by Lesley Kara
When the client leaves, Dave leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head.
‘Steve Enright phoned. I think they’re going to make an offer on Sea Breeze Court, but they’d like another viewing first. I’ve made an appointment for two p.m. Is that okay?’
I need to stop thinking about Liz and force myself to focus on something else instead. There are corrugated patches in the armpits of Dave’s shirt – deodorant build-up or old sweat stains. Couldn’t I find something more palatable to focus on?
‘Fine,’ I say, and make a note of the time in my diary. ‘Have the Frankises got back with any feedback?’
‘Yes. Mrs Frankis has concerns over the house next door. You know, the one that’s been abandoned. She’s worried it’ll attract squatters.’
‘I’m surprised it hasn’t, to be honest. It looks like someone’s already had a go at getting in.’
‘Quite,’ Dave says. ‘I keep meaning to get on to the council about that. Find out what’s going on. Maybe they can get a compulsory purchase order. Oh, by the way, that woman came back. The one who was asking about a job.’
‘Kay?’
‘Something about wanting to know how the party went. Was the costume a success?’
Shit. I meant to knock on her door and tell her how well it went, thank her again for her help. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything that’s been going on I forgot all about it. She went to so much trouble for me. The least I could do is get her a thank-you card and a box of chocolates or something.
The hours that follow don’t so much drag as stand still. It gets harder and harder to stop the events of the morning piercing through the shield I’ve erected in my mind. Insistent little stabs that won’t be shut out, however hard I try to block them.
Dave’s wife Carol drops by at about one thirty with a couple of chocolate eclairs in a box.
‘Thought you two might like a little treat,’ she says.
She pops in all the time. Dave says she’s paranoid about him going off with someone else and, ever since he told her I live alone with Alfie, she always seems to be on her way to or from an appointment at the hair salon or the dentist’s, or filling in time before meeting a friend for coffee. Maybe now that I’ve told Dave Michael’s moving in she’ll ease off a bit. If he tells her. I think he’s secretly thrilled to be the subject of such misplaced jealousy. And of course, the eclairs are always welcome.
I sink my teeth into the chocolate, enjoying the squidge of fresh cream and choux pastry that fills my mouth. Carol Pegton is sitting at her husband’s desk, leaning in towards him and having a private conflab in hushed tones. She often does this. It’s her way of marking her territory, and I don’t usually take any notice, but today I hear the words ‘Stones and Crones’ and ‘the police’ in quick succession and my ears prick up.
‘They’ve been in the shop for ages,’ she says.
I pretend to be doing something on the computer, but really I’m just moving the cursor around and listening in to their conversation.
‘I can’t believe she’s that child killer, can you? But then, how would we know?’
She’s talking normally now, her suspicion of what Dave and I might get up to when she’s not around temporarily replaced by this latest turn of events, and I think of what Liz said earlier, about people tiring of it if they see Sonia Martins getting on with her life, refusing to rise to the bait. It’s not happening yet.
Dave sighs. ‘I hope to God she’s not, or we’ll be besieged by the press and every other Tom, Dick or Harry who wants a piece of the action.’
‘Maybe she’s called them herself,’ I say. ‘To make a complaint about the false accusation.’
Carol swivels round to face me. ‘It doesn’t look good, though, does it? The police in her shop for everyone to see. People will draw their own conclusions. I can’t see her doing much business after this, can you?’
‘You never know, it might improve her footfall.’
Carol gives me a blank look.
‘She means more people will go in the shop to get a look at her,’ Dave says.
‘And buy a set of runes while they’re in there,’ I quip.
Dave smirks, but Carol is pursing her lips.
‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘how do you know it’s a false accusation?’
Relieved that it’s almost time for my appointment with the Enrights, I stand up and make moves to leave.
‘If there was any truth in the rumour, she wouldn’t still be here. They’d have taken her off to a safe house.’ I pull on my coat and hook my handbag over my shoulder. ‘Right then, I’m off to sell a flat.’
‘Try not to mention we may have a child killer in our midst,’ Dave says drily.
Carol glares at him.
My car is pointing towards the sea, which means I have to drive past Stones and Crones. A police car is parked up on the left, a few doors away from the shop, but even though there’s no one behind me and I’m driving quite slowly, I can’t see what’s happening inside because the window is still boarded up.
I do see Kay, though. She’s waiting to cross the road up ahead, hovering between two parked cars. I stop to wave her across but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes are fixed on the other side of the road, on the boarded-up window of Stones and Crones. Then she spots me through the windscreen and does a little jolt of recognition. She raises her hand to say hello.
Now a van is right behind me and I have to drive on. As I glance in my wing mirror, I see her staring at the police car. Her face is blank. Immobile. Like a mask.
36
‘It’s so unlike any of her other pictures. That’s what made me notice it.’
Michael pours oil into the frying pan and starts browning the onions. He hasn’t spoken yet, but he’s listening intently as he prepares our chicken curry. It’s nice to be cooked for, to enjoy a civilized meal in the evening instead of eating with Alfie at five, which is what I always used to do. It changes everything, having another adult in the house. Especially one who likes cooking.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I realized it was made out of scraps of paper. But when I saw where the scraps of paper came from …’
Michael chops a clove of garlic and tosses the bits in with the onion.
