Pale sighed and the sigh grew into a yawn, hidden behind his hand. ‘Who is Nuala Greene?’ His voice sounded tired, his face looked weary and stressed. He drew out a notebook from his blazer pocket, a small pencil with it.
Maggie told them about Nuala’s stay, from her arrival on Friday evening to the crimes she must have, must have, committed on Saturday night whilst Maggie walked home. There was enough time, Maggie surmised, for Nuala to have knocked Emma out and driven her to Lois’s house, where she killed both the women and set up the scene so no one would suspect her, all while Maggie was asleep in the chair at the pub. The lampers had been out all evening, the crow scarer had been going off, too. Who would have noticed one more gunshot?
Then a terrible thought struck her, weaving through her senses like a poisonous spider’s web. Of the three people in the village that Maggie knew for certain Nuala had spoken to, only she, Maggie, was left alive.
‘I can’t believe you’re not looking for her already! She’s two days ahead of you, for Christ’s sake!’
There was a knock at the door. The two detectives exchanged a glance then Ali stood up and walked out, with a small smile for Maggie as she closed the door behind her.
DS Pale, left behind, looked at Maggie. ‘There was no evidence of another woman at the crime scene, no mention of her by the other witnesses.’ He put the notebook down. ‘Did you take her details when she came to the pub? Her full name? Address? Registration?’
‘She gave us a different name: Mrs James. I didn’t take her address or her registration.’
‘Did she pay by credit or debit card? Something we can follow up?’
Maggie curled her fingers in her lap. ‘She didn’t pay at all.’
Maggie could hear Pale’s foot tapping on the lino, and thought of Lois’s tap-tap-tap.
‘Emma would never harm anyone, she’s good as gold.’ Maggie could feel the cloth from her shirt digging into the wet, salty skin of her armpits. ‘She would never kill herself, never. And Lois’s front door was unlocked. Unlocked!’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘She never left it unlocked! She was paranoid about it; always locked it with the security chain in place.’
‘And what’s your theory?’ Pale was holding his pencil but Maggie knew he wouldn’t make any more notes, she knew the detective was placating her.
‘I think she knocked Emma out, dragged her to Lois’s house and set the whole thing up. I think Nuala Greene battered Lois to death and I think Nuala Greene shot Emma.’
DS Pale nodded and for a moment Maggie’s headache lifted.
‘Any idea where we might find this Nuala Greene?’
Maggie sat straight, shoulders square. ‘London.’
‘London.’ Pale looked up to the ceiling, his fingers running through his thick, black hair. ‘Mrs Bradbury, do you know much about London? Ever been?’
Maggie looked down, shook her head.
‘Have you any idea how big it is? How many people live there?’
The door opened and Ali walked back in, passed a sheet of paper to Pale with a sideways glance at Maggie.
‘But I know about her. I know her parents are dead, that she’s half Irish, that she lived with James near a park. I know James used to work in one of those London parks, and it had deer in it. I know she had a red car that was new; a foreign make.’
‘That information could have been found anywhere, Mrs Bradbury,’ Ali said, giving her partner time to read the new notes. ‘And we know from Emma’s phone that she had been looking up James online that day. We know, from her search history, that she looked for him fairly regularly, though usually by his former name of Lunglow.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘We just have to look at the evidence from all angles, Mrs Bradbury.’ DC Ali looked to Pale as he finished reading the sheet of paper.
Maggie said, ‘What, what is it?’
‘They found a note. It was tucked into the pocket of Emma’s jeans.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It’s a suicide note.’
The room fell silent, the phone outside, the hallway footsteps, all hushed. Even Maggie’s head, still wracked with pain, stopped ringing.
‘It must have been Nuala who wrote it.’
Pale leant back in the chair, chin down. ‘Had Emma ever tried to harm herself before, Mrs Bradbury?’
Maggie shook her head, unable to speak, unable to look Pale in the eye. No, she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.
She tried to take a sip of water but her hands shook, the water spilling.
