‘From top criminal profiler to crutch for housewives who are feeling a tad stressed by life.’ He tutted. ‘You must be mad!’
‘Quite probably.’
She finished her drink and declined Tony’s offer of another. With a deadline looming and a day’s work missed, she needed to get back to her cottage and her computer . . .
A bit of housework wouldn’t come amiss, either, she decided when she walked into her cottage.
The cat flap clicked open and closed, and she scooped Sam into her arms. He was getting even fatter if that were possible.
‘Are you feeling neglected?’ she murmured. ‘Never mind, a spot of dieting wouldn’t go amiss.’
At the sound of the tin opener, her other cats, Tojo and Rabble, appeared.
With the animals happy, she made a coffee and drank that, then quickly tidied the sitting room.
As she did so, she thought back to her meeting with Martin Hayden’s family, or part of that family. She hadn’t met the sister.
Yesterday morning, Martin’s mother had said goodbye to her son, as she did every morning and, as yet, they’d found no one who had seen him since. On the half-mile walk from the end of the farm’s drive to the bus stop, Martin had vanished. But boys didn’t vanish. The road in question was a winding, narrow B-road, but someone must have seen him.
How long would it take him to walk that half-mile? Ten minutes? His mother had said he’d left in good time to catch the bus, and it hadn’t been raining then. They had several centimetres of rain yesterday, but it hadn’t started until after ten o’clock. According to his mother, he often listened to music on his MP3 player as he walked. He wouldn’t have been rushing.
George Hayden wasn’t behaving like a distraught father. Why? Because he knew, or thought he knew, where Martin was? Had there been a family row? Was that what Josie Hayden was hiding?
Jill’s phone rang and she saw from the display that it was either her mother or father.
‘Hello, love, I wondered if I’d catch you. Not out tonight then?’
‘Apparently not, Mum,’ Jill replied, amused. ‘How are things in Liverpool?’
‘Oh, all right. What about you?’
‘Busy,’ Jill told her, as she always told her. It was usually true, but she knew she should make more time to visit her parents. ‘Dad OK?’
‘Ha! And how should I know? He’s been fishing every night this week. I tell him, I don’t know why he bothered to marry me. But then, he wouldn’t have a resident skivvy if he hadn’t. And you’ll never guess what the devil did oh, that reminds me, you know Tom Peters who lives at number four? He married that flighty piece with the red hair?’
‘Nope, means nothing to me.’ Mum forgot that she hadn’t lived on the estate for seventeen years.
‘Well, it seems as if he’s giving her a dose of her own medicine. He’s carrying on with oh, I don’t suppose you’d know her. She only moved in a few months ago. All tits and arse, your dad described her. And he’s probably right at that. She’s got a couple of kids and not a sighting of the father. Name’s Tracy.’
‘It’s all happening on River View then,’ Jill said with amusement.
‘We certainly see life,’ Mum agreed. ‘And then there’s well, well, well! Look what the cat’s dragged in.’
Jill assumed that her father had returned from his fishing trip. Rain or shine, day or night, he and his mates hauled fish from the water, congratulated each other, and then threw them back. Pointless!
She waited for the inevitable bickering between her parents. Devoted to each other they were, but outsiders would never know it.
‘You daft bugger,’ she heard her mother say softly.
No wrangling?
‘Here, Jill, talk to your dad a minute.’
‘Hi, Dad. Catch a big one?’
‘I caught nothing,’ he said with disgust. ‘Not a bite all night. That pike was hanging around, though. I’ll have him one of these nights. Anyway, how’s my girl?’
‘Your girl’s wondering how you’ve managed to escape a lecture from your wife.’
‘Easy,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I stopped at the filling station on the way home and bought her a half-price bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates.’
‘Ah!’ Jill laughed. ‘What woman could resist such sophistication?’
‘I had a couple of quid on Starlight in the 1.30,’ he explained the reason for such extravagance, ‘and it romped home at sixteen to one.’
