by K. L. Slater
Only it doesn’t.
She sits back, seemingly relaxed.
The sheer audacity of her takes my breath away. Why on earth didn’t the nurses stop her from coming in? I can’t imagine what they were thinking.
The first line of her message had been packed with lies.
‘I just had to send you this message to say how sorry I am. One minute the road was clear, the next, there you were.’
She was driving too fast. And she doesn’t look sorry to me, at all.
‘Sit down, Anna,’ Liam urges, and I realise I’m still standing frozen to the spot, near the door.
If by some miracle she really doesn’t recognise me, the last thing I want to do is alert her there’s a problem, so I sit down. Still, I can’t stop staring at her. I can’t.
With no make-up on and her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail she looks, to all intents and purposes, as if she is suffering too. But obviously, it’s all part of the act.
She has to be at least eight years older than me but I think she looks younger, fitter. Liam is bound to compare us and I’ll come away wanting.
Liam coughs.
‘Anna, this is Amanda, the lady who—’
‘I know who she is,’ I say tightly.
Her face instantly glows red. She rubs hard at bony wrists protruding from beneath her cuffs as if she’s surprised to find they are hers.
Liam opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again.
What was it that her message to Liam had said?
‘I only delayed braking for a second but you kept on coming. I’ll regret that second for the rest of my life.’
‘I recognise you,’ I say, and she looks up.
From thirteen years ago, I’d like to add.
‘From the accident. I was there, you see; I saw it all. I helped Liam as he lay injured in the road.’
Silence. Liam clears his throat.
‘I came here today to tell Liam how sorry I am,’ she whispers.
She is putting on an impressive show but I’ve seen it all before. It’s alarming, though, to see Liam looking at her almost pitifully.
Her message had been clearly constructed to garner his trust, his sympathy.
‘I’ll never get behind the wheel again. I could have killed you and now I have to live with that.’
Little did she know it hadn’t quite gone to plan because he hadn’t seen the message, thank goodness.
‘You came to say you’re sorry?’ I repeat, in the vain hope she’ll hear how ridiculously inadequate it sounds.
‘Yes.’ She stands up then and dusts down her jeans as if that might brush the problem away. ‘I know sorry isn’t really enough, I just wanted—’
She looks at Liam, tightens her lips into a small, straight line and her eyes glitter with tears.
It is quite a performance.
‘It’s okay, Amanda,’ he says kindly. ‘Thanks for coming; it took guts. I don’t remember anything about the accident, but when I’m discharged you should pop round the house for a cuppa, like you said.’
Just as she’d planned:
‘I hope we can be friends.’
Liam, in his vulnerable state, is playing right into her hands.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be as simple as popping round and we can all forget what’s happened, Liam,’ I blurt out before I think better of it. ‘The police are involved now, and I’m not sure you two should even be communicating.’
‘Actually, the police haven’t even been in touch with me yet,’ she says in a notthatit’sanyofyourbusiness tone. Then she catches herself and softens her manner. ‘They’re giving me some space to get my head straight, you see. I’ve been in a bit of a state with the shock of it all.’
Only a few minutes earlier she’d been hooting with laughter.
I don’t know how I manage it but I clamp my mouth shut and look away as she heads for the door. I’m afraid of what might happen if I let go of whatever is bubbling like acid in my chest.
She nods goodbye at me, which, of course, I completely ignore.
‘Apparently, it’s not the first time she’s done this,’ I say to Liam when I close the door behind her. ‘She knocked a child off his bicycle, too.’
Even as the words tumble out, I don’t know why I’m saying it. It’s the sort of thing that can be checked out but someone has to bring Liam to his senses before she gets her claws into him.
Liam frowns. ‘But she said she’d only just passed her test.’
‘A woman of her age? I seriously doubt that,’ I scoff. ‘Besides, she’s hurt a child all the same. I’m not supposed to know that so keep it to yourself but I think you need to be aware of what kind of a person she really is behind all that play-acting.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Liam says, staring out of the window. ‘I can’t believe she’d hurt a kid and not mention it, not after saying how much she loves her job.’
The back of my neck prickles.
‘Her job?’
Liam looks up at me.
‘She works at a private nursery, Little Bees or something, in West Bridgford, she said. She told me she really loves kids.’
And that’s when my plans start to slide into place like a perfectly designed jigsaw.
Chapter 20
Just after three fifteen the following afternoon, I park the car up across the street from the Busy Bees Day Nursery on Melton Road in West Bridgford.
I don’t know exactly what time she finishes but I do know most private nurseries stay open until quite late to cater for the sort of parents who insist on having children and then working all the hours God sends so they can pay someone else to look after them.
If I had a little boy or girl, I can tell you now, I’d cherish every moment with them. You can never be sure quite how much time you’ve got with the people you love; it’s all too easy to take it for granted.
The street is mostly empty of people but there are a good few cars parked up at the end of the road. I’m guessing it is collect-the-kids-from-school time as there seems to be a definite lull in the foot traffic from earlier in the day.
