Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  Tilly smiles, pops a marshmallow into her mouth and snuggles down to watch the film. She laughs at a comment the actor makes and glances at her mum to see if she found it funny. But she looks a bit sad, though.

  ‘What’s up, Mum? Was everything all right at Ivy’s house?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Was Max there?’

  ‘He called in but I’m not sure he was pleased to see me.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not the right person for you, either,’ Tilly says, and looks deep into her mum’s eyes. ‘I want you to be happy, Mum, you know that, don’t you?’

  Perhaps now her parents will be a couple again. Mum plants a soft kiss on the top of her head and Tilly smiles, enjoying her fantasy of a proper family. She just needs to find a way to bring them together.

  33

  Morris knocks again and glances back at her colleague. ‘Maybe he’s at the day centre.’

  ‘Possibly. We can come back later.’ Hayward turns away then turns back again as the front door opens.

  ‘Mr Brentwood?’ Morris asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m PC Morris and this is PC Hayward. Could we come in and ask you a few questions?’ Morris looks at the old man’s crumpled pyjamas and tousled hair. Has he just got out of bed? It’s nearly ten in the morning. She thought old people had trouble sleeping.

  ‘Has something happened to my wife?’

  ‘No, sir. May we come in, please?’

  They follow Mr Brentwood into the small, cluttered lounge and sit on the edge of a worn sofa, careful to avoid the deep sag in the middle.

  ‘Do you recall Jehovah’s Witnesses calling round to this address last Saturday?’ she asks. ‘That would have been the fifteenth of October.’

  Mr Brentwood looks totally baffled. ‘So, you haven’t seen my wife, then? I’m quite worried about her.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ PC Morris thinks how small and vulnerable he looks so she speaks softly.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’m worried because sometimes I can’t recall what she looks like.’ His eyes brim with tears that wobble and threaten to spill down his cheeks.

  Morris reaches into her pocket and hands him a neatly folded tissue. He mops his eyes and gives her a weak smile, clearly hopeful that she, being a kind policewoman, will help him.

  ‘When were you married?’ she asks, knowing that sometimes an older memory can trigger a more recent one.

  ‘April 1, 1950. We picked April Fool’s Day because her dad said she shouldn’t marry me so we ran away to Gretna Green and made a fool of him.’ He chuckles as he replays the images in his mind. ‘It was a lovely sunny day. “Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” they say, and we were both very happy for sixty years. Had a big party for our diamond wedding anniversary.’

  ‘And how many years have you been married now?’ Morris asks gently.

  ‘That was our last anniversary. She got breast cancer and died before the next one.’ He looks up at Morris, totally shocked. He crumples forward, his flash of lucidity seemingly like a blow to the stomach. He wraps his hands tightly around his waist and moans out his grief.

  Morris puts a hand on his shoulder and waits. The poor man. She can feel her throat tightening but she needs to remain professional.

  ‘Would you like us to get you a cup of tea?’ she asks, glancing across at Hayward then back at Mr Brentwood.

  The old man nods and Hayward leaves the room. Morris can hear him fill the kettle and put mugs on the worktop.

  ‘Would you be OK with us having a brew with you?’ he calls.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Mr Brentwood lifts his wet face and smiles.

  ‘I see you’ve eaten all the cakes.’ Heyward’s voice carries from the kitchen. ‘That’s a shame. Home-made fairy cakes are my favourite.’

  ‘Oh yes. I remember. My wife made them for me. Have you seen her? She hasn’t come back yet.’

  Hayward stands in the lounge doorway and exchanges a glance with Morris. Even if Mr Brentwood had seen something of the missing woman there was no way he could be considered a reliable witness.

  ‘Can you recall seeing the Jehovah’s Witnesses on Saturday?’ Morris asks again. She has her notebook open on her lap and is scribbling down information.

  ‘Which Saturday would that be?’

  ‘Last Saturday, the fifteenth.’

  ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I really can’t remember.’

  ‘Before we go, could we have a quick look around your bungalow?’

  Mr Brentwood looks startled.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just regular procedures,’ says Morris.