‘I thought of backing that, but I didn’t get a chance to look at the runners properly. However,’ she added, enjoying the chance to gloat, ‘I did manage to put a few quid on Pigeon Post.’
‘Eh? Never! God, that was a good price, wasn’t it?’
‘Thirty-three to one. It won by a short head.’
‘Well I never! A pity you didn’t get a good look at the runners. The way your luck is at the moment, you’d be quids in. So what kept you busy?’
She explained about Martin Hayden’s disappearance. ‘So I’ve been to see his family. I’m unofficially helping the police.’
‘Oh?’ he said knowingly. ‘Any particular copper?’
Jill smiled to herself. Her dad, like everyone else on River View estate, had an inbuilt distrust and dislike of the police but there was one exception.
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was strictly business,’ she assured him, ‘and there’s no need to mention it to Mum or she’ll be ordering her wedding outfit.’
‘You could do a lot worse, sweetheart.’
‘I could do a hell of a lot better, too.’
Her parents, her sister everyone was convinced that Max was the catch of the century. No matter what Jill said, no one would believe it was over, that she no longer loved him. She had loved him. She’d believed there could never be anyone else for her. But he’d had an affair, or if not an affair then a sordid one-night stand, and it was over. It had been over for a long time.
She felt a familiar sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Even thinking about his betrayal was something she’d rather not do.
‘So how’s Mum? Really?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Doing great,’ he answered, and Jill could sense that, for once, he was telling the truth. She’d had an operation on her lung. Thankfully, it had been successful.
‘And the ciggies?’ Jill asked.
‘Not had a puff since!’
Jill smiled at the pride in his voice. ‘Good for her.’
‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘she’s gone from sixty fags a day to forty Mars bars a day.’
They talked for a few more minutes, then Jill chatted to her mother again before ending the call . . .
Max had met her parents a few times, and he’d liked them probably as much as they’d liked him. ‘A good honest bloke,’ her dad had called him.
‘And how would he know?’ Max had joked when Jill had passed on the compliment. ‘He lives on River View. That lot make the Krays look like charity workers.’
He had a point.
River View was a rough estate, and it was getting worse. A look in the local paper was enough to convince people that the majority of petty criminals hailed from the estate. Her parents had moved there when they married and wouldn’t entertain the idea of moving. Mum carried on as if she lived in her personal soap opera and Dad liked to think he was tougher than any of them . . .
She deliberately turned her thoughts back to Martin Hayden. Assuming there had been a family row, and it seemed likely, where would a boy like Martin go? He would want to teach his parents a lesson, yet he would want his comforts, too. So where would he go?
Or perhaps he hadn’t gone anywhere. Perhaps George Hayden was trying to teach his son a lesson. Perhaps he knew exactly where he was.
Chapter Six
At Lower Crags Farm, Josie Hayden was busy in her kitchen. She’d fed her family – except her lovely Martin – and was washing up. Her hands refused to stop shaking and a long and
painful scream was desperate to escape. Yet she kept busy.
From her window at the sink, she could see the moon sliding out from behind the clouds.
The door opened behind her and she instinctively stiffened.
‘Let me help, Mum.’
The concerned voice of her daughter almost had her screaming. ‘Thanks, love.’
Josie was relieved it was Sarah and not George, but she didn’t want help. She wanted the pile of plates to be never-ending so that she could stand here, staring out into the darkness, until her son came home.
‘You OK, Mum?’
‘Yes, love. You?’
‘Yeah.’
No sooner had Sarah uttered the word than she was in tears, her arms flung around Josie’s waist, her head pressed tight against her chest.
‘There, love,’ Josie soothed. ‘Try not to think the worst, and try to be strong for your dad, eh?’
‘I am trying,’ Sarah sobbed, ‘but I’m frightened, Mum. So very frightened.’
‘I know, love.’
