by Jane Isaac
Nancy gaped at her a moment. “Er… Can I get you some tea?”
“White, two sugars. Don’t stir.”
There was something about her that made Nancy nervous and she felt strangely calmer when she’d retreated to the kitchen. Her phone was on the side and as the kettle was boiling she picked it up and texted Becca:
Hope you are having a lovely time.
Her finger hovered for a split second, as she mulled over whether or not to share the news of her visitor, but she decided against it. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Only make Becca call. And she didn’t want to do anything to spoil her time away. She glanced fleetingly at the police alarm and picked up the mug.
By the time Nancy was back in the sitting room, the woman was standing, looking at the photos on the hearth. She passed over the tea. “So, what can you tell me about him?”
The woman shot her a look. “What?”
“You said you were a friend of one of Richard’s girlfriends. You must have met him at some stage. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
The woman didn’t answer. She turned and for a split second Nancy thought she was looking at her own reflection in the mirror. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Before she quickly turned back.
The blow that hit the side of Nancy’s head knocked her sideways and sent a shower of steaming tea over the sofa. She felt the nylon of carpet on her cheek. It was a moment before she realised what had happened. Just when her brain was starting to register, another blow came – this time low, from a foot. And the world turned black.
***
Water on her face. Cold. Nancy squinted, flinching. More drops of water. They were running diagonally across her cheeks, into her ears, down her neckline.
She opened her mouth to shout and felt loose threads of material on her tongue. Nancy opened one eyelid to a tiny slit – just as a deluge of icy water hit her right in the eyes. She blinked, shaking her head to the side. She made to haul herself forward. Tried to lift her hands. And failed. They were secured tightly behind her back.
Fear pulsed through her.
She scanned the room. She was laid out on the sofa. Her hands were bound behind her back, her legs strapped together at the ankles. The cable ties pinched into her skin.
The woman towered over her, a look of contempt fixed upon her face.
Nancy opened her mouth, tried to plead, but the gag turned her words into muffled squeaks.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman snarled.
Nancy jolted her head from side to side.
“My name’s Sheila Buckton. Your boyfriend raped my granddaughter.” The whites of her eyes showed as she bent forward. “Don’t you realise what you’ve done?”
Nancy shook her head again, but it was more of a tremble than a shake.
“You wouldn’t give up, would you? Had to speak to the newspapers about how he’d been cast in a bad light. ‘People were out to get him.’ Wasn’t that the line you used? You have no idea…” She gritted her teeth. “Five months.” She snorted. “Five months he was with our Alicia. Of course he was nice to her at first. Bought her things, made her feel special. Then, when she was in too deep, he started pushing the knife in. Slowly grinding her down. Taking everything from her until she had no friends, barely saw her family. He raped her that night, I’m sure of it. He knew that, even if she had the strength to get away, to go to the police, she’d never be able to stand up and prove it to a jury. That’s why he played along with it. Because he knew she couldn’t. They were together about three months before he changed, started to show his true colours.” She paused, squeezed her eyes together. “You don’t get it, do you? I was saving you. My granddaughter never recovered after he attacked her. Hung herself at nineteen. Such a waste. I watched him with you. And I couldn’t bear to let history repeat itself.” She hissed the words out, showering Nancy with her spittle.
“But you couldn’t let it go, could you? You had to go to the papers, to make him out to be the knight in shining armour. The only armour he had was in here.” She pointed at her chest. “How dare you!”
Nancy could feel her limbs trembling. Taste acid in her mouth.
There was a knock at the door.
Sheila’s head darted up.
Nancy seized the moment, took as deep a breath as she could from behind the gag and called out. Even behind the muffled material it was impressive.
Sheila glanced back towards the door. The banging became louder, more urgent. She shot a look back at Nancy and made out into the hallway.
Nancy heard a familiar voice. It was Ryan. He’d come to check on her. His head appeared around the doorframe. Nancy looked into his eyes. He’d battled through. Come to save her.
Until his head jolted awkwardly and his body crumpled forward.
Nancy tried to let out another scream, but her voice was muted in panic. She watched Sheila Buckton kick his legs aside, an action that made his whole body rest awkwardly beside the armchair. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box.
As realisation set in, Nancy’s body began to squirm.
Sheila stared at her, right into her eyes, as she struck the match and lay it in the chair beside the fire, then struck another. She tossed that one at the rug. Two more and Nancy could see the chair had ignited, tiny flames expanding.
And with that, Sheila retreated, slamming the door shut behind her.
Wisps of smoke were rising into the air around her. In desperation, Nancy shifted and wriggled until she tipped off the sofa. The phone rang in the distance. The juxtaposition of Becca’s voice on the answerphone mingling with the flames felt surreal, as if she were watching fireworks on New Year’s. She pushed forward until her movements weakened. Her vision was blurring until slowly, almost peacefully, the lights went out and all became quiet.
Chapter Forty-Three
A growing sense of foreboding encircled Jackman as he crossed the county border into Warwickshire. Something about the interview with Kerry made him uneasy. He dialled Davies again and didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “How did uniform get on?”
