It was only when I met Priti at work and was introduced to her crowd that I felt I’d found real friends again. Priti was never backwards in coming forwards about her emotions, the silly rows with her family or when she was on her period. At first I felt quite taken aback at the way she never hid what she was feeling, but after time some of her behaviour rubbed off on me and I felt able to break through the glass veneer I’d erected around myself and share what I really thought. ‘You’ve got to tell me something personal about yourself,’ I remember her saying to me a fortnight after we met. ‘You know that I farted loudly on my first ever date, you owe me one!’
There’s only so much I shared with her, though. I couldn’t help but think that if she really knew me my phone would stop ringing.
Once the dead girl’s sister, always the dead girl’s sister.
10
Instead of walking straight home from the café, I make a short detour to Aunty Lena’s. As she opens the front door, the mouth-watering smell of roasting beef hits me – my vegetarian phase only lasted six months – and I follow her into the kitchen where she’s preparing Sunday dinner. They knocked through their kitchen and dining room when I was a child and since then they’ve refitted the kitchen with white shaker units and an inbuilt oven. It’s the first time I’ve seen Uncle Den since I’ve been back. He’s sitting in an armchair with his foot up on a small side table, which also has a digital radio on top that’s tuned to the The Archers omnibus on Radio 4. His lounge chair looks out of place in the kitchen beside the round dinner table but he looks very comfortable there and I imagine that the couple spend a lot of time in that room. At least there he’s near the kettle.
I’m shocked at his physical deterioration since I last saw him. He’s thinner and more fragile, his neck having acquired three folds of skin and his wrists that were once thick and strong now resembling snappable twigs. Mentally, though, he’s right on track and he cracks jokes straight away about what he imagines I got up to in Leeds – bet you left lots of broken hearts there, hey? – and I can tell he’s pleased to see me again. The feeling is definitely mutual. Why couldn’t he and Lena have been my mum and dad? They didn’t have any children of their own. I’ve never asked why, whether they’d tried for them but weren’t blessed by a visit from the stork.
Lena asks me to stay for dinner and, although it smells so tempting, I decline, saying that I ought to get back and make something for Mother. Lena nods approvingly. ‘Another time then. Why don’t you both come round next Sunday? I’ll roast a chicken and make onion gravy.’ After general chit chat, during which I learn that the romantic comedy film the night before had been a disappointment with far too much bad language, I fill them in on my discovery. Lena and Den hang on my words once they realise I’m talking about a possible link to Gemma’s disappearance.
When I finish, Lena turns the potatoes roasting in the oven, giving herself a minute to ponder what she’s just heard. She looks weary for a moment and wrinkles her forehead in thought. ‘I did hear about the Toby Jones case, you couldn’t miss it with all the publicity, but I didn’t know that he was in Gemma’s class at school. I don’t know either if the police are aware of the connection. He wasn’t a suspect at the time.’
‘They should have castrated him for what he did to his wife,’ adds Den angrily. ‘That’s a better deterrent to others than prison.’
I smile, remembering Den’s non-PC views on dealing with offenders.
‘Who would I contact to ask if the police know? At the very least they could interview him again in prison, if anything to rule him out.’
‘There was a family liaison officer, you’ll be too young to remember. WPC Hargreaves she was,’ says Den. ‘Nice lady with the rough job of telling your parents that Gemma still hadn’t been found.’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t that young then, was she, she’s probably long gone now, the police get to retire that early,’ replies Lena. She lowers her voice a little and says directly to me, ‘I don’t think your mum knows about the Toby link. Best not mention it unless you have to, eh? She needs to focus on the chemo right now. I doubt she’s got the strength to deal with both.’
I nod but feel a flinch of annoyance that yet again Mother is protected in her own little world whilst other people do her dirty work. Then I remember the sight of her hooked up to the drip in hospital and take that thought back.
‘Why don’t you ring the police station tomorrow, tell them what you know and ask them to investigate it. That’s what we pay our taxes for,’ says Den.
