by Maggie James
‘Why don’t you go and lie down?’ she says to Dana. ‘Try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if there’s any news.’
Dana nods, heading for the doorway. Her mother’s moving like an old woman, and that, coupled with the wild hair, the glassy eyes, strikes terror into Lori. She sinks onto the sofa beside Oreo, seeking comfort from his fur as she hears Dana’s bedroom door open, then close. Shortly afterwards Spencer heads downstairs again, not glancing at Lori as he passes the living room on his way to the kitchen. She hears cupboards opening, a plate being put on the table, the rattle of cutlery. Lori walks into the kitchen, determined to put things right between them. Whatever’s going on between Lightfoot and Jake Hamilton at Bridewell, falling out with his son won’t help matters.
Spencer’s swishing a knife across two slices of bread, cursing when the butter won’t spread properly. He forks tuna on top, spoons on sweetcorn and mayonnaise, glancing at Lori from under his brows as he does so. His expression remains angry, resentful. What the hell does she say to him?
She opts for simplicity. ‘I’m sorry.’
He glares at her. ‘For what? For thinking my father’s a killer? Looks like the police agree with you. Happy now?’
Lori’s at a loss as to how to respond. Impossible to backtrack and protest how Jake must be innocent, because she doesn’t believe he is. At that moment, the sound of the doorbell startles her. When she opens it, Fraser stands on the step. Her father hugs her, then strides towards the kitchen. He glances between Lori and Spencer, clearly noticing the tension in the atmosphere.
‘Any news?’ he demands, his eyes on Lori. ‘I’ve not been able to get hold of Lightfoot or Campbell.’
Spencer grabs his sandwich, shoves past Fraser to head back upstairs, his mouth clamped tight. Her father stares at his retreating back. ‘What was that all about?’ he asks.
‘Dad, come into the living room. Please.’ She walks into the hallway, giving him little option but to follow. When they’re both seated on the sofa, she draws in a breath, anticipating the backlash.
‘Jake Hamilton’s been taken in for questioning,’ she says.
Fury darkens Fraser’s face, a vein pulsing in his temple. ‘That bastard. If he’s the one who hurt my little girl, I’ll kill him myself.’ His voice rises, and Lori’s mindful of her mother upstairs.
‘Please, Dad. Keep your voice down. Mum’s trying to rest.’ She lays a hand on his arm. ‘Go home. I’ll call you if there’s any news, I promise. Or the police will. But you’re not doing any good being here.’
Fraser shakes his head. ‘I want to be around when Jake Hamilton returns.’
‘What’s the point of that? You’re not thinking straight, Dad. If they suspect he’s guilty, they’ll remand him in custody. He won’t be coming back.’
Her father draws in a breath. ‘I guess you’re right. I feel so helpless, though. Like I should be doing something, anything, to find Jessie’s killer.’
‘The best thing you can do is to go home, get some rest. You look like crap, Dad.’ Fraser’s eyes are bloodshot and he’s sporting a couple of days’ growth of beard; he’d give Dana a run for her money in the looking-like-shit stakes.
He gives her a weak smile. ‘That’s my girl. Say what you think, why don’t you?’ He stands up. ‘You’re right. I’m doing nobody any good here. Call me later, OK?’
At five o’clock Lori hears a key turn in the front door. She walks into the hallway to find Jake Hamilton standing there, his face pale. She’s stunned; why haven’t the police kept the murdering bastard in custody?
Above Lori’s head, footsteps sound. Spencer comes part way down the stairs, stopping when he sees his father. ‘Dad,’ he whispers, his voice strangled in his throat.
Jake nods at his son, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. He walks into the living room, Spencer following, Lori behind him. She’s thankful Dana’s still upstairs, presumably asleep.
Jake slumps in one of the armchairs, twisting in his seat, sweat pearling on his brow. Lori sits opposite him. Her conviction he’s hiding something returns in full force. Spencer stands beside Lori, his gaze on his father. ‘What happened, Dad?’
Jake Hamilton swallows awkwardly before replying. ‘I need to come clean about something,’ he says. ‘You must understand, Lori. I never meant to hurt your mother.’
She can hardly bring herself to look at him. ‘Did you kill my sister?’
