Then when Millie and Harry were killed, Alex’s emotions were all spent on her sister. But now the loneliness had kicked in, as well as the realization that she wasn’t getting any younger.
And Malone made her laugh. But she still knew very little about him.
‘Malone? What bits and pieces?’
He smiled and stroked her hair. ‘Come on, sweetie, just stuff.’
‘Are you ever going to tell me what stuff?’ She realized her voice was shrill, but she had no idea what he did, where he got his money from; how he made a living now he wasn’t being an undercover copper any more. ‘I’ll start to think you’ve got a wife stashed away somewhere.’
He leaned over her and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘I must go.’ He turned towards the door.
‘What about the police?’
He paused, his hand on the door knob and she could have sworn she saw his back stiffen. ‘What about the police? I thought it was all okay.’
‘It is. I just thought…I just thought you needed to go and do your statement, give your fingerprints and all that.’ Alex’s heart started hammering almost as badly as it had done during her dream and the nausea came back with a vengeance.
‘I’ve done it.’ He turned. ‘So no need to worry, okay?’ He patted his pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I can let myself in now if you’re not home.’
‘Okay,’ she said. Damn, damn, damn.
She fell back onto her pillows. One day she would follow him, see where he went, what he got up to. She smiled. Now she really was going barking mad. The thought of even being able to follow him without him knowing was ridiculous. The thought of following him was ridiculous. Stupid.
But where did he go?
And had he deliberately ignored her jibe about a wife?
She shook her head, and waited for the room to stop spinning again. Waited for her skin to stop feeling clammy. Enough. She reached for her cup of tea and her hand brushed something metallic and cold. The key to the locker in Norwich.
Why would Jackie Wood have hired a left luggage locker unless she had something to hide? It wasn’t as if she’d left stuff there during a day trip to the city, otherwise she would have got it out at the end of the day. No; there must be something in there she didn’t want other people to know about. What other people? Alex wasn’t sure, but one thing she was sure of: she had the key and she could find out what Wood was hiding. Perhaps. How she hoped it was the diary. What was it the reporter had said? Dead men tell no tales. Maybe not. But diaries certainly can.
An hour later she was up, showered and dressed, and eating dry toast in the kitchen with Gus, the hangover having retreated more than she deserved.
‘What are your plans for today, love?’
He shrugged, smearing jam onto his piece of toast. ‘Seeing the lads. Maybe a bit of footie in the park. Hang around, you know.’
She nodded. ‘Great. But—’
He silenced her with a look. ‘I’ll be okay Mum, really.’
He reached across and rubbed her arm, obviously having sensed her doubt. ‘I will, Mum, I promise. I won’t spend the day at the amusement arcade or anything. I’ll probably do something healthy like go fishing as well as have a bit of a kick about.’
She laughed. ‘Fishing? I rather doubt that.’
He feigned a hurt look. ‘Why?’
‘First,’ she ticked it off on her fingers, ‘you don’t have a fishing rod, and second, there is nowhere to fish around here – except the sea, I suppose – and third, you don’t even like fishing.’
‘Rumbled,’ he said, getting up and putting his plate in the dishwasher. ‘Mum, don’t worry. A bit of footie really is on the cards and then we’ll just hang about. Maybe do a bit of studying.’
She hardly thought studying fitted the agenda. ‘And who is we?’ she asked, not expecting much of an answer.
To her surprise he blushed. ‘Oh, you know. Jack and the rest of the gang, and Carly and a couple of her friends.’
‘Carly?’ That was interesting.
He went to the fridge, took out a pint of milk and poured some into a glass. ‘She was round here the other day.’
‘Ah yes. The pretty girl with the bee-sting lips.’
He drank the milk without meeting her eyes. She could see him blush. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Okay. Is she going skiing too?’ She hoped she kept her voice casual.
‘I think so.’ Gus kept his voice casual too.
‘Great.’ Oh, the import behind the one-word answers. ‘She seems nice.’
‘Yep.’
