After She's Gone

by Maggie James

  She thrusts the idea from her head, guilt stabbing her. His behaviour might be odd, but he doesn’t deserve such suspicion.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ she replies. An understatement if ever one existed.

  ‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ he says. She studies him while he busies himself with mugs, kettle, water. Pale skin, blue eyes, dark blonde hair that’s always messy, but it’s a good look for him. Aged twenty-seven, six two, muscular, he’d be next to his housemate in any calendar shoot organised by Avon Fire and Rescue, apart from the fact Aiden’s not a firefighter, but works for an insurance company. She’s never speculated about him as boyfriend material, though, preferring dark men over blonde ones, brown eyes over blue. He’s never come on to her, either, not once shooting I-fancy-you vibes her way. Not that he prefers men. She’s observed the way he’s eyed up Celine’s soft curves whenever he’s seen her friend. No, Aiden’s a player, frequently flirting with women, many of whom melt like butter in the warmth of his smile.

  ‘I wish I’d got to meet your sister,’ he says, handing her a mug of coffee. His breathing is ragged, uneven. With one hand he fumbles for his inhaler, drawing in a long puff.

  Lori’s expression betrays her sadness. ‘You’d have liked her. Impossible not to.’

  They sit side by side at the breakfast bar. ‘Your timing’s spot on,’ he says. ‘I’ve just got back from Mum and Dad’s.’

  ‘Damon’s not here?’ Her grief’s too raw to be exposed to Damon Quinn’s lack of social skills.

  ‘He’s at work. He was horrified when he heard the news about Jessie.’

  Lori stays silent, unsure how to respond.

  ‘Do the police have any suspects?’ Aiden asks.

  ‘If so, they’re not saying. There’s DNA evidence from her killer, though.’ She tells him about the autopsy results, the information she’s gleaned from DC Campbell.

  ‘She was raped?’ Aiden’s voice holds shock.

  Lori nods, pushing the horrible image from her mind. ‘Some woman on television was speculating earlier,’ she says. ‘Whether whoever killed Jessie is also the guy who’s been setting all those fires across Bristol. I don’t care. I just want the bastard caught.’

  ‘We all do.’ Aiden’s tone is tight, and Lori’s struck again by the tremor in his voice.

  Tears spring into her eyes. ‘She was the best sister anyone could wish for. So pretty. Bright and full of life. Talented too. She made jewellery, dabbled in pottery, painted gorgeous pictures. She’d been talking about studying art at degree level.’

  ‘She wrote poetry, too, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Japanese-style haiku.’ The memory of the poem she handed to DC Lightfoot comes back to her.

  So handsome, he is,

  Yet older; forbidden fruit.

  Still I long for him.

  At that moment, her mobile vibrates in her jacket pocket. A message from Dana Golden. I need you here. Spencer’s texted, says he’s on his way home.

  When Spencer walks through the door, his reception is every bit as hostile as he’d feared. He barely makes it into the kitchen, intent on getting a mug of coffee, before his father corners him.

  ‘Jesus, Spencer! Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you returned my calls?’ Jake Hamilton, anger in his face, blocks his son’s exit. Dana stands behind him, her face puffy, tear-stained.

  ‘Where were you Thursday night?’ she asks, her voice unnaturally calm, as if restrained on a leash.

  Spencer opens his mouth, gives the speech he’s prepared. ‘Went drinking. Got wrecked, ending up staying with a mate.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to call? After all the messages we left?’ Jake is shouting again.

  Spencer swallows. ‘I’d not seen Vinnie for a while. And the battery in my mobile was dead. Couldn’t switch the thing on.’

  Dana retreats upstairs, the rigidity of her back comment enough. To Spencer’s relief, he hears the front door open. Lori, he thinks. If he can count on anyone, it’ll be her.

  She sweeps in, her expression tightening when she sees him. She pushes past Jake, grabs Spencer’s arm and pulls him into the living room, shutting the door on his father. Her expression is grave, sparking alarm in Spencer’s gut.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? You got my messages, right?’

  He nods, staring at her before wetting his dry lips, the words coming at last. ‘I’ve been on a bender, spent the weekend at a mate’s.’

