by Maggie James
She realises Fraser’s expecting a response. ‘Will you be able to manage that?’
‘Yes. I want things to change between us, Lori.’
The sincerity in his voice causes tears to spike her eyes again. ‘Then I’d like that too.’
‘I love you, baby girl. Always have, always will.’
Her tears threaten to fall. Lori blinks them away. What her father’s said is wonderful, but it fails to heal an old wound. Words tremble on the edge of her tongue.
But you loved Jessie more, she thinks, but doesn’t say. Dark thoughts, reminiscent of the movie Sophie’s Choice, edge into Lori’s mind. A parent, forced to pick which child lives, which one dies. Given the opportunity, wouldn’t her father choose vibrant, exuberant Jessie, his favourite, rather than her?
It’s as though he can read her mind. ‘I’ve always had the impression . . .’ Fraser inhales, then releases a long breath. When he doesn’t continue, Lori looks up. Rarely has she seen him so ill at ease.
‘What?’ He’s not meeting her gaze again, she notices.
The words spill forth. ‘That you thought I preferred Jessie.’
The silence moves from uneasy to downright uncomfortable. ‘You did,’ she says. God, it hurts to admit it. His affection for her has always been faded, washed out, whereas his love for Jessie shone in full colour. Is that why she’s always felt herself a mere moon compared to the sun that was her sister? She’s witnessed it a thousand times; the way Fraser would smile at Jessie, his eyes as they drank in his youngest daughter. I want things to change between us. She wants that too. But why has it taken Jessie’s death to spark her father’s epiphany?
‘You’re wrong,’ Fraser says. ‘Your mother and I have always loved both of you the same.’
Lori shakes her head. ‘It never seemed that way. Mum, yes. You, not so much.’
‘It’s just that . . .’ Fraser Golden clears his throat. ‘Well, you’ve heard her talk about Jessie’s birth.’
Lori’s listened to the story often enough. Jessie’s arrival took place after thirty-five weeks of pregnancy. Along with her cleft lip, she suffered breathing problems, requiring a lengthy stay in an incubator. In contrast, Dana went full-term with Lori, no complications.
‘Something like that changes you,’ Fraser continues. ‘Seeing her so small, so fragile, needing oxygen. An operation when she was still so tiny. It made me more protective of her, I guess. And I ended up getting hard-wired that way.’
Lori’s thoughts roam back through her childhood, to her father’s frequent calls of ‘Be careful!’ that followed the infant Jessie. Admonitions he’d not found necessary with his eldest daughter. She recalls instead his ‘You go, girl!’ as she wobbled along on her first bike. As a child, she always equated his heightened concern for Jessie with greater affection. Wrongly, it seems.
‘I’ll say it again.’ Fraser’s voice is hoarse with emotion. ‘I love you, Lori Lamb. Every bit as much as Jessie. Maybe one day you’ll believe me.’
His use of her childhood nickname snags at her heart. But the insecurities of a lifetime don’t vanish in an instant. Nevertheless, a tiny seed of happiness grows within her. She realises moons are as beautiful as suns, just in a more understated way. He doesn’t love her less, never has. He’s just expressed it differently.
After she returns home, her heart a little lighter, Lori goes into Dana’s bedroom, busying herself before the wardrobe, placing laundry on hangers. Her mother’s watching television downstairs, and Lori’s keen to sort this while she has the chance. She’s taken over all domestic tasks since Jessie’s murder, and if it’ll help Dana’s health, then she’ll cook and clean twenty-four hours a day. Her fingers fold the pairs of jeans from the basket, stacking them on the shelf spanning the top of the wardrobe. As she puts the last pair in place, her hands brush against a piece of paper, partially tucked under an old shoe box. Lori pushes it back into place, then, curious, she pulls it out. Her mother won’t mind. They have no secrets from each other.
It’s an order of service for a funeral at Canford Crematorium. Lori stares at the photo, at the name she doesn’t recognise. From the thick cream paper smiles a young woman, her eyes signalling her unhappiness despite her upturned mouth. Her irises are huge, sitting above dark shadows of fatigue, their expression haunted, as though their owner has already tired of living. Soft red curls fall to her shoulder, framing a pixie face. Her cheekbones are so sharp they could slice bread, except that Lori doubts much food finds its way into Ms Pixie’s stomach. Everything about her screams anorexic. Under the photo, the caption names her as Kelly Susan Somers, aged twenty when she died three months ago.
