The stranger stared at her until her smile shrivelled and her hand fell back to her side. She felt herself glowing red.
“Maggie, this is Mr Crawford, our new Superintendent.”
She shuffled around to block his view.
Jeffery stared on in disbelief as Eddie dropped Troy onto the bonnet of his car and lit a cigarette.
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr Crawford. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Had I wanted coffee, I would have asked.” Crawford turned back to Jeffery. “I want to meet Collins.”
Jeffery turned green. “Are you sure?”
* * *
“No threat, Troy.” Eddie curled his fist into Troy’s jacket and lifted him clean off the ground. “I’m sick of pricks like you spoiling life for people like me. You’re like those scum who ride around on scooters. I hate them as well. You pollute my life and think it’s funny. Well it’s not funny. You’re not funny.”
“Put me down. This is assault.”
Eddie got nose to nose and growled. “If I had my way I’d terminate people like you. And I’d do it for free. I wouldn’t even take a meal break.”
“Very funny. You’ve had your giggle, now put me—”
Eddie dropped him on the bonnet of his Astra, dusted his hands off, and lit a cigarette. He pulled out his wallet, stroked a twenty from inside, and stuffed it into Troy’s jacket pocket. “I want a receipt. And don’t play that shite near me again. It makes me angry. Got it?”
“You’re a psycho, Collins!”
“Wanker,” he said, and walked to the ugly glass doors. “Touch my car,” he shouted, “and I’ll have yours crushed into a paperweight for my desk.” He reached the glass doors, impressed that at last someone had washed all the dirt off them enough for him to see the despair in his own face. He took a last drag on the cigarette, flicked it away and opened the door.
The foyer was brightly lit, but always seemed dark and depressing. The only entertainment he found in this dreary part of his journey into hell was Moneypenny and her rather splendid cleavage. But when he looked up to find it, neither it nor she was behind the reception desk; they were standing in the middle of the foyer with Jeffery and a man who looked like Telly Savalas. They were all looking at him. Eddie glanced over his shoulder but when he turned back, they were all still staring at him. “Is my fly down?”
“Eddie” —Jeffery beckoned him— “this is our new Superintendent, Mr Crawford.”
“Hi.” Eddie walked past the group and barged through the double doors, heading for the stairs.
Jeffery coughed. “Eddie!”
All three heard him tut as the doors squeaked open again, and Eddie dragged his feet to Mr Crawford’s side.
Crawford nodded and held out his hand. “Mr Collins.”
“Can I offer you a lollipop?”
“I’m sorry?”
Moneypenny stifled a squeal and hurried around to her desk again, hand cupping her mouth. Jeffery looked blank.
“Ah, yes. I see now. You’re the very first person ever to liken me to Kojak. Can’t tell you how funny that is.”
“I have a thing for originality,” Eddie said. “But this is good; first time we meet, and you’re already apologising. I like that in a boss.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Crawford looked up at Eddie and closed the gap down just as his green eyes closed to slits. “But I find you most disagreeable.”
Eddie shrugged. “Good. It wouldn’t do to have too many yes-men, would it? I mean, look what happened to your predecessor. Nearly drove this old boat into the fucking rocks because no one would dare question him.”
“And you are that man?”
“Well, it’s definitely not Jeffery.” He looked at Jeffery. “No offence.” Eddie smiled and turned away, heading not for the double doors, but for the reception desk.
Moneypenny’s smile faltered, then left her face completely. And in that one moment, Eddie found her blank face very attractive; there was nothing concealed, it was all on show, no nasty surprises about to leap out and grab him. He leaned on the chest-high counter and stared at her, resisting the urge to let his eyes travel south.
“Eddie,” she whispered.
“I’m waiting.”
Moneypenny blinked, shrugged. “What for?”
He tapped his fingers… and decided to go ahead and do it. “Italian?”
Her eyebrows dropped from hopeful to confused, and she said, “I’m from Doncaster. But I used to drive a Fiat.”
“Eddie!” Jeffery snapped. Eddie looked over his shoulder to see one of the double doors closing behind Crawford. “That was very rude.”
“He’s new here; I forgive him.”
“You asking me on a date?” Moneypenny’s face gathered all the happiness it could muster; her eyes were on fire.
The glass door opened and Troy skulked in, eyeing Eddie as he passed the desk.
“Troy,” Eddie said, “my office in five minutes. Bring coffee. And don’t spit in it.”
“Eddie,” Jeffery said, “my office in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m going to need longer than ten minutes with him,” Eddie pointed at Troy, ignored Jeffery’s tut. He turned to Moneypenny. “I’ll meet you at The Italian Job in Garforth. Seven o’clock.”
“Okay,” was all she could say.
Chapter Seventeen
Blackness.
There was no place in hell darker than where Jess found herself now. She lay motionless under the duvet. The tears had long gone, leaving a void of despair so intense that she feared even death might not pull her free of it. She’d disappeared into a stupor, where voices came and went, and thoughts filled the pocket of stale air under here, disappearing into a vortex the moment she tried to concentrate on them.
