The Missing Witness

by Jo Smedley

  I closed the car door behind me and Irene pulled away, her indicator flashing in the dark, declaring her intention to head right towards her own street.

  I stood outside for a moment, clutching the book, breathing in the night air. The hustle and bustle of the day was over. Even the birds were at rest. All was at peace.

  “Waaaaa!” I looked towards our house. It seemed like Lillian had resolved the need for me to compound any lies. If she was awake, then any discussion of my evening out would be smothered in Lucus’s description of his disrupted evening in.

  I smiled and keyed the door. For once, a restless evening was a relief. I wouldn’t need to flesh out any lies. The book would be enough. Lucus would just be relieved I was home. Mummy hugs were so much more effective in getting Lillian back down. He just didn’t have the rocking down right.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Considering the bad night Lillian had had, molars this time I thought, I hadn’t slept too badly.

  Of course, being tired all the time helped. I hadn’t had an undisturbed night’s sleep since I was six months pregnant. With regular nocturnal visits to the nursery after Lillian was born, I’d developed the knack of virtually instant sleep. Once my head hit the pillow I was out within seconds. It annoyed the hell out of Lucus, who would lie there listening to me breathing as sleep eluded him.

  Lillian woke up at her usual early time and over breakfast I took the chance to look in her mouth.

  Lucus walked through, suited up, tie on, carrying his coffee. He looked every bit the professional teacher. No one would know he had a young family at home. He was tidy, smart and focussed.

  “It’s started.” I told him. “The skin’s broken on her lower left.”

  “Was that the reason for last night?”

  “Seems so.”

  “How much sleep did you get?”

  I totted it up quickly. “About four hours I think in total. I ended up bathing her down about two.”

  He yawned. “Oh… how was last night?” he asked.

  “Good,” I said. “I got a book. Signed.” I added. “It’s over there on the side.” It was still wrapped up in the carrier Irene had handed it to me in last night. He wandered over, opened it up and took a look. He pulled a face. It wasn’t his sort of book.

  “You’re going to read this?”

  “It would be rude not to.”

  “She signed it for you,” he said, flipping open the front cover.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s nice.” He put the book down again. He’d never read it. Teen fiction wasn’t his thing. Had it been a novel about a submarine, aircraft carrier or spy it might have stood a better chance. I was a more eclectic reader. During my waking hours in the last few months, I’d worked through a fair collection of his techno thrillers, as well as sci-fi and fantasy novels. They had the advantage of being long. Lillian used to take an hour to feed overnight; having a good book had been essential.

  “Busy day?” he asked.

  “Oh… seeing Irene in the morning and then we’ve been invited around for coffee to one of the mum’s houses.”

  “That sounds good.” He wasn’t really paying attention. I knew it by his tone. His brain was on “work things”. Important things. Significant things. Who was on what rota, where the kids were in the grading system, what he was going to do after first break, lunch break, what meetings were in his diary. I was deposited in the “home life” box, packed and slotted into the shelving structure in his mind that compartmentalised me away from all the strategic, important, planning stuff. I was me now. I was exactly what he saw. Ruth the mother. Ruth the housewife. Ruth the homemaker. Ruth the career-less. Ruth the dull.

  I smiled to myself. How little he really knew me now. Just a few weeks ago I used to think of myself as mother, housewife, homemaker, career-less and yes, dull. No longer. Because of Irene I was Ruth the investigator. Ruth the crime solver. Ruth the sleuth. My smile turned into a grin.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just pulling a face at Lillian.”

  Explaining I’d just rhymed Ruth and sleuth in my head would have required an explanation I wasn’t prepared to give.

  He leant over and kissed Lillian, holding his tie out of her sticky reach, and then did the same to me.

  “See you tonight.”

  “What time?”

  “About five thirty I should think.”

  “I’ll get dinner ready for then.”

  He smiled. Everything was right with the world. He: Man; earner of money, provider for family. Me: Woman; keeper of house, raiser of babies. Food on the table at 5:30.