It’s a plan, not much of one, but it’s a start. Mother has her next chemo session tomorrow. I’ll make an excuse to go to the hospital café during her treatment and ring the police from there. I can’t not follow this up: it’s like having an itch and needing to scratch it. Someone somewhere knows what happened to Gemma and that person might be Toby. In that instant, I realise that Priti was right last night. I do need to move on. Leaving home didn’t work, I’m still trapped in the same cycle of anger and resentment that I hadn’t previously realised encased me. If trying to find out more about Gemma and what happened to her is what it takes then that’s what I do. I want to break free. I need to break free.
After saying my goodbyes and promising to return soon – Den tells me I must come and watch his favourite daytime quiz show with him – I walk the short distance back to Mother’s house. There’s no way I can avoid Reg’s place unless I walk around the block clockwise and approach Mother’s from the other direction. That’d be daft and besides I’ve been out long enough today. It is lunchtime and I need to check that Mother is eating properly and taking her medication.
I’m nearly past his house and am so tantalisingly close to the gate when Reg’s front door opens and he calls me. ‘Annie? I thought you were back.’ I’m too near to pretend not to have heard him.
It’s the second time today that I’m shocked by the appearance of a figure from my childhood. Like Mother, he is bordering on skeletal in his face and arms, but unlike her his stomach is distended as if he were seven months pregnant. His hair is grey and in need of a wash and cut, his nose resembles a bulbous red strawberry and there are age spots dotted randomly on his yellow-tinged face that’s also lined with broken capillaries.
‘Sorry, I’m in a rush,’ I say, turning to carry on to my front door, when he interrupts me and says he wants to talk.
There’s no way I’m going in his house. I walk towards him, making sure I’m not within his arm’s reach, but I can’t avoid the stench of a blend of alcohol and body odour exuding from him. ‘I really can’t stop. I need to make lunch for Mother.’
‘Is she why you’re back?’ he asks. I can’t work out whether it’s a comment or accusation.
‘Yes. I’m back until her cancer appointments are over.’
‘She’s got cancer? I didn’t know.’ He looks startled.
‘Well, did you ever ask? She does live right next to you.’ Immediately I curse myself for saying that in case he takes me up on the offer and wants to pop over for a coffee. There’s something about him I really don’t like. His presence unnerves me. Reg is a different man from the line-dancing, friendly neighbour I knew in my early childhood. Come to think of it, I saw very little of him in my teens. I think he rarely came next door then.
‘I don’t get out much.’
I bet he makes it out alright to the off-licence.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. I really don’t have the time or patience for idle conversation.
‘Fine, thank you. I really have to go.’
‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ he says. I start walking but he opens his mouth again. ‘Remember to tell her that, Annie. Remember to tell her that I’m sorry.’
11
It’s Monday afternoon and Mother is once again sitting in a plastic-covered armchair hooked up to a drip under Una’s supervision. This time Mel isn’t there and Mother is quieter, deciding not to chat with the other patients but instead focus on the television in t
he corner of the room that’s tuned to a daytime panel show. She didn’t eat much of the sausage and mash I cooked yesterday and spent a while in the bathroom in the evening pretending not to throw up. Today I’ve brought rice crackers. She hasn’t admitted it but I can tell that the nausea caused by the treatment is really getting to her.
I’m sitting on an orange plastic chair next to her – there’s not even any lip service to make visitors comfortable – and I can feel my thighs going numb where they press down on the lip of the seat. I can’t bear to watch the mindless TV programme and wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it anyway what with rehearsing in my mind what to say to the police when I can slip away and make the call.
Una comes over and asks how we both are. Mother thanks her for telling me about the healthcare assistant job and I add the caveat that though I’ve applied I haven’t heard back yet and don’t have much relevant experience.