Sarah rubbed at her tears with her knuckles. ‘What’s wrong with you and Dad? You’re not even speaking to each other.’
‘It’s hard,’ Josie said, leaping to George’s defence. ‘Things like this will bring some people together. But others, like me and your dad, tend to worry in silence.’
Sarah thought about this.
‘But Dad seems so angry with you.’
He was angry all right. Furiously angry.
‘No, love. Now, let’s get this lot out of the way, and then take them a cuppa, eh?’ she said, changing the subject.
Sarah rubbed at her tear-marked face again, but she picked up a tea towel.
They washed and dried plates and cutlery, put everything away and made a pot of tea without saying a word. What was there to say? They both shared the same terrors . . .
That night, Josie lay in bed and pretended to be asleep while George tossed and turned alongside her.
She’d heard Sarah go downstairs, probably to make herself a drink. What about Andy? she wondered. Was he sleeping or was he lying there, like she was, dwelling on all the frightening possibilities?
She sometimes thought her whole life had been one long nightmare . . .
‘You’ve got the curse!’ Uncle Terry had cried.
Of course, the curse to which Uncle Terry had referred was her periods. He’d been horrified to realize she had started menstruating. Not that it had stopped him. But perhaps there had been more to his words than even he had known. Maybe she had been born under an ancient curse.
She’d been twelve years old when Uncle Terry had first come to babysit. He wasn’t really her uncle, or even a blood relative. He was a friend of her mother’s.
An only child, with a father God knew where and a mother who liked to be out either working or enjoying herself most evenings, Josie was a lonely girl. Yet she preferred the loneliness. She dreaded the nights that Uncle Terry stayed with her.
‘Come and sit on my knee,’ he used to say, and Josie’s refusals had merely angered him. So she’d sat on his knee . . .
Josie still felt sick when she remembered the way his hand slid along her thigh and to her secret place. She still wanted to vomit when she thought of his fingers touching her. His breath had smelt of stale cigarettes, and it had been animal-hot against her face. She still had to bite back a scream whenever she recalled the searing pain as he forced himself inside her.
‘Don’t tell Mummy,’ he would gasp, thrusting away, his hand clamped over her mouth to silence her screams of pain.
She didn’t tell Mummy. Until she was fourteen years old and pregnant.
‘You’re a dirty, filthy-minded little liar!’ Her mother’s hand had stung Josie’s face.
Josie was taken away to have the baby. Other than a quick glimpse before the nurse carried it from the delivery room, she never saw her child.
When she returned home, it wasn’t mentioned. Her mother refused to discuss the matter. Twice Josie tried to talk about it and her mother’s reaction was the same each time. Josie received a sharp slap across the face and was threatened with much worse if she ever dared to utter such filth again.
Not a day, not even an hour went by during which Josie didn’t wonder about her baby, but she never spoke of it to anyone. Few nights passed when she didn’t have nightmares . . .
Life improved when she left school and took a job with a firm of solicitors. She worked hard and the senior partner encouraged her to go to the college and study shorthand and typing.
How the world has changed, she thought. Everyone used computers these days. They would have no need for the diligent, hardworking secretary with her excellent shorthand and typing speeds and her neat handwriting.
Josie was soon promoted, and Sue Johnson arrived in the office to take her place.
Pretty, bubbly and fun-loving, Sue was Josie’s first real friend. Sue would return to the office after her lunch break with a cream cake for each of them. She spent a fortune on women’s magazines, for the fashion, diet and make-up tips, and always passed them to Josie when she’d finished with them.
It was Sue, hell-bent on showing Josie the meaning of fun, who persuaded Josie to go to the Hallowe’en party.
The music had been too loud, Josie remembered, and she and Sue had both had too much to drink. Sue had wandered off to dance with a young man, and Josie, her confidence vanishing with Sue, had been about to hide in the Ladies when George approached her.
