* * *
Driving down the sharp winding road on the edge of the forest had sent a surge of mixed emotions through Bert. He had avoided it up until now for this very reason. To allow his mind to wander would put his plan at risk, but he needed to rid himself of his mother’s cries in order to focus on what lay ahead. The memory haunted him; her begging for mercy, clawing his wrists as he wrapped his fingers around her throat. The memory was sharp but when did it happen? Last week, last month or beyond? A cold sense of dread enveloped him as his mind refused to provide answers. The hardwood peaks of his family home came into view as his van chugged up the steep gravel hill.
Bert drove through the rusted gates barely clinging to their hinges. A mist descended on the house, threatening a rain yet to come. He climbed out of the van, his limbs feeling fragile and old, much older than when he was last under the shadow of the imposing house. The damp breeze carried the smell of dead leaves, and he listened for the raven through air that returned only silence. The bird that called from his bedroom window had gone, and even through his confusion, Bert did not believe he would see him again. He searched the building for life, but all he could see were various stages of decay. The slumped roof threatened to buckle the windows below, and vine leaves snaked up the walls, strangling the once beautiful roses that lived there.
Bert walked forward, inhaling the damp musky smell from the rotten cavities gnawing through the bricks. He fingered his van keys as he dragged his feet to the front door. It creaked a greeting as he pushed it open, sending an empty milk bottle rolling through the leaf-swept hall.
‘Mother?’ he called, a brooding fear urging him to leave. He pushed the cobwebbed door to the right, leading to the living room where he had left her. The air felt cold and neglected as he poked his head through the gap. Surely she’s not living like this? he thought. But as the door fell ajar, Bert’s mouth gaped open, and for a few seconds he forgot to breathe.
Grace was rocking in front of the old stone fireplace. Her grey hair framed her fragile face, lined from a lifetime of grief and misfortune. The flickering fire did little to heat the dismal room, and nothing to dispel the musty spores climbing the walls.
‘Mother,’ he whispered, the words catching in his throat.
She looked up, her eyebrows raised. ‘Bertram, is that you?’ she said, staring right through him. Grasping the wooden arms of the rocking chair, she cocked her head to one side for a response. It was as if she was speaking from very far away.
Bert took two steps forward and stood in a shaft of dying sunlight. ‘Yes it’s me. So you’re all right then?’
Her voice sounded faint, and she leaned forward as if she was going to stand, then relaxed in the chair and set it back in motion. ‘Do I look all right?’
It was not a sarcastic question. A simple woman, she never understood complicated humour.
‘Yes you look fine,’ Bert said, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.
His mother nodded matter of factly. ‘Then yes, I am all right.’
For a moment, Bert felt sympathy, but it was fleeting and left before it had a chance to take hold. He glanced at the picture of the crying boy hanging over the mantelpiece, yellowed with age and as forlorn as the room that contained it. He waited for mother to shout at him, ask what he had been thinking strangling her like that, but she just rocked gently, staring into the fire.
‘It’s cold in here,’ Bert said, rubbing his arms. ‘Do you want me to get some wood for the fire?’
‘No,’ she replied softly, almost without breath. ‘I have everything I need. And you? Are you all right, son?’
Son. He couldn’t remember the last time she called him that. ‘Just a bit tired. I … I’ve not been very well.’
She pursed her lips together and glanced in his direction. ‘You’ve never been well. Why have you come?’
Bert took in his mother’s vacant expression and the dilapidated house. His eyes fell to the hem of her long black skirt, which touched the floor each time the old chair creaked forward. It was the skirt she had worn when Callum died. The pieces fell into place.
‘You’re not real, are you?’ he said, his voice husky. A vice-like band wrapped around his head and tightened with the realisation. It was taking him away. To the other place.
Mother narrowed her eyes, her voice full of steely hatred. Her skin paled, before becoming translucent. ‘I’m waiting for Callum.’
Bert took a step backwards as clarity descended. It was a mistake coming back to this place. If he stayed here he would never get better, he would return to the darkness, which brought the rage that ended his mother’s life. Perhaps it was already with him.
