In for the Kill

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘Don’t you check identity?’ I asked, rather crossly.

  ‘I do. Dunno if Darren did and he checked it out.’

  ‘Can I talk to Darren?’

  ‘You could if he was here. Didn’t come in this morning.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Bill, where does Darren live?’ he called out.

  A silver-haired man popped his head around one of the giant aisles. ‘With his mum.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to curb my impatience.

  ‘Chatham Road, number sixteen,’ Bill answered readily enough; he seemed to lack any curiosity. I thanked them both, gave them a couple of quid each for a beer and headed for Chatham Road.

  A woman in her fifties answered the door of a second floor maisonette in a run-down area not far from the football ground. She was balancing a small child on her hip. The little girl looked as though she’d just eaten her way through a Cadbury’s chocolate factory. Her mouth, fingers and jumper were covered with the brown stuff.

  She was whining softly and the woman looked decidedly cross.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

  A shapeless beige cardigan hung off her squat figure like a sack; her long denim skirt trailed to her feet, which were bare and dirty, her toenails were too long and she stank of nicotine. Her fingers were yellow and her nails bitten.

  ‘Is Darren there?’ I tried to peer around her, but all I could see was a narrow hall with peeling wallpaper and all I could hear was a television set.

  ‘No, he ain’t. Who the hell are you?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion; her lips were like a crack in the pavement.

  ‘His mates from work said I could find him here,’ I replied, trying to win her over with my smile. It didn’t work.

  ‘They lied then.’ She made to shut the door on me but I slammed my hand on it.

  ‘Where is he?’ I demanded roughly, recognising that charm school stuff was wasted on her.

  ‘You the filth?’ she spat at me.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I did I’d go there and let him deal with his brat.’

  The child, as if sensing the woman’s hatred, started snivelling louder, which earned her a

  ‘Shut your face.’ It only served to make the child cry more. If I could have spared the time I would have felt sorry for the little girl.

  ‘He buggered off down that bleeding pub last night and hasn’t been home since,’ the woman moaned. ‘Probably picked up a slag and is sleeping off a hangover. You wait till I get my hands on him, bloody idle bastard, just like his father.’

  ‘Which pub?’ I shouted, above the child’s wailing.

  ‘The Whippet and if you find him tell him he’s a useless wanker.’

  I had passed the Whippet on my way here.

  Now I headed back there with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I pushed open the door and wondered if I’d stumbled into a smokers’

  convention. If smoking had been banned in public places then no one had told the landlord and occupants here. I had to part the air before I could reach the bar and by then I must have passively smoked about five cigarettes.

  The barman, a skinny, small man with thinning brown hair and a face like a ferret, was engaged down the far end of the bar. I glanced around wondering if Darren was here, and if so which of the ten men he might be: one of those with a foot resting on the rail round the bottom of the bar and watching the horse racing on a large flat-screen TV to my right; or perhaps that young one perched on the stool beside them. I ruled out a couple of men playing the gaming machines on account of their fluorescent jackets; they were either binmen or roadmen. Then there was a group playing pool in the far left-hand corner.

  ‘Yes?’ the barman said laconically.

  ‘I’m looking for Darren.’

  ‘Don’t think we sell that in here. What is it? A new drink?’ He gazed around smiling, searching for his audience. Nobody responded.

  ‘Joker, are you?’ I said roughly, moving in a little closer and surprising him. Prison had taught me how to act big and menacing. It had also taught me not to show fear. Not that this skinny little runt frightened me. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘None of your fucking business. Now, have you seen him?’

  The barman hesitated, glancing around as if seeking support, but nobody was the slightest bit interested. ‘Not since last night. Probably sleeping off a hangover. He was in here chucking it about as if he’d won the bloody lottery.’

  Was he now? I held the barman’s stare a moment, then seeing he was telling the truth, I left. I walked slowly back into town. Where was Darren? Would he show up at home, or was he more likely to appear on the mortuary slab? Had Andover killed him? Darren could identify him.

  Should I tell the police? They might be able to trace Andover. Even if I did tell them anonymously, it was still too risky. The warehousemen, Darren’s mother and that barman would be able to say that I had come asking questions. DCI Crowder already believed I was Andover. I didn’t think he would need much persuading that I had lifted my file from the warehouse and killed Darren.

  My thoughts had taken me to the central library in Guildhall Square. It was a large three-storey building with a café on the top, and would have many more resources than my small local library in Bembridge, and whilst I was here I thought I might as well continue my research. I had to find Westnam. He was the only one left. I just hoped and prayed he was still alive, and that he hadn’t left the country.

  The Guildhall clock chimed three as I climbed the steps and it was only then that I realised I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I grabbed a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the café. It was quiet and apart from myself there was only one elderly couple and a young woman who was dressed in a rather eccentric and eclectic range of clothing. She made me think of my neighbour, Scarlett and her mother. I didn’t recall Ruby Kingston as one of my mother’s friends.

