The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘I’m still here,’ she said. ‘And that’s better than not being here. Especially now you’ve been suspended. Maybe one day, when I’ve caught the person who killed Chloe and they’re behind bars, maybe then you’ll realise what I’m talking about. In the meantime, you stay here, drinking and feeling sorry for yourself while I go and do your job for you.’

  She walked away without looking back. Later, as she drove past the pub with Abby on their way to collect Chloe’s mother from the airport, she glanced over and saw he was still sitting there. A full pint of lager in front of him, smoking another cigarette.

  * * *

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two months since my last confession.’

  He’d skipped a month. Told himself he was too busy, but that wasn’t true.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve done something wrong and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘Start by talking about it,’ Father John said. ‘Let the Lord help.’

  Father John’s words were a balm. He shouldn’t have left it so long. This was what he needed. Confession followed by absolution.

  ‘There was this woman, Father.’ And so it began. Words pouring forth out of his mouth. A torrent. Couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. The relief, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. That his holy Father was here beside him.

  He’d felt so lonely. These past few days, particularly. So busy focussed on Chloe, he’d almost forgotten. She was nothing. A distraction, that was all. Turning his head, making him forget what really mattered.

  When he’d finished speaking, there was silence. He could hear Father, breath heavy through the wooden grille that separated them. He waited, suddenly scared. What if…? But he needn’t have worried. Should never for a second have doubted his Lord.

  ‘God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of your son, you have reconciled the world to yourself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

  His soul soared. Father John’s words filled the small space, giving the comfort he craved. Like a heavy weight being lifted, everything was good again.

  He was forgiven.

  Forty-Three

  Sinatra and a hefty glass of Merlot. Self-medicating her way through the evening, knowing sleep wouldn’t come easy. After leaving Raj, she’d driven with Abby to London City airport where they’d met Patricia Dunbar, Chloe’s mother. The meeting had been as gruelling as Ellen had expected. By the time she’d taken Mrs Dunbar to the morgue and comforted her afterwards, Ellen was fit for nothing.

  Chloe’s mother was an older version of her daughter. The same wispy blonde hair and elfin features, the same lispy, little girl voice. Ravaged with grief, Patricia focussed obsessively on one thing: the arrangements for Chloe’s funeral. Ellen had seen this before. Families and loved ones of murder victims often became overly concerned with the details of the funeral. It was a way of imposing control over an incomprehensible situation. Unfortunately, this – along with everything else – was something that was also taken away from them until the long and arduous process of the murder investigation reached some sort of conclusion.

  Losing a child is the worst thing, isn’t it?

  Ellen remembered Vinny’s parents, Brendan and Aisling, the day of the funeral. Even in the depth of her own pain she’d seen how badly they were affected. And chose to ignore it because she didn’t have the strength to deal with their grief as well as her own. She regretted that now. Whatever else happened, she must make sure Pat and Eilish never lost touch with Vinny’s side of the family.

  She finished her wine and poured herself another glass. In the sitting room, Songs for Swinging Lovers was on the music system. Ellen sat down with her Blackberry, flicking between e-mails and the internet, reading the latest new reports on Chloe’s murder. Nothing from Martine Reynolds yet, but that was only a matter of time. Ellen expected she’d see the journalist’s orange face amongst the crowd of hacks at tomorrow morning’s press conference.

  She’d invited Jim for dinner tonight, had to cancel when she realised she’d be working late. Now, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to be alone. She called him but it went to voicemail and she hung up without leaving a message. Tried Raj, but got his voicemail too. This time, she left a message, asking him to call and let her know he was okay. Then she put down her Blackberry, closed her eyes and let Frank take her to a better place.

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, making Monica jump. Red wine spilled down her hand, onto her wrist, soaking the cuff of her white shirt. Made it look like she’d slashed her wrists. She smiled. Suicide was for losers. She drank the wine, burped some of it back up. It stank, but there was no one here to care about that.

