by Maggie James
‘Yes. They’ve charged him with her murder.’
‘I reckon he’s guilty as hell. And what about that vile card you mentioned your mother got? Most likely he’s the one who sent it. The guy’s one malicious bastard and he’s been pouring acid onto your family’s wounds.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Lori.’ Ryan’s voice is firm, full of conviction. ‘You’re torturing yourself. I know you don’t want to admit it, but the police have their man. Spencer Hamilton’s the one who killed Jessie.’
‘But he never paid her any attention that way.’
‘Both of them must have been better actors than you’ve given them credit for. Makes sense; they must have realised their relationship wouldn’t go down well with your mother.’
He has a point, Lori concedes; she’s thought the same thing herself. Except for the haiku poem and Marcie’s confirmation that Jessie was seeing someone tall, good-looking. That part doesn’t stack up.
‘Be honest, babe. Spencer Hamilton has no credible alibi. Jessie’s body had his DNA on it. He’s guilty, has to be. How else do you explain the evidence against him?’
‘I can’t. It’s hard to get my head around him being a murderer, though. He’s not the type.’
‘Is there a type? Most convicted killers look like ordinary people, don’t they?’
Lori shakes her head. ‘I just can’t believe he’d do something so terrible.’
Ryan’s arms squeeze her closer. ‘Too soft-hearted, that’s you. Let’s say you’re right, though. If Spencer Hamilton is innocent, someone else must be guilty. What about that Aiden guy? The one who’s been acting so weird?’
‘No way, Ryan. We’ve discussed this. He’s my friend, remember?’ Lori recalls her suspicions concerning Damon Quinn. ‘His housemate, though – I’m not so sure about him.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Lori tells Ryan about meeting Damon in Cabot Circus, Jessie’s flirtatious behaviour, her endless questions.
‘It might be him who Jessie was seeing in secret,’ she finishes. ‘He ticks all the boxes. What’s more, she definitely fancied the guy.’
‘Maybe. He sounds a possibility all right.’
Lori nods. ‘The thing is, without more to go on there’s nothing I can do.’
‘How’s your mother holding up?’
‘She’s hanging in there. I’m desperately worried about her, though, especially now some maniac’s torching her properties. The arson attacks have piled even more stress on her.’ She shifts position, away from the damp patch on Ryan’s shirt. ‘She’s not sleeping, refuses to eat. Won’t be doing her kidney issues any favours.’
‘She’s on dialysis, right?’
‘Yes. The tragedy was, Mum had a donor lined up. A perfect match, all systems go. Now she doesn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
Lori swallows back her pain. ‘It was Jessie. My sister was to have been a living donor for Mum.’
‘Wow.’ Amazement in Ryan’s tone. ‘She offered your mother a kidney?’
‘Yes. Jessie suggested it not long after her fifteenth birthday. Mum said no way, that she didn’t want Jessie to suffer for her sake. My sister was determined, though. Read up on the subject, assured Mum people only need one kidney, begged her to accept one of hers. Eventually she wore Mum down.’
‘Not sure I could do something so selfless,’ Ryan says.
‘Not many people could.’ Lori’s voice wobbles. ‘Jessie was special. She’d watched Mum’s health decline, hated her spending hours each week hooked up to a dialysis machine. The hospital did a tissue test, found she was a match. It often happens with close relatives.’
‘Isn’t fifteen too young for such a major decision?’
‘Yes. Everything was agreed in principle, but the doctors told Jessie she had to wait until her eighteenth birthday. If she still wanted to go ahead, the operation would have taken place in two years’ time. Now it won’t. With Jessie’s death, Mum’s lost any immediate hope of an organ transplant.’
Ryan blows out a breath. ‘What about you? Would you consider being a donor?’
‘I can’t.’ Not for the first time, Lori wishes things were different. ‘I’ve been tested. Despite being her daughter, I’m not a tissue match. We just have to hope a suitable kidney becomes available.’
‘If it does, will she have the operation on the NHS or go private?’
‘She’ll go private, probably at the Bupa hospital. Mum’s well-off, came into money when my grandfather died. He made a fortune from property. That’s how she ended up with five rental houses, why she doesn’t need to work.’ Lori’s voice shakes, and she’s aware the tears aren’t far away. ‘She’s a wonderful mother. If I could give her one of my kidneys, I would.’
‘And there’s no one else who can? No aunts, uncles, cousins, anyone like that?’
‘My Uncle Ross. If I can find him. He’s an elusive guy, though.’
‘I didn’t know you had an uncle. You’ve never mentioned him.’
‘He’s very much a mystery man.’ Lori laughs, but the sound is brittle. ‘I’ve never even seen a photo of him. Don’t have a clue where he is. Mum lost contact with him years ago. She says he’s probably abroad. They were never close, it seems.’
‘So how are you planning to track him down?’
‘I’ll try posting on Facebook again. The first attempt didn’t succeed, but maybe I’ll get lucky second time around.’
Ryan’s silent for a while. Then: ‘It’s worth a try. Listen, when your mother is better, I’d love to meet her. Your dad too.’
‘Mum’s been asking about you. She’s fragile, though. Says she doesn’t feel up to it right now.’
He kisses her hair. ‘We’ll make it happen, babe. Maybe after Jessie’s funeral.’ His arms pull her closer. ‘There’s no rush.’
Relief hits Lori. He has a point. They’ll get there, when the time’s right.
‘In the meantime, how about you meet my parents instead?’
She hasn’t expected that. Stunned, she’s incapable of replying.
‘I mean it, babe. Come to London with me one weekend.’
Lori smiles. A ray of hope among the angst. ‘I’d love that.’