Okay, warned off.
He put down the glass, and she longed to lean over and wipe the milk moustache off his top lip. But he beat her to it, dragging the back of his hand across his face. ‘What about you, Mum? What are you doing today? Working?’
Alex thought about the Jackie Wood interview she should finish, and she thought about the key to the locker in the Forum nestling in her pocket. She knew which she ought to do, but she knew what she was going to do. ‘Actually, I think I might drive up to Norwich. I need a few things from Marks’s.’
‘Haven’t you heard of internet shopping?’ her son said, laughing. ‘Save you the petrol and the aggro.’
‘I know, I know. But I feel like a bit of a mooch around, treat myself to a bit of lunch or something.’ The key was burning a hole in her pocket.
‘Go for it, Ma.’ He pecked her on the cheek. ‘Gotta go. See you later.’
She might have been imagining it, but Gus seemed more relaxed, more in tune with himself. She rather hoped that Carly had something to do with it.
Alex arrived in Norwich as the sun struggled out from behind a slate-grey cloud and the pavements were just about dry.
Leaving her car in St Giles’s car park, she headed down towards the market. How she loved its vibrancy. The colourful awnings; the buzz of chatter; the tangy smells of hot dogs and fish and chips vying with the aromas of freshly-ground coffee and frying Chinese noodles; stalls selling artisan bread and organic vegetables jostling for trade with those selling boiler suits or every part imaginable for vacuum cleaners. She wandered slowly, up and down the aisles, weaving in and out of the crowds and the pigeons strutting among the people and pushchairs; steam rising from the freshly cooked food and hot drinks. Putting off the moment when she would go to the Forum, frightened about what she might find – or what she might not find.
Enough.
She paused only for a minute at the second-hand bookstall and then almost ran up the steps and out of the market. There was the Forum; a great modern edifice of glass and steel, opposite the beautiful fifteenth century St Peter Mancroft Church. She loved the juxtaposition of old and new.
The powder-blue lockers were located inside the foyer near the stairs to the car park in full view of the people who’d gone inside to take shelter from the cold. She held the key in her hand – she didn’t need to look at the fob to know the locker was number fifteen.
Standing in front of the locker, she tried to look as though she was meant to be there. Nonchalant, not shifting about looking guilty. Then she slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open easily. Inside was a large brown envelope, which she pulled out and put in her handbag. Then she closed and locked the box, her heart beating hard.
Ten minutes later Alex was sitting in her favourite coffee shop, cappuccino in front of her, the tempting smell of Steve’s sausage rolls wafting around. She opened the envelope.
Drawings. No notebook, no exercise book, nothing that could constitute a diary, just a sheaf of paper covered with childish drawings. Primary colours – red, green, blue – splodges of paint depicting…what? A house, a stick family, a tree, maybe grass. Another – yellow, brown all mixed up. A tail was there, maybe? She turned the paper over: The Tiger Who Came To Tea by Millie Clements written in a no-nonsense hand. A third piece of paper, just a long tail of green. The Hungry Caterpillar by Harry Clements. She turned over more and more sheets, all paintings,
all by Millie or Harry. All so precious. She touched some of the paintings with her fingertips, thinking of the twins, imagining them flinging the paint on the paper. Why had Jackie Wood got these irreplaceable pieces of childhood? She slumped back in her seat.
A memory: she was round at Sasha’s house, waiting. Her sister and the twins arrived back, laughing, cheeks flushed from the hot air outside. Millie and Harry were wearing matching Teletubbies’ T-shirts and sun hats and were holding tight to Sasha’s hands. It was one of Sasha’s good days, when she was enjoying looking after her children, being a wife, enjoying her life. Her eyes were bright, without the unfocused expression that overshadowed many of her days, and her skin looked fresh and luminous, not the grey that so often characterized her appearance.
The twins scooted over towards Alex, calling her name in their high-pitched voices, and she scooped them up, one in each arm.
