by Ann Troup
Consequently, Ratcliffe had no clear suspect for Stella’s murder. His only chance was to see if Rachel could shed any light on who may have wanted to bump Stella off and burn down the family home. But, given that, she claimed she hadn’t spoken to any of them for twenty years, it seemed like a bit of a long shot. He might have put Charlie Jones in the frame if he hadn’t been with Rachel the day it happened. He had motive, Stella’s testimony had put him away, and he might have had a claim on the house if his marriage to Rachel had panned out. If Stella had ever told him the story she had recounted at the police station he might have had even more reason to bump her off in a fit of fury. However, he wasn’t there, and hadn’t done it so all this mindless conjecture was useless. Though it was better than thinking about Benton having his head on the block, or come to that, trying to work out why he’d thought binning his wife and shagging his subordinate was a good idea.
In fact, he and Angela hadn’t said much to each other at all that day, other than what was directly related to their ever-expanding case. Not that there had been much chance, between running around in crime scenes, to interviewing suspects his time had been spent avoiding phone calls from Maria. He had switched off his personal mobile, but some idiot back at the station had given her the number for the one he used for work. He had had to put it on silent, but the damned thing was vibrating so much in his pocket that he was sure it was going to interfere with his heart function at some point. Of course, he had no choice but to pick up the voicemails, just in case it was work. Therefore, there had been some uncomfortable moments of listening to Maria screaming at him before he could delete the messages and end the diatribe. Then there were the text messages, each one more profane than the last. He had no idea that his wife had such a creative command of the more vulgar aspects of the English language. Had she chosen to take the word fuck out of her vocabulary that day, she would have had very little to say.
By the time they reached Charlie’s house and pulled up on the drive, his head was pounding. ‘Got any Paracetomol?’ He asked Angela, women always had stuff like that.
She rummaged in her bag and passed him a pink box, ‘these do?’
‘Feminax? What the hell are they?’ he said, peering at the box and reading that they were for the relief of menstrual cramps. What the hell, pain was pain. He ripped open the box and took two, swallowing them down with tepid coffee from a polystyrene cup. ‘Urgh!’ He had visions of them doing more than dealing with his headache. If he found himself worrying whether his arse looked too big in his suit, or discussing the price of leg waxing anytime soon he would swing for Angela Watson. ‘Ta.’ He said, handing the box back and ignoring her grin.
A woman Ratcliffe didn’t recognise opened the door, he held up his warrant card. ‘DI Ratcliffe and DS Watson, to see Rachel Porter.’
‘She’s expecting you, come on through.’ The woman said with a warmer smile than either of them was used to receiving when they knocked on a door.
‘And you are?’ Angela asked.
‘Diana Lovell, friend of Rachel’s.’ She extended her hand, Angela felt obliged to shake it.
Rachel was supine on the sofa, in a man’s dressing gown. She looked like shit. It seemed the impact of the last few days had taken its toll on her, her hair was dull, her face puffy, her breathing rapid. Her skin looked clammy, as if she was running a fever. Ratcliffe had quite fancied her when they’d first met. Now she looked a wreck.
‘Hello again Ms Porter, or can I call you Rachel?’
She nodded, ‘Have a seat; I’m sure someone will make you both a cup of tea.’
Ratcliffe looked hopefully at the others in the room, Charlie Jones, Diana Lovell and the daughter, Amy, who looked more like her mother than her mother did at this moment. Charlie Jones didn’t look like he was preparing to go anywhere. He was leaning against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed over his chest. But the woman, the so-called friend had cottoned on, and ushered the girl out of the room with her.
Ratcliffe sat in the chair closest to Rachel, Angela on a dining chair, which she pulled to the end of the sofa, so that she was looking directly at Rachel. They both watched as she pulled herself into a sitting position.
