by Emmy Ellis
He scoped the street. No one in windows having a nose.
The cars. Nope, no one there either and—
There was someone, sitting in a white work van. It had Spark & Lighting Electricians on the side, and the windows were tinted. But was that a bloke in there, staring his way? A young fella, a phone up to his ear?
Ollie would go out and ask him what he was playing at, but what if he’d been sent by The Brothers? Fucking hell.
Ollie grabbed his house keys and stormed outside, thundering up the road, away from the van. Instead of driving the car Mum had got after the police had taken the Fiat away, he’d get the bus to Jenny’s and wait for her to finish her job at the parlour. It was a nice day, so he could stop off at the corner shop and buy a packed lunch. A prawn sandwich, some crisps, and maybe a Wispa and a few cans of Coke.
The soft purr of an engine firing up rumbled behind Ollie. He didn’t turn to look. That van would come along any second, he’d bet his last quid on it, and he’d soon see if he was being followed.
At the end of the street and round the corner a bit, he stood at the bus stop, leaning against the plastic enclosure. The van halted at the junction and turned left, then went a few metres down and parked.
So, he had a tail on him, did he?
He fumed until the bus came a minute or so later, then fumed some more once he got on, his cheeks heating, his blood scooting faster through veins that seemed to have narrowed, everything inside him tightening. He sat at the back and peered through the dust-coated rear window as the bus trundled along.
The van peeled out of the parking spot and slipped in behind it.
Incensed, Ollie got his phone out and messaged Gone with the Wind, who was also out of prison now, in the hope he’d offer some help: Being followed. Yet again, one of his friends ignored him, as Ollie still hadn’t received a return message by the time he got off the bus by Jenny’s. He nipped into the little shop and bought food and drink, catching a glimpse of the words Spark & Lighting Electricians while he stood at the till, the van crawling past.
Carrier bag in hand, he left the shop and walked to Jenny’s place, parking himself on the low garden wall of a house opposite.
Unfortunately, the van parked, too.
Chapter Sixteen
The police had been kind to Jenny at the bedsit, although they’d looked at Ollie funny a few times. Neither of them had been cuffed, nor had they been cautioned, but they’d been taken to the police station in separate cars to give statements before they were allowed to go anywhere. Was that usual? Or were they the top suspects and the coppers needed to keep them apart?
The partygoers on the beach were questioned. Out in the front garden, prior to all that, Jenny had said she needed to return home, and Ollie had told them he was due to visit his mother, so they’d planned to go to London Sunday afternoon.
“If all’s well, I don’t see why you still can’t do that,” a PC had said.
The interview suite Jenny was in had a sofa, cushy armchairs, and a coffee table with pamphlets on top about domestic abuse and the like. A lady officer, DS Matthews, who resembled Pat Butcher from that soap opera, minus the flamboyant clothing and massive dangly earrings, had taken her statement like they were in someone’s front room just gas-bagging, but in place of a window and curtains was a mirror that reflected the room back at them. A PC was also present, pressed against the wall beside the door like an eavesdropper, as was a DC someone or other Jenny hadn’t caught the name of, taking notes in his little pad.
A couple of hours had passed, some of the questions repeated over and over, Jenny giving the same answers each time, and she sat alone now, although someone’s eyes were on her, she had no doubt of that, through the two-way mirror. And it had to be a mirror, she wasn’t daft. Maybe they observed to see how she reacted since she was by herself—guilty or impassive, scared or dodgy. She wasn’t sure how to act so leant her head back and closed her eyes. They couldn’t accuse her of anything if she feigned sleep.
Exhaustion had taken over her about half an hour ago, and DS Matthews, declaring she was satisfied with Jenny’s version of events, had turned the tape off and risen.
“Just so I’m clear,” she’d said, “Ollie claimed to have fallen asleep on the beach, correct?”
Jenny had nodded.
