My Mother, the Liar

by Ann Troup

  Amy tried to smile, but it wouldn’t happen. ‘I saw her, earlier. I went to the hospital.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I got your note. What did she say to you?’

  ‘That she couldn’t cope, that you and her would never have lasted because you were together for all the wrong reasons.’

  Charlie frowned and nodded slowly. ‘We didn’t deliberately lie to you about her. It was just an untruth that was more convenient than it ought to have been. I’m sorry, I should never have let it go on so long.’

  ‘I get it. It’s OK. Better than growing up knowing your own mother didn’t want you I guess.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘If that’s what she told you, she was lying.’

  ‘Well, what else could it be? Yeah sure, I know the story, the epilepsy and all. But if she loved us at all, she would have stayed. I mean life wasn’t easy for you, but you didn’t bail out on me when it got tough.’

  ‘You’re wrong; she left because she did love us. Believe me. You don’t know her. She would never have gone if she hadn’t had a really good reason to think it was for the best.’ He didn’t want to tell her the truth, but he couldn’t see another way. If he lied she would hate Rachel for ever, and that wasn’t fair. If he told the truth he would open a whole new wound full of confusion and hurt. Lies had brought them to this. The truth might hurt, but at least there was a chance.

  ‘What possible excuse could anyone have for doing something so selfish?’ Amy asked, her tone heavy with derision.

  Charlie exhaled slowly, and leaned forward. ‘A pretty good one as it happens, and I only found out about it myself this morning, so don’t fly off the handle with me and think I’ve been keeping things from you again. It’s kind of hard for me to tell you this because there is a lot of history behind it, but bear with me, OK?’ He told her what Delia had told him that morning, and watched as a melee of emotions clashed on her face, twisting her features into a hundred kinds of shock.

  ‘Oh my God! That’s disgusting! No, it’s worse than that. I can’t find a word for it. It, it’s … evil.’ She was tumbling over her reactions and stumbling over her words. ‘How? Why? Why would anyone do that – lie about something so awful? What was wrong with that woman that she would say something so vile? No wonder she went back after the bitch died, probably checking that the coffin lid was nailed shut just in case!’ She gasped as the true horror of what she’d been told started to take hold. ‘That’s just sick. It’s twisted. It’s foul.’

  ‘Well, given what they just found in the house, it’s not surprising. Even I didn’t think Valerie Porter was capable of something like that, and I’ve seen her at her worst,’ Charlie said, unsure of whether he had his own mind around the implications of it.

  ‘Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not true is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not true. I swear. But doesn’t it give you some idea of how fragile she was that she believed it?’

  Rachel had been kicked when she was down, was still being kicked now. Amy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Dad, I was really, really horrible to her today. Really spiteful.’ A sob caught in her throat.

  Charlie reached out and patted her knee. ‘It’ll be OK. She can handle awful; she’s used to it. It’s nice she can’t handle.’

  ‘She told me that you two only got together because of circumstances. Is that true?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not for me anyway. I loved her – I still do. I always have and I probably always will. Whatever else happened, you came out of it, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.’

  ‘God, Dad, don’t go soppy on me. I’m really trying not to cry here!’

  Charlie ruffled her hair and she batted him away.

  ‘Seriously though, you have to tell her the truth. You can’t let her go on believing that filth. Christ, if it had been me I think I would have topped myself!’

  He shook his head. ‘Not Rachel, she would think it was selfish to do that. No, she will have just sucked it up and carried it on her own.’ Though his tone was casual, the pain of his statement was so acute it sent an agonising tremor of distress right through his heart. So much so it skipped a beat or two.

  ‘That flat. The way she lives – it’s as if she’s an intruder in someone else’s life. At first I just thought she just had tacky taste, like Gran. But it’s not that, is it?’