‘Ooof,’ she said. ‘You’re getting too big and heavy for this.’ She set them back down on the floor.
‘We’ve been to the sea,’ said Millie, reaching up to drag her sun hat off her head, leaving her blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘We paddled then we went clouring.’
‘Paintin’,’ said Harry loudly, not to be outdone. ‘Wiv paints.’
‘Yes look.’ Sasha beamed as she reached into her bag and brought out some still-wet pictures. ‘We’ve been to the library and heard stories, haven’t we darlings? And afterwards we sat and painted pictures about the stories.’ She waved the paintings in front of Alex’s nose. She could see that the different colours of paint had run into one another where they had been shoved any-old-how into her bag. ‘We left some in the library to dry, but we brought—Oh.’ Her face clouded over. ‘They’re ruined.’
‘They’re gorgeous,’ Alex said. ‘And I can’t wait to see the others.’
Sasha started to shake. ‘No. I’ve spoiled them.’ She opened her fingers, and the paintings fluttered wetly onto the ground.
The twins stared, wide-eyed, thumbs in their mouths.
The memory dissolved.
‘Are you all right?’ One of the girls from behind the counter had come over, dishcloth in hand.
Alex looked up at her and realized she was crying. She managed to smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Your children’s work?’
She shook her head. ‘My niece and nephew.’
‘Cute,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes. No problem. Thanks for asking.’
The waitress looked at her as if she didn’t believe her, then nodded and walked off. ‘Let me know if I can get you anything,’ she called over her shoulder.
Alex knew there was no way the waitress could give her what she wanted. She slid the paintings back into the envelope. They must have been the ones that were left at the library to dry and Jackie Wood had kept them.
Weird. Why would she have done that? Had she been trying to hide from the police the fact that she’d taken them? Had she had an unhealthy interest in the twins?
And Alex still didn’t have the diary.
19
Kate stood on the pavement and examined the house in front of her. Edwardian brick-built terrace with a small bay window upstairs and down, and another window over the front door. It was a house that had seen better days, with flaking paintwork and dirty net curtains at the windows. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here. She should certainly have gone through the family liaison officer, but then she would have lost the element of surprise, and she really wanted to see Sasha Clements on home turf, as it were. There was something not quite right in Alex Devlin’s account of her sister – the vehement denial that Sasha had anything to do with Jackie Wood’s death before Kate had even said anything. And as for Alex’s naive idea that Sasha wouldn’t have found out about her interview with Jackie Wood, well, that was just ridiculous. She pushed away the thought that she should have been to see Sasha before, when Jackie Wood was first let out, whatever Cherry had said, but hadn’t made the time.
She tugged at the gate that sagged from its hinges and walked up the short concrete path to the faded blue front door. Muted sounds from a television floated out on the crisp air. For once, the sky was blue and the sun was making a late showing, but nothing pierced the gloom that surrounded the house. She knocked.
After a couple of minutes the door opened a crack.
‘Hallo?’ said Kate.
The face peering out at her was thin and pinched, eyes wary. Sasha Clements looked nothing like how Kate remembered her from fifteen years before when her face had been everywhere – pale, high cheekbones, startlingly blue eyes, full mouth – the tragic beauty, she was labelled by some, though Kate couldn’t remember who. But that beauty had fled, leaving behind a face full of sorrow and suffering.
Kate smiled in what she hoped was a non-threatening way while holding up her ID. ‘Sasha? My name is Detective Inspector Todd. I wonder if I might have a word?’
For a few moments nothing happened, and Kate wondered if Sasha had heard what she had said, or even processed it, then the door opened wide. ‘Come in. Please,’ she said.
The house smelt fusty and unloved. The light was dim. As she followed Sasha into the main front room, Kate wanted to throw open the doors and windows and let the outside in. Clear the air of the dirt and the dust and the memories that lingered.
‘Sit down.’