“They’ve interviewed Nicola Wallis. Claims she was at home with her husband last Sunday night. The support group wound up not long after Kerry left. She maintains the contact dwindled. She hasn’t heard from the others in months and didn’t seem to know about Angie Fraser’s suicide.”
“I’ve gone through the statements and case files. Angie was registered with the community mental health team and being treated for depression. She disappeared a few days before. It’s thought she drove up to Scotland to her birthplace, her car was found nearby. Left two children, the daughter that was attacked and a son. Both were devastated it seems. Nothing to suggest it wasn’t suicide.”
He heard a phone ringing in the distance. “Excuse me a moment, sir,” Davies said. The line went quiet. He could hear a rustle of papers in the background, excited chatter, but couldn’t make out what was being said. It was a several moments before Davies returned to the phone. “That’s interesting. Joni is the nickname of Sheila Buckton, apparently she was obsessed with Joni Mitchell when she was young.”
“The same Sheila Buckton that reported the fire?”
He could hear Davies clicking away at her computer as he spoke. “I can only assume so. Looks like there is only one Sheila Buckton registered as living in the Stratford area. Can’t find any links with the Wainwright family though and she wasn’t mentioned in the list Northampton sent over of family contacts, although she does share the maternal surname of Alicia’s mother. It’s possible she could be extended family. I’m going to get over there, see what she’s got to say.”
Jackman thought about Sheila Buckton, how close she lived to the barn, her interest in the case. If she was linked to Alicia in any way she had motive and means. “Make sure you take somebody with you. Have we heard from Nancy, at all?”
“I’ve phoned and texted her,” Davies said, echoing his thoughts, “and left a message on the landli
ne. She’s not picking up. Want me to get uniform out there?”
“No, I’m not far away. I’ll call by myself.”
Jackman eased his foot off the accelerator as he reached the outskirts of Stratford and headed for Nancy’s flat. It wasn’t until he got out of the car and glanced up that he noticed the edge of a flame lick the window in the flat above the florists.
He ran through the side entrance and around the back. Smoke was seeping out of the open gaps in the upstairs windows. His feet bounced off the metal steps as he climbed two at a time.
“Nancy!”
All was silent, apart from the crackle of flames inside. Jackman didn’t hesitate, thrusting his shoulder into the door – repeating the action several times. He tumbled forward as the lock gave way and immediately became drenched in the smoke that billowed out of the open space, exacerbated by the additional oxygen.
Jackman lifted his shirt to cover his mouth and made his way in. He kicked open the kitchen door, each of the bedrooms, then pushed the lounge door.
Flames instantly lashed out at him, forcing him back. He protected his face with his free hand and saw the body of a woman through the flames. He pushed forward through the thick heat, trying to shield his face.
Nancy was unconscious, her body curled into a foetal position on the floor beside the sofa, its low position sheltering her slightly from the flames eating through the room. Jackman bent down and hauled her up. But that meant taking a hand from his nose.
A lungful of smoke immediately sent him into a coughing fit. He forced himself to hold his breath, grabbed her, lifting her into his arms. It wasn’t until he was into the hallway that he saw the other body folded awkwardly beside the armchair. The face obscured. He carried Nancy out, placing her down on the small balcony and looked back. The fire was stronger now, the hallway full of smoke. He grabbed a cotton sheet that was hanging over the edge of the balcony. It felt damp against his skin. He wrapped it around himself and ran back into the fire.
Jackman’s vision blurred. He had to feel his way through the lounge doorway and across to the other body. He tugged at it. There was no sign of life. Using all his might he pulled it, hauling it up and made for the exit.
Jackman didn’t remember the retreat out onto the balcony, brushing the flames from his arm, falling to his knees. He didn’t even hear the distant sound of sirens as he collapsed, the heat overpowering him, until he could breathe no more.
***
The sound of heels clicking the linoleum flooring made Davies look up. Janus offered a vague smile, brushed past and sat next to her. “Any news?”
Davies shook her head. “They’re assessing him now. Nothing on the others yet either.” She fixed her gaze ahead, not daring to close her eyes. Because every time she did, she could see the scene in Nancy’s street when she’d arrived earlier. Fire fighters crawling around like an army of ants. Paramedics lifting bodies in ambulances. Her stomach dipped. “I should have been there.”
Janus pushed her glasses up her nose. “You couldn’t have known—”
“I should have made him wait, until I was there with him.”
Nurses moved passed them, porters pulled trolleys, their wheels rattling against the floor. Neither of them spoke for a while. “He knew something was wrong with the Anderson murder charge,” Davies said. “And he was right.”
“We used the evidence we had before us,” Janus said.
The sound of Davies’ mobile phone ringing filled the corridor. She pulled it out of her pocket, listened for a moment before she said, “I’ll be right there.”
Janus looked up at her as she stood. “I asked uniform to drive by Sheila Buckton’s house at regular intervals and report back if there was any sign of a presence,” Davies said. “They’ve just spotted a car parked outside that wasn’t there earlier. Call me as soon as there is any news.”