  Charlie had to smile at the insult to Delia. ‘No, it’s not that. She has money; in fact, she’s loaded. I think that’s the reason Valerie did what she did. I think she never changed the flat, never made it her own home because without you it meant nothing to her. Home is where the heart is, and her heart was always with you. I think it’s why I kept going back, trying to make sense of what she’d done. I could understand why she left me, but never why she left you. OK, I’ve heard the epilepsy excuse a million times, but I never bought it. I mean we could have paid someone to help care for you. It never made sense.’

  Amy nodded in agreement. ‘And it would have meant contact with you. Under the circumstances I suppose she couldn’t risk that. I think she really loved you. God, her life must have been absolute hell!’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘Oh Dad, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad in my life!’ She began to cry.

  Charlie eased himself towards her, and started to rub her back. She was right; he had never felt so sad either. But he would mend it. The very next day he would mend it once and for all.

  Chapter 21

  Lucille Barnes-Harman had had enough. If that man persisted on ringing her doorbell one more time, she would take a stick to him herself. Just because the police couldn’t be bothered to deal with his type effectively didn’t mean that elderly women should be terrorised in their own homes. She would tell him one more time, and that was that, if he carried on the worm would turn!

  She marched resolutely towards the front door, clutching in her trembling hand a large marble rolling pin. The nearest thing to a stick she’d been able to find. Miffy gambolled excitedly at her heels, eager for action.

  ‘I’ve told you before, go away! I have to warn you, the police are on their way and I am armed!’ she called down the hallway, brandishing the rolling pin in a wild act of bravado.

  ‘Miss Barnes-Harman. It’s me, Rachel. Can you let me in please? I don’t have my keys.’

  Lucille stared at the door in disbelief. It couldn’t be. Rachel had been carried out on a stretcher. There had been too much blood. It was impossible that she had recovered enough to be allowed home. In fact, Lucille was having a hard time coming to terms with the reality that Rachel had survived her ordeal at all.

  Typical of the NHS, sending people home who were barely alive. She had always favoured private medicine, a much more civilised system in her opinion. Though it was true of all life really – you only ever got what you paid for. Fortunately, she had always functioned with the best of health and some good British stoicism – that and a fundamental mistrust of men who were far too handsome for anybody’s good, like the one who had attacked Miss Porter. The doorbell rang again.

  ‘Are you there? Please open the door. I really don’t feel too good. Miss Barnes-Harman?’

  Shaken from her reverie by the fragile tone in Rachel’s voice, Lucille plonked the rolling pin on the hall table and made for the door, and was shocked at what she found when she opened it.

  Rachel was leaning against the wall of the porch, her face drained of colour, her hair stuck to her face by the glaze of sweat that clung to her pallid skin. Instinctively Lucille put out her arm to help the girl inside. Rachel clung to her, gratefully, and hauled herself through the door. She was limping badly.

  ‘Good grief, Miss Porter! Look at you; I can’t believe they allowed you to come home in this state.’ Lucille was genuinely shocked. Rachel was wearing a bloodstained T-shirt, the same one she had been wearing when Lucille had found her, and a pair of blue cotton trousers, the kind that surgeons wore. Both her hands sported dressings, and on her feet, she wore only slippers. She look
ed like death warmed up.

  ***

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. Just a bit sore. They needed the bed – you know how it is,’ Rachel lied. In fact, she had just had an unholy row with the on-call doctor who had point-blank refused to agree to discharge her. In the end, she had threatened to walk out wearing nothing else but her hospital gown. The doctor had grudgingly relented and had signed a prescription for her medication, telling the nurse in charge to give her some clothes to wear. He had made her sign a detailed disclaimer, absolving the hospital of all responsibility for her welfare. The A&E staff had cut off her trousers, but fortunately, there was still a twenty-pound note in the pocket, a little bloodstained, but still legal tender.

  The cabbie had been happy to take it when he realised that he was going to get to keep the change. He hadn’t helped her get out of the cab though, and had just driven off, leaving her to haul herself painfully up the steps to her house. Despite her gung-ho attitude in the hospital, she really did feel like death. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I didn’t have my keys,’ she said wanly, trying to reassure the frightened old lady.

