Angel

by Anita Waller

  He had stayed behind the wall for nearly an hour before deciding to risk going to the flowery mound, flowers that were covering all the little bits and pieces that had once been David Farmer. It amused him that they hadn’t been able to go and view him at the Chapel of Rest.

  And so, it was another one ticked off the list. Either Freda or Pat would be next.

  He had hoped they would bring his Angel but there hadn’t been any children at the service so he assumed they were all under lock and key and mega protection back at Hillside or Moorgate.

  Getting her back was going to take some careful planning but maybe the plan would work better if Pilot were out of the equation. That would leave them more vulnerable. Maybe. But he needed Lauren and Angel as a pair and he needed them soon.

  He straightened up and pulled down the legs of his council overalls. He looked exactly like the cemetery workers once again, just as he had done that Christmas Eve when he had watched a very pregnant Lauren and the considerate Pilot navigate the headstones and pathways as they headed home to have their baby. His baby.

  If there had been any police to stop him, he would just have said he was bringing a late wreath up. It already had a false card on it that said simply ‘Rest in Peace, David, from the Mountjoys’ and he would have quietly placed it on the grave and walked away.

  But there was no one to challenge him so he laid down the wreath in a prominent position and carefully swapped over the card. He would have given anything to see Dunbar’s face when he read the card but he knew that wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t risk being here again.

  The replacement card said:

  ‘Gotcha! Love Ron and Angel’.

  Chapter 24

  Pat rose next morning and told Will and Martyn, the two men shadowing her that she was going to the cemetery. She needed to be there, without family, just her and David. She was accompanied to the cemetery by both of the men and so was well protected but nothing could have cushioned her from the sight of the red carnation wreath and the card.

  Both men stayed a respectful few feet away from the grave leaving Pat to begin to look at the cards in peace. The first two made her cry and she removed the cards to take home with her. She intended getting in touch with everyone who had taken the trouble to send flowers or donations to Childline and she dropped the cards into an envelope she had brought with her.

  She looked at the beautiful red and white wreath and then screamed. She staggered to the side of the mound of flowers and vomited. Both men were at her side in seconds, supporting her. She pointed at the wreath and they lifted it away from all the others.

  ‘Sir, it’s Martyn Pearson, Carter Security. We have an issue. There is a wreath on the grave from Treverick.’

  Dunbar arrived in minutes and took the wreath away with him. He had spoken briefly with Pat, now sitting in the back of the car, and had told Martyn to take her straight home.

  ‘She needs a doctor. She needs something to take the edge off. Talk to her family and tell them what’s happened, they’ll know what to do.’

  When she got home Pat collapsed on a sofa and, helped by medication from a caring doctor and an arm placed lovingly around her by Bryony, she eventually succumbed to exhaustion and slept.

  Josh pulled Lauren to him. She looked ill, almost as bad as she had looked when Grace had been taken. He couldn’t begin to estimate the depth of worry the family must be going through and he thought about the conversation he had shared with Dawn the previous night.

  They had discussed returning to England. Permanently.

  He kissed the top of Lauren’s head and she shuddered.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said quietly.

  ‘About something in particular or just generally?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said and took her hand. ‘Let’s talk.’ He pulled her over to the kitchen table, poured out two coffees and sat down facing her.

  ‘Talk.’

  ‘The first thing is the education of our children. Until he is caught, I daren’t let them out of my sight. They both need to be in school now, Grace more than Olivia. We’ve done such a lot with Grace and she’s proving to be a clever little girl, but there’s a limit to how much we can teach her. She needs to be with children of her own age for a start and she needs teachers who have been trained for the job. Jess has been brilliant with all three of them and I know she does so much research on how to teach and what comes next but she can’t provide peer support.’

  Josh looked at his half sister and smiled. ‘Okay, let’s think about this logically. If we are still having this discussion in a year’s time, then we will need to be worried. At the moment, Grace is still very much in recovery. She needs to get to know you, all of us in fact, and surely that’s part of what she has to learn? She saw nobody for the first seven years of her life. Well, apart from him.’ He paused while he tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Josh, and maybe I’m wrong. But I’m her Mummy and I ache every time I look at her. She’s like a little girl lost when she thinks nobody is watching her and then she switches on the act when she is brought back into our world. And I actually think she feels guilty about David.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She knows Treverick killed him. That’s where the guilt is. She feels that she brought that monster into our lives and yet I don’t think she is old enough for us to tell her just how wrong she is.’

  Her mobile phone began to play God Only Knows and when she saw it was Dunbar, she answered.

  ‘Jake, I hope you’re ringing to tell me you’ve got him.’

  ‘I wish, Lauren. No, but I am ringing to tell you he is still in the area. It’s almost as though he wants to be caught. A wreath was left on David’s grave and I’m going on television tonight with details of it to try and find out where he bought it. Lauren, the card said it was from him and Angel.’

  She gave a small cry, partly in anger and partly in grief.

  ‘For God’s sake, are we ever going to be rid of him? We’ll watch the news and thank you for keeping us informed.’