‘The ability to cope with blood, urine and faeces is what you need,’ Una counsels, checking Mother’s pulse as she talks. ‘Some people don’t last a week. If you can deal with violent vomiting then they’ll snap you up. No one wants the work these days because of the low pay. Why clean up other people’s mess when you can pull pints in a bar for the same wage and earn tips on top? Yet they still expect the NHS to be there when they get sick.’
It occurs to me that Una would get on well with Uncle Den.
‘I did think about being a nurse when I was in primary school but, you know, my exam results weren’t good and I left school at sixteen.’
‘It’s not too late to train. There’s an access to higher education course specialising in healthcare at the local college. After that you can apply to do a nursing degree. We often have their students in on work placement. I’m a whizz at spotting who’ll last the course. How a trainee treats a patient on the job matters much more in my mind than a piece of paper with an exam grade,’ she winks.
Temperature taken and approved, Una puts a blue inflatable band around the top of Mother’s arm that isn’t attached to the drip and presses a button. The band inflates and, with a hissing sound, deflates slowly accompanied by beeps on the machine. ‘Your blood pressure is fine, Mrs Towcester. Do you need anything?’
I offer Mother the rice crackers and she takes one, nibbling at it like a reticent mouse.
‘I’m OK, thank you, Una. I’m feeling a little tired and might try to have, what do they call it? A power nap.’
Una smiles and moves on to the next patient. That’s my cue to exit the ward, go to the loo (all this tea drinking has its effects) and head for the hospital’s brightly-coloured but sterile-feeling Women’s Royal Voluntary Service café – thankfully overpriced American coffee chains haven’t yet wormed their way into this hospital. I haven’t a clue if it smells of disinfectant because my senses have adjusted to the hospital’s environment.
So as not to look out of place, I buy a hot chocolate from the vending machine in the corner and take a seat at one of the spare tables. Shoving the empty cup and plate left over from the last person to the side, I pull out the local police station’s number from my jeans pocket, where I’d stored it this morning for safekeeping, and dial.
Nerves hit me. What if they think I’m bonkers calling them about this? Am I wasting their time? I recall Den’s words yesterday, that the police are paid to investigate crimes. It’s their job. That calms me down; they have to take me seriously.
When I explain why I’m calling, the man who answered the phone puts me on hold for a few minutes. There are rhythmic beeps in my ear that let me know he hasn’t cut me off. Eventually, another man’s voice, one with a more ingrained Yorkshire accent, comes on the line and introduces himself as Detective Inspector Dave Glass. ‘Annie, isn’t it, what can I do for you?’ His tone is friendly enough. ‘You’ve been put through to me because I worked here when the investigation into Gemma’s disappearance went on.’
‘Thank you for speaking to me. I’ve got something to report regarding Gemma’s case. A classmate of Gemma’s, Toby Smith, went to prison two years ago for attempted murder of his wife. It seems a bit of a coincidence to me. I’d like the police to interview him and see if he was violent to Gemma.’
There’s a pause on the line.
‘Well, thanks for letting us know, Annie. I remember the Smith case very well, although I wasn’t on that team. That man is definitely a nasty piece of work and offenders who commit such a brutal crime usually do have a history of violence. But I’m sorry to say that, what with our stretched resources, we can’t re-open the investigation into Gemma’s disappearance unless we have strong new evidence.’
I sigh. ‘Isn’t it enough that Toby Smith was in the same form as Gemma and was her friend? I’ve got a photo with them both in it.’
‘I get where you’re coming from, I really do. Red tape doesn’t work that way, though. My advice is to go to a solicitor and get them to write to the Chief Commissioner stating what you’ve told me and ask for it to be investigated. The bosses take official letters much more seriously, sadly, than a grieving relative.’
I don’t know any solicitors, having never had any need for one.
‘I shouldn’t really say this, and don’t tell anyone I did, but it might be worth you adding that you’re prepared to go to the press. Those at the top hate bad PR. They won’t want it dragged up in the papers that they’ve failed to solve the disappearance and ignored a tip-off from the family.’
‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’
‘No problem. You did the right thing to call. Contact me again if you find out anything else. When you’ve sent the letter I’ll do my best to lean on my DCI.’
It wasn’t what I was hoping for but at least DI Glass hadn’t turned me down flat.
Taking another sip from the appalling hot chocolate that was clearly made not with milk but powder and water, I log onto the internet and search for local solicitors. There are a number of solicitor firms listed, all with the same kind of name: Blah Blah, Blah & Blah, and I haven’t got a clue who to try. I mentally discard those who say they specialise in family law, divorces and no-win no-fee compensation claims and then scan those who are left. Suddenly one name based in my home town jumps out at me: Wilson & Zedda. Zedda was my school friend Ian’s surname. His great-grandfather emigrated at the age of sixteen from Italy to Glasgow to work in an ice cream parlour; the sweet dessert at that time was growing in popularity in the city. Ian couldn’t speak a word of Italian but always supported Italy in the World Cup after England had been knocked out.
I press the web link on my phone and a corporate-looking website appears. On the homepage there’s a description of the firm’s services, a paragraph blurb about their ethos and a stock photo of a smiling middle-aged couple waving a will document. Ignoring these, I click on the ‘about us’ button where there’s a list of Wilson & Zedda’s employees accompanied by head and shoulder photos.
There he is. Ian Zedda. Older, slightly plumper, but still unmistakably my old friend. His biography says that he graduated with a law degree from Newcastle University and stayed there to do the legal practice course and a Masters specialising in human rights. After working for an international firm in The City for four years he relocated back to Yorkshire where he founded his own practice not that long ago with his wife, Jennifer Wilson. I go to her biography and learn that she also studied at Newcastle University and her specialism is criminal law. She’s quite a severe-looking woman, her light brown hair cut short in an austere, asymmetrical style, and she’s folding her arms on top of a stereotypically unfashionable lawyer’s black jacket, but I sense instantly that she must be lovely if she’s Ian’s marital choice.
Immediately I click on his email link and type ‘Dear Ian. Remember me? This is Annie Towcester, your friend from primary school. I’ve been looking online for a solicitor and your name popped up. Would it be OK if I came to see you? I’d love to catch up and maybe you could help me with my query. Congratulations by the way on your degrees �
�� you’ve made up for my lack of education! Best wishes, Annie x’
A minute later, after I’ve stood up and thrown my plastic cup into the waste bin, my phone beeps. That was quick! Yet it’s not Ian, it’s a text from Gareth asking me to go to Alexandro’s restaurant on Friday night with him. I don’t know it; I didn’t exactly eat out in restaurants when I was a teenager, but he says he’s heard good things about it from Mo. I bite the bullet. With Priti not around I’d rather spend a Friday night eating pizza with Gareth than watching my mother snooze on the sofa in front of Coronation Street. I text him straight back saying I’ll see him there at 7.30.
Right as I walk out of the café to go back to the ward the mobile beeps again. This time it’s Priti.
Any news? I’ve traced someone I think is Mike. Will email you the link. Mwah x
I must buy more credit for my phone because, what with all the online searching I’ve been doing, I’ve virtually used up all I had. I hope that I hear about the healthcare assistant bank job soon or I’ll need to go to an agency and see if I can get any cleaning or call centre work that will fit around Mother’s appointments. Mind you, if I don’t buy any credit, I won’t be able to hear about the job application result at all.
Back on the ward, my mother is still dozing. She looks incredibly fragile and shrivelled. Her hands are clasped together as if in prayer and her mouth is slightly open at the right-hand side with a drop of spittle oozing from it. I gently close her mouth without waking her to give her some dignity. Una notices and shoots me an approving smile. She comes over to talk in whispers so as not to disturb her sleeping patient.
‘She’s doing well. You being home is helping her. She’s gained two pounds in weight – you’re cooking for her, aren’t you? Before you came home I suspect she skipped meals when she wasn’t hungry.’
My Perfect Sister Page 7