‘I love you, Mummy.’
‘I love you too, darling. Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
Pat was reading a book when she went in. The latest Alex Rider book. Ellen loved Anthony Horowitz for getting her son into reading.
‘Another few minutes, Mummy? Please?’
‘It’s nearly eight,’ Ellen said. ‘How about I let you read until eight-fifteen, then turn the light off?’
When he smiled, it transformed his face, the darkness banished, reminding her of what he was like as a toddler. He’d been happy then. Happier, at least. Not that he was unhappy now. It was more that he lacked Eilish’s innate ability for happiness. For his sake, Ellen wished he was less like her and more like his father.
‘Will you read it to me?’
He held the book out. She sat down, took it from him and started reading.
At twenty past eight, his eyes were closing. Ellen shut the book, switched the light off and gave him a kiss goodnight.
‘I dreamt last night that you got shot,’ Pat said. ‘We were on a walk and a man came along and shot you. He didn’t shoot me, but I couldn’t stop crying because you were dead and I wasn’t. I don’t want to live without you, Mummy.’
Ellen sat down again, wishing she could lie beside him, not talk anymore and just go to sleep. She was suddenly so very tired.
‘Pat,’ she said. ‘You know if you have a bad dream and you tell someone, it means you never get that dream again and that the dream can’t ever come true.’
‘Really?’ His voice told her he didn’t believe that. Not for a single second.
She smiled. ‘Cross my heart.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Love you, Mum. You can go now. I’m tired.’
At his bedroom door, she hovered, wondering if she should say something else. Hoping he was okay.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Night, darling.’
She left, taking care to leave the door open so the light from the hall shone into his room. Just the way he liked it.
As she came downstairs, the front doorbell rang. She ran to answer it, saw Jim’s outline through the glass panels.
‘Hey.’ She opened the door and they hugged. He was warm, his T-shirt damp with sweat, like he’d come straight from the gym.
‘Sorry.’ He patted his T-shirt. ‘I’ve just finished work. Probably should have gone home and changed first but I wanted to see you. Thought maybe I’d catch the kids before they were asleep?’
‘They’re in bed,’ she said. ‘But Pat’s still awake. Just. If you run up now, you’ll catch him before he nods off.’
She listened as he went upstairs. She could hear the rumble of his voice and Pat’s and wondered what they were talking about. Strange to think her children were building their own relationships with him, separate from her and him.
It struck her that she was happy. Right here, in this moment, perfectly content with her lot. She considered this revelation, checking it over, doubting it and half expecting to find something that would dispel the feeling.
But she didn’t find anything. Work was going well, her family were healthy and happy. And there was Jim. All things considered, life could be a lot worse. She was lucky, and she knew it.
Thirty-Five
Hush little baby…
Her eyes are open. She thinks her eyes are open. In the darkness, it’s difficult to tell. She tries to remember what she’s doing here, but the place where her memories used to be is empty. Or missing. She knows her name. Chloe.
Cold Chloe. Teeth chitter-chattering. Body shaking. Ice cold. Tries to move but nothing happens. Her name is Chloe. Was Chloe. Pictures – faded, hard to focus – drift around inside her head. Things that don’t make sense. A man with blue eyes and dark hair. A name. Ricky. She thinks she knows Ricky but she’s not sure.
A flash of focus then. A moment’s clarity… Shock. She’d got it all wrong. Why? She can’t remember. Nothing in her head now, nothing anywhere except pain. Oh God, the pain.
Don’t say a word…
A face. Kind face. Smiling. Arms wrapped around her, hugging her. Singing her to sleep.
Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird…
Mummy. She’s crying.
Mummy loves you, my darling…
Sweet soft voice.
Crying. Holding her tighter now, telling her she loved her, begging her to stay.
And if that cart and horse fall down…
She has to go. She’s floating. Drifting away. Moving from the pain. Better like this. Because the pain, it’s bad now. Really bad. She can’t take it.
You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.
The pain fades. And everything else with it. No cold now. No anything. Drifting, floating. Gone.
Thirty-Six
It was the sound of someone moving around downstairs that woke Monica. She opened her eyes, the dream fading as she tried to work out if the person downstairs had been part of the dream too. Or if there really was someone there.
Her shoulders ached and the muscles in her arms were stiff. It happened sometimes if she’d spent too long in the gym. She rolled her shoulders, flexed and unflexed the muscles along each arm, waiting for worst of the pain to pass.
Sometimes when she woke, it took a while to work things out. Where she was and who she was. The strength of the dreams made it difficult to escape them in those first few moments between sleep and wakefulness. Ever since Brighton, the dreams had been more frequent, more vivid than ever. This had been one of the worst. Her mother was there, of course. As present in her dreams as she’d been absent from her life. Saying those things to her, half-smiling, like it was funny. Like she didn’t know it was wrong, all wrong. Lying – because of course it was lies, they both knew that – and never shutting up. Just going on and on and on until she couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Until…
Whistling.
She sat up in the bed, heart racing. What if she’d been followed?