“Fine. What will happen now is, you can go back to London, but if we need to speak to you again, we’ll be in touch—forensics will determine what’s what. If those results are inconclusive with regards to you, we won’t be knocking on your door. If we catch whoever did this, there’ll be a trial, but don’t fret about that until you have to. As I said, I’m happy with what you’ve told me, and witnesses at the bonfire party said you were with them, so that’s good. I’ll come back for you in a few minutes and see you out.”
“What about Ollie?”
“I’ll check on what’s happening there, don’t worry.” She’d paused. “Are you sure you can’t remember the name of the friend he borrowed a car from to go to the rave?”
“No, sorry. I don’t know anyone here apart from the people on the beach.”
All the officers had left.
More than a few of the promised minutes had passed, and Jenny struggled to control her internal alarm, her armpits sweating so much she pressed her arms to her sides so no one would see the damp. Had Ollie changed his mind and decided to confess? Would Matthews come back for Jenny and take her to a different interview room, one with a table and hard seats, and ask her those questions again, then reveal she knew Jenny was lying because Ollie had said…?
She jumped at the door opening, her eyes springing open.
Matthews popped her head round it and smiled, the overhead light catching on her short blonde hair. “Come on then. Ollie’s waiting for you in the booking area.”
Relief like nothing else swam through Jenny, leaving her body weak and her mind erased of all doubts. Then the mention of forensics barged in and frightened her all over again. Would they find something? She’d look on the brighter side. Ollie couldn’t have blabbed if they were letting him go. Unless…booking area. Did that mean he’d been arrested and they had to log him in? Oh God.
She followed Matthews and her swaying bum down a corridor then out to the front desk. Ollie sat on a bench beneath a corkboard with a wanted poster and general information on it, held there by different-coloured pins. He read a leaflet with WALK THE LAW-ABIDING LINE on the front, his face passive, showing none of the monster he’d been in the bedsit, a new mask that portrayed him as innocent.
“Like I said, we’ll be in touch if we have to,” Matthews said to Jenny.
Ollie glanced up. Smiled. Put the leaflet in a slot on a wire display rack—look at me, I’m a good citizen. He stood and came over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yes. I just want to go home.”
“Same here. This has been a nightmare. I didn’t expect to find that when we got home.” He eyed Matthews. “I just want to forget it all.”
“There’s counselling if you need it,” Matthews said, giving him a pointed stare, her lips puckering. She walked away, staring at him over her shoulder. A scare tactic? Did the police think it was him but they couldn’t prove it so had to release him?
Unnerved by it, Jenny shivered. Ollie took her hand and led her from the station, linking their fingers tight. In case she did a runner? She hadn’t left her purse at the bedsit, it was in her pocket, so at least she could pay for the train if she did run. They’d been allowed to keep their clothes as they’d had a slight change of plan. Possible blood transference onto Ollie’s outfit when he’d gone back for the earring was a concern for Jenny. Instead of entering the bedsit to ‘find’ Amanda, they’d stood outside the house and looked through the window to ‘discover’ the body.
Dawn showed her peach-and-pink-striped face on the horizon, a narrow wedge of sky sitting on the sea visible between two buildings creating an alley opposite. Jenny didn’t
know Landerlay very well, having only been to the shops by the bedsit, in town with her parents as a child, so she let him guide her down the alley. At the other end, they came out at the far end of Main Street, the more residential part. The clock tower stood in the distance to the right, its face blushing from the burgeoning sun, getting a head start on the tans the holidaymakers would sunbathe for later.
“What did they say to you?” Jenny asked once she was sure they were alone, not that anyone was out at this time of the morning, but she was antsy all the same. ‘Walls have ears’, Dad always said, along with ‘Liars never prosper.’ She felt sick at that one.
“They mentioned I’d have to live somewhere else for a bit because the bedsit is a crime scene. I said I’d stay with someone in London. No need to tell them I kip at Mum’s, is there. They seemed to swallow that I was asleep on the beach. What about you?”
“Matthews said she believes me. There were witnesses who said I was on the beach at the time of the murder.”