  He was banging on the door now, calling her name. Stupid bastard couldn’t take a hint. Sober, she might have let him in. But she’d had too much wine for that. Couldn’t stick the thought of putting up with all that gooey-eyed mooning.

  Kelly’s fault she was drunk. Wouldn’t have hit the vino if Kelly hadn’t dragged all those memories to the surface. She went across to the window, looked outside. Just in time to see Harry’s back retreating across the road. Getting the message. Finally.

  She flicked the curtain closed and went back to the wine bottle. Empty. She pulled a fresh bottle from the wine rack, found the corkscrew and tried to insert it into the top of the bottle. It wouldn’t go in. Screw-top. Stupid. She should have noticed. She threw down the corkscrew, opened the bottle and sloshed more wine into her glass.

  The day had started out well enough. Good to see them finally treating her with a bit of respect. Went downhill fast after Kelly’s visit. Dark memories dragging her down, taking her places she didn’t want to go.

  Regrets, she had a few.

  She was in the sitting room now. Music playing. She looked around, confused. Didn’t remember coming in here. Must have drunk more than she realised. Frank Sinatra. Why Frank?

  Ellen Kelly liked Frank. She’d said so the first time Monica met her. Maybe Kelly was the reason she’d put Frank on. Trying to get inside Kelly’s head. Frank’s voice drifted over her, singing of a love deep in the heart of him. Under his skin. She remembered what that felt like. Knew what Frank meant when he promised to never give in. Singing the words aloud strengthened her resolve. She wanted to call him. Hear his voice. Except she was drunk and he’d probably hang up on her. Again.

  Different song in the room now. Strangers in the Night. She liked that one. That’s what he’d been at first. Dark, hot nights. Pretending to love him was easy. His passion had excited her. His passion for her. Possessive passion. Hot words whispered in her ear. Hands all over her all the time. Like he couldn’t get enough of her. No man ever could.

  Pretending she felt the same way. By the time she realised she wasn’t just pretending, it was too late.

  The great pretender. Was that Frank, too? Maybe not. She needed more wine. Freddie Mercury. Stupid. Should have known that.

  Her glass was empty. She looked for the bottle. Couldn’t see it. Found it in the fridge in the kitchen. Chilled red wine. On the sleeves of her white shirt. Like blood.

  She drank the cool wine. Disgusting. Better than nothing, though. Her mobile was on the kitchen table. She picked it up. Never drink and text. She scrolled through the address book, trying to find someone she could call. At Kelly’s name, she paused. Then changed her mind. Thought of something better.

  She made some coffee, sat at the laptop and opened her e-mails. Kelly had given her a business card and one of the first things Monica had done was memorise the e-mail address and phone number.

  She took her time over the e-mail, making sure she got the tone quite right: a little bit timid, a touch uncertain whether she was doing the right thing. It took twenty-five minutes. When she was finished, she re
ad it twice, making sure the wine hadn’t affected the writing. Satisfied it was as good as it could be, she pressed Send.

  That done, she shut down the laptop, cranked up the volume, drank some more wine and started dancing.

  * * *

  The thudding drum of techno-punk vibrated through the dance-floor, making Raj seasick. Bodies heaved all around him, dancing to the beat. The air smelled of sweat and poppers. He needed a drink. Looked around, couldn’t see the bar. Tripped, nearly fell, but someone caught him. Blue eyes and shoulders. Nice smile. He was a sucker for blue eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ Face up close, shouting at him through the music.

  ‘More than okay.’

  Words lost in the thud-thud of the music. Stomach moved, vomit rose up his throat. He pulled away, pushed his way through the throng, aiming for the exit. Didn’t make it. Puke burst from his mouth, splattering some bloke’s shiny brogues and the bottoms of his tight, white jeans.

  Two bouncers grabbed him and dragged him outside. One of them punched him in the face and he fell down, groaning. Tried to get back up but got kicked in the stomach and rolled over, arms up, protecting his head.

