by Emmy Ellis
Hattie knocked and waited the usual minute or so, then fished out her big bunch of keys. She had one for all those who trusted her—somewhat naïvely—to have access to their houses; she did like a snoop, running her fingertip along the tops of doors and photo frames on the walls to check for dust. Mrs Carter had a terrible habit of pushing used, scrunched-up tissues down the side of her favourite chair, and Mervin Brown always had yolk stains in a black-with-use frying pan on the hob.
She turned the key in the lock and entered the house. Oh, there was a nasty smell, like copper, quite strong, too.
“Noreen?”
She closed the door, thinking back to if she’d seen her friend returning from the gym earlier. No, she couldn’t say she had.
“Noreen?”
Hattie had watched Noreen enough to know how to use the coffee machine, so she pushed open the kitchen door with a mind to work the newfangled thing herself and wait at the table in the corner for her neighbour to arrive.
The sight that met her was gossip fodder for a month of Sundays, and Hattie couldn’t quite compute it all at first. Noreen was on the floor with a hole in her forehead, and that little troublemaking shit from number six, Jack, Lisa Ferris’ son, was lying beside her, also with a hole in his head. There was so much blood, she held her hand up to her mouth and gagged, the copper smell having a name now.
“Noreen?” she whispered. “Jack?”
Had Jack broken in to steal Noreen’s things and sell them? Rumours were rife about his nasty habits, committing robberies and flogging the gear for all to see on the market, no care that people saw their own goods with silly price stickers on them. He cut them out himself from neon cardboard, wonky stars.
“What do I do?” She racked her brain and came up with a memory.
A policeman had come here about Shaun, some detective or other, and Noreen had said he’d given her a card. Well, Noreen always put things like that on her fridge, so Hattie walked over to it, mindful not to step in the red river. There it was—DETECTIVE INSPECTOR RODNEY CLARKE—and she delved her hand into her bag to withdraw her phone, reversing away from the mess on the floor.
She dialled, her silly sausage finger shaking, and held the mobile to her ear.
“Rod Clarke,” he said, sounding harried.
“Oh, hello, you don’t know me, I’m called Hattie Quinten, and I got your number off a card, but something terrible has happened, and I don’t know what to do. It’s an emergency.”
“I suggest you phone nine-nine-nine then,” he barked.
“What, about murder? Jack has come in here and killed Noreen and—”
“Noreen?”
“Yes, you know, you came to see her about her son, Shaun. He’s gone missing.”
“Oh, bloody hell. Are you in Noreen’s house?”
“Yes! In the kitchen.”
“Did anyone see you go in?”
What did he want to know that for? “Why?”
“Because the killer might still be around, and if he saw you, he may come for you next.”
“Oh my good grief!” She placed her free hand over her heart. “What should I do?”
“Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming over. Don’t ring anyone, don’t tell anyone what’s happened. You never know who you’re living near. The murderer could be one of your neighbours.”
Oh, the thought of that sent Hattie staggering backwards. She plonked onto a chair, her heart banging away. “Okay, I’ll do what you said.”
“I’m driving there now. Actually, stay on the line so I know you’re all right.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He talked to her for the journey, about how terrible the world was these days and you couldn’t trust anybody. She thought he’d chuckled at that but must have been mistaken as he cleared his throat straight after.
“I’m just parking now,” he said. “Do you have a key for the back door?”
“I do. And one for the front, that’s how I got in.”
“Okay, I’ll come via the back garden in case the killer is watching out the front. When you see me, let me in, got it?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that, don’t you worry.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Marla was going over to introduce herself to Julie. She’d had enough of stalling and, convinced something had happened to Shaun Farthingale, the poor man, she had to know the truth. Today. She’d tinted her eyebrows and put on the new red glasses, suitably disguised again. How many people had told her if she hadn’t said who she was, they wouldn’t have recognised her? Of course, they hadn’t said, “Because you were so overweight before that losing it all has turned you into a new person…” but she’d heard their unsaid words anyway.
She’d heard a lot of unsaid words in her lifetime. Special, thicko, fat, ugly, “Do you lick the windows on the bus?”
It was a wonder she didn’t have mental issues.
So, Julie wouldn’t recognise her either, and that was all that mattered for the moment—until Marla revealed who she really was, perhaps next week once she’d geared herself up for it. She should think about using a different voice, too, the accent she’d practised for just this sort of occasion.
Marla left her house, black mac on to shield her from the wicked wind, and tripped her way over the road, excitement bubbling, safe in the knowledge that Julie had got up as her bedroom curtains were open, as was the window, just a crack to let the sleepy air out.
Up the path, onto the top step, bell button pushed, and Marla felt all kinds of determined. She was a truth-seeker, a woman who sought justice, and she was doing this, making it happen, being a detective—which was more than the real ones had been over Aaron’s death. A robbery, no, she didn’t believe it.
“Yes?” Julie’s voice swam out of the intercom grate.
