by Diane Janes
Mrs Webster turned to study her face. ‘You do look a bit flushed,’ she said, raising her free hand and placing it uninvited against Wendy’s forehead. ‘You’re not going to pass out on us, are you?’
‘Oh, no … I shouldn’t think so. The trouble is I don’t want to take the children home when they’re having such a good time.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ll look out for them. Me and our Barry will be here until the fireworks tonight. Why don’t you go home and put your feet up for a bit? You’ll probably feel better in a while.’
Wendy made no more than a token protest. Mrs Webster was right. Her head was getting worse and she felt the need to lie down. After swiftly explaining the arrangements to Katie and Jamie, she set off to walk back to The Ashes. Just the prospect of lying down in her cool bedroom made her feel a little better as she left the cacophony on the green behind her. Most people who were attending had long since made their way to the village green, but there was a middle-aged couple approaching along the deserted High Street, and when they got nearer, Wendy saw that it was Mrs Parsons, accompanied by a man who was probably Mr Parsons. Wendy had not seen the woman to speak to since the occasion, over a year before, when she had stopped her in the street to inform her that Peter Grayling was a suspect in the Leanne Finnegan case. Wendy would rather have avoided speaking with her now, but they were approaching each other on the same side of the road and it was impossible to cross over without being pointedly rude, so she smiled and would have passed by with a ‘hello’ had Mrs Parsons not stopped and effectively blocked the pavement.
‘I suppose you saw the news yesterday?’ the woman said.
Wendy admitted that she had not.
‘Well, they’ve found that girl’s body. Leanne Finnegan.’ There was an almost triumphant glint in Mrs Parsons’ eye. ‘Poor lass. The family have identified her by her jewellery. Of course, they can’t get him now, that Peter Grayling. You can’t try a person twice, seemingly.’
‘Double jeopardy,’ the man put in gravely. He had a surprisingly deep voice.
‘But … are they sure he killed her? Peter Grayling, I mean?’ Wendy tried not to allow the knowledge of the necklace in the attic to impinge on her expression.
‘Everyone in Hartlepool knows as he did it.’ Mrs Parsons spoke impatiently, as if she could not countenance the stupidity of someone in Bishop Barnard failing to comprehend a fact universally accepted in Hartlepool.
‘Well, that’s terrible,’ Wendy said, uncertain what exactly she meant by that and just wishing that Mrs Parsons and the man would move aside and let her pass.
‘So we’ve a dangerous killer in our midst,’ Mrs Parsons continued grimly, her tone implying that Wendy might be in some way responsible for this sorry state of affairs – which, Wendy guiltily reflected, was truer than Mrs Parsons could possibly have known.
At this the man who was probably Mr Parsons demurred, rumbling something to the effect that he’d heard Peter Grayling had been forced to leave the area because things were getting too hot for him in Hartlepool.
Wendy managed to stop herself from responding that she didn’t think it would ever be too hot for anyone in Hartlepool, because it had been pretty chilly on every occasion that she’d ever been there. Instead, she made some anodyne response about being sure they had nothing to worry about before sidestepping politely and continuing on her way. She would have to try to forget about the necklace. She ought never to have gone snooping about in the attic. It hadn’t been her own idea, something had made her do it. No … no … that was silly. She was only thinking like that because her head hurt.
It was a relief to turn into Green Lane, where the jamboree became so muted as to be barely noticeable. When she reached the gate she heard the sound of a hover mower starting up somewhere in the distance. Apart from herself and the lone gardener, it seemed that the entire village was down on the green, enjoying the party.
She let herself into the house, took some aspirin and went upstairs to lie on the bed. The duvet was pleasantly cool to her touch, the sun already far enough round to leave the room mostly in shadow. It was gloriously peaceful.