At least getting here early, I have the best chance of spotting her when she eventually leaves work.
The sky is candy-striped with pinks and blues, apart from a smoky grey streak left from a passing plane that cleaves its way straight through the middle of the pastels, ruining the effect.
My thoughts are jumping around all over the place. It’s sick that someone who causes injury and death is charged with looking after unsuspecting people’s children.
There is movement at the main door. Two members of staff wearing the same silly yellow tabards embroidered with oversized bees step out and light up cigarettes, chatting and laughing.
Hardly a desirable image for a childcare establishment but, as it happens, neither woman is her.
Hanging on to her mother’s hand, a small girl of about five stares into my car as they pass; the woman is busy talking on her phone and doesn’t even notice me sitting there, watching.
It is impressive how astute children can be and how little most adults notice as they go about their daily lives.
I have always been observant, have to be in my job.
To Joe Public, a couple of pints of milk standing outside a front door late in the day means nothing. To me, the same thing could indicate that the elderly occupant has collapsed inside the house.
Thankfully, nothing like that has ever happened yet on one of my rounds but, all the same, I try to remain vigilant.
I’ve seen too many reports on the news where, following a report from a delivery worker or similar, the police have found a decomposing body that used to be someone.
Someone who had no one to miss them.
By four o’clock there is still no sign of Amanda Danson.
It occurs to me I could sit here waiting for hours yet, only to find she’s left early today or it’s her day off. That’s when I have the brainwave.
I punch the number on the big B
usy Bees sign into my phone. When the receptionist answers, I ask for Amanda Danson. ‘I’m ringing from the accident repair centre,’ I say.
I want to establish if she’s actually in the building but my little ploy pays unexpected dividends.
‘Amanda isn’t working today,’ the receptionist tells me. ‘You could call her on her mobile, though.’
‘I’m sorry, my notepaper is torn and half the mobile number is missing, which is why I rang her work number,’ I sigh, my heartbeat quickening. ‘I don’t suppose you could give it to me again? It’s just that I’ll probably get into trouble if I can’t contact her as I have some important information about her car.’
A moment’s hesitation. Then: ‘I’m sure that’ll be OK under the circumstances,’ she says. ‘I know Amanda has been worrying about her car and if it’s important—’
‘Thanks very much.’ I am hardly able to believe my luck. I lean over and rummage in the glovebox for a pen and a scrap of paper.
How typical: Amanda has been fretting about her car rather than the human cost of her negligent driving.
I hear the woman tapping on some keys at the other end and then she reads out the number, just like that.
And suddenly, my day doesn’t seem so bad after all.
* * *
Back home, the first thing that hits me when I walk through the door is the fetid smell again. It has returned with a vengeance.
I look down at Albert happily rubbing himself against the edge of the kitchen cupboard. It doesn’t seem to be bothering him and he’s usually very sensitive to odours.
I’m beginning to wonder if he has dropped the corpse of a small rodent or bird in the house, somewhere inaccessible. I hope I won’t have to clear up another of his nasty messes; tiny birds have a surprising amount of entrails packed away behind their feathery little breasts.
I walk from room to room again, trying to get a sense of where it’s coming from. It’s the mix of rotten sweetness I can’t deal with.
I once watched a film with a scene that featured clouds of flies appearing inexplicably on the inside window of a closed-up room. Not for the first time, I wonder if the rottenness of this house and its miserable past are being purged from the walls.
The interior was in such a state back then, I thought the whole house might have to be knocked down. Social Services helped me make it new again.
They arranged for people to come in and replace things, to cover up the old and the damaged.
Despite this I often think that the trace of everything that happened remains under there. I know it will never go away.
I stroke my fingers across the smooth plaster of the long wall in the middle room. When the house became mine, I had more of it redecorated.
I knew it was just a flimsy coating, of course; a superficial veneer to attempt to obscure the sounds and memories that will be forever trapped in these walls.
I blink a few times to try and get my thinking back on track. This line of thought isn’t helping me find where the smell is coming from.
Like before, it doesn’t seem to get stronger or weaker anywhere in the house, it remains just as bad wherever I go.
I walk around the entire house again with a bottle of antiseptic spray and a cloth.
I peer behind furniture and into dusty corners. The only room I don’t go in to is the box room.
I don’t want to look in there.
* * *
Later, when I arrive at the hospital, Ivy is sitting next to Liam’s bed.
‘You’re back then,’ I say. ‘Are you feeling better now?’
She nods and beams at Liam, obviously fully recovered after her funny turn. ‘They’re letting him come home tomorrow,’ she says.
She is wearing a faded floral dress and a brown cardigan with worn knobbly bits around the cuffs. I notice she hasn’t taken off her plastic hospital identification bracelet yet from her brief admission following her collapse. Some people crave attention.
Liam doesn’t look quite as thrilled as Ivy at the prospect of being discharged, and I’m not surprised. Being holed up with an old woman you don’t remember isn’t really anyone’s idea of fun.