Memories of his childhood soured sympathy into disdain. He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and wrapped his bony fingers around the cold hard metal of his van keys. Creak, creak, creak, the rocking chair groaned, the infernal noise making him grip the keys tighter until they pierced his skin. The room fell into darkness, lit only by the shafts of light through the broken shuttered window.
Bert retreated to the door, as the final threads of clarity evaporated. He backed away, his leaden feet bringing him to his bedroom one last time. Clasping his hand over the wrought iron bedpost, he stared through the white timbered window as his fragile mind transported him back to the most significant day of his life. The day his brother died.
Chapter Nineteen
Jennifer’s eyes swept up to the cool, clear sky to search for ravens. Mumbling under her breath, she told herself to stop being melodramatic. She had done all she could, and most likely Emily would live to steal another day.
Jennifer pulled the handbrake of her car and peered at the houses to the left of Will’s vision. ‘It’s one of these bungalows over here,’ she said, pointing across the way. Doors slammed and blinds twitched as they walked towards Emily’s front door. These were people who could smell police a mile away. The fresh morning air did little to ease the sense of desolation. The residents were nocturnal creatures, rarely surfacing before the afternoon. Emily Clarke would not appreciate her visit, but being arrested for a minor theft may well keep her safe in custody for a few hours. God knew what Jennifer was going to do with her son if there was nobody there to look after him.
‘Here it is,’ Jennifer said, pressing the doorbell. No answer. Jennifer knelt down, lifting the scratched silver letterbox to peer inside. ‘Hello,’ she shouted, checking the listless property for signs of life.
‘I’ll go around the back,’ Will said, opening the stiff wooden gate to the side alley, which led to the rear of the house.
Jennifer nodded before turning her attention back to the letterbox. She poked her fingers through the stiff bristles of the draught excluder blocking her vision. The last time she did that a dog nearly had her fingers off, but she already knew that there were no pets in Emily Clarke’s home. ‘Hello. It’s the police. Can you open the door?’
Her ears pricked to hear the pitter patter of bare feet against lino. ‘Hello?’ Jennifer repeated in a gentle voice. ‘Is there anybody home?’
A flash of red hair bobbed from what looked like the kitchen at the end of the corridor, just long enough for Jennifer to get a glimpse of a little boy. Please don’t tell me she’s gone off and left him all alone, Jennifer thought. She patted her pockets and was relieved to find a packet of Maltesers in her jacket. ‘My name is Jennifer. I’ve got chocolate,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’
The rustle of the bag drew out the boy, and he ran to the letterbox, extending his dirty hands to the open hatch. ‘Can you open the door?’ Jennifer asked, pushing back the bristles to get a better look.
He shook his tear-streaked face, his eyes wide and hungry. Jennifer pushed the bag through the gap and he snatched it with a gasp. His small, skinny fingers tore open the packet and shoved handfuls of chocolate into his mouth, enlarging his cheeks and sending a dribble of brown saliva down his freckled chin. Having devoured the chocolate, the little boy wobbled to one side as he scampere
d into a side room and slammed the door.
Jennifer reached for her radio to call for social services, and was joined by Will, his mouth set in a grim line.
She had seen that look before, and she knew exactly what it meant.
‘Please tell me you haven’t found a body.’
Will nodded. ‘Her bedroom window is open. Her body is on the bed. I don’t know how long she’s been there but I’m guessing over twenty-four hours.’
Jennifer felt as if she was sinking in quicksand. Was there anything she could have done to stop this? What sort of a person would kill a young girl with her son present? A look of horror crossed her face as the enormity of the situation fell upon her. ‘Her son’s in there. We’ve got to get him out.’
‘He’s inside? Shit,’ Will said, turning up the radio clipped to his shoulder harness. ‘I’ve notified control of the body. Backup isn’t far away.’
Jennifer shielded her face with her hand, blotting out the intrusive sun. ‘Are you mad? The killer could still be inside. I’m not waiting a second longer. Keep the boy talking while I climb in through the bedroom window.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea …’ Will’s voice tailed off as Jennifer disappeared down the side alley of the house.