When she woke, the small patch of sunlight on the wall had moved much further across the room, and by turning her head to bring the digital alarm clock into range, she confirmed that it was half past four. Her headache seemed to have gone and there was still plenty of time to go and join the children at the party. She would have a cup of tea first. She indulged in a slow, luxuriant stretch, sat up and swung her feet towards the carpet, where her sandals were lying cock-eyed where she had kicked them off.
The first sound she heard was so faint that she thought for a moment it might have been her own movements. Even so she stayed still, listening, to see if it came again. There were lots of possibilities. The floorboards sometimes creaked of their own volition and the pipes emitted odd sounds from time to time. Butterflies and once even a small bird had been known to fly in through an open window and become trapped. She hoped it wasn’t a bird. They made such a mess and were terribly hard to catch.
It wasn’t a bird. Footsteps. Where? For some reason her mind flew immediately to the attic. She looked up automatically, as if she expected to be able to see through the bedroom ceiling. But the sounds were not coming from above her head. A distinctive creak helped her to locate their position: it was someone descending the stairs. Someone who had started from the landing, a couple of feet from her bedroom door. Not the children. They were still on the green – and anyway they never walked at that pace or with that heavy tread. A burglar then. A burglar taking advantage of the royal wedding bash on the green. Someone who had assumed that the house was empty. Someone – a man – who thought the occupants were all elsewhere, stuffing down jelly and sausages on sticks. The telephone was down in the hall. Why on earth had they never had an extension run upstairs?
The image of Peter Grayling entered her mind. Peter Grayling knew the layout. Could he possibly have got a key cut for himself, all those months ago, while working on the house? Had he returned to collect his trophy from the attic?
She waited, holding herself painfully rigid, but the sounds did not immediately come again. Perhaps she’d allowed enough time for him to get clear? Then a new thought struck her. Peter had nailed down the board which secured the hiding place, but she had wrenched the nails out of the wood, interfering with it in such a way that it would open too easily. He would know that someone had discovered the necklace, and that person’s life would be worth very little to a man who had already killed twice.
Minutes passed. She gradually relaxed her muscles and let out her breath. The idea of Peter Grayling entering the house, creeping up and down the stairs, making it his business to silence her for what she knew, seemed increasingly melodramatic. In the silent bedroom, she began to question whether she had really heard anything at all. Had she been properly awake? Might she have imagined it?
The soft, steady tread ascended the stairs again. For a moment she froze, half expecting the bedroom door to swing open, revealing Peter’s huge frame blocking the doorway, but the unseen feet bypassed her room. Wendy strained her ears, listening for their direction. Katie’s room. The softest of clicks registered the closure of Katie’s bedroom door. This wasn’t a burglar. To begin with, how could a burglar have accessed the house without breaking in? She’d carefully locked up before they all left for the party and then let herself back in using the Yale key. She had definitely shut the front door behind her. Breaking in necessitated some noise, surely? Had she really been that deeply asleep? And there was nothing to interest a burglar – or for that matter, Peter Grayling – in Katie’s room. No money, no jewellery, no electrical gadgets, not even a transistor radio – just a little girl’s clothes and toys.
As she sat on the bed, toes flexing against the bedroom carpet, Joan’s words about Peggy Disberry returned to her. There was Joan herself, so attached to the house and recently cremated. Maybe … maybe it wasn’t a real, h
ere and now, kind of visitor? Maybe if she got up from the bed, crossed the landing and opened Katie’s door to have a look, she would find that there was no one there at all.
Wendy stood up and silently moved towards her own bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar, the way she had left it. Or was it? Hadn’t she been able to see more of the landing before she went to sleep? Hadn’t the door been standing further open? Suppose a burglar had come up the stairs, checked on her while she slept and adjusted the door to prevent an easy view from the bed as he made his way up and down the stairs? No, that was ridiculous too. No thief would have risked her waking up, just for the sake of garnering a few second-hand toys. She swung her bedroom door open to reveal the deserted upper landing. There was no sound from Katie’s room, but then the door was solid and well fitted. She crept across two yards of carpet and placed her hand on the door handle. Still no sound.
