All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘I’ll be grand,’ Rosie said, laughing. ‘You’re some worrier, you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ellen said. ‘I know that. Listen, go back to your mates and have a great night. Just remember to stay safe and send me a text when you’re back at Karen’s, okay?’

  Hanging up, Ellen’s thoughts drifted from Rosie to her children, Pat especially. The elation returned. She wanted to jump up and down, wrap her arms around someone and dance. She wanted to tell someone about tonight’s milestone.

  She picked up the phone to call her parents. Put it down again. They were on holiday, meant to be having a break from all this. Besides, it wasn’t as if Pat was the only one affected by the events that afternoon five months ago. Part of the reason for her parents’ holiday was to give Ellen’s mother a break. Like Ellen and Pat, she’d been caught up in the whole mess that had resulted in Ellen’s house being burnt to the ground. Which was why Ellen and her children were now renting this house beside the park.

  Ellen felt the tug of wanting something else. Her hands twitched with the desire to dial another number. She looked at the phone. Such a harmless thing, really. She reached out, touched it. Pulled her hand back as if she’d been burnt.

  Five months ago, she’d finally found the courage to call her birth mother. It hadn’t gone well and rejection had fuelled the hungry ache that drove her to sit like this, night after endless night, trying to build up the courage to do it again.

  Briony, her counsellor, used to say Ellen was looking for closure. Ellen didn’t like the word but knew Briony was partly right. She hated the unfinished feel of it. But there was more to it than that. The lack of control, the fact that she couldn’t bend things the way she wanted, couldn’t make Noreen – her birth mother – speak to her. That was what really got to her.

  Like she’d done so many times before, she went back over the night she’d made the call. It hadn’t been easy. Heart racing, blood pounding inside her head as she waited. A woman answered. Not Noreen. Ellen knew that straight off. Her mother was Irish. This woman, with her rich, musical Newcastle voice, definitely wasn’t Irish.

  ‘I’m looking for Noreen McGrath.’

  ‘Noreen? Of course. I’ll just get her for you. Can I tell her who’s calling?’

  How to answer that?

  ‘I’m an old friend.’

  Pause.

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Ellen.’

  ‘Okay, Ellen,’ the woman said. She had a kind voice. ‘Let me go and get her. One moment, please.’

  An interminable wait and then, here it came. The moment she’d been building up to ever since she lost her mother on a cold and wet night in a high-rise flat in Peckham all those years ago. Down the line, all the way from Newcastle, the sound of someone picking up the phone, breathing down the line.

  The rapid build-up of excitement, replaced instantly by confusion. And something else she didn’t understand straightaway. In the months that followed, she realised what it was. Anger.

  ‘Ellen?’ The same woman who’d answered the phone. Soft, northern, sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Noreen’s not around right now. Do you want to call back later, maybe?’

  She said yes, of course, that would be fine. She would call another time. But she never did.

  Her mother had been there that night and had refused to come to the phone. The truth was staring Ellen in the face. Had been staring her in the face all this time. Their mother had left them because she wanted to. Because she didn’t love them and probably never had loved them. Because if she had loved her children, she would never, ever have killed one of them.

  * * *

  Ellen woke, sweating, traces of a dream whispering around the edges of her brain. It took a moment to shake the dream away and work out where she was. Even then, his face stayed with her. Billy Dunston. The man who’d killed her husband, causing a crack in Ellen’s perfectly ordered world and changing everything forever.

  She’d refused to let it go. Refused to accept a world in which Billy Dunston could carry on living and breathing while Vinny – her beautiful, perfect Vinny – was no longer here.

  Moments like this, alone in the dark, lazy silence of the night, she wondered if Dunston’s ghost was haunting her. He seemed to be always with her and sometimes she felt she remembered his face, the moment before she shot him, better than she did her own husband’s.

  Two women walked past the house. The click-clack of their heels and their whispery, giggling voices filling the empty night, drifting into Ellen’s bedroom. She pictured them outside, young and pretty and bursting with life.