  ‘My dear child. Let me get you inside properly,’ she said, supporting Rachel’s weight on her thin shoulders and half carrying her to the stairs. Muttering all the while about gross neglect and abject negligence. She wanted to help Rachel into the flat, but Rachel refused, insisting that she would be all right. Both stoically ignored the rust-brown blood that still stained the floor, though Miffy sniffed at it and licked it with unreserved interest. Rachel thanked Lucille profusely for her help, and remained clinging to the doorframe until she heard the door to the downstairs flat click shut.

  Once alone, she hobbled into the flat, just about ready to pass out. They had given her painkillers and stronger anticonvulsants and she needed to take both. Unable to face the mess in the kitchen, she hauled herself into the bathroom and took the drugs with handfuls of water from the cold tap, clinging all the while to the edge of the basin for support. Unable to move another step, she sank down onto the toilet, straightening out her injured leg, which was stiff and swollen, the sutures pulling painfully with every movement. Only then did she dare to breathe and let her mask slip, allowing her face to crumple into a contorted agony as her desperate tears began to flow.

  When the tablets kicked in, she would pack a bag. Now that Amy had been and she was exposed, she had no choice but to leave. She didn’t have a clue where she would go – one of the other flats perhaps? Lila had owned quite a few. She was sure that one or two would be empty. She’d have to call her solicitor and find out who he was using as an agent these days. In the meantime, there was always the hotel option. One with a huge walk-in shower preferably, where she could wash away the tide of guilt that was threatening to make her smash her head into the bathroom tiles with the next wave.

  ***

  Angie woke her boss and presented him with a cup of coffee. She was already washed and dressed, having spent a sleepless night spent wondering what the hell she was doing getting her boss drunk and letting him spend the night on her sofa.

  It was dangerous ground and she knew it. At the station it was common knowledge that his marriage was a farce. Angie had never met his wife, but had heard on the grapevine that the woman was a harridan. But it wasn’t an excuse for letting him stay. Not that there was anything in it other than a bit of mutual liking, but it wouldn’t look good if anyone at work found out. The thing was, she did like him; he was a decent bloke, and a good copper, even if he was a bit burned out. This case had taken it out of them both.

  Stella Baxter’s interview had run like a bad film plot. Wicked stepmothers, incest, insanity, the lot. It left them with the possibility that they wouldn’t get a prosecution based on the suspect’s blatant instability. To be honest she would be glad when the whole thing was done and dusted; then they could go back to dealing with normal felons. The type who didn’t sleep with their fathers and hoard mummified corpses.

  ‘There’s a new toothbrush in the cupboard in the bathroom and some razors and shaving gel on the shelf. That’s if you don’t mind smelling of mountain flowers instead of old spice,’ she called from the kitchen, determined to avoid seeing Ratcliffe in his underpants.

  Once she heard him unzip the sleeping bag and stumble up the stairs, she went into the lounge and removed all traces of his presence. Folding up the bedding, throwing out the beer bottles, spraying the room with air freshener. No evidence here, she thought quietly as she heard him empty the sink and flush the toilet.

  They drove in together, but Ratcliffe dropped her off a street away from the station, just so they could arrive at the office separately. The cold light of day had filtered some sense into him too.

  There was a message on her desk from the hospital: Frances Haines was fully conscious. Also a message from the Met: Charlie Jones had been arrested the day before for a suspected attack on Rachel Porter. She was in hospital, and he had been released without charge. Angie showed Ratcliffe the messages, adding, ‘What the hell is it with these people?’

  Ratcliffe had said nothing. He was too busy trying to get an extension on the length of time they could hold Stella Baxter without charge, and he was trying to get a psych report done on her. In the meantime, he told Angie to grab one of the other officers and get down to the hospital to get a statement from Frances Haines.