‘How did she react when you asked her if she was Sally McGowan?’
‘Calmly.’
I tell him what she said about the Myra Hindley painting, and he nods.
‘I remember it being on the news when I was a teenager,’ he says.
‘She said something about darkness being in all our souls and that we’re all capable of evil. That’s the idea behind the portrait. The message she’s trying to convey.’
Michael tips the saucer of spices into the pan and a delicious aroma fills the kitchen. ‘Not sure we’re all capable of plunging a knife into a little boy’s chest,’ he says. ‘But still, I think I see what she means.’
The diced chicken and tinned tomatoes are going in now. I marvel at his ability to do all this at the same time as having a thoughtful conversation.
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ I say. ‘She was too calm. I mean, how would you react if someone more or less accused you of being a notorious criminal? She’s hiding something, I know she is. And she definitely reacted when I told her you were a journalist.’
Michael pauses in his stirring. Only for a beat, but it’s enough to tell me he thinks it’s significant.
‘How did she react?’
‘It’s hard to describe, but her face sort of closed down for a few seconds. She went in on herself, and that’s when she said it was unlikely Sonia would speak to you.’
‘That’s not an uncommon reaction. Loads of people distrust journalists. We’re up there with estate agents as the nation’s most detested.’ He laughs. ‘We’re going to be a popular couple, you and I.’
I open the bottle of wine we bought earlier and pour out two glasses. Michael puts the lid on the pan and adjusts the heat. Then we tak
e our drinks into the living room.
‘And then there are those photographs on the wall by the stairs.’
‘What photographs?’
So I tell him about those too, and how they reminded me of the documentary we watched.
‘How old is Liz?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked and she’s never said. I’d say she’s probably in her late fifties. It’s hard to tell, though. Her hair is completely white so I guess it’s possible she’s older.’
Michael’s glass is midway to his mouth when he pauses.
‘I know someone whose hair went white overnight when they were forty,’ he says.
‘What’s Liz’s surname?’ he asks, a few seconds later. ‘Has she ever exhibited any of her art?’
‘I’m not sure. She might have done. It certainly deserves to be exhibited. It’s very good.’
He picks up his laptop from where he’s left it on the table. ‘Let’s look her up. See if there are any pictures of her work.’
‘Blackthorne,’ I say. ‘She’s called Liz Blackthorne.’
His fingers pause over the keyboard. He frowns.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Just … nothing. Let’s see if she has an online presence.’
He types her name into the search bar and finds various Liz Blackthornes but not the one we’re looking for. He tries Elizabeth Blackthorne and E. Blackthorne, and at last we find her listed on a few art-related and gallery websites as E. K. Blackthorne. There is a thumbnail photo of her on one of these sites with examples of her work and brief descriptive passages next to each one. None of them is titled. Then we find a blog of hers called ‘Art in a Seaside Town’.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘It says she graduated from the Manchester School of Art. Doesn’t say when, though. Still, at least we know she’s not McGowan. She’d never have been allowed to stay in the Manchester area, would she?’
‘No, I don’t suppose she would.’ There’s a concentrated look in Michael’s eyes, as if he’s trying to calculate an impossible sum.
‘And the Manchester connection explains those photographs.’
‘Perhaps.’
He snaps the laptop shut and returns to the here and now. Something in his demeanour has changed. He thinks it’s her. I know he does.
He heads for the door. ‘I’m just going to check on the curry and put the rice on.’ He grins. ‘Must be nice being waited on hand and foot. I wonder when it’s going to be my turn.’
I laugh, but as soon as he’s gone that horrible photo of Alfie with a knife sticking out of his chest appears behind my eyes. It’s always there. Waiting to catch me off guard. Could Liz have doctored that photo? How would she have got hold of the digital image? No, Kay and Michael are right about that. It was a Halloween prank by one of the other mums. Nothing to do with McGowan – well, not directly.
The Twitter account, though. All those literary quotes. Now that could have been Liz. Trying to scare me into shutting up about that rumour.
37
It’s 2.37 a.m. and I’m wide awake. I’m also alone in the bed.
After supper we started watching a film, but neither of us could concentrate so we finished the wine and had an early night. We tried to make love as quietly as we could so as not to disturb Alfie. I don’t remember much after that. I must have fallen asleep really fast. All this sex is tiring me out.
I get up and open the bedroom door. Perhaps he’s just in the loo, but he isn’t, so I creep downstairs to see what he’s doing. The light’s on in the dining room and the door is closed.
Michael’s head jerks up as soon as I go in.
‘Hey, you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
I shake my head. ‘What’s up? Can’t you sleep?’
‘I’m always the same when I’m in the middle of a new project,’ he says. ‘I can never switch off.’
He opens his arms and I sink on to his lap, rest my head against his neck.