Ollie laughed. “Bonus that they were so fucked up they wouldn’t have known when you turned up.”
She didn’t tell him she’d fudged the time, planted it in their heads. “Hmm. We should leave. Get the clothes and go. What if they spot your car on CCTV or something?”
“It’s Mum’s, don’t forget.” He grinned sheepishly. For giving her the impression it was his all this time? Or because he didn’t own his own vehicle and he was ashamed he wasn’t as far up in the world as he wanted to be? “They won’t be searching for one she owns. Why would they even look on cameras if we said we’d hitched a lift down here?”
“Because they might be wanting to speak to the bloke we supposedly hitched with to see if we’re telling the truth.”
“Didn’t think of that.” He shrugged. “It’ll be all right.”
She didn’t want to talk anymore so remained silent, her guts churning. Ollie seemed lost inside his head anyway, so that was good. It took about five minutes to get to the bedsit, their flip-flops slapping with every step. The police were still there, tape across the front door, a PC standing in front of it, the light on inside Ollie’s, the blue curtains drawn back a bit, just like Ollie had left them—after the murder, he’d elbowed them open to peer outside, to see if any neighbours had gone into the street because of the screams. Through the voile, people in white suits with hoods poked about, one of them at the chest of drawers. It reminded her of the ties. Could they get fingerprints off material? They’d know Amanda had touched them then, and with the clean parts where they’d been knotted, they’d know someone had been tied up. Would Jenny’s skin cells be on them?
“The ties,” she whispered.
“In one of the black bags. I put them inside when you had a shower. Don’t worry.”
She caught a glimpse of the sofa. Amanda was gone, but like Jenny had thought, a shape of her remained, the fabric free of blood.
“I hope they don’t find my earring,” she muttered once they’d gone past.
Ollie didn’t respond.
Two streets along, he tugged her to a row of cars outside wonky terraced houses. His car—his mum’s car, for fuck’s sake—sat between a posh silver Audi and a Transit van. They got in, and he drove forward, not back towards Main Street. She was about to ask why they were going that way, and what about the bags in the cave, but he turned right, then right again, and popped out close to where they’d emerged from the alley.
“Didn’t want to drive past the bedsit,” he offered, his explanation coming later than it was needed.
He veered left and, a short zoom later, parked. “The sloping path’s just there. You go and get the stuff so I can drive off if I see a copper’s car or something. The last thing I need is them spotting me in this one. They’ll be doing door-to-door enquiries soon, I bet, and might come down this end.”
Glad to get away from him, Jenny flip-flopped her way down the path and dragged her feet over the beach, her legs tired, her body aching, her stomach rumbling. Matthews had given her a sandwich and lots of tea, but she was still hungry. She retrieved the bags, checking the ties were really there, then stumbled back the way she’d come, the sacks bumping the outsides of her legs with each step. Ollie was still there, so she switched the bag in one hand to the other and motioned for him to unlock the boot.
The clunk signifying he’d done it sounded so loud, and she glanced over at the houses, all thankfully with their curtains drawn. She lifted the lid and placed the bags on the road, opening them to check which was which. Jenny found his and dumped it in, then pulled out his jeans and wiped the bloodiest, dampest part on the carpet.
“What are you fucking doing?” he called.
“Making room. There’s a sodding roadside kit and blankets in here. All sorts.” She put the other bags inside. Closed the boot. Got back in the car. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
* * * *
When Ollie had dropped her off on Sunday, he’d come to the boot with her and, to her horror, had taken the Polaroid camera and the picture, saying he’d get rid of both. She’d argued; she could burn them with everything else.
Ollie had eyed her funny and said, “I want to be a part of this bit, too.”
What could she have said to that?
Jenny had to think fast. She’d carried the black sacks down the side of the house to the shed, stashing them away behind the lawn mower where Dad wouldn’t see them—he only mowed on a Saturday. She’d gone inside the house, finding her parents were out, so she’d grabbed a Ziploc bag and her digital camera.
