by DH Smith
‘What! In my condition?’
‘Murder,’ went on David, ‘or kidnapping…’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Maggie. ‘I am victim number one in a horror movie.’
‘Could just be to put the frighteners on,’ said Anne.
‘Very effectively,’ said Maggie.
‘But that only works,’ said David, ‘if you are aware he’s doing it. You wouldn’t know, without the builder.’
‘He just happened to be taking his daughter to school, Maggie.’
‘I might ask you who his daughter is, but some other time. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.’
‘I could go down and confront him,’ said David thoughtfully. ‘Right now.’
‘But he’ll deny it,’ said Maggie. ‘And then you’ll hit him again.’
‘Alright,’ said David. ‘Let’s use our three heads on this.’
‘I’m not against you using your fists, love.’
He ignored her. ‘Suppose I go to the police in the morning. At least they’ll have it on record. And after I’ve done it, we tell him we’ve informed the police that he followed you.’
‘Maybe write him a note,’ said Maggie, ‘instead of face to face, and so avoid a punch-up.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, cop shop tomorrow. I’ll go into work a bit late.’ He turned to Anne. ‘Thanks for telling us, Anne. It’s as well to know.’
‘I couldn’t leave it there. I had to tell you.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Maggie, putting a hand on Anne’s.
‘And I must go. Cooking.’
‘Someone coming?’ said Maggie, noting again her dress and make up. Anne nodded. ‘Someone nice?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Who?’
‘Tell you tomorrow, if, you know…’
‘Bet it’s the builder.’
Anne blushed and looked down at her hands.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Anne. Don’t mind me teasing. I’m sure he’s a very nice man.’
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve met one.’
‘Go and do your cooking,’ said David. ‘And we hope it all goes well.’
Maggie got up.
‘Hang about, Anne. I’ve got a bottle of wine for you.’
Anne waved her hands vigorously. ‘Strictly no booze. He’s a teetotaller.’
And she kissed Maggie on the cheek, then David. ‘Must run, must.’
They called their best wishes and thank yous as she darted from the flat.
Chapter 24
Jack’s legs were hollow, his stomach fluttering as he entered her flat. He’d brought a pot plant, some sort of flowering cactus that the florist told him should continue flowering until after Christmas. He didn’t like cut flowers; they went off in a few days and stank. Reminded him of funerals. Seemed much better value to give something growing. In his other hand was a box of chocolates, his alternative to a bottle of booze, though you could hardly get high on an orange delight.
Except adrenaline had got him to that pitch already. His body was charged as she opened wide the door, in a vibrant red dress, lips the same colour, wearing a prim white apron. He stepped inside and kissed her on the cheek, aftershave merging with her rose aroma.
She took off her apron.
‘Everything is simmering nicely. Let’s sit down for a minute.’
He’d not seen her sitting room, just the nursery and the kitchen. It was fairly minimalist. A bookshelf; he’d have a look at the books, they always told you a lot about people. There was a hatch into the kitchen, both its pine doors wide open, a smallish, pale brown sofa and a single armchair to match. Two brightly coloured framed prints were on the walls. That one with all the blues and umbrellas he should probably know. Alison would.
The table was set out for two, side by side. In the centre was a blue glass vase with a very thick base holding a mixture of late blooms.
Awkwardly he handed over the chocolates and the potted plant.
‘My contribution.’
‘Oh, a winter flowering cactus,’ she exclaimed. ‘They last ages.’ And added with a laugh as she put it on a shelf, ‘Still be around when I’m dead.’
She settled on the sofa and invited him to sit by her. On the coffee table was a bottle of elderflower champagne and two wine glasses in a wooden tray, embossed with a map of France with cartoon French men and women doing Gallic things with wine and food.
‘Drink?’ she said, holding up the bottle, ‘non-alcoholic, only the best.’
‘Please,’ he said, finding words difficult. That was why you drank. Or smoked a cigarette. They busied the hands, got the blood moving. Though his was moving, perhaps too quickly, and stumbling over itself.
