Just behind the bizarre dinner party scene, frayed ropes hung from the many branches of a weeping willow. They swung gently in the breeze. Behind the tree stood Paul Evans’s bungalow.
As they stepped out of the car, Aitken regarded the manikins and heard Cliff speaking to her left, “Words fail me. You do get to see some bizarre shit doing this job.”
“You’re not wrong. Let’s see if he’s in. I’m dying to meet this guy.”
The bungalow had rotten facias and single-paned windows. Putty had crumbled away in patches from their frames. The walls had once been white, but paint flaked so badly it was hard to say what colour the property was.
If this guy is a caretaker, he doesn’t take much care of his own place, thought Aitken as they neared the door. They checked the doorframe for a bell or a knocker but none existed. Aitken rapped her knuckles on one of the door’s panels. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the panel had collapsed under the weight of her knocking, but it held firm.
The sound of a sliding security chain came from behind the door and it opened a fraction. A bespectacled man - tape around the frame - spied them through the five-inch gap.
Aitken held out her badge to him and introduced Cliff. “May we come in for a moment? We’d just like an informal chat, that’s all.”
He wore a blank expression for a few seconds, before his face spread into a broad, yellow grin, “Sure you can. Make yourselves at home.” As the door opened, Aitken noted his navy dungarees: hand-prints of white paint on the midriff.
Looking over his shoulder, as they walked through the hall, he said, “Would offer you a tea or coffee, but don’t have it in. I don’t drink the stuff meeself - can’t stomach the caffeine and wouldn’t want the milk goin’ off.” They’d reached his kitchen. “But I can offer yer a cranberry juice. They reckon its good for young ladies who might be pregnant.” He turned to Aitken, “Any chance you could be-”
“None at all.”
“Still its a refreshing drink. Can I get either of you some?”
“No thank you,” came Aitken’s and Cliff’s response in unison.
“You certain? I’m getting meeself some.” He opened a free-standing fridge, which was mounted on the worktop, rather than being tucked into the empty slot beneath. He took down a small tumbler from a shallow shelf. The glass was cloudy, as though his dishwasher desperately needed rinse aid. Except, there was no dishwasher; there wasn’t really anything in his kitchen at all. The stainless steel sink’s bottom was clearly visible through a door-less unit. All the unit’s were door-less, and most shelves were empty except for one which contained a stack of three matching pans.
Evans’s eyes were on her as she assessed the place. He slurped cranberry juice, leaving a purple Joker-esque painted smile, which Aitken expected him to wipe away. The painted smile remained.
“I know what you’re thinking. How weird it is to have such a bare kitchen? But hear me out on this. What do most people do with their kitchens? … First of all they drain pans, using the lid, then they decide that’s not good enough, and they buy a colander. Then they decide they need a set of eight knives for various jobs that one sharp one would do perfectly well, so they buy a knife block. Then they decide those eight knives aren’t good for cutting vegetables thinly, so they buy a food processor, but then those vegetables aren’t coming out twirly enough, so they buy a spiraliser.”
“Mr Evans,” it was Cliff trying to intervene.
“No sir, hear me out. Then they decide the perfectly adequate grill that came with their cooker isn’t sloping enough, and they buy one of those George Foreman grills. And so it goes on until they’ve spent a fortune on stuff they don’t need, and complain their kitchen’s not big enough, because their cupboards are rammed. Then they plan a house move. Not me. I keep things simple, and if I can see what’s in my cupboards, I’m less likely to fill them with shit. Pardon my French miss.”
“I see,” said Aitken more interested in the way this place was than in the genius-tinged garbage spilling from his lips. “So, if you don’t care for the superfluous, can I ask why the manikins on the lawn?”
“I like to amuse people. You see, everyone else fills their gardens with bushes and mundane objects like gnomes. And if you said to someone, do you know Jean, she’s the one with the neat garden with gnomes, now my betting is that you’ve not really narrowed it down much. With me, you only have to say the man with the manikins, and everybody knows. You see, that’s truly a garden feature. What’s a feature if it doesn’t stand out?”
