by Ann Troup
Charlie sighed and threw her another black sack. ‘Whatever, Amy – can we just get this place sorted out?’ The activity of clearing out Rachel’s flat had been profoundly depressing. It was like archiving the contents of a museum. All except Rachel’s room, which had been as Spartan as a nun’s cell and twice as depressing because of it. He would be glad when they were done and he could close the door on the place and let the next tenant deal with the ghosts. It was a shame you couldn’t ram all aspects of the past in a bin bag and take it to the tip where it would be out of sight and out of mind.
He sat on the bare mattress and watched his daughter shove Chanel suits and Dior dresses into a black plastic sack, realising that he felt as old and tired as the reject clothes.
Amy glanced at him and paused what she was doing. ‘You OK?’
He shook his head. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’
She tied the sack. ‘We should have got a house clearance firm in to do this really.’
‘No. I wanted to do it; I wanted to be the one who shut the door on it once and for all. Closure as you so charmingly put it,’ he explained with a weak smile.
‘Speaking of closure, have you thought any more about what I said, about some kind of service, a memorial or something?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t face it, too public. You wouldn’t get people who genuinely wanted to pay their respects, just a bunch of voyeurs who want to pick over the past and speculate. There’s been enough of that already.’
She sat down next to him. ‘I know, people are pretty sick really. All they want are the gory details. But we need to mark it somehow.’
‘I’m going to arrange a burial, and Diana is going to give a service – nothing religious, just a few words. And only us. I don’t want anyone else there.’
She nodded in agreement and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘When will they release the body?’
‘I don’t know, soon I think, once they’ve got all the evidence they need, I suppose. Angie Watson said she would ring and let us know. Anyway, can we change the subject now? We’ve still got a lot to do,’ he said, slapping his hands on his knees and rising wearily from the bed. ‘Fair play, the charity shop is going to be chuffed to bits with this lot.’
‘Are you absolutely sure this is the right thing to do, for us to just get rid of all this? She hung onto it all for so long. It seems a bit odd just bagging it all up and dumping it.’
‘Didn’t do her any good, did it? Just anchored her to misery as I see it. Let’s just get it over with shall we?’
Amy just shook her head, shrugged, and opened another bag.
Charlie picked up two full bags and heaved them out of the flat and down the stairs to the van. As he opened the back doors, he noticed the curtains of the ground-floor flat twitch and the face of a small bichon frise appeared. That meant that Miss Barnes-Harman was watching his every move. Despite everything that had happened, she still looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate. As if elderly women were a benign force for God’s sake! For good measure, he gave her a polite wave.
Amy came down the steps carrying another bag. ‘Di just rang. We need to go home. Ratcliffe has just rung up and he wants to talk to us, about … Gran. He’s coming round tomorrow morning.’ She said the word ‘Gran’ hesitantly, still worried about how he might react to it, still unable to find a better descriptor for the woman who had pretended to be his mother.
‘OK, whatever. Give me that – I’ll pack it in the van. You run up and get some more.’ She did as she was told and ran back up the steps as he wedged the bags into the van.
When he went back into the house, he was surprised to find Miss Barnes-Harman hovering in the hallway, her little dog panting at her heel.
‘Such a terrible, terrible shame. I was so sorry to read about what happened. It’s the end of an era, and for those of us who dislike change it always comes as a shock. Can I offer you and your daughter a cup of tea? I imagine it’s thirsty work up there,’ she said, nodding towards the stairs where Amy was descending with another bag.
Charlie didn’t know what to say. Much as he was gagging for a cuppa, he didn’t feel entirely comfortable about accepting hospitality from a woman who’d called the police on him.
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ Amy said, before Charlie could open his mouth to refuse. She pointedly ignored the censorious glance he gave her when Miss Barnes-Harman had turned away to lead the way into her flat.
Once again he found himself stepping through a portal into the past, this one a more genteel, refined era where time had been suspended in a soft, protective manner. Befitting a woman who confessed that she didn’t like change.
