by Ann Troup
Delia had looked at him for a long moment, a hard frown creasing her brow. ‘It’s your funeral,’ she’d said. ‘Just remember what she comes from. I don’t want any more messes, Charlie Jones. I like things just the way they are.’
He knew she meant it. Delia didn’t like things she hadn’t engineered. But she also knew he could be stubborn and would do as he wanted.
That night he’d gone out for the first time since he’d left prison. He hadn’t explained, had just told Rachel he was going to the pub and had ignored the look of disappointment on her face. He’d stood in the bar, grinding his teeth, wondering when the foul-tasting beer he’d been drinking would kick in and make him relax. It was surprising how vile alcohol tasted when you hadn’t had any for a long time.
A woman had come up to him, vaguely familiar, wearing too much make-up and too few clothes. ‘Charlie Jones, as I live and breathe,’ she’d said, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side in a slow appraisal of him. ‘You’re looking well. Very well indeed.’
‘You too,’ he’d said, bemused. He hadn’t a clue who she was.
She had laughed at him. ‘You don’t remember me, do you? Sadie, Sadie Phelps. We went to school together. You used to give me Wagon Wheels if I showed you my knickers behind the bike shed.’ She had laughed again at his blush of embarrassment. ‘Bloody hell, don’t worry about it – we were only kids. You going to buy me a drink then or what?’
He had bought her a drink, Cinzano and lemonade as he recalled. ‘I heard you’d come out. It was in the papers,’ she’d said, putting a slim hand with long red nails onto his arm.
‘Yeah, well. Ancient history,’ he’d said, tense again.
‘Still, we don’t have to talk about that, do we?’ she’d said, squeezing his arm and stepping closer.
They had ended up back at her flat, where she paid her babysitter and poured him a whisky before wedging herself next to him on the sofa and kissing him. She’d tasted of lipstick, fags and booze. But he had kissed her back, determined to exorcise his sexual demons. It hadn’t worked. She had been down to her bra, her skirt up around her waist, had started to undo his belt – his shirt was already off. Then a kid had started crying. ‘Jesus! Fucking kids!’ she’d said. ‘Won’t be long.’
By the time she got back, he was fully dressed. Left alone in the lounge he had looked around him, taken in his surroundings, noticed that his shirt was lying on a dirty carpet that had emitted a faint but pervasive odour. An offensive mixture of ammonia, grease and dirt. The walls were stained yellow from nicotine and on the coffee table sat an overflowing ashtray and a rolled-up, dirty, disposable nappy.
‘Now, where were we,’ she’d said with a voice full of promise, her face dropping as she’d realised the game had changed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, just got to get back home,’ he’d said, his gaze dropping to the dirty nappy.
‘I see,’ she’d said, her tone taking on a tinge of spite. ‘So I’ve got kids – not a crime is it?’
‘I’ve got to go, thanks for the drink,’ he’d said, striding towards the door.
He didn’t quite hear what she yelled as he shut the door behind him but it sounded like she’d called him a fucking arsehole.
She was right. He was.
Back at the house he’d let himself in and had headed straight for the shower. He’d wanted the scent of Sadie Phelps off his skin and the image of her and her dirty flat out of his head. She’d been another Patsy, or who Patsy might have become if she had lived. The thought of touching her made his skin crawl, and he’d scrubbed himself raw with Delia’s loofah to rid himself of the sensation.
When he was done, he’d wrapped himself in a towel and crept downstairs. He’d sat on the edge of the sofa in the dark, looking at the shifting shadows that played across the walls. Then he had started to cry. He didn’t know where it had come from, but he couldn’t stop. He’d pressed his fists into his eyes to make it end, had fought against the racking sobs that were making him shake like a fool.
Cool hands had taken his face, wiping away the tears, pulling him in. ‘Shhh. It’s all right. It’s all right,’ she’d said. And he’d believed her, and let her kiss him. He’d kissed her back and had completely forgotten himself. It had happened then, and he’d been lost in her from that moment.
