The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  The woman in the kitchen, speaking now, had a deeper, richer voice than Marie’s and the accent definitely wasn’t West Cork. Vaguely, Ellen thought she’d heard the voice somewhere before. She couldn’t place it. At first.

  When she pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen, the moment of recognition was so sudden and unexpected, she thought at first she might be imagining it.

  ‘Ellen.’ Her mother stood up, smiling and oblivious. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. How was your day?’

  Unable to answer, Ellen stood in the doorway, staring at the woman. Random images tumbled towards her. Jim slamming his fist into a wall; Chloe’s blue, bloated face and her wide-open, empty eyes; Monica smiling at her, dressed in nothing except a small red towel; Jim’s chain lying on the floor by Adam Telford’s dead body; Monica holding the photo of Vinny in Ellen’s sitting room; the confetti of torn petals scattered across a back garden. And the photo on Ellen’s phone.

  Suddenly, she knew.

  Monica was standing up too and saying something. Ellen didn’t hear the words, didn’t want to. She moved forward, across the kitchen and grabbed Monica Telford by the collar.

  ‘Get out of my house.’

  Monica smiled and Ellen’s hand curled into a fist that she pushed into Monica’s cheek.

  ‘Ellen, stop it!’

  Her mother’s voice sounded very far away. Ellen couldn’t have stopped, even if she’d wanted to.

  ‘Call the police,’ Ellen said, rattling off the number for the emergency line.

  ‘Ellen?’ Fear in her mother’s voice now.

  ‘Now, Mum.’

  She repeated the number for her mother and pressed her fist deeper into Monica’s face.

  ‘I know everything,’ Ellen said. ‘You killed Chloe. And you killed your father. I don’t know why you did it, but I know it was you. Just like I know you were the person who broke into my house the other night. You think you’re so clever. You’re not. You’re a psychopath. There’s a big difference.’

  Behind her, she could hear her mother dialling the number, then giving her name and address.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Monica said, keeping her voice low so only Ellen could hear her. ‘Everyone knows it and now you’re proving it. I haven’t done anything, Ellen. All I’ve ever done is ask you to help me. It’s not my fault you let your own pathetic jealousy get in the way of doing your job.’

  She should have felt it then. The fear you were meant to feel when you were in danger. Maybe she would have, if the anger hadn’t consumed everything else.

  ‘Five minutes,’ her mother said.

  She could last five minutes.

  ‘You stay here,’ Ellen said to her mother. Then to Monica, ‘You. Out front with me.’

  Still holding Monica’s collar, Ellen dragged her out of the kitchen, along the hall, past the laughter and screams and growls from the sitting room and out into the front garden.

  Outside, Monica tried to shake her off but Ellen held on tight.

  ‘This is insane,’ Monica said. ‘All I did was drop in for a chat. Where’s the harm in that? You know, until you found out about Jim, I really thought we were becoming friends. What happened?’

  Ellen didn’t answer. She scanned the road, willing the response team to be on time. Every detective in CID had a special number they could call if they needed to. Until this week, Ellen had never had to call it before. Now, she’d just called it a second time.

  She was still angry, but there was a focus to it now. It wasn’t enough that she knew. She needed to prove it. To do that, she needed to show – above all – that this wasn’t some crazy obsession of hers based on misplaced jealousy. That’s what Monica wanted everyone to think. Ellen could see that. What she couldn’t work out – not yet – was why.

  She let Monica go, stepped away quickly, unable to bear being close to her.

  ‘Go,’ she said.

  ‘Just like that?’ Monica asked. Was it Ellen’s imagination or did Monica sound disappointed. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Ellen? Just a few moments ago you were accusing me of a double murder and a burglary. I’m confused.’

  Ellen heard sirens. Far away but getting closer. She could see how it would play out. Monica protesting her innocence, claiming she’d done nothing wrong. Telling them about her relationship with Jim, Ellen’s pathetic jealousy, making it look like Ellen was the one with all the problems.

  Monica took a step forward. A memory came to Ellen. That night in her sitting room. Monica’s face too close to hers. The smell of her perfume clogging up the air. Ellen resisted the urge to move back, away from her.

  ‘What happened?’ Monica asked. ‘What did I do to you that was so bad?’

  ‘I told you to go,’ Ellen said.

  Monica nodded and Ellen thought she’d won. Then Monica smiled.

  ‘Your father told me about his garden,’ Monica said. ‘Poor man. He seemed so upset. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what some people are capable of?’

  The sirens were louder now, the car screeching around the corner into Fingal Street. The noises mixing with the roaring inside Ellen’s head. Monica’s face, still smiling, even as Ellen went for her, fist driving forward to smash away every trace of that smug smile.

  A hand shot out, stopping her before she could do any damage. A man’s voice – her father’s – shouting at her, begging her to stop. Her father’s hands on her shoulders, dragging her away. Car doors slammed shut, footsteps loud as two uniformed officers came running towards her, batons already out, waiting and ready to stop anything bad happening.

  No idea they were already far too late for that.

