by Jo Smedley
The police car could still be outside, they might have simply rolled down the road a little, curious as to our visit to the house next door to the one with the left over police tape still stuck on the privet hedge.
"Don't worry about it," she told me, ignoring my mood. "I've got it all worked out.
"You have?"
"The eight foot runs right behind the house,” she reminded me.
An eight-foot was the term given to the alleys in Grimsby. This particular eight-foot ran all the way behind the houses at this side of the park. Most eight-foots just led to a midpoint along the road, with gated access for all the residents around it who used the alleyways to move wheelie bins from the back gardens down to the road on rubbish day, or access hidden garages around the backs of their houses. This eight-foot was unusual in that it linked Bargate Avenue to Weelsby Road directly, and was actually wide enough to fit a vehicle all the way along. I’d explored it once on one of Moss’s walks. It was a good brambling spot in the autumn, which is how I’d discovered it wasn’t the dead end most of them were. There was another like it linking Ludford Street to Farebrother Road to the North of the Park, only that one had a hidden joinery workshop lurking in the middle. I’d gone exploring one day after I’d seen a few vans accessing the road and curiosity had got the better of me.
“I'll pick him up at the church."
"And me?"
"You can just go home. Mission accomplished."
"What?" I couldn't believe that was it. All this cloak and dagger stuff to get here, and I was just going to be dismissed. Used and thrown away.
"You're viewing the house remember? You can't come with me."
I grunted. She was right. Appearances had to be maintained. But still… She had it all worked out, planned. I was merely a prop in the plan. Hardly an essential part, either. And to cap it all off, Russ was…well…very much a damp squib in the whole arrangement.
He crested the hatch again and started his descent. He didn't have anything with him, but the acidic smell of body odour made me step back as if he had a huge rucksack on his back. I pressed as far back against the wall as I could to give him room, and Irene deftly raised the ladder and, with the help of the weighted hinge system, closed the hatch with a little push.
"You can't come out the side door," she told him. "Do you know where the French door keys are?"
"Same fob," he said, dangling a set of keys in front of him. "Neil liked to keep everything together." Neil, I assumed, was the owner of the house. I wondered what he would have thought about Russ sneaking in and living here. Not much I suspect.
We bundled down the stairs, Irene at the front, Russ in the middle, and myself in the far rear, keeping as far back as I could from the smell. I'd never been good with strong aromas, and the sweet sour smell was turning my stomach.
Even though I was still smarting at my rapid dismissal, part of me was exceedingly glad that it wasn't me riding home with him in the car. Irene didn't seem to notice, but I remembered reading somewhere that the sense of smell was one of the first things to deteriorate in old age. Maybe it wasn't as overpowering for her. At least it wasn't yet the height of summer or I may have passed out when the loft hatch opened.
Irene paused in the back living space, which might have been a dining room if a table and chairs had been in the room, but for now was just another empty, slightly musty 8 by 8 space with a pale blue carpet and tea stains sporadically scattered around. A snail trail graced the room near the chimney.
Irene took the keys from Russ and opened the French doors which looked out onto the garden, forcing them back on their aluminium runners to let in the slightly warmer and fresher air, causing a breeze which only succeeded in putting me firmly downwind of Russ. I wrinkled my nose and took another step back.
"Off you go. There's a gate at the back. Go out there, turn left and keep walking until you get to the last privet hedge by the church. Wait there for me."
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"Jean's," she said. "And after we've got you cleaned up and fed, and we've had a chat, the station. You're turning yourself in."
"If you say so." He slumped off down the garden meekly, leaving me to wonder what Lesley had seen in the man in the first place. Maybe he was good in bed. He had to have something going for him. I watched his retreating back. I couldn’t see it myself.
He lumbered through the gate at the back of the garden and glanced back at Irene, who waved him on impatiently. Once the police got hold of him surely they’d reach the same conclusion. Russ wasn’t so much a ‘man hunt’ as a ‘mushroom hunt’. He had encountered something he didn’t like and had simply shut himself in the dark.
Chapter Seven
A whole week went by before I saw Irene again. The local news had reported Russ turning himself in three days before and I had half expected Irene to come calling on me that day, but she didn’t. Part of me was itching to know what was going on, the other part was relieved I hadn’t been involved in it any further. What was it they said in the CIA - plausible deniability? I had no idea what was happening. As far as Lucus was concerned I was in no way connected to the dead woman and my sudden interest in the daily paper was just me retaking control of my life and finally venturing out of ‘baby brain land’ back into world of adult current affairs.
The fact Irene stayed away gave me time to brood. I didn’t know why she’d even involved me in her search for the missing husband in the first place. She could have attended to the first house break single handed, and then evicted Russ from the other loft just as easily without my help. The only thing I did was hold a torch and provide the extra half inch to reach that second loft hatch. If she knew Russ wasn’t a killer she didn’t need me to back her up. There was no reason to pull me into the affair at all.