He pales even further. ‘No. God, no, Lori. I would never do anything so terrible. You have to believe me.’
‘Why should I?’ Her tone is curt.
‘I can explain. I’ve not been completely honest, I admit.’
‘Dad, what are you talking about?’ Spencer’s voice holds fear. When his father doesn’t respond, he continues, ‘For fuck’s sake, tell us.’
Jake shifts in his seat. ‘I went out the night Jessie died.’
‘What? Where the hell did you go?’
‘I’ll come to that. The old woman next door, Mrs Richards, told the police she spotted me leaving here at eight o’clock on the night Jessie was killed. Said she saw me arrive back at ten fifteen. DC Lightfoot was rough on me. Wanted to know why I’d lied.’
‘You blame her for that?’ Lori’s incensed. ‘Of course they need to know the truth.’
‘I wish to God Dana didn’t have to find out. She’s got enough to deal with.’
‘Find out what?’
He draws in a breath. ‘I met some friends that night.’
‘If that’s true, why lie?’ A thought occurs to her. ‘Were you with another woman?’
Jake chews his lip, dropping his gaze. ‘No.’
‘Then where were you?’
‘I was playing poker. Three other guys can corroborate that.’ When she doesn’t reply, he adds, ‘I have a gambling addiction, Lori.’
‘God, Dad.’ Spencer’s tone holds anger. ‘You swore all that was behind you.’ His voice rises. ‘We made a deal. I’d give up the drugs, you’d quit the cards.’
Lori’s stunned. From somewhere she finds her voice. ‘Does Mum know?’
‘Yes. I came clean to her not long after we met. Asked her to keep it a secret from you and Jessie. I’d not played cards for a couple of years at the time. I thought I had the problem under control.’
‘Except you clearly haven’t.’
He swallows. ‘You must think I’m a complete shit. I’m no angel, I admit. But I never realised how difficult life with Dana would be.’
‘Meaning?’ Lori’s voice could freeze oceans.
‘Her illness. This weird kidney disease. When one of my poker buddies got in touch, I resisted. But everything got too much; I needed a little light relief. Thought I’d scratch the itch, get it out of my system. I love Dana, I really do. But being with her can be hard going.’
She bristles. ‘You’re blaming her?’
‘Of course not. But I’m trying to make you understand how it is for gamblers, or anyone with an addiction. We can coast along just fine, keeping the urge at bay, until something goes wrong. Things were rough for me before Jessie’s death. Problems at work, your mother’s illness. I hoped I could have one evening, just one, in which the pressure got released.’ He fixes his gaze on Lori. ‘It was a mistake to have lied. But I’m no murderer.’ He turns to Spencer. ‘And I’m sorry, son. I’ve let you down.’
‘Yeah. You have. All those lectures about me staying off drugs. You’re a hypocrite, Dad.’ Spencer gets up, strides from the room. Seconds later, the front door slams.
Lori’s uncertain what to think. Jake’s a liar; what’s more, she can’t forget how his eyes used to roam over Jessie. But clearly the police are satisfied with his alibi or they wouldn’t have released him. Which means she was wrong. The man before her isn’t her sister’s killer.
Lori gets up, her jaw set tight. ‘I’ve heard enough,’ she says, her tone biting. She walks from the room, goes upstairs, throws herself on her bed, before remembering her
promise to call her father. When she pulls out her phone, she sees she’s missed a couple of calls from Aiden. Disquiet nibbles at her as she considers his over-the-top eagerness to talk with her, to discuss the investigation.
A thought strikes her, causing her unease to double, triple. The tail end of their conversation, when she talked about Jessie’s pottery, her paintings, her plans for art college. What was it Aiden said?
She wrote poetry, too, didn’t she?
How did he know that? Lori’s certain she’s never told Aiden of Jessie’s interest in haiku. And the two of them never met. So how come he’s aware of her love of poetry?
A shard of ice forms in Lori’s belly. Perhaps the two of them did meet, and more. Could Aiden be the forbidden fruit referred to by her sister?
She turns the idea over in her head, before dismissing it. He’s her friend, and she can’t, she won’t, believe that of him. Ryan’s right. She has to let the police do their job and catch Jessie’s killer, not torture herself with endless speculation. Hasn’t she already got it wrong with Jake?