  Seventy-Two

  Monica dried her hair. With the new cut, this took hardly any time at all. When she’d finished, she stood in front of the long mirror, adjusting to the new look. Her long hair was gone, chopped off and thrown onto the open fire, the last traces of it already burned away. She’d dyed the rest of it. Now her crowning glory was short, spiky and very blonde. The colour contrasted with her dark skin, accentuated her cheekbones and the size of her eyes. She looked good. Different, sure, but in a way she thought she’d get used to easily.

  She had a TV in her bedroom and this was switched on, volume down low. She didn’t need to hear what they were saying on the 24-hour news channel. She already knew. More about the body in the house in Brighton. Police hadn’t identified who she was yet. But they would. By the time that happened, Monica needed to be far away.

  She’d be gone already if it wasn’t for that little diversion earlier. The delay had been worth it. Just to see the look on Kelly’s face when Monica mentioned the garden. The fact that Kelly would never be able to prove it made things even better. Monica smiled at her new image in the mirror. Kelly might think she was clever, but she was no match for Monica.

  Her suitcase was on the bed, lying open while she packed away the few remaining things she wanted to take with her. She always travelled light and she’d packed quickly. Clothes folded neatly, wash bag and make-up bag both in. And on top of everything, the framed photo of Vincent Kelly. She lifted this out, examining his face, wondering what he’d been like. Good-looking enough, she supposed, in an offbeat, quirky sort of way. Red hair that suited his pale complexion. Strong features and dark eyes that seemed to look right into her.

  Her dead husband. Poor Vincent. Killed six months after their wedding. Before they’d ever had a chance to have the children they’d dreamed of having. She’d been pregnant, of course, when the accident happened, but she’d lost the baby as well. Grief ruining everything.

  The story felt so real, her eyes blurred as she looked at his photo, picturing herself at his funeral. The poor, pregnant wife. She’d use it to explain why she cut her hair, if anyone ever asked. She would tell them that she’d done it to mark a new beginning. Putting the past behind her and moving on. Smiling bravely as she said it all, knowing the effect that sort of thing had on the right person.

  She closed the
suitcase, shutting out the smiling face that was already starting to irritate her. All that bloody self-righteous happiness. People like Ellen Kelly and her husband. Rich, privileged people with happy, loving families – they didn’t have a clue. What could someone like Ellen Kelly know about real loss? About how it felt for a little girl to lose her mother the way Monica had? To spend an entire life believing that your mother still loved you, only to find out it was all a lie. For the same mother to laugh in your face and tell you how stupid you were. That you were the real reason she’d left. Calling you a horrible, unlovable child who’d made everything impossible.

  Her eyes blurred again, more tears. She couldn’t stop this time. The terrible injustice would never leave. She knew that. Knew she’d have to – somehow – find a way to live with it. If only it wasn’t so difficult.

  She walked to the window and looked out, scanning the street. Apart from two drunks weaving their way along the road, it was empty. Lights out in Harry’s place, although she suspected he was there. Probably standing at the window looking over at her. Watching. Always bloody watching. After tonight, he’d have to find someone else to watch.

  She watched the drunks until they became boring. Then she closed the curtains and picked up the suitcase. It was time to go.

  * * *

  Ellen sat behind the glass wall, watching Ger fire questions at Jim. He looked exhausted and vulnerable. He didn’t look like a killer. Abby sat beside Ger, making notes.

  ‘You say you never met Monica’s father,’ Ger said. ‘Maybe you can explain what this was doing by his dead body?’

  Ger opened the file in front of her, took out a plastic envelope with something inside and slid it across the table. His father’s silver chain. Jim shook his head.

  ‘I don’t understand. I lost it the other day. How did it…?’

  Until now, he’d seemed calm, but this time, Ellen could hear the strain in his voice.

  ‘I think you do know,’ Ger said. She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands behind her head. ‘Come on, Jim. Tell us the truth. You killed Adam Telford. There’s no point denying it now. The only thing missing at this point is why you did it. We can speculate, of course. Maybe Monica told you what he did to her. Years of abuse. The story kept you awake at night, you couldn’t stand thinking that a man like that had got away with what he’d done. Was that what happened? Or maybe she told you what he was worth, what she was set to inherit when the old man kicked the bucket and you got the bright idea to speed things up a bit? Or was there another reason? Something I don’t know about.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Jim said. ‘I never even met Monica’s father. I have no idea where he lived or what their relationship was like. You’re saying he abused her? Well that’s news to me. Look, I’ve already told you. I was working on a job in Bromley yesterday afternoon. Spent the evening with my brother and was home in bed by eleven. This morning I went for a jog first thing – along the river, plenty of people would have seen me. After that, another job in Greenwich. I didn’t kill Adam Telford.’

  Ellen had stopped breathing, every piece of her focussed on what he said. She thought she knew him. Thought he was telling the truth. Knew he was.

  ‘You said your relationship with Monica Telford ended a year ago,’ Ger said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And since then, you’ve had no contact with her?’

  ‘No. Well, she’s tried to see me a few times. Called me and sent texts, but I’ve not returned any of her calls or replied to her texts. I don’t want anything to do with her.’

