‘Okay.’
There was nothing new from Abby. Helen was sick with worry about how Kevin would cope overnight. The sleeping pill had been Abby’s idea. A good one, in Ellen’s opinion.
‘I’ll be here all night,’ Abby said. ‘I’ll make sure Finlay’s okay and I’ll check Helen regularly as well. There’s nothing for you to worry about here, Ellen. Get home to your own family.’
Finlay was still in the hall when she came out. Ellen said goodnight, reiterated her request that he call if he ever needed her, and left. Outside, she closed the front door and leaned against it, exhausted. She admired Abby’s stamina. Being inside that house for any length of time wasn’t easy.
While she’d been with Abby her phone had rung. It was Dai Davies. She’d let the call go to voicemail and now she took the phone from her bag and listened to his message.
‘Been having a bit of a think about this Fletcher bloke, Ellen. We only have his boss’ word for it that Fletcher’s innocent. For all we know, the boss could have reasons of his own for covering for Fletcher. I think we should take a trip out to Hoo and see what else we can dig up. Maybe even have a snoop around his house. How are you fixed for tomorrow?’
A trip to Hoo. Why not? It was worth a shot at the very least. She closed her phone and put it back in her bag.
A fat, silver moon hung low in the sky. Ellen thought of Kevin Hudson, locked up in Bromley nick. Words from a poem drifted through her head. Something she’d learned in school. Most of it was long-forgotten, just a few bits of it remained, floating through her head like dandelion clocks on a still, summer’s day. Something about a little tent of blue and drifting clouds with sails of silver.
She was tired. Weighed down with exhaustion. She didn’t want to be doing this anymore. It was no life.
Pushing thoughts of Kevin from her mind, Ellen ran to the car, climbed in and drove home. It was only much later, after her parents had left and she was sitting with a glass of wine in her hand, Sinatra at the Sands on low – comfort music – that she remembered the name of the poem, and why she’d thought of it right at that moment on the doorstep of Kevin Hudson’s house.
22:00
The children are smiling and waving goodbye. I want to wave back, but I can’t lift my arm. It’s too heavy. One of the girls leans out the window.
‘Come with us, Jodie! It’ll be fun.’
My eyes are closing so it’s hard to see. I’m too cold. The seaside’s no good when it’s cold. Mum always wants us to go in wintertime, but why would we do that? It’s only fun in the summer.
Everything’s broken in here now. Even the TV. He broke it all.
There are more trains. I can hear them. I use my last bit of energy to keep my eyes open. All the children are smiling.
Some of the wallpaper’s starting to peel away and little bits are missing. I’ve done that. I tear off some more. The paper dissolves on my tongue like Holy Communion but if I imagine really, really hard, I can pretend it’s toast. Little slivers of toast with jam on. And runny butter.
I think I’m getting better at this. I can smell it. The warm, buttery smell mixed with the toast and the sugary jam.
‘Jodie, come with us!’
A boy this time. He’s waving, too. I try to tell him I can’t come. I’m stuck in this room. But when I speak, there’s no sound.
I’m thirsty. But the toilet is so far and I’m so tired and my ankle’s still sore from the other night. It’s all swollen up and so stiff I can hardly move it. Maybe it’s broken.
My throat’s so dry, even breathing hurts. I want to get up but I really don’t think I can. Maybe if I sleep for a bit …
He’s coming back. The branches rustling. They do that when he pushes through them to get here.
No.
I try to get up. I can stand but can’t walk because my leg’s too sore. I’m begging God to make him go away.
But God does nothing.
Bolts – crack, crack, bang. Then the door’s open.
I try to get back on the bed, but I get it wrong. Hit my tummy against the bed frame and it hurts. I slip and don’t make the bed. Land on the floor instead. Leg hurts bad now.
Footsteps. On the floor. Coming towards me. I try to get onto the bed but before I can make it, he’s there, hands around me, lifting me.
I try to kick him but he’s too big and too strong and no one can hear me, anyway.
WEDNESDAY, 23 FEBRUARY
01:04
Ellen dreamed of Vinny. In the dream, he was still alive. He hadn’t been killed by Vinny Dunston. In the dream, they were on a family holiday in Greece. On a white, sandy beach with turquoise blue sea. It was a happy dream and when she woke, Ellen was happy too. Until she remembered.
She had fallen asleep on the sofa. As a result, she was cold and stiff. And angry. Dunston was dead, but that didn’t change anything because so was Vinny. Killing Dunston hadn’t given her children back the father they loved and needed. And it hadn’t done anything to dilute the hot rage that still burned inside her whenever she thought about what Dunston had done to her beautiful husband.
She was thirsty. In the kitchen, she poured water into a glass and drank greedily. There was a big window over the sink and Ellen’s reflection in this was as clear as if she was looking in a mirror. She didn’t like what she saw.
Briony had asked if Ellen felt guilty about what she’d done.
‘Not one little bit,’ Ellen replied, seeing the shock on Briony’s face before the counsellor could hide it. Ellen didn’t care. There were a lot of things she didn’t care about these days. And only one thing that really mattered, anymore. Protecting the rest of her family from any further harm. Would she do it again if she had to? Damn right she would.