With a sigh, she hauls herself upright. Time to call her father, and then make a start on tonight’s stir-fry. She’s arranged with Ryan she’ll eat at home before they meet for a drink later. The way she’s feeling, it won’t come a moment too soon.
Lori’s just finished preparing the food when Dana eventually comes downstairs. Once she does, the shit hits the fan for Jake Hamilton, big time.
‘Where were you the night Jessie was killed?’ Her voice is steady, and her self-control is more menacing than an outright display of temper. ‘Don’t lie. Mrs Richards from next door came round after they arrested you. Told me you left the house that evening.’
Lori listens as Jake tells her. Dana receives the news with folded arms, tightened lips. That night Jake Hamilton sleeps on the sofa, and leaves for work early on Thursday morning without a word to anyone.
‘Why don’t you kick him out?’ Lori demands after the door shuts behind him.
Dana sighs. ‘Not sure I’ve got the energy. Before Jessie’s death, I’d have booted him out faster than he could catch his breath. I swore, after I divorced your father, I’d not put up with crap from a man again. Now, though – it’s more than I can cope with.’
‘You still want Spencer to leave?’
‘Yes.’ Her mother’s tone brooks no argument. ‘A gambler under my roof is one thing. But an ex-junkie who I suspect killed my daughter – that’s a whole different ball game.’
Mid-morning that same Thursday. The Golden house is silent now both Jake and Lori, who’s bagged some temping work, are gone. Dana has returned to bed, her grief wrapped tight around her. Every night dreadful pictures flash across her mind. Her child, bruised and battered, her life ebbing away as the flex bites into her neck. Every day the terrible montage of horror returns to haunt her thoughts. Despite the fact the police haven’t arrested Spencer Hamilton, she’s convinced he’s guilty. She’d give anything to claw his eyes from their sockets, tear off his face, stamp on his prick. Prison’s too good for men who rape, who kill. Dana pictures a cell bunk, three meals a day, do-gooders naïvely believing such individuals deserve redemption. Sour contempt fills her. Her eyes squeeze shut, willing away the images. Will the horror of Jessie’s murder ever lessen?
These days she’s barely speaking to Jake. An emotional wall divides them: on one side her conviction of Spencer’s guilt, on the other Jake’s assertion that his son is innocent. Dana snorts to herself. Yeah, right. An ex-junkie, and now, it seems, an arsonist to boot. Something else Jake neglected to mention, but which he let slip last night during another heated row. Seems his druggie son was expelled from school for repeatedly torching waste bins near the headmaster’s study. Not too far a stretch to believe he’s also guilty of setting fire to the house where Jessie died. As well as 35 The Larches.
Not for the first time, she wishes Fraser was here. He’s a philandering bastard, but the flame he lit inside her has never died, despite their bitter divorce. A flicker still exists, one with the potential to blaze into life again someday. Or rather, it did. Now, their dead daughter divides them, and Dana has no idea how to bridge the gap. Or even whether she should. Fraser, these days, is unreachable in his grief.
Exhausted, she dozes.
When she wakes, it’s two o’clock, the pale afternoon sun striking through the curtains onto her face. She’d not meant to sleep in, but her self-neglect means she’s always tired these days. She struggles from her bed, fighting the urge to seek refuge under her duvet and never surface again. In the bathroom, she uses the toilet, brushes her teeth, splashes water on her face. As she raises her gaze to the mirror, she’s shocked at the sight that greets her. Lori’s right to be worried; she looks like shit. What with the trauma, the grief, her illness has taken a back seat; Dana’s been attending dialysis but doing little else to stay healthy. If it weren’t for Lori, she’d not give a damn about a transplant, but her remaining child doesn’t deserve to lose her mother as well. She’s the only reason to carry on living. Because she can’t think of any others.
All her thoughts these days are dark. More and more they return to her past. It’s as though she’s spiralling downward, and it’s impossible to stop herself from tumbling into an abyss of misery. So many mistakes she’s made. So many causes for regret.
Her father, with whom she was never close. A man who failed her when she needed him most.
Kelly Somers, with her soft red curls. The horror that led, years later, to her death.