As far as I could see, Irene was the one with the skills, the personal connection, and so far she was the one demonstrating the investigative reasoning needed to work a case like this. After all she had worked out where Russ was hiding overnight. As for me, I felt like I was just blundering in her wake with a toddler on my hip. I must have been more trouble than help to her and yet she had dragged me into it, talked me into it, as if I mattered, as if I had something critical to impart to the whole process. Yet now Russ was in custody Irene was still keeping her distance. I couldn’t understand it.
All sorts of reasons for her absence had presented themselves to me one by one over the course of the week. Perhaps she’d realised she’d pushed at the boundaries of our friendship, testing them to breaking point; or decided involving a new mother in a potentially dangerous situation probably wasn’t such a good idea after all. It might even be that she’d seen the hurt in my face as she dismissed me at the house a week ago. Whatever the reason, she remained out of contact. The first few days I dismissed out of hand, as I realised she probably had her hands full debriefing Russ and persuading him to hand himself in. But since he had turned himself over to police custody I had been expecting to see her, and her continued absence cut more deeply than anything else.
By the time she did show her face in the park I had festered. I had churned through layers and layers of thinking, composting the experience until I was left with only the dry truth of my utter insignificance. I felt like I had been used and then discarded. I was an optional extra, like conditioner in the laundry. As if I had been tried on in much the same way opticians reviewed your sight and tried out different lenses. Better with or without? And I felt, with a week out of contact, she had decided without. So I was both surprised and angry when she appeared at my side. I certainly wasn’t about to let her just sidle alongside me in the park as if nothing had happened.
“Where have you been?” I hissed at her. A full blown row in public was not my style. But I was fully prepared for cutting sarcasm and hissing whispers.
“Busy.” I could see her looking at me. I marched ahead, chin out, pushing the buggy ahead of me like a snow plough, tough and unyielding. I wasn’t going
to let her see how hurt I was. I wanted her to see me strong. Tough. I had my daughter to think of. I didn’t need her.
I reached out the dog whacker, cupped the ball and flung it across the grass in one smooth angry movement, but in my haste I’d forgotten to check Moss had been watching and the ball skittered across the grass un-noticed. He would never find it if he hadn’t seen it go. His eyes weren’t his strongest sense. I was sure he worked primarily on movement and sound. Damn. That wasn’t the look I was aiming for.
I parked up the buggy, applied the brakes and marched across the dewy grass to the ball myself and cupped it again. Checking he was watching this time, I threw it. He charged after it like a black and white missile, pink tongue lolling. I stomped back to the buggy.
“What is it?” Irene asked.
“Why?” I said. “Why involve me at all?”
Irene turned to watch Moss deposit the ball on her side of the path near a blossom rich cherry tree. The avenue of cherry trees which lined the inner path were virtually dripping in the delicate pink flowers, huge garlands weighing down the thinner branches, creating decorative pink trees which stood in stark contrast to the empty branches of the other deciduous varieties devoid of spring leaves.
“Shall I?” She took the ball thrower and checking Moss was watching her, tossed it across the grass and made her way back to me. I took it and stored it in the hood once more, mouth tight pressed. I had no idea what I was going to say, or even how to frame it. I wasn’t even one hundred percent sure I knew how I felt.
“Jean died on Tuesday.”
I wasn’t expecting that. An excuse maybe, something she could work into a reason, but a death. No. I hadn’t expected that at all.
“The funeral is next week. She had no family. I’ve been sorting through her things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it, too. I had been lucky. None of my friends had died so far. No road traffic accidents, no sudden diseases. I suppose at Irene’s age, deaths were more common, but that didn’t make them less tragic. She had been friends with Jean since Russ was 15 at least, and what did that mean…? She’d known Jean longer than Lucus and I had known each other. She could have known Jean’s husband. She might event have been bridesmaid at their wedding. I didn’t know how far their friendship went back. I had no idea how difficult it had been saying goodbye.
“Were you there?” I asked. I could feel my rage melting, the glacial ice defrosting like an arctic thaw. Underneath all my anger, underneath all the hurt, I cared deeply for Irene and I recognised Jean’s death would have hit her hard.
“No. Russ was though. He turned himself in the day after. She went peacefully,” she added. “I’m glad she got the chance to say goodbye and to know he didn’t do it. It would have given her some comfort.”
We walked. I could feel Irene was hurting. She needed a friend right now and I knew instinctively if Jean hadn’t died she would have caught up with me as soon as Russ had turned himself in. I excused her. I forgave her. I didn’t need to say anything, nor did she, but she reached out and touched my arm even so.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d have been in touch earlier it was just–”
“Don’t apologise,” I said. “I understand.”
As we walked in silence Moss suddenly shot out of his hiding place and ran behind us to collect his ball from where he’d deposited it by a tree. We’d both missed his recent hiding place, so wrapped up were we in our own thoughts. He gave me one of his looks as he passed us by. They say animals don’t have feelings, that their faces don’t have any expressions, but rather it’s us, the owners anthropomorphasizing them. I disagree. If dogs could swear, we’d just had an earful.
