I went over everything, in as much detail as I could, and by the time we were getting near the end, when things became complicated, found it easy to explain I was so doped up with what they’d given me, that I had only the vaguest recollection of anything at all. I did though remember, there was an awful lot of noise and shouting, things smashing and crashing all around me. I thought, perhaps the Lowbells, who’d already proved themselves more than a little unreliable, may have got into an argument that turned violent.
As DS Mousegood moved, painstakingly, over the pages of my statement. I was chilled to the bone to see, based on evidence found at the house, colleagues and a forensic team were currently excavating the extensive back garden. I thought of the fair-haired girl, with her bright green Alice band and I abruptly stopped reading him. I didn’t want to know what, if anything they’d found. I think, deep down, I already knew. There were things I’d seen, during those last desperate moments with the Lowbells, I very much wished I could un-see. I shuddered deeply and Stephanie, who’d appropriated my hand again at the beginning of the interview and held on throughout, patted it. Whilst I’d had to resist the urge to shake her off initially, I was now warmed by the normal human contact, I smiled gratefully at her and she gave me a thumbs up.
In the end, despite my protests, they kept me in for three, very long days, during which time, I’m sure I didn’t get as much rest as I should have done. There was a constant stream of family visitors as well as several more police incursions. They wanted to check on different points in my statement and ask further questions about my previous history with, and knowledge of, the Lowbells. They were, as well they might be, mighty puzzled as to how Boris had finally been able to find me, and by the who and why of Rachael and David. I followed instruction, and as soon as questions veered in a direction that was difficult, would shut my eyes and murmur weakly, ‘I’m so very sorry, it’s all such a blur and when I try and think about it, I just can’t remember the order in which things happened, I’m sorry – maybe it’s the drugs?’
Every single person I saw, other than my parents, was keen for me to seek some kind of counselling therapy. They said, long-term effects were only to be expected, from an experience such as mine, and it was only common sense to ‘talk it all through’, get it out of my system. Far better do that, they said, and avoid storing up trouble for the future. My parents, on the other hand, maintained their long-held view that ‘talking anything through’ with anybody, was the very last thing, under any circumstances, I should ever do and I couldn’t help but agree.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
They say, don’t they, there’s no such thing as bad publicity and, much to my astonishment, this indeed proved to be the case. The papers, radio and television had all been full of me. Me missing, me found and then all the subsequent horrors that came to light after that. And while all this was going on, our client list at Simple Solutions grew exponentially. I personally, felt quite strongly, that getting held in a house for over a week, by a couple of not so sane citizens, didn’t go a long way to endorse my skills as an intelligent and reliable organiser, but I wasn’t going to argue the toss.
Kitty and Brenda, much to my relief, were meshing a great deal more smoothly nowadays and I gathered, during my absence, Brenda, as worried as the rest of them, had become almost an honorary family member. She’d joined anxiety ridden vigils at the house most days, staying late into the night, providing numerous cups of tea and making and removing endless plates of uneaten sandwiches – a sure sign of how dire, everyone was feeling. I think what hit everyone so hard, alongside the fact that for a good few days, they weren’t sure whether I was alive or dead, was the betrayal. The undeniable fact, that the Lowbells had been such delightful company and so much a part of the business family. As Kitty was heard to mutter, with disgust, on numerous occasions,
“If someone’s a murderous bugger, they should bloody well act like it.” Which summed it up succinctly. Because murderous indeed, they were.
Horrifically, at one point, it seemed that excavation of their large, beautifully kept garden and the dreadful secrets it concealed, would go on indefinitely. The soil reluctantly yielded up, body after body from beneath meticulously maintained (and flourishing) rosebushes. There were eight in all. Eight young women, all in their early twenties, all in various stages of decomposition, all found buried beneath a large, near life-size doll. The disappearances, unsolved missing person cases, dated back as far as twenty years, to the 1950s. It was therefore almost certain, at least one of those girls lost her life, around the same time I started mine. It was, I felt, a dreadful symmetry.
The papers and TV were busting a gut with ghastly detail and speculation, for what seemed like an age, and it got to the stage where I stopped both reading and listening. Boris, whose exact working relationship with the police, I’d never quite established, phoned every few days, for the first couple of weeks, with additional information that hadn’t necessarily been made public. I asked him to stop. I didn’t want to know any more than I already did, because that was far too much. The reality, that this dual existence of theirs – admired, respected and well-liked academics, with serial kidnapping and killing as a side line – had gone on for twenty years or so, beggared belief. I couldn’t reconcile what I now knew with what I thought I’d known. There was also the dreadful, corrosive fact, if someone like me hadn’t been able to spot what was under my nose, what hope for anyone else?
As further details of the case emerged, with more and more grieving families receiving confirmation of grim news, they’d been waiting for and dreading, the Lowbells were moved from guarded hospital rooms to Broadmoor in Berkshire for assessment. Neither of them had come round, for a number of days, and when they did, neither it seemed, was particularly compos mentis. In fact, Boris reported, they both seemed as far removed from that, as they could possibly be.
