by Agatha Frost
“I’d prefer a drink,” Greta said, propping herself up at the sideboard. She poured herself a glass of whisky and took a sip. “Oh, crikey. Still this same stuff? Alan, where did you get this muck? Drinking a bottle of nail varnish remover would be more pleasant.”
“It’s the usual stuff from the post office.”
“Post office?” Claire’s ears pricked up. “Gran, don’t drink that. It might not be real whisky.”
“How can whisky not be real whisky?” she asked, examining the bottle. “What’s fake whisky when it’s at home?”
“You might not have been far off with the nail varnish comment.” Alan took the bottle from his mother and sniffed at the opening. “A few years ago, we busted an operation not too far from here for bottling and selling knock-off alcohol. A man and a woman died before we found them.”
“Died?” Greta cried.
“You only had a sip,” he reminded her. “But they use anything they can get their hands on and colour it to look like anything they want. Little one, what made you say that?”
“Because there was a raid at the post office a few days ago.” Claire joined her mother, already scrubbing the burned pan, in the kitchen. “You said it yourself, Mum. Dodgy alcohol and cigarettes.”
“Only based on what customers have been complaining about lately,” she said, squirting in more washing up liquid. “I stayed out of it. Ordering wasn’t my job. We kept the shop and post office sides of things separate.”
Claire opened the cupboard containing the bins. Perfectly designed for their needs, there were separate bins for general waste, plastic, cardboard, and glass. She pulled off the lid to the glass bin, glad to see it hadn’t been emptied. The bottles clanked together until she found what she was looking for.
“They look the same,” Claire said as she compared the newer bottle with the older one. “Except there. Look.”
Claire rolled the two bottles under the light. One label’s quality seal had metallic markings, and the other’s was dull and flat.
“A woman is in hospital,” she said. “Do you think this could be connected to Eryk’s death?”
“I thought Tomek did it?” Janet asked as she put the pan on the straining board. “Him killing himself like that should make it an open and shut case, no?”
“That’s what you’d think,” said Alan, his fingers drumming on the counter. “I know the officers they sent tonight from my days at the station. They were more than happy to oblige when I asked if they had any updates.”
“Non-public updates,” Greta pointed out.
“It’s not confirmed,” he said, lowering his voice, “but there are whispers that Tomek’s death isn’t as simple as it seems. They haven’t ruled it as a suicide yet, which means they’re exploring options.”
“And what reason would Tomek have for killing his father?” Greta asked as she poured gin into a new glass.
“To run the post office?” Janet suggested. “When I spoke with Leo on Monday, he knew nothing of my firing. On Tuesday, I foolishly thought I could turn up for work and nobody would know because Eryk hadn’t had the chance to set it in stone. Tomek made it very clear my job was now his, and I wasn’t welcome.”
Alan limped into the kitchen and kissed Janet on the cheek. Claire wondered if this was the first time she’d admitted to her firing out loud – in the house, anyway.
“But why kill himself?” Claire asked. “Would Tomek even inherit his father’s share of the post office? Surely it would go to his wife. Or even Duncan?”
“What if Tomek killed Eryk, and someone else killed Tomek?” Greta mused, dropping into a seat at the dining table. “I don’t know. Something to think about.”
And think about it, Claire did. Over a Chinese food banquet (which Moreen didn’t emerge to partake of), the conversation drifted, but Claire’s mind played that one thought on a loop.
Leaving the cul-de-sac in a calmer state than she’d found it, Claire walked Granny Greta home. On her way to her own flat, she stopped outside the dark post office, desperately wishing she knew what had really happened in there on Saturday morning.
Two of the witnesses were dead.
But one was still alive.
She just needed to get Leo to talk.
Chapter Eleven
At quarter to noon the next day, the summer sun finally broke through the veil of clouds after a morning of light showers.
Seizing the opportunity to remain dry, Claire hauled the box she’d spent all morning curating to Christ Church Square. As with her previous visit, she walked to the back of Ash’s house, where she placed the box on the kitchen doorstep.
Knowing her mother, Ash likely had a stock of tinned food, so Claire had opted for the ‘junk’ that wouldn’t cross Janet’s mind to provide: crisps, biscuits, chocolate, ketchup, and pop – as well as a fresh supply of candle jars.
The box wouldn’t fix the situation, but as Damon had pointed out, there was no reason she couldn’t try to put a smile on Ash’s face.
Instead of knocking, she slipped a ‘From Claire x’ note through the gap under the door and left.
During the quiet spell of rain, she’d gone in circles researching the unique situation. The internet bounced her from squatter’s rights to the legality of a teenager living alone to Janet’s culpability in enabling the situation.
All roads led to the same conclusion.
Alert social services.
Claire had gone as far as typing the number into her phone, but she couldn’t bring herself to press the call button thanks to her mother’s words.
“The second I suggested it,” Janet had said in the shed, “he broke down.”
It was the right thing to do.
The responsible thing to do.
But what Ash needed and wanted didn’t align. As Damon had pointed out, what Ash needed legally might not be the best thing for him as a person.
Claire understood her mother’s conflict, but the current situation couldn’t continue. She just didn’t know what the solution might be.
