by James Arklie
She put Lily down and they started clearing a path for Alesha’s wheelchair. In the lounge Ollie picked up the remains of the record player, it looked like one of the men had thrown it to the floor to smash it, and then stamped on it. Bastards.
The settee had been upended and the lining ripped open to expose the base; cushions had been slashed; vases smashed in case anything had been slipped inside. In the kitchen, drawers and cupboards had been emptied onto the floor and packets of cereal and pasta emptied. She didn’t want to go into the bedroom yet.
Alesha let out a cry of dismay. Lily found her chess board and started hunting for chess pieces. Ollie took a deep breath, be the new person you found in yourself. Controlled and stable.
‘It’s okay, Mum. You’re right, we’re safe.’ She planted a kiss into the grey curls. As you get older you forget that mothers also need comforting.
Lily had righted a small table and was setting out the pieces as she found them. ‘I want George, Mum.’
Me too, thought Ollie. Me too. I want some answers.
‘George’s not coming today, love, but let’s put the kettle on and start tidying up for when he does.’
Bonus point, Ollie, you sound like a mother and not the demented bitch you were just days ago. She thought back to Amal and something still picked at her brain, like a cat clawing at a chair cover. Scratch, scratch. All this had started when Amal threw her out. That was the trigger point.
Alesha chuckled behind her. ‘They didn’t find it though. The thingy they were looking for.’
Thingy?
‘My mobile’s in my pocket, Mum. Safe.’
Why the hell did they want her mobile anyway? Yet another question to toss into this mess.
‘No. I have it. I hid it.’ Alesha paused with the frown of confused concentration that Ollie realised was going to become a part of her life.
Ollie pulled out her mobile. ‘Here. Safe.’
‘No. I hid it.’
Ollie smiled away her annoyance. Slow and patient was going to be the new life with her mother, however long or short.
‘Show me, Mum. Where did you hide it?’
‘I can’t remember.’
Shit, thought Ollie, Shit, shit and shit.
Lilly went across to her Gran and whispered in her ear and they shared a giggle.
Alesha grinned. ‘Yes.’ She lifted her skirt, pulled aside the catheter tube, reached down between her thigh and the urine bag and pulled out a mobile phone.
She smiled triumphantly and held it out. ‘There. Lily and I think it must have belonged to George.’
* * *
Ollie had made a pot of tea and was leaning against the kitchen counter nibbling a biscuit. The lounge was still a mess, but at least they could sit down. Next job was to open the doors to the bedrooms.
She focused on the big question, who’d done this? As a drug addict and alcoholic, desperate for her next fix, she’d broken into houses, quickly rifled through possessions and taken what she knew she could exchange with a dealer for drugs. But she’d never turned over a house in this way. It took too long. And these men didn’t care if anyone was in or not. Confident and professional.
She glanced at George’s mobile, an iPhone, resting on the work surface. He wasn’t a forgetful man, just the opposite, he was particular, meticulous. A chess player. His personal items had been few but the apartment had been pristine and ordered the night she went there.
Conclusion, he left the mobile here deliberately. Why? Was it to hide it from the men who’d come calling? If so, it must have some kind of information on it they were desperate to get back.
If it was for her, then why?
She reached for it and switched it on. The screen lit up with a picture of the Supremes, taken some time back in the Sixties. Was that a sign to her?
It asked for a password. She tried ‘Oleander’, then ‘Lily’, and then the obvious password came to her. She tapped in ‘Motown’. It opened instantly.
Something wobbled inside her. He’d run and deliberately left this mobile for her to find.
She was about to tap on incoming emails when there was a pounding on the door. She knew that noise and panic squeezed across her insides. Then she heard the shouts.
‘Police, Miss Soul. Open up.’ Thump, thump, thump. ‘We have a warrant to search the premises.’ Thump.
Ollie handed the mobile to her mother, who immediately hid it again. She told Lily to sit with Grannie and went to the door. The police were like a bus queue down the corridor. A couple held forensic tool bags like tradies about to start a new job.
DS Mann was at the head of the queue and started reading out nonsense words to her, but she waved him to silence and waved them in. He paused at the mess and looked at her.
She laughed. ‘Someone’s beaten you to it.’ Then she lied, knowing it would confuse him. ‘I was about to call the police to report it, so I guess that makes it a crime scene.’
Mann held up a hand to stop the others. He’d come here with a search warrant based on other crimes, if this was now a crime scene, could he continue?
He turned to the men waiting behind him. ‘Outside.’ He turned back to Ollie.
‘What happened?’
‘Two men broke in and held my mother and daughter hostage in the toilet while they trashed the place.’
Mann looked over her shoulder. ‘They all right?’
‘Shaken, that’s all.’ Nice that he is concerned, thought Ollie.
‘What did they want?’
‘No idea.’
‘They take anything?’
‘Laptop and an iPad.’
‘I need to make a call.’
Ollie nodded towards Alesha and Lily. ‘I’m sending them out. I don’t want them watching this. I’ll stay.’
Mann nodded. Ten minutes later he was back. ‘We’re combining the jobs. Warrant and robbery.’