“Well quite.” Said Aitken. “Any other places you’d like to show us, whilst we’re here. It seems like you’re really proud of the place.”
And then he did wipe the juice from his lips and his eyes narrowed. “I think we’re fine just here. Now, what was it you wanted?”
“Did you hear about the death of Mallory Hewitt?”
“Sure did. The kids at school never stop talking about it, no matter how much you tell ‘em to pack it in.”
“We’re investigating possible links with other similar incidents.”
“Like Sebastian Fallon?”
“Yes, like that. Can I ask how long you’ve lived here?”
“Ooh, nearly fifteen years, why?”
“No reason. And have you ever had cause to live in or visit Chester or the surrounding area?”
“Can’t say I have. Went to Liverpool once. I love George Harrison - best Beatle. Totally underrated. But that’s as close as I’ve been to Chester I reckon. Has somethin’ similar happened there?”
“What makes you ask that?” asked Aitken.
“Your question did.”
Aitken fancied she could hear the cogs in Cliff’s mind whirring. He finally spoke, “You know most people in this village, most families at least, with the work you do. Am I right?”
“I guess you could say that.”
Cliff continued, “Are you aware of anyone that’s moved here from the Chester area in the last few years?”
His eyes danced a dull search to his right, then he offered that beaming smile, the same one he’d used to greet them at the door.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“You seem pretty opinionated about the way people live their lives. Not so long ago you sounded what’s the word … judgemental … is that the right word Aitken?”
“I think so.”
“Yes, judgmental. Are you a religious man by any chance?” asked Cliff.
“Mother was. I’ve not been to church since I was a little boy. Now, will you excuse me officers, you might have noticed that you caught me in the middle of painting.”
“Of course,” said Aitken. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.” Evans saw them out, and Aitken thanked him for his time.
As the door shut behind them, and they made there way through a path to the right of the manikins’ tea party, Aitken said, “Hiding something do you reckon?”
“Not sure … tell you what I am sure of though … there’s some weird fuckin’ people in this village.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Daniel sat at Charlotte’s kitchen table. Kerry sat opposite him, her pencil case spilling biros and a protractor. She was using a six-inch ruler to draw a graph inside a book of gridded paper. He was amazed she could concentrate on homework with her mother still missing. He wondered what lines Marcus had been feeding her about Charlotte. Drinks too much, every day some weeks. Not doing much with her life in that pharmacy. Don’t let your mother’s lack of ambition drag you down. I bet she’s always nagging at you. Why don’t you come and live with me sweetheart?
Of course, not all the poison would come at once. It would be drip-fed between more benign exchanges. But they’d be there, nevertheless. His thoughts were disturbed by Luke shouting from his bedroom, “Kerry, I think Mum’s back!”
Kerry and Daniel stood up from the table. There was something in Luke’s tone Daniel didn’t like. What did he mean by ‘think’ either it was or wasn’t Char
lotte. He walked to the living room window.
The security light fixed to the pitch of the garage roof had tripped, and cast Charlotte’s shadow across the driveway. The right side of her face was in darkness, the left in a light which made her face a featureless haze.
She was clearly injured, moving slowly, trailing her right leg behind in a way that reminded Daniel of Martin Dalgliesh, except Charlotte’s limp was worse. It was as though her leg had died. Her bare foot dragged behind at an unnatural angle. Daniel was about to rush out of the front door to check she was okay, when he spotted the hatchet, hanging down from her right hand.
Kerry had her hand on the front door, about to open it. “No, Kerry don’t!” She looked at him, her brows bunched up in puzzlement. “Wait in Luke’s room and close the blind. It isn’t your mum.” Lying seemed the only way to shift her. Luke appeared from his bedroom in an Incredible Hulk T-shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms, looking as confused as Kerry, but fear also dogged his drawn face. He must have seen the hatchet too. “Go now, both of you.” Kerry wasn’t moving but Luke grabbed her forearm and dragged her towards his bedroom.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Let go of me!”