***
A dishevelled-looking man with sallow cheeks and heavy eyes that looked like he hadn’t slept in a week answered the door of Sheila Buckton’s home later that afternoon.
Davies held up her ID, introduced herself and the plain clothes officer she had purloined from the CID shift to accompany her. “I was looking for Sheila Buckton,” she said.
He hung his head. “You’d better come in.”
By the time Mark Buckton had introduced himself as Sheila’s son they’d reached the kitchen. The same room Davies had been in almost a week ago with Sheila relating her account of the fire. “Do you know where your mother is?” Davies asked.
Mark Buckton sat at the table and pulled his hands down his face, tugging at the skin as he did so. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “I know what you are here for.”
“Do you?”
He nodded. “I was there last Sunday night, out walking near the farm.”
Davies looked at the officer next to her. He retrieved a notebook from his inside pocket.
“Do you live here?”
“No, I have a flat in Stratford near my work. But I shoot over here occasionally, and come and stay over when I do, to keep Mum company.”
“Were you out walking on your own last Sunday?” Davies said.
Mark nodded.
“Do you often go for walks over the fields late at night?”
“When I can’t sleep, yes.”
“Did you walk up to the farm?”
“No, I went on foot up the side of the field opposite. I used to walk my dog over there when Mum first moved here. He’s passed away now. There’s a gap in the hedge where you can get into the farmhouse garden.”
“What about their dogs?”
“The kennel is around the back, on the other side of the main house. They don’t generally stir, if you are quiet. They were barking that night though. The sound of an engine started them off. I watched a car come up the driveway to Upton Grange Farm. Couldn’t see the make in the dark, but it definitely wasn’t the farm Land Rover. Two men got out. I heard the sound of breaking glass. A while later, they left. They were carrying something.”
“Did you see what it was?”
“No, it was pitch black,” he replied. “There were no lights anywhere. I gathered it was a break-in of some sort and stayed hidden in the bushes at the side. I was planning to leave, as soon as the coast was clear, but it was only a minute or so before I heard another engine and recognised the Land Rover. I heard them cross the gravel towards the door. Even above the barks of the dogs I heard her gasp. They waited a moment. I could just about make out the conversation. She wanted to call the police, he wouldn’t let her. When they went inside it was quiet for a moment, I guess he was checking the house. The barking subsided. That’s when I heard the argument. They were shouting at each other. Then a thump. I moved to the side of the house and saw her on the floor.”
“What happened next?”
“I felt like I had to intervene. She was still on the floor when I went inside. Alone. I was trying to help the girl when I heard him coming through from the lounge. He was angry, shouting. I grabbed a pan off the rack, one of those heavy, copper-bottomed ones. I hid behind the door, lashed out as he walked through – just to protect myself. He turned, stared at me a moment before his knees buckled. That’s when I saw it. The resemblance. My mother was right. He was the man who raped my niece.”
“Do you have any idea where your mother is now? We really need to speak to her.”
He ran his hands through his hair, leaving his elbows suspended. “I think there’s only one place she will be.”
***
The churchyard gate creaked as the officer pushed it back. He scanned the area, desperately picking through the gravestones. A shrill wail emitted in the distance, splitting the air in two.
He followed the voice, ran around the back of the church, sidestepping the gravestones in his haste. By the time he caught a glimpse of her in the half-light, he was out of breath. “Mrs Buckton.”
She was kneeling down in front of a grave.
She turned. Her hair w
as wild and ragged, her eyes fixed wide. He saw the knife, the end pointing to the pit of her stomach. He waved a hand behind his back at his colleague racing to catch up and immediately heard her footsteps slow. “Mrs Buckton, please. Put down the knife.”
For a moment nothing happened. A light breeze whistled down the side of the church. He heard his colleague step forward, felt her arm brush his side. Her voice was soft. “Mrs Buckton?”
Sheila Buckton raised her gaze to the female officer. But the expression on her face folded. She lifted the knife with both hands high into the air.
He raced forward just in time to watch the knife be driven into the ground before her.
Chapter Forty-Four
“The glass was already broken when I arrived. It seems I wasn’t the only one who wanted him to suffer that night.”
Davies stared into the eyes of Sheila Buckton. For the past hour they’d been seated in the interview room listening to her account of what happened on Sunday evening. The officer that had picked her up had reported a woman with a knife, sprawled across a gravestone. Her wails had subsided into confused sobs, berating herself for lacking the strength to join her beloved granddaughter. But the drive to Warwickshire appeared to have calmed her. The doctor that examined her cleared her for interview. And as soon as Davies opened the introductions, Sheila started to speak and couldn’t seem to stop. Keane scribbled away next to her, barely able to keep up.
“Are you saying somebody else had already broken into the farmhouse before you got there?” Davies said.
“Yes.” Sheila cast a sideways glance at her solicitor. “The back door was ajar. There’d been some kind of fight. Richard and the girl were both lying on the kitchen floor. They looked like they’d been knocked out or something. He stirred as I let myself in, but was dazed.”
Davies narrowed her eyes. “Rather convenient.”
“What?”
“Somebody else knocking them out when you arrived. What was your plan?”