There was time and effort being put in, from a whole range of psychiatric and criminal behavioural experts, to establish whether this was a genuine condition or a ploy. But as time went on, and both of them continued in this same state, it in itself, became a further source of speculation. What was it that had created this identical condition, and simultaneously? The theory gaining most credence, was they’d been doing a certain amount of ill-judged indulging in some of the drugs they’d used on me, although by the time this was put forward, it was too late to test blood for confirmation. Boris’s sources seemed to think it was pure chance they’d taken me. Prior to that, all their victims had gone missing from widely differing locations, they’d been careful, through the years, never to prey too close to home. The same sources, thought it increasingly likely, they’d be found unfit to stand trial, in which case, and in due course, a trial of the facts would be set up, with long-term hospital orders, the most likely outcome.
It’s never been easy for me to measure myself against normality, I’m on a different kind of scale altogether. Because of this, because I can so easily read the way normal people think and react, I’m well aware there are times I should feel more regret or guilt than I do. I was acutely conscious that the current condition of the Lowbells which was, after all, down to me, should have made me feel far worse than it did. I veered between anger that they wouldn’t stand in the dock, to face the ravaged families of their victims and, if I’m honest – and I always have been with myself, and with you – regretting that I hadn’t knocked them out of existence completely. On the other hand, maybe they were already being punished far more effectively. It’s not for me to say.
What I did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was I wanted to put all of this behind me and get back to normal as soon as possible; running my business and attempting to kick-start my social life – which always suffers, when you get kidnapped and have to spend an inordinate amount of time with statement-taking police. It was Kitty, who took matters into her own hands and issued firm instruction to David Gold, to ask me out – at least
that’s what he said.
He had indeed been ubiquitous for quite a while now, and whilst in all honesty, he’d been more of a hindrance than a help at the Hampstead house, I couldn’t help but be grateful, he’d chosen to keep an eye open. I thought that showed a dedication above and beyond, although there was the possibility that as a journalist, he was just after a good story and wasn’t a knight in shining armour at all. Do I sound cynical? Are you surprised?
After the whole Lowbell debacle, I’d braced myself for some awkward questions from David, but not too many were forthcoming, he seemed to accept the explanations of Rachael and Boris at face value and I stuck firmly to the ‘really can’t remember what happened’ line, whenever anything came up that I didn’t want to get into. Indeed, once the Lowbells imbibing drugs theory was floated, it tied things up quite neatly and, after a while, I felt I could relax a little.
A big plus for me, where David was concerned, was that he was an opaque thinker. One of those people whose brains don’t seem to operate on images and emotions, but in an almost linear pattern of words. People like that are difficult, although not impossible, to read. The huge benefit is they’re so much quieter to spend time with.
On our first date, we went to see A Touch of Class, featuring Glenda Jackson and George Segal, an unlikely partnering if ever there was one, but then probably no more so than mine and David’s. It was a pleasant evening, we said we’d do it again and, much to my surprise and the smug delight of Kitty, it seemed in a short time, without either of us doing that much about it, we were ‘going out’. My family were pleased, his mother less so. This complicated matters, because I was still carrying out my professional role for the family and whilst Laura was never rude to me, she was clearly of the opinion, he could do a lot better. Actually, the more I got to know him, the more I tended to agree with her. However, all of these were the sort of issues I felt came under the heading of normal, and that in itself was a great pleasure.
For the time being, I’d decided to stick to my tried and tested policy of not sharing details of my peculiarities. Naturally, I’m all in favour of honesty and being straight-forward, and all that, but didn’t think, at this early stage, it was relevant. After all, we might only go out for a few weeks, then the whole thing might die a death in which case, discretion could prove to have been the best way to go. He was nice enough, but I can’t say I was as rapturous as the rest of the clan. If things progressed any further, then of course I’d tell him, I’d just have to find the right time and place. In the meantime, I very much hoped he couldn’t see, as I could, my mother and Aunt Edna exchange tight little smiles of complicity, whenever they saw him, at the same time as mentally measuring him up for a morning suit.
As things gradually settled down, I was delighted to realise, I hadn’t heard anything in the last few weeks from anybody I didn’t want to hear from – specifically the Peacocks or Glory. I was also doing my very best to put right out of my head, the conversation I’d had with Ruth. The people Ruth heard and those she wanted me to listen out for, were those who were transmitting on a high emotional level, even if they had no idea they were doing it. They were screaming for help, deeply in trouble and full of fear, I knew what that felt like. I’d just been there. That didn’t mean I wanted to go there again, even if only by proxy. ‘All we’re asking you to do,’ she’d said, ‘Is keep a listening ear open.’ And I’d thought to myself as she said it, NO. No way, this is so not for me.
Unfortunately, as I’ve mentioned before, once something’s in your head, not thinking about it is tough, like with that ruddy pink elephant. Even with my shutters tightly closed, every now and then something flashed through and caught my attention and I couldn’t help but hear. So far, every time it had happened and I had listened, I’d heard nothing further. I suspected, when I did hear something worth shouting about, there’d be no doubt about it.
