My Perfect Sister

by Penny Batchelor

  I think back to all the times I went over to Aunty Lena’s house, all those days she waited for me at the school gates or took me out to the park on a Saturday when my father had to work an extra shift. I never knew she was paid to do it. I’d thought she did it because she wanted to. Because she cared about me. Perhaps the only one who really did.

  Den must have seen my face crumple. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Annie, she loved doing it. Elaine’s always had a soft spot for you, we both have. You were, I mean are, always welcome here. I’m just saying that looking back, with hindsight you know, perhaps your dad could have persuaded your mum to do more with you rather than organising it so she didn’t have to do anything.’

  Such a sadness overwhelms me and I swallow it down, as far deep into my guts as I can push it. Aunty Lena had been the one constant in my life, but she was paid to be it. She didn’t do it out of pseudo-motherly love. Was it just for cold, hard cash? I try hard not to catch Den’s eyes. The clock on the wall clicks ten times.

  ‘I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? I’m sorry, Annie. I’m always putting my size tens in it, you ask our Elaine. You know we were both thrilled when you came back.’

  It crosses my mind whether Aunty Lena suggested I come back to Mother just because she didn’t want to have to nurse her herself. Surely not? Den’s voice breaks me away from that thought. He’s talking about his sweet tin and pulls it out from under his chair, waving a peace offering at me.

  I take a toffee and we sit in silence for a minute, sucking. Den finishes first and then says, ‘You and Diana, well you’re like family to us.’ He pats me on the arm.

  ‘Did you never want children yourself? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.’

  He smiles. ‘Hell no. We both like children but neither of us wanted one of our own. We make a good twosome. It’s lovely to see little ones but then it’s great to give them back too. It’s like the rhyme my old mum used to say, “How wonderful it is to see our dear relations come to tea, but better still it is to know that when they’ve had their tea they’ll go”.’ Den laughs at his own joke as my illusions shatter around me. Sure, Aunty Lena cared about me and she still does but she wasn’t a second mother. She never wanted to be one. I only have one mother, however inadequate she was.

  I have to like it or lump it.

  23

  A few days later, Gareth is right on time as usual, picking me up to drive to the Cars for You showroom. It’s in one of those out-of-town retail parks that look the same wherever you are in the country. By the time we arrive it’s 4.30 p.m., surely too early for Fiona to have left for the day.

  The showroom isn’t busy when I walk in. A man with a goatee beard and shiny suit pounces on me sensing a sale but his jollity soon dissipates when I explain I’m not here to buy a car, rather that I’m looking for Fiona King. He sends me over to the reception desk where a bored-looking middle-aged lady says it’s Fiona’s day off. Would I like to leave a message?

  I feel very deflated at the wasted visit and stupid for not having thought to call first to check she was working today. Priti would have thought of that. I leave my mobile number with the receptionist and ask her to give it to Fiona and tell her that I’m Gemma’s sister.

  ‘Oh well, the night is still young…’ says Gareth as I explain what happened. The annoyance in not getting to see Fiona has put a dampener on my mood but Gareth throws his arm around my shoulders and pulls me towards him. ‘You’ll get the chance to talk to Fiona soon. Now, how about we forget about her and enjoy the rest of the evening?’

  I’d squared it with Aunty Lena for her to keep an eye on Mother for a night. I’d felt like a naughty teenager when I’d said I wanted to stay over at a ‘friend’s house’.

  Traffic is busy as we drive back to Gareth’s place where he has prepared a three-course dinner complete with candles and soft jazz in the background. Secretly when he is in the loo I check his kitchen bin for telltale leftover packaging – despite him saying in the pub that he sells them but wouldn’t eat them, does the proposed feast consist of ready meals from his supermarket?