Finally, Michael. Sadness pierces her, as it always does when she allows herself to dwell on him. She wonders where he is, what Michael McNally is doing right now. Does he ever think about her? Remorse stings her, sharp and terrible. God, she’s messed up so badly.
Back in the bedroom, Dana opens a drawer in her bedside cabinet. Her hands delve towards the bottom, seeking the envelope only she knows is there. She rarely permits herself this indulgence, but today she’s in the mood for self-flagellation. She takes out the envelope, extracting its contents, her fingers brushing over what’s inside. Bitter regret floods her again. Dana’s never been religious. So why has a burning question haunted her since her daughter’s murder? Today it nags at her again, won’t let go. Is Jessie’s death punishment for her mother’s sins?
‘Michael,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think I had a choice.’ His eyes stare back at her, flat and accusing, from the photograph.
Nearly midnight that same evening. Not far from where Dana Golden lies sleepless in bed, the wheel is flicked on a cigarette lighter. The resulting flame is touched against a length of rag, causing a yellow tongue to shoot upwards. Then the burning cloth is dropped onto the petrol that’s been poured through the open window. Within milliseconds, another building is ablaze.
Friday brings an early-morning ring at the doorbell. When Lori answers, DC Lightfoot and DC Timpson are on the step. They’re here about the fire at The Larches, she surmises. Lightfoot would have brought Baldwin, not Timpson, had they needed to discuss Jessie’s murder investigation.
Lightfoot clears her throat. ‘We’d like to speak with your mother again, Lori.’
Lori stands aside. ‘Please. Come in.’ She gestures towards the living room. ‘Any leads in connection with the arson attack at The Larches?’
‘No.’ Lori waits, but Lightfoot doesn’t elaborate. ‘Can you ask your mother to join us, please? I assume she’s here?’
‘Yes. She’s still in bed. Is this anything I can help with? Mum’s not well.’
Lightfoot shakes her head. ‘We need to speak with Mrs Golden.’ Then she appears to relent. ‘Although, if you wish to stay, I have no objection.’
Lori goes upstairs, brings Dana down with her. Her mother’s movements are slow, as though she’s wading through treacle. The flesh around her eyes is puffy, their whites threaded with red veins. She looks, Lori thinks, like a woman in her fifties. Like someone who’s losing the will to live.
�
��What’s this about?’ Dana sits beside Lori on the sofa, Lightfoot and Timpson opposite in the armchairs. ‘Have you arrested whoever set fire to my property at The Larches?’
Lightfoot leans forward. ‘No. I have to tell you, Mrs Golden, there was another arson attack last night. At 14 Copper Beeches. Do you have any connection with that address?’ Lori realises that Lightfoot knows the correct response. She’ll have checked the Land Registry records before coming.
Dana’s brow creases. ‘It’s another rental property I own.’ She pales. ‘Someone set fire to it?’
‘Yes. A neighbour told us the tenants are away on holiday. That house was also badly damaged. Like The Larches, the property showed signs of a break-in.’ Lightfoot’s expression turns serious. ‘What with the fire at twenty-six The Elms, where your daughter died, that makes three houses connected to you that have suffered blazes recently.’
‘And you think my mother might be responsible?’ Anger seethes in Lori’s tone.
Lightfoot’s face is deadpan. ‘We’re just making enquiries, that’s all. I have to ask you, though, Mrs Golden; where were you last night?’
‘I was here. Where I am most of the time, apart from my dialysis appointments.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘I was here with Mum yesterday evening,’ Lori says. ‘So were Jake and Spencer.’
The questions continue: how many years has Dana owned the property, how long have her tenants lived there, have they ever posed any problem? Dana answers mechanically, Lori chipping in wherever possible. Eventually Lightfoot stands, as does Timpson. ‘That’ll be all, Mrs Golden. No doubt we’ll have further questions in due course. I must warn you, though; we have to consider the possibility that someone is targeting your properties. With malicious intent towards you.’
After Lori closes the door on the police officers, she heads to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make a pot of coffee for us. Toast too. I’ve not had breakfast yet.’ Right now she’s desperate to get food inside her mother. Herself too. Like Dana, Lori hasn’t been eating properly recently.