At the same time as she thought this, she noticed other things. The stale smell of a body that wasn’t hers. The indent on the spare pillow. And then she remembered. Her world spun 360 degrees until everything was in place and she was fully awake. The tread of feet on the stairs, the bedroom door opened and there he was.
‘Harry.’
He smiled. He really did have the loveliest smile.
He was carrying a tray. The smell of fresh coffee and buttered toast invaded the room, blocking out the other smells.
She patted the side of the bed, beckoned him over.
He placed the tray on the table beside the bed and sat down where she’d told him to.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ he said. ‘Hope it’s okay?’
He gave her that puppy dog look, eyes all big and watery, mouth half open. Made him look like a retard. He was sitting too close. She shifted across to give herself more room, but he just moved with her. Like he was attached to her with Velcro. And still staring at her. Jesus Almighty, is that what love looked like? If it was, she could do without it, thank you very much.
But she remembered why he was here and she smiled and thanked him. Although she couldn’t quite bring herself to let him feed her the slivers of toast when he tried to. That really was a step too far.
Later, they went to the park. Her idea. She’d reached the point where she couldn’t take anymore. It wasn’t just Harry, although he didn’t help. It was everything. The lingering effects of the dream, the unbearable build-up of tension, the feeling that something was about to happen and if it didn’t soon, she would explode from the waiting for it. The desperate, claustrophobic sense that the house was closing in on her and if she didn’t get out, her body would close down, simply stop working and everything she was would disappear.
How did you explain that to someone? You couldn’t. Not without sounding like a nutter. And she wasn’t mad. Furthest thing from crazy there was. All this, the planning, the thinking through every single piece of it, having to go back over t
hings time and again to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. That was the problem. Her mind was burning up from the effort of it all.
Another reason to be grateful to Harry. If she could just switch her mind off for a bit, let herself relax, then being with him wasn’t such hard work. Yes, she had to be careful, make sure she didn’t reveal too much of herself. But she could hardly call that hard work. She’d had a lifetime’s practice.
He yabbered on a bit, but that was mostly okay. She was happy to let him talk while she pretended to listen. And he didn’t need much back. Seemed more than happy just being with her. They strolled through the park hand in hand – okay, that was an effort, but she had to make allowances – while he talked at her and she zoned out.
After a bit, he went quiet. She waited a few minutes, pretending she was still lost in her own thoughts or the loveliness of the moment or whatever. Then she squeezed his hand, still clinging on to hers like a child’s.
‘I’ve wanted to talk to you about something,’ she began. ‘But I haven’t known where to start.’
He returned the pressure on her hand.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You know you can talk to me about anything, Mon.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just, well, you know I don’t find it easy. Trusting people, I mean.’
‘You and me both,’ he said.
He stopped, took her face in both of his hands and stared hard.
‘Listen,’ he said, voice all urgent now, getting ready to communicate something of great importance. She had to fight the urge to giggle.
‘We’ve both been through a lot, right?’ he continued. ‘I understand, Mon. At least, I want to. If you’ll let me? Look, I never told you this, but I really admire you. Because you’re so open about it. Talking about that shit, it can’t be easy for you. You’re amazing, you know that?’
She reached up and stroked his face, fingers tracing the tickly overnight stubble.
‘So good-looking,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea, have you?’
He blushed and it made him even cuter. She smiled.
‘I know I can trust you, Harry.’
He nodded.
‘The thing is,’ she said. ‘I’m scared. There’s this woman. A detective with the police.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Ellen,’ Monica said. ‘Ellen Kelly. If I tell you about her, do you swear not to breathe a word to anyone?’
‘No one,’ he said.
She smiled, knowing she had him. And then she started talking.
Thirty-Seven
He’d messed up. Sick – shaky sick – standing outside her house trying to light a cigarette. Tremor in his hands so bad he couldn’t do it. Ellen stepped in, took the lighter from his hand and did it for him.
‘This isn’t your fault, Raj.’
He sucked on the cigarette, holding in the breath until his head started to spin.
‘Raj?’
He turned away, unable to bear the sympathy in her face. Didn’t deserve that. Closed his eyes and there she was again. Poor Chloe. Lying on the cheap sitting-room carpet. Thrown to the ground after her killer garrotted her. The line of the wire cutting a red necklace into her delicate skin. His stomach twisted, reflux vomit burnt his throat, turned his mouth bitter. He swallowed it back down.
‘Raj.’
Ellen was speaking to him, asking if he was okay.
‘I’m fine.’
Did he say that? Lying bastard. Kept going back over yesterday morning. He’d been distracted. Thinking too much about Aidan and not enough about the job. Stupid, selfish piece of shit.
‘The boss wants us working together on this,’ Ellen said. ‘But only if you’re up to it. If you’re not, if you’re too upset by what’s happened, I’ll completely understand.’
‘I’m fine,’ he repeated. His voice sounded okay, that was a start. No way he was letting anyone else take this from him. His mess, his job to sort it out.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘I’m okay. Let’s do this.’