  I watched him leave, heard the door snick to. I looked at Lillian.

  “Ruth the Sleuth and Lillian the…,” I ran through the alphabet in my head.

  “Lillian worth a billion.” She grinned back at me. She was. Even without the sleuthing, even if my life sometimes felt worthless, she was the reason I had given up work, she was my purpose in life right now. I could have my work-life back in five years or so if I wanted when she went to school. Five years wasn’t much to give out of a likely eighty after all.

  I undid the clips and lifted her out of the high chair. I could never harm this little thing. No matter what she did I couldn’t imagine being driven to kill her, even in twenty years’ time.

  I’d been mulling over all we’d found out these last few days. Joe seemed so unlikely. He seemed content with Lou. A boy who wanted to save animals was hardly going to be the type to kill an ex-girlfriend. Besides, she’d been married for years. Surely if he was jealous he’d have made his move long ago.

  So if not Joe, that left us back with the parents. If Pete had been Gill’s alibi all those years ago, then perhaps he was providing one again. Then again if Gill was the killer, this time could Pete be covering for her without realising?

  When he’d visited to quote for Irene’s conservatory, his love and his grief had seemed so genuine. It seemed impossible that he had killed his stepdaughter. As for his wife, she seemed the colder of the two. Her reaction at the funeral was calm, collected. Her anger outside Rose’s place furious. I could easily imagine her orchestrating Geoff’s disappearance all those years ago, she only needed a valid motive. But killing a child was a different psychology all together. I wasn’t sure it was possible, even with the cold woman I had met so far. To a child, everyone was a giant. So who was it Lesley had seen burying the body? Had there been a familiarity in the shadowy form she witnessed that night?

  Then there was the timing of it all. If Lesley was only three, that would make Lou younger, maybe even Lillian’s age. Geoff wouldn’t have gone out and left the children alone. No parent did that. Someone would have been in the house. They had to be. There had to be another witness in this case. Someone we hadn’t spoken to – someone who could provide the links we needed in our chain of evidence.

  I walked off up the stairs carrying my precious billion. Fiona might know. She was next door when Geoff went missing. Things were different twenty years ago, people paid more attention to their neighbours, what everyone was up to back then. Yes, I may have been painting history with a rose tinted brush, but maybe, just maybe, Fiona knew what they did with the children that night.

  Irene was right. The murder must start way back with Geoff’s disappearance. It had to. There was no other explanation for Lesley’s murder. We’d ruled out every other suspect we’d found, even Russ.

  Chapter Thirty

  After a morning looking at the boards and tossing ideas around Irene and I were agreed. The police were wrong to eliminate Gill and Pete so readily. Something had happened all those years ago to Geoff. Something had happened recently to Lesley as her memories came back. She’d seen something. Something important.

  We pulled up outside Fiona’s house. Irene had decided to drop the dog collar.

  “Off duty,” she said. “Besides, it will just make everyone feel uncomfortable.” Me included, I didn’t add.

>   She wasn’t going to drop the mother routine though. It was useful to have that perceived connection she said. Fiona thought of her as an equal, a grandmother. It made conversation easier. There was a common ground on which to build. The fact that the common ground was quicksand was neither here nor there.

  We had a plan of action. I would get to know Janice, leaving Fiona and Irene free to talk. We would be the baby minders, nothing new in that, and Fiona and Irene would be free to chat over the gossip in the street.

  The temperatures were on the increase and I’d dressed Lillian warmly, but didn’t bother with the snow suit. Instead I tried on the shoes we had bought her the weekend before. They were deep purple, the only colour that wasn’t pink and had butterflies stitched into the leather. They were so small. Size 2 or something silly. Tiny little chunky things with plastic soles that made Lillian stamp rather than walk. We didn’t use them inside the house, but now that we had them, they were required footwear when we went out.