‘We found a further three suicide notes in her bedroom. The oldest was from seven years ago, the most recent eighteen months, each stating that she wished to end her life. All were written in the same handwriting, Emma’s handwriting. It seems clear to us that she had suicidal tendencies.’
‘No.’ Maggie wiped at the spilt water on the table with the cuff of her shirt.
‘Can you think of anything from, say, seven years ago, that may have instigated Emma to first try and—’
The facts ran through Maggie’s mind, snowballing horrifically together. Emma losing her baby, James fleeing. Her father refusing to have her in the house, the death of her stepmother…
And then there was the fire, Maggie thought. The fire that ruined Lois’s house next door to the pub, a thunderous force of heat and flame that burned every one of her possessions, starting only hours after James had fled. A chip pan fire, a simple mistake, Lois forgetting to turn off the hob after dinner, her mind no doubt preoccupied with James leaving. But local gossip painted a different picture, pointing the finger at Emma, an act of revenge on Lois for keeping James away, and on James for leaving her. Back at school, no one would talk to her. In the street her old friends turned their backs.
But Emma was strong, a fighter, had been since the day she was born and Maggie couldn’t believe she would kill herself, that she would feel so low without reaching out to Maggie for help. She wouldn’t believe it.
‘No!’ Maggie shouted, faithful to her goddaughter to the end.
‘Are you sure about that, Mrs Bradbury?’ Pale’s eyes narrowed, his lips in a moue. ‘‘Nothing that would have ignited anger towards Lois?’
Maggie caught on one word, ignited, and all its insinuations. Did Pale really think Emma had not only started that fire seven years ago, but had intended to kill Lois then too? The rest of Pale’s words sunk in and Maggie realised someone must have told him about Emma, about James, about why Emma hated Lois so. It could have been anyone, anyone.
Half the village bore witness in the end.
Seven years ago
Emma
Wednesday, 11th August, 2010
‘I was waiting all night for someone to call me, to tell me what happened after Daddy left.’ Emma was looking out of the car window, watching the hospital slide from view as Maggie drove her home, the glass reflecting the purple half-moons beneath her eyes.
‘You’ve no need to worry,’ Maggie said firmly, but Emma knew she was lying. Maggie wouldn’t look at Emma, that was the tell; had barely met her eye since she arrived to collect her. ‘It’s all in hand,’ Maggie said, ‘I’ll tell you everything once we’re home.’ Her voice was strong but, on the final word, trembled. Emma found herself worrying more.
‘I thought Elaine might phone, let me know what had happened,’ Emma pushed, waiting for her godmother to say more.
Maggie coughed, stared at the road ahead.
‘Did Daddy talk to Lois?’ Emma said, trying to convince herself that Arthur wouldn’t have lashed out at Lois, that he only ever behaved like that at home. ‘Have you seen him since, Maggie?’ She tried to hold on to a bright cheery tone.
Maggie opened her mouth, as if to speak, but closed it again, looking sidelong at Emma’s belly. ‘Let’s just get you back home,’ Maggie said at last, reaching over and patting Emma’s knee. Emma could smell alcohol on her breath, sour and stale, hoped it was from last nig
ht and not this morning. She was painfully aware that Maggie had avoided her question.
Her godmother looked tired, almost as tired as Emma felt, a night of constant worry robbing her of sleep.
‘Is Mum OK?’ Emma asked in a small voice, pleading for Maggie’s attention. ‘Why didn’t she come with you to get me?’ Maggie didn’t answer, the silence only adding to the dread in Emma’s gut, the feeling so tangible it pulled at the stiches on her belly.
‘Just give me a minute, Emma. Let me concentrate on the road.’ Maggie rubbed her face with her left hand.
Emma shrank in her seat.
Did Maggie know how Arthur treated Elaine? Would now be the time to tell someone, tell Maggie in the safety of the car, where she knew her father would never overhear or find out? Could this be the chance to tell all? To explain why, when another man came to her, offered her comfort, affection and more, she had taken it so greedily? Drinking up the praise and the attention in whatever form it manifested itself?
