‘Yeah. There’ll be something. A little love poem or a photo of them together maybe. The One… that doesn’t sound like her, from what you’ve said. Must have been serious. And what about DNA? Will they still have, you know, a bit of the baby in a jar?’
That was totally gross even by my standards, but the thought had crossed my mind. The only problem was, even if they did have, it’d do no good unless we had a suspected Daddy to compare it to.
‘Not sure. I’ll check with Corky, but he was on one of his many paternity leaves when the case came in. And yeah – The One. Too romantic by far. By all accounts Geneva made Margaret Thatcher look like a Mills & Boon heroine, so I was surprised as well. But Theresa had no reason to lie. There was a Mr Big lurking in the background and I don’t have a clue who it was.’
‘Well, I have every faith in you, Miss Marple. You’ll suss it out. Let me know when you do. I’ll be in touch very soon – there’s stuff you need to know, and as soon as I have it all tied together, I’ll call. It might not have direct bearing on the demon thing, or Joy’s death, but I’ll fill you in. Give my regards to Justin, and give Dan a big, wet kiss from me. With tongues. Gotta go now – my libido’s calling… but stick close to Dan, okay? And just be careful.’
‘You too,’ I said. ‘Use a condom.’
She was still laughing as she disconnected, and went back to her beer and her impending sex. God, I was jealous.
Chapter 32
I spent the next half hour going through my case notes on Joy Middlemas again. I felt I’d lost sight of something over the last few days. The distractions of Dan and his crew; the demonic kids; Wigwam and the Caseys. Geneva and her mystery lover. Mainly that. This case was about Joy Middlemas, but I’d been dragged deeper and deeper into the last days of Geneva Connelly’s life as well. I felt there was a thread there I needed to pull, I just didn’t know why.
And in the chaos, I’d forgotten to ask Will if he’d ever heard from her again – if she’d been tracking the history of Hart House as well, she could have found something that could be useful. I added it to my mammoth mental to-do list, then made a quick call to Rose Middlemas.
I updated her on some of my findings, the sanitised version, and assured her I was still hard at it. She was brisk and businesslike as ever, until she started crying. I made a few pathetic attempts at comforting noises, then got off the phone as quickly as I could. I’d be no consolation to her, and she’d be as embarrassed as hell about her fall from Nazi-like authority later on. But I’d needed that. I needed to be reminded of Joy, and the way she died, and of everything she and her parents were cheated out of. To remember the huge hole she’d left in their lives, the gaping wounds her death had caused. I couldn’t heal them – but perhaps I could apply a little anaesthetic if I answered their questions.
It also helped me make up my mind to do something very, very stupid. I knew I was going to do it all along, but I needed that extra push in the wrong direction.
I was going back to Hart House. And I was going alone. Dan had his hands full with Justin; Tish had her hands full with the Divine Richard’s various body parts, and there was nobody else I cared to involve. All I’d be doing was putting them at risk. It was me against Demon Nippers, Round Three. Ding ding. I knew I was punching well above my weight, but it wouldn’t be for the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Hopefully.
I decided to walk. It was a beautiful day, and I needed to clear my head. It also allowed for the possibility that en route I would have a freak attack of common sense, and decide to leave it after all, and go and do something less risky like throw myself off a cliff.
I headed to the Shire Horse. It was the nearest boozer to Hart House, and as such was known as the local student watering hole. Watery beer, torn rock posters on the walls, and Green Day on the jukebox. Tim had said he’d be heading to the pub, and he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to end a drinking session until he either ran out of cash, or passed out. Maybe I could get a swift brandy myself, in an attempt to quell the heebie-jeebies that were starting to creep in at the thought of going back into enemy territory.
As it happened I didn’t even need to go into the pub. Which is always a disappointment, but probably for the best under the circumstances. There was always the risk I’d get drunk, and end up telling the Demon Thing he was my best mate and we should get a flat together in Spain.