  As we reached the house, I lowered Lillian to the floor. This was a new experience for her, walking outside. She held my hand tightly, and I stooped to accommodate her grip. She stamped wildly on the pavement, excited. She was outside. There was no buggy. She giggled and I smiled. While the nights might be tough and mothering wasn’t the joy everyone always said it was, it was at times like this I was glad I hadn’t gone back to work. I could catch and remember all these little moments. Janice would be missing them all.

  I directed her towards Fiona’s front door and we took the step in enormous, giant- like strides, with me holding both her arms and giving her the extra lift she needed.

  Irene leaned past me and rang the doorbell, while I kept Lillian away from a lovely potted fuchsia which was easy pickings on the door step.

  “Hi!” Janice gushed, as she opened the door. “You must be Ruth’s mum. I’m Janice. Come in, come in.”

  We bundled inside and Janice closed the door behind us, all smiles and yummy mummy-ness. Gone was the smart business persona. This was the Janice I knew from group. The I’m-so-thrilled-to-meet-you Janice. The isn’t-the-singing-wonderful Janice. Her smile was enormous, sparkling and genuine; her eyes bright, her hair immaculately straight and blond. She sported a designer top, probably mail order, to match her son’s pristine outfits. She wasn’t the supermarket or charity shop special type.

  “Nicholas is outside. We got a sand table last weekend. He loves it. Do you want to play with sand, Lillian?” I winced internally. Janice was one of those who had a special “baby voice” a smoochy-coochy-kins way of talking that grated on me. Lillian may be a child, but I didn’t adjust my voice pattern to speak to her. Well, maybe I did, but not to that extent, and I’d certainly never use it on another mother’s child. Nicholas was probably spoilt rotten; guilt for leaving him at home and returning to work.

  Guilt was probably the biggest emotion you felt as a mother. You didn’t have to go looking for it, it came naturally. Guilt if you couldn’t breastfeed. Guilt if you weaned earlier than the six months now stipulated by the government. Guilt if you didn’t watch your child intently 24/7 and they happened to fall over and crack open their head on a newel post (she still had a scar through her eyebrow from that incident). Guilt on the days you felt like leaving the buggy with your inconsolable infant parked outside “lost and found” and running away. Guilt you weren’t the perfect mother.

  The truth was, no mother was perfect. We all learned by trial and error. Some just gave off that swan-like air of calm while their feet paddled like mad underneath. Me? I’d not even learned that swan-like calm. I was just paddling furiously and felt like everyone could see it.

  We followed Janice through the house to the patio doors. Fiona was already in the kitchen preparing the tea tray.

  “Hello!” she said as we came in. “Hello darlin’.” She smiled at Lillian who stomped off across her tiled floor towards the open door and Nicholas outside. Darlin’ was a Grimsby term. I’d got used to it now. Everyone was darlin’ here. Not pronounced in the Hollywood style “Darlink” but with a drawn out “ah” and a missing “g”. Daaahlin. It wasn’t meant to be condescending.

  “Tea OK?” Fiona asked, as I followed Lillian outside.

  She took the patio step backwards, carefully on all fours. I didn’t have to tell her. It was what she did on our own back step. The raised edge of the uPVC made it harder for her than it was usually, but she managed, after a few glances at her toes.

  “Sounds great.”

  “I’ll bring it outside to you.”

  I murmured my thanks, and headed outside to pretend to be a yummy mummy with her daughter while we watched our two children playing side by side in the garden.

  The garden was everything I expected it to be: immaculately weeded flower beds, properly edged lawns, mature shrubs, shaded corners, sun trap pressure washed patio, white plastic patio furniture without a trace of green mossy mould. There was a chest high wall all the way around the garden, just as there was in my own.

  Grimsby must have had a plethora of bricks in its building heyday. Nearly all the gardens were walled. Back in East Sussex where I had grown up, our garden borders were just chain link fences. You could see most of the way through the gardens down the line of houses in either direction. Things had probably moved on now and I expect if I went back and visited my own childhood home I’d see a line of fence panels in the back garden making it more private. We loved our privacy these days. The idea of someone hanging out their washing three doors up and seeing you half naked on a sun bed in your back garden was horrific. Even in Grimsby people had been topping their chest high walls with short fences just to avoid that casual look over.