‘That’s more or less what Liz said to me yesterday,’ I say.
He stiffens slightly and I sit up. The look that passes across his eyes is fleeting and subtle, but there’s no mistaking it. The mere mention of her name has affected him in some way.
‘You think it’s her, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what to think at the moment,’ he says. ‘My head feels like a jigsaw that’s missing a key piece.’
He gestures to the papers spread all over the table. Pages and pages of scrawled notes. Hole-punched reports with Post-it markers sticking out at the sides.
‘But it’s got to be somewhere. I just need to find it.’
He nods towards his laptop. ‘I spoke to the Flinstead and Mistden Gazette earlier. Take a look at this and see what you think. It’ll be on their website tomorrow.’ He squints at the time-display at the bottom of the screen. ‘Well, later today, actually. It’s a much shorter version of the article I really wanted to write. Maybe I can pitch something about false accusations to one of the nationals.’
LOCAL SHOPKEEPER’S VIGILANTE TORMENT
A false rumour is jeopardizing the livelihood of local shopkeeper Sonia Martins.
On Wednesday, 18 October a photo was stuck to the window of her popular New Age gift shop, Stones and Crones, falsely implying that she was child killer Sally McGowan.
Her shop was targeted again when a brick was thrown through the window. The incident happened sometime between 12.30 a.m. and 6.30 a.m. on Tuesday, 31 October. Police are appealing for witnesses.
Inspector Bob Sanderson said: ‘All necessary background checks have been completed and I can confirm that this rumour is completely untrue. Sonia Martins is a respectable member of the community. She was born in Flinstead and her mother has lived here all her life.’
‘We are a small town,’ he said, ‘and rumours like this spread quickly. I would urge whoever is doing this to think very carefully about their actions, as the consequences can be serious.’
Sonia Martins is so distressed by recent events she has even considered leaving Flinstead.
‘I know most people don’t believe it, but some very clearly do, and I no longer feel safe, either in my home or my place of work. I just want whoever is doing this to stop.’
There have been four previous cases of women falsely accused of being McGowan, one of which tragically ended in suicide.
Anyone with information on the incident in Flinstead should call police on 101.
‘So you’ve spoken to her already? Why didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugs. ‘It slipped my mind. Sorry. She had second thoughts after the brick was thrown.’
‘I’m not surprised, poor woman. Let’s hope that’s an end to it now.’
‘Come on,’ Michael says, gathering up his papers and stuffing them into his briefcase. ‘Let’s try and get some sleep.’
In the morning, I feel awful. It’s a good job it’s my day off and that Dave point blank refused my offer to go in and make up for Tuesday. But there are loads of things I need to do today. I’ve got to get a few bits and pieces for Mum, who’s still under the weather, and I want to get a card and a thank-you present for Kay. And then I need to catch up on some washing and ironing and change the bedclothes. All I really want to do is go back to bed and sleep for a week.
‘Tell you what,’ Michael says. ‘You go and have a nice bath while I take Alfie to school.’
I give him a hug. ‘I knew there was a reason I let you move in.’
‘What, apart from the great sex and my superior cooking skills?’
‘Hmm, that might have had something to do with it. Do you fancy coming round to Mum’s with me later?’
He laughs. ‘You’re pushing it now.’
‘Sol will be pleased to see you,’ I say. ‘I thought we could take him out for a walk.’
He kisses me on the nose, then the forehead and, finally, the mouth. He tastes of toothpaste.
‘Maybe your mum’ll be pleased to see me too,’ he says.
Mum’s watching Homes Under the Hammer when we arrive with her shopping. She’s all bundled up in cardigans and jumpers and she’s wearing a woollen hat.
‘The heating’s not working,’ she says, taking the bag from Michael. ‘None of the radiators are getting hot enough.’
Michael touches the one in the hall. ‘They probably just need bleeding.’
‘Yes, I realize that,’ she says. ‘Except I can’t find the little key.’
I follow her into the kitchen while Michael makes a fuss of Sol in the front room.
‘Do you have to be quite so terse with him?’ I say, when we’re out of earshot. ‘I thought, after our conversation the other day, you’d start cutting him some slack.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t know I was being terse,’ she says. Tersely.
Michael appears in the doorway. ‘I could do it with a screwdriver if you’ve got one,’ he says.
Mum looks at him in surprise. ‘Oh, I didn’t think of that.’
She rummages in a drawer. ‘What one would be best?’
Michael selects one and goes back into the hall. Then he comes back for a cloth. ‘Don’t want dirty water dripping on your carpets, do we?’
I help Mum put her shopping away, while Michael goes round the house on bleeding duty. We hear him singing while he works.
‘Thank you for doing that,’ she says, stiffly, when he comes back.
Michael doffs an imaginary cap. ‘Always at your service, Mrs C,’ he says, and Mum almost smiles at him. At least she’s trying.
Just before we leave she calls out from the living room: ‘Michael, I don’t suppose you’d ever consider joining the Flinstead church choir, would you?’
He widens his eyes at me in horror and it’s as much as I can do not to burst out laughing.