  The broadcast was over in a couple of minutes. He showed the wreath, showed the card with the words blanked out and said they were looking for the florist who had made up the wreath. He then followed up with the pictures of Treverick – he needed these faces out in the community.

  Very quickly they had a response. It wasn’t from a florist’s shop, it was from a woman who owned a roadside stand selling flowers. She was very apologetic as she began to speak and Dunbar had to reassure her that they took very seriously any information that came in.

  ‘But it might not be who you’re looking for.’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Did he buy a wreath from you that looked anything like the one on the television?’

  ‘No, I don’t sell wreaths.’

  ‘Okay.’ He waited.

  ‘He bought two dozen red and two dozen white carnations. And he bought that card that you showed. I know a lot of people sell that card but he bought one exactly like it at the same time as he bought the flowers.’

  ‘What made you remember him?’ Dunbar was curious. Lots of men bought flowers.

  ‘He bought red and white flowers. We don’t normally sell red and white flowers. They’re bad luck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bad luck. They represent blood and tears, so I’ve always understood anyway, and I always tell people that if they’re buying flowers to take to hospital or something. I told him.’

  ‘You had a conversation with him?’

  ‘Of sorts. It makes me feel sick now I know who he is.’

  ‘It might not be him.’

  ‘Oh it was. It was the way he smirked when I told him about the superstition. As though it didn’t matter what the colours meant.’

  ‘Okay, Jeanette, I need to come and see you. I’m going to bring a police artist with me and I need you to think about
anything that could help us identify him now. What he looked like, his eyes, his clothes, what he was driving, anything at all.’

  She gave him her address and he promised to ring her back when he had managed to organise everything.

  Within three hours he was in Jeanette’s kitchen enjoying a cup of coffee. She was concentrating on working with the police artist, trying to get him to square the chin up more. In the end, she stood up.

  ‘You’re not getting it right.’ She reached on to the top of the bread bin and picked up a piece of paper.

  ‘That’s him.’

  Both men looked at each other and then at the woman. She grinned. ‘Sorry, I came home after spending a few hours trying to hold him in my brain and sat down and drew him. I can draw,’ she said almost apologetically.

  ‘And this is accurate?’

  She moved into the other room and came back with a framed pencil sketch of herself.

  ‘It’s as accurate as this one,’ she said.

  Dunbar looked at it, put the pencil drawing in his folder and said, ‘It’s very accurate.’

  ‘So, thank you Jeanette, for that. At last, we know what he looks like now. Or at least what he looked like a couple of days ago. Can you remember how he talked?’

  ‘He’s from Devon unless he’s a good actor. His voice is a bit gravelly, as though he’s got a sore throat. And his front teeth are a bit crooked. I would say his nose has been broken at some point, because it’s still bent.’

  Dunbar thanked his lucky stars for an artist’s eye.

  ‘He was wearing overalls. Dark grey ones with a logo on the breast pocket. I’m sorry I can’t help you with the logo because he carried the flowers across it so I couldn’t really see what it was other than it was there but as he walked away from me I saw the overalls had Parks and Cemeteries on the back.’

  Dunbar was stunned. It made sense. Nobody took any notice of cemetery workers, not even other cemetery workers because he could just say he’d been drafted in for the day or week to give additional help. He was an invisible employee.

  He shook her hand and both men moved towards the door, expressing their thanks. But she hadn’t finished.

  ‘Oh, and he’s got a tattoo on his right arm. It’s just a word.’ She handed Dunbar another smaller piece of paper. ‘I can’t guarantee the accuracy of this because it was a very brief glimpse but I think this is how it was written.’

  He stared at the paper, at the single word.

  Beautiful.

  Thousands of copies of Jeanette’s drawings were handed out over the next few days; Cornwall and Devon were awash with them. On the other side of the leaflet was a picture of the tattoo along with an explanation that this was only the result of a swift glance. The word was correct; it was the font that was an uncertainty although the intricate capital B was a definite.

  Dunbar had needed no further proof that it was Treverick. No mention was made of the wreath or the flowers – he hoped the man wouldn’t connect his purchase with the sighting of him. Treverick had no reason to know that Jeanette was a skilled artist with an eye for detail.

  Six calls in total came in and all six proved to be innocent men. There were no calls referencing the tattoo.

  Dunbar felt frustrated. What had seemed to be a good lead had fizzled away.

  He visited the man in charge of the cemetery that had been the scene of so much activity and showed him the picture of Treverick. He looked at it for long moments.

  ‘Sure. I know him. His name’s Liam. He works at that big cemetery in Wadebridge but occasionally turns up here to help out. Nice bloke, doesn’t say much, just gets on with his work. His supervisor over at Wadebridge knows he lives near here so if they don’t need him he asks him if he wants to come here to help out. That’s what he says anyway. Wadebridge pay his wages, I just find stuff for him to do. As I said, he’s a nice bloke and he’ll turn his hand to anything. Is he in trouble?’

  Dunbar gave a wry smile. ‘A bit. His real name is Ronald Treverick.’ He saw the shock flash across the man’s face.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be volunteering to help you out any more, somehow. However, if you know anything, any tiny little thing that he might have said, I need to know it.’ He handed him a card. ‘That’s my direct line. Anything at all, call me.’