  But then why should I? I had left the Island years ago, firstly to attend university in Sheffield, and then to work in London before meeting Vanessa and moving to the Hamble. After the boys were born we had returned to the Island as a family to spend August and Christmas there with my mother. Olivia had had an entirely separate life from my own, and one I suddenly realised I knew little about. I wriggled a little uncomfortably at the memory of my selfishness. I had been so full of my own self-importance. I should have taken more interest. I should have been more caring.

  With a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee, I thought I should have told Olivia I loved her. Now it was too late.

  Could I trust the words of a senile old lady when she said that she’d seen someone push Olivia down the stairs? Her daughter didn’t believe her, but then her daughter clearly didn’t believe in my innocence. Not that I should blame her for that. She didn’t know me. I did blame her though.

  I finished my coffee and headed for the Directory of Directors on the assumption that Westnam might have got another directorship. I spent the next hour trawling my way online through that and various other directories trying to locate Westnam. He wasn’t listed as a company director anywhere. That didn’t mean to say he didn’t have his own business, it just wasn’t a limited company. He could, of course, be operating as a sole trader or partner. He could have gone abroad to live and work.

  With irritation I left the library and went to sit in Victoria Park for a few minutes. The breeze was a little on the fresh side but the shining sun, and the luxury of freedom, more than compensated for that. The trees were unfurling tiny fresh green leaves, and the tulips were splendid in their bright yellow and soldier redcoats. How could I find Westnam? I was convinced he could give me the key to all this.

  Yet if I discovered why Andover had blackmailed him how would that help me? Oh, I could tell the police, but if Westnam didn’t know who Andover was, the police would only think that Andover was me, so back to square one. No, I was looking at this the wrong
way round. Why had Andover chosen me? That was the question that needed answering.

  I could hear the trains screeching across the bridge into Portsmouth station. What if Andover’s vendetta against me had been personal though? I thought of my mother and Ruby’s words. Had my mother known Andover? Was he a friend of the family, a relative even? There was someone who might know.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 4.15pm. Before I could change my mind I was heading for the railway station. The London Waterloo train was just pulling in as I stepped onto the platform.

  Without hesitation I climbed on board and twenty-eight minutes later I was alighting at Petersfield. A brisk walk through the small, but rapidly developing Hampshire market town and I was crossing the park, skirting the lake.

  Opposite me now was a large detached modern house set back from the road. I stood for some time gazing up at it trying to stifle the resentment inside me. I didn’t succeed. I squared my shoulders and sallied forth.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘ What do you want, Alex?’ Vanessa’s shock at seeing me on her doorstep swiftly gave way to wariness.

  She had hardly changed in three years. If anything she looked more attractive, more self-assured than I remembered. I could still see her face during those long days and weeks of my trial as her concern had begun to turn to suspicion.

  Her expression would haunt and hurt me forever. Then at my mother’s funeral she had looked pale and tired. Now her dark curtain of hair was sleek and shining, framing an elfin face as yet unsullied by lines even though she was approaching forty-three. She was slender and I’d forgotten quite how small she was. Always a tidy dresser I could tell her stylish trousers and blouse were expensive. Her appearance and this house confirmed my view that Gus Newberry, her new husband, was doing all right for himself, though at what, I had no idea.

  ‘I want to talk,’ I said I hoped evenly, though my stomach was churning. I didn’t think I still loved her, but there was something tugging at my heart.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got anything to say to each other.’

  ‘On the contrary we’ve got a great deal to say.

  How are my sons?’ I hadn’t intended demanding to see them, but as the train had sped through the countryside, my heart had beat faster at the thought that I might do so. Vanessa’s rather frosty reception was only serving to make me more bloody-minded.

  ‘You can’t see them. You know what the court said.’

  My stomach clenched. Damn Andover to hell and back.

  ‘Besides they’re not here,’ she quickly added, after seeing my angry expression. ‘David is at his fencing class and Philip’s at football practice. I’ll need to pick them up soon.’ She dashed a glance at her watch.

  I tried to hide my disappointment. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in or is only the doorstep good enough for a man you once said you loved.’

  I saw a flash of anger in her hazel eyes. Then she shrugged and turned away leaving me to close the door and follow her down the hall into a spacious kitchen enlarged by a beautifully designed glass extension. I felt envy and bitterness.

  There were schoolbooks on the table including Shakespeare’s Othello. I recalled my English studies at university – what had the great man said about losing one’s reputation? Something about it making a man bestial. Maybe he was right because I wanted to smash this fucking perfect room to pieces except for the studio photograph of David and Philip on the wall beside a huge framed genealogy chart, bearing Gus Newberry’s name. I felt so sad and sick with regret that I could hardly breathe. My heart was heavy and my arms ached to hold my sons. I would get the bastard who had stitched me up and nail his balls to the wall. I’d find a way to make him suffer as I had suffered, and if I died doing it then so be it. Yes, Shakespeare was right, losing your reputation did make you bestial.

  ‘Have you told them I’m out of prison?’

  ‘Alex. I…’ She pushed her hand through her hair, her expression reflecting her anguish. ‘You do understand. I need to prepare them.’

