by Agatha Frost
“Three,” Alan corrected her.
“Bloody hell, Alan!” Pat chuckled, slapping him on the arm. “Anyone else would sit back and enjoy their retirement.”
“The credit goes to my daughter.”
“Does it?” Claire pushed up her glasses. “What’s the third?”
“Well, we have adultery.” Alan counted it on his hand. “Then revenge with Ben, and the third, well, it’s a little controversial. It’s Abdul Hussain.”
“No!” Pat held up both hands. “I know where this is going, and I won’t hear it!”
“I want to hear it.” Greta edged forward in her seat. “Go on, Alan. It’s just a theory, after all.”
“A wrong theory.” Pat tossed back his drink, his cheeks darkening. “Abdul is a good friend of mine. He wouldn’t do that.”
“He has a motive,” Alan said firmly. “Reason without emotion, little brother. I’m looking at this from a logical point of view, and logic dictates the man has a motive. He made no secret of the fact he blamed Nicola for his son’s death. And Nicola’s fall mirrored what happened to Bilal.”
“The wax boy!” Greta fell back into her chair. “Oh, the poor sod! I cried when I heard, and I didn’t even know the lad.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Domino crept into the kitchen, and when she saw that Janet wasn’t around, she jumped up onto the dining room table. She sniffed at Greta’s whisky before hopping into Claire’s lap and settling; she barely weighed a thing.
“It was suicide,” Pat said, his voice low. “Abdul won’t admit it, but we all know it was. Poor lad’s marriage had just broken down, and he was on antidepressants. Abdul kept that part quiet because it’s not as accepted in their culture. It’s barely accepted in ours! Bilal struggled to talk about his mental health, and he paid the price for it.”
“That part doesn’t matter,” Alan said coolly, finishing his first tumbler of whisky in a single swallow. “It matters that Abdul blamed Nicola. Whether or not she had any part in it, he convinced himself she did, and sometimes that is enough.”
“The man only returned to work on Saturday, and only because I called him to come in – we needed the extra hands.” Pat drained his second glass. “He was nowhere near the factory on the day Nicola died.”
“You know that for certain?” Alan looked at the bottle as though considering a top-up.
“I know Abdul!”
“I think we’ve had enough for tonight.” Alan pushed himself up. “Mum, I re-potted that peace lily for you. I’ll go and get it from the shed, and then it’s time for bed for me. All this thinking has worn me out.”
They usually stayed up close to midnight.
The clock hadn’t even struck ten.
While Claire’s father retrieved the plant from the shed, Uncle Pat said his goodbyes and left swiftly, his frustrations still hanging heavily in the air. Claire hadn’t seen her father and uncle get so heated for a long time, and she hated that it had got to that.
“Don’t worry, lass.” Greta patted her hand under the table. “As alike as they are, they’re very different. Rarely saw eye to eye as boys, but they got better with age. But those old feathers get ruffled up every so often. Only natural with brothers. Pat has always been the more sensitive of the two. He thinks with his heart and your father with his head. They usually balance each other out, but tonight, the heart and head clashed.”
Normally merrily drunk on whisky, Granny Greta usually took a taxi home, but after two tiny glasses, she insisted her head was clear enough to walk. When she refused to let Claire order a taxi, she met her halfway and agreed she could walk her home. Despite their earlier prickliness, Greta popped her head into the sitting room to say goodbye to Janet before leaving, as she always did. More often than not, Claire’s mother had fallen asleep in front of the television with a wide-open mouth, cross-stitching in her lap; tonight was no exception.
“This is far enough, dear,” Greta said when they reached Marley’s Café, which cornered the street of terraced cottages leading down to Gary’s Mechanics at the end. “Get yourself home. And remember, whatever is going on, you know where I live, and my door is always open.”
“Thanks, Gran.”
“And my offer is still valid.” Greta patted Claire on the hand one last time. “I’ll kick that lodger of mine out any time you get sick of living with your parents.”
“Things not working out with Terry?”
“Oh, no, dear,” Greta said, already walking off into the night with her lily. “I don’t think I can take another night of the crying. Most men his age would celebrate if their wife had left them! G’night, love.”
“Night, Gran.”
Claire waited at the top of the street, watching until Granny Greta disappeared through her front door, three cottages up from the bottom. She smiled, hoping they’d still have at least another decade together. Losing Grampa George four years ago had been hard. They’d somehow adapted, but she wasn’t ready to imagine a life without Greta in it.
Claire turned to set off home, but her smile dropped immediately. A hooded man was standing a few steps ahead under the bright light of the orangey streetlamp. Under the hood, she could just make out his shadowy eyes; it took her a moment to place them.
“Claire, isn’t it?” Jeff said, pulling his hood down as he took a step out of the light. “We work together at the factory.”
“We do.” She gulped. “I know your wife.”
“Yeah, you do.” Jeff rubbed his hands together and smiled, his eyes on the ground. “Been planting all sorts of seeds in her mind.”
“Excuse me?”
Jeff charged forward and pinned Claire up against the wall by the collar of her coat. She landed with a thud, her lower half pressed against the cool stone, her top half against the window of Marley’s Café. This close, she could see Jeff hadn’t shaved in days. Vodka was hot on his breath. He was a shadow of the sharp-suited health and safety manager she was used to seeing sporadically at the factory.
