by Jess Ryder
‘And there’s our guest,’ Jack adds, giving me a meaningful look. ‘Lori. What’s her last name, Stella?’
‘Er, I’ve forgotten,’ I lie. She’s never mentioned it and I’ve never thought to ask.
‘She’s one of Stella’s waifs and strays. She turned up on our doorstep about six weeks ago and we can’t seem to get rid of her.’
‘Jack, that’s not fair!’ I turn to the officer. ‘She needed somewhere to stay, that’s all. We’re helping her get back on her feet. I’m sure she wouldn’t be involved in any burglary.’
PC Khan makes a note. ‘You do have to be careful who you take in,’ he says. ‘A lot of homeless people have drug dependencies, which means they need a lot of money.’
‘She’s not a drug addict.’
‘Or they have mental health problems. There was a case not long ago of a young man who killed an entire family.’
‘I have pointed this out,’ says Jack, ‘but she won’t listen.’
‘Don’t be so patronising,’ I hiss. ‘Lori’s not mad and you know it.’
PC Khan breathes a sigh of relief as his colleague steps back inside the house. ‘I can’t find any obvious means of access.’
‘Which means it was probably an inside job.’ There’s a slight tone of triumph in Jack’s voice. I’m starting to feel really angry with him.
‘Will you stop blaming Lori?’
The officers exchange embarrassed glances. I can tell they’re not really interested in launching a major investigation. I’m wondering if they even believe us. No broken windows, no forced locks, nothing of great value taken … It’s not making sense to them and it’s not making sense to me either.
‘What about fingerprinting?’ asks Jack hopefully. ‘Or DNA testing?’
‘Lori slept in that room on her first night, so her DNA will be all over the place.’ I glare at him. ‘And a professional burglar would wear gloves.’
‘Thank you, Sherlock,’ he quips.
There’s an awkward pause.
‘Let’s start with the builder’s details,’ says PC Brookes. ‘We can at least run him through the database.’ I hurry out, going into the bedroom and rummaging in the desk drawer for Alan’s business card. There’s a bad feeling growing in my stomach. I’m sure he’s not involved in this, and I don’t think the Romanian plasterers are either. If we start accusing them of theft, they could walk off site.
The officers are on their way out when I come back into the hallway with the business card. PC Khan scribbles down Alan’s details, then snaps his notebook shut.
‘Right then. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Thanks for coming over so promptly,’ says Jack, showing them out.
My gaze lingers on the closing door. ‘So what was that all about?’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’ He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m sorry you got all offended about your friend, but I had to say something. I mean, it is a bit suspicious …’
I take a deep breath, letting the words that have to be said rise into my mouth. ‘Did you stage it?’
He lets out an incredulous puff of laughter. ‘What? Don’t be stupid. You think I’d call the police—’
‘Yes, I do. As soon as you heard that Lori was going out for the day, you came up with this disgusting plan. You probably knew the fish sheds would be closed. You sent me all the way down there to give yourself enough time to get home.’
‘That’s absolute rubbish. Why would I do that? What are you talking about?’
‘I reckon you had just enough time to mess the place up a bit, hide my parents’ things—’
‘This is ridiculous,’ he splutters. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘To get at Lori.’
‘Oh right, so you’d rather accuse me than a complete stranger … Jesus, you don’t even know her full name!’ He lifts his hands in a despairing gesture. ‘You heard what the policeman said. Foolish, gullible people end up dead.’
‘I’m not so gullible that I can’t see what you’re doing,’ I say. ‘Lori warned me about you and now I see what she was getting at. First you tried to make me think she’d done those drawings, then you pretended she’d gone to see her husband. You’ve been lying to me about work and now you do this. You’re gaslighting me. And what’s worse, you’re exploiting my grief for my parents. Where have you hidden their things?’