In a single movement, she twisted the knob and flung the door open, half hoping, half expecting the room to be empty.
It wasn’t.
His name came out in a cry of surprise: ‘Bruce!’
He paused momentarily in the act of reaching down a last handful of books from Katie’s top shelf.
‘What are you doing?’ It was a stupid question, she knew that. A fraction of a second had been enough for her to see what he was doing. There was a cardboard box on the bed, into which he was stowing the books from Katie’s shelves. There was a second cardboard carton on the floor, which appeared to be full of jigsaws, with Katie’s old teddy bear, Huey, sitting on top. Katie never slept anywhere without Huey.
‘I’m packing up Katie’s things.’ He placed the last handful of books into the box on the bed and set about closing it, overlapping the four flaps one over another.
‘I can see that. Why are you doing it?’ She was still gripping the doorknob. She felt sick and lightheaded. This is how it must be, she thought, when women walk in on their husbands doing something indecent – shagging the babysitter, perhaps.
Bruce took a deep breath. ‘I’m taking all the children’s things, Wendy. They won’t be living here anymore.’ He had closed the box on the bed and now set about doing the same for the one on the floor. He had to lie Huey flat to do so. Then he lifted one box on to the other and advanced towards the door.
She automatically stood back to let him pass, staring stupidly. As he reached the head of the stairs she regained the powers of speech and movement, pursuing him as a gibberish of questions tumbled out. Where was he taking the children’s things? What on earth was he talking about? What was he thinking?
He half turned his head as he reached the lower landing. ‘I’ll talk to you when I’ve finished loading the car.’
It was the calmness, the sheer ordinariness of his tone that frightened her most. He had gone mad. Bruce had gone completely mad. She raced back into Katie’s room, all but falling over a cushion which had somehow become dislodged from the little wicker chair which stood beside the toy cupboard. The bookshelves, the top of the wardrobe and the dressing table were all bare. She began to career wildly from cupboards to drawers, flinging them open to reveal bare interiors. Katie’s possessions had been stripped from the room. Emitting high-pitched whimpers of distress, she hurtled into Jamie’s room, trembling at the same scene of desolation. Even his Superman duvet cover was gone. Tidy to the last, Bruce had left the duvet folded neatly across the bottom of the bed. Sobs forced themselves up her throat. Back on the landing, her knees buckled and she had to grab the balustrade for support, before making it down to the hall, where she met Bruce heading for the open front door, carrying Jamie’s personal mug which he had just collected from the kitchen. Evidently nothing was to be forgotten.
‘Explain,’ she demanded.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He gestured towards the sitting room and she obeyed, sinking into her usual chair, keeping her eyes fixed on him, much as one would a dangerous escaped lunatic with whom one has been unexpectedly placed in close proximity.
He remained standing. ‘Our marriage is over. I’m sure you realized that some time ago.’ She attempted to speak, but he continued in the same dispassionate tone. ‘I know you are very good at pretending, but you know perfectly well … I live in Leicestershire now and the children are coming down there to live with me.’
‘They’re at the party,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you—’
‘They’re not at the party. Frances has already collected them. They’ll be well down the A19 by now.’
‘What? What are you talking about? Frances who?’
‘You know very well who Frances is. Frances is the woman I should have married. It’s fate really. I bumped into her by sheer chance on my very first night home and she told me that she’d separated from her husband. I think we both realized straight away that we’d made a terrible mistake, marrying other people. We will be moving into her house at first, until things get sorted out and we can find somewhere more suitable.’
Wendy was close to laughing hysterically. ‘But you don’t love Frances. You were never in love with her. You told me that yourself.’
‘I was wrong. Frances and I were meant to be together. It was you and I that was a mistake.’
She leapt from the chair and flung herself at him. A mistake? Twelve years of a life shared, dismissed as a mistake? She managed to land one good blow and tear his shirt before he grabbed both her wrists.
