Be Careful What You Wish For: Three women, three men, three deaths (Kitty Thomas)

by Sue Nicholls

  Lucas and Olivia look important as they bear Nanny’s belongings to the drawers and wardrobe and struggle to hang dresses and cardigans on lop-sided hangers. Sam holds Josh’s hand and quietly follows Kitty as she touches and fiddles where she should not. Eventually Gloria shoos them out to play.

  Fee returns to the kitchen to make a snack for the children. There are no biscuits or cakes, not even grubby and shapeless ones, so she spreads a few crackers with seedless raspberry jam. At her shout, they thunder from their rooms, taking the stairs in their individual ways. Sam waits at the bottom to help Josh, and when all the children are together in the hall they huddle into the kitchen as one.

  Minutes later, Gloria, singing powerfully and tunefully, creaks along the landing, and they listen to the melody tail off and sedate footsteps mark her progress from tread to tread and into the kitchen. ‘Well, what a lovely scene.’ She moves across to the table and peers at the plate. ‘Looks like we need to go shopping though, I should think you need some nice healthy fruit to be snackin’ on.’

  Fee accepts the implied criticism with grace. Of the two of them Gloria will make the better carer. Fee is out of the habit of catering, insofar as she ever did it. In the old days there was always food in her freezer, but it was more likely to have been from M & S than home-made.

  She puts two mugs of tea onto the work top, and Gloria mounts a stool with some difficulty. When she finally settles with her back to the children, she seems in the wrong setting like a princess taking tea in a caravan. Despite the stress of the situation Fee smiles to herself. Breakfast bars are unsuited to dignified, portly ladies, especially if their feet don’t reach the foot rail.

  Fee slides with ease onto the other stool, resisting the urge to suggest, as she watches Gloria shovel two heaped teaspoons of sugar into her tea, that she has fruit instead.

  The older woman leans across the melomine surface and gives Fee's hand a squeeze. ‘You leave it to me now dear. I can get a taxi to the town and do a bit of shoppin’, you don’t need to worry.’ Although she speaks quietly, Fee can see the children pricking up their ears. At Fee’s concerned expression, Gloria raises her voice to include them. ‘I’m goin’ to need some help findin’ my way around this place.’ She speaks over her shoulder. ‘Can you to show me around the town? We could all fit into one of those minibus taxis.’

  Sunshine creeps into the window behind Gloria, forcing Fee to squint. To Gloria’s silhouette, she says, 'We'll all fit into my car. I’ll drive, there’s no need for a taxi.’

  They finish their tea, and Fee sends the children to do their homework. Gloria wastes no time in starting a shopping list. Opening and closing cupboards she tuts and grumbles at the paucity of supplies and the sticky marks on shelves, in much the same way her son had done in Maurice’s kitchen.

  On the journey to Watco, Gloria and Fee speak only of practicalities. It turns out that although she doesn’t have a car in London, Gloria passed her driving test a few years ago. Fee decides that she must be added to the insurance for this car, but Gloria is worried about driving such a big vehicle. Fee scans the roadside and fields as she drives, hoping to catch a glimpse of Twitch but it seems a waste of time. Then something catches her eye. She drives on without comment.

  They cruise along Chelteton High Street, and Fee points out the superstore, the marketplace, and various shops, including the deli.

  ‘The church is up there.’ She indicates the spire but turns left at the lights, so they don’t have to pass the workmen dealing with the blackened remains of Feast. They cause a small traffic queue at the front of Watco while Fee chivvies them out, promising to pick them up in three quarters of an hour, then, alone in the car, she swings round the parking lot to retrace her journey.

  About half a mile out of town she slows to a crawl, and the car behind swerves round her and accelerates away with a loud blast of his horn. Fee's pulse accelerates with it. Edging along the road, she cranes her neck, convinced she had seen something in a field on her right, but which field? Then she sees it.

  The car bounces off the road and settles at an angle in a dry tractor rut. Cars whoosh past behind her and the air resonates with the sounds of birds and flies. She places a flat shoe onto the bottom rung of a metal gate and eyes a group of horses that graze in the middle of the meadow. On the far side, beyond their swishing tails and stooping heads, something under the hedge is catching the light. She cocks her leg over the gate and picks her way among heaps of dung and grassy tussocks. When she reaches the spot, she stares in horror, then runs back across the field without care for how she is placing her feet. She throws herself into the car and snatches up her phone.