“Listen, I don’t know what your game is, but it ends now.” Jeff tightened his grip. “I know you told the police that little lie about me kissing Nicola. That stupid DI slipped up and said your name. Because of that, they won’t leave me alone.”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
“Yes, it was.” Jeff pushed her so hard against the glass she was sure it would crack. “Now, are you going to retract your statement, or do I have to do something?”
“Like what?” Claire gulped, looking quickly from crazed eye to crazed eye. “Push me through this window? Did you do the same to Nicola?”
Tears suddenly swelled against his lower lashes, and his bottom lip wobbled. And just like that, Claire was sure Jeff had loved Nicola.
“Does Belinda know where you are?” Claire pushed, her confidence growing. “She’s worried sick about you, not that she should be. I only told the police what I saw – the truth. And I wasn’t the only one to see it. Belinda deserves so much better.”
His grip tightened. Tears dribbled pathetically down his bearded cheeks.
“You know nothing.”
“I know enough.” Claire gritted her jaw. “Now, are you going to let go of me? I’m not going to retract my statement, but I might tell them about you assaulting me.”
“Assault?”
“You just slammed me against a wall.” Claire looked down at his hands. “You’re still holding my jacket, and to be quite honest, you’re scaring me.”
Jeff’s eyes wandered down, and his grip loosened, but before he had a chance to let go of his own accord, a figure ran through the glow of the streetlamp. Heavy hands dragged Jeff off of her, tossing him into the cobbled road like a sack of potatoes. Claire took in the man who had saved her, unable to believe her luck.
“Ryan?”
“Claire?” Ryan squinted, panting for breath. “What’s going on? Are you all right? I was locking up the gym, and I just happened to look over.”
Claire exhaled a shaky breath as she
straightened her coat, adrenaline coursing through her body. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so aware of her heart beating.
“I’m fine.” Claire glanced at Jeff as he scrambled to his feet. “Are you all right?”
Jeff didn’t reply. He glared blearily at them both and staggered off, clearly overtaken by his drunkenness. He went in the direction of Greta’s cottage but carried on to the mechanics at the bottom before vanishing around the corner.
“Who was that guy?”
“Someone I work with.” Claire blinked slowly, trying her best to calm down. “It’s a long story. I lied earlier.”
“About what?”
“Things aren’t the same.” She forced a laugh, looking down at her shaky hands. “Not even slightly the same. Something awful happened at the factory, and I’m somehow caught in the middle of it all.”
“Are you talking about the murder?”
“You heard about that?”
“Everyone heard about that.” Ryan smiled, revealing familiar dimples in either cheek; the fat might have gone, but Claire could still have taken a nap in them. “Let me walk you home, and you can tell me all about it.”
They walked back to the cul-de-sac, and Claire told Ryan every detail of what had happened at the factory. By the time they reached her front door, she felt like she had shed a weight.
“And Nicola lived in my old house?” Ryan ran his fingers across his face, staring at the cottage next door. “You’re right, it’s not quite as I remember.”
“Neither are you,” Claire found herself saying. “You’ve changed so much.”
“On the outside, maybe.” He winked at her like he always used to. “And on the inside too. It’s impossible not to change, isn’t it?”
Claire nodded as her mind flooded with questions once again.
“What happened, Ryan?”
“It’s a long story.” He ran his fingers over his stubble again before checking his watch. “I need to get back to the B&B we’re staying at. Jeanie, the owner, said she doesn’t mind looking after the kids when I have to work late, but I know she likes to be in bed for eleven.”
“You should get home,” Claire said, suddenly aware, out of the corner of her eye, that an audience was peeping through the net curtains in the sitting room. “Thank you for turning up when you did. I don’t know what he would have done.”
“You should tell the police.”
“I’ll tell my dad. He’ll know what to do.”
“Is he still a DS?”
“DI, and he had to retire.” Claire glanced at her mother, who darted back from the window in a flash. “That’s a long story too.”
“A drink,” Ryan said quickly. “Or coffee. It seems we both have a lot of stories to tell.”
“I’d like that.”
“Soon.” Ryan checked his watch again. “I know where you live, and you know where I’m staying. We’ll plan something.”
Claire nodded, a lump rising in her throat. She wanted Ryan to give her a date and time then and there, but things were too fresh to push.
“Soon.”
“I’ll leave you to get to bed.” Ryan patted her on the arm before stepping off the doorstep. “Sounds like you’ve got a crazy shift at the factory tomorrow.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Ryan set off, but he turned back when he reached the garden gate with a smile on his face.
“Mate?” he said, scratching the back of his head. “It really is good to see you.”
Claire couldn’t help but smile.
“Likewise.”
Ryan set off into the dark, but Claire couldn’t seem to go inside. She was frozen, stuck to the step and leaning against the front door, just like she had been on the day she watched him drive away.
The door opened. She fell into her mother, catching herself on the doorframe.
“Who was that man?” Janet peered into the dark.
“Ryan.”
“Ryan, who?”
“Ryan Tyler.”