On the worktop, well out of arm’s reach, sat a full bottle of Bell’s whisky and three boxes of paracetamol. They’d been there since yesterday, and Jess had been considering their potential.
Options.
Though much of the journey back home with Marilyn was already forgotten, she remembered her saying, “You can try again. He’ll be more receptive next time, you’ll see. It was a shock to him. Next time will be better.”
Those words rattled around her empty head like a bullet ricocheting off the walls. Next time. “Next time.”
They shouldn’t have needed a next time. It had been drilled into her in prison that you suck the pill and you do your time. Dwelling on it caused the time to slow down, and caused distress. But there was simply no stopping the gnawing anger she lived with each day, that injustice was to blame.
That the system had failed her massively. Had she been guilty of murder, or manslaughter, then doing the time for it would have been a lot easier; she’d have sucked the pill and done the time. But the knowledge that she was in prison simply because people had fucked up had been like a slow torture.
How frustrating it had been, trying to convince people in authority that they’d made an error. They don’t make errors. They never make errors. Not collectively. Not the whole fucking system!
And now she was semi-free, but her life was in shreds.
No job.
No son.
No house.
No future.
The only possible cure – and it wasn’t certain – was death. The ultimate freedom.
“The death of Jessica Ripley,” she whispered. It sounded good. It sounded inviting; it sounded like the only option for her to finally break free. She lifted the quilt and felt comforted that the bedsit was in darkness, that there was no harsh daylight to make her challenge her decision. It was just a case of opening the bottle and drinking. Simple. And then you sleep. Forever. And the pain is gone.
When it all goes awfully wrong for you, Jessica. Remember today. This was the beginning of it all.
Valentine spat those words at her yesterday. As if yesterday hadn’t been bad enough.
Always room for something worse. “Fifty grand.” Like tha
t could ever replace my boy. Bitch.
Jess swung her legs off the bed, and when her feet touched the cold floor it felt good, like a contrast to the warm blackness she’d lived in, a stimulus. The curtains were open, and through the fogged window she could see the house opposite, silhouetted against a lighter sky. But in here the shadows clung like poisoned thoughts. On shaky legs, Jessica padded across the floor to the bottle. Her head ached, and her stomach cramped. Her body creaked. She could already smell the whisky; it was as though her brain knew what was coming and tried to simulate it.
She could make out the bottle on the worktop, and reached for it. But even before she picked it up, she could see something was not right.
And now that she’d come round a little, she noticed another smell: the rank odour of sweat. A shiver trickled down her back, and she broke out in goose pimples. She was gripped by an irrational fear that made her freeze; eyes wide, heart hammering, limbs cold, fear hot. Her wide eyes saw nothing. She moved her hand back and forth, searching, and when her fingertips found the worktop, she scooted around for the cutlery drawer.
Knife in hand, Jess found the light switch and turned it on.
He sat on the chair, glaring at her. “’Ello, Jessica.”
Chapter Eighteen
It took a moment for Jess to recognise the stinking man in the chair. He wore a grubby, battered, yellow baseball cap with CAT Diesel Power across the front. He’d grown a beard that he clearly used as a bib, and which seemed to sparkle each time he moved his face. He wore a padded jacket, shiny with dirt, and jeans with holes in the knees, through which poked a second pair. And boots that looked like army issue from World War Two.
He smiled. The stench that came from his mouth was like the ethylene from overripe bananas.
“No welcoming hug, then?”
Jess took a step back.
“I’ll take that as a no, shall I? Suppose that means a shag’s out of the question too?” He laughed and winked at her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jess held the knife out, but he made no attempt to move from the chair.
The smile and wrinkles never left his face. His eyes sparkled as though they were damp. “You didn’t seek me out.”
“I wouldn’t have recognised you even if I had. You look like a disease.”
“You old flatterer. I’m a tramp. I’m a wanderer. Hey, they even turned me down as a Big Issue seller.” He tried to laugh, but it ended in a coughing fit. He pulled a small tin from one of his many pockets, and took out a premade roll-up.
“Not in here, Tony.”
“Bah.” He lit it and breathed out a grey cloud. “I saved your life.” He pointed at the empty whisky bottle. “That went down the sink. Tablets went down the toilet; pretty much like my life when you left.”
Jess threw the knife back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “Left?”
“Got arrested, then. Same difference to me. You weren’t there. They wouldn’t let me see Michael – not a blood relative. It works against you. Got to drinking a bit, and I lost my job, as you’re likely to do if you’re knocking back a bottle of gin while you’re in charge of a double-decker. My flat went next, the council wouldn’t even consider letting me have yours, and before long I found myself stealing clothes off people’s washing lines.
“It’s why I never visited you.” He smiled, but it was tinged with regret and embarrassment. “I should have, I know. But you wouldn’t have wanted me to.” He took another drag on the roll-up, holding it with shaking, brown-stained fingers. “Still a bit gutted you didn’t try to find me when you got out.”
When it all goes awfully wrong for you, Jessica. Remember today. This was the beginning of it all.
“My first thought was Michael.” And then the blackness hit her again, and the disaster of hearing your own child telling you to fuck off and never come back. “I’m a failure.” The room blurred and she let the tears fall.