‘That’s good news,’ I say to Liam, sitting down at the other side of his bed. ‘What time are they likely to discharge you? I’ll make sure I’m around.’
‘We don’t know the details yet,’ Ivy answers for him. ‘Someone’s coming to speak to us about it shortly.’
It feels like ‘us’ means just her and Liam.
A few minutes later a tall, plump woman with bright blue eyeshadow and tightly permed hair comes in clutching a clipboard. She wears ordinary clothes but an identity lanyard dangles around her neck and she bustles around like she has the most important job in the hospital.
‘I’m Maureen, your Patient Care Coordinator,’ she announces to Liam in one breath. ‘My job is to make sure you have adequate arrangements in place at home when you leave the hospital.’
She asks questions and records his answers on a pre-printed sheet.
Does Liam have transport home, she asks and will he need a note from the doctor for his initial absence from work?
‘I don’t go to work,’ Liam says quietly.
‘You remembered that?’ Maureen stops writing and looks up.
‘We were just talking about it,’ Ivy tells her. ‘Before you came in.’
I glance at Ivy but she keeps her rheumy eyes fixed on Maureen.
‘I can’t work because—’
‘He’s in the middle of a career change,’ Ivy interrupts. ‘Studying photography at college.’
Maureen pauses and blinks a couple of times as if she is trying to focus on her questions again. Finally, she wonders if Ivy will require any home help for Liam while he recovers?
Ivy starts to babble about booking a cab and asking a neighbour to help her look after Liam for a few days.
‘I’ll take you both home tomorrow, Ivy,’ I say firmly. ‘And I can help you to look after Liam when he’s back at home, too.’
‘Nonsense, you’ve done enough, Anna,’ Ivy says quickly.
I look at Maureen and offer her a small smile. ‘She’s only just recovered from collapsing with exhaustion herself,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind helping out.’
‘I see. Well, they’ll need most of tomorrow to do any final tests and get his medication ready so it will be fairly late on in the day before he’s ready,’ Maureen says, jotting something down.
‘We could take him at the start of visiting tomorrow evening if that’s convenient,’ I say. ‘I can sort everything out; there’s no need for you to worry, Ivy.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ she says tightly. ‘It’s just that—’
‘I think you should take up your friend’s kind offer,’ Maureen tells her gently. ‘It’s hard work looking after an invalid, Mrs Bradbury, especially if you’re not that well yourself.’
‘But we’ll be fine; Anna isn’t really a friend, we only just—’
I shake my head slightly at Maureen to cancel out Ivy’s protesting. ‘I’ll get them home, don’t you worry,’ I say. ‘I won’t let them struggle on without me.’
* * *
Later, on my way home, I call at the big Tesco Superstore in Carlton and pick up a cheap pay-as-you-go phone complete with a new sim card and ten pounds of call credit.
I read somewhere that if you don’t bother registering the handset with the carrier, your calls are completely untraceable. That sort of thing is always useful to know.
When I get back home, I call Amanda Danson’s mobile number on the new phone.
It goes straight through to voicemail and I listen to her personalised recorded message, goosebumps popping on my arms as her voice drones smoothly on.
She sounds so polite and sensible. Like the kind of person you could easily trust.
I ring and listen eight times in all until I’ve memorised what she says and I have the exact tone of her voice in my head.
Then I close my eyes an
d imagine her pleading with me.
Chapter 21
Clifton, Nottingham
Colin Freckleton sat in his unmarked silver Ford Focus, waiting.
It was just before seven a.m. on a fine morning. Ideal weather for his task; nice and clear but not too warm. Colin opened the car window a touch to enjoy the birdsong permeating from the nearby hedgerows. Possibly a pied wagtail, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Closing his eyes, he paused for just a moment to savour the anticipation of success he always got at the beginning of a new job.
From this vantage point he could see all the way down Patchings Hill, which made up a good section of this particular route.
Typically, he’d done a bit of a recce in his own time the previous evening to ensure the best position for his stake-out. Colin liked to think it was just one of the ways in which he stood out from the rest of the team.
On the passenger seat he’d laid out his usual kit in perfect order. He didn’t mind admitting he was a creature of habit.
A pair of powerful mini binoculars, a digital camera complete with zoom lens, his tablet PC and phone and, of course, the always-reliable 12 HB pencil and Moleskine notebook. No batteries required.
Colin prided himself on his attention to detail and his track record of reliable, accurate surveillance. His record spoke for itself and was the reason he’d risen four full ranks from office administrator to Senior Officer of the Royal Mail Investigation Branch in less than five years.
He flipped open the notebook and scanned through his handwritten points again.
‘Anna Clarke, postal worker for five years.’
It was a familiar story. A good character with no previous indiscretions and then, bang, out of the blue, several complaints from customers relating to non-delivery.
Ms Clarke’s manager had apparently spoken to her and got the usual complete denial that the RMIB saw regularly in these cases.