  Chapter 52

  Back in the field, Fee stares down at the back wheel of a push-bike projecting from under the hedge. Its front wheel has been shoved between dock leaves and nettles into a ditch and the electric-blue frame gleams in the late afternoon sunlight.

  Fee studies her surroundings, squinting into the setting sun. Through the hedge she can make out the continuation of a narrow track that comes from the road and continues up the hill beyond. Before long, a vehicle manoeuvres onto the verge end bumps into place next to her car. A uniformed officer unfolds himself from its driver’s seat and holds his hand, visor-like, over his eyes to sweep his gaze round the field.

  She waves, and he grasps the gate, flinging his body over the top bar in an athletic leap. When he gets close, he extends his hand. ‘Mrs Thomas? I'm P.C. Allen.’

  Fee puts her hand into his large, moist palm and when it is released, wipes it on the back of her jeans.

  Standing side by side, she and P.C. Allen observe the bicycle. ‘Do you recognise it, Mrs Thomas?’

  ‘Well, it could be Twitch’s but to be honest I’m not a great bicycle user and I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention when she showed her bike to me. I wish I had now.’ She looks at P.C. Allen. ‘I have got the receipt at home though; I could let you have it later. I went to the bike shop yesterday and the lady told me the make and model. I can't see that information from here and I didn't want to disturb anything.’

  Allen excuses himself and walks a few paces away, pulling out his radio. His murmured conversation is impossible to hear and Fee stares at the bike. Her heart tells her it belongs to Twitch, and she begins to shake. Worried that her knees will not hold her up she walks to a sprawling tree-trunk and sits.

  The policeman raises his voice. ‘Affirmative,’ he says then, ‘Roger, out,’ and Fee summons up her calm mask.

  The officer strolls over to her and nods at the bike. ‘It shouldn’t take too long to identify that once you’ve given us the details.’

  He gives Fee permission to leave the scene but says she should make herself available later when a member of CID will come to the house to take fingerprints, collect the information about the bicycle and take another statement.

  As she crosses the field towards her car she glances at her watch. Gloria and the children will be wondering where she is. She steps onto the gate and looks back at P.C. Allen, who has his back to her and is facing the fallen tree. He appears to be zipping his flies with a little policeman bob of the knees, and with the vestige of humour she can muster, Fee hopes he is not contaminating a crime scene.

  In the supermarket car park, Gloria’s eyes are alternating between her watch and the road entrance. An expression of relief crosses her face when she catches sight of the car.

  On their way home Fee keeps her eyes fixed on the road and listens to the children telling her what they have bought. Like Millie, Gloria’s tastes err towards the exotic, and the children seem excited to try something spicy and fruity.

  ‘We’ll cook it together,’ Gloria promises the children as the car cruises past the farm gate.

  ‘Why is there a policeman standing in a field?’ Sam shouts suddenly and bursts out laughing at the absurdity of the scene.

  ‘P’raps he’s guarding the horses,’ suggests Kitty.

  Fee puts her foot hard on the
accelerator and glances meaningfully at Gloria, who raises her eyebrows. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she murmurs.

  When they get home, Fee tells Gloria of the afternoon’s events and the proposed police visit. Gloria pauses in the middle of loading a litre of semi-skimmed into the refrigerator. ‘I’ll take the kiddies upstairs when they get here. The big ones can help me get the little ones ready for bed.’

  They finish unpacking the shopping in silence.

  Later, Gloria and the children cook the evening meal and Fee keeps out of the way. She paces through upstairs rooms, putting away toys and straightening pictures, then sits on her bed and stares out of the window. Repeated bangs on the dinner gong jolt her back to reality.

  The rice, fried plantain, vegetables and chicken are fragrant and tasty, but to Fee each mouthful is like cotton wool. The children clear the table and, supervised by Gloria, Sam, Olivia, and Kitty wash and dry up while Fee takes the younger ones into the garden.