Lori turns the name over in her head, wondering why it’s familiar. She doesn’t recall Dana ever referring to anyone called Kelly Somers, or attending her funeral; the girl in the photo is young enough to be her daughter, so isn’t likely to have been a friend. She tucks the pamphlet back under the shoe box, and it’s then that recollection comes to her. Linked to her grandfather, shortly before his death, a sick and confused old man showing what Lori now realises were the symptoms of early onset dementia.
One day, two months before he died, Dana visited her father, taking Lori and Jessie with her. John Reynolds’s face was mottled, puffy, his gaze unfocused as he stared at Lori; he’d called her Lisa on the few occasions he’d spoken to her that day. Now he fixed her with his yellowing eyes, a bead of spittle forming in one corner of his mouth. Then he extended his right index finger towards her.
‘I know you, girl,’ he said. ‘You’re Kelly Somers.’ His tone held an accusation, rendering Lori unsure how to respond.
Her mother shot to her feet. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, Dad. Lori, Jessie, come with me, please.’
‘Kelly Somers,’ pronounced her grandfather, his tone angry, aggressive. He hauled himself upright in his chair, the blob of spit edging down his chin. ‘Little tart, that’s what you are.’
‘Dad! That’s enough. Girls, into the kitchen now.’ Her mother’s voice didn’t allow for dissent. As Lori, along with Jessie, was ushered from the room, her grandfather continued his diatribe. ‘Knickers round your ankles, like a common whore . . .’ At that, Dana pulled the door shut behind her, reducing John Reynolds’s words to a mere drone. She refused to answer Jessie’s eager questions: ‘What’s a whore, Mummy?’ ‘Who’s Kelly Somers?’ The word ‘knickers’ amused her seven-year-old daughter, causing her to giggle about it all the way home, despite Dana’s displeasure.
Now, nine years later, the memory swims back into Lori’s head. She’s sure the name her grandfather said was Kelly Somers. The question remains, though: who was she?
Dana might not even realise she’s kept the funeral notice, Lori decides, thrusting the matter from her mind. She has other concerns. When will the police arrest Jessie’s killer?
The following morning, it seems. Shortly after eight o’clock on Sunday, Lightfoot and Baldwin arrive at the Goldens’ house, along with DC Campbell. Without warning the hallway is filled with noise, voices, loud and urgent. ‘We need to speak with your son, Mr Hamilton. Where is he?’
When Spencer descends the stairs, Lightfoot says the words that shock Lori to her core. ‘Spencer Hamilton, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Jessica Golden . . .’
Dana launches herself at him, her fists flying, causing DC Campbell to move swiftly to restrain her. Lori stares at Spencer in shock. Beside her, Jake remains mute, his face drained of colour. When she glances at him, he looks as though his whole world has collapsed.
‘You bastard!’ Dana’s scream holds a wealth of hatred. Her eyes resemble a mad woman’s. Spit flies from her mouth. She continues to struggle in Campbell’s hold as Lightfoot and Baldwin lead Spencer down the path to the waiting police car.
Lori wets her dry lips. ‘The DNA from Jessie matched Spencer’s?’
‘We can’t reveal details from an ongoing investigation,’ is the reply. Campbell’s eyes tell a different story, h
owever. Yes, is the message they flash at Lori. Dear God. How did she get it so wrong about a guy she’s always liked so much?
Once the car transporting Spencer to Bridewell police station leaves, Campbell releases her grip on Dana, who slaps Jake hard across the face. ‘I knew he was a murderer,’ she spits at him, venom in her voice. Then she runs upstairs, her bedroom door slamming behind her.
Chapter 9
CARDS
Later that morning, the house is silent, oppressive. Dana has closeted herself in her bedroom again. As for Jake, he left a while ago, telling Lori he intended to speak with DC Lightfoot as soon as possible.
‘I’ll go to Bridewell, wait as long as I need to,’ he said, determination in his voice. ‘Until I persuade the police Spencer’s innocent.’ Not an easy task, probably impossible, but Lori admires the way he’s rallying round his son. She’s also keen to escape, if only for a few minutes, to somewhere she can ponder Spencer’s arrest. If he’s guilty, and the DNA match proclaims he must be, then she’s misjudged him, and badly. Instead of the shy, vulnerable guy she thought she knew, the Golden household has been harbouring a snake.