  No, it’s all his handiwork: smoked salmon for starters followed by a roast chicken dinner and then strawberries and cream, washed down with a bottle of white wine. I’d imagined that he’d live in a stark, minimalist fashion with a leather sofa, huge TV and lots of gadgets, but in reality his house is a cosy Victorian terrace with a galley kitchen and small dining room. The walls are all painted in light but warm colours; there’s not a scuffed carpet or piece of tatty wallpaper to be seen. His study books are arranged tidily in the lounge on a table next to his laptop. It’s a far cry from Shaun’s place that seemed to be a living entity in itself, constantly breeding beer cans and pizza boxes when I was ensconced as a resident.

  Gareth had explained that when he and his wife divorced they sold their marital home and he bought this house. He must be earning lots of money to afford it, I think. The prospect of me being able to buy a similar house on my own is such a pipe dream it’s laughable. As is the idea of me having a boyfriend who was rich enough to do so.

  He ushers me briefly out of the dining room with a glass of wine in my hand so he can bring the food in and then lead me back to my seat. Alone in the lounge for a minute, I take a quick swig of the Pinot Grigio and then look at the three photographs clustered together on a bookshelf. The nosey part of me would love to see what his ex looks like. There are no photos of a woman, however, who could possibly be her. One is of an elderly couple smiling in what looks like a restaurant. His parents, perhaps? The next is of a woman who bears a resemblance to Gareth. It’s one of those modern posed photos where the sitters wear bright clothes against a white background. The woman is jumping in the air, arms pointing to the ceiling; next to her is a man around her age and in front of them two young boys who look like twins. I wonder if Gareth will introduce me to them sometime.

  The third photograph is much older, what appears to be a framed holiday snap. I pick it up to peer closer. Four people are standing in front of a mountain with the background sun casting a vague shadow over their features. It’s a family scene. The elderly couple from the other photo are in the middle looking much younger and less world-worn. The man has his arm around a girl on his right who must have been, what sixteen or seventeen? It’s the woman from the jumping photo. She must be Gareth’s sister. His mother, I presume, has her arm around a gawky adolescent version of Gareth wearing shorts and walking boots. I smile involuntarily. I remember what it was like to be at that in-between age, no longer a child but not yet an adult.

  Gareth calls me to the table and I hastily put the frame back in its position. There isn’t even any dust on the shelf. I bet he has a cleaner. For a moment I can see myself living here, having my own key to the door, coming back after a busy shift to a home-cooked dinner and a man eager to see me. But that’s all it is – just a fantasy. I quickly recall what the day to day reality was like living with Shaun and it punctures my daydream bubble.

  We’re halfway through the main course when Gareth remarks on the overnight bag I brought with me. ‘So your mum’s staying with your aunty tonight?’ There’s a mischievous glint in his eye.

  I smile back in a way I hope is flirtatious and not cross-eyed. ‘Elaine’s not my real aunty but she’s as good as. Yes, Mother’s staying there tonight. I think they’re having a soap marathon on TV. Early night for me then back to her house?’

  He mimics a crestfallen face. ‘I was rather hoping I might get lucky…’

  ‘Oh! A roast chicken dinner and you think I’m anybody’s!’ I reply in mock horror.

  ‘Not just anybody’s, I hope. Mine.’

  ‘We’ll have to see how good the pudding is first.’

  ‘Coming right up in a minute, the finest strawberries the supermarket has to offer. No cheap frills ones for you. I’ll even take them out of the plastic tub and put them in a bowl,’ he teases.

  ‘You know how to romance a woman, don’t you. Proper spoon an
d not a plastic one?’

  ‘Of course! I’m a Yorkshireman, not a heathen!’

  I laugh. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go out for a meal with Ian and Jen sometime?’ I’ve finished my main course now and put the knife and fork down together on the plate. ‘Only if you want to, of course…’ I hope that suggesting what my mother would call a ‘double date’ doesn’t scare him off.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that. Has Ian said any more about Gemma’s case? What is the police’s next step?’ He starts gathering the empty plates together. ‘Hold that thought, I’ll be back in a minute with the strawberries.’