Marla was unexpectedly overcome upon hearing it. She’d loved Julie once, pretended they were sisters. “Hi, you don’t know me”—yes, that accent was about right—“but I live across the road and wondered if you’d like to be interviewed. I’m doing research for a book, you see, and anything you can tell me would be appreciated.” She sounded like Julie, from a shitty estate, not Marla from Hornchurch Street.
Julie’s breathing floated out of the speaker. “Um, not really. I’m busy.”
What could she possibly be busy with? The woman worked and slept, that was about it, apart from any jaunts to town on the bus or a quick walk to the little shop.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Marla said, pushing dejection into her tone. “It’s just that you are exactly like a character I’ve created, so vibrant and wonderful, and it would be great to bulk her out with some real-life person’s mannerisms and whatever.”
“I really don’t—”
“I’m so sorry, this must be creepy, me coming here like this, but I promise you I’m not a weirdo.” That was debateable, given how she’d manipulated her parents all these years, but whatever.
A sigh came across like a carrier bag being scrunched. “What sort of thing do you want to know?”
“What you do, how you feel about it, that sort of thing. It won’t take long…”
“Half an hour then,” Julie said. “But no more.”
The buzz of the door unlocking converted to music in Marla’s ears, and she had to stop herself from grinning. She pushed the door open and waited in the foyer—best not to be too sinister by standing directly outside Julie’s door, otherwise she’d know Marla had been watching her and knew which flat was hers.
Why didn’t she ask me how I know she’s like one of my characters? Proves my point yet again, she isn’t observant.
Julie came out of her flat and paused. “Hello?” Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head.
Shit, has she recognised me? No, she can’t have. I look too different. Or does she think I’m the redhead from town? Heck… “Oh, hello there. Fiona Gunnley, pen name F L Wooland.” She walked over and held out her hand.
Julie
shook it tentatively, eyeing Marla as though she were a monster, and if Marla were the type to base a person’s worth on their handshake, she’d say this woman here was a wet lettuce who needed to stiffen her spine. However, she knew different, didn’t she. Julie was a killer. Ruthless. Cunning.
“Sorry to have caught you on the hop, and I must explain…” Marla rushed on. “I people-watch, not in a stalkerish way, you understand, to get ideas for my book, and I’ve seen you going out in the evenings, and there’s just something about you that spoke to me.” This must be how authors acted, surely. Marla had hung around in enough online forums to see how many people said imaginary folks spoke to them in their heads and even directed the story—rubbish, in her opinion, but there you go, the world was made up of many a fruitcake.
Julie frowned. “Err…okay…”
“If you’d prefer, we can talk out here, sit on the stairs.”
Julie glanced at them then back at Marla. She must have deemed her safe and not a nutter, as she shook her head and led the way inside her flat.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that if she had been burgled that night in her old place, she wouldn’t be inviting strangers in…
Marla followed her inside to the kitchen. Julie still had the same appliances, the ones Marla had spotted when she’d visited the laundrette flat after Aaron had died. If someone had died in her place, she’d want a complete change, the same if someone broke in and violated her privacy. Julie must earn enough by selling herself so could replace them if she really wanted to.
“Sit down if you like.” Julie took a bottle of water out of the fridge, standing side-on, attention on Marla the whole time, as though she didn’t want to look away.
Well now, Marla had expected tea or coffee, but never mind.
She smiled.
Julie’s eyes widened.
She handed a bottle to Marla, who sat, waiting expectantly for Julie to do the same, but she stood by the door, perhaps usual behaviour for her these days if she was afraid, living in the shadow of a murderer being in her flat while she’d slept. Marla had to admit Julie’s body language pointed to such an occurrence.
Did she tell the truth back then?
“Are you not joining me?” Marla asked.
“No. Can you ask the questions? I’m going through something at the moment, and I really don’t like having people here.”
People except The Brothers?
Julie reached across to a sideboard and picked up her phone. Sensible, given Marla could be anybody.
Marla smiled again. “Okay, yes, that’s fine, whatever you like.” She took Julie’s notebook from her bag, the one with LIAR on the front. I wonder what the police made of that? She folded the front back so Julie didn’t spot the name. “This will sound really off, but I have a book on each person living in these flats—easier to keep track while building my characters.”
“Yes, I was told.” She swiped at the phone screen, her attention still on Marla. “And it is off.”
“Well then…hmm… Let’s move on. I’ve been having a bit of a chat with people around here, and they say you work at The Angel. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s normal for someone in my profession to ask questions, before you wonder.” Marla had no clue whether it was or wasn’t, especially the kind that had her coming across like a journalist—she hadn’t got that far in the forums yet to know how to conduct herself in an authorly manner. “And how do you like pulling pu…pints?” She’d almost said ‘punters’. God, that wouldn’t have gone down well.
“I don’t.”
“Oh. What do you do then? Waitress? I’ve been there and had a couple of meals. Nice food.”
“I’m a sex worker.”
“Gosh! I wasn’t expecting that.” Marla could only hope she’d pulled off that response well enough.
“Most people don’t, me included.”
Whatever did she mean by that? “Care to elaborate?” She dug in her bag for a pen.