He had never come back. The best part of him was still somewhere inside Rachel.
Chapter 16
The previous evening Miss Lucille Barnes-Harman had nearly jumped out of her skin when the door had slammed upstairs and Miffy, her aged bichon frise, had started to bark with such vigour that her little feet left the floor with the exertion of it. Scooping her up, Lucille had gone to the window, and though she was not a curtain twitcher under ordinary circumstances, she had allowed herself the minor indignity of observing the door banger leave the building.
That man again.
She had observed him many times over the years, standing across the street, staring up at Miss Porter’s windows. But not for a long time now, so she had been mildly surprised to see him again. Secretly she had always thought him to be a rather fine-looking man and had never understood Miss Porter’s absolute refusal to have anything to do with him.
Emotional dysfunction appeared to be the mainstay of modern relationships – the mere thought of the energy required to sustain such animosity exhausted Lucille. So much less draining to own a dog on which to lavish your affection.
Miss Porter was a strange sort at the best of times; too quiet, too timid even for someone of Lucille’s sensibilities. It had been hard to get much more than a quietly civil ‘good morning’ out of the girl for the last twenty years. Not that Lucille would have encouraged more – she had always preferred the company of dogs to that of people – but it was disappointing to be faced with someone even more socially inept than oneself.
However, they had been good neighbours. Happy and comfortable to leave each other alone. This suited Lucille well. Even the rent, which gratifyingly had never increased since Lilian’s death, was still paid monthly to the solicitor. So, all in all, no meaningful contact was strictly necessary.
Had a visitor of the rather less urbane Mr Samuels, the tenant of the third floor flat, slammed the door, Lucille would almost certainly have complained about the disturbance. However, he was away, and even when he wasn’t, his visitors were rare and usually civilized sorts. Though she did have a suspicion that he might be homosexual, which wasn’t a subject she allowed herself to dwell on for any length of time. Much too confusing for someone who had barely come to terms with her own sexual being. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d ever possessed one.
The door-slamming incident had disturbed her equilibrium to the extent that she had needed to resort to a small sherry in order to settle her nerves. Miffy had remained excitable all night, and had persisted in whimpering by the door for several hours afterwards, until Lucille had raised her voice to her and shut her in the lounge. After all the ruckus she’d had no choice but to attempt to sleep with earplugs in.
Miffy was still unhappy when Lucille got up, and had scratched the paintwork on the door in her efforts to get out. Most unlike her – she was usually such a docile little thing. Lucille had found herself quite upset by the change in her little pet. Miffy had even urinated on the kitchen floor. An event previously unknown and something that came as a most unpleasant shock – and would necessitate the purchase of new carpet slippers.
Even then it hadn’t occurred to her that something might be wrong. Not until she had dressed herself and had Miffy on her leash ready for their morning walk did she realise that the dog had sensed a problem. Not even then, until Miffy had tried to run up the stairs, rather than to the front door.
In a fit of relief that her mistress had finally acknowledged her distress, Miffy had pulled herself free of Lucille’s grip and hurtled up the stairs, trailing her lead, barking and whimpering in the most annoying turns.
When Lucille reached the t
op of the stairs, the dog had disappeared inside Miss Porter’s flat. The door stood ajar, the latch set. Confused, Lucille called out to Miffy, who came running out, tail wagging, tongue lolling, jumping up at her skirt. ‘Down, Miffy!’ she commanded, annoyed that the dog’s paws had marked her dry clean-only tweed. She brushed at the marks then stared in horror at her hand. She looked at the floor, where Miffy was excitedly turning circles, leaving perfect blood-red paw prints all over the parquet.
***
Amy took a taxi to Glengarry Terrace, realising £7.50 too late that she could have walked it from Paddington in a matter of minutes. She gave the cabbie a tenner and told him to keep the change. It was her dad’s money – what did she care? She was still livid with him, but now that she stood outside Rachel’s flat the wind was fast dropping out of her sails.