  ‘For what? The demon father, the ex-convict. I suppose you and Gus have made me out to be a cross between the Kray brothers and Ronnie Biggs.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so bitter.’

  ‘Isn’t there? How would you like to have almost four years of your life taken from you?

  To lose everything you valued, including the people you loved.’

  ‘I’ve suffered too.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it looks like it. Vanessa, have you any idea of what it’s like to be locked in a room you can’t break out of? To experience the complete loss of control over your own destiny, knowing there is no escape and that you just have to wait. And all that time you know that you shouldn’t be there, that you are innocent. Only no one believes you.’

  ‘What do you want, Alex?’ she demanded.

  I guessed her guilt was making her angry, because she hadn’t and probably still didn’t believe in my innocence. I watched her gather up the exercise books and place them on top of a cabinet at the side of the room. I took a deep breath and told myself to get a grip. I needed information and this wasn’t the way to get it. In prison I had dreamt of the day when I would see her again, rehearsing what I would say; it would veer from pleading with her to believe in my innocence, to berating her for her callousness in deserting me, now all those words were useless.

  ‘I haven’t come here to argue with you, or score points,’ I begun.

  ‘No!’ She spun round her cheeks flushed with anger. Her eyes flashing.

  ‘I’ve come for information.’ And the hope of seeing my sons, I said to myself.

  Her anger gave way to bafflement, then suspicion. ‘About what?’

  I guessed she thought I was going to ask about Gus. ‘About my mother.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Was there any indication that she might have been pushed down the stairs?’

  She looked surprised. ‘No. Why, should there be? There was a loose stair rod, the carpet had come away, her slipper caught it and she fell.’

  ‘Did she ever say anything to you before she died, about being worried or frightened?’ I could see my question confused her.

  ‘What is this, Alex?’

  ‘Did the police ever hint at her death being suspicious?’

  ‘No.’

  Her small pointed face puckered up with a frown. I could see that she was wondering if I’d gone completely mad. Perhaps she thought I had developed a persecution complex. I persisted.

  ‘It’s important, Vanessa.’

  She decided to humour me; probably thinking it would be quicker that way to get rid of me.

  ‘She called me a couple of times, before she died, asking for you. I tried to tell her that you weren’t here but she wasn’t listening, or couldn’t quite take it in. She was a little confused.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I can’t recall exactly. It was a long time ago now. She had a bee in her bonnet about things being moved, but I think she must have just mislaid them.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Books, jewellery, ornaments.’

  ‘Did she mention if any strangers had called on her? Or if she thought someone had been in the house?’

  ‘Alex…’ Vanessa said exasperated.

  ‘Did she?’ I pressed.

  Vanessa sighed heavily. ‘On a couple of occasions she thought she had burglars, but nothing was ever taken.’

  ‘How do you know? You weren’t there.’

  ‘No, and neither were you.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to remind me of that,’

  I snapped.

  ‘Don’t make me feel any more guilty than I already do. I should have done more for Olivia.

  I liked her.’

  There was a brief fragile silence. ‘Did she report it to the police?’

  ‘She might have done. She didn’t say. I’m not sure she wanted to involve them after what happened.’

  No, and I doubted whether t
hey would have believed her anyway.

  ‘Why this interest, Alex?’

  I told her what Ruby Kingston had said.

  ‘I remember her and her daughter, Scarlett. ‘Bit of a weird girl, dressed like a hippy and very surly.

  I never did trust her.’

  ‘You knew her?’ I asked, unable to hide my surprise.

  ‘I thought she might be Olivia’s phantom mover of objects. I tackled her about it. She went right off the deep end.’

  That sounded like my neighbour. ‘Why her?’

  ‘She was your mother’s cleaner.’

  Now I was surprised. Why hadn’t Scarlett told me? Still we’d hardly had much of a conversation, and I knew she didn’t approve of me.

  Vanessa continued, ‘I dismissed her as soon as Olivia died. Then I had the locks changed. Her father was a thief. Spent years in and out of prison.’

  A pain stabbed at my heart with Vanessa’s cruel and thoughtless words. Now I was beginning to understand Scarlett’s hostility towards me. She probably blamed me for getting the sack.

  Keeping my voice steady, I said, ‘Because her father was a thief then she must be a thief too, is that it?’

  ‘Of course not, I…’

  ‘Doesn’t bode well for our sons then,’ I said harshly.

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ She flushed, angrily and guiltily.

  ‘I’d have expected more generosity and open mindedness from you, Vanessa.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Alex. It hasn’t been easy.’

  My life hasn’t exactly been a picnic either, I thought of replying, but didn’t. Two things then happened, the telephone rang and the front door opened.

  Vanessa snatched up the phone and, with a backward glance at me that said ‘stay’, she hurried out into the hall. I heard whispers. A few seconds later Gus Newberry walked into the kitchen. He wore a smile and a dark pin-striped suit. You could almost see your reflection in the shine of his shoes and even after a hard day at the office he still looked as if he’d just left home. He was shorter and broader than I had imagined and older, or perhaps he just looked older. His hair was straight, short, iron grey and wiry. He wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. I put him in his late forties.