He said, ‘The rain’s stopped at long last.’
‘Oh, you were so wet today.’
She handed him a drink, the bubbles fizzing and popping above the surface of the liquid.
‘I do like the smell of elderflower champagne, the way it tickles your nose,’ she said. ‘You can smell the flowers.’
Jack had done the Cook’s Tour of non-alcoholic drinks in the last year. There weren’t many he hadn’t tried in his efforts to replace booze in various cultural encounters.
‘It’s one of my favourites,’ he said. ‘It has a sly flavour.’
There was a few seconds’ silence as both sipped. Weather done, the drink remarked upon. A topic, a topic – my kingdom for a topic!
‘Did you speak to the people upstairs?’ he said, anxiously grasping a flying thought.
She nodded. ‘About half an hour ago. And I’m so glad I did. David’s going to go to the police in the morning, and will drop a note in to Frank saying he’s done so.’
‘He’s a slimy git,’ exclaimed Jack. ‘Who would put a tack in a meatball?’
‘Maggie’s quite scared that he followed her,’ she said. ‘She didn’t say so, but I could tell. Six months pregnant on top of everything.’
‘His daughter’s terrified of him, you know,’ said Jack. ‘She did an errand for me earlier, and was frightened out of her wits when I told her her father was back and asking for her.’
‘He beats her,’ said Anne. ‘And I suspect incest.’
‘How do you know?’
Anne shrugged. ‘A feeling. The way she is around him, his nastiness to her. The way he keeps her to him. She never goes anywhere apart from the shops. No friends I’ve seen.’
‘Shouldn’t it be reported?’
‘Who to?’ she said, ‘and without Bessie getting a battering?’
‘My ex would know, but I’m not about to ask her. Some women’s organisation. I’m not up on this.’
‘I should be,’ said Anne. ‘With the childminding course I did, we covered abuse. Kids, but it’s not that different. I’ll find out.’
‘We can’t leave her to him.’
‘No. You’re right. Tomorrow I’ll chase it up. Find out who to contact. It’s so difficult when it’s neighbours, but we can’t leave it. Now let’s eat.’
They went to the table. He sat down. She took two square, green candles off a shelf and lit them. Then placed one on either side of the central vase in a flat dish. She turned down the room lights with the dimmer switch, which enhanced the candlelight, filling the room with flickering shadow.
Their meal began with a pinkish half melon each, with various fruits where the seeds had been scooped out: purple and green grapes, slices of kiwi fruit and satsuma segments.
‘You’ve an eye for colour,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, obviously pleased. ‘I am sure if food looks good then it will more likely taste good.’
‘I’m getting my five-a-day in one.’
‘Tell me about your daughter.’
‘Mia, she’s ten,’ he said. ‘And I have the feeling, from what she’s said, Maggie might be her teacher. Mia said she was pregnant. Her mum’s English co-ordinator there.’
‘Small world.’
‘Me and her mum have an uneasy relationship, let�
��s say. But I get on well with Mia, mostly. We went out with the telescope last night. She knows the craters on the moon, and says she’d like to be an astronaut. We didn’t get back till ten. That would have had her mum dancing on hot coals. But straight to bed, and she was fine in the morning.’
‘I’ve two older children come to me after school,’ said Anne, ‘just for an hour or two, till their parents come back from work.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying…’
‘I don’t know whether I mind or not, till you say it.’
‘You seem rather young for a childminder, and…’ he hesitated, then continued regardless. ‘I took a glance at your books. I think you’re a graduate…’
She nodded. ‘I did English and History at York.’
‘And now you’re a childminder.’
She gathered his bowl in which lay the melon rind, and with her own put it on the shelf of the hatch.
She said, ‘I think you’ve sussed me.’
‘I haven’t sussed very much,’ he said, somewhat puzzled.
‘Well, before you start Googling me, I’d best tell you. Though let’s have our main course first.’