  She goes back into the hall then through to Mr Brentwood’s bedroom, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale bedding and sweat. The floor is littered with clothing and little light seeps through the flowered curtains. Greasy, grey sheets and old blankets are in a rumpled heap on the bed. Morris holds her breath as she kneels down to look under the bed. Nothing but piles of newspapers, more clothing, and a battered suitcase with a broken hinge. She gets up and opens the large wooden wardrobe. More clothes hang haphazardly from hangers but this time Morris notices that most of them are women’s floral dresses, blouses, and skirts. Each garment has a fine layer of grey across the shoulders. Morris sweeps them aside to peer at the back of the wardrobe, creating an almost invisible cloud of dust that tickles her nose.

  She gives the kitchen a quick scan, rummaging in her pocket for a tissue as a sneezing fit takes hold then peeks into the bathroom. There’s no sign of a female, alive or dead.

  ‘Do you have a loft hatch, Mr Brentwood?’ she asks, as she goes back in the lounge.

  ‘It’s up there.’ He points to the hallway ceiling.

  Morris looks at Hayward who sighs and heaves himself up from the sofa, clutching the arm so as not to fall into the dip in the middle. Morris watches as he takes a pole with a hook from the corner of the hall and pulls down the loop on the hatch. As he spots an integral loft ladder he smiles with relief and tugs on the mechanism, drawing down the ladder. The rungs creak as he makes his way slowly up.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he says, as he shines his torch around.

  ‘What is it?’ Morris asks.

  ‘He’s only got a bloody train set. Wow! I’d have loved one of these when I was a boy. He’s got signal boxes, railway stations and loads of track. There are at least four trains tucked inside wooden sheds and there are even small figures on the platform.’ His speech increases in pitch with excitement.

  ‘Is there anything else up there? If not, come down. We haven’t got time to stop and play.’ Morris tugs gently on his trouser leg. Hayward descends the ladder slowly and closes the hatch.

  ‘That’s a pretty impressive set you’ve got up there,’ he says to Mr Brentwood. ‘Do you ever get to use it?’

  ‘Not lately,’ he replies. ‘I made most of it myself. Took me years to collect all the bits and pieces. My wife used to moan she never saw me.’ His eyes are watery, and his hands hang loosely between his knees. He looks exhausted with life.

  Morris and Hayward finish their tea then thank Mr Brentwood for his time. They’re about to leave when he suddenly says, ‘I haven’t seen that woman you’re looking for, but I’ve seen Ivy’s grandson taking dead bodies out to the car a couple of times.’

  ‘Who’s Ivy?’ they ask in unison.

  ‘She lives next door. There’s something fishy going on there.’

  ‘Do you know the age of Ivy’s grandson? Roughly?’ Morris asks.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be about ten now. Skinny little chap, needs a few hot dinners in him.’

  As they walk down the front path leaving Mr Brentwood fussing his cat on the doorstep they look at each other. Hayward raises his eyebrows and Morris turns her mouth down. They’ve worked together for some time and have no need for words.

  Next, they knock on Ivy’s door and wait patiently as she makes her way slowly do
wn the hall. She gives them a bright, cheery smile and PC Hayward introduces himself and Morris.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about a missing woman.’

  ‘Ooh, really!’ Ivy seems keen to hear more and Morris imagines she doesn’t get much excitement in her life. ‘Come in and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Please, don’t trouble yourself. We’ve had a cup of tea next door.’

  ‘What, with old Mr Brentwood?’

  Morris hides a smile thinking Ivy is hardly a spring chicken herself. She looks quite frail in fact and it’s taken forever to follow her along the hall.

  ‘He’s fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.’ Ivy chuckles at her own joke, her shoulders wobbling. She sees their expressions and tries to explain. ‘Sorry to be mean. But he’s very confused, the poor man. He keeps looking for his dead wife and making wild accusations about my Max.’

  ‘Does Max live here with you?’ Morris asks, looking around. It doesn’t look as if he does.

  ‘No, but he calls in and takes good care of me.’

  ‘Did he come to see you on Saturday the fifteenth between 4.00 and 4.30 p.m.?’

  ‘No, he goes to the gym on Saturday afternoons. Why?’