Back in the shed, using a rasp file, she’d scraped flakes of blood out of the jeans pocket where Ollie had slid the knife that night. If he had the Polaroid, she’d have this. She took pictures of his clothes. For a brief moment she considered using the bonfire tonight, but as she didn’t know where her parents had gone, they could come back at any time and ask questions.
She’d stick with her original plan.
It was Monday evening now, seven o’clock, Mum and Dad at the pub. The bonfire in Dad’s special metal cage scoffed at all the things Jenny wanted it to, orange tongue-flames licking, armour-grey smoke billowing into a sky showing off aubergine- and pumpkin-coloured bruises, the faint moon watching on, its solemn face showing its disgust at what she was doing. She’d suffer any neighbours having a go if they came out and poked their head over the fence. Mind you, they didn’t when Dad burnt any parcel boxes that came in the post, or stuff he was getting rid of with his current purge of the hoarding they’d done in the loft, so she should be okay. Him handing over veg from his little patch tended to keep them quiet.
She’d placed Ollie’s jeans and T-shirt in one of those suction bags, and she’d hoovered the air out of it until the items shrank inside the shrivelled plastic. The thought of Amanda’s toenails in there gave her the creeps, but she wasn’t going to touch them and dispose of them elsewhere. She’d placed the bag under her mattress with the Ziploc and camera for now, and tomorrow, she’d rent a locker in the place down by Javi’s Groceries, which was close to work, so she could check it was still there periodically without anyone becoming suspicious. So long as the police didn’t look into her, they’d never know she’d rented the locker.
She gazed into the fire. All that was left to disappear were their shoes, the inferno had swallowed everything else. She’d checked her clothing prior to burning, and her earring hadn’t snagged on anything, so God only knew where that was. She’d have to hope even if the police did find it, they’d assume it was like everything else Jenny and Ollie had left in the bedsit, an item that had got splashed with blood when the killer had attacked.
What if they found the other one on the beach, though, where Ollie had thrown it? Would their forensic search extend that far? Would it even matter? She could say she’d lost both, one in the bedsit, one in the sand. Maybe go a bit further and explain they’d always been loose, the curved metal that went through her ear too shallow and she should have bought backs to hold them in place
.
Dad’s voice: The lady doth protest too much.
She willed the plastic soles of Ollie’s trainers to melt, to disappear. All that was left of her shoes were the buckles. She’d take them out once the flames were doused. Drop them down a drain in the road on the way to work tomorrow, plus the file she’d used to scrape the blood flecks. The soles would burn even more next time Dad had a bonny.
Jenny threw a bucket of water on the flames then fished about with Dad’s long tongs to take the buckles out.
She was all set. Once the evidence was in a locker, she could relax.
Until then, she’d suffer another sleepless night.
Chapter Seventeen
George’s instructions had been clear: give The Brothers time to talk to Rover; wait for them to tell Princess the next step; don’t go anywhere alone in the meantime—stay at the parlour with the other girls where she was safer. They said if she had to leave work because of their plans, they’d pick her up and Debbie would come in to finish her shift. George had mentioned if Princess wanted to tell the woman everything, she could be trusted, but the twins had no intention of blabbing.
It was all well and good saying Debbie could be trusted, but Princess hadn’t told anyone the full story other than George and Greg. Could she tell it all over again? Did Debbie even need to know if The Brothers were dealing with everything so the problems went away?
No. It wouldn’t affect Princess’ work after Ollie had been sorted, so her boss could be kept in the dark.
Princess sipped tea behind the reception desk, still hating herself for luring Rover to the parlour. It had hurt when he’d admitted to keeping an eye on her—no one liked knowing they’d been spied on for nearly two decades—but something in his voice had said he maybe hadn’t wanted it to go this far. That could be because he’d been caught, so of course he’d have wished he’d stopped seeing her years ago, but…she so wanted it to be a lie, that it wasn’t him, there had been a mistake.