  Silence for a second. Lori’s eyes drill into his, her scrutiny intense. Then: ‘Same old Spencer, hey? Always the party animal.’ No sign of disbelief in her voice.

  Thank God, he thinks, as he draws her close. She’s the same height; they fit together well. Lori sobs against his shoulder, her tears dampening his shirt with dark splodges.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he tells her. ‘About Jessie.’

  ‘It’s been awful, Spence. The police have been here constantly, asking questions. You need to call them.’

  Spencer holds his breath.

  ‘I’ll give you the number. A direct dial to the family liaison officer they’ve assigned to us. Here.’ She thrusts her hand into her pocket, draws out a card. ‘DC Campbell. She’ll organise a DNA sample to eliminate you. Call her, Spencer. Now.’

  He stares at her, not moving. Under his shirt, his left shoulder prickles where it’s been gouged. Bile rushes up his throat and it’s all he can do to prevent himself puking, so great is his terror. He’s been a fool to think he can do this. Hasn’t he always been a coward? The truth is he lacks the balls for it.

  ‘Spencer?’ Lori is looking at him strangely. ‘Call DC Campbell. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  He thrusts her away, pushing past her to yank open the door.

  ‘Where are you going? You can’t just leave!’

  He swings round to grasp her shoulders, while moistening his dry lips again. ‘I don’t know what happened that night.’

  Lori pales. ‘What do you mean?’

  Spencer swallows. ‘Like I said, I got wasted. I know one thing, though.’

  ‘What? You’re not making any sense.’

  He drops his hold on her. When he speaks, his voice is ragged. ‘I need to get away. To think.’

  He tugs open the front door and strides down the driveway. Lori’s angry shouts fire like bullets into his back, but he refuses to look at her. One thing he’s sure of: he can’t face being at home tonight. He’ll crash at Vinnie’s instead.

  A cool breeze flutters against his skin as he walks, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Before he knows it, Spencer’s reached St George Park, where he sits on the nearest bench to light a cigarette. The time between going to the bar and regaining consciousness remains a blank. Apart from the fragments that continue to tease him, that is. His fingers unzipping his jeans. Someone standing before him, the promise of sex scenting the air. In that moment, a sliver more memory returns to him. He’s aware now the other person isn’t Jessie. Whoever is with him is male, not female.

  Fuck, he thinks. Just who did he pick up in Murray’s that evening? Was it Jessie’s killer?

  Hours later, cloaked by the pre-midnight darkness of Sunday evening, a man leans against the wall of a building, his fingers caressing the box of matches in his pocket. At his feet is a can of petrol, along with a bundle of rags. Excitement swells within him at the thought of what he’s about to do. He’s already smashed a window, checked that there’s plenty inside to sustain a fire. Now he inserts his hand past the jagged edges of the glass, tossing the rags through the hole, before picking up the can of petrol. He flings his arm back and forth, soaking as much as possible of what’s inside in accelerant before the can runs dry. From his pocket he takes out the box of matches.

  The man closes his eyes, draws in a breath, waits a moment, then strikes a match. With a surge of anticipation, he throws it through the broken window onto the petrol-soaked rags.

  Lori glances at her watch before leaving her bedroom. Eight a.m. on Monda
y morning; despite her grief, she needs to take her car for its MOT test, which is about to expire. Dana is still in bed, with any luck eating the scrambled eggs Lori cooked for her; Jake has already left for work. Lori shrugs on her jacket, reaching for her handbag, when the doorbell startles her.

  ‘I’ll get it, Mum,’ she shouts on her way downstairs.

  Lori opens the door to two police officers, one Lightfoot, the other a woman she doesn’t recognise. She stares at Lightfoot, whose expression is deadpan.

  ‘Good morning, Lori. Is your mother home?’

  Lori switches into protective mode. ‘She’s in bed. Have there been any new developments?’

  Lightfoot motions towards her colleague. ‘This is Detective Constable Jayne Timpson. We need to talk to your mother about a fire that took place last night. Can we come in, please?’ Her tone makes it clear it’s not a request. Startled, Lori stands aside, allowing the officers to move past her into the hallway. She gestures towards the living room.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help you instead? My mother’s not well—’

  ‘It’s Mrs Golden we need to speak with.’ Lightfoot’s voice is clipped. Acknowledging defeat, Lori heads up the stairs, knocks on Dana’s bedroom door, doesn’t wait for an answer. When she pushes it open, she sees her mother is asleep, dark smudges of exhaustion underlining her eyes. The tray of food, untouched, is on the floor.