She made a decent cup of tea though, he’d give her that. Even if the piddly little cup was a pain in the arse to drink from. She’d even given them biscuits, which Charlie didn’t eat, mainly because the ruddy dog was salivating and haunting his every move.
Amy was making polite conversation about the antiques and how beautifully the old lady had kept them.
‘All family pieces, heirlooms I suppose you’d call them. All I have left now. I don’t know what it is about this house; it makes one cling to the past,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘And it has quite a past. I often wonder if poor Miss Porter knew the extent of it, and how it came to be in her possession. If she did, she never mentioned it. I’d like to have known her better in all honesty. I was very fond of her mother, despite her reputation.’
Charlie nearly choked on his tea at that. He glanced at Amy who was blinking in shock too. ‘You were fond of Valerie?’ she blurted.
Miss Barnes-Harman laughed. ‘Good gracious no, I only met Valerie once – an atrocious woman in every way. A complete social dilettante, quite repulsive,’ she said with a shudder. ‘Why Lilian ever made the decision to send the child to her I will never know. I think I’d have made a better mother for poor Rachel in all honesty.
‘Still, I suppose someone of her persuasion couldn’t be a mother, and of course the father absolutely forbade it. Much as I liked Lilian, and was of course grateful to her for providing me with this home, I have to admit she chose her lifestyle over her child. She’d never have acquired this place if she hadn’t, though I always felt that the fur coats and champagne cocktails never quite filled the hole that Rachel left in her life. I don’t think she ever forgave him for making her give the child up.’
Charlie was aware that he was opening and shutting his mouth like a landed guppy.
‘Forgave who?’ Amy asked. Charlie was convinced he’d brought her up to be a mite more polite, but he wanted to know too.
‘Her “Fancy Man” I think they used to call them. Lilian was a kept woman, his mistress. He gave her the deeds to this house when she agreed to give Rachel up. He didn’t want that kind of albatross around his neck. It wasn’t conducive to the nature of their arrangement. I’m not sure she ever forgave him, or herself. I’m not sure she atoned for it by leaving it to Rachel either – it did her no favours.’
It was Amy’s turn to sit open-mouthed.
‘Have I shocked you, dear? I was never inclined to such shenanigans myself, but we did do those things back then. We might be old, but we weren’t Victorian. Far from it!’ The old lady laughed.
‘Who was he?’ Charlie asked, finally finding his voice.
Miss Barnes-Harman tapped the side of her nose. ‘I always knew him as Mr Clarke, but of course that wasn’t his real name. I always suspected he was a minor royal. He had that air, but I honestly couldn’t tell you – I wish I could.’
Charlie glanced at Amy. She looked back at him over her teacup, an amused look in her eyes and her brows raised so high they were disappearing under her fringe.
He had to fight the urge not to snigger himself. Rachel, the illegitimate daughter of a minor royal. Hah! Chances were ‘Mr Clarke’ had been some bluff businessman with delusions of grandeur to go with his bit on the side, but if the old lady wanted to soften it with a bit of romance, why disabuse he
r? Charlie was just relieved that the Porter gene had been suitably diluted in both Rachel and his daughter – thank goodness. For some reason, it made him feel much better.
***
Ratcliffe wedged himself awkwardly on the edge of Charlie’s sofa and accepted a cup of tea from Diana. ‘Ta. I’m dying for this,’ he said gratefully. Tea was always a welcome prop. It had the property of being able to normalise even the most bizarre situations.
‘You’re welcome,’ Diana replied. ‘So now that we’re all here, and we’ve all got tea, you can tell us the news.’
Ratcliffe glanced at Charlie. ‘Are you happy for me to talk about this now?’
Charlie nodded. ‘I think Diana has as much right to know what’s going on as the rest of us by now.’
‘Damned right – bloody woman nearly broke my nose!’ she said, leaking some residual umbrage.