  ***

  Angie took one look at Frances, propped up regally in her hospital bed, and decided that she didn’t like her. There was something gratingly theatrical in the woman’s pose that smacked of someone milking their disadvantaged position to the max. As Angie sat down, Frances gamely struggled up on her pillows and asked her for a glass of water. Which she grudgingly poured and waited patiently for her to drink, watching with mounting irritation as the woman fell back onto her pillows with a wan sigh, and said, ‘I’m not sure how much I will be able to tell you. It’s all such a blur.’

  ‘We just need a statement of what happened on that day,’ Angie repeated, reluctant to engage in whatever game Frances Haines wanted her to play.

  The woman gave a stifled sob, holding her hand over her mouth and waving her apology at Angie. Angie and the other officer exchanged glances.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s all just so terribly upsetting, but I’ll do my best. Right, here goes,’ she said, taking an exaggerated breath. ‘I was at my former family home, clearing it after my mother’s recent death. My sister – Rachel – was inside the house and I was outside with one of the men I had employed to help. Having done the bulk of the work in the house, I decided to tackle the outbuildings.

  ‘I knew it was going to be a long job as no one had been in them for years. I went in first and started to hand things out to the man. Eventually I uncovered a large tin trunk. Assuming that it was full of old junk, I asked my helper to pull it out and assist me to open it. We were surprised to find that it was extremely heavy. It’s difficult to recall what happened next – it’s still all quite a blur, I’m afraid – but I know we managed to get the lid up. All I can remember is seeing a hand, a human hand. I think it was then that I must have staggered backwards and hit my head on the door. That’s it, that’s all I remember,’ she said with an apologetic smile.

  Angie waited until her colleague had finished writing and handed over the paperwork, and then she read Frances’s words back to her, asked her to read it and then asked her if it was an accurate account of the events on that day. Frances agreed that it was, and put her signature to the page. ‘Is that all?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes thank you,’ Angie said, getting to her feet. ‘We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need from you. I’m sure we’ll have more questions.’

  ‘Well, that’s all there is to tell I’m afraid. My husband tells me you’ve found Stella. How is she?’ Frances said, a pained expression on her face.

  ‘Mrs Baxter is currently helping us with our inquiries,’ Angie said, a little more curtly than perhaps she should have.

  ‘But
how is she bearing up? She’s never been a terribly capable sort, if you know what I mean. I must admit I find it hard to believe my own sister capable of such a thing,’ she said, stifling another sob.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss the details of the case at this stage. We’ll be in touch, Mrs Haines.’ With that she turned to leave, not even bothering to say goodbye.

  Back in the car, she turned her colleague. ‘What did you make of that then?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not for me to speculate really, but I reckon it was worth at least a BAFTA, if not an Oscar.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought too,’ Angie said, wondering how a woman who had been in a coma for three days could have rehearsed a statement so thoroughly when the subject of her account had been the discovery of her deceased brother-in-law crudely mummified in a tin trunk.

  Back at the office, she compared Frances’s statement with the one taken from the workman Steve Budd on the day the bodies had been discovered. They tied up, except for the fact that Steve had reported that Frances had called out the word ‘Roy’ when the trunk had been opened, just before she had knocked herself senseless.

  What DS Angie Watson wanted to know was how Frances could have identified her brother-in-law from the mere sight of a mummified hand? The finding of an intact wallet and the presence of a gold canine tooth had identified Roy Baxter’s body. From the glimpse that Angie got of his remains, the only thing she could have identified him on that day would have been a man-sized piece of beef jerky.

  Where was Ratcliffe? They needed to talk.

  ***

  Ratcliffe was once again standing in Julia Ferris’s office, hovering in the doorway as usual, ever reluctant to venture into the domain of the dead. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Julia peered at him over her glasses and treated him to an amused smile. ‘I did indeed. I have some interesting news for you.’ She picked up a small plastic jar and swirled the contents.