  As she kicks a ball with Josh, Fee pushes Lucas on swing and he gives untroubled hoots of pleasure, ‘Higher, higher.’

  ‘Not too high Luc, you might be sick after that big dinner.’

  The doorbell shrills through the house, and Fee lifts five-year-old Lucas from the swing and grabs both children by their hands. They hurry inside to find Gloria standing at the open front door appraising a balding individual in a crumpled brown suit. The visitor clasps a briefcase and presents his identification to Gloria like a flash card. Fee hurries forwards and hands the children to Gloria, who tousles Josh’s hair and touches the tip of her finger to Lucas’s nose. ‘OK. Time to get ready for bed, young men.’ She raises her voice to call the others. ‘Everyone, follow me.’ Her tone brooks no argument and the children troop upstairs, the older ones glancing back curiously at the man on the step.

  ‘Sorry about that. We’re trying to protect the children until we know more.’ Fee indicates the sitting room and follows him in.

  The policeman hitches up his shiny suit trousers, and lowers himself onto the sofa, dumping his bag on the floor beside him.

  She offers tea, knowing from experience that he’ll probably say no, and when he refuses, she closes the lounge door and crosses the room, collecting an upright, wooden chair from a corner to sit on.

  The man stands up. ‘Mrs Thomas…’

  ‘Ms.’ She too rises.

  ‘Sorry - Ms Thomas. I’m D.S. Bailey.’ He takes a step towards her and gives an engaging grin. ‘I understand you found a bike in a field on the outskirts of Chelterton today.’

  'Yes.'

  ‘Well done. Would you mind telling me how that came about? It was quite a way from the main road.’

  Is he doubting her? ‘I’ve got into the habit of looking for Twitch - Ms Roman – when I’m out. In the past she’s suffered from depression, and I’m worried about her. She could be wandering anywhere. I saw the metal glinting in the sunshine and decided to take a look.’

  From upstairs, they can hear muffled voices of Gloria and the children preparing for baths. Music starts up in a bedroom and footsteps thump making the ceiling groan.

  'I have the make and model of the cycle now.’ Fee picks up the shop receipt.

  The officer sits back on the settee and flips open his notebook, saying, ‘And I have the details of the one in the field.’

  Fee hands over the slip of paper, and Bailey squints at the faint writing and raises his eyes. ‘That’s the same make I’ve got written here.’

  They stare at each other, then the officer clears his throat. ‘This could be a coincidence of course, but your friend has been missing some time now and the bike turning up makes the circumstances suspicious, so I think it’s time to escalate enquiries. Did the other officers explain to you what will happen now?'

  Fee nods, 'Searches, house to house enquiries and following up leads.'

  ‘Exactly.' The officer nods. 'We’ll need to collect fingerprints from here – to eliminate you all from our enquiries. Do you mind?’

  Eliminate you from our enquiries. Policemen really say that. Fee agrees, and from then on, the similarity to a police drama vanishes. The detective extracts a brush, and a bag of black dust from his pocket and proceeds to dab the dust over door handles, windows and anything shiny in the room without the aid of a single forensic expert. Fee watches with interest as prints are revealed in the powder, and he uses sticky tape to collect them.

  She is anxious that he will not go upstairs.

  'I should think I'll get all the prints I need from down here.' He slips the pieces of sticky tape into envelopes and pops them in his pocket. In the living room he stoops to pick up his bag and unclips it deftly. ‘I have to fill in this blooming form.’ He looks up at her and screws up his nose. ‘Bureaucracy!’ He flips his eyes upwards. ‘I spend half my time filling in forms these days. Now…’

  Fee sits back on her wooden chair and watches him hike up the trouser legs again. He takes a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, and squints at the document on his knees. ‘OK, here we go. Right. I have to ask you all these questions, then when we have everything completed it'll be recorded on the main police computer and can be used by Interpol and so on.’

  He asks about Twitch’s appearance and her frame of mind. ‘Did you say she was depressed? ‘

  ‘Well, she was. She has a history of depression, but I thought she was getting better. She’d been to the doctor and was taking tablets, and I've been trying to give her some time for herself, you know, to do her art and go to galleries. She seemed happier, but...’