Part Four
LISTENING
Damn pink elephants
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The dreams, at first unremarkable, slunk into my mind so insidiously, that other than a vague unease sometimes on waking – and not even every morning, just now and then – I didn’t really consciously register them. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. I certainly didn’t want my carefully nurtured bubble of normality to burst, at a time when things were going really well.
So, I ignored them for as long as I could, until I couldn’t ignore them anymore and then, against my better judgement and with great reluctance, I phoned the Peacocks – perhaps I do have more of a conscience than I think? Rachael didn’t waste time on pleasantries and ignored my enquiry after Ruth’s health, she assumed correctly, I hadn’t phoned for purely social reasons. I explained, I hadn’t actually heard anything in the way I’d expected, but had been having some oddly worrying dreams. They were deep, dark, highly unpleasant and worst of all, I knew they weren’t mine.
“Right,” said Rachael, “I want you to talk to Boris. Where are you now?”
“At the office, but I just want you to pass this along to him.”
“Don’t be silly, Stella,” she said firmly. “You haven’t given me enough. You need to talk to him, he’ll have questions.”
“Well I can’t talk to him now.” I said. “I’ve got a client coming in.”
“Cancel. Boris will be there in about half an hour.”
“Rachael, firstly, as you know, I don’t want to get involved any further than just passing stuff on, and secondly, I can’t just cancel at the drop of a hat.”
“Well, good thing we didn’t take that attitude, when it came to getting you out of that mess in Hampstead.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s precisely the point.”
“Well, maybe you’re right, but…” I might just as well not have spoken, for all the notice she took.
“Go and wait outside, he’ll pick you up and while you’re waiting, jot down anything and everything you can remember, it’s all important. Be ready.”
“I really… ” I said, but by then I was talking to the dialling tone.
Boris arrived about twenty minutes later, just as I was huffing out of our office front door. He hooted. I hate it when people hoot, it immediately makes me feel I’m doing something wrong, even when I’m not driving. He was in a green Mini, which looked ridiculous, I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to fold himself in, and his head was rubbing the roof. He made a ‘get in’ gesture,
“Talk to me.” he said, extracting an aniseed ball, one-handed, from a bag he’d leaned over to get from the glove compartment. He proffered the bag. I shook my head, “Tell me what happened.”
“Hang on a moment, where’re we going?” I protested. We’d pulled away at speed, he was a skilful driver, I could tell, nevertheless I reached for the strap over the window and held on.
“To talk to someone,” he said, round the aniseed ball.
“Where and who?”
“Tell me what you heard. What you’re hearing?”
“You answer me first and then I’ll tell you.” I said, folding my arms. He grunted,
“You really are most annoying. We’re going to the police – satisfied? Now, can you do me a favour and get things straight in your head, so you don’t waffle and waste time when we get there.” I bit back a retort and did what he asked. It wasn’t an impressive assembly of facts and the more I tried to home in on them, the more ephemeral seemed the dreams and the darkness they’d imparted. Maybe I was simply imagining things. I was seriously regretting my phone call.
We drove for fifteen minutes or so, before parking outside an insalubrious looking café with thoroughly steamed-up windows, set on a parade of mainly vacant shops, liberally plastered with peeling bill-posters-will-be-prosecuted notices. I think we were somewhere in Camden Town, but had rather lost my bearings. Boris extracted himself, not easily, from the car
and when I didn’t budge, came round to my side to open my door.
“Not a police station.” I pointed out.
“This is unofficial,” he was moving me swiftly inside. “Thought you understood that.”
“Actually,” I said sharply. “I’m not understanding a whole lot, right now.” The café was as uninspiring inside as out, with a few customers, nursing thick white cups and an overall smell of extremely burnt something or other. We made our way through to the back of the shop and Boris indicated a corner table, where a man was already seated. He didn’t look up as we joined him, but pulled a piece off the mangled doughnut, plated in front of him, and chewed slowly.
“So?” he said. He was of generous build, sitting sideways on his chair, presumably because the belly, straining hard against its shirt constraints, would place him too far from the food. His rather high, light voice was at odds with his size. I could feel the hostility rolling off him, along with a strong scent of Brut aftershave which was fighting a losing battle with old cigarettes.
“Where’s the other one then?” he said, looking me up and down. I opened my mouth, this wasn’t someone I’d taken to, but Boris shot me a shut-up,
“Ruth’s not around at the moment but she works with Stella,” he said, “Stella, this is Detective Inspector Arthur Cornwall. With the Metropolitan Police.”
“Here against his bleedin’ better judgement.” muttered the DI, heaving a meaty buttock to one side, to produce a crushed pack of Rothmans from a released pocket. He tapped one out, lit up with one of the new Bic lighters and coughed long and heartily. Boris politely waited until he’d cleared his lungs, then continued.
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