Ollie laughed. She didn’t care if they were allowed to do that or not. Anyway, they may just find a clue as to who’d smashed up her new world.
‘Great use of police resources and if they could put it back straight, that would be useful.’
Mann gave her a warning look and waved the team in.
Ollie sat on a chair in one corner of the lounge like a naughty schoolgirl. She flicked though the TV news, Brexit; more soundbites from Trump; visiting Chinese trade delegation; football transfer market; another Royal baby due. She wondered if she should buy Lily a new iPad or go and lift one from a commuter or tourist one morning. The new Ollie told her to buy one.
Then DI Small arrived. No preamble, straight into Ollie’s face as she held up a picture of Mark Anderson at the demo. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you went to the demo with him?’
Ollie pulled at an earring. Shit, looking at the picture, knowing what they knew, it would look like that. ‘I didn’t. I went with the crowd from the café. Ask them. I didn’t even know he was there.’
‘Why didn’t you respond to the appeal on TV? You must have recognised him.’
‘You seriously think I’m going to go out of my way to bring more shit down on myself?’
‘Well, you’re in the shit now. Again.’
There was a shout from Ollie’s bedroom. ‘Evidence.’
Donna Small gave Ollie a little twist of her head and a triumphant smile and walked out. Ollie followed, that horrible melting feeling returned to her gut. Small had been handed an evidence bag containing a pink vest top. Ollie could see the blood stains on it from where she was.
Small turned and held up her winning trophy. ‘When are you going to start talking to me, Oleander.’ She walked towards Ollie until their faces were so close Ollie could smell coffee on her breath.
‘Come on, Ollie, time to stop the pretence. Be a big girl. Go on. Be proud. Tell me. How many times have you killed?’ She leant closer still.
‘How many?’
Day Nine
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was after midnight when Ollie walked
out of the police station and into the heavy, humid, night air. Like the sixteenth bar of a slow starting nightclub anthem, the long spell of hot, calm summer weather was about to break into a thunderous night.
Her evening had progressed through another call to the lawyer, another statement, and ended with threatening questions followed by outright threats. The lawyer had been fantastic, at one stage on his feet and toe to toe with Small.
Ollie had answered honestly, but not with the whole truth. She wondered if such a thing is possible. The outcome was predictable; there was not enough to have her arrested. Ollie sensed that they didn’t want to arrest her just yet anyway because they were still trying to build a case against her for the other disappearances. Donna Small was going for the big one.
A tipping point would come though, when they would cut their losses and go for her.
She wanted to call her mother and Lily, but the only way was to call George’s mobile and she didn’t want to do that. It would create a record on her mobile and for all she knew someone was monitoring both numbers.
One thing was now clear in her mind. The purpose of the break in wasn’t to steal or threaten, it was to plant evidence against her. That was scary and she had to understand why and work out who and what the hell was going on.
Another word flashed into her mind. Created. Everything that was happening around her seemed to be created just to put pressure on her. Created. Manipulated.
She let the words wander back into her subconscious and refocused on the vest top. It was hers. She remembered buying it when she went with Lily for their celebratory binge shop at Primark. She’d worn it on the Demo but had to change it because she spilt picnic food on the front. She’d put it in her bag to bring home and wash. Hadn’t she?
These moments of uncertain memory were starting to concern her and convince her that there really was something wrong with her brain. Drugs and genetics were a heady mix; hereditary disease coming to a drug wrecked, emotionally unstable brain near you.
All the while, slithering and sliding gently in the back of her mind, where monsters and nightmares slumber and stir waiting to strike, were the comments of Amanda. Your moral compass may have been suppressed.
Ollie had confirmed that the vest top belonged to her, but she had no idea where the blood came from or who it belonged to. All circumstantial, claimed her lawyer, but it added to the pile of shit against her.
She had to agree with DI Small, it was going to be Mark’s. And when they proved that, which would be done by morning, they would be back at her front door to arrest her.
It was at the end of the interview that Small had really tossed in the bombshell. Ollie replayed it in her mind because she knew it was important.
Small, with a greedy look in her little eyes as she started to feed on triumph. ‘Who’s this?’
It was a picture of Mike Stockton. Ollie’s gut had melted. She went into a defensive mode that had been honed through years of police interrogations.
She squinted. ‘Don’t know him.’
But why the hell were they asking her, if he was one of them? Were they trying to trick her? No. If Stockton really was NCA they would be all over her for the killing of a copper.
Small had pushed the picture closer and tapped it, sarcastic. ‘We have glasses if you need a pair.’
Ollie had leant in, leaned back, whispered in the lawyer’s ear. He gave a quick nod. Small made a derogatory noise, thinking that ‘no comment’ was about to be delivered.
Ollie surprised her, but felt her voice automatically regress into a streetwise, ‘I don’t give a shit’ delivery. Hide behind what Small expects to see and hear.
‘He’s an ex-punter. His name was Mike. Never knew his surname. Never asked.’
‘Ollie, so many ex-punters. You shag half of London? Why do we have two who are now dead?’
Ollie gave Small an annoying smile. ‘Coincidence?’ But her brain was spinning with panic.
‘Here’s something to make you think. If you knew him as Mike Stockton, he was lying to you. His surname was Marston. Ring any bells?’
Ollie’s expression gave her away. Small smiled at her, eyebrows raised. ‘So, you did know him better than just a punter.’
‘Stockton. He used the name Stockton. Not unusual for punters to give me a false name. Most don’t even bother with that.’
Should I say more, thought Ollie? Should I risk losing that apartment and more? Best to keep silent, if they know it let them raise it.
‘Why did he have images of you on his mobile? Taken eight weeks ago, give or take.’
Ollie ran a hand through her hair, her fingers tugging at the tight curls. She could feel beads of sweat on her forehead. Small was smiling now, reading the signs of agitation. Eight weeks ago? This had all started less than two weeks ago.
Ollie demanded. ‘Let me see the other pictures.’
Small frowned but flipped them out like a casino croupier. Ollie looked at the images of herself, what she was wearing, the background. Coming out of the front door joking with Amal; outside Lily’s school, pacing; striding out of her mother’s temporary respite home, her face looking like thunder. Lastly, smashing her foot into a grey wheelie-bin in the car park of Welfare.
How long had Stockton been watching her? Why?
Ollie had shrugged the question away with a casual, ‘Maybe he was a stalker.’
Ollie dragged herself back to the present as a couple of raindrops splattered on her shoulders and arms. She looked up and let a couple hit her face, cool against her skin.
The lawyer had said it as they parted outside the station.
‘You know what, Ollie? Keep it tight because I don’t think they have a clue what’s going on or what they’re really looking for.’
Them and me both, thought Ollie.
The Manipulat-ed
‘The victim will constantly seek reassurance, comfort and communication from the manipulator who may withhold it on occasion creating a greater need and putting the victim more under their control.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ollie stopped at a 24-7 and bought three pay as you go mobiles; for herself, her mother and another for Lily. At an all-night trailer she bought coffee and a bacon sandwich, sat under an umbrella at a plastic table and put all three numbers, into all three mobiles, on speed dial.
Then she let her feet take her to the Embankment and she turned left and walked towards the City. The broad pathway and the river gave her body and her mind space. Importantly, she would be visible to CCTV. The police could watch her every step if they wanted to. From somewhere behind her, miles to the west, came the first distant rumble of thunder.
She sent a text to Saran. She needed someone to talk to. Saran listened and her suggestions were always sensible. The lawyer was going to speak with Jo in case Ollie didn’t make it to work. Ollie knew Jo would take care of Lily and her mother if the police made a pre-emptive strike at dawn.
Inside her, she fought a constant need for George. They were like a couple of dogs on a beach who randomly meet, rush around snuffling and growling and playing for a couple of minutes and then get called off by their owners. Nip, bite, scuffle, growl and off they go.
Was George a kindred spirit? Or was he a clever man who had manipulated her when she was supposed to working on him? She used to trust the instincts she’d honed on the streets, but now uncertainty was making her overthink everything she said and did.
Twenty minutes later she stopped. Her brain had teased out some threads from the tangled balls that were blocking her thoughts and sent a subconscious message to her feet which had taken her to Amal’s front door.
Stockton, or now Marston, or whoever the man was, had photographed her here. Amal had thrown her out without reason. And this man Marston had waited until she was at her lowest point and then pulled the trigger. Amal had been the gun. He knew something.
It was two am when she called Amal on his mobile and offered him a deal she knew he wouldn’t re
fuse. Five minutes later she was in her old room, Amal was in a pair of thin bed shorts and he was looking at her greedily. ‘Sex first.’
Ollie peeled off her top and his eyes flickered across her breasts. Stockton-Marston had said it, you have skills we can use. Now she was using them, to find out about him.
She flicked off her bra and she saw his erection bouncing in his shorts. He yanked them off, as if only now he believed she meant it.
She stepped towards him, held is hard on and kissed him gently.
‘Everything, Amal. Deal?’
He sighed. ‘God, I’ve missed you, Ollie.’
She took that as a ‘yes’. A minute later he was on her and in her. A minute after that he was on his back, panting. She knew he would want more, but that was fine, it meant she would get everything she wanted.
Rain had started pattering against the windows, but it was still humid and Amal was sweating. She turned on her side and let her breasts hang near his eyes, waiting. He reached for her and tweaked a nipple.
‘He came to visit me three times. Said he was from the NCA. That they thought you were responsible for several disappearances.’
‘Including Stephan?’
‘Especially, Stephan. He said they almost had enough to convict you. That you were involved with serious organised crime. Drugs and prostitution. Stephan had found out.’
‘You know that’s a pile of crap?’
Amal reached for a cigarette and gave his lighter an angry flick to light it.
‘What the shit do I know. Ollie? You lived with him and then he disappears? You’re the most streetwise woman I’ve met. Yes, you’re capable.’
‘What else?’
‘That you were in deep trouble with Welfare and the school. And when he was ready, I had to throw you out.’
Ollie frowned, ‘when he was ready’ suggested Stockton-Marston had something planned.
‘What did he mean, ‘ready?’
‘Then you would be under pressure. You would do something rash. Something that would bust open the gang, allow them to get you inside and find out what happened to Stephan.’