  Billy Dunston’s face was still there. Behind her eyes, inside her head. Dead. Ellen lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes. Watched Dunston’s face disappear as she held the gun against his head and pulled the trigger. She fell asleep, smiling.

  * * *

  ‘What are little girls made of, Charlotte?’

  She was playing with her Bella doll and hadn’t heard Mother come into the room. Charlotte’s tummy started to hurt. She held on tight to Bella and looked down at her dress, searching for stains. She didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean much. Often she thought there was nothing wrong but Mother managed to zone in on something Charlotte hadn’t even seen.

  ‘Charlotte, dear. I’m waiting.’

  ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice,’ Charlotte said.

  Mother smiled and Charlotte felt better straightaway. Better again when Mother carefully pulled up the bottom of her tight skirt and crouched down until her face was level with Charlotte’s. Mother looked so pretty when she smiled. Charlotte wished that she looked like Mother. Instead of taking after dull old Daddy with his too long legs and his nose that was too big and hair that was dark and nothing like Mother’s shiny, blonde, wavy hair that reminded Charlotte of golden candyfloss.

  Mother asked Charlotte if she wanted a treat for being such a good girl, and Charlotte nodded and said yes please without even thinking about it. A mistake. The moment she said it, Mother stopped smiling.

  Charlotte’s tummy rumbled. She tried as hard as she could to make it stop, but it was no good. Even Mother’s face wasn’t enough to stop it making that horrible noise. Her tummy was trying to tell Charlotte that she was hungry, but she knew she couldn’t be. She’d had a bowl of cereal this morning and though that felt like ages ago, Mother told her again and again that she just needed to ‘exert some self-control’ and if she did that, she’d be fine.

  ‘Maybe we could paint our nails together?’ Charlotte asked. Her voice sounded little and far away, which was weird because it wasn’t like her body had moved or anything.

  But it didn’t matter what her voice sounded like. The important thing was that she’d done the right thing. She hadn’t asked for a sweetie treat. Painting nails was a good thing to do. Mother was happy now because she knew Charlotte was focussing on what was right instead of being weak like so many women who stuffed their faces and treated their bodies as dumping grounds instead of their single greatest asset.

  Mother lifted Charlotte’s hand and examined her fingernails.

  ‘Have you been biting these again?’

  Charlotte shook her head.

  Mother sighed. ‘Well, they’re horrible. We’ve got some serious work to do before we can even think about putting varnish anywhere near these. Come with me.’

  Mother grabbed Charlotte’s arm and dragged her across the room and towards the bathroom. Charlotte remembered the last time Mother had taken her in there to sort her nails out. She started to cry, wishing she was brave enough to tell Mother this wasn’t what she wanted. But that would only make Mother worse. ‘I’m sorry.’ She was crying properly now. Bawling like a baby. Tears mingling with snot, making her look even uglier than she normally did. Bella slipped from her hand. Charlotte managed to grab the string that came out of Bella’s back. As she pulled it, Bella started singing the song Charlotte knew off by heart.

  Mother didn’t hear Bell
a. She was too busy concentrating on Charlotte’s hands. Pulling them together before she wrapped the white tape around them again and again.

  And Charlotte was still crying only now no one could hear her because Bella was singing, Mother humming along with Bella’s high-pitched doll voice, smiling to herself as Bella reached the chorus:

  ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice.

  You know that little girl is mine.’

  Sunday

  One

  Abby woke early. Streams of sunlight streaked through the gap where she hadn’t closed the curtains properly. Sunday morning. A time of rest and relaxation. For others. She checked the time and jumped out of bed, keen to get into work. Keen to get as much done as she could before Ellen showed up.

  After a quick shower, she got dressed to a soundtrack of Melt Yourself Down. Sam, the guy she’d got talking to on Friday night, had told her about this band. She’d downloaded the album yesterday and hadn’t stopped listening to it since. Much the same way she’d thought of little else except Sam. Which was silly and unprofessional. She was in the middle of a murder investigation. A real chance to prove herself. Especially now Ellen was taking a bit of a back seat. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ellen. She adored her. When Ellen wasn’t driving her mad. Which was approximately fifty percent of the time. More, maybe. It’s just that she was really enjoying the extra responsibility she’d had these past few months.