  Nothing else happened, though. The bouncers moved back inside, laughing. He heard the door slam shut and everything went silent. He was in an alleyway at the back of the club. From far away, he could still hear the music, a steady heartbeat through the concrete walls.

  The ground was wet, soaking his trousers and shirt, making him cold. In his pocket, his phone started ringing. Aidan again. He’d been calling all evening. They were meant to be going out tonight. A new bistro on Frith Street. Drinks afterwards with some of Aidan’s mates.

  By the time he’d got the phone out of his pocket the ringing had stopped. Probably just as well. He rolled onto his back. A black sky scattered with a sprinkling of stars. A silver slice of a crescent moon. A half-remembered line from somewhere. Something about lying in the gutter, looking at the stars.

  He was tired. Eyes closing, the stars and the moon disappearing. He should get up. Go home. But he couldn’t find the energy to drag himself off the ground. His phone slipped from his hand, landed on the wet ground. He barely noticed.

  Stars gone, moon gone. Only darkness now. Finally.

  * * *

  Ellen was in bed, drifting towards sleep, when her Blackberry beeped, notifying her of an incoming e-mail. She nearly ignored it; too sleepy, at first, to care what it was about. But the memories of the day were too strong. The e-mail could be important. She rolled over and pulled the Blackberry from her bag.

  One new message. From Monica Telford. Ellen checked the time. After midnight. Instantly, the sleepiness was gone. She opened the e-mail and started reading.

  It was a strange e-mail, with a tentative tone that didn’t sound like Monica. Almost, Ellen thought, as if someone else had written it. She read it once, not understanding at first what Monica was telling her. It was only when she read it again that it hit her. And when that happened, the careful, cautious happiness Ellen had let herself feel these past few weeks shattered.

  Forty-Four

  Bel had been gone three days. Adam was missing her. Funny that. He’d grown used to being on his own. Settled, he supposed. The thought of sharing his life again, all the messiness and unpleasantness of it. If anyone had asked him if he was ready for that, he’d have said no thank you very much. But that was before Bel.

  She got to him in ways no one else had ever come close. Not that there’d been others. Annie and Bel. The full sum of his sexual and romantic experiences. He’d made a mistake with Annie. Fooled himself into thinking the beauty on the outside would be matched by what was inside. She changed though. Couldn’t cope. Tried to blame him for what happened, even though it was no one’s fault. In the end, she turned out to be no different from his mother. Dirty and mean and incapable of loving anyone apart from herself.

  He tried calling, but Bel’s phone went to voicemail without even ringing. She must have switched it off. She’d promised to call him and he wondered why she hadn’t done that. Wondered if he should worry about her. He thought about calling again, leaving a message this time, but she wouldn’t like that. She’d tell him he was being too possessive and maybe he was. It was difficult to know what to do.

  Part of him knew this anxiety wasn’t normal. She’d only be gone for five or six days. However long it lasted. He wasn’t even sure. At least she was regular. Made it easier to predict when she’d be away and how long for.

  He’d worried, at first, about asking her. Thought she mightn’t understand. Or might feel rejected or something stupid like that. Because this wasn’t about rejection. He missed her like crazy when she wasn’t here. And if he could have it any other way, he would.

  He picked up his phone again, then put it down. Moved around the sitting room, plumping cushions and straightening the rug in front of the fireplace. Last night, he’d removed all the photos of Annie, stacked them neatly into a box which he carried into the spare bedroom. This morning, he could see little dust tracks along the mantelpiece and he hurried to wipe these away, wondering – again – where all the dust came from.

  With the sitting room in order, he felt calmer. Started into the rest of the house, humming to himself, the tension gradually easing as he moved from room to room, imposing cleanliness and order.

  The washing machine finished its cycle and he emptied it, placed the clothes into the plastic basket and carried this outside into the sunshine. Nothing like the smell of freshly laundered clothes. The trick was not to leave them out for too long or they started to smell funny. Two hours thirty-five minutes was about right on a chilly day like today. Then, when they were still damp, he’d bring them back inside and iron them dry.