“I can do.” Julie folded her arms. “But you might not like what you hear.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, you asked for it… I had this boyfriend, and at first he was great. You know, attentive, kind, stuff like that. Then the lies crept in, lots of them, and I knew I had to get away. Especially when he turned nasty.”
“Nasty?”
“He said cruel things, then pretended he was joking, and I thought I was going mad at one point.”
“How come?”
“When someone says something to you in an obviously horrible way, then makes out they didn’t, you begin to ask yourself if you imagined it. Gaslighting, it’s called.”
Marla had never heard of it. “Oh dear.”
“I was going to speak to his mother about him, see whether she had any advice, but the problem was, his mum didn’t like me, thought I was common, and I doubted she’d want to get involved.”
The ‘common’ thing struck a chord. Is she talking about Mum? Marla had wanted to shrivel up and die when Mum had said that to Julie. It was so embarrassing and must have hurt her terribly.
“That’s dreadful.” Marla opened the water to take a sip, her mouth suddenly dry. This wasn’t going how she’d imagined at all. Julie had rarely opened up to her back then, when they were best friends. Sisters. Marla was offended. At this moment, they supposedly didn’t know each other. Why tell a stranger your secrets?
“Anyway.” Julie prodded an icon on her screen. “He decided one night… I assume you want to know how I became a sex worker, yes?” She paused, gave Marla an unsettling glare. “For your character.”
Julie wasn’t acting the same, and it put Marla on the back foot. On the way over here, and all the time she’d been spying and poking about, gathering information on her, she’d been assured and confident, but now the latter slipped a little. Julie was taking control of the conversation, which wasn’t to Marla’s liking.
“Um, yes, that would be brilliant,” she said. Is she recording me on that phone?
Julie glanced at it and seemed satisfied with whatever was on the screen. Marla was sure someone said hello, the voice small and indistinct… No, don’t be silly.
Julie spoke over it. “Right, even though you’re an author I don’t know, coming into my flat, I’ll tell you my story. One night, I’d met my boyfriend in a pub—he’d sent a text saying I had to go, and when he said something, I tended to do it. I broke up with him and walked out—well, ran actually, but he followed me.”
Marla had never had a boyfriend, and the thought of having to run from one had her getting jittery, not to mention Julie’s odd behaviour. She’d just sniffed the air and seemed weirded out by whatever she’d smelt. “I’m sorry that happened.”
Julie arched her eyebrows. “Are you?”
“Of course.”
“Hmm.” Julie gave her the once-over and nodded to herself. “He grabbed my hair, you know. Dragged me down the side of the pub.”
“Didn’t anyone do anything?” Shock had Marla’s heart picking up speed. This must have been a man before Aaron, there was no way her brother would treat a woman like that.
“No. In an alley, he told me what he was. Have you ever heard of a recruiter?”
“I can’t say I have, no…” I didn’t Google enough.
“Well, it’s someone who picks women they think will do well as a sex worker, and they groom them. This man, he pretended to be my boyfriend, said the fake relationship was to break my spirit or whatever the hell he said, so I’d do whatever he wanted. Me finishing with him and running meant I had too much fire. Guess what he did next?”
The clock ticking on the wall behind Marla gave the conversation an ominous feel, as if those very seconds passing by were pregnant with the secrets Julie was about to reveal.
“What,” Marla said then held her breath.
“He let two men rape me over a table behind the pub. One was my new boss, a pimp, and the other was his right-hand man. Yo
u must know the type I’m talking about if you’ve been doing research around here. A leader and his man.”
“Um, yes, someone did mention what goes on. Various estates or patches, they said. All very Machiavellian. Devious,” she added, in case Julie didn’t know what that meant, what with her going to a crappy school. “So, you had to work for this man after the…the rape?”
“Rapes, plural, as two of them had a good go. Yes, and my so-called boyfriend made sure I did. He pretended to be my boyfriend for a while.”
Marla swallowed. “That’s terrible. So this leader, he’s still making you do it? Is that why you’re in the parlour at The Angel?”
“No, he’s dead.”
Oh my goodness, did she kill him as well?
Marla wanted to leave and made a move to get up.
Julie blocked the doorway. “I used to have to go to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner and look after his sister while we went to town.”
No. No…
“And pretend that their son wasn’t making me have sex with strangers. And it’s funny, I’m still doing it even though I got away from that patch. It’s all I’m good for now. I used to be a vet’s assistant, someone with a future. But then you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Marla.”
Chapter Thirty
Rosie hoped The Brothers realised what was going on. They were on the end of the phone line, hopefully coming to her rescue. She’d fully recognised Marla as soon as she’d smiled and couldn’t get over how different she was apart from those tiny teeth. The weight shed. The short dark hair. The red glasses.
Once Rosie had studied her properly, she’d seen hints of Marla’s old face, but at first glance, no, she was as she’d presented herself, a black-haired author from over the road, come for a little chat. She’d let her in out of curiosity, and to tell her that watching people was weird—and to find out whether she’d seen anything going on that night.
The conversation hadn’t gone down that road, though, and then that smile had changed the goalposts, and that perfume, the one she’d smelt in Home Bargains when Redhead had stood beside her. She should have known it was Marla then.