Daniel opened the front door, wanting to assess the situation as far from the children as possible. He thought of fetching a kitchen knife but there wasn’t time. And surely he could reason with her. At very worst - if she was stuck in some sort of fugue - he could tackle her to the ground. He went outside. Charlotte was halfway down the drive.
Those eyes are dead, this isn’t Charlotte. She’s either had a breakdown, or she’s on drugs. Did she overdose? Christ, I saw how concerned she was over the audit and about my stupid comment about the murders. Perhaps she’s taken something. That leg must be agony for her, but she’s not even wincing.
“Charlotte, it’s Dan. Are you okay?” There was no hint of recognition, just Charlotte slowly nearing and the dreadful sound of her foot dragging across concrete. She appeared to tighten her grasp on the hatchet's handle, her knuckles whitening, her tendons taut. “Charlotte, listen to me, you need to hand me that axe and let me get you to a hospital. That leg needs to be looked at urgently. Are you hearing me?”
She was five yards away now, and - despite the garage light being mostly behind her - a deep purple bruise was clear. It stretched from the side of her neck to her chin.
“Charlotte, what happened to you? Come on, give me that … NOW!” He put his left hand out for her to pass him it and she stopped, looking down at the hatchet in her hand as though she’d inadvertently conjured it from nowhere. “That’s it, you don’t need that, hand it to me.” Her gaze then hardened in determination and she swung the hatchet at his arm in a waist-heigh arc. He tried to pull his arm back but the hatchet’s blade spliced the muscle along the front of his forearm, leaving an inch-deep gash. For a moment, the world blackened from the periphery of his view. He gained his senses as Charlotte swung the hatchet at his head. He thrust out his right hand, just in time to grip the hatchet’s handle which came at him with force, a greater force than he thought possible. With them both grasping the handle, Charlotte fell on top of him as Daniel’s head hit the doorstep. He was briefly aware of the door opening behind him. Then he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
When Daniel came to he was sprawled out on Charlotte’s drive. A male paramedic was by his side, “What’s your name, can you hear me?”
Luke stood to the left of the driveway, his head hung low. He was holding the hatchet loosely by his side. There was something about the contradiction between the Hulk’s teeth-grinding anger, that hatchet and Luke’s stunned look of innocence, which conjured a sadness in Daniel’s heart.
Charlotte was slumped in the middle of the drive like a Teddy Bear left unclaimed at the funfair. Daniel guessed that Luke had wrestled the hatchet from his mother, and in the process, she must have broken through whatever temporary psychosis had gripped her. Her arms hung and Kerry knelt by her side, shaking her shoulders, crying. Daniel couldn’t see Kerry’s tears but he heard them in her voice as it wavered in desperate shrieks. “Mum wake up! Mummy, pleeeeaase.”
A female paramedic joined the bizarre mother and daughter re-union saying to Kerry, “What’s her name honey?” Kerry told her and backed off. She walked to where Luke was still zoned out. He dropped the hatchet and they hugged each other, both crying.
Daniel became conscious that he was ignoring the paramedic who was repeatedly asking his name. “It’s Daniel, Daniel Sheppard, I’m okay,” he said, sitting up. But as soon as he was upright, a heaviness pulled him left, towards the paramedic and he would have toppled if not for the paramedic’s shoulder bracing him. As the paramedic strapped his arm, the world darkened. Then his arm's burning pain brought back the light.
“We need to get you to the hospital, you’ll need stitches.”
The female paramedic had a close crew cut, and with her steel-capped boots, would have looked at home in the army. She tried to get a response from Charlotte but couldn’t. She glanced down at Charlotte’s leg, twisted as though she was some type of contortionist, and shouted to her colleague, “I’m going to need some help here. She needs to be stretchered, she’s unresponsive.”