An hour later, he wasn’t feeling any better but at least it had started. Ellen had taken control, imposing order on the chaos. Making it feel like there was a way through this. Maybe.
The street was cordoned off, SOCOs inside the house and all along the road, searching for clues. Two teams of uniforms assigned to the door-to-doors. And Raj was sat in the back of a police car with Nathan Collier, who’d finally stopped crying.
‘I need you to go over it again,’ Raj said. ‘Tell me how you found her. Don’t miss anything out.’
‘She didn’t show for work this morning,’ Nathan said. ‘At ten o’clock I phoned to see where she was. When she didn’t answer, I got worried. After everything that’s happened, it’s only natural, isn’t it? I couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was in some sort of trouble. I tried her mobile a few more times and when she still didn’t answer, I drove over here.’
His voice trailed off.
‘And then?’
‘She didn’t answer when I rang the doorbell, so I let myself in.’
Outside, a red Porsche pulled up at the edge of the police cordon. Raj watched Mark Pritchard unfold himself from the tiny vehicle and walk towards Ellen, who was standing nearby briefing two uniformed officers. Mark leaned down, gave Ellen a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Something about the way he held her made them look – for a moment – like a couple.
Raj switched his attention back to Nathan.
‘How did you do that?’
‘Do what?’ Nathan asked.
‘Let yourself in,’ Raj said.
‘The front door wasn’t locked,’ Nathan said. ‘All I had to do was push it and it opened.’
Something not right there but Raj let it pass. For now. He wanted to hear the rest of it.
‘I went into the sitting room and there she was. Just lying there. I didn’t recognise her at first.’
Raj knew what he meant. The strangulation had bloated her face.
‘I tried to resuscitate her,’ Nathan said. ‘Did everything I could, but none of it made any difference.’
And in the meantime, Raj thought, that big fat body of yours was mucking up the crime scene.
Nathan started crying again, making the whole car shake as he rocked back and forth. Raj tried to picture the same man standing behind Chloe, wrapping a piece of wire around her throat and pulling on it until she stopped breathing. He couldn’t see it, but that didn’t mean anything.
It was hot inside the car. Nathan, dressed in a thick winter coat, was sweating. The smell of him, combined with the rocking of the car, made Raj want to throw up. He got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet, letting the air cool him down, waiting for the nausea to pass.
At the end of the road, Ellen had extricated herself from Pritchard and was coming towards him. He knew what came next, knew the different pieces of work they’d need to cover as the investigation got underway. And he was ready for it.
He pushed himself away from the car.
Carl Jenkins, Ricky Lezard and Nathan Collier. All three men would be brought in for questioning. Raj wanted to make bloody sure he got to sit in on each interview. Ellen might think she was leading on this, and maybe that’s how it seemed on paper, but this investigation was his. And if Ellen Kelly or Ger Cox didn’t like it, that was their problem.
* * *
Ellen pulled up outside Monica’s house on Brightfield Road and switched off the engine. Abby sat in the passenger seat. Ellen had picked her up from the station and they’d driven over here together.
‘Are you okay?’ Abby asked.
Ellen closed her eyes, saw Chloe’s body.
‘I will be,’ she said.
What sort of person could do that to someone? To have the physical and mental strength needed to pull the wire tight and keep holding it while the person you were killing struggled and fought for their life.
‘It scares me,’ she said. ‘What if he does it again before we find him?’
>
She looked out at Monica’s house. Imagined the killer watching this house too, planning his next move. Finished with Chloe and moving on to his next victim. Ellen opened the door and got out.
Brightfield Road was a quiet street of terraced Victorian cottages in up-and-coming Lee Green, South-East London. Monica lived midway along the street. Her house, with its exposed brickwork, window baskets and original shutters, was postcard pretty.
A few years ago, before she’d been promoted to DI, Ellen had dealt with a burglary on this street. The victims, a brash married couple who both worked in banking, had gutted the inside of their house, whipping out all the character and replacing it with lots of glass and plastic.
Monica hadn’t attempted anything like that. Inside, the house was all rich colours, dark corners and stripped floorboards. Ellen thought of Adam Telford’s house – the clinical cleanliness and the muted shades of pastel – and guessed Monica’s choices were another way of distancing herself from that life.
‘I thought I’d been forgotten,’ Monica said, as she led Ellen and Abby into the cosy sitting room.
‘We’ve been busy,’ Ellen said.
There was someone else in the sitting room, a young man with thick curly hair, an intense face and a serious attitude. Monica introduced him as Harry but gave no further explanation of who he was or what he was doing in her house. As for Harry himself, he said nothing when Ellen said hello, simply stared at her with a look that she translated as ‘fuck you’.
‘Harry,’ Monica said, ‘could you give us a few minutes alone?’
‘You sure about that?’ The question was for Monica but he didn’t take his eyes from Ellen.
‘Certain, darling,’ Monica said. ‘I’ll be fine. Tell you what, why don’t you head home for a bit and I’ll call you later?’
That got his attention. He turned to Monica, looking confused.
‘I thought we were going to hang out for the day.’
The Waiting Game Page 15