‘I’m afraid we have some more bad news for you Rachel,’ Ratcliffe said, the vice that was gripping his head seemed to be loosening a bit. That girly stuff was quite good, he noted. ‘I have been told by our pathologist today that Stella did not die as a result of the fire. It would appear that she was dead before the fire started.’ He was fully expecting her to descend in to a seizure, but she didn’t. Instead, the red flush in her cheeks slowly receded, leaving an ashen grey in its wake making her look like her skin was made of dirty wax. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
She didn’t speak for a moment, just closed her eyes, Charlie stepped forward, but she waved him away. ‘It’s alright, I’m not going to have a fit, it seems that new medication won’t let me. If she didn’t die in the fire how did she die?’
Ratcliffe explained that they suspected that she had been strangled.
‘By who? Who would do that?’ Rachel asked, clutching her own throat as if she were remembering what it felt like to have someone’s hands around it.
Ratcliffe glanced at Charlie, he looked suitably shocked. ‘That’s what we don’t know. Is there anyone you know of who might have had a grudge against Stella, or who she might have had cause to be afraid of?’
To his surprise Rachel laughed, albeit weakly. ‘Sorry, it’s just that Stella was frightened of everyone. But the only three people who might have borne her any ill will are all accounted for. You have Frances, Roy is dead and so is my Mother. Other than that, she didn’t know anyone. Well, to the best of my knowledge anyway. But that’s years out of date as I told you before.’
‘Why would she have been afraid of those particular people, they were her family?’ Angela interjected.
‘Where do you want me to start? My mother despised her, thought her weak and pointless, just used her as an unpaid maid. Frances followed suit, ashamed to be related to her, and as for Roy, he resented her, felt he had married her under false pretences, well once he found out we didn’t have any money anyway. As I remember, he was quite abusive to her. It was pretty unpleasant.’ She said all this with her eyes closed, as if she were keeping the memories at bay. Given what Ratcliffe already knew about her family life, he didn’t blame her.
‘What about your relationship with her, how was that?’
Her faced creased, and she put her hand up to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. It was the first crack he’d seen in her too calm demeanour. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m having difficulty taking all this in.’
Charlie stepped forward, like he intended to comfort her, but he seemed to think better of it and went back to brooding near the fireplace.
‘Sorry.’ Rachel said again. ‘In answer to your question, our relationship was as good as was possible under the circumstances. Stella was the one who looked after me, took me to school, fed me, read to me, put me to bed. She was kind. It was a rare thing in our house, an odd thing. I don’t think I was as kind to her as she was to me.’
Ratcliffe and Angela exchanged glances. ‘In what way weren’t you kind?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t really know how to respond to her affection. It was a bit alien, more frightening in some ways than the others were. I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain. And of course, I left her there, when I went to London. I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Why did you leave her behind?’ Angela asked, more out of simple curiosity than the chance that the answer might take them forward.
Rachel pointed at Charlie. ‘I still blamed her for testifying against Charlie. She knew as well as I did that he didn’t kill Patsy.’
It was a difficult moment, awkward. Ratcliffe didn’t want things to digress into a discussion on whether Charlie Jones had been wrongfully convicted of his first wife’s murder. ‘That’s understandable, under the ci
rcumstances. So you can’t think of anyone who might have a motive to harm her?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Have you ever been inside the flat above the shop?’
She looked puzzled, ‘The flat? Not for years. Not since I was little. Why?’
‘Well someone attempted to burn that down as well. We were called there this morning’ Ratcliffe said, watching puzzlement transmute into complete confusion on her face.
‘Can you describe the flat to us, as you remember it?’ Angela demanded.
‘God, it’s a long time ago. Typical flat really, I think it was used mostly for storage, but there had been a squatter, some old tramp. So it was locked up and left. I think there was a bit of furniture in the sitting room, Stella used to have her lunch break up there sometimes. But it was pretty grim as I recall. She stopped going up there after the tramp I think. Sorry, it’s all a bit vague.’
‘Did you ever go into the bedroom there?’ Ratcliffe wanted to know
‘I don’t think so, why?’
‘We think someone might have been using the place quite recently. Do you know who had keys to the shop and the flat?’
‘There was just one set which Stella used. She worked in the shop, I did too for a little while.’