A walk in the fresh air is what she needs; she’ll go to the shops for bread, then head to St George Park. Please, God, she thinks, don’t let those two women be there. Or either of those slimy reporters.
Her wish is granted. And yet not. There’s no sign of Mr Cheap Suit, or the female journalist, but instead Todd McIntyre from four doors down appears, a man whose enormous belly repulses her every time they meet. Whatever the weather, he’s always sweaty, and his nose perpetually shines with grease. She thinks of him as Butterball Man.
‘Been meaning to tell you,’ he says, oblivious to the way she diverts her gaze. ‘Terrible shame about Jessie. Such a lovely girl.’ He’s fishing, but Lori’s determined not to take the bait.
‘Thank you.’ She wouldn’t be surprised if this slimeball was the one feeding the newspapers with the crappy headlines she’s read over the past few days whenever she’s ventured to the shops. Gems such as ‘Troubled Teen Struggled to Cope with Parents’ Divorce’. Her sister is dead, and the papers are focusing on the Goldens, rather than the scumbag who choked the life from Jessie. They’re clearly desperate to dig up family secrets, a tawdry attempt to sell more copies. At the thought, tears wet her eyes; she hates the fact Todd McIntyre will have seen them. She pictures the headline: ‘Sister’s Sorrow at Jessie’s Death’.
‘I saw the police take Spencer away earlier,’ Butterball Man says, edging closer to Lori, who inches backwards as a waft of stale garlic and onions reaches her. ‘They say, don’t they, that it’s usually someone close to home?’
‘Got to go,’ she informs him, her tone curt. If he’s insensitive enough to tell her what a tragedy Jessie’s death is, or utters clichés like ‘taken too soon’, Lori will shatter into pieces right here in the street. She does her best to thrust her sweaty neighbour from her mind as she heads towards the local Co-op, but her torment continues after she enters. Two middle-aged women stop their conversation when they see her, then resume, their tones hushed. When Lori pays for the bread, the cashier, a fifty-something man with hooded eyes, gazes at her for a fraction too long, making her aware he knows who she is. Snatching her change, she flees from everyone’s stares.
Her footsteps take her in the direction of St George Park, as planned. Once there, she walks beneath the winter-stripped trees, glad to be alone at last. The morning air is chilly, and last night’s dew is still frozen on the grass, the cold of the day meaning few people are around. In the distance she sees a young girl, her hands thrust in her jacket pockets, kicking at one of the park’s benches. Something about her reminds Lori of Jessie: similar height and build, same long blonde hair. Pain squeezes her heart. Is this how it will be? Will tears prick her eyes every time she spots someone who resembles her sister? It’s all she can do to prevent herself from collapsing, sobbing, onto the frosty ground.
Lori drags in a lungful of freezing air. Get a grip, she tells herself sternly. She continues in the direction of the girl, her thoughts elsewhere, until she’s within a few metres of her. The sound of a muttered ‘Oh, shit’ shakes her back into the moment. The girl is staring at her, her eyes wide and panicked. Then she turns and runs. As she does, recognition slams into Lori.
‘Marcie!’ she yells. ‘Marcie, come back!’ Her calls go unheeded. Marcie, Jessie’s best friend since primary school, can’t get away fast enough. Not that Lori blames her. Young for her age, self-absorbed to a fault, the girl won’t have welcomed an awkward encounter with her friend’s sister. Lori’s determined, though. She gives chase, sprinting after Marcie, shouting her name. The girl turns, a cornered look in her eyes. ‘Hi, Lori,’ she manages, her tone wary.
‘Can we talk?’ Lori hasn’t a clue what she’ll say. She needs some connection with her sister, though, meaning Marcie’s too good an opportunity to pass up.
‘OK.’ Lori can see she’s crying. ‘Oh, Marcie,’ she says. ‘Come here.’ The girl steps into Lori’s embrace, and for a while they stay that way, arms tight around each other. When Marcie does pull away, she sniffs back her tears. ‘I miss Jessie so much,’ she says.