“What’s happened to him?” I asked, meaning Russ of course.
“Still in custody for now. They have no proof he did it. But then, they have no proof he didn’t, either.”
“Do you think he’ll get sentenced?”
“Hard to say. He was in the house at the time of the murder. He has no alibi. He’s been in hiding since. It doesn’t look good.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No. I promised Jean we’d get him off.”
I stopped.
Around me the park carried on. Blackbirds flew between the branches making a chip chip chip, chip, chip sound. Blossom hung lazily from the trees, swaying in the gentle breeze, and a squirrel put in an appearance on one of the trunks, scrambled its way down and bounced along the grass to the next tree before Moss gave chase, forcing a rapid change of pace.
“We?” I looked at her. Did she really mean we, or was it more of an inclusive “we’ll get him off” meaning Irene, but including me as I happened to be standing beside her.
“We work well together don’t you think?”
“But I don’t do anything.” Even I heard myself sounding helpless. I so desperately wanted to be included, but I couldn’t help but think I was just going to be dropped again at a convenient moment. Left behind like I had been when we collected Russ. If we were going to do this, I needed to be included. Needed to feel like I was actively participating. I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines providing a cheerleading style support, Go Irene, ra ra ra ! I wanted to be part of the action. I needed to feel useful.
Irene smiled. “You don’t think you do, but you do.” She held my eyes, making sure I was paying attention. “You’re intelligent. You’re fitter than I am, you see things differently –”
“I have a toddler,” I said. I wasn’t the most flexible of people to assist in an investigation. I had commitments that couldn’t be ignored. Not to mention Lucus.
“I have arthritis,” she said. “It’s no excuse. We’ll make do. Trust me. You’ve got a brain, you can reason, think, and you’re invisible, just like me.”
Invisible! Hah. There was a compliment if I ever heard one! But she was right. We were in our prime for undercover work. No one would ever look twice at a young mother or an old age pensioner. The problem was we had no influence either. We had no inroads into the police investigation and I had no idea where we would begin.
I’d been thinking about the murder over the last week. I couldn’t help myself. I was involved, whether Irene wanted me to be or not. I had thought about it almost constantly, my mind reviewing what we’d done, what we’d seen. Behind my eyes, my brain was churning through options and ideas even as I spooned hot Shreddies into Lillian’s birdlike breakfast beak, or vacuumed the house. If Russ hadn’t killed Lesley, then someone else had, the question was who ?
There was no denying I was ready for a change of pace. Irene’s promise may have been foolhardy, but the idea of investigating the murder case ourselves was exciting. More exciting than changing nappies, more exciting then singing silly rhyming songs and congratulating fellow mums on new teeth, more exciting than ensuring the house was clean, tidy and Lucus had his dinner on the table when he came in. I wasn’t cut out for just being a wife and mother. I needed something more.
I looked at her. She smiled back, her nose wrinkling in that way she had. There was a glint in her eye, she knew she had me on board, but she wasn’t going to push it, instead she started feeding me information.
“Russ saw nothing, heard nothing, and as he ran off that same day, and the loft hatch faced the sky, he’s seen nothing since. All he did was brood in that space and get more and more hungry.”
“And more and more smelly,” I said. She flashed me a grin. She had noticed then. That car journey home must have been an odorous one. “Surely he knew something ?”
“I made him give me a list of contacts, people she knew, people he knew, what Lesley did, where I might find the people she knew best, that sort of thing.”
“And?”
“And if we’re going to pursue this we need to go at it systematically, not just chat it through on a walk around the park. When’s her nap?”
“She stopped it, remember?” Lillian’s refusal to sleep like any other toddler infuriated me, all the other mothers
at baby group still got a good hour at mid-day. I just hoped it meant Lillian was intelligent or something, because her refusal to sleep was certainly draining my brain cells on a daily basis.
“Right, well, in that case… I’ll clear out my kitchen. She can pull everything out of my kitchen cupboards for a change.”
“Your house?” In all the time we’d known each other I’d never been invited round. It had always been easier for Irene to come to me; at least, that was what I thought at first. But after a while, realising how little I knew about Irene, I had begun to wonder if in fact Irene was as secretive about her house as she was about her past. But now, finally, I was going to see where she lived. It was like we’d reached a threshold, that our casual friendship had drifted across an unseen line and Irene was finally opening up. We were partners now. A detective duo working a case. She would have to be Sherlock, she had the insightful mind, but I was happy to settle for the role of Watson.
I wondered what I’d find at Irene’s. I wondered if there would be any photos, anything on the walls, any letters lying around that might give me a hint to her past. I hoped this was the first step in getting to know my new friend better.
“Are you doing anything now?”
Chapter Eight
It turned out Irene lived no further from the park than I did. The day I walked her home to mine to get her warmed up after her frosty dip into the pond, could easily have been her walking home to her own house. In fact, I probably hadn't done her the favour I had thought, as she was probably nearer than me by a few hundred yards.