I’ll tell you no lies

by Norman Wills

  “I’ll just go and check that everything is in order before I let you see what I’ve got. It helps me get over the pain, I think everyone who has felt pain like I have should have one.” said Lucy, “Back in a tick.”

  Dawn Waterson was intrigued. She had been feeling pain, not as much as Lucy, but maybe this could work for her too. Maybe she had been right to come here after all, hadn’t Lucy said they could help each other? Maybe it had been destiny when they were thrown together yesterday.

  Lucy was back in no time, “Okay,” she said, “I’ll show you what I’ve got that helps ease the pain, come on. Follow me.”

  With that Dawn was on her feet following quickly behind Lucy.

  Entering the room Lucy said, “It’s the second one along, take a look.”

  Dawn hadn’t known what to expect, maybe a specially designed darkened room for meditation or a gym to help her relax. A room full of chest freezers would have been number one hundred and one on a list of the top one hundred of her probabilities.

  “Don’t be shy,” Lucy said, “as I said earlier, I thought we could help each other out. Take a look.”

  Dawn pulled up the lid and looked inside. “But it’s empty.” She was about to say, just as the hammer struck the back of her head. Not a killing blow but one that would put her out for ten or fifteen minutes under normal circumstances. She slumped over the side of the freezer, her head and shoulders already inside. She looked like she’d fainted trying to find the last pack of chicken fillets or frozen peas. It was no effort for Lucy to lift her legs and finish the job. Lucy arranged her so that she was laid on her back, her legs pulled up to her chest.

  “Now didn’t I say we could help each other? You won’t feel any more pain and I feel better too. Do you see? We all win.” said Lucy.

  With that Lucy shut the lid and flicked the switch to the on position. A satisfying hum followed as the unit started removing any heat from its internal compartment. A single ratchet strap secured the lid, ensuring that Dawn wouldn’t escape her makeshift coffin, not unless she could put five tonnes of upward force on the inside of the lid. Clark Kent would have struggled in her position.

  Lucy went back into the living room, retrieved the handbag from the floor next to where Dawn had been sitting only five minutes earlier, and returned to the freezer room. Pouring the contents of the bag on to the lid of the freezer she quickly picked out the map she’d drawn earlier that morning.

  Dawn was one of the old school. She didn’t have a mobile phone but she did carry a diary and an address book. They were her lifelines. The address book had her son’s new address and telephone numbers and even his personal e-mail address. She may well have loathed him and asked him to find his own place when she discovered who he really was, but like every mother on the planet, she just couldn’t break off all means of communication. Lucy had been relying on that. She was now closer to Keith Waterson than she’d ever been before.

  Nice touch, Lucy; eye for eye, tooth for tooth, mother for mother.

  My mother died at the hands of a man, it seemed like the only fair thing to do; it felt appropriate. I don’t think he’s going to miss his mum like I miss mine, but like you said, why waste the opportunity?

  Just then a groan could be heard from inside the freezer, Dawn was coming round. It was the cruel hand of fate that had allowed her to regain consciousness in such a hopeless situation. Maybe this had been her destiny all along. Whether it was or it wasn’t it didn’t bother Lucy, she leaned over and flicked the switch onto quick freeze, in an hour or so Dawn Waterson would be frozen solid.

  Vengeance is sweet, and sometimes very cold.

  Twenty-Seven

  Three days is all it took. Three days for the police to come knocking on his door. Three days for the finger of suspicion to point in his direction. Three days for the police to realise whose mother it was that hadn’t turned up for work those past three days. Three days for his misery to start all over again.

  She was another missing person to add to a growing list of missing people. This one was different though. This one was a fifty-four year old woman. This one was the mother of Keith Waterson, and the police knew all about Keith Waterson. This one was worth the effort, even after only three days.

  The main problem the police had in solving this crime, if a crime had indeed been committed, was their inability to see beyond the result that they wanted. They were more than willing to look at the relationship Dawn Waterson had with her son. They were thrilled when they found a genuine breakdown in that particular mother and son relationship.

  Working on the principal that murder victims generally know the person who commits the murder he was the obvious choice. That is, assuming she had been killed in the first place. There were some sick officers of the law who were actually praying that she would turn up one day soon, dead, and with enough evidence to get the hooligan put away for a very long time.

  The tabloids and broadsheets picked up the next chapter in Keith Waterson’s story with relish. Of course, he was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, yet he was a very lucky man that the law stated that he was innocent until proven guilty.

  The British newspapers are excellent at causing a hue and cry where none should exist. But then, the British public love a good story and are willing to rise to the bait when it’s so eloquently presented. Had the case ever come to court a good defence lawyer would have had it thrown out on prejudice alone, never mind the fact that he would be innocent of all charges.

  The only thing the police could have possibly charged him with in this case would be that of ‘upsetting a parent or parents over a previous action or actions unspecified’. As of yet that is still not a criminal offence under British law. But if it were ever to become part of British law then the streets would surely be a much quieter place of an evening. They would be desolate, as all parents can attest to.