Tim was perched on a wall outside, next to a waifish blonde who looked like her idea of nutrition was licking the last few coffee granules out of the jar. They were both smoking, and from the smell wafting towards me, they weren’t on Marlborough Gold. Close your eyes and you’re in Glastonbury, I thought as I approached them.
‘Hey! How’s it going?’ asked Tim, swaying slightly with the effort of putting half a sentence together. Very drunk, very stoned. Which would probably make my job easier.
‘Well we had a bit of an accident actually, Tim. One of my friends slipped on the stairs, so we had to cut it short.’
‘Bummer. Is he okay? Was it the good-looking serious-surfer dude or the turtle-headed dude?’
‘The turtle-headed dude, and yes, he’s fine, thanks. He’s in hospital but should be out tomorrow. They’re all a bit busy with that, and we didn’t finish what we came to do. Is there a chance I could borrow your key and take another look? Then I’ll drop it back to you and buy you a pint for all your help.’
Assuming, of course, I wasn’t making amusing cartoon concertina shapes on the staff car park by that stage.
‘Yeah, course. No problems. I’ll still be here. We’re going to a party later on, you can always come with us if you like.’
Ugh. Student party. Even I wasn’t that desperate for a drink.
‘That’s really kind, Tim. I’ll see you later, shouldn’t be too long.’
He handed over the key, grinned, and went back to his conversation. It was something to do with the mating rituals of blue whales, but I didn’t hang around to listen in.
Arthur, the befuddled security guard from the other night, was on duty when I swiped my way into the building. I stopped for a quick chat, updating him on Justin’s progress, and telling him where I was going. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly the SAS when it came to rescues, but it made sense to tell at least one sober adult what I was up to. Tim didn’t qualify on either count.
I took the precaution of using the lift to get up to Geneva’s floor. Arthur had called in the maintenance staff to do a clean-up on the stairs after we’d assured him it was just an accident, but I didn’t fancy passing the spot where I last had an intimate encounter with Justin’s bodily fluids.
I started in on a quick Our Father as the lift cranked its way upwards. It couldn’t hurt. I also fingered the silver cross and chain I’d taken to wearing recently – a gift from my gran, who lived in mortal fear for my soul. Until two days ago I’m ashamed to say it was in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, along with a rarely-used vibrator and my emergency hangover paracetamol. Maybe she was right.
I was so scared by the time I got out that even the sound of the lift doors closing made me jump. I looked around cautiously and sniffed the air, as if that would do any good. Logic had flown out of the window by this stage, and I was acting like an animal being hunted in the woods, all primitive fear and instinct. It didn’t feel – or smell – cold, which I knew from past experience was a good thing. No little voice threatening to feed me to Baa Baa Black Sheep either, even better.
My hands were shaking as I turned the key, and I almost tripped over my own feet in my haste to get inside the room and close the door behind me. Again, I had no idea why I thought that would help. I’m not up on the physics of it all, but I’m fairly sure supernatural beings with no body can get through closed doors.
I scurried into the bathroom, keen to be in and out as quickly as possible. The adrenaline was dive-bombing my nervous system, making me clumsy as I pulled out my tools. My body was preparing me for fight or flight – which wasn’t especially u
seful when what I needed to be prepared for was a bit of DIY bath wrecking.
It wasn’t that hard in the end. It was a cheap bath, standard bulk-order white plastic, and the panel was barely slotted in to the groove at the top. It took me a couple of tries to get my penknife slipped inside it, then I levered it off with a scrape and a pop.
I pulled the panel down, and could see the shell of the bath inside. Pretty dusty in there, as you’d expect, with a mouldy smell that implied a small leak. Not my concern, but perhaps I could be a good citizen and report it to Arthur on my way out. If I made my way out.
I laid the panel flat on the floor by my knees. I didn’t have to look long or hard. It was right there – a small waterproof bag, the kind you get your sandwiches wrapped in for your lunchbox, stuck on the inside of the panel with sellotape that had faded from clear to a mustard yellow. I grabbed it.