  He drove across to Wadebridge and went into the lodge at the cemetery gates. The supervisor there confirmed that he had never seen the man, had no idea who he was and he most certainly wouldn’t send any of his workers to another cemetery unless on the strict orders of the council.

  ‘My workers are my workers,’ he said.

  ‘Have you heard the name Ronald Treverick recently?’

  ‘Sure. He’s...’ and then it hit him who the pencil sketch represented. ‘Shit – it’s him, isn’t it?’

  Dunbar nodded. ‘It is. I don’t think you’re likely to see him, but just in case...’ and he handed out another of his cards.

  Another loose end tied up.

  Chapter 25

  Grace watched as Pilot stacked wood into a triangle shape. Jess had told her about bonfire night, about Guy Fawkes; they had made a big stuffed man with a pair of Mummy’s trousers and an old jumper and he was sitting on a chair.

  She now took the added presence of the security men who spoke very little as normal. She had heard her Father refer to this one as Guy and it had made her giggle. Two Guys but one was going to be burnt on a fire.

  She was looking forward to the evening festivities because it meant she didn’t have to be in bed by eight o’clock. She didn’t have to stay motionless and rigid pretending to be asleep until tiredness finally overwhelmed her sometime before midnight. It was hard to get rid of the feelings that Daddy – oops, Ronald – had implanted in her. She had taught herself to feign sleep during the three months of abuse before her escape but sometimes he had made her wake up anyway and the memories would not go away.

  Nan Brenda had told her about fireworks, about the loud bangs and the pretty showers of lights. She had never seen a bonfire. Jess had found a book for her that she had read on her own and it explained a lot about it. She had tried explaining it to Olivia but the little girl didn’t seem to understand. She thought they were going to light the fire in the ingle nook in the lounge.

  The house was beginning to recover from its sudden influx of visitors. Brenda and Ken now had a suite of rooms just for them – their lounge was John’s old office with its stunning garden views, linked to the lounge by new double doors, their kitchen was the room that had been used for storage. The bedroom with its ensuite facilities was a separate room next door to the kitchen. It worked very well and the elderly couple were happily settled there. They had used their own furniture and had made the decision to see the rest of their lives out there.

  Lauren and Pilot had been over the moon. It was what Lauren had wanted. Ken and Brenda had virtually brought her up and she had felt it was now time to repay that love; it was her time to look after them.

  They had also put considerable effort into making Jess a room where she could have down time away from the children. They blessed the day she had arrived on their doorstep. Grace had blossomed under her tutelage and Olivia clearly adored her.

  Pilot had returned to work on a part time basis. After taking Mark’s advice, he decided to work three days a week but never the same three days.

  Thinking about work all the time, Pilot was building the bonfire. The business would ultimately be Grace’s; or he could sell up and move them all to the States away from all this horror, this stress. Dawn and Josh had made the move and it had been a successful one.

  There was a little light bulb moment when he thought about the impossibility of leaving his mother, Ken, Brenda and Freda and he smiled to himself. He would just have to battle on and trust in Jake Dunbar and Mark Carter. He piled on another log and thought again about Dawn and Josh. They would be there tonight but in two days time flying back to the States. Dawn had been such a huge support for his
mother following his dad’s death and he knew the American branch would be missed terribly.

  Freda seemed to have accepted that staying with Pat was a non-negotiable issue now; she had stopped insisting she would return to her own place. David’s death had rattled them all; prior to that it had been a what-if situation. Now, it was more of a when. As a result of the forced move into Moorgate, Freda and Pat had grown very close. Pat hoped Freda would make it her permanent home.

  They all arrived at Hillside in one car, closely followed by a second car containing their security detail. These men had given up bonfire night with their own children to watch over this threatened family; not one of them regretted it. They would have next year’s bonfire night to look forward to.

  Pilot was manning a barbecue set up just outside the double doors leading from the lounge; inside Lauren had prepared a spread of food that she hoped was enough. Everybody laughed at her and asked if she’d invited everyone in the neighbourhood. The stuffed Guy Fawkes sat on his chair surveying the scene with drawn-on eyes.

  Once everyone had arrived, Pilot lit the bonfire and heard two of his children squeal with delight. The third one was fast asleep in his cot, oblivious to the celebrations. The flames grew quickly and he knew he had been right to bring everyone together. They needed some release from the terror that constantly surrounded them. He glanced quickly around the men guarding them and nodded at the placement. They knew what they were doing.

  ‘Okay, you lot! Beef burgers? Sausages? Who wants what?’

  Grace and Olivia were first to his side, and Grace tugged on his apron.

  ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘I’d like a beef burger please.’

  He felt tears prick his eyes. Since her return, Grace hadn’t actually called him anything. She had had no problems with calling Lauren Mummy, but he simply hadn’t been allocated a name. He knew the connotations of Daddy in her mind and although he and Lauren had spoken about it, they had taken the decision to simply leave it and wait for Grace to provide the answer. And she had: Papa.