Kate sat on an old sofa that had seen better days – like most of the furniture in the room. An electric heater threw out a sliver of miserable warmth and the television was showing pictures of people dressed in red or blue sweatshirts racing round a flea market being harangued by an orange-faced presenter. Thankfully Sasha had turned the sound down. On every available surface there were photographs of the children, Harry and Millie. As babies. As toddlers. As growing up children. Her eyes alighted on one of Harry, obviously taken at Christmas as he was holding a pillowcase tied up with tinsel and there were paper chains hanging from the ceiling. He was beaming and wearing Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Kate swallowed, the familiar tug of pain and doubt followed by certainty.
Sasha caught her looking. ‘That’s one of my favourite ones of Harry.’
Kate had never heard a voice so full of sadness.
‘He was so happy. It was the first time he and Millie really, really understood what Christmas was all about.’
‘Presents and family.’
Sasha nodded. ‘That’s right. You understand.’
Not really, she thought.
‘They’d been so excited,’ Sasha went on, ‘and early on Christmas morning they’d come into the bedroom with Millie leaping straight onto the bed, snuggling in between Jez and me.’ She stopped for a moment, ran a hand over her face. ‘Then Harry came in. Beaming. I’ve never seen a beam like it. “He’s been,” he said. “He’s been”. Beaming.’ Sasha sat for a moment, lost in her memories. ‘Jez managed to find the camera and take that snap. Though Millie didn’t like Jez getting out of bed. That’s one of my favourite memories of him.’
‘He was a beautiful child.’
‘He was. And thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For caring for him. When you found him, I mean. I haven’t forgotten that.’ Sasha jumped up off the sofa, suddenly all angles and energy. ‘Can I get you tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
‘Coffee. Please.’
Kate could hear Sasha banging about in the kitchen, tried to imagine what she was doing – taking the cups out of the cupboard and banging the door shut. Turning on the tap and filling the kettle. Opening another cupboard. She had to concentrate on the noises otherwise she might have found herself undone by the photographs.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you,’ Sasha said, as she came back bearing a tray complete with mugs of coffee and a packet of Rich Tea biscuits, its top torn open.
‘I don’t—’, began Kate.
‘Well, needless to say I did.’ Sasha’s eyes had changed from dead t
o bright, as if a switch had been turned on, lighting them from behind. ‘And you were there, every single day at the trial. I noticed that you kept looking at them, but they refused to look at you. They were on their separate chairs, another chair between them.’ She handed Kate a coffee. ‘You know, I wondered why they didn’t look at each other, never mind anyone else. I mean, you’d think they would, wouldn’t you?’
Kate sipped the coffee. It was lukewarm, the water wasn’t boiled. She could taste it.
‘I tried to make them look at me too. Even when I was giving evidence. I just kept staring and staring hoping he would look at me and I could shout “You! You’re the one! You are responsible!”’ She shrank back in the chair. ‘Do you see, Detective Inspector? Do you see what I mean?’
Kate nodded, not sure at all what she was agreeing with.
‘I suppose you’ve come to tell me that Jackie Wood was back in Suffolk but is now dead. Dead as a fucking dodo. Thank Christ. I salute whoever did it. Anyway, is that why you’re here? Don’t worry; I’ve had one of your lot round already. Or two or three. And my sister. She went to interview her, did you know that?’ Crumbs of biscuit sprayed from her mouth as she spoke. ‘Yes, you did, you lot know what’s going on everywhere, don’t you? Everywhere. Did she kill her? Alex, I mean? Did she kill the bitch?’
Kate couldn’t bear Sasha’s manic movements any longer. She leaned across and put her hand on Sasha’s arm. ‘It’s all right. I only wanted to make sure you were okay. It must have been a terrible shock: Jackie Wood coming out of prison and then being murdered.’
Sasha began to laugh; a laugh, which then got out of control and turned into huge sobs that wracked her whole body. She buried her face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.’ She looked up, composed once more. ‘It was a shock, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘I thought it was all over. That, at least, I didn’t have to think about her any more. But now I do.’
The Bad Things Page 15