There was a small café opposite, so she went in and ordered herself a coffee, glad of the cheery atmosphere that smelled of normality and bacon. She found a seat by the window so that she could watch the flat. Maybe her mother would come out and she would at least be able to get a look at her before, well, before whatever.
A plump, friendly, Mediterranean-looking woman brought over her latte, and followed her gaze through the window to the building across the road. ‘There you go, love,’ she said putting the drink down. ‘Right old to-do over there this morning. I’d only just got me pinny on when this old dear comes running out of there yelling her head off covered in blood!’
The woman shook her head as if to tell Amy that she didn’t know what the world was coming to. ‘Turns out some woman who lives there was attacked or something. ’Course I called 999 and all hell broke loose: police, ambulances, you name it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the bloody coastguard had turned up just for good measure!’ she added with a cheery laugh.
‘Poor old dear that found her was in a right old state though, kept babbling on about some bloke turning up last night in a white van, banging doors. Reckoned he’d done the woman in. Mind you, there was a heck of a lot of blood. Had the police over here going through me CCTV tape – got to have it these days see; there’s some rough sorts up Queensway – and sure enough, there he is, bold as brass, on camera, screeching off in his van. On my CCTV, can you believe it?! Tell you what, love: you see it all round here. Never a dull moment.’
The cogs in Amy’s brain started to click and whir. ‘What kind of van was it?’ she asked, heart lurching.
‘Well, put it this way, the bloke won’t get far. It was a builder’s van, had his name plastered all over it. Bloody fool! C. Jones, General Builder, even had the bloody phone number. Might as well have left a calling card! Eh, you all right, love? You don’t look so good.’
Chapter 17
Apprehending Stella Baxter had gone like a dream. So smoothly in fact that there had been a frisson of disappointment among the team – some had been hoping for something a little more exciting. But Stella had just come quietly. So quietly she hadn’t said a word since.
Inside the interview room, Ratcliffe took a long look at the benign little woman who sat opposite him. She came across as comfortable in her own skin, calm and resigned. Not what he had expected at all.
He reminded her of her rights. She sighed, examined the back of her left hand, then turned it over and examined the palm.
‘Do you understand, Mrs Baxter – Stella?’ he said, sharing a weary, wary glance with Angie Watson.
Stella sighed again. ‘Yes I understand, and no I do not wish to seek legal representation or take legal advice. I have done nothing wrong. I am aware of my rights and I am happy to answer your questions.’
Well, that took the wind out of my sails, Ratcliffe thought, loosening his tie and shifting in his seat. He cleared his throat. ‘OK, let’s begin with an explanation of your whereabouts for the last week.’
Stella nodded. ‘I’ve been staying in the flat, above the shop.’
He could feel Angie staring at him and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Shit! No one had thought to ask if there was a flat above the old family shop. They would need to check it out, and soon. Embarrassed, he nodded to the amused-looking WPC who was standing by the door, and told the tape that Officer Harper had stepped out of the room. Nothing more was said until she came back in, when he announced to the tape that the interview would continue.
‘Were you aware of the discovery of two sets of human remains at your old home – The Limes?’
Stella gave him a wan smile. ‘I would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to be. I have read the newspapers.’
‘So you were aware that we were searching for you?’
‘I wasn’t very far; you could have found me easily enough,’ she said with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Why didn’t you hand yourself in when you knew we were looking for you?’
‘Because I was wanted for murdering my husband, which I didn’t do. And I had things I wanted to sort out.’
Ratcliffe chose to ignore her assertion of innocence for the time being. ‘What things?’
‘I had affairs to settle. People I wanted to see.’
‘William Smith?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you known or suspected that William Smith was your father?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve known he was my father since I was born, Detective Sergeant. And before you ask, yes I knew he was alive. I have always known that. Who do you think has been financially supporting him all this time?’ She paused. ‘Look why don’t I just tell you everything I know and you can ask me questions when you feel it’s necessary?’