  So the conversation has turned back to Gemma when I was vaguely hoping that I might get a feel as to whether Gareth sees me as a fun fling or if he’s hoping for us to have some sort of a future beyond the next week. Still, the whole premise of the evening had been about talking to Fiona to see if she could tell me more about Gemma and her relationships with Toby and Mike. I can’t really complain.

  Gareth comes back in carrying, waiter-style, two bowls of strawberries and a pot of cream. They look delicious. ‘You were going to tell me about the police. Any news?’

  ‘Nothing you don’t know already.’ I look down at the table, as I remember I haven’t yet told him about the threatening letter. I’d hesitated as I don’t want him to worry, or for Mother to know unless she has to. ‘DI Glass, or one of his officers anyway, is checking alibis and reviewing the case file, I think. There must be something there to work on, some line of enquiry that they didn’t follow through at the time.’

  Gareth is pouring cream onto his strawberries, the runny white liquid glugging into his bowl. ‘What about DNA? Those techniques weren’t around in the late 1980s.’

  I finish my mouthful. ‘No, there’s nothing to test. No body, no clothing or blood.’ I think for a second then add, ‘I doubt there’s any way they could find out Gemma’s DNA profile. Her GP records will have her blood type and her dentist her dental records but there isn’t any hair, bone or blood or anything they could test for her DNA.’

  ‘Nothing still on Toby Smith?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know.’

  He glowers for a second then eats another spoonful of strawberries. There’s red juice on his upper lip but I’m not bold enough to lean over and kiss it off. Instead I take the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘I saw your photos in the lounge. You were a cute teenager. Is that your family you’re with in the picture?’

  ‘The one in front of Ben Nevis? Yes, that’s my parents, my sister and me. The place looked a bit bare when I moved in so I put a few photos in frames.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘They moved to Filey when they retired. They’re near the sea and like walking their two dogs on the beach every day.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘She lives in Bradford with her family.’ He starts to tell me funny stories about his two nephews and how they believed he was Father Christmas when he dressed up last Christmas Eve to surprise them. We finish the strawberries and drain the last of the wine bottle, amiably chatting and me enjoying finding out about his normal family and happy childhood when the most dramatic thing that happened to him was that he and his friend were expelled from the Scouts after his sister dared them to take a bottle of beer, nicked from their dad, to camp. It’s a far cry from how I grew up.

  I’m so busy laughing that I nearly forget the thought that pops into my head. Gareth taking me into his arms and kissing me instantly dismisses it again from my consciousness, only for me to concentrate on his body, the smell of him and the pleasure two bodies can make together in the darkness of a bedroom.

  It’s only later, much, much later as he spoons me under the duvet that the thought comes into my head again: I could get used to this.

  Gareth drives me home early in the morning before the start of his shift. It’s just getting light as I walk up to the front door, turn my key and go inside, giving me time for a shower before Mother arrives back from Aunty Lena’s. I don’t want to have to introduce Gareth to Mother and risk her inviting him round for tea yet. It’s far too soon for me to inflict her on him.

  When I swing the door shut I notice two letters protruding from the letterbox and pull them out of its jaws. One is marked private and confidential and is addressed to Mother in a hospital-branded envelope. Hopefully it’s her appointment with the oncologist. I stand it on the shelf in the hall so Mother will see it when she gets back.

  At first glance, I presume the other letter, a folded sheet of A4 paper inside a blank envelope, is a flyer put through the door from a local business, the kind that offers plumbing or roofing work. I nearly put it straight in the recycling bin but something about it that’s faintly familiar stops me. There are shadows on the reverse of the white paper and its surface is slightly puckered. I open it up and my hand starts to shake when I read the text that someone has cut out of a newspaper and stuck on the sheet.

  Not again.

  When I ring DI Glass and get hold of him at the start of his shift I read the words to him in a panic: ‘Keep out or it could be you next.’