  The case against Keith Waterson for the murder of his mother would, of course, never come to court. Dawn Waterson would remain on the list of missing persons until some evidence of her whereabouts came to light, good or bad. There was little chance of this happening. But you could at least say all evidence was being preserved, at a regulated minus fifteen degrees centigrade.

  Lucy couldn’t do anything against Keith Waterson until the police were well out of his life. But she could wait. She enjoyed following the story, she even made it into the story in some newspapers. This just served as a reminder to her of why she was pursuing him. Each time she was mentioned it was in relation to the crash, and each time the crash was mentioned so was Jayne, and her part in the accident.

  She could wait. She had plenty of work lined up, if anything her celebrity was still growing. To the outside observer she was getting on with her life, not exactly what you’d call moving on, that would be wrong, but people believed she was coping. It was what people wanted to believe, and it was true, she really was coping, in her own way.

  Her dreams were happy dreams, when she encountered Jayne in her dreams it was as if nothing had changed. She still had the flowing red hair and pretty face. She still had that wonderful pale complexion and hazel eyes. She still had a head that was fully connected to her neck.

  Twenty-Eight

  Christmas was never a good time for Lucy. If it wasn’t for Rosie at Christmas she didn’t know what she’d do. Become insane probably, that was what she thought might happen. But then again, Sally-Anne was always there watching out for her.

  On the twenty-fourth of December 2012 Jayne stopped visiting Lucy in her dreams. For the past six months it had seemed that Jayne was always in her dreams, always happy. This had happened before though, she knew the next time she’d dream about Jayne in a happy way would be after some retribution. Lucy placed two red roses of remembrance that day, one on Steve Summer’s body and one on Dawn Waterson’s body. She retrieved Dawn’s address book and diary in the hope of finding a chink in Keith Waterson’s armour.

  There were only two male names in Dawn Waters
on’s address book, that of her son and that of Mark Howard. She certainly didn’t have many male friends, not according to her address book anyway.

  This Mark Howard Lucy, he might be her brother or a cousin, some relative. He might even be her lover.

  Why are you so interested in him, Sally-Anne?

  Opportunity?

  Opportunity for what?

  Revenge.

  How would that be revenge, other than the fact that he’s male? Revenge I can live with, senseless killing I struggle with. Steve Summer was my revenge on the men at large, been there done that. The person I want revenge on is Keith Waterson. That is what Jayne would want. We’ve got his mother’s body next door in cold storage, remember?

  I haven’t forgotten that, Lucy. Whose suggestion was it that put her there in the first place?

  It was your suggestion of course.

  Lucy, ask yourself this question. How did Rosie feel when Jayne died?

  She was too young to understand what really happened, she was sad, but probably because she was surrounded by sadness at the time. She was only two years old when Jayne died, Sally-Anne.

  And the teddy bears; each one named Jayne. Is that not her own personal shrine Maybe? You say she doesn’t understand?

  She’s four years old, Sally-Anne. She doesn’t even understand what dying means, how could she?

  But we swore revenge for Rosie or don’t you remember that now? Are you going soft again?

  Keith Waterson is going to be revenge for Rosie. He caused the pain.

  She lost her Auntie though Lucy. Wound for wound, remember?

  Yes I remember. He’s lost his mother already though, and he doesn’t seem too upset by that. Denial is all he’s given us so far, no expression of love towards her, no expression of possible grief.

  That’s right, so we haven’t caused him the same wound. He hasn’t suffered the same loss. As far as he knows his mother just upped and left and is living the life of Reilly somewhere. Even if he knew she was dead would he grieve any longer than he needs to for a public show? Come on, Lucy; answer me that one.

  No, you’re right, I don’t think he would. But then he probably doesn’t care that much for anyone apart from himself.

  Wound for wound, Lucy.

  Okay I agree you’re correct again, Sally-Anne; wound for wound. I don’t know how to make him feel that pain, how to wound him in that way. He’s such a callous bastard; he doesn’t love anybody the way that people loved Jayne. What can we do to him that’s going to make him wish he’d never been born?

  We’ll think of something, don’t worry. Just trust me, Lucy, if that’s what you want, we’ll think of something.

  Mark Howard was fortunate. Keith Waterson didn’t even know him. He was just a plumber his mother had used a couple of times in the recent past. He was of no use to Lucy and Sally-Anne. He’d come so close, but he would never know that he was being thought of in the terms of an opportunity for revenge. He really was a fortunate plumber.

  Lucy now understood that to just kill Keith Waterson would be to let him off lightly. Sally-Anne had been right, before she could put him out of his useless existence she had to cause him some more misery, make him pay what he rightfully owed her. But not only her, there were others who had a claim on his life.

  She had killed his mother not to get back at him. That had been purely to do with Lucy’s own mother’s death. She now realised that any mother would have fulfilled that fantasy, it hadn’t needed to be her. Dawn Waterson had just handed her the opportunity on a plate, the only thing that Lucy had done was to take it, with both hands and a fourteen-ounce hammer. It had felt so right, kismet really.

  Wound for wound.