James understood what it was like, living in a home like hers. He had watched his father hit his mother more times than he could count. Had watched Lois take beatings to save him from his father’s anger, though James suspected she hated him for it, suspected she hated having had him in the first place. He said that he knew what it was like to blame yourself for the actions of your parents. And wasn’t it lucky that Emma had found someone, found James, who knew just what that feeling was like? Wasn’t that wonderful, that she had found someone like James to love her? Because no one else would, after growing up in a home like hers. No one else could.
Would he be waiting for her when she got home?
‘Has James come back?’ she asked Maggie. ‘Did you see him?’
‘He’s still away; Lois says he won’t be back until next week at least.’
Emma fell silent, hands resting on her tender belly. Had no one told James what had happened? Wasn’t he coming straight home to see her, make sure she was all right? Didn’t he want to find out what happened to their baby?
Emma slumped in her seat, chin on palm, top lip pulled into her mouth, head filled with thoughts of James. She watched as they passed the old youth club, now a rehab clinic, and drove on through the streets of three-storey council flats. The car was warm, another hot day, the dull rumble of the tyres soporific, gradually lulling her. She tried her best to stifle it, but she let out a long yawn, so wide her mouth cracked at the sides. Just as she was about to fall asleep, her godmother finally spoke.
‘Emma,’ Maggie said, ‘I need to talk to you, before we get back.’
Emma’s eyes shot open. The serious tone of Maggie’s voice told her she must stay awake, hear what had to be said.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
Maggie paused, her eyes on the road ahead.
‘I looked after you, as a newborn. You know that?’
‘Of course I do. That’s why you’re my godmother, you looked after me when Daddy couldn’t, after my mother had—’
‘That’s right,’ Maggie said. ‘Tom and I looked after you for those first few months of your life. Arthur was still weak with grief, but you were strong, a little fighter. You slept in the basket by my bed, slept right through from when you were six weeks old, as though you knew by instinct that we all needed to keep up our strength because we all had to keep fighting.’
‘And then Daddy met Elaine and they got married,’ Emma went on, knowing the story by heart. ‘Elaine looked after me then, and they asked you and Tom to be godparents.’
‘And I’ve never stopped loving you, you know that?’
This was new; the story normally ended at Emma’s last sentence.
She looked up at her godmother, still staring at the road.
‘I know,’ Emma said.
The road narrowed, the surface rougher and dotted with potholes. The path ahead growing darker as they reached the woods.
‘Emma, I need to talk to you about what happened yesterday—’
She hesitated, her face dappled in shadow as they drove through the trees.
‘What is it, Maggie?’ The knot in Emma’s stomach was growing Something about Maggie’s voice, the way her knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel, played on Emma’s nerves, made her anxious.
Maggie took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to be staying with me for a while, my dear girl. You see, Emma, your father got very … cross last night. After everything at the hospital. Elaine’s had to go away for a while, to find somewhere safe for you both to go—’
Cross. An understatement. Emma knew immediately that it meant her father had done something to Elaine. Had punished her for Emma’s mistakes, as was his twisted habit. As if he knew that, whenever he hit Elaine instead of Emma, he was punishing his daughter’s psyche, wreaking far more damage than a punch to the girl’s stomach could inflict.
Emma felt the familiar guilt work its way through her body, like ice, until she felt that dread chill from her head to her toes. She had gotten pregnant. And her father would lay the blame on Elaine.
‘What happened?’ she whispered, the words hurting her throat, mouth and tongue because she could guess what had happened. She pictured what her father would do to Elaine, the word cross still ringing in her ears. ‘Is Mum …?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Maggie said, too quickly to be believed. She gripped the wheel more tightly.
‘What did he do? I have to see her!’ Emma cried, the tears starting to fall.
Maggie pulled over to the side of the road, held Emma firmly in her arms as she cried.