  Not a ten-year-old boy then, thinks Morris, although that was hardly likely looking at Ivy. ‘Did you see any Jehovah’s Witnesses calling at doors on that day between 4 and 4.30 p.m.?’

  ‘I don’t know if she was a Jehovah’s Witness but I saw a woman go into Mr Brentwood’s. Middle-aged, I think. She was wearing something dark. Black or maybe navy. Formal clothes. A suit. But after that I spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom. Too many prunes for breakfast, I’m afraid. Won’t do that again! Someone rang on my doorbell, but I don’t know if it was the same woman. Is she the one who’s missing, then?’ Her face is suddenly serious and appears full of concern.

  ‘Is this woman in the photograph the one you saw?’

  ‘It could be, but I didn’t get a good look at her face.’

  ‘Well, thanks for your time. We may be in touch again.’

  Ivy gets up to follow them but they insist on letting themselves out. She goes to the window instead and watches them walk on to the next house.

  Hayward looks at Morris. ‘She’s quite a character! Reminds me of my nan. But a bit mean about her neighbour, I’d say.’

  ‘Hardly a suspect of foul play, though, except when she overdoses on prunes.’ They laugh and approach another front door.

  34

  I manage to squeeze a call in to Premier Care this morning to check that they support Mr Brentwood. They’re reluctant to tell me at first as they say it’s a breach of data protection but when I explain that I’m concerned for his welfare and we provide support for Ivy next door they relent and say they have just visited him and will soon be going on a regular basis. Now I’ve done my duty to him, I can get on with my own responsibilities.

  The phone won’t stop ringing and poor Gwen doesn’t know what to do first. I try to ease the pressure by helping but I’ve got tons to do as well. I hope Sarah comes back from sick leave as I don’t fancy picking up her team leader rota problems. I can’t cover my own sessions and I’m panicking about who’s going to care for Ivy this week if Lydia doesn’t come back soon. I’ve tried calling her mobile to see how her fictitious grandad is doing but it’s switched off. Huh! No surprise there.

  I can’t keep stepping in to look after Ivy myself as it isn’t fair on my girls and other people need my attention today. I must call Patience to check she can still cover the gaps until Lydia returns but I feel it’s too much for her. I glance across at Karen who’s on the phone wondering if she’ll be free in a minute to discuss it.

  Karen is frowning. ‘I’ll pass you over to Sophie. She’s Lydia’s team leader.’ She looks over at me and waggles the handset then presses a button on the console.

  I mouth a silent question asking who it is but she’s still frowning and won’t say.

  ‘Hello, Sophie speaking.’

  ‘This is Lydia’s mother. I’m trying to get hold of her but her phone doesn’t seem to be working. Have you heard from her?’

  ‘I had a message on Thursday saying she’d gone to look after her sick Grandad.’

  ‘Sick Grandad? She’s only got the one and he lives in Marbella. I spoke to him yesterday and he’s about to go on a cruise.’ There’s a pause as this information sinks in.

  ‘Actually, she did ask for leave to go to Cornwall with her boyfriend, but we said it was too short notice,’ I say.

  ‘She told me that. She wasn’t happy about it, but I don’t think she’d lie to you. I’ve always brought her up to be honest and hard-working.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ I say politely, thinking of the times she let me down previously. ‘I can’t think where else she could be. Do you have her boyfriend’s number? If you speak to her, can you tell her we desperately need her back?’ If Lydia really had lied to me and bunked off, I’d prefer not to have her back at all but we’re so short-staffed we can’t be choosy. I’ll have to give her a verbal warning, though.

  ‘I’ll tell her to call you.’

  The call ends and I sit back, thinking about the conversation. Lydia has a close relationship with her mother so it seems odd she hasn’t been in touch.

  Karen is watching me. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Lydia’s grandad lives in Marbella and is alive and well. She hasn’t heard from Lydia recently either.’

  ‘The little liar! Probably too wrapped up with that boyfriend of hers to call her mum.’ Karen bristles with annoyance.

  ‘I’m really struggling to cover Ivy’s calls. Do you have any ideas?’

  Karen doesn’t hear my question because Sarah breezes in on a waft of expensive perfume, immaculately dressed as always. This work is the last career I’d expect her to choose. She looks like she should be in marketing or sales. Sarah makes me feel like a sparrow next to a goldfinch.