  Of course, Ellen was still the boss. Abby wouldn’t want it any other way. Nor would she wish what had happened to Ellen’s family on anyone. But there was no harm – surely – in also admitting that she was enjoying the new challenges presented by having to do more work alone, without Ellen’s guiding hand always there, checking up on her.

  Abby’s favourite track, ‘Kingdom of Kush’, came on and she turned up the volume, losing herself in the funky jumble of blaring horns, pounding drums and tribal beats. Sam said he’d like to meet her again. She’d given him her number, told him to call if he meant what he said. Playing it cool, thinking that was the best approach. Except that was Friday night and it was Sunday already. She’d expected a text, at least, by now. She was starting to think she’d got him wrong. He’d seemed sincere enough but maybe that was just an act. She supposed it wasn’t the end of the world if he didn’t get in touch. Pride a bit bruised but she’d survive.

  She finished applying her make-up and stood back, surveying herself in the mirror. Shiny dark hair, perfectly straightened, framed a face she knew men found attractive. She liked the way she looked. Liked the effect her appearance had on those around her. She didn’t think it was big-headed to acknowledge this. Just honest. To pretend anything else was plain stupid.

  If Sam didn’t call, that was his loss.

  In the kitchen, she tidied up and made a cup of coffee, drank it sitting on the balcony, enjoying the brief moment of peace before her day proper began. She ran through the case, planning the day ahead, prioritising what needed to be done. She had some reports to finish off first thing. Including a summary of her telephone conversation with Kieran’s sister, Emer. Living in Norwich, currently on holiday in the Canaries, married with two children, working as HR advisor for a large chain of supermarkets.

  It had been a difficult conversation. Emer cried through most of it and Abby had struggled to get any sense from her. In fact, Emer seemed more upset than Freya. Although Abby knew as well as anyone that a person’s outward reaction was no indication of how they were really feeling.

  In front of her, and all around, the Docklands’ glass and concrete shimmered and glimmered in the warm morning sunshine. Abby had lived in this apartment for a year now and adored it. Hated knowing she had to leave soon. She tried her best not to think about it, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. Lucy raised the topic again yesterday, wondering how Abby’s flat-hunting was going and whether there was anything Lucy could do to help. Subtext: when the hell are you going to move out so I can have this place to myself?

  Used to getting her own way, Abby felt irrationally annoyed every time Lucy mentioned it. Even though, in fairness to Lucy, Abby was bang out of order. They’d agreed everything three months earlier, when Lucy first announced that Crispin was moving in.

  And now he was here. Abby didn’t like Crispin and living with a pair of loved-up lovebirds was far from perfect. But so was moving out. She’d done a bit of searching, realised what sort of place she could afford on her crappy police salary, and gave up almost immediately. As soon as this case was over, she’d concentrate on finding somewhere new to live. First, she had work to do. A killer to find and a new boss to impress. No time to lose.

  The DLR journey from Canary Wharf to Lewisham passed quickly. Abby adored the electric train and never grew tired of travelling to work this way. She always experienced a vague sense of disappointment when they arrived in Lewisham and her journey was over.

  Off the train, she was almost at the station when she heard someone calling her name. Turning, she saw Malcolm McDonald running towards her, big stomach out in front, wobbling. It looked like a balloon that someone had tied to his body.

  ‘Was about to call you,’ Malcolm said. ‘Left a message for Ellen, but she hasn’t replied yet. You don’t know where I can find her, do you?’

  ‘She won’t be in until later,’ Abby said. ‘If she’s in at all. You know she’s not working weekends anymore?’

  Malcolm’s white face was shiny with sweat and he wiped it dry with a crumpled navy handkerchief.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘I got something on the CCTV this morning, thought Ellen would want to see it straightaway. You think she’ll be in later?’

  ‘We don’t need to wait for Ellen,’ Abby said. ‘What is it?’

