep, so I let you rest. Can I have some breakfast now?’

  A happy tear threatens to escape, but I maintain my composure. How many children would have woken their sleeping parent to demand breakfast? Not mine. So considerate of her to leave me sleeping and find something to entertain herself. In truth, I didn’t even realise she knew how to turn on the television, let alone find the children’s channel. She never fails to amaze me.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’ I ask, reversing the chair out of the room.

  She’s up and behind me a moment later. ‘Well…’ she says, slowly drawing out the word like it has three times as many letters, ‘what I’d really like is pancakes. Could we make pancakes?’

  Her chin presses down on my shoulder, and her skin feels so smooth and warm against my cheek. Despite Charlie’s best efforts to make our home more accessible for the wheelchair, he’s not been able to do anything with the kitchen to allow me to reach the countertops or wall cupboards. I can operate the oven and microwave on my own, but that’s about the limit. He’s mentioned us looking to move somewhere more appropriate, but I know we can’t afford anywhere that would better meet my needs.

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Grace says, pressing her cheek further into my own. ‘I’ll help. You can tell me what to do.’

  Despite my renewed energy, I’m nervous about agreeing to this request. It’s one thing to instruct her on how to weigh flour and measure milk, but I would be taking a huge risk allowing her anywhere near a hot frying pan.

  We continue into the kitchen, and I look up at the hanging cupboards. The flour and mixing bowls are in the corner in the cupboard, but even standing on a chair, there’s no way Grace is going to be able to reach up to the necessary shelf.

  Lifting her on to my lap, I fix her with my sincerest look, willing her not to be upset when I break the news. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t have everything we need for pancakes this morning.’ She looks crestfallen, and I’m close to cracking, when I have a fresh thought. ‘I have a better idea,’ I quickly say. ‘We can’t make pancakes now, but how about we make pancakes for dinner? That way we can nip to the shops today and buy some flour and eggs, and then Daddy can get down all the equipment we need, and then we can have pancakes for dinner instead. How does that sound?’

  She crinkles her nose as if weighing up the proposal like some politician in Brussels. ‘Can I have chocolate spread on mine?’

  Negotiated like a true diplomat.

  ‘Absolutely! We could even buy some ice cream at the shops so you could have chocolate spread and ice cream inside your pancakes.’

  Her eyes widen in excitement, and she licks her lips. ‘Yay!’

  I’m relieved that we’ve managed to find a happy compromise. After the accident, I promised myself that I would do whatever it took so Grace would see beyond the chair and my disability. I have nightmares about her being at school and the other children laughing at her because her mum’s in a wheelchair. I don’t want my situation to impact her any more than it already has.

  She hops down from my lap, and heads over to the lower band of cupboards where we now keep plates, dishes and cereals for easier access. She pulls out a bowl and balances it on the counter in line with the top of her head, before reaching for a box of Rice Krispies and filling the bowl. I pour on milk, carry the bowl over to the kitchen table for her, hand her a spoon, and watch as she tucks in.

  I don’t feel hungry yet, but remain where I am, sipping from the travel mug, and watching as she shovels spoon after spoon of cereal between her lips. As nervous as I am about her starting reception class on Wednesday, I know she is ready for it. She’s always been quick at learning new things; already able to say three to four words and toddling about before her first birthday. I know how lucky I am to have such a conscientious and clever little girl. Even when we’d had to tell her that her brother passed during childbirth, she took it all in her stride.

  ‘Apart from making pancakes for dinner, what else would you like to do today?’ I ask. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a warm day, and it would be nice to do something fun and energetic. What do you think?’

  ‘Can I have a friend over to play?’

  It sounded like a snub but I know she doesn’t mean it. ‘I was hoping you and I could do something together,’ I offer.

  ‘Yeah, so do I,’ she says between mouthfuls. ‘If I had a friend over to play with, you could take us down to the park.’

  Daisy’s face fills my mind: She’s not my mum.

  ‘I don’t know who we could invite over,’ I counter. ‘It’s a bit late notice. I could phone Ava’s mum, if you—’

  ‘No, I saw Ava yesterday. What about Daisy?’

  I don’t want to disappoint Grace, but I’d prefer it if we put some distance between our family and theirs, especially after Morag’s surprise arrival at our home yesterday afternoon. Whilst dropping off soup could be seen as a charitable act, I can’t help thinking that there is something more sinister about the way she is trying to force her way into our lives. And I’m certain she was the one who moved my box of pills behind the kettle where I couldn’t reach it.

  The peace is shattered by the ringing phone, but before I can turn to go and collect it from the living room, Grace is off her seat and haring past me, lifting the receiver, and telling the c
aller that they’ve reached the Donoghue residence. Whilst I’m impressed by her proactivity, I wish she wouldn’t answer the phone until I’ve checked who’s calling.

  She marches back into the kitchen and thrusts the phone towards me. ‘It’s for you,’ she declares, a hint of disappointment in her tone, as if she actually believed it might have been for her. She hops back onto the chair and tucks back in to the cereal, as I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello? Jess Donoghue speaking.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Donoghue, good, glad I managed to reach you before you set off,’ a shaky yet warm-sounding voice replies. It sounds familiar, but it takes me a moment to place it. ‘I wondered whether we could delay your appointment by a couple of hours. There’s been an emergency case for me to look at, and if I could push you back from ten to twelve, you’d be doing me a huge favour.’

  ‘Dr Tegan?’ I check.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he says quickly.

  I strain to look at the calendar behind me. There are no appointments pencilled in for this month, so I don’t understand what appointment he’s referring to.

  ‘Sorry, when are we supposed to be meeting?’ I say, voice cloaked with confusion.

  ‘We have an appointment for ten o’clock this morning,’ he says without a beat. ‘That’s what I’m hoping we can push back to midday. I hate to ask, particularly if you were about to head out. Can you make it in for twelve instead? It doesn’t disrupt your plans too much, I hope?’

  I glance back at the calendar again. There’s definitely no appointment written down, but there are no appointments recorded for the whole month, which is odd, as we are supposed to meet once every four weeks or so to assess the damage to my spine. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I now have a sinking feeling that I must not have written the next appointment on the calendar.

  I look back at Grace. I can’t drag her with me to the hospital, as it isn’t fair for her to be sitting around bored while I wait to be seen, and I know Dr Tegan won’t be able to speak as freely with her eavesdropping.