  ‘Hi, everyone! Did you miss me?’ she trills in a sing-song voice which sets my teeth on edge.

  Of course, I bloody well missed her. I had to give up my afternoon on the river with Mia because of her. I watch Karen carefully to see how she responds.

  ‘We certainly did miss you,’ she says with a wide smile.

  I can’t believe it. She’s got more faces than a town hall clock. I wonder now what she says about me behind my back. My face is hot, and I can feel my temper rising.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back, Sarah. Karen can let me have that day off she promised me now.’ I smile sweetly at Karen and for a moment she looks completely nonplussed. Ha! Get out of that one.

  ‘I had to cancel my leave when you went off sick,’ I explain to Sarah, ‘but it’s OK because I can book tomorrow off now and take Mia on the river, like I’d promised her last week. You’ll cover some of my work, won’t you? I’ll get as much done as I can today.’

  ‘Er … yeah. Sure. Not a problem.’ Her toothpaste advert smile fades slightly.

  ‘How are you feeling now, dear?’ Gwen asks her, ever the diplomat.

  ‘Much better thanks. I think it was something I ate.’

  Pah, that old chestnut I think, then pull myself up sharply. I’m starting to sound like Karen. I vow to be nicer from now on.

  ‘Would you like me to update you on what’s been happening?’ I ask Sarah.

  She accepts my offer gratefully and pulls her chair up next to my desk. I’m just telling her about new referrals and Ivy when the phone rings again and Gwen answers it. She listens and tries to reply but is getting flustered. It must be a difficult customer. She thanks the caller then looks across at me. My heart sinks. Is it Mr Giddings again?

  ‘Sophie, that was Mr Saunders. He says no one turned up for his nan today and he’s most displeased. He’s cancelled all future bookings with us and says he’s going to another agency.’

  ‘What!’ Karen glares at me accusingly. ‘I thought you’d got c
over sorted for today.’

  ‘Do you mean Max Saunders? Ivy’s grandson?’ I feel the blood draining from my face. It’s lucky I’m already sitting down.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Who was supposed to be there this morning?’ Karen asks.

  ‘Patience,’ I reply.

  I grab my phone to make sure I haven’t missed any messages. There’s nothing unread on the front screen so I go into the text conversation I last had with Patience. I skim over the messages where we agreed her schedule but there’s one at the bottom I’ve missed.

  Sorry to let you down. Problems with car so can’t cover morning.

  I must have had her messages open and not seen it arrive so there was no alert on the front screen and no unread icon. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t usually swear, even in my head, but I can’t help it. What a disaster. I look at Karen who has been watching me closely.

  ‘Well?’ Her tone is ominous.

  ‘I must have missed her last message saying she has trouble with her car.’

  I’m shaking but not just because Karen is angry with me. I feel totally, utterly betrayed by Max. How could he do this to me? He must know it will cause problems for me at work.

  ‘Ring Mr Saunders straight back and apologise then assure him it won’t happen again,’ Karen instructs. ‘Say you’ll go around there yourself this week until Lydia is back. Just don’t lose us this contract.’

  I start to protest that I won’t be able to do that but Sarah steps in and offers to help. I can’t decide if I’m grateful or annoyed because she’s trying to put me to shame. Reluctantly I make a show of looking up Max’s number on Ivy’s care plan, even though I have it stored in my phone. The call goes straight to voicemail. I feel relieved and hang up. He’ll know it’s me trying to call as he’s put my number in his phone as well.

  I tell Karen I’ll call again soon and try to concentrate on the handover with Sarah. I’m struggling as my mind keeps spinning off at a tangent thinking about Max. I thought he liked me. Surely, he wouldn’t have kissed me like that if he didn’t? I’ve had such high hopes for this relationship, even though it’s early days that I feel a huge sense of loss. I’ll try his mobile again in a minute then if he doesn’t answer I’ll call his office. I don’t really want to speak to him, but Karen expects me to sort this out. Sarah can sense my distress because as she thanks me she puts her warm hand on my arm. Please don’t be nice to me, I think, as my throat tightens. I can hold it together as long as no one shows me sympathy.