  ‘Mum?’ Lori’s hand on Dana’s shoulder is gentle but insistent. With a start, her mother awakens. ‘The police are here. DC Lightfoot, plus one of her colleagues.’

  ‘Why? What for?’ Her voice is slurred, sleepy.

  ‘Something about a fire, they said.’

  Puzzlement creeps into Dana’s expression, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she rubs her eyes, stretches, before pushing back the duvet. Then she stands up, pulling on her dressing gown, her movements slow and jerky. Lori follows her downstairs, before striding into the kitchen. She shuts the door, takes her mobile from her handbag. A quick call to the garage, saying she’ll bring her car in later; her mother shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. From the living room, voices float towards her. Lori heads their way.

  ‘Thirty-five The Larches?’ Dana’s voice holds surprise, confusion.

  An address Lori recognises. The face of its former owner edges into her mind. Eyebrows in need of a trim, nose red-veined from alcohol, cigarette-soured breath. Her dead grandfather, John Reynolds. Thirty-five The Larches was his home.

  ‘You know it?’ From her tone, it’s clear Lightfoot is aware of the answer.

  ‘I grew up there.’ Dana sits up straighter. ‘I own it, except now it’s rented out.’

  ‘There was a fire at the property last night, Mrs Golden. An arson attack.’

  Dana’s eyes fly open with shock. ‘Are my tenants safe? Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘No. The occupants had gone out, came home to the fire crews fighting an intense blaze. The damage is extensive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thank God they’re OK.’ Dana’s voice trembles.

  Lightfoot faces Lori. ‘We’d like to ask your mother some questions. Could you give us some time alone, please?’ Again, it’s not a request. Lori nods, walking towards the door, reluctance in every step. She resents Lightfoot fiercely, despite knowing the woman’s only doing her job. She moves into the hallway, retrieving her handbag. ‘I’ll see you later, Mum,’ she calls over her shoulder, as she heads to her car.

  Later that morning her mother calls her while Lori’s on her way into town, saying the fire was definitely arson, having been started with petrol. How she hated the questions posed by the police, resented having to account for her whereabouts, when all she can think about is Jessie. Lori murmurs reassuring words, hardly aware of what she’s saying. Her worry ratchets up several notches; this arson attack is the last thing Dana needs right now. Since Jessie’s death, her mother has deteriorated alarmingly: she’s lost weight, when she had precious little to spare, and her skin is drier, flakier, more pasty. If it weren’t for Lori cajoling her to eat, she doubts Dana would bother. In the space of a few days her mother has shrunk, become a mere husk. She’d have missed her dialysis appointment last night, if not for her daughter’s prompting.

  When Lori’s tried to tackle Dana about it, though, her mother brushes off her concern with a forced smile and the reassurance that she’s fine, no need to worry. Except that Lori does. It’s imperative Dana stays well, if she’s to stand any chance of a kidney transplant.

  Over lunch in Cabot Circus with Ryan, she tells him about the arson attack at The Larches. As she does, his dark eyes hold hers, and he’s every bit as supportive as she’d hoped. Leaning across the table, he takes her hand. ‘I get how awful this is, Lori. You’re grieving for Jessie, as well as dealing with a police investigation. Now this lunatic isn’t content with burning the house he murdered Jessie in. Seems the bastard’s twisting the knife by torching another of your mother’s properties. At least I assume it’s the same guy. But you have to let the police do their job, catch Jessie’s killer, and not fret about anything else.’ His fingers caress her cheek. ‘I’ll get you through this, sweetheart. Trust me, I will.’

  Chapter 6

  SUSPICION

  The next morning Lori’s mood is bleak; Jessie’s death is hitting her hard. As it does every day, but some are worse than others, and she’s without temping work right now to distract her. ‘Hug time!’ pleads her six-year-old sister in her head, and Lori grimaces, the memory poignant. She’d give the world for one last embrace with Jessie.