She’d tried to explain this to Briony.
‘Billy Boy Dunston was a pig,’ Ellen explained. ‘That’s the name he went by. A local Greenwich thug who scared the shit out of everyone he came into contact with. He attacked a young guy in a pub one night. Sliced his face open with a broken bottle. There were lots of people who witnessed the attack, but Vinny was the only one prepared to step forward and make a statement.
‘He was run over the day before he was due to appear in court to testify against Dunston. And we could never get Dunston for it because he had an alibi for the time of the hit and run.’
When Briony asked Ellen how she could be so sure Dunston was to blame, Ellen didn’t even bother answering. Didn’t tell Briony what Dunston had whispered in her ear moments before she shot him.
Your precious husband got what was coming to him. Now it’s your turn.
Half his face disappeared with the first shot. Didn’t kill him though. In her head, Vinny was there and she was speaking to him. Telling him it was all right, everything was going to be all right. Then she’d lifted the gun, put it against Dunston’s ruined face and pulled the trigger a second time. He gave one final twitch and, after that, nothing. William – Billy Boy – Dunston was dead.
In the window, Ellen’s reflection smiled out at her. She smiled back. Guilty? Like hell. She’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Upstairs, she checked the children before going to her own room. Pat first, then Eilish. Both of them were fast asleep. Pat, as always, was buried beneath his duvet. Gently, she lifted it off him, folding it back so that his head, at least, was outside the covers. She stroked damp hair from his face and kissed his flushed cheek, breathing in his warm, familiar smell.
In Eilish’s room, Ellen knelt by her daughter’s bed and wrapped her arms around Eilish’s little body. She lay her head on the pillow beside Eilish and thought of Vinny as she watched her daughter sleeping. There were moments like this, when it still felt so inconceivable that he was gone. That the three of them would lead a life in which he wasn’t a part.
You were meant to accept it, somehow. Get over it, move on, beat incessantly against the pain and anger and be grateful for what you had. But there was something no one ever told you. That to do that
, to move on and get through the rest of your life, you had to kill everything inside you that felt real. The urge to lift your head and howl until your throat was raw from howling. To open your heart and mind to the rage that burned inside you, an anger so hot and dangerous you knew it would kill you but you didn’t care, because anything was better than this half-life. This pretence at living.
On the pillow beside her, Eilish stirred. She mumbled something – Ellen didn’t catch what – then was silent again. A rush of love then, so powerful Ellen’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned forward, kissed Eilish twice on the top of her head, then stood up.
She walked back into her own room and got ready for bed. Later, as she lay there, waiting for sleep to take her, her mind filled with memories and images of her children. She started to relax, consoled by the all-consuming love. Knowing how privileged she was to be able to enjoy Pat and Eilish, to be with them on their amazing journey through life. It was a rare and wonderful thing indeed. Her eyes closed and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep
08:30
Ellen knew, as soon as she woke up, what she needed to do about Ed. She called him straight after breakfast.
‘You need to tell Nichols what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t, then I will.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Ed asked. ‘Because if you are …’
‘Stop it,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s not about threats. It’s about doing the right thing, Ed. Think about it. You’re not well. It’s not fair on the rest of the team if you continue to lead this investigation. More important than that, it’s not fair on Jodie. You tell Nichols. Today. And if you don’t, then I’m going to see him first thing tomorrow morning and speak to him myself.’
She hung up then, before the conversation turned into another argument, and gathered the children to take them to school.
At the school gates, she kept to herself, standing slightly apart from the other parents, mothers mainly, although a sprinkling of fathers were in evidence as well. She caught snippets of conversations as she waited, enough to make glad she wasn’t part of any of them.
‘Three times last week he came home without his jumper. I told him, that’s it. If he doesn’t have it with him this afternoon, then no TV this evening.’
‘It’s the parents’ fault. Children need rules. You see her with her tie-dyed jeans and tattoos and you can tell, can’t you, that she’ll let the kids run wild.’
‘No way I’d let my son go around with his hair that long. Halfway down his back! My Nat says the other kids tease him no end. Call him a girl. It’s not right.’
Even if she’d wanted to, Ellen didn’t think she’d have been able to pretend to care about jumpers, tattoos or inappropriate hairstyles. Her head was full of Jodie and Kevin. He’d been kept in last night and she was worried about him. She’d told the duty sergeant in Bromley to keep a close eye on Kevin. Knowing his fear of being locked up, she didn’t want to take any risks.
‘Hello, Ellen.’
She jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, and felt the blush rising up her neck and cheeks as she realised who it was.
‘Jim! What are you doing here?’ She nodded across at the other parents. ‘You need a child to qualify hanging around here in the mornings.’
He laughed. The dimple appeared under his left eye. It was all she could do to stop herself reaching out to touch it. She looked away, angry with herself. She seriously needed to get a grip. He was, after all, just some bloke she went to school with a hundred years ago.
Who just happens to be so damn handsome.
She gritted her teeth, blocking out the evil voice inside her head that was tempting her to think all sorts of things she shouldn’t be thinking, like what it would feel like to place her palm flat against his bare chest and slide it slowly downwards …
‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated.