  Midway through hanging them, he came across a pair of Bel’s panties. White cotton edged with white lace. He pictured her moving towards him, wearing these and nothing else. He lifted them up, about to press his face against the soft, clean cotton when he saw the faint trace of a brown line down the centre.

  You dirty little pig.

  He threw the pants down, wanting to stop the memory, but it was already too late.

  Sister Theresa pulling him by the arm to the top of the class. He was trying really hard not to cry. She was shouting at him. His hands and face were dirty and she’d told him – Lord God above, hadn’t she told him every morning since he’d started? – that he had to be clean coming to school. He tried to tell her it wasn’t his fault. The water had been cut off and they weren’t able to wash. His clothes were dirty, too. And the toilet, he couldn’t tell her about the toilet, stuffed with poo and toilet paper and the thick white pads covered in blood.

  But Sister Theresa wasn’t listening. She had the cane and was shouting at him to pull down his trousers. He couldn’t do that. His underpants were dirty. Streaked with three-day-old poo but he’d had to wear them because there were no clean clothes, no clean anything because they didn’t have any water.

  Sister Theresa didn’t care about that. She pushed him towards the desk, pressed his face down on the rough wood and pulled his trousers down. He was screaming and kicking out but nothing was going to stop her and when she finally got them down there was this God awful, deadly silence that seemed to go on and on and he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear the waiting and he felt it, knew it was going to happen even though it was his body and he should be able to control it. But it was coming now. Warm, wet wee running down his legs, forming a little pool on the ground, soaking through the hole in the bottom of his shoe.

  The smell of it, so strong in the clean, lovely classroom. When she’d started beating him, he’d cried and begged her to stop. Even though he knew he deserved it. She was right.

  Dirty, disgusting little pig.

  Forty-Five

  Ellen passed the e-mail across to Ger first thing in the morning. There was nothing else she could have done. Now, an hour before the press conference, she was sitting behind a glass wall, watching Ger
and Alastair interrogate Jim O’Dwyer.

  ‘Where were you on Sunday night between the hours of seven pm and midnight?’ Ger asked.

  She already knew the answer to that question because Ellen had told her.

  ‘I was working until about seven,’ Jim said. ‘A house in Lewisham. After that, I went over to friend’s house.’

  ‘Who?’

  He hesitated. ‘Ellen Kelly.’

  Alastair shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. Ellen prayed he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it later. As Ger continued asking questions, Ellen took out her Blackberry and re-read Monica’s e-mail.

  Dear DI Kelly

  I promised to send you the names of anyone I could think of who might want to hurt me. Until now, I’ve believed the person doing these terrible things was my father. I’ve already told you what an unpleasant man he is. In fact, I withheld much of the worst details from you.

  Chloe’s death changes things.

  The person you’re looking for is clever, as well as cruel. My father isn’t clever. Far from it. His stupidity and ignorance contributed in no small way to my mother’s decision to leave him. Unlike him, she was an intelligent woman with a zest for life that a man like my father is incapable of grasping.

  So who else is there?

  A year and a half ago, I was in a serious relationship. It went wrong, as these things sometimes do. We went our separate ways but, recently, we re-established contact. His name is Jim O’Dwyer. He lives in Greenwich and works as a plumber. He was keen to rekindle our relationship but I turned him down. I believe, you see, that the past is another country. What Jim and I shared was special, of course, but we have to move on. I’m sure this is a sentiment you would approve of. You strike me as the sensible sort.

  Sadly, Jim hasn’t taken kindly to my rejection. He seemed to think we could pick up where we left off. He has always been a hot-headed, angry sort of man. When we first met, I took this as a sign of a passionate soul. Now, I’m not so sure. In fact, that hot head of his has got him into a lot of trouble. It was the reason our relationship broke down.