Ratcliffe sighed. ‘OK. Here goes, the Crown Prosecution Service are not going to take it to trial. After extensive psychiatric assessment, it has been deemed that Delia Jones is unfit to stand trial. She has been assessed as mentally unstable, and therefore cannot be held responsible in a court of law for her actions.’
Charlie hung his head; Diana nodded sagely and with the passion of youth, Amy vented her spleen. ‘You mean that evil woman is going to get away with it? I don’t believe it. She has utterly and completely ruined all our lives, and you’re telling me that it’s not even going to court? Unbelievable!’ she huffed, her voice saturated with disgust.
‘No, she’s not going to get away with it at all. Under the circumstances she will remain, for an unspecified length of time, in a secure psychiatric unit. The chances are she will never come out. If at seventy-seven she is still capable of murder, it’s unlikely she will ever be able to be treated, and she still poses a threat. She’s going to be put away for the rest of her life.’ The lack of real justice rankled with him too.
Amy looked away. For all her bravado and rhetoric, they all knew this had hit her hard. There were only so many skeletons a girl of her age could cope with when a battalion of them came marching out of the closet. Delia Jones had dragged them out kicking and screaming. Not to mention what she’d done to the girl’s mother, both in the past and all too recently.
Ratcliffe wiped his brow. ‘I wanted to come and tell you myself. It means that certain aspects of the case that would normally have come out in court won’t now be given in evidence. I figured you guys might have questions.’
‘What about Frances? Will she go down for her part in things?’ Charlie demanded, teeth gritted.
‘The case against Frances Haines is proceeding as planned. Between you and me, she’s a stony bitch, but she’s not mad. No get-out clause for her.’ It was a touchy subject for Charlie, and Ratcliffe knew it. Valerie’s diary had revealed the true circumstances of Patsy’s murder, and Charlie had, rather too late in everyone’s estimation, been exonerated.
It had been Frances who had stabbed Patsy, in a fit of jealous rage over Roy, who had been sleeping with both of them but planning to leave with Patsy. Valerie had witnessed the whole thing and had gladly passed the buck to Charlie, who as usual had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time that day. Ratcliffe felt bizarrely responsible for the failure of the criminal justice system in this instance, finding it difficult to look Charlie in the eye. ‘No comfort I know,’ he mumbled apologetically, noting the tension in Charlie’s jaw.
‘What about Molly?’ Diana asked, gamely steering the subject away, not that there was an easier topic to divert it to.
Ratcliffe glanced quickly at Charlie, relieved to find that he was now looking out of the window, avoiding everyone’s gaze. ‘Her remains are ready for release whenever. Just let us know and we’ll make the necessary arrangements with whichever funeral director you choose.’
He could feel Charlie holding in the emotion. How hard must it be for him? Finding out that the woman who raised you had killed your own mother and abducted you. ‘In fact I have something for you. DS Watson managed to track it down, and as it’s not going to court now we thought you might like to have it.’
He pulled out a faded photograph of a young, pretty woman holding a small baby. She was squinting shyly at the camera showing off the child. He held it out towards Charlie. ‘It’s a picture of her, with you.’ He didn’t want to say that they had found it among Delia’s smashed belongings. It would feel like rubbing salt into a wound.
Charlie started to reach out for it, but let his arm drop. Instead, Ratcliffe put it on the coffee table. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’
Amy picked it up. On the back it said in faint pencil: “Molly with Philip 1963”. She stifled a sob. Charlie wasn’t even Charlie now. He was Philip Kerr. Somehow, this small photograph summed up the utter mess they had to sort out, and it pained Ratcliffe deeply to see them have to face it. She put it back on the table and pushed it towards her father.
‘We need to discuss the other remains – the baby, Daniel,’ Diana interjected, steering the topic again. ‘We’d like to place him with Molly. It seems symbolic somehow. Is that possible?’
Ratcliffe couldn’t see why not and agreed to look into it. He would never say at this juncture, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Delia had been responsible for Daniel’s death too, though Julia Ferris was adamant that the child had never drawn breath and had been stillborn.