‘All on your own?’ he’d asked. ‘Must be my lucky night.’
He was a stocky, red-faced man with thick dark hair. Older than her, too. He’d flirted with her and made her laugh. For the first time, she had felt like an attractive young girl who people would find interesting. He was nothing like Uncle Terry.
They made love in the back of his car, a big old-fashioned Rover with cold leather upholstery, and then, in a flurry of apologies, George had driven her home.
He’d been the perfect gentleman, and Josie had tumbled into her bed that night with a smile on her face. Their lovemaking hadn’t been memorable, or even particularly enjoyable for her, but she’d felt enlightened. At long last she knew that it wasn’t a matter of gritting her teeth against the terrible pain. She had fallen asleep giggling about those cold leather seats . . .
It was the following morning, with the effects of the alcohol replaced by the icy light of day, that the horror of what she’d done hit her.
She had been thoroughly disgusted with herself. People would think her a cheap tart who would go with anyone for a couple of drinks. She had behaved like her mother, and Josie knew how people sniggered behind her mother’s back. She knew the names they called her.
Amazingly, three days later, George phoned her at home. He hadn’t known her surname, yet he’d searched the phone directory for her address.
‘Lucky for me your surname’s Dee and not Wood,’ he’d joked awkwardly.
He had asked to see her again, but Josie hadn’t felt able to face him. It was difficult enough talking over the phone. She’d mumbled a few embarrassed apologies, promised to call him if she changed her mind, wished him well, and ended the call.
Two months later, she discovered she was pregnant.
It had been a day much like this one, with an unrelenting downpour, yet she’d sat outside the health centre with the rain masking her tears. She’d been dazed and confused.
The nightmares started again. In each one, a baby was torn from her body and thrown into a furnace . . .
Josie, at her wits’ end, resorted to phoning George. They met in a dingy café long since closed and Josie, her face burning with embarrassment, spilled it out.
‘What do you want? Money, I suppose,’ George had grunted.
‘I don’t know what I want,’ Josie admitted. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn. I thought you should know, that’s all. But no, I don’t want your money. What good would that do?’ She’d risen to her feet, tears stinging at her eyes. ‘I
’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. I’ll have to think about things.’
Josie hadn’t expected anything more, and she would have left it at that, but he caught her by the wrist and made her sit down again.
‘You’ll have an abortion?’
‘I will not!’
She’d already lost one baby; she wouldn’t lose this one. People could say what they liked. They could go to hell for all Josie cared.
‘Then we’ll have to get wed,’ he announced. ‘Aye, we can be wed in a few weeks.’
The idea horrified her. They were complete strangers. They’d made love, committed the most intimate of acts, yet they were strangers. In normal circumstances, with both of them sober, they wouldn’t have looked twice at each other.
At almost ten years her senior, George was too old for her. He was a farmer and Josie knew nothing of the land. She didn’t want to know, either. She had dreams of her own and farming didn’t feature in them. What she longed for was a place of her own, a flat in town, one that was close to her office. She was saving every penny she could for her dream home.
With a baby though, she could wave goodbye to her dream.
Could she marry George? If she did, her problems would be solved. She wouldn’t have to face her mother’s wrath, suffer ridicule from friends and neighbours or worry about supporting them both. She could keep this baby and give it a father. They would be respectable . . .
They were married four weeks later and Josie was moved into Lower Crags Farm. She left her job and devoted herself to caring for George and his parents. All George wanted was a woman who cooked, washed and cleaned, but she was grateful. Sickeningly grateful.
When Andy was born, she was even more grateful. Her son was adorable, and she loved him with every breath in her body. He was a thing of beauty in the dismal landscape that was the farm.
He was the image of George yet, strangely, George seemed to draw no comfort from that fact. He wasn’t a loving father, she realized. He could easily ignore Andy for days at a stretch. The baby’s face lit up as soon as he saw his father, yet George was oblivious.
Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side Page 4