  24

  At DI Glass’s behest I once again take the letter into the police station for analysis, telling Mother that I’m going out to do some shopping. I’m not out of the house for too long but worry that in my absence another letter might be delivered by hand and not through the Royal Mail. Did whoever wrote it know Mother was out of the house when he or she put it through the letterbox or was it just a coincidence? DI Glass says they can look at installing a panic button in our home but thinks that may be presumptuous at the moment because the letters haven’t contained a specific threat.

  Writing ‘it could be you next’ to the sister of a missing girl feels specific enough to me.

  He organises for a police car to drive past our house intermittently for reassurance. I find the locks on the back and front doors far more reassuring. One letter could be someone fooling around. With two they mean business.

  Re-interviewing significant people who made statements back in 1989 is taking time, mostly due to tracking down their whereabouts. DI Glass assures me he’ll speak to Robert Smith again regarding the threats. At the moment, he tells me unofficially, Smith is the most likely suspect but there is no proof. It could be anyone pushing poison through our front door: it might be someone I’ve never met, someone I would never suspect or even someone close to me. I mention Mike again to DI Glass and how keen he was to get rid of me when I phoned him. Mike, as he was Gemma’s on and off boyfriend, is on the police’s list of persons of interest to re-interview. Could he have sent the letters? He would have known the address because Mother is in the same house he visited to see Gemma when they were teenagers. But how would he know I’m living here now?

  Suspicion, mistrust, fear: these are all the emotions the letters engender in me. I find myself looking out of the front window periodically to check if there’s a police car monitoring our house. I’m anxious, on edge, not sure whether, when I do spot a marked car, it gives me comfort or worries me more that DI Glass thinks the threats could be serious. As soon as the sun starts to set on the horizon, I shut the curtains to block out life beyond these four walls.

  The one thing I don’t do is tell Mother. I ought to, I know, in case another letter arrives and the threat escalates. Yet her oncologist appointment is next week when she will find out whether the chemo is doing its job. What with that and Mel’s death still fresh, I feel Mother has enough to deal with right now. Every day when I’m not working, I make sure I regularly check to see if anything has been posted through the letterbox. A general unease continues to hang over me, remaining by my side wherever I am, whispering danger softly into my ear. I consider talking to Aunty Lena about the situation but then worry that if I do so the most likely outcome is one more person will be dragged into the letter writer’s net.

  What with working as many shifts at the hospital as possible, looking after Mother and con
stantly being in fight-or-flight mode on the edge of my nerves, I’m dog tired. Sleep comes with difficulty and it’s fractured and dissatisfying. Although I’d love to see Priti, I turn down a weekend visit in order to stay in the house in case there’s a problem. I don’t even get much of a chance to meet up with Gareth and the plan to arrange a meal with Ian and Jen goes on the back burner. I can’t bear the strain of meeting the three of them face to face and having to keep quiet about the letters.

  It’s when I’m thinking about the meal that the thought strikes me that the best person to confide in would be Ian alone. He’ll be able to advise me as well as keeping what I tell him confidential. I decide to ring him rather than make an appointment at his office, that way I don’t have to leave Mother on her own in the house. I choose a moment when she’s having a daytime nap and make the call.

  Ian is concerned when I update him on the situation. I can tell he’s slipping into solicitor mode to reassure me.

  ‘The police are following the correct procedures but you must let them know if there’s something, anything that strikes you as odd,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter if you think it’s trivial or could be irrelevant – tell them.’

  ‘Odd like what?’ I ask, thinking that shoving two anonymous threatening letters through someone’s door is rather more than odd.

  ‘Someone hanging around your house. A car parked suspiciously. Anyone knocking on your door wanting to sell something. If anyone, like an electricity meter reader, wants to gain entry into the house take their details and call the company to confirm their identity before you let them in.’

  ‘You think the letter sender might try to get into the house? Do you think he or she really means us harm?’

  ‘Annie, it’s probably a sad crank who gets a kick out of scaring other people and wouldn’t dare see you face-to-face. You must be careful, though, and err on the side of caution. Keep a diary of what happens and how it is affecting you. That will be very useful if the case goes to trial.’