“Next-door Ryan Tyler?” Janet pulled Claire inside, closing and locking the door behind her. “But he used to be fat!”
“And now he’s not.” Claire kicked off her shoes, shrugged off her jacket, and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’m off to bed. G’night.”
As Claire climbed the stairs to her bedroom with Domino close behind, she hoped the fluttering in her chest was the adrenaline leaving her body and not old feelings awakening. The problem was that overweight or muscular, the Ryan who walked her home was the same boy she remembered.
Once safely inside her bedroom, she took a calming inhale of her last perfect vanilla candle. She lit it and set it on the bedside table, and after feeding the cats some treats and cleaning out their litter tray, she climbed into bed, hoping she would fall asleep easily but old enough to know she wouldn’t.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he next morning, Claire climbed out of bed with great reluctance. Her broken sleep had been plagued by bizarre and nonsensical dreams. They all ended the same way: a man standing in the glow of a lamppost, dark gaze fixed on her.
They hadn’t all looked like Jeff, and she’d awoken before most of them had a chance to reach her, but one did. Under the stream of the shower, she closed her eyes and saw the face again. With his face inches from hers, wax poured from the man’s mouth, nose, and eyes as he pinned her against a wall.
Even though it was impossible, the image unsettled her.
Shaking the disturbing image from her mind, Claire wolfed down a quickly buttered slice of white toast. Her mother didn’t comment about Claire’s breakfast choice, making her wonder how tired she looked to earn that forbearance. The next twelve hours weren’t going to be easy.
Not in the mood to risk being caught by Ian, she walked to work the long way. She followed the path out of the cul-de-sac, almost reaching the village square before turning up past Trinity Community Church. Warton Lane was steep and dotted with sporadic cottages, taking her up the hill to the factory through what many called ‘The Canopies’ because of how the tall trees created a complete cover over the whole stretch of road in the spring and summer months. When the dense trees broke, the lane levelled out, and the Victorian factory came into view on the hill ahead.
According to the history books, when building began in 1889, Charles Warton chose this exact spot for the factory because it was close enough to the village to walk to on foot, but far enough away that people could have separation from their work. He could have built the factory on any number of spots along the Northash River, leading many over the years to speculate that he chose the spot simply because he wanted to loom over the villagers.
A constant reminder of the power of the Warton family – or so the rumours said. No matter where you were in Northash, you could see the factory, and from the factory, you could see the whole village.
A taxi pulled up by Claire as she walked along the narrow pavement. She ignored it until she realised the driver was dropping someone off and not trying to pick her up. Belinda clambered out of the back seat, somehow managing to look even worse for wear. Claire was surprised she had even turned up for work, considering everything.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Belinda said, walking behind Claire since the path wasn’t wide enough for them to walk side by side. “I could do with the fresh air.”
Since they couldn’t look at each other much while walking, their conversation was limited to small talk, most of which revolved around the new rota system and Ben’s running of the place. According to Belinda, the group chat had done nothing but complain about how Monday’s shift was the worst in the factory’s history. Even with Abdul back as an extra shift manager, nothing ran smoothly.
“Too few people, too much work,” Belinda said when the narrow path ended ahead of the factory’s gates. “And Ben is accepting new orders all the time. He seems to think he can cut hours and still increase production. He’s going to work us all to death, but at least we have
four days off a week, right?”
They reached the factory gates with fifteen minutes to spare. A few smokers lingered outside, all looking as tired and scared as Claire felt. Perhaps it had never been the best place to work, but such a grey cloud had never before hung over it, despite a bright blue sky.
Usually, Claire wasn’t one to linger with the smokers, but Belinda always had a final cigarette before her shift, and Claire felt like Belinda still had something she wanted to say. For that matter, Claire had things of her own to say, or more importantly, ask.
“I think he’s left me,” Belinda finally said when she’d sucked half the cigarette away. “For real. I reported him to the police as missing on Saturday after I left work. When I woke up this morning, his drawers and wardrobe were empty. Just like that, my marriage is over, and I don’t even get to talk to him about it.”
“Didn’t he wake you packing his bags?”
“I’m a heavy sleeper.” She flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette. “The bottle of wine probably didn’t help, and neither did the separate bedrooms.”
“Separate bedrooms?”
“Jeff’s idea.” Belinda forced a laugh, lips tight around the cigarette. “Happened a year ago, twenty years into our marriage. Said he’d developed insomnia, and my snoring kept him awake. I barely questioned him; I just went along with it. How long have I been ignoring the obvious, eh? Things haven’t been right for years, but I just thought that’s what marriage was. I never had a good model. My mum and dad hated each other but stayed together till the bitter end. He drank too much and she smoked too much. And look at me! Their perfect daughter, doing too much of both. I don’t blame Jeff. Who would?”
“Don’t say that.”
“No, it’s true.” Belinda brushed her wiry, greying hair from her face. “Look at me, Claire. I’m fifty and I look like I’m in my seventies. I’ve avoided getting close to a mirror for years. I knew what I was doing to myself. Not last night, though. I got right up close to the bathroom mirror and saw the truth. An ugly, old hag looked back at me, and I hated it.”