‘Me too. Let’s sit down.’ Lori leads Marcie back to the bench. She enquires how she’s coping with her friend’s death, listens as the girl pours out her grief, shares her own. ‘The police questioned me,’ Marcie says eventually, pain in her voice. ‘It was awful.’
Lori’s reluctant to quiz her, but she needs to know. ‘Did you have any idea what Jessie had planned that night? Who she was meeting?’
Guilt creeps into Marcie’s face. ‘Sort of. Not really, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police asked me if Jessie had a secret boyfriend.’
‘And?’
Marcie sniffs again. ‘I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone. She made me promise. But I had to, didn’t I? He might be the one who killed her.’
‘Marcie.’ Lori’s tone is gentle, despite her urge to probe deeper. She realises the girl is skittish, can’t be rushed. ‘Tell me.’
Marcie gulps back tears. ‘She said she was seeing someone. How it had to stay a secret. Because he was older than her, you see. She told me her mother wouldn’t approve. That’s all I know. It all seemed so romantic. Until she ended up dead.’
Older, forbidden fruit. ‘Did she say anything else?’ Lori asks.
‘Only that he was tall, had a fantastic body, was really good-looking. That they’d been out once, and he’d asked her out again. A great kisser, she said.’
Lori nods, filing that information away for later.
‘Listen, I should go.’ Marcie stands up, then strides away, leaving Lori on the bench.
She thinks over the girl’s comments about Jessie’s secret boyfriend. Tall, fantastic body, good-looking. Impossible to describe Spencer’s craggy features that way, and his skinny five-eight frame doesn’t qualify either. So who could it have been?
A memory surfaces: Saturday afternoon, a few weeks before Jessie’s death, a shopping trip with her to Cabot Circus. The sisters are laughing, bags strung over their arms, keen to get home. They round a corner, and Damon Quinn is slap bang in front of them. Lori takes in his dark good looks, his muscular build, as well as the way his eyes slide away from hers. Not for the first time she thinks: he’s creepy, and then some.
She can tell Jessie doesn’t share her reservations. Her sister’s sixteen, simmering with adolescent hormones, stoked by the vampire novels she loves. Jessie’s staring at Damon like he’s a banquet, and she’s starving.
Once the awkward introductions are over, her sister descends into stereotypical flirting, all giggles and coy glances, as she quizzes Damon: what do you do for a living? A firefighter? How brave . . . Lori listens, amused at first, observing the way Damon responds to Jessie, although she can’t detect any real interest on his part. After a few minutes, he makes a point of checking his watch.
‘Gotta rush.
Good to see you again,’ he says to Lori. Waves of envy pour off Jessie. Later, Lori’s grilled endlessly: how old is he? Where does he live? What music does he like? Her inability to provide sufficient answers frustrates Jessie, who flounces off amid a full-blown teenage sulk.
At the time, Lori didn’t think anything of it. Now, though, she wonders. Damon Quinn is a looker, or would be if he ever smiled. Close-cropped brown hair, eyes a matching shade of mocha, neatly trimmed goatee, a silver stud in his left ear. Not to mention being six three and well built, everyone’s stereotypical image of a firefighter. The clinching factor? Aged twenty-five, he’s nine years older than Jessie. Meaning Damon Quinn fits the bill exactly as her sister’s secret boyfriend. Doubt edges into Lori’s brain, reinforced by her former conviction of Spencer’s innocence. Have the police got the wrong man?
Everything becomes too much for her: Todd McIntyre, the hooded-eyed cashier, meeting Marcie. The possibility that Spencer was wrongly arrested. Howls of pain rip from Lori as she bends double, not caring who witnesses her grief. She remains that way until she starts to shiver, her fingers and toes pinched by the cold. Then she uncurls and makes her way home. The loaf of bread remains, forgotten, beneath the bench.
That evening sees Lori in Redland, at Ryan’s place; they’re lying on his bed. She clings to him, her tears dampening his shirt. When Lori’s all cried out, she raises her head.
‘I miss Jessie so much. I can’t believe this pain will ever go away.’
‘Come here.’ She nestles closer.
‘I’m running on empty, Ryan. I’m exhausted, what with propping up Mum. As well as dealing with my own grief.’
His hand strokes her hair. ‘The police have Spencer Hamilton in custody, right?’