‘Stop it,’ he said. When she writhed and attempted to lash out again, he tightened his grip. ‘Pack it in. You know I could hurt you far worse than you could hurt me. Don’t make me lose my temper.’ He pushed her back towards the chair and flopped her into it, relinquishing his hold but standing over her.
‘The children …’ she stammered.
‘The children will be living with me. They met Frances during their last visit and they both like her. Frances loves children. She’s never been able to have any of her own—’
‘So she thinks she can steal mine! Well, she shan’t have them. They’re my children. I’ll fight you through the courts for them. She won’t get away with kidnapping them.’
‘No one has been kidnapped. That’s exactly the sort of dramatic accusation which will convince any judge in the land that you are unbalanced. Katie and Jamie are my children and they will be far better off with me in every sense. Frances has already given in her notice so that she can be a stay-at-home mum and take care of them. Believe me, Wendy, you will make life far easier for everyone if you simply accept the situation and don’t start all the fuss of a custody case. For goodness’ sake, surely even you can see that the children are better off in a stable, two-parent household?’
‘She isn’t their parent.’
‘Your parent is the person who brings you up, gives you love and cares for you. Doesn’t that sound familiar? Isn’t that what you always said about Tara?’
‘That was different. Robert deserted us. This woman is stealing my children. And I helped her to do it.’ Her voice rose. ‘If I’d just moved down there with you right away, I’d have been there that first night when you met her. I’d have been there all along. When you wouldn’t sleep with me, it wasn’t because you were tired, was it? It was because you had her … and you didn’t want to be unfaithful to her. I even stayed back here at Easter and Whitsun, leaving you clear to set up meetings between her and my kids. You made them keep it secret, didn’t you? You made my children keep your dirty little secret. It’s this house! It’s been like a spell, but I see it all now. This bloody house is cursed. Everyone who comes here loses their children. It’s all happening, just like it did before.’
Bruce’s slap brought the tirade to an abrupt end. She reeled back in the chair, lifting an exploratory hand to her cheek. They stared at one another. When he finally spoke, it was the genuine concern in his voice that wounded her most of all.
‘Quite frankly, Wendy, I think you should seek some professional help. This house has become an obsession for you. It’s one of the reasons I wo
uld give if this ever comes to court and I need examples to illustrate why you are unfit to take proper care of the children.’
Love is exceedingly dangerous. Love makes people reckless. It makes them cruel. In my experience, love does not always turn out well.
I am alone now. It’s safer. The only safe way. Then again, don’t ever become a hater … that’s my advice. That never turns out well.
FOURTEEN
November 1981
Wendy declined to initiate divorce proceedings. She didn’t want to make it easy for Bruce to disentangle their finances or be free to marry Frances, and besides, she was giving him time in which to change his mind. This Frances thing was an infatuation, some kind of crazy mid-life crisis he was going through. She told him so when he brought the children up to stay with her in the October half term. The children were not themselves. They seemed almost tongue-tied in her presence, and it tore her heart to see the way they ran out to greet their father at the end of the visit, and in particular the way in which Katie entwined her arms with those of the hated Frances as soon as she got out of the car. Wendy ignored Frances, pretending that she was not there.
The children had been supposed to visit her again on the second weekend in November, but Bruce telephoned to inform her that they did not want to come up and he wasn’t going to force them. Wendy railed against him in vain, while he declined to put either of them on the line.
‘I’m not going to let you upset them again. When you get your licence back you can come and see them down here. Take them out for the day, that kind of thing, but they won’t be coming to stay again. Not unless they say they want to.’
She had seen nothing of Tara since her departure for university. It was hopeless trying to get hold of her via the payphone in the halls of residence, so Wendy had to make do with the occasional phone calls initiated by Tara herself. From what Wendy could gather she was seeing a lot of Robert and his family and remained in touch with John, the one-time bricklayer.