‘And you didn’t go into the flat while you worked at the shop?’
‘No, like I said, no one did after the tramp. It was always locked up.’
‘Would you say that Stella had strange preoccupations at all, anything you might have found odd in her behaviour?’ Ratcliffe asked.
‘I think we were all a bit odd. It’s a family trait. She was very quiet, timid I suppose. It’s hard to say, none of us is exactly normal are we?’
Both Angela and Ratcliffe had to concede this was true.
At that point, Diana came in with a tray of tea, and handed out the mugs. ‘Would you like me to go back into the kitchen?’ She asked.
‘Stay if you like.’ Rachel said. ‘You can hear all about just how fucked up we all are.’ It came out with a tinge of vitriol that surprised her, ‘sorry Di, that wasn’t aimed at you. It’s just that having to talk about us makes me realise just how weird we really are, I mean were...’ as she tailed off, she stretched out her leg and winced with pain.
Charlie spoke for the first time. ‘Have you taken your tablets?’
‘This morning. I probably need to take some more.’
He nodded and left the room. They all waited while he climbed the stairs and fetched her medication. They drank their tea as she swallowed a fistful of pills. She was looking really quite ill now, and it seemed to be seriously unsettling Charlie Jones.
‘What about your relationship with Frances?’
Rachel laughed again, but this time it made her breathless. ‘Can being treated as an annoying inconvenience count as a relationship? Frances tolerated me because she had no choice.’
‘Yet you came back when she asked you to.’ Angela said, remembering the letter Rachel had told them about the first time they met.
‘She didn’t ask, she commanded.’ Rachel said drily.
They both saw Charlie nod in agreement. Maybe it was time he contributed to this conversation a little more, Ratcliffe thought.
‘What was her relationship with Roy Baxter like?’ He asked, encompassing Charlie in the question.
‘As I remember, they sort of got on, they argued a lot, but more like banter. I think she liked him, no not liked, admired him. She thought he had guts.’
This was interesting, ‘would you agree Mr Jones?’ Angela asked, aiming her gaze at him.
Charlie shrugged. ‘I suppose, she used to flirt with him a lot. Mainly because it used to bug Stella I think, but I suppose you could say they got on.’
‘Any idea why she might have killed him, given that it appears their relationship might have been relatively good?’
‘How do you know she did, you’ve been wrong before?’ was Charlie’s barbed reply.
‘We have sufficient evidence to prove it. Which reminds me, do either of you recognise this?’ Ratcliffe pulled out a small evidence bag from his pocket, and showed it to both of them.
‘It’s an earring.’ Charlie said.
Rachel took the bag and peered at the earring. ‘Frances had a pair like that; they were a birthday present from our mother. I remember them because I borrowed them once, she went mad at me. Where did you find it?’
Ratcliffe took the bag back. ‘In Roy Baxter’s hand, along with a handful of her hair. Pretty conclusive I’m afraid.’
‘Has she confessed?’ Charlie asked.
‘No, and it won’t go in her favour I’m afraid.’
‘Then perhaps she didn’t do it.’ Charlie said.
Ratcliffe gave him a dismissive look, and turned his attention back to Rachel. ‘Do you remember anything about the day Roy disappeared, anything at all?’
‘I’ve been trying to think back since he was found, and I honestly keep drawing a blank. All I can say was that one day he was there, the next he was gone. I can’t even give you a date. I remember knowing he had left Stella, but no one talked about it. Everyone seemed relieved, life was calmer after. We were glad.’
‘He was found in the shed, near the house. What do you remember about that shed?’ Angela asked.
‘Nothing, it was just a shed. Always locked, again, I never questioned it.’
Ratcliffe looked at Angela, it didn’t seem like they were going to get much more than this from Rachel. ‘I think that’s about it for today, but we might have more questions. Will you be here for a while?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rachel said weakly. She could feel sweat trickling down the back of her neck.
‘Yes she will.’ Charlie said.
‘One more thing.’ Rachel said as they stood to leave. ‘The baby. You haven’t said anything about the baby.’