[#]
Jennifer rooted in her jacket pockets, relieved to find a single glove. It was better than nothing. She unclipped her baton from her shoulder harness, gripping the padded handle. With a flick of her wrist, she extended the cold hard metal, using it to cast aside the heavy maroon curtains in the bedroom window. Jennifer eased herself over the chipped wooden frame, cursing the tremor in her legs as adrenalin pumped through her body. The fact she might be using the same point of entry as the killer heightened the sense of menace, and she scoped the small, cluttered bedroom, holding her baton tightly in defence. Her gaze rested on Emily, partially concealed under the flower-patterned duvet. She shook her head in sorrow for the woman who would not see her little boy grow up. Jennifer pushed back the feelings of self-reprobation, leaning hard on her police training as she gazed upon Emily’s waxen face. The burst blood vessels in her eyes combined with the tightly bound ligature suggested a brutal suffocation. Jennifer’s eyes flickered towards the closed bedroom door, hearing Will’s comforting tones speak to the child through the letterbox. She quickly updated control of her position at the scene, her mind racing between horror at Emily’s death, and the urgent need for forensic evidence. Emily’s expression was one of frozen shock, yet the attack had been followed by a period of calm as her hair was gracefully positioned over the pillow, and her arms lay neatly by her sides. That was, unless her son had tucked her in. Jennifer shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.
Her baton still extended, she took in her surroundings. A pair of knee-length leather boots lay on their side next to a denim skirt and a hastily strewn sweatshirt. The glint of a mobile phone spilling out from the skirt pocket caught her attention. Jennifer moved it with her baton. It was a smartphone, which meant it had access to Facebook, and of course, text messages and phone calls. She should leave it in situ. Attending officers would seize it and download any data, which would later be shared with her. But this was her case. She wanted to be the one to bring the Raven in, not for the glory, but for Emily’s son. The hollowed scream of sirens snapped her out of her indecision. There was no time to spare. Hastily grabbing a plastic carrier bag from the floor, she threw it over the phone and slipped it into her jacket pocket. She grasped the door handle with her gloved hand, and exhaled in relief as it refused to open. Emily’s son had not been able to gain access to his mother’s broken body, because the door had been locked from the inside. She quickly turned the key in the latch and entered the narrow hall.
Will’s coaxing murmurs echoed from the other side of the door, and she opened it wide, the sound of sirens filtering through as they drew near. ‘You’d better stay here. I’ll get the boy.’
She tentatively knocked on what was the living room door before pushing it open. ‘Hey there,’ she said, looking around. ‘Want to come out to the car and see if we can find you some more chocolate?’
A tuft of red hair popped up from over the brown fabric sofa – followed by a pair of eyes and a freckled nose. Slowly he walked out, nodding in agreement.
Jennifer looked at his dirt-streaked feet. ‘You’ve no shoes on. Would you like me to carry you?’ Jennifer said, curling her fingers around his hand.
The little boy nodded, staring up at her with round liquid eyes full of sadness and knowing. Somehow, he knew his mother wasn’t coming back, and it broke Jennifer’s heart. She was no stranger to neglect, and for the second time she swallowed back a tide of emotions, her throat clicking dryly in response. Pulling a throw from the sofa, she placed it around the little boy’s shoulders. His thin body clung to her like a limpet and she carried him from the house. She whispered words of reassurance, rubbing his back to ease the shivering vibrating through his tiny frame. It’s OK, shhh … you’re safe now. We’re going to get you somewhere nice and warm. Police cars silenced their sirens as they drew up on the pavement in front of the house. She recognised the social worker as she stepped out of the car, flanked by a police officer. Jennifer gave her a watery smile as she joined them. The boy’s small, stiff fingers clung tightly to the back of her neck, and Jennifer’s heart ached. It was not the first time had she felt like bringing a child home. Out of all the horrific incidents she had to attend, child abuse was the one that she struggled with the most. But she had a job to do, and gently she handed him to the woman from social care. The little boy gave Jennifer a look of regret before being taken away.