The question came out harsher than she’d intended. Briefly, he looked surprised, then his face cleared again.
‘Dropping off Anna.’
‘Anna?’
‘Anna Amato, Susan’s daughter. You remember my cousin, Susan, right? She married an Italian bloke. Lived in Italy until last summer when they moved back here. Susan’s got workmen in so we’ve been helping out with Anna. I met your mum here the other day, in fact.’
‘Yeah, she’s been great,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment and she’s been a total star. Oh,’ she noticed the man standing slightly behind Jim. ‘Raymond, isn’t it?’
The man blushed and nodded.
‘Sorry,’ Jim said. ‘Ray, this is Ellen Kelly. We were in school together. Do you remember her?’
Ray nodded again but didn’t say anything.
‘Haven’t seen you in years,’ Ellen said, smiling. She cast through her mind for things she remembered about Jim’s older brother. Seemed to recall he’d had some sort of breakdown a few years back, but she didn’t know any more than that. Looking at him now, shuffling from foot to foot behind his brother, she thought he looked like a less vibrant version of Jim. The same dark hair, similar features, although in Ray’s case they had melted into the folds of flesh caused by excessive obesity.
Something about him reminded Ellen, momentarily, of Brian Fletcher. Raymond had the same air of vulnerability about him, like the everyday business of getting on with life was a challenge he wasn’t able to cope with.
‘You used to play the piano,’ Ellen said, remembering. ‘You played at the end of year concert when I was about nine. You were amazing.’
Ray glanced at her and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile.
‘Still play,’ he said. ‘Do a bit of teaching as well. You don’t play yourself?’
‘No,’ Ellen said. ‘But it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. You wouldn’t consider it, would you?’
For a fleeting second, he looked as if the prospect terrified him. Then he shrugged. ‘I’d need to check. See if I’ve got any free spaces. I don’t, em, if I teach too much, you know, I find it difficult. But, em, if you phone me, maybe in a few days, and I could see, you know, what might be a good time.’
‘Okay,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m in the middle of a case right now. How about I call you in a few weeks, when things quieten down a bit?’
Ray smiled – properly this time – and it transformed his face. Again, Ellen remembered him as a young boy, head bent over the school piano, fingers flying along the keyboard, creating a sound she could only ever dream of making. For some reason, the image made her sad.
‘Is that why you haven’t called?’ Jim asked. ‘You’ve been too busy?’
He’d left a message a few days earlier. She’d forgotten all about the call. Until now.
‘Something like that,’ she said.
She was about to say more. Tell him that she really would like to go for a drink with him sometime, that she was still a right mess but she thought she was getting better and, even if she wasn’t ready for anything heavy, she might – just about – be ready to start having some fun again.
But before she could say any of that, the school bell rang and Eilish was running towards her for a final hug before she went into class. Ellen looked around for Pat. He was with a group of friends and seemed to have forgotten all about her. Which she took as a good sign. He hadn’t mentioned her job this morning and, so far, seemed to be in a good mood.
By the time Ellen had said goodbye to Eilish, Jim and Raymond had wandered off. As she left, she looked around, hoping Jim might still be there, waiting for her. But there was no sign of him anywhere and she continued to her car, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she scanned the street again and realised that Jim O’Dwyer was long gone.
10:05
It was a cold, damp day – low, grey clouds heavy with the threat of rain. Bursts of white mist puffed from Rob’s mouth every time he breathed out. The thick gloves weren’t enough to keep his hands warm, and the longer he stood there, the colder th
ey became. He wriggled his fingers, trying to get some circulation going. Pain shot up his hands as the movement made the cold blood move more quickly.
Apart from Rob, the street was quiet. The crews of cameramen and journalists had all moved on to the next story. To them, Jodie was yesterday’s news. Already forgotten. Judged irrelevant by a press that cared only for the story with no thought to the people behind it. The ones with the ruined hopes and shattered dreams that fed their mindless machine.
In a house across the road, the front door opened. Rob bent down, pretending to tie his shoelace, and watched the woman throw something into the green recycling bin. When she’d finished, she stood and looked up and down the street, like she was trying to find someone. Like she knew he was there, right across from her, watching.
She had short, cropped hair and a tight little body. He recognised her from the news. Helen Hudson. Jodie’s mother. He was too far away to see her face but from the way she held her body, he thought she looked tired. Like she barely had enough energy to keep herself upright.
Of course, that could have been just his imagination but all the same, it was what he thought when he saw her. As he watched, her body seemed to slump even further. For a moment, he felt a surge of pity for this poor woman whose daughter had disappeared.
Then he remembered why he was there, and the feeling disappeared again. By the time she’d turned and gone back inside, slamming the front door behind her, his moment of weakness had passed.
He’d been here the best part of two hours now. Half-frozen and still no sign of Hudson. And he needed to piss. Again. He walked along to the tree further up the road and unzipped his trousers. Cold air hit the lower part of his body as a burst of warm liquid gushed out, splashing against the tree. The remains of earlier visits to the same spot glittered in the hazy light like pieces of broken amber. Strange the way something like piss, which wasn’t nice at all, could look so lovely.
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