By this stage I was too wired to stay a minute longer. I slammed the panel back on, cursing when it stuck, and stood up. I used my trainer to give it a bit of a kick and it popped back into place. Nothing but a very slight scuff mark and a tiny scratch to show I’d even been there. There was no way Tim would notice – assuming he even took baths.
I packed up my tools, shoved the wrap they came in and the plastic bag into my back pocket, and ran. Yes. I ran. Big, tough police girl that I am, I legged it, as fast as I could. I had the willies, big time, and needed to get out.
I carried on muttering prayers as I left the room, and saw that prayer number one had been answered – the lift was still there, on my floor.
I jumped into the lift and banged my fist on the buttons. It still wasn’t cold in the corridor, which scored high on the relief-about-spooky-things front. In fact, I was hot – from the panic, the running, the manual labour.
Just as the lift doors closed to, I saw her. About seven or eight. Pale, wan face. Tangled brown hair, huge dark eyes. Staring at me silently.
‘Help us,’ she murmured, as the lift doors finally slid closed.
‘Oh shit!’ I shouted out loud. I knew it wasn’t really a little girl… I knew it was a trap, and that I should run, carry my treasure and disappear into the sunset. But I couldn’t. Because I’m… a complete knob, truth be told. With an overdeveloped hero complex.
Heart pounding, sweat turning chill on my face, I banged the open button. Inch by excruciatingly slow inch, the doors parted. The girl was still there. She smiled shyly up to me, and I wondered what to do – I mean, I’m not that good with human kids, never mind dead ones suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I held out my hand, going with instinct. Touch. Warmth. Comfort. She looked so bloody cold.
‘Stupid bitch,’ she hissed, the words like a slap. ‘Stupid, stupid, idiot whore bitch cunt. Slut slag cow. Going to kill you. Bitch. Bitch. BITCH!’
Her child’s voice rose on the last word, so loud it hurt my adenoids. I was scared – who wouldn’t be? But I was also really, really pissed off.
‘Oh… just fuck off,’ I said, slamming my hand down on the buttons again. It took about three hours for the doors to close, and I sagged back against the metal-coated walls as it trollied its way to ground floor.
I still felt twitchy by the time I ran out into the sunlight, but at least I could breathe again.
I’d done it. I’d faced up to Demon Thing and escaped unharmed. And was now sitting, I realised, on my backside in the beaten-up patch of grass that passed as lawn outside Hart House, hyperventilating.
Two students, laden down with backpacks, were walking towards me, exchanging concerned looks about the crazy lady on the floor. I needed to head them off at the pass – they might be doing medicine and decide on some impromptu roadside assistance.
‘It’s okay!’ I said, smiling up at them in a way that probably did nothing to dispel the crazy lady image. ‘I’m fine!’ I sprinted in the opposite direction, running for a few minutes. It felt good, loosening up the knots and tangles in my tension-ridden body, blasting my brain with nothing more complex than the need for oxygen. I slowed and finally stopped when I neared the Shire Horse, scanning the small crowd of outdoor drinkers for Tim. I spotted his Shaggy haircut and strode over, hoping I didn’t look like a homicidal lunatic.
I handed over the key and a ten pound note, wrapped around one of my business cards.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘We can call at the off-licence on the way. Do you want to come? It’ll be a blast.’
‘I’m sure,’ I replied. ‘But I have to get back and visit my friend in hospital. Thanks again, Tim – and take care of yourself in that place, okay?’
‘What? The party? It’s only in Sefton Park.’
‘No. In Hart House. Be careful. Call me if anything happens.’
‘You mean like crazy shit?’
‘Yeah, exactly like that,’ I said.
‘Sure. Will do. And hey – hope turtle-headed dude is okay.’
I nodded my thanks and walked away. I found a small wall on the corner of the campus and sat down. Crowds of students and staff were milling around me, bicycles criss-crossing between them and pinging their bells. I took a deep breath, and pulled the small plastic bag out of my pocket.
Time to find out a little bit more about the secret life of Geneva Connelly.