She left the room and went into the kitchen via the hallway, where he watched her through the hatch. Some mystery about to be revealed. Did he want to know? Why not just a pleasant meal with candles and flowers, all dressed up, best behaviour – and no history of sins. Just romance. Talk only about films and fluff. Go out and look at the moon.
Keep secrets secret.
Anne opened the oven and a hot smell of mozzarella, tomato and spices filled the air. His stomach turned over; it was a long time since lunch and he’d not had time to eat anything. What with sorting out the fencing, then back to finish off the wall. As soon as that was done, he’d scooted home to clean up for tonight, squeezing in time to buy the pot plant and chocolates.
She had taken the used bowls off the hatch shelf, and placed on it the lasagne and salad, along with various serving utensils. Then Anne returned to the sitting room and placed the food on the table. With a slice, she served him a generous piece of lasagne.
‘Plenty more if you want it,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to salad.’
‘This is magnificent,’ he said looking at his steaming plate. ‘Much better than the chicken take‑out I’d probably have.’
‘Much better,’ she said primly, and sat herself down.
He waited for her to begin the big topic. Didn’t feel he should remind her, instead said complimentary things about the food. Not that it wasn’t true. Much better than his usual fare. Though he tended to do better when Mia was round. She would complain if he didn’t, besides which he owed it to her.
Anne said, ‘I was about to answer your query…’
‘You don’t have to,’ he said.
She screwed up her nose. ‘I do. Besides, it’s not something I should be ashamed of. Though I am still. But my counsellor said talk about it, don’t make it a big secret.’
He took some salad, colourful with tomatoes, peppers, olives, and various hues of lettuce leaves. It had no dressing on. There was a little jug of it with a tiny spoon. He picked it up tentatively and sniffed.
‘It’s only lemon juice and olive oil,’ she said.
He spooned a little on.
‘I couldn’t get a job,’ she said, ‘because I’d been in prison…’
‘What for?’ he said, taking care not to catch her eye, in his surprise at the sudden revelation.
She took a deep breath, gave a wry smile and said, ‘For murdering my husband, Malcolm.’
Jack stopped chewing, his knife and fork held frozen as if he were the subject of a Victorian photograph.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she said, closing her eyes for a second. ‘The actual perpetrator fitted me up nicely,’ she added with a short laugh. ‘The CPS had a tight case, circumstantial. And lies from a couple of witnesses. Well, I was having an affair to make it worse. The upshot was I was found guilty. And spent two years in the nick. Horrible, horrible time. Then they found out who actually did it. And I was freed.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘I’ve been out for three years,’ she said. ‘Once I was free, I got Malcolm’s life insurance and the money for his flat. I didn’t want to stick around in Manchester. Too many people had said nasty things about me. I wanted a fresh start. So came down to London. Bought this flat and spent a year trying to get a job. It does make a mess of a CV, two years in jail. Even telling lies about it means you have to tell more to fill in what you were doing in the time. In the end I thought, I have a bit of money, what can I do? And came up with childminding. I did a course, got the nursery set up, went through the inspection…’ She bit her thumb. ‘I was so thoroughly inspected. That prison spell stumped them for a bit, till I went to a solicitor, and they caved in. Got my first children six months ago. And here I am. Ex jailbird makes good.’
‘That’s quite a story,’ said Jack, busying himself eating, while he worked out how to respond.
‘Bit of a show stopper,’ she said. ‘But my counsellor was right. The more I tell it, the less guilty I feel. OK, I was having an affair, but that’s not the same as murder… Though to read the tabloids you might think so. If you’re curious, you’ll find it all online, in various versions.’ She stood up, waved her hands as if to flap all her past away. ‘Let’s have some music, and some lighter talk to drive out my lurid tale and thoughts of him upstairs.’
She went to the music unit and began sorting through CDs.
Jack’s phone rang.