He replied, “Give me a second,” and asked Daniel if he would be okay whilst they, ‘saw to the lady.’ He said that was fine. Consciousness had returned to the extent that the ‘what now?’ question occupied his thoughts. The kids looked shaken up, but okay. They’d have to go to Marcus’s place for the night, there was no other option.
A white police Ford Focus pulled up in front of the ambulance, and a short stocky constable stepped out. His head swivelled as he tried to take in the scene. Daniel put his good arm up and beckoned the officer as he said, “Over here, I’m DI Sheppard.” The constable looked relieved. He came over and crouched beside Daniel, “What do we have sir?”
“The kids are Kerry and Luke Torrence. Their father is Marcus Torrence. He lives somewhere on Southview in Blaine. Kerry will be able to point it out. Could you get the kids to their father? No questioning tonight.”
“Yes sir.”
“The lady in the drive is their mother.” The constable looked over his shoulder at Charlotte who was now shrieking and crying as the paramedics secured her to a canvas stretcher. “She’s had some sort of breakdown. I’m … I’m a close friend.”
“I don’t think you’re the first tonight?”
“The first?”
“Attacked. I was attending another scene in Blaine tonight. A lady called Mrs Watson called in an attack at her house. She described a young woman in a Barbour jacket attacking her tenant with a hatchet. She shut herself in her front room and called the police. The attacker fled the scene, despite having fallen down a flight of stairs. I was about to pick up the trail of specs of blood, when this call came through.”
“The person she attacked?”
“Alive, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Have you got an ID?”
“River … something.” He checked his pad, … “Dilettantes.”
Daniel looked beyond the constable to Charlotte, her upper body strapped tightly against the stretcher. He muttered, “It’s for your own good,” meaning it as merely a thought.
“What’s that sir?”
“Nothing, help me up would you?”
A wave of dizziness came as he was helped to his feet. He watched the female paramedic shut the double doors of the ambulance.
Oh Charlotte, what the hell have you done?
The ride to Louth hospital was bumpy and uncomfortable. Daniel sat on a fold out padded ledge, next to the militarily kitted paramedic. Opposite, a score of IV bags swung from washing lines of tubes, with the movement of the vehicle. The siren wailed. Daniel clung on to his seat with his good hand.
After ten minutes, their course straightened and he guessed they were on the A16 nearing Louth. With the ride steadier, he pulled out his phone and sent Aitken and Cliff a text, typing wrong
ly and correcting frequently: We need an immediate response from the toxicologists - please chase it through. A good friend of mine has just tried to kill me, clearly under the influence of drugs. This is her second assault tonight. She’d have taken her own life, if the paramedics hadn’t got here - I’m sure of that. I’m with her now, I’ll message you from Louth hospital.
At the hospital, Daniel waited twenty-five minutes to have his arm stitched up by a skinny male nurse who appeared far too young to be bandaging, let alone stitching. Daniel wasn’t one to let his temper flair, but it did shortly after his nurse said, “All done.” He revisited the front desk he’d provided Charlotte’s details to and discovered that they’d put River and Charlotte on the same ward, despite him having explained their circumstances upon arrival.
“I want to speak to the consultant in charge.” He was speaking to a gaunt sparrow-like woman with a straggly fringe, sitting behind the reception.
“It’s the matron in charge of ward sixteen who’s responsible.”
“Fine, I’ll speak with her, what’s her name?”
“Janice Boothroy.”
“And where’s ward sixteen?”
She leant over, and extended her spindly arm, pointing to Daniel’s left with an even spindlier finger. It crossed Daniel’s mind that she might benefit from a visit to the eating disorders clinic before she clocked off.
He found matron Boothroy just heading out of ward sixteen, moving with speed and purpose. For some reason he’d envisaged a portly woman, but Mrs Boothroy had the physique of a triathlete and a leathery face as though she regularly spent too long in the sun. He introduced himself and she looked at the watch hung upside down on her lapel.
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