Ratcliffe sighed. ‘Still a bit of a mystery I’m afraid. We do know that he was stillborn, so no one is suspected of murdering him. Someone could be charged with concealing the body, but we suspect that either your mother or Stella was responsible for that, and obviously, we have no way of proving it, and no one to pursue for a crime. The body will be released for burial at some point, would you like us to let you know?’
She nodded, she had found him, she would deal with it.
Back in the car, when they had pulled off the drive and were a little way down the road Angela asked ‘Why didn’t you tell her about Stella, about her claims of being her mother? Don’t you think she has a right to know?’
Ratcliffe had put a lot of thought into this one. ‘Yeah, I do, but not yet. You saw the state of her, I don’t think she’s up to hearing that she’s the product of incest right at this moment in time do you?’
‘Probably not. But she’s got to know sometime.’
‘True, my plan is to let her get her head round this little lot, then call her into the station. I think we’ll let Dr Ferris explain that one. It’s her discovery.’
Angela shot him a wry smile. ‘She’ll love you for that.’
Ratcliffe just shrugged. ‘Got any more of those femmy things? They’re pretty good.’
After they had gone, Diana busied herself by tidying up the tea things. She was good at knowing when to leave well alone. Charlie seemed pensive, uncomfortable, not surprising given his history with the police. Amy had explained it to her while they had made the tea. Now he was rooting about in the freezer muttering about making a meal for them all. Diana offered to do the cooking, which he took her up on immediately with visible relief. He was about to go back into the lounge, when Diana caught his arm and shook her head, pointing surreptitiously into the other room. Through the half open door, they could see Amy sitting with Rachel in what seemed to be a comfortable silence. It was a good sign in Diana’s book.
‘Leave them to it. You could peel some potatoes if you like.’ She said.
Charlie nodded, and started to run water into the sink.
Diana smiled,
and passed him the peeler.
Amy sat next to Rachel, it was weird having this stranger as a mother all of a sudden. ‘I don’t know what to call you.’ She said.
Rachel looked up at her child, who was not a child, but a younger, better version of herself. ‘What do you mean?’ She knew exactly what Amy meant, but didn’t have a solution. She figured she was lucky that the girl was talking to her at all.
‘Well I can’t call you Rachel, it wouldn’t be right. And calling you mum is strange, I don’t mean to be horrible, but it feels weird.’
‘You’re not being horrible, I understand. I don’t know what to suggest, but I won’t object to Rachel if it feels more comfortable.’
‘Ok, Can I get you anything, you look really tired. Do you want a blanket?’
Rachel shook her head, though the movement made her dizzy and nauseous. ‘No thanks, I’m actually feeling really hot. My leg’s a bit sore, I probably need to change the dressing again. I think your dad’s got some stuff, would you ask him?’
‘Sure. Can I do it for you? I need the practice, wound care and all.’
Rachel had forgotten that Amy was training to be a nurse. ‘If you like.’
Amy raced off into the kitchen and was back in minutes with Charlie’s first aid kit, a clean towel and a bowl of water. She put the towel under Rachel’s leg, and she started to unwrap the bandage that Charlie had put on. ‘Strictly speaking I should be using a sterile dressing pack, but we’ll have to make do with what we have.’ She said, carefully peeling the old dressing away from Rachel’s leg. She could feel the heat coming off Rachel’s skin. It was like being next to a radiator. The wound was angry and red, the stitches tight. Pus oozed from it and she had a hard job not to turn her nose up at the sickly smell of it. This was not good. A red line extended along the leg, telling her that the inflammation was spreading. She knew enough to realise that this was a bad sign. ‘Just going to check your pulse rate, and breathing, might as well go the whole hog as I’m here.’ She said, gently grasping Rachel’s wrist and measuring her pulse against the ticking of the clock. Not good, far too fast, as was her breathing which was shallow and rapid. She didn’t have a thermometer, so placed a cool hand on Rachel’s upper chest instead. It was hot, too hot. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.