  Nicholas was dressed in an outfit that would have been appropriate for a wedding in our house. A matching dungaree and shirt set with a coordinated neckerchief bib, which was Janice’s concession to his constant dribbling.

  The sand and water table was half full of both. Nicholas was not old enough really to make the most of the toys she’d also purchased with it, but was happy enough picking up handfuls of sand and splashing in the water. Lillian reached the table and looked inside, grinning. I couldn’t help but think she looked like Godzilla approaching a city. She reached out, picked up the plastic rake Janice had left in the sand, and immediately whacked Nicholas with it.

  I was too late. I should have realised what was going to happen before she’d even got there. I started apologising instantly; scolding Lillian as Nicholas let out a wail of agony. She hadn’t hit him all that hard, it would have been shock more than anything else, but it was still embarrassing.

  Janice ran over to Nicholas and drew him into a hug. This was a great start to the play date. She looked over at me and I apologised again, but Janice just laughed.

  “Kids eh?”

  I laughed back; utterly relieved she wasn’t one of the “precious” mothers.

  “It was just an accident,” Janice said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “She’s got a few wooden spoons and things at home,” I explained. “She tends to swing them around and hit things with them.”

  “Did you make up one of those heuristic play boxes?”

  “Yes. It’s still her favourite.”

  “Nicolas was only ever interested in cars. I tried, but egg boxes and scouring pads don’t have wheels,” she said. I smiled. We might actually get along.

  “Are you enjoying being back at work?”

  “Yes. I shouldn’t say that really, should I?” She gave me a sideways smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother. But it’s nice to be doing something as well.” Maybe she was more normal than I thought. “Besides, we need the money. Mum can sit for Nicholas while I’m out, so I don’t have nursery to pay. Are you going back?”

  “None of my family are local,” I told her. “By the time we covered nursery fees, I’d only be bringing home £100 a month. It didn’t seem worth it. It was a stressful job. £100 a month for the amount of pressure… we both
decided I’d be better of staying off until the kids reached school age.”

  “Kids?” Janice picked up on the unintentional pleural instantly. “You’re planning another?”

  The thing was, I’d always planned for two. Children didn’t come as single entities. I was one of two, Lucus one of three.

  The decision to have Lillian had been based soundly on logic. We were the right age. Lillian had been planned for. We had waited until we’d finished renovating and decorating the house and had a big holiday. It was a joint decision. It was rational. We had looked at my age, decided if we were going to start a family, we should start before I reached 30 to lower the associated risks, and if we were going to have two, then 27 was the right time to begin. Our decision had been very, for want of a better word, clinical.

  The contrast in the drive for the second baby had surprised me. It was being led entirely by hormones, my hormones. I wanted another child. My body ached to be pregnant again. It was animalistic. It was driven by something much deeper, something I had very little control over and as a result I knew I would win the argument. I would have another. Whether I did it with Lucus’s full consent, or whether I simply made a few simple mistakes with pill taking and forced it by accident. Baby number two would arrive and if I had any say in the matter, it would be conceived within the year.

  I nodded in response. “I must be crazy I know… but I want another.”

  “Nicholas will be it,” Janice said. “I had such a difficult pregnancy. The doctor’s said the next one could kill me.”

  “Really?” I said. The biggest one-upmanship conversations in baby group had always been about pregnancy and birth. If there’s one thing I learned about being a mother – everyone wants to talk about their own experiences of giving birth. I’d listened to loads of tales, but I wasn’t sure I’d heard Janice’s yet. I knew it would keep her talking a while, so I gave her the lead in she wanted, and while she talked, we watched the children play. I only needed to add the occasional wince and “Ooo” and she was away.