Chapter 33
I’m sure hospital waiting rooms have all seen their fair share of drama. Bad news, family arguments, death, doom and disaster. If their sickly green walls could talk, they’d have a best-seller on their hands.
But even by those standards, our row was setting new standards.
Dan had me backed right up to a wall, which wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds. I could tell from the way his fists were clenched by his side he was struggling not to pin me up against it. His blue eyes were blazing, his mouth was set in an angry line, and he was so close I could feel the heat leaping from his chest onto mine like tiny lightning strikes.
If I hadn’t been contemplating stabbing him at the time, I’d have found it all quite arousing.
‘I told you not to go there!’ he yelled, invading my personal space by another fraction of an inch.
‘And I told you that I decide what I can and can’t do!’ I screamed back. ‘Now get the fuck out of my face!’
I placed my hands flat on his chest and shoved as hard as I could, putting all my body weight behind it. I wished I had superpowers, and could send him flying across the room and crashing into the chairs. In reality, he didn’t budge, and all I gained were sore wrists.
‘It was dangerous, and you could have been killed! How could you be so bloody stupid?’
‘I’m here and I’m fine and you really need to back off before I lose my temper!’
My voice rose up an octave on the final word, leaving nobody within a five-mile radius in any doubt that my temper had said its final farewells some time ago. I was itching to knee him in the groin, or bite his face, or both.
People were staring at us, with bemused and hopeful expressions. They were probably seconds away from gathering round us in a circle and chanting ‘fight, fight, fight!’. I could see one of the triage nurses having words with an overweight security guard, and knew we needed to tone it down.
Well, my brain knew that. The rest of me was boiling over with fury. I’d come back to the hospital, to check on Justin and let Dan know what I’d discovered, and as soon as he twigged I’d been to Hart House, he blew up. Like a great big blonde volcano. I wanted to kill him, the arrogant, overbearing—
‘Outside, you two,’ said Betty, her face appearing over his shoulder. She laid a hand on his arm, and I saw his muscles twitch and tense, like he wanted to shake her off.
‘Now, Dan,’ she said quietly, frowning at him. He didn’t take his eyes off mine, but he did back away slightly. I started breathing again, and glanced at Betty. She was wearing a black mandarin-collared blouse and black pants and looked like a totally exhausted yoga teacher.
‘He can’t tell me what to do!’ I said. ‘He has no rights over me, and—’
‘Shut up, Jayne,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘I’m tired. I thought my friend was dying. I’ve been sitting at his hospital bed all afternoon. I. Have. Had. Enough. Now both of you, outside – this isn’t the time or place.’
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her where to shove it. I wanted to scream at them both to piss off home and leave me alone. But she was right.
So, for once in my life, I did as I was told. And I went outside. The weather had finally broken, and the rain was lashing down in thick, warm, almost tropical drops. All around us people were scurrying around with newspapers over their heads, caught out by a storm on a cloudless day.
Dan and Betty followed. She stood in between us, obviously ready to give us both a swift karate chop to the throat if we played up again.
‘What’s the problem?’ she asked, sounding weary and drained. The guilt that sluiced through me almost washed away my anger. Almost. One look at Dan, sitting up there on his high horse, and I felt it surging back again.
‘Him,’ I said. ‘God almighty over there. He seems to be under the misguided impression that he’s the boss of me. He’s—’
‘I told you not to go!’ he said, not quite shouting, but not quite under control either. ‘I explained how risky it was, and you ignored me. You went in there like the stupid little girl you are, and—’
‘Stop it!’ said Betty. ‘Jayne, why did you do it? You saw what happened to Sophie. What happened to Justin. Dan was right, you should have waited.’
I wanted to stay angry with Betty as well, but it was impossible. She didn’t deserve it. I looked at her, and tried to blank out Dan’s face from the corner of my vision. It’d only upset me.
‘I went because I needed to. I needed an answer to a question, and the answer was in that room. I don’t need to ask permission.’
Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson) Page 22