“Go on, lass. Get it out of your system. They dry up eventually, trust me.”
And as though she’d been waiting for permission, she did. The sobbing came, the blocked nose, the tears so hot that they stung. She eventually collapsed onto the floor, howling, shrieking. Tony sat there smoking, watching her. “It’s not fair,” she said, over and over again. “It’s not fair what they did to us. To us all.”
“I’m working on it,” he said.
She propped herself up on her elbows, dragged a sleeve across her eyes, and said, “Working on what?”
“Making it fair. Well, making it fairer, I should say. Because there ain’t nothing that’ll give back Michael, or these missing years. Or my dignity. Nothing. No can do. No time travel,” he grinned, “not even in a bottle of Bells and a packet of painkillers.
“But you can get some recompense for your loss,” he whispered.
“Victim support?”
He laughed again, a full-on belly laugh with a sizeable coughing fit at its tail end. “Yeah,” he said, “if that’s what you want to call it. No forms to fill out, though, and you ain’t getting a single penny in compensation. This is a different kind of recompense, and it feels better than any amount of money.”
Chapter Nineteen
Eddie banged on the bathroom door.
“What?”
“Hurry up, you old reprobate, some of us have appointments.”
“Bugger off. Some of us have dates!”
Eddie growled. “My appointment… is a date.”
Charles pulled the bolt and opened the door a crack.
Steam billowed out and Eddie almost choked on the smell of aftershave. He stepped back. “Jesus! I hope you’re taking her a gas mask. You smell like a tart’s handbag.”
“A date? You?” Charles grinned from the cover of the doorway, his eyes suspicious. “Does it have four legs?”
“I don’t have time to wisecrack with you. Come out.”
“Does it involve a cruise up the red-light district?”
“You are so gross. I should disown you.”
“I knew you were jealous. I knew it!”
“You’d better not have used all my aftershave—”
“Here,” Charles passed him a bottle through the gap. “Now leave me alone.”
“What’s up? Polyfilla not set yet?” Eddie shook the bottle as Charles locked the door. “This is empty, you old git. Buy your own!”
“Don’t come back too early.”
Chapter Twenty
“They changed me.”
Tony rolled a cigarette. “How?”
“I was normal—”
He laughed and coughed.
“I was! I was as normal as anyone can be. And they got it wrong.”
“Have you spoken about this to anyone else? Inside, outside, wherever?”
Still on the floor, Jess was shaking her head. “Nobody. If you don’t admit to your crimes” —she curled her fingers into quote marks— “you have a hard time. They encourage you to confess. It also goes better for you with parole. So the system spat me out here, into the loving, caring hands of people like John Sidmouth.”
Tony stood, slipped both of his overcoats off, dropped them in a heap on the floor, and took his seat again, lighter at the ready. “John Sidmouth? Probation Officer?”
She nodded.
“Little fat fuck with a briefcase?”
She squinted at him. “How do you know?”
“Since I found out where you lived, I’ve kept an eye on you.”
“That’s creepy.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I suppose it is. But I wanted you to be safe. Things have changed in twelve years; safe places ain’t safe no more. Someone has to watch your back.”
“I want him dead.”
Tony’s mouth fell open. He looked around, as though there could be eavesdroppers, and at last said, “No, Jess. You’re a smart girl. You don’t want to go around talking about killing people.”
“You saying I can’t trust you?”
He leaned forward, elbows on
knees, and pointed at her. “Girl, I’m the only one you can trust. And I know they all got it wrong. I never asked you if what they were saying was true, because I know you didn’t stab that prick.”
She looked at the floor. “It was just one careless mistake after another. And I kept on thinking it would be caught at the next stage, and the nightmare would be over. But then the next stage messed up, and the one after that, and before I knew it I was counting bricks in a cell. For twelve years.”
He nodded, “It’s a bastard.”
“But the bigger bastard is what it did to my family.”
“You’ll get him back. Stop punishing yourself; he’s a kid. Give him time.”
“They put me away for twelve years, Tony! And they took away my baby. He’s a teenager now! He hates me; he thinks I want to ruin his life again by taking him back.”
“Sounds like every parent-teenager relationship.”
She looked away, closed her eyes for a moment, and said, “He’s better where he is.”
She thought about Michael’s christening present from Sebastian’s parents, a small golden box. She’d always told him it was a box of truths. She opened that box now, inside her mind, and she saw that he was immeasurably better off where he was.
Maybe Valentine was right.
And learning this new truth was as fearsome as being buried alive – it was inescapable. And though the words had just tripped off her tongue – because that’s what all shit parents say when they have their kids taken away from them – she hadn’t really meant them. They were taken straight from the pages of Good Parenting: thou shalt not be selfish.
But she wanted to be selfish; she wanted Michael back again even if he was better where he was because then it really would be like having a second chance at life, it would be like none of the bad things had ever happened and she’d just been in a coma for twelve years. Of course it was a lie – she wasn’t stupid, but it was the best she could hope for. And it was way better than any fifty grand.
That selfishness was something she daren’t admit to anyone – even Tony, the man she could trust more than any other. That was a secret for the box of truths only.
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 7