  From the hallway, the thud of the daily post hitting the floor startles her. Lori heads downstairs towards the front door. On the mat lie several letters and circulars; she flicks through them before depositing the bundle on the hall table. They’re all for Dana: magazine subscriptions, bills, along with a greetings card, evident from the stiffness and quality of the envelope. It bears her mother’s name and address on a printed label, which strikes Lori as oddly impersonal; who does that with a greetings card? She returns to the kitchen, spoons out food for Oreo, checks for job vacancies via her phone. A walk through the park is what she needs, but Lori’s already spotted the female journalist from the other day biding her time across the street. Resentment and anger vie for top place in her emotions; she’s trapped in her own home, an insect under the microscope. Vultures, the lot of them. Time for breakfast, she decides, thrusting the woman from her thoughts.

  An hour later, while Lori’s stacking the dishwasher, her mother’s footsteps sound on the stairs. Dana enters the kitchen, the bundle of mail in one hand. She looks better, Lori decides, relieved that the dark smudges under her eyes appear fainter, despite the muffled sobs she heard last night through her bedroom wall. Dana sits at the table, leafing through her post. She opens the greetings card last, her fingers tearing open the envelope before pulling out the contents. Lori glances at its front: a bunch of lilies, the words ‘With Condolences’ across the top.

  Seconds later, Dana’s fingers drop the card as though it’s on fire. Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a strangled moan.

  ‘Mum?’ Lori stares at her mother. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  No response. Lori reaches over, picks up the card. The venom of its words sears into her brain. No signature, just a stark message, printed in heavy capitals.

  YOUR DAUGHTER GOT WHAT SHE DESERVED, she reads. SO DID YOU, DANA GOLDEN. CALL YOURSELF A FIT MOTHER?

  Sobs shake Dana’s body. Lori gets up, rounds the table, squeezes her mother’s shoulders. ‘You need to take this to the police,’ she says. As the words leave her mouth, she knows that won’t happen.

  ‘No.’ Dana’s voice holds a world of pain. ‘I don’t want to bother them. Not worth wasting police time over this.’

  ‘What if Jessie’s killer sent it?’

  Her mother shakes her head. ‘It won’t be from him.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  Dana doesn’t reply, merely wipes her face with the sleev
e of her dressing gown. Something else is tormenting her mother, Lori’s sure. Her eyes are pools of anguish, and from more than just the card’s message and the continuing horror of Jessie’s death. Lori turns the cruel words over in her head. Call yourself a fit mother? Is that the answer? Has Dana been torturing herself? For not protecting her child?

  A low moan comes from her mother. Dana is rocking back and forth on her chair, her eyes squeezed shut, her expression anguished. Lori’s reminded of the repetitive behaviour of animals when caged for too long. When Dana speaks, her voice is ragged, hoarse. ‘Whoever sent this is right. I’m not a fit mother.’

  Lori places her hands on her mother’s shoulders, stilling the obsessive rocking. ‘Don’t say that. Ever. You’re the best mum in the world.’ She stares at the card, wondering about the sender. Some crank, probably, one who gets off on hurting other people. It’s the work of a few seconds to pick it up, tear it to pieces, the remnants landing on the table. ‘There. Sorted.’ Lori prays it’s a one-off. How much more can her mother bear? Or any of them, for that matter?

  Later that morning she calls Ryan as she’s fixing coffee, telling him what’s happened. ‘I can’t talk for long,’ she says. ‘The family liaison officer is here, checking how we’re doing. Mum’s really upset about the card, though, I can tell.’

  ‘God, that’s awful,’ he says, anger in his voice. ‘You’re right. Some weirdo must have sent it to get a cheap thrill. Don’t let the bastard get inside your head, Lori.’

  A key sounds in the front door. Well, look who’s arrived home at last, she thinks. ‘I have to go,’ Lori tells him. ‘Spencer’s back.’

  Spencer Hamilton is as calm as he’ll ever be. He’s got his story straight, knows what he’ll say to the police. Once through the front door, he walks into the living room, where an unknown woman is talking with Dana, her tones soothing. He catches the tail end of her words as he enters: ‘. . . doing everything we can . . . need to speak with Spencer Hamilton as soon as possible . . .’ The look Dana shoots him is hostile at best, murderous at worst. Lori walks into the room from the kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee.