by DH Smith
‘Shut up,’ said Donna.
She was seated next to the social worker in the car as they drove to Eric’s in Chadwell Heath, her handbag in her lap. Donna had taken a taxi to Redbridge social services and Heather was waiting for her. Donna brushed off her apologies and explanations.
‘Let’s go,’ said Donna, knowing the less she said the better. For she hadn’t any emails and it was not too likely she could get them now.
Let the bloody woman think she had them. And would use them. Let the cow stay scared.
As she drove, Heather tried several times to mitigate what she’d done; each time Donna cut her short, and then blew up.
‘I want no more of your lies, Heather Kennedy. You have no excuses. You were paid off by Mr Ward for years. You are a despicable member of the human race. I’m only in your car on sufferance. Please don’t speak to me. I hate you. For what you’ve done to the relationship between me and Eric. However did you get to be a social worker? Don’t tell me. You are an expert in lies. All I want is for you to take me to Eric. Then go away, get out of my life forever. You are not his social worker anymore. Do you hear me, Heather Kennedy? Get that sorted.’
‘Mrs Jones, please…’
‘Shut up and sort it out.’
Donna knew her script. She had said it all through the night in imaginary conversations. The lines were pat and vicious. Now she was on stage, the rehearsed lines flooded out. She was a squeezed ball of anger. So infuriated, so distressed. She gripped her hands together, sticking her nails into her palms as if she would explode if she let go. Get there, drive. Let me be out of this car, out of the sphere of this awful woman, forever.
Deliberately she looked straight ahead, at the car eating up the damp roadway, past miles of secondhand car dealers and repair shops. Time passing. She knew hatred could kill you. And tried to think of Eric. Of what she would say to him after all these years. Of what he might say to her. There was the blockage. Venting her wrath against the social worker – that was easy. She didn’t care one jot about her feelings, her career. Zero on the sympathy scale. But Eric, who had been told for years Donna didn’t want to see him, that his mother had banished him from her life – how was she to get over that? She would have liked to ask Heather how she’d put it to Eric, but couldn’t. Didn’t want to give the cow any licence to speak.
At least she was moving. Past Barley Lane. Goodmayes Mental Hospital was down there; she’d visited Eric when he’d got really bad, must’ve been ten years ago. They were overtaking buses on the way to Romford. Time passing with distance travelled, gorging the ground before them. She could sense Heather’s fear, see it in her stiff body and her clutch of the wheel. The journey was at last coming to an end. Donna had made the phone call. Had given Heather Kennedy hell. And now she had to rescue the mother in herself, by somehow convincing Eric the blank years weren’t her fault – no matter what lies the awful woman had come up with. She bit her tongue again, preventing herself word bashing Heather further, knowing silence was the hardest hammer. For Heather knew that Donna knew, but didn’t know what she might do.
But Eric. Oh Eric. I am so sorry. I grieve for years lost. Please believe me.
She could make no reply to herself. There was a silent wall in her fantasy. She shivered in fear of what might happen. The slammed door, her son’s parting insults.
The car pulled up. Heather took her key out of the ignition.
‘He lives over there, Mrs Jones. At number 21. I’ll just take you over.’
‘You will not,’ said Donna as she undid her seatbelt. ‘I will go on my own as I should have done years ago.’
She opened the car door and stepped onto the pavement.
‘I never want to see you again, Heather Kennedy.’
And slammed the car door.
Chapter 40
Jack drove into the semicircular drive, just behind Carol. He had followed her through the late afternoon traffic, up from Stratford, through Leytonstone, round the Whipps Cross roundabout and on to Snaresbrook and the Chigwell Road. There had been no occasion for the personal in their house viewing. And for the last half hour, he had watched the rear of her car and the back of her head.
A policewoman was at the door of the house. She first spoke to Carol in her car. Then came to Jack’s van.
‘Have you business here, sir?’
‘I am a builder working on the premises.’
‘Your name, please.’
Jack gave it. The policewoman phoned.
‘Mrs Ward – I have a Carol Cole and a Jack Bell here.’
The answer was obviously an assent.
‘You may go in,’ said the policewoman, ‘but please, you are not allowed upstairs. That remains a crime scene.’
She stepped aside and they went through the open door into the hallway. Chequered tape was across the stairs. Joanna was standing at the door of the lounge.
‘Let’s go in the kitchen,’ she said, ‘have a coffee.’
They walked past the stairs and into Donna’s domain.
The kitchen was totally clean. No evidence of the party. Was it only last night? thought Jack.
He and Joanna sat on a stool each by the long table. Carol filled the electric kettle.
‘A journalist phoned me,’ said Joanna. ‘He wants to interview me about my husband’s property. Mine now. I phoned Leon’s solicitor. There’s no will, so everything becomes mine. All Leon’s lousy empire drops in my lap. Dirty dealing and all. I didn’t know what to say to the journalist, so I cut him off. I haven’t much to say anyway as I don’t know anything. I dare say you two have had a quick crammer.’
‘We have,’ said Carol. ‘You own 110 properties. They are all overcrowded and in poor condition. Jack and I saw four of them. You have also inherited a loan racket, tying up tenants who get in arrears.’
‘I knew Leon was into dirty deals,’ mused Joanna, ‘but I have no desire to mire myself. I wonder how much the journalist knows.’
‘Whatever he knows, it’s a bigger story now,’ said Carol, ‘with Mr Ward murdered.’
‘What should we do?’
Carol busied herself with the cafetiere, spooning in the coffee. Jack took three cups out of the cupboard and milk from the fridge. Joanna did not move from her stool.
‘At present you are innocent,’ said Carol. ‘You didn’t know what your husband was doing. Now that you do – you are going to make changes.’ She stopped for an instant and stared at her boss. ‘Aren’t you?’
Joanna was tapping the tabletop with her fingernails. ‘Doesn’t one bury rubbish like this,’ she said. ‘Embed the houses in a company in a company in a company, like a set of Russian dolls, with the last one way off shore, in the Cayman Islands or somewhere like that.’
Carol said, ‘Not so simple. The journalist has found you; you can’t bury yourself in companies. I suggest you get advice from your accountant. Then we’ll have a meeting to discuss your options.’
‘Who is we?’
‘Me, you and Jack.’
‘Why Jack?’ She glanced at Jack with a condescending smile. ‘No insult intended, but he’s here to fix my summerhouse.’
‘He’s a builder,’ said Carol. ‘And you have a lot of buildings in a bad state.’
Joanna nodded. ‘I take your point. Some expertise would be useful.’ She sucked her lower lip and looked at Jack. ‘And I think you’re honest.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack.
‘It’s not necessarily a compliment.’ Joanna glanced at her watch and screwed up her face in contemplation. ‘Let’s have our threesome at ten tomorrow morning. In the meantime I’ll talk to my accountant and get to my housing office, as it now is. And if you don’t mind, Jack – Carol and I need to talk privately.’
‘Fine,’ said Jack, acknowledging his dismissal. He had hoped to have some personal time with Carol but it wasn’t going to be. ‘I’m flaked after last night. And today’s been hectic. I’ll get a good night’s sleep. And be here first thing and get
on with the summerhouse. And add what I can to the meeting.’
He already felt in the way. Best get out and keep moving.
Chapter 41
Donna sat on the too-soft sofa. It smelt of stale food and cat. Eric had made her a cup of tea in a not very clean mug, which she’d just found room for on the overfilled coffee table, piled with magazines, CDs, playing cards and knick-knacks.
There were two others in the house, she could faintly hear, but they were keeping to the kitchen.
‘Have you got a cat?’ said Donna.
Eric nodded. ‘Yocky.’
‘That’s a weird name,’ she said.
‘I thought of it,’ he said. ‘Don’t know where I got it from. She just looks like a Yocky.’
Eric was plumper than when she had last seen him. His hair was receding a little.
‘How do you get on in this house?’ she said.
Eric pursed his lips and rocked his head. ‘Pretty good, mostly. We argue over chores, though there’s a sort of rota. But we have a day worker who comes in for an hour or two every day. She makes sure we take our medication and sorts out any arguments.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ said Donna.
‘So why didn’t you come to see me?’ he challenged.
‘I didn’t know where you lived. Your social worker said you didn’t want to see me.’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘That’s a dirty lie. She told me you didn’t want to see me.’
‘She was lying to both of us,’ said Donna.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Eric. ‘It’s the sort of paranoia I believe when I haven’t taken my medication. Why would she lie to both of us?’
‘Your father was ashamed of you,’ she said. ‘He wanted you out of sight. Out of his life. And out of mine too, as I worked for him. His housekeeper. He paid the social worker to lie to both of us.’
‘All these years,’ said Eric doubtfully. ‘You are telling me the truth?’
‘Oh, I am, Eric. I’ve always wanted to see you.’
Eric nodded. ‘I couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to see me. She never explained why. I know I’m ill, but it’s mostly under control. I take my medication. It makes me put on weight but I don’t hear the voices so often. And they’re quieter. I can put on my headphones and drown them out.’
‘I’m glad you’re managing,’ she said. ‘I’ve worried a lot about you.’
‘I thought of coming to see you,’ said Eric. ‘But it was a long way, and she said I wouldn’t be welcome.’
‘You’re always welcome,’ she said.
‘Oh Mum.’
He came and sat by her and put his arms round her. Donna’s eyes welled. Eric too was sniffing. She kissed him on the cheek.
He said, ‘Can I introduce you to John and Alec?’
‘Of course,’ said his mother. ‘I want to meet your friends. And get to know your cat.’
Chapter 42
Back home, Jack explored his cupboard and fridge. Not a lot. A couple of eggs, a bit of bacon from yesterday, some stale bread, a tin of beans. He could make something of that.
He was assembling the bits with the oil and frying pan, when his phone rang. It was Mia.
‘Hello, love.’
‘Hello, Dad. I need those fairy books.’
‘I’ve got them here somewhere. I’ll give them to you at the weekend. It is my weekend, isn’t it?’
‘No, Dad. I need them tomorrow.’
‘What’s the rush? You said you were too old for them.’
‘Yeh, they’re crap. But I’ve done a deal. Jill wants them. She’ll give me a phone and a bracelet.’
‘Are you sure you can do this deal, Mia?’ He was a worried father for once, imagining repercussions from Alison and from Jill’s parents.
‘I told you,’ said Mia, exasperated. ‘She’s got two phones, and lots of jewellery. Her mum and dad will never notice. And even if they do – it’s a good deal.’
‘Maybe I should talk to your mum.’
‘Oh don’t do that. I’ve got it all set up. Jill’s bringing the stuff tomorrow. So can you bring the books to school?’
‘I’ve got an awful lot on tomorrow.’
‘Like what?’
He sighed at the thought. ‘This summerhouse I’m working on. A door I’ve really got to fix. A meeting. And I’ve got to go to the police station to make a statement.’
‘You in trouble again, Dad?’
‘No, not me. Someone got murdered in the house I’m working in. And I just have to say where I was and all that.’
‘Murder! That’s exciting. Tell me all about it. Do they know who did it? Was it a jealous lover?’
He was aware how hungry he was, the bacon staring him in the face. ‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when I bring the fairy books in.’ There, he’d lumbered himself with another chore.
‘Oh that’ll be amazing! Wait till I tell everyone. And don’t forget the books.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t tell everyone.’
‘Got to go now. See you tomorrow, Dad. A murder. Wow!’
And she rang off.
Jack cursed. Now he’d have to get there, straight after school. It was an inconvenient time. Depending how long the interview at the police station took, he had to be away in time to catch Mia at school at 3.30 in Homerton. Then half an hour back to Chigwell to at least do a bit of work, paid work, when he normally finished at five-ish. All depending on traffic. Perhaps he could get to the school at lunchtime. How was he going to fit the damned door in?
Plus Carol. Dare he buy her some flowers? And risk getting them thrown back at him…
He was pouring oil in the pan when the doorbell rang.
It wouldn’t be Carol. Dreams do not come true. Impatient and hungry, he stomped down the stairs to the front door. Certainly not Carol, but DI Henderson in a long black coat, fully buttoned. He lifted his homburg hat in greeting.
‘I’m glad you’re in, Mr Bell,’ he said. ‘I was just passing and I have a few questions… If this is not inconvenient.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Jack. What else can you say to a detective inspector?
He led him into the house and upstairs into the flat. He offered Henderson a seat on the sofa and closed the kitchen door, not wanting it to be seen he was mid cooking.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he said.
‘No thank you, Jack. This is just a quick visit.’
Henderson took a tablet computer from his pocket.
‘While I’m sorting out some images,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t like to give me a copy of your last bank statement.’
‘Sure,’ said Jack.
He turned on his desktop, thinking of the bacon, egg and beans. Of Mia tomorrow and the door he still had to buy, let alone fit. Forget tomorrow. One thing at a time.
‘This takes ages to warm up,’ said Jack indicating the computer screen, and switching on his printer.
‘Here’s the picture,’ said Henderson, holding out the tablet. ‘Do you recognise that?’
Jack took the tablet and sat down at the table. It was a hammer in a plastic bag with reddish brown stains on the steel head.
‘Is this the murder weapon?’ he said. ‘I thought it was a cold chisel.’
‘Do you recognise it?’ said Henderson.
‘It’s mine alright,’ said Jack. ‘I recognise that knot in the handle.’
‘Just wanted to make sure,’ said Henderson. ‘And yes, it’s the weapon. Two were used.’
‘The summerhouse was open,’ said Jack. ‘Anyone could have taken them. I just figured with all those well-heeled nobs at the party, they were perfectly safe.’
Henderson nodded. He undid his coat, his homburg was on the seat beside him.
‘This is a flying visit,’ he said, ‘the wife’s outside in the car. We’re going to eat with some friends.’
Jack’s stomach rumbled at thoughts of dinner, but he smiled at the informality.
‘If you
could just get me your bank statement…’
‘Right.’
Jack sprung up and went to the computer. He went online and into his bank account. He put in the passwords and went straight to statements. In a few clicks, the last one was printing.
‘You left the party at 9.45-ish,’ said Henderson. ‘With no corroboration until Carol Cole came here at about quarter to one.’
‘Yes,’ said Jack. There was nothing he could add. No witnesses to the three hours alone. He lived on his own. What did the man expect? He took the printout from the machine and handed it to Henderson. ‘That’s the last one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Henderson as he began to peruse it. ‘A tip I got from an old hand when I was a young detective constable: always look at the money.’
Jack wondered whether it would be rude to say he needed to eat. Probably would be.
‘Not much in your account,’ mused Henderson, ‘till we get to this fifty thousand…’
‘What fifty thousand?’
Jack was instantly over to the sofa, sitting down beside Henderson, and looking at the bank statement. Henderson fingered the amount.
‘There. Came in today. From Goldfinch.’
‘I’ve never heard of Goldfinch.’ He stared hard at the figures. Five figures in the in-column. Fifty thousand quid. A five, a zero, a comma, then three more zeroes.
‘Must be a bank error,’ he said, agog.
‘Nice bank error,’ said Henderson. ‘I wouldn’t say no to one like that.’
Jack lay back on the sofa, suddenly exhausted, knowing he wasn’t believed. ‘I don’t know anything about that money. I’ve never done a job for fifty thousand. I’m a small builder. Twenty thou is a lot for me.’
Henderson held up the statement, his expression stretched in disbelief.
‘You are telling me, Mr Bell, in all honesty, that you don’t know where that money has come from?’
‘I’ve never heard of Goldfinch,’ said Jack pathetically. ‘I don’t know anything about that money. I was close to zero before that came in.’ He didn’t bring up the £400 he’d had in cash from Ward. That would only complicate matters, Ward being dead. Besides, it hardly matched up to fifty thou.