He takes a couple of steps back. ‘Gaslighting? Honestly, Stella, you’ve got it badly wrong. You need your head examining – you’re letting this woman get right under your skin. She’s manipulating you; she’s got you exactly where she wants you. This is serious. She’s got to go. Like tonight. As soon as she comes back, that’s it, she’s out. And if she refuses to leave, I’ll call the police again.’
But I’m not going to let him distract me. ‘What was the final score, Jack? In the rugby.’
He hesitates. ‘I’m not answering that.’
‘Tut, tut. You should have googled it. But you didn’t have time. You probably ran all the way back from the pub. You had so much to do before I came home – mess the place up, hide the stuff, call the cops—’
‘Shut up, will you? You’re making me really angry.’
‘All you have to do is tell me the score.’
He glowers at me. ‘For fuck’s sake, it was 12–3, now stop this.’
‘Yes, that was the score when I left. But there was still five minutes on the clock. Shall we check?’ I reach down for my bag and take out my phone.
‘I mean it, Stella,’ he says. ‘Stop this right now or you’re going to regret it.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ He snatches at the phone but I whisk my hand away.
‘Look! I can’t remember the final score, I was too upset about the burglary. I felt really sorry for you because I knew how upset you’d be about losing your parents’ belongings. I did know it, but it’s gone out of my head.’
My fingers are shaking as I type in: Rugby England v Wales final score. I feel the air being sucked out of my body as the result comes up on the screen.
Chapter Nineteen
Kay
Then
As Kay walked home with Abigail, the piece of paper burned in her palm. She wanted to let it go, to drop it into the gutter, but her fingers refused to loosen their grip. Just put it somewhere safe, Ms Gardiner had said, leaning into her. She was wearing patchouli oil and smelt of exotic secrets.
‘What did Miss say?’ asked Abigail.
‘Oh, nothing much. We were talking about the summer fete. She asked me to make a cake.’ It was only half a lie. A note had been sent out asking for contributions. Abigail looked up at her doubtfully. She was a bright kid, not easily fooled, but she didn’t question further. Maybe she’d seen the look of shock on her teacher’s face when she drew the picture. Maybe, in her own little way, she’d been trying to help.
Kay unlocked the front door and they stepped into the house. Seeing the brown sofa and the wilting flowers on the dining table made her stomach lurch. The drawing had been realistic in so many ways.
You can turn up any time of the day or night.
‘Why don’t you go outside and play on your space hopper?’ she said.
Once Abigail was safely installed in the garden, Kay ran upstairs to her bedroom. She uncurled her fingers and the scrap of paper sprang open. Westhill House. The Esplanade, Nevansey. There was a phone number too, and a name next to it. Franny. CALL ME ANY TIME, it said in capital letters. She folded the paper into a tiny square, then hid it in a packet of sanitary towels.
She tried to imagine Westhill House. If it was on the Esplanade, then it probably faced the sea. Kay had been to Nevansey several times. It was about forty-five minutes away by bus. She used to go there with her mates when they were teenagers and do the amusement arcades, or hang around the pier hoping to get chatting to boys. That was before she fell pregnant and lost her childhood. Westhill House sounded like it was beyond the pier and up the hill. But it didn’t matter; it was extremel
y unlikely she’d ever go there. A squat? That was illegal, wasn’t it? The last thing Kay wanted to do was get in trouble with the police.
Nobody’s ever turned away.
That couldn’t be true. What happened if there weren’t enough beds? And what about the kids? How would Abigail get to school?
Besides, things weren’t that bad. Ms Gardiner – Franny – had put two and two together and come up with twenty-six. She was probably one of those man-haters who went around trying to prise women away from their husbands. Kay didn’t want to be a divorcee, a single mum again. She didn’t want another failure on her record. Her parents would be furious if she walked out on her comfortable life on the Fairmead estate and took Abigail to live in a squat. Weren’t they filthy dirty and full of people on drugs? It was out of the question. Ridiculous. Things really, really weren’t that bad.
But she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the piece of paper.