Annoyed, knowing he should have turned it off, he took it out of his pocket and looked to see who was interrupting his dinner date.
Alison.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, holding up his ringing phone.
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
He stepped out into the hall.
‘I hope this is important, Alison. I’m in the middle of eating.’
‘Mia has run off.’
‘What do you mean run off?’
‘I told her I’d got the Brighton job. She got sulky. So I sent her to her room. Next thing I know, the front door slams and I see her going off in a car…’
‘A taxi?’
‘I suspect so. Has she come to you?’
‘I’m not at home.’
‘Well, she’s not answering my calls. Will you phone her and get back to me?’
‘Right. Let me try. I’ll phone you straight back after I’ve spoken to her.’
He rang off. And his phone rang almost instantly. It was Mia.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘At your place, Dad. Outside your front door. It’s cold.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be right along.’
‘I’ve been ringing and ringing. Where are you?’
‘Tell you when I see you. I’ll be there, say fifteen minutes.’
With goodbyes on either side, he rang off. There was no point cross examining her on the phone. Get to her first. Details later. He went back into the sitting room. And told Anne about the family crisis.
‘Sorry, Anne, but I’ve got to go and get her. Right away.’
‘You must,’ said Anne.
‘I’ll sort it out quick as I can. And then come back, if you’ll have me.’
‘Be off,’ she said. ‘And please come back. Take my spare front door key.’
He took the key, assuming it meant he could come back very late if needs be, so things were not bad here at all. Just Mia and her mother to sort out. He kissed Anne on the cheek, then the lips. A long embrace. And then, with the greatest reluctance, he pulled away.
‘Save some pudding for me, Anne.’
And shot away.
Part Two:
The First Killing
Chapter 25
Mia was a bundle in the doorway, pathetic and cold, like a homeless waif. By her side a small suitcase with the few precious items she’d chosen to run away with. He helped her get up, kissed her on the
forehead and took her suitcase. Jack opened the door and ushered her into the hallway.
They went upstairs to the flat. And immediately Jack turned on the gas fire. He sat Mia in an armchair, put a blanket over her knees, and went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. There, he phoned Alison. And told her Mia was here. Alison said she’d be over right away.
He kept up an inane commentary from the kitchen to show he was there and doing things: ‘Kettle on, chocolate going in the cups, adding milk, milk back in the fridge, adding sugar, although it’s not good for you…’
‘I know how to make hot chocolate, Dad,’ she called back.
‘Tell me soon as I go wrong then. Kettle off, pour water on the floor…’
‘Wrong.’
‘Just testing. I’m sure it’s a lot better in the cup. Stir, stir more. Spoon in the sink.’
He took the two hot chocolates into the sitting room, not really wanting one himself, but thought it more companionable to have one. He handed her a cup. And noted that, warm again, she was coming back to life.
‘Your mum’s coming over,’ he said. ‘You’d better fill me in.’
She screwed up her nose. ‘I don’t want to go to Brighton.’
‘Your mum’s not going to take you to Brighton tomorrow. It’s not for…’ he calculated, ‘two and a half months.’
‘I want to go to Atwoods with my friends.’
‘You haven’t been accepted at Atwoods yet. Neither have your friends.’
She shrugged. ‘We will be.’
‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.’
She ignored the uncertainty and said, ‘She just sprung it on me. We’re going to Brighton, she said. ‘We’ – like I’m a dog on a lead.’
‘It’s promotion for your mum,’ he said, trying hard. ‘Deputy head, you know. Extra pay. You’ll find somewhere better to live, not far from the sea. Brighton’s got a lot of life.’
‘Can’t I stay with you in London?’
He blew out his cheeks. ‘And how would that work, you over here in Forest Gate? You’d have an hour’s journey every day to Atwoods in Hackney. If they accept you. This place is alright if you stay the odd weekend. But you haven’t even got your own room. Alright if you’ve not much here, but you would if you lived here as your main home. Besides, your mum will be earning nearly twice what I make.’