Jennifer stood, unconsciously wringing her hands as she watched the car drive away. Will gently touched her forearm, bringing her back to the task in hand. ‘He’s safe now. We have to concentrate on finding this guy before he kills again.’
She could see from his worried expression that any doubts he had about the seriousness of the killer were now cast from his mind. ‘He must have taken the camisole from her room and posted it through my letterbox,’ she said, her voice sounding a million miles away.
‘Hello,’ a voice said from behind, accompanied by the lingering smell of cigarettes. Jennifer swivelled around to see Ethan, and hoped he wouldn’t tell her off for entering the scene.
‘I’m glad to see you, boss. I’m afraid I’ve had to enter the scene to remove the child.’
‘Your sergeant has filled me in. As for entering the scene, you would have been severely criticised if you’d left the child in there alone. You did the right thing.’
Jennifer exhaled in relief, and left Ethan to liaise with the pathologist. Briefing was in Lexton that afternoon, and she had to get back to the station to examine the phone. She fully intended to book in Emily’s phone as evidence, but not before she’d had a chance to examine her texts and social media for herself.
[#]
She couldn’t leave without speaking to the next-door neighbour, who would make up part of the house-to-house enquiries. The man was named Mr Marshall. At least that’s what he told her when she asked him for his details. He seemed affronted by Jennifer’s presence and refused to invite her inside, despite the small crowd gathering on Emily’s front lawn. It was only a matter of time before the local news turned up, and Jennifer prayed she would be long gone when they did. Working where she lived only became a problem when her face was broadcast in the local media, and like most of her colleagues, she preferred to remain anonymous.
Mr Marshall leaned against the chipped doorframe, staring at her with apathy. It was most likely the same apathy that earned him his considerable girth bulging over his faded blue jeans. His lumberjack checked shirt gave off a pungent odour of sweat and tobacco, making Jennifer grateful for the warm spring air.
‘So you’re telling me you didn’t hear anything suspicious last night? Anything at all?’ Jennifer asked, her mouth set in a grim line. She was still reeling from Emily’s death, and could not get the
image of the little boy’s wide moon eyes out of her mind. Recriminations wormed their way into her mind as she glanced over at the police tape surrounding Emily’s house. She should have kept a better eye out for the young mother. If she had, maybe she’d still be alive.
Mr Marshall spoke with half-closed eyes, like someone who had just woken up, but Jennifer guessed that was his default setting. ‘That kid was always up against the window, crying and whining, just like he was last night. This used to be a nice neighbourhood, until they moved all the social welfare cases in.’
Jennifer resisted the urge to ask the slovenly man what contribution he had made to the world. ‘So you’re telling me you saw the little boy crying? Was there anyone looking after him?’
He waved his hand in front of him, as if he was swatting away a fly. ‘Nah, she was too busy going out to worry about him. She was always bringing back fellas, you’d hear them kicking off in the middle of the night. Then your lot would turn up, and that would be the last you’d see of them. It’s the kid, you see, not right in the head. What bloke would want to be involved with that?’ He emphasised his point by tapping the side of his greasy forehead.
Jennifer clenched her jaw as hot fury built inside her. She swallowed back the bitter taste invading her mouth. Her words came in a low growl. ‘You mean to tell me you knew the child was left alone and you didn’t report it to anyone?’
Mr Marshall shifted his slippered feet. ‘Not my business. Besides, you get a brick through your window for reporting things around here. Now if you don’t mind, I’m watching the footie.’
Jennifer shoved her foot in the doorway. ‘Mr Marshall, this is a murder investigation, so I can assure you it takes precedence over a game of football. If you’re withholding evidence we can discuss this matter down the police station.’
Marshall’s eyebrows shot up; the blubber on his chin wobbling as he vehemently shook his head. ‘There’s no need for that. Come inside if you want, but I’ve told you everything I know.’
Time To Die Page 11