  Ellen started to relax. Ger was going through the motions now. He’d given good explanations of his movements over the last twenty-four hours. They’d find plenty of witnesses to back up what he’d told them. The chain was a worry, but they’d find an explanation for that too.

  In the interview room, it looked like Ger was starting to wind things up. She’d put the plastic envelope back into the manila file and was sitting straight in her chair again, like she was ready to finish.

  ‘Just one more question,’ she said. ‘You told us you’d had no contact with Monica since you broke up.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So can you explain then,’ Ger said, ‘what you were doing at her house on Tuesday night?’

  Ellen hadn’t seen it coming. From the look on his face, neither had Jim. She raced through everything that had happened over the last few days. Tuesday. She’d met him the following day. They’d gone for a walk and talked through everything. He’d never mentioned going to see Monica.

  Seventy-Three

  Outside, a wind was blowing. Monica tucked her scarf tighter into the top of her jacket. As she did this, a memory came to her. The scent of flowery perfume. Her mother’s smell. Sometimes, she imagined the scarf still carried the scent, even though she knew how ridiculous that was. At least she still had the scarf. She’d always loved that scarf.

  She walked all the way to New Cross. When she was far enough away from home, she found a minicab office and got a taxi to King’s Cross. Inside the station, she looked at the departures board, undecided. Crowds of people milled around her, loud and boisterous as the final hours of their weekend drew closer. She felt separate from it all, isolated somehow, as if there was a protective bubble surrounding her, protecting her but also preventing her from getting too close. She ran through the station names on the departures board, checking the destinations of every train leaving the station in the next hour.

  If she left now, it would mean giving up on Jim. Although, if she was being honest with herself, hadn’t she already done that? She’d given him so many chances. Every time – every single time – he’d flung it back in her face. It had been that way ever since that bitch Louise came on the scene.

  Monica had warned him, again and again, but he’d refused to listen. Insisted the bitch was a dyke and there was nothing going on between them. He was a liar. They were both liars and they deserved what happened. Thinking about it now, her only regret was that she hadn’t driven into him that night as well. It would have stopped him breaking her heart all over again.

  She remembered coming back from Brighton. Not being able to sleep and going to the park the next morning. Felt like her very heart had been ripped out. Empty and lost, she moved through the park like a ghost.

  And then she saw him.

  It was warm already. Clear blue sky and a sun that would turn the city into a furnace by the afternoon. A large sycamore tree stood on its own, midway up the hill. As she approached, the air was thick with the citrusy-grassy smell of summer. She breathed it in, thinking of the juice she’d drink when she got to the Pavilion at the top of the park.

  He was leaning against the tree, eyes half-closed. Just like the first time she’d seen him, another summer’s afternoon, in the Union beer garden. Something woke inside her. To see him here, like this, so soon after what had happened in Brighton. She knew, deep down in her very core, that this was meant to be.

  He opened his eyes, almost like he knew she was there. He smiled, and she knew he’d felt it too. When he started walking towards her, it felt as if there was an invisible rope connecting them.

  Then, out of nowhere, a child ran past. Brushed against Monica and straight past her, throwing itself at Jim. He grabbed the child, laughing, and swung it high into the air. Another child was there, too. And with the children, a tall, dark, nothing-to-look-at bitch who he took into his arms and kissed as if she meant something. Even though Monica knew that was impossible. He linked arms with the woman and walked right past where Monica was standing. So caught up with what Ellen Kelly was telling him, he never even saw her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ A man’s voice, too close. Startled, she jumped away from him.

  He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just, well, you looked a little lost to tell you the truth. It’s not very pleasant here at this time of night. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

  He wore a dark suit that looke
d expensive. He had friendly, hazel eyes and well-looked-after skin. His hair was dark, greying at the temples, but that was okay. Gave him a distinguished air he probably didn’t deserve.

  When she didn’t answer straightaway, he smiled encouragingly, reminding her of a parent trying to get a child to do something it would really rather not have to. One of those, then. The over-protective type that wants nothing better than a woman to save. Well, what the heck, she could do with a bit of saving right now.

  She gave him the smile she saved for men like him. Warm but a bit vulnerable, like she wanted to trust him but was scared. Not scared of him, of course, more a general fear of the world itself.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. I was supposed to meet my sister-in-law here but she hasn’t showed up and she’s not answering her phone. I’m trying to work out what I should do. I only came to London to visit her, you see. I don’t know another soul in the city and I’ve missed my last train home.’ She thought of Jim and what she was walking away from and allowed herself a moment’s self-pity. Just enough to fill her eyes.

  She saw concern in his face. And underlying that, the hint of something else.

  ‘You poor thing,’ he said. ‘Please, let me buy you a drink. I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with a way to help you. What do you say? I’m Leonard, by the way.’

  She shook his outstretched hand, noting the soft skin and the clean, manicured nails. She could do worse, she supposed. She wondered if he was married. Not that it mattered.

  ‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you, Leonard.’

  He took her by the elbow, leading her gently, but firmly, towards the exit.