It wasn’t the kind of process Ratcliffe was used to. Though he much preferred to play the nice cop in these situations, he wasn’t used to being told how his interviews were going to be conducted.
‘Why don’t you do just that, Mrs Baxter?’ he said, folding his arms and settling back into his chair. This would be interesting.
***
Stella had been anticipating this moment for days. She’d even rehearsed what she might say. Now that the time had come she felt a sense of relief. ‘I’d like to start by explaining my background to you. I know you may already have this information in factual form, but it’s important to me that you understand how things were for us as a family. Facts do not explain context.
‘My own mother died when I was very young. She suffered from tuberculosis and spent a great deal of time away from home in a sanatorium. No one told me when she died. I was allowed to continue to believe that she was getting better in some clinic. In fact I didn’t find out she wasn’t coming back until my father married again.’ She paused, checking their faces for a response.
Ratcliffe nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘I was sent to stay in London with my aunt Lilian. When I came home, my father had married some local slut, I had a new sister who I hated, and my world had changed beyond all recognition. My father was never a man who found it easy to take responsibility and by then he preferred to view the world through the bottom of a bottle. I went to a small private prep school. I was happy there. It was the one constant in my life. But there wasn’t much money and Frances was considered brighter than me, so she took my place. I was eight years old.’ She checked their reactions. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not looking for pity; I just want to paint a picture of what life was like in that house.
‘My father was too busy messing up his business and losing all the family money to be too worried about me. And his new wife was not a happy woman. She hadn’t realised things were such a mess. I think she felt she’d been cheated and she became bitter. Very bitter. I think she blamed me to some extent, or at least she took it out on me. I think the only person she cared about was Frances. You see I was small and plain and too much like my mother and I don’t think Valerie could tolerate any of those things. She despised my father for letting her down. He had promised her a better life and she’d ended up worse off.
‘Anyway, in order to save money she persuaded my father to sel
l his stocks and shares and bought the shop. It never occurred to her that the shares were worth more. The house was mostly shut up to save on bills and we had a pretty meagre existence, but she still managed to find the money to pay a cleaner,’ she said, still bitter herself.
‘Delia Jones?’ Watson interjected.
‘Yes, Delia. Anyway, I’ll spare you the details, but life was not pleasant at home. I left school at sixteen and worked in the shop. I wasn’t considered much good for anything else, and it saved on wages. Frances stayed on at school. Delia’s son Charlie went to the same school as me, and he used to spend the holidays at the house. Valerie hated him. I don’t know why, but she absolutely despised him.
‘There wasn’t a lot she could do about it though because she needed Delia, and nobody else would have been willing to work for us, not for the money she got anyway. We weren’t exactly a conventional family. To be honest I think she resented Charlie because she had always wanted a son. I think she had a couple of miscarriages when I was younger. Eventually she had a hysterectomy, and it sent her a bit strange. She blamed my father for it; in fact I think she had a bit of a breakdown. Could I have some water please?’
Angie passed her a glass of water, while Ratcliffe asked, ‘What about Rachel? You haven’t mentioned her yet.’
Stella sipped her water. ‘Rachel wasn’t born at that time.’
‘But you said Valerie had a hysterectomy,’ Angie said, confused.
‘Yes, she did. Valerie wasn’t Rachel’s mother.’
Ratcliffe leaned forward. ‘Sorry?’
‘Valerie wasn’t Rachel’s mother.’
‘Then who was?’ Watson asked.
Stella sighed, and cast her gaze around the steel-grey walls of the interview room. Then she inspected her hand again, both sides, like Lady Macbeth.
Finally, she answered, ‘I am. Rachel is mine.’
***
Mike Ratcliffe and Angie Watson were sitting in his car, outside her house, trying to come to terms with one of the oddest days either of them had ever experienced.