  D.S. Bailey notes down the contact details of Twitch's doctor and dentist again, places she might have visited, and details of friends and family.

  As Fee speaks, the saliva in her mouth evaporates. ‘Are you sure you won’t have that drink. I’m going to have one myself.’

  'No thank you Ms Thomas, but you go ahead. I can come out to the kitchen if you like.' He slides the form back into his bag and carries it from the room.

  In the kitchen Fee looks across at the detective sitting at her breakfast bar, pen and A4 pages in front of him. There is a worrying change in his manner. His back is straight, and the friendly eyes have become hard and business-like. ‘May I ask a few questions about your movements yesterday, when Mrs Roman went missing?’

  ‘Me?’ She pauses. ‘I was here in the house when she went out. We were going to have supper when she got back. Salmon. Sorry, I don’t suppose you want to know what was on the menu.’

  Bailey gazes at her with an unreadable expression, and she faulters through a description of her evening and then her disturbed night. With a little concentration she recalls details of times, television programmes and conversations with Twitch. He says, ‘And your other friend, Millie was it? What were you doing on the night she died?’

  ‘When Millie died?’ Fee's mind goes blank and sweat prickles under her arms. ‘I, I can’t remember. Just a minute, let me think.’ She rubs her cheeks, dragging her hands past the corners of her mouth.

  After careful probing, the policeman drags from her the painful events of the morning of the explosion, and the night before. His pen flies across the page, and when Fee can think of nothing more to tell him, he says, 'Thank you Ms Thomas. You‘ve been very helpful. I think I have everything I need now, so I’ll get out of your way. Some uniformed officers will be here later. They'll need access to the house and garden, to look round in case they can find any clue to what might have happened.' He pauses, looks at her with a serious expression. ‘One more thing. If we were to ask you to be part of a television appeal, would you be prepared to do it?’

  Fee’s eyes widen. Isn’t the person weeping on the television usually the one who turns out to be the kidnapper? Then there would be the speculation - I bet she’s a dyke. Ooh, I’ve seen her in town, right stuck up. ‘I don’t want the children to see anything on the news unless it's absolutely necessary. As I said, I haven’t told them yet. Once I have, I suppose I would, if you thought it would help
. Or perhaps Maurice would do it.’

  When he has left Fee glances at her watch and calls Maurice. As she relates the latest news to a shocked Maurice, she can hear a deep, familiar voice in the background and asks, ‘May I speak to Mick, please Maurice?’

  Mick’s deep voice comes on the line. ‘Hey Fee; what’s going on?’

  ‘I found a bike in a field outside the town this morning. Mick, we don’t know yet if it’s Twitch’s so tell Maurice to keep calm. It’s a good thing you’re there with him.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mick?’

  “Yeah?’

  Fee takes a slug of cold coffee. ‘Your mum’s being a fantastic help. I don’t know how I’d have managed without her this morning. Are you happy for me to invite her to stay longer?’

  Mick’s voice goes up a surprised semi-tone. ‘It’s up to her. I’d be surprised if she didn’t want to stay. I expect you can tell how much she loves kids.’

  Fee nods, ‘Yes. If she does stay, I was wondering if you'd help her get used to the car. She says she’s passed her test, but she’s never driven. It would be most helpful if she could drive the children to various places. Would you mind?’

  Mick is uneasy about trying to teach his mother anything, but says he'll give it a try.

  ‘And, sorry to keep asking favours but I've bought myself, and her, a mobile phone. While you’re with her, could you help her get used to it?’

  Mick explodes with mirth. ‘Talk about dragging her into the 20th century.’

  Several pairs of feet pound on the stairs, and Fee rushes, ‘I have to go Mick; the children are coming. I’ll leave that with you if I may?’

  ‘OK Fee. Take care… and keep us posted.’

  Chapter 53

  ‘Mr Thomas, thank you for seeing us, sir.’

  The three plain clothes officers struggle past Topsy’s joyful welcome and huddle into Paul’s small living room. The one who spoke looks to be the older, although that may be because he is almost bald. That aside, he carries an air of authority. The other man is, Paul guesses, in his early forties with thick, wavy black hair. His suit is better quality and less creased than that of his companion.