She went over to the window and looked down into the garden. Abigail was bouncing around on the orange ball with her black curls flying, looking like a witch on a new-fangled broomstick. Was Ms Gardiner right about her being withdrawn at school? She looked happy enough at the moment, but then Daddy wasn’t home yet. It was true, when Foxy was around, Abigail hid in her bedroom. There was very little communication between them. In the beginning Kay had tried so hard to make them love each other, but she’d all but given up now.
She still believed that having a child of their own would make all the difference. Foxy was incredibly committed to his brother; she was sure he’d love a child just as fiercely if he or she were his own flesh and blood. And he wouldn’t dare to strike Kay while she was pregnant.
She opened the drawer of her bedside cabinet and took out her packet of contraceptive pills. He’d said several times recently that he didn’t want another kid, but that was only because he couldn’t imagine how amazing it would feel. A lot of men didn’t think about becoming fathers until it happened, then the moment they held the baby in their arms they were besotted. She pushed today’s tiny pill out of its foil case and balanced it on the tip of her finger. He wouldn’t have to know. When she fell pregnant, she would blame the contraceptive failure on an upset stomach. The same thing had happened to her friend Ruth, and her husband had been thrilled.
Before she could change her mind, she walked into the bathroom and flicked the pill into the toilet bowl, flushing it immediately. She felt dizzy with excitement, almost as if she’d just conceived. The squat was not for her; that was just running away, it was defeatism, somewhere women went when there was no other choice. But having a baby was a positive move. It would bring her and Foxy together, turn them into a proper little family. Kay felt herself growing stronger by the second. She would turn this marriage around. Whatever it was she was doing wrong, she would put it right.
* * *
A month had passed. A whole month of letting him see her take her pill and then spitting it out when she went to the bathroom. Her period hadn’t come, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Sometimes it took months for your natural cycle to return; she wasn’t going to get her hopes up. Anyway, they had enough to worry about at the moment.
It was the first day of Micky’s trial, and Foxy was insisting she came with him to sit in the public gallery. He’d taken a precious week’s holiday so that he could be there every day. ‘We have to put on a good show for the jury,’ he told her. ‘Wear something decent; we don’t want any tits on display.’ She didn’t remind him that he’d made her throw out all her low-cut tops ages ago.
Micky had scrubbed up well – his hair was cut short and he was wearing his brother’s wedding suit, even his silver tie. He was almost unrecognisable from the scruffy layabout who hung around their house every weekend. When the judge came in and everyone stood, Kay did a double take. It was like seeing her own husband in the dock.
She didn’t want to be here; it was embarrassing to be in the camp of the accused. Please God the case wouldn’t make the local paper and her parents find out. Micky waved up at the gallery and Foxy nudged her until she waved back. She didn’t dislike her brother-in-law, but she thought he was a fool. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d walloped the other player as hard as he could, but he was pleading self-defence.
‘It was just a punch-up,’ Foxy had said when Micky was charged. ‘A waste of public money taking it to trial.’
‘But the bloke’s jaw was broken in two places,’ Kay had pointed out, instantly regretting her bravery.
‘If you’re not careful, you’ll end up worse,’ he’d snapped, but he’d spared her that time. You never knew with him. Sometimes she’d say something completely innocent and she’d get a nasty slap. Other times they’d have a blazing row and he wouldn’t touch her. It was the unpredictability that kept her on her toes, ever watchful, ever waiting.
The trial began with the case for the prosecution. Every time the barrister said something negative about Micky, Foxy tutted and shook his head gravely. Kay twisted her fingers nervously in her lap as she listened to various witnesses describe Micky’s professional foul in forensic detail, as if that were the crime that was being tried. She found it tiresome and stupid. In one way, Foxy was right. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other. Why should this case come to court when husbands were beating their wives on a regular basis and getting away with it? She adjusted her scarf, making sure last night’s bite wasn’t on show. It was knotted so tightly around her neck, it made her look like an air stewardess. If only, she thought. She liked the idea of flying around the world.