Valerie’s diary had mentioned Delia’s role as midwife on that occasion, and Ratcliffe wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Delia had stifled the poor mite as he was born, as revenge for the botched abortion Valerie had performed on her. Everything Delia had done had been about revenge, and in Ratcliffe’s book that meant insane actions from a sane mind. It stuck in his throat that there would be no trial, that she would never be called to account for the lives she had destroyed. Whether her victims were alive or dead.
On that note: ‘That brings us to Rachel,’ he said cautiously.
‘What about her?’ Charlie demanded, suddenly defensive.
Ratcliffe closed his eyes for a moment. Of all the things that had emerged from this case that had harmed Charlie, what had happened to Rachel was the thing that had affected him most – he supposed she was the only one who’d truly mattered. ‘I know how difficult this is for you, but we need to discuss what happens next.’
‘Not now,’ Charlie said, through gritted teeth. ‘If you’ve finished, I have something I need to do.’ With that, he stood up, grabbed his van keys, and walked out of the house.
Amy shifted uncomfortably, as if she was making space for the elephant in the room.
Diana, ever the diplomat, said gently, ‘I think you’ll have to leave that one for a while. It’s the one aspect of all this that he is truly bitter about. The rest he seems able to live with. But I’m afraid Rachel is a very sore subject.’
Ratcliffe nodded. ‘I understand, but we’ll have to deal with it sooner or later.’
‘I know. I’ll ring you when he’s ready.’
Ratcliffe sighed, stood up, and offered her his hand. ‘Thank you for the tea, we’ll be in touch.’ He smiled at Amy and glanced around the pleasant living room. Only then did he notice that the photograph of Molly was gone.
***
Charlie swung the van into the car park and switched off the engine. Checking his watch, he realised he still had ten minutes to wait. He picked up the photograph from the dashboard and studied it, staring intently at the tiny face of the baby. Was it possible that the miniature, scrunched-up features were his? When he looked at the face of Molly Kerr, he felt the vaguest, softest stirrings of memory, just a whisper of warmth. Nothing concrete, nothing real, just a sense of something that might have been.
He’d found out a little more about this woman, his birth mother, in recent weeks. Angie Watson had been good at unearthing ancient history – and old memories. In fact, Angie had been quite good at a lot of things lately. He was surprised to find himself liking the detective quite so much.
&nb
sp; Molly Kerr had been regarded as a nice kid. A nice girl from a nice home who had got herself pregnant and thrown out of her nice home. She had been young, broke and friendless, and had ended up selling herself to get by. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. Amy had asked him if he minded that Molly had been a prostitute. He didn’t. Better that than a murderess.
Delia had killed her for two reasons from what they could gather. One, she had been jealous of Molly’s relationship with Barrington Jones. Two, she wanted Molly’s child. That was the most difficult aspect of all this. He knew that Delia had loved him, in her way. She had been a good mother. A psychopath, but a good mum on face value – she had consistently destroyed his happiness in each and every way, but … Gah! He could scream sometimes.
He dared not think about it much, too messy by far. But it all kept on pinging up in his head, like some demented game of nightmare whack-a-mole – bash one thought down and another would pop up in its place just to make him feel like he was teetering on the brink of insanity.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he jumped when the passenger door opened.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘I was miles away,’ he said. He started the engine.
‘You didn’t let on to Ratcliffe you were meeting me, did you?’
‘Uh-uh. Not a chance.’
‘Are you sure you want to carry on with this?’ Angie asked, reaching for her seat belt.
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Enough is enough. Time for everything to come out now, don’t you think? No more secrets and lies.’
***
Angie sighed and nodded her assent. ‘OK, let’s go.’ At least now that there wasn’t going to be a trial; her over-involvement with this would just be a matter of disapproval in certain quarters. Even so, she knew that by embarking on this venture with Charlie Jones, she was risking her reputation, and possibly her career. Ratcliffe would not be a happy man if he ever found out what she had been up to.