  Malcolm had been allocated the task of trawling through CCTV footage from a camera on Belmont Hill, near the entrance to St Joseph’s Vale.

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t she want to see it first?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Abby said. ‘Ellen’s the last person who’d want us delaying things just because she’s not here. Come on, McDonald. Spit it out. What have you got?’

  There was a separate viewing room on the ground floor of the station for watching CCTV recordings. When Abby followed Malcolm into the room, she found Alastair already in there. Abby wondered if he ever went home or had any sort of life outside of work.

  ‘Been here all night?’ Abby said.

  ‘I’ve been going through the witness statements,’ Alastair said.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Abby asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Alastair said. ‘Take a look at this first.’

  ‘There’s ten hours of recording here,’ Malcolm said as Abby sat down. ‘Most of it’s useless. I was nearly giving up when we found this. Look, here’s the top of St Joseph’s Vale. It’s dark so it’s not easy to see anything, but keep your eyes on the lane when I hit Play. Tell me what you see.’

  The screen was frozen. At first, it was difficult to make out anything at all. As she kept looking, Abby was gradually able to distinguish some detail amongst the shadows on the screen. The lighter grey line running horizontally across the screen was Belmont Road. Midway across that, a darker patch indicated the entrance to St Joseph’s Vale. A digital clock on the bottom right-hand side of the screen told Abby this scene had been recorded at three minutes past midnight.

  When Malcolm hit the Play button, the digits on the clock flickered forward second by second. Apart from that, nothing else happened. At first. A sudden flash of light lit up the screen, headlights from a passing car as it swept along Belmont Hill. And then, just as the car passed St Joseph’s Vale, Abby saw something else.

  ‘Rewind,’ she said. ‘And move it forward slowly. As slow as you can get it to go.’

  The scene replayed again. This time, as the lights lit up the road, Abby kept her eyes on the entrance to the lane. Even in slow motion, it was difficult to know for sure. The hint of a shadow moving across the screen. L
ooked like it might be a person but could just as easily turn out to be something else. A trick of the light, a shadow cast by the passing headlights.

  ‘Right there,’ she said.

  The screen froze. Abby stared at the shadow. Too dark to know for sure but …

  ‘It’s a person,’ she said. ‘But it’s odd, they just seem to be standing there.’

  ‘Like they’re waiting for someone,’ Alastair said.

  The figure was almost completely hidden. Impossible to make out any distinguishing features. Almost impossible.

  ‘Rewind a tiny bit,’ Abby said.

  The headlights reversed back across the screen.

  ‘And now forward again.’

  The lights came back. Briefly, so briefly she almost missed it, Abby caught the faintest flash of colour on the upper half of the shadow.

  ‘Look.’ She grabbed Alastair’s arm as she pointed at the screen. ‘Right there, see? What is it?’

  ‘I thought maybe a weapon?’ Malcolm asked.

  Abby shook her head. ‘I think it’s a logo.’

  The blank expressions on the two men’s faces told her they had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘I’d have thought you Orkney boys would be familiar with that sort of outdoorsy gear,’ she said. ‘The thing is, I’m sure I know the brand.’

  A memory tugged at the edge of her consciousness. She tried to focus on it but it kept slipping out of reach.

  ‘Can we get Rui to take a look?’ she said. ‘Focus on that image, see what he can do with it. Maybe if I see it more clearly, I’ll remember.’

  She stood up. At the same time, the door opened and Ellen appeared in the small room. Abby wanted to point out that it was a Sunday and Ellen wasn’t meant to be here, but she knew better than to say anything.

  ‘Heard you were here,’ Ellen said. ‘Would someone like to tell me what you’re all looking so happy about?’

  Two

  Warm morning sunshine poured through the glass wall and ceiling, drowning the kitchen in white light. It was early enough and the heat from the sun was still mild. At this time of year, the kitchen was bearable. It was only later, in the thick heat of summer, that the room turned into a furnace. Charlotte sat at the island in the middle of the vast space, drinking cups of black coffee and waiting for her husband to come home.