Back in the square, the gym pulled Claire’s attention away from Ash’s dilemma as the doors burst open and Anna Kowalski charged out in floods of tears. Em followed right behind, her calls going unheeded.
Behind the wheel of a car parked further down the street, Berna used the pull-down mirror to apply mascara while the radio played. She glanced at Claire through the rolled down window as she approached. She averted her gaze to the rear-view mirror to watch her mother march towards the car.
The yoga class friendliness had gone, but Claire could tell Berna had recognised her. Claire drew nearer and opened her mouth to offer condolences on her brother’s death. The window slid up, as did the volume of the radio.
The glare of the window where Berna’s face had been reflected Claire’s shock. Still sobbing, Anna collapsed into the passenger seat, and Berna wasted no time starting the engine. She sped around the square, turning up Park Lane.
“That’s not how that should have gone,” said Em as Claire joined her in front of the busy gym. “I fear I may have put my foot in it.”
Claire spotted Ryan through the glass doors. He was training someone on the treadmill, but he wasn’t grinning as he’d been on her previous visit. Perhaps he saved that for when Claire was in?
“Knowing you, Em, I doubt you put your foot in it intentionally.”
“What does intention matter when such upset is the result?” Em inhaled, closing her eyes as she tilted her face up to the sun. “Anna sought my spiritual guidance, but there was little I could say to ease her pain. She’s booked a one-way ticket back to Poland for tomorrow. I shouldn’t have suggested that such an action might plausibly be perceived as guilt.”
“You’re not wrong,” Claire said with a shrug. “The phone calls, the life insurance, the plane ticket. It paints a picture.”
“And today wasn’t the day to show her such a picture,” she said, looking at the path next to The Hesketh still blocked by police. “
The words fighting on the tip of your tongue are perhaps the last things someone in distress needs to hear. To lose a husband and son in the same week is a loss more devastating than anyone can comprehend until they’ve experienced it. Compassion and empathy are hands that can only reach so far.”
“What about funerals?” Claire asked. “Surely she’d want to stay for those?”
“She wants to fly them to Poland,” Em revealed. “The police have released Eryk’s body but not Tomek’s. They ruled on a cause of death this morning. Strangulation.”
“Oh,” Claire said, surprised. “I heard it might not be suicide.”
“Strangulation at the hand of a fellow human being,” Em clarified, shaking her head. “Tomek was already dead when the noose was tightened.”
Lost for words, Claire stared at what she could see of the forest behind the pub. The theory that the guilt of committing his father’s murder drove Tomek to take his own life disintegrated. A dozen new questions fought for her consideration.
“He must have known something,” Claire mused, eyes still on the trees as new grey clouds moved in behind them. “Or someone killed him as revenge for killing Eryk?”
“Whatever the explanation, the police are intent on interviewing Anna and Berna as often as they can,” she whispered. “Anna is certain they’re trying to build a case around her, which is why fleeing the country right now is the worst thing she can do.”
“It’ll cause an INTERPOL witch hunt if they have even a sliver of evidence against her.”
“I hope she comes to her senses before the flight,” Em said, turning away from the sun. “And if she doesn’t, maybe there’s a—”
“A chance she’s guilty?”
Em nodded solemnly. “The conversation you heard that suggested she might have a lover other than Eryk?” Em exhaled. “It wasn’t a direct admittance, but she said she had bought two tickets. I asked if one was for Berna, and she said she’d given up trying to get her to go. She said she’d probably go alone if ‘he doesn’t answer her calls’. Who ‘he’ is, I don’t know.”
“Strange.”
“Yet not the strangest thing she said.” Em moved in closer and looked around the square. “She thinks she’s being tracked and followed.”
“By the police?”
“By men in black cars.” Em pulled open the gym door. “Given everything that’s happening in her life right now, I fear she may be on the edge of losing herself.”
Claire didn’t follow Em into the gym.
A shiny black car was parked between two police cars in front of the pub.
No registration plate.
Blacked-out windows.
Exactly like the car that cut off the police as they took in Duncan for questioning.
Feeling silly for playing into the paranoia, Claire walked up to the car. Only the faintest silhouettes were visible in the front seats. She knocked on the driver’s window, expecting the people inside to roll down the glass and laugh off the suggestion that their activity was anything untoward.
The window didn’t budge.
Engine gurgling to life, the car pulled away from the kerb and drove slowly around the square. It crawled to a near stop outside the closed post office before turning up Park Lane, just as Berna and Anna had done.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Ryan said as he approached from the direction of the gym. “Staring at anything interesting?”
“A black car,” she said, turning to face him but unable to take her eyes from Park Lane. “Anna thinks she’s being followed.”
“Grief does strange things to people.”
She opened her mouth to mention that it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed a similar car in the square, but she thought better of it; maybe she was as paranoid as Anna.
“I’m off for half an hour if you want to grab something to eat?” he asked.
“I’d love that.”
Claire attempted to push everything other than spending time with Ryan to the back of her mind. It only lasted as long as it took them to queue up for two portions of salt-and-vinegar-drenched chips at The Abbey Fryer fish and chip shop.