  …

  It appeared, from the outside looking in, that Keith Waterson was untouchable. He had either stopped supporting his beloved Chelsea, or he’d become invisible on match days. The police never saw him there, as hard as they were looking for him. He paid his council taxes on time, and his road tax, he even submitted his income tax returns on time. He was squeaky clean; he could even be seen polishing his car every Sunday morning, seemingly a pillar of respectability.

  He wasn’t back in the city earning six figure bonuses but he was doing okay. He earned his money playing the markets from home. He’d made a lot of people rich doing it before, and he had a big enough starting point to make it worthwhile. If he could just build up his portfolio over the next few years he would probably be able to leave his ‘beloved’ Britain behind him by the time he reached forty, move on to pastures new, leave any stigma in his wake.

  He only drew a subsistence wage from his portfolio at this stage, and it was only a matter of a short time before he’d be able to get his hands on his mothers frozen assets. She would soon be declared dead in the absence of any sign of her still being alive. As of yet there had been no signs of that and Keith was no longer under any suspicion regarding her death.

  Keith moved back home, ‘to look after the place until his mother showed up’. He didn’t want the house to fall into the hands of squatters; it was his inheritance after all. Dawn hadn’t changed her will in the past six years, but then she hadn’t counted on dying just yet.

  Owning a property in London was becoming the domain of the wealthy, he was sitting pretty. The old bat didn’t have a bank full of money, but at least the house would bolster his portfolio. Sell up and move North, Newcastle maybe, or possibly Glasgow, that was his plan. He could practically buy a whole street of houses in Newcastle for what he’d get for his mother’s house. The football team weren’t too bad either. It didn’t really matter to him where he went, away from London and some place he could set up his computer and have Internet access; that was all he needed.

  The house; that was it! The same house that Lucy realised she had a full set of keys for. The same house that Lucy could enter more or less at will. Front door, back door, garage, and window locks, she had everything she needed, why had it taken her so long to realise it? What she needed had been in cold storage all this time.

  She’d been too busy, she’d lost her focus. Maybe Sally-Anne was right. Maybe she really was going soft. She decided then that she had been working too hard. She was going to be choosier in future about what she would and wouldn’t do workwise.

  Lucy needed to think, and she needed Sally-Anne’s expertise. If she was going to do this she would need a plan, but at least she had the seed of an idea forming in her head from which a full-blown plan could emerge, given time. A little careful thought and the right conditions and the plan would be ready.

  Twenty-Nine

  Sunday 18 May 2013 was when Lucy and Sally-Anne were happy enough with their plan to put it into action. This was going to be payback time, it felt so right.

  The next day Lucy announced to the agencies that she was taking an extended holiday. At the age of just twenty-one, and with only five years in the industry, she was rich enough to leave the modelling world behind and embark on a different career if she so wished. She could even retire from modelling altogether if she wanted to, she had been approached by several television companies, and she was even being talked about within the film industry as a future Bond girl. There wasn’t much the agencies could do to persuade her to change her mind; they were just praying that when she was ready she’d come back to them.

  That evening Lucy was, once again, grateful for the impersonality of shopping on the web. Just place an order and wait for delivery, whatever it is, next day, if you want, for a small additional fee. Theatrical costumes, make-up and wigs, a laptop computer, business cards and a three-year-old, bottom of the range, Ford Transit van in dark blue, that would do for a start.

  Lucy needed to make it her business to find out what Keith Waterson’s habits were, both clean and dirty. She wasn’t going to be able to pull it off looking like herself; driving a white soft-top Mercedes, and sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. So she made sure she didn’t.

  Looking in the mirror she was pleased wi
th her efforts. She was wearing a black shoulder length wig and a body suit that mimicked perfectly the body of some poor soul who found herself in the seventh month of a long hard pregnancy. A maternity dress, sunglasses and ‘sensible’ training shoes made her look like any other young mother to be. She didn’t look her best but then she didn’t want to.

  My god, just look at you! That is not a good look, Lucy. But it’s one hell of a disguise.

  Thanks. Who do I look like?

  I don’t know exactly, but I think we can rest safe in the knowledge that you’re not going to make it onto the cover of Vogue looking like that.

  That’s the whole point, Sally-Anne. People won’t give me a second glance, especially the men. They won’t bother looking at what they can’t have. As far as they’re concerned I’m shop soiled, damaged goods, practically invisible.

  For a whole week Lucy stayed in a small hotel around the corner from his house, pregnancy suit and all; complete with French accent just for good measure. For a whole week she parked her van on his street at half past eight in the morning until half past six at night, watching from the comfort of an armchair in the back, unseen, noting down his every move. The van could have been one of thousands of tradesman’s vans parked on the streets of every city in the UK any day of the week. It was nothing to attract suspicion.

  She didn’t mind any discomfort she might feel while she was sat there, hour after hour, just watching. She had a plan, no, they had a plan, and knowing where they were headed was worth any discomfort she felt on the way to getting there.

  Where he lived was a quiet street, one of those where eighty five percent of the houses were empty during the day. These were houses where both partners went off to work in the morning, and the kids off to school. Not too many kids in this street though, not much of anything going on really, perfect.