Just as it seemed they were making progress, the judge stopped proceedings for the day. It was only three p.m. ‘He wants to get a game of golf in while the weather’s nice,’ whispered Foxy. ‘What a bastard.’
The following day, Micky took the stand. He’d been well coached, Foxy had seen to that. He looked so clean and smart, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. When he was asked to describe what had happened, he gave an Oscar-winning performance. ‘I went for the ball and I won it, no way was it a foul. I’d made him look a fool, see, and he lost his temper, just started punching me. I was really scared. I put my hands up to protect myself and accidentally caught him on the cheek.’
They went to the cafeteria while they waited for the jury to decide. Foxy was agitated. ‘What’s taking them so long?’ he moaned. ‘Anyone would think it was a bloody murder trial.’
‘I expect they’re arguing about whether it was self-defence or not,’ Kay ventured.
‘It’s clear, isn’t it? If a bloke hits you, you hit him back.’
‘But that’s retaliation. The judge said in his summing-up that you can only use reasonable force—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, I was there, right? But it doesn’t make sense. A man’s not a man if he doesn’t fight back.’
And what about when a woman fights back? Kay sighed and drank her tea. There was no point arguing with him, not when he was so worked up.
The jury took two hours to come to a decision, and in the end, the judge had to accept a majority verdict. Micky was found guilty of assault and given a six-month sentence, suspended for two years. Foxy nearly exploded with fury, and she had to grab his hand to stop him making a scene and getting arrested himself.
‘At least it’s suspended,’ she said as the three of them left the court.
‘Yeah, but it’s still a conviction, it goes on his record. He’ll lose his job and he’ll never get another one. He’ll be on the dole for the rest of his life.’ Foxy marched on ahead to the bus stop, Kay and Micky running to catch up. She felt sorry for the boy. Unemployment was at a record high and there was no sign of the situation improving. The Queen’s Silver Jubilee had cheered the country up a few months ago, but doom and gloom had descended again and the winter ahead looked bleak.
‘Don’t worry! I’ll sort it out,’ Micky called after him.
They sat on the bus in silence all the way home. As soon as they arrived, Kay rus
hed off to pick Abigail up from school. When she got back, she found the brothers sitting in the lounge demolishing cans of lager. The atmosphere between them was strange – she couldn’t describe it exactly, but it smelt bad.
‘Go upstairs and play,’ she told Abigail. The girl didn’t need any encouragement.
‘I tried my best to help you, but you let me down, mate,’ Foxy said, snapping open another can. ‘Got to learn to keep your fists to yourself.’
Kay couldn’t bear the hypocrisy of it. ‘You can talk,’ she blurted out.
He looked up at her coldly. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You use your fists when you feel like it.’
‘Shut up! Shut up!’
There was silence. Micky’s eyes flickered between them; he sniffed the air for the truth.
‘You saying he punches you?’
‘Punches, slaps, bites. He stubbed out his cigarette on my arm last week. Want to see?’ She began to roll up her sleeve. It was crazy, provoking him like this, but in the moment she didn’t care. She’d had enough of covering up for him, letting everyone believe he was a saint – the charming husband, loyal brother, respectful son-in-law, amusing friend.
‘Go to your room,’ Foxy barked. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ He glared at her, waiting for her to move, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. ‘I said go!’
‘That’s your wife you’re talking to,’ said Micky. ‘Show some respect.’
‘Keep out of it, all right?’
Micky put down his can and stood up. ‘No, I won’t keep out of it. Kay’s been good to me and she’s good to you too. You should treat her right.’
‘Oh, I see, that’s what this is all about.’ Foxy rose and squared up to Micky. ‘You’ve been screwing each other behind my back.’
‘Don’t be silly, Foxy,’ she interrupted. ‘Course we haven’t.’
Micky looked at his brother, disgusted. ‘You’re losing the plot, mate.’