‘Emma,’ she said, ‘Emma, you have me, I’ll look after you.’ Emma smelled the gin on Maggie’s breath and cried harder, her shoulders juddering, her tears soaking Maggie’s shirt, her tender belly made sore by the twisting angle of the embrace.
Maggie held her tightly, didn’t let go, held her and hushed her until her tears had subsided. ‘I’ll look after you, sweetheart,’ she said again, but Emma didn’t want her to. She wanted Elaine. She wanted James. She wanted her father to be the one to go, run away.
Eventually she quietened, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pictured Elaine in a hotel away from Arthur, from his anger, and the image fuelled the last vestiges of her strength, helped her to sit up straight and look ahead.
‘I’ll take you home,’ Maggie said. ‘You’ll stay with me until Elaine sends word, until you can go and stay with her, somewhere safe. Because you’re not safe with your father, you know that?’
Emma bit her lip to stop from crying again, and she nodded.
As Maggie went to restart the car the rear-view mirror caught a flash of red light, then blue.
They heard a siren, getting louder.
Another siren echoing close behind.
Maggie found the bite point on the clutch, waited for the ambulance and police car to pass them, then put her foot to the floor and sped off, following them.
They were heading for the village.
Neither Maggie nor Emma said a word, both filled with the same certainty that the ambulance had something to do with yesterday’s fallout, that the drama and horror hadn’t subsided just yet.
As Maggie followed the vehicles over the rough road, Emma gripped the door handle, toes curled inside her trainers, teeth clenched painfully hard in her jaw.
The ambulance dipped down, disappeared down the hill, the police car hot on its heels.
Maggie followed, the noise of the sirens deafening now.
Emma watched the village pass, then Shore Road and the houses her father owned, rented out, then the shop, Lois’s house, Maggie’s pub.
They flew through the streets, the pavements getting busier, people stepping out of their houses, drawn by the noise, watching as Maggie’s car hurtled past.
Emma knew where they were going. She knew where this road led and her heart lurched with that sea-sick feeling of dread.
There was her house, the home she’d grown up in, her father’s Land Rover pulled up outside.
They followed the vehicles along the lane which ran beside Emma’s house, and came to a stop at the end of the track, the barn in full view.
The wood-plank building was heaving with people, half the village standing outside it. The red-painted doors were flung open, crows perched on the slate-tiled roof.
The paramedics jumped out, abandoned the ambulance to rush into the barn, the officers from the police car following.
Emma was out of the car in a moment, pushing through the small crowd, could hear Maggie’s laboured breathing behind her as she did the same.
A paramedic, green shirt and black hair, boots still shiny from that morning’s polish, stepped out of the barn. Behind him, discarded on the floor of the barn, strewn with hay and pale sawdust, was a peach cardigan in fine wool, one pearl button catching the sunlight. Emma recognised it as Elaine’s, the same one she had worn to the hospital yesterday.
The WPC turned, looked questioningly at the paramedic.
The man shook his head in reply.
The shake of the head said plainly no hope.
Emma wasn’t the only one to have seen it.
Maggie reached for Emma’s hand.
‘Oh Emma,’ she said, but her words were stamped out, drowned by another, terrible, noise: a guttural scream, repeating the word ‘You!’ It came from Arthur, who lunged outside through the open barn doors.
Emma had never seen her father like this.
Eyes wide, mouth dripping, his face purple. His hair, normally so neat and combed back, fell across his forehead in damp, sticky strands.
His feet were shoeless, clothed in black and red socks stuck with dirt and old hay from the barn.
‘You!’ he screamed again, eyes on his daughter, lunging towards her, restrained by the WPC. ‘She did this because of you!’
Emma’s heart dropped; she could feel its beat echo through the stitches in her belly.
Arthur’s hands were covered in Elaine’s dried, black blood.
‘You drove her to this!’
The WPC called for support and two labourers stepped forward, held Arthur’s arms by his sides, stopped him from pointing at Emma but everyone had seen, everyone had turned to look at the girl.
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