As they picked at their chips and headed towards Starfall Park, Claire couldn’t contain herself. When they reached the Chinese rock garden, she told Ryan all about her mother’s fraud and the dilemma with Ash.
“And here I was saying he was Elsie’s granddaughter,” Ryan said as they sat on the stone seating circle under the pointed, Asian-inspired pergola. “I’ll keep an eye on the house. He’s only a few years older than Amelia.”
“At least it gets my mum out of the picture with the post office.” She dragged one of her last chips through the salt at the bottom of the paper. “Not that I know what the picture is. Someone’s lying about something, and I’m only catching glimpses.”
“I didn’t realise you were so invested.”
“It’s bugging me,” she said. “An apparently random shooting followed by a faked suicide in the same week? And the victims are father and son?” She grimaced. “I don’t suppose you know where Leo Wilkinson lives?”
Ryan shook his head.
“I really need to talk to him,” she said, staring off into the distance. “I hoped I’d get the chance this morning, but the post office never opened. He’s right in the middle of the business and the family.”
“Oh.”
“I might have the wrong end of the stick, but there’s a chance Berna is pregnant with Leo’s baby,” she explained. “He could be covering for her? Eryk was trying to send Berna out of the country. Maybe she turned up and shot him to stop it? But why Tomek? I gather there wasn’t any love lost between them, but why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“And what about Anna? She’s in a rush to leave. From the sounds of it, her marriage wasn’t bursting with happiness. She could have killed Eryk … but surely not her son?”
“Right.”
“And where does Duncan fit into it?” she wondered, almost to herself. “The police must have released him. His alibi of being in Yorkshire when Eryk died probably held up. If they’d charged him with something, we would have heard about it.”
“Yeah.”
“Which is why I need to speak to Leo. He’s the key. He has to be. I wonder if my Mum has his phone number or knows…”
Claire’s sentence trailed off as she averted her gaze from the factory’s chimney on the hill. Like Claire, Ryan stared off into the distance, though he didn’t appear to be focused on anything.
“Am I boring you?” She playfully nudged his arm. “My mum thinks she has too much of her mother in her, but I know I definitely have too much of my dad in me.”
“No, it’s fine.” He blinked, snapping back to the moment. “It’s not you.”
Claire’s stomach knotted. So consumed with questions and theories, she hadn’t bothered to ask how Ryan was doing. Now that she was properly looking at him, it was obvious something was off.
“Talk to me,” she said softly, rubbing his freckled shoulder with her thumb. “I’m here.”
Ryan pulled a small white envelope from his shorts pocket and handed it to Claire. He didn’t look at it. The address belonged to the bed and breakfast Ryan had lived in when he first moved back to Northash, but Amelia’s name occupied the first row.
Already suspecting what she’d find, Claire pulled out a small card with a bland floral design.
The contents were written in Spanish.
The knot tightened.
The final word needed no translation.
Mamá.
“Fergus chased me down this morning to give he this,” he explained. “I gave everyone in her family the B&B’s address when we first arrived. I thought it would tempt her to come out of hiding.” He took the card from Claire and read, “‘To my darling Amelia. I miss you very much. Happy birthday. From Mother.’”
Claire scrambled for something to say, but the knots spread from her stomach to her throat. She’d never met or spoken to Maya, t
hough she remembered the pictures Ryan had shown her all those years ago. Most people went on lads’ holidays with their college friends to do anything except find a relationship, but not Ryan. He returned with a sunburn and declarations of love for a Spanish beauty.
“Can you believe it?” he asked. “She ran off with the only mate I made over there and turned her back on us. I’ve spent all year trying to contact her for the sake of our children, and she’s dodged me at every turn. And then this shows up. No apology, no explanation, not even an age on the front. Not that it’s even a birthday card.”
Elbows resting on his knees, Ryan dug his fingers into his red hair. Maya’s first contact had been inevitable, but Claire hadn’t expected it to be like this.
“How did Amelia react?”
“I haven’t shown her.” He looked at her through the gap under his arm. “You don’t think I should, do you?”
“Doesn’t she have a right to see it?”
“Things have finally settled.” He sat up straight. “It’s taken months to get the kids used to their new life. They’re happy. I can’t ruin that now. I won’t.”
“But wouldn’t Amelia want to see it?” she asked calmly. “To know her mother is thinking about her?”
“It’s three sentences, Claire.” Standing up, he held out the card. “It will just reignite the false hope that their mother is just going to show up and everything will be alright again. Maya chose to leave.”
“But what if she does show up one day?”
“Then she can explain where she’s been to her daughter’s face.” Shaking his head, he said, “Honestly, Claire, I thought you’d get where I was coming from.”
“I do.” She stood and took his hands. “But—”
“But you still think I should show her?” He tugged his hands away. “Dangle that carrot in front of my daughter? You know how hard it’s been.”
“If I were Amelia, I’d want to know.”
“But you’ve never been Amelia,” he said, taking a step back. “You don’t know what it feels like to sit by a window waiting for someone who’ll never show up. Your parents are still together. You don’t understand what three sentences like this can do to a child.”