The next day, another malicious card arrives for Dana. Lori’s in the kitchen, pouring water into Oreo’s bowl, when she hears the post thud onto the mat. As she sorts through the bundle, she recognises the typed label at once. Fury flying from her fingers, she tears open the envelope, tugging out the contents. Another sympathy card, bearing roses this time, the message ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ slashed across their stems.
BURN IN HELL, JESSIE GOLDEN, it reads inside. SAME AS YOUR MOTHER WILL. Before Lori’s aware of her actions, she’s torn the card into confetti. Angry sounds rip from her throat. Is Ryan right? Might Spencer be behind these awful cards? He could be, despite being in custody; this latest one is postmarked the day before his arrest. Or is it some malicious weirdo? One thing’s for sure: whoever’s doing this gets off on causing her mother additional suffering. She’d like to kill the bastard.
She makes a decision. From now on, she’ll intercept the mail whenever possible. She’s working afternoons at present, temping on reception at a firm of accountants, meaning she can access the day’s mail before Dana gets up. The anguish in her mother’s face over the first card steals into her mind, along with Dana’s words. I’m not a fit mother, followed by I’m being punished, after news of the fire at 14 Copper Beeches. Impossible for her to believe such things, surely?
The week after, the agency secures her a new temping contract, from nine to five daily, rendering Lori’s attempts to guard the post futile. From Monday to Thursday, everything’s fine; no sign of any malicious cards. Not so on Friday, though. When she returns home around five thirty, the house is silent. Dana’s car gone from the garage; it’s dialysis night. The first thing she does after entering the kitchen is flip open the lid to the bin. Scattered on top, like white petals, are the remna
nts of another card. Meaning Spencer definitely isn’t the culprit. Lori reaches in, extracting a few fragments. On the first, she reads the word ‘whore’, after which she lets them fall from her fingers. The scraps float down to join the rest of Dana’s latest poison-pen missive.
‘Fuck you, weirdo,’ Lori snarls.
Nearly midnight on that same Friday. In the Fishponds suburb of the city, a man is breaking into a disused warehouse. Padding inside, he douses everything with petrol: old storage boxes, a couple of wooden desks, some rolls of cloth. Afterwards he walks outside into the darkness and flicks a lighter, holding it to the end of a rag, watching as the flame ignites the cloth. Then, with lightning speed, he tosses the burning rag into the petrol-soaked building, before slamming the door shut, running to where he can watch. Excitement pounds through his veins at the thought of another blaze, fast and furious, lighting up the night sky.
Chapter 10
FUNDRAISING
Saturday afternoon, and Lori’s at Mangotsfield Common, struggling with an old pasting table. The legs won’t fold down; it’s been in the attic of the Golden house for too long, and they’ve seized up with age. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’ She hates to ask Damon Quinn for favours, but the damn thing’s not budging.
Damon doesn’t reply, but takes the table, wrenching the legs into place in two deft moves, placing it beside her car. The boot is open, revealing an interior crammed with bric-a-brac. Lori’s paid for a pitch at the weekly sale held on the Common, her intention being to raise funds for her mother’s dialysis unit. Such a shame Ryan can’t be here instead, but he’d told her last night that he was thinking of leaving his job, starting his own building supplies firm. Hence his decision to scout the area this weekend for possible premises to rent. She did ask Aiden, but he’d arranged to see his parents, forgetting he said he’d help. Celine wasn’t free either. Then Aiden called, saying Damon had volunteered, leaving Lori unable to refuse, despite her suspicions of the man.
‘How long have you been a firefighter?’ she asks him, more to break the tension than out of real interest.
He moves to stand behind her, too close for her liking, and she inches away. ‘Five years.’
At a loss for what else to say, Lori reaches into her car boot, dragging out an armful of old clothes, relics of her own and Celine’s wardrobes. In the back seat are boxes of books, video games and DVDs, all Damon’s contributions. She thrusts the bundle of clothes into his arms. ‘Make yourself useful. Hang these over there.’ She gestures towards the clothes rail she’s borrowed from Celine, unconcerned by her curt tone.
Damon complies without a word. Lori’s mind is on other things anyway. Back home, the atmosphere remains tense. Jake still lives with them, but only just. She’s betting it won’t be long before Dana kicks him out. Her mother rarely speaks these days, spending more and more time in bed. Her mental decline scares Lori, although she’s baulked at suggesting anti-depressants. She doubts the idea would receive a positive response.
Lori reaches into her car, grabs a case of DVDs, arranges them on the pasting table. Next she pulls out a box of books, her eyes skimming the titles as she sorts through them. Damon comes over, picks up a Stephen King novel.
‘That one’s mine,’ he says. ‘I’ve read everything he’s written.’
Lori scans the line of books, to those of a younger Damon: Doctor Who, Star Trek, Alien Invasion. He’s still behind her, his proximity unnerving. She pulls out a Star Wars annual to occupy her hands, give her something to comment on. The cover is dirty, tattered, its ragged edges testament to frequent reading.
‘Decided it was high time I got rid of those,’ Damon remarks.
The heat from his body warms her back. Keen to escape, she returns to the car, hauls out another box of books. Damon retreats to the clothes rail, sliding T-shirts onto hangers, his expression shuttered. Lori’s aware her behaviour borders on rude, but she’s past caring. One by one she stacks the books on the table, glancing at the titles. More boy fiction, equally battered. She opens a Doctor Who annual, spots words written inside the cover. The handwriting is clumsy, boyish. Except the name she’s staring at isn’t that of Damon Quinn.
This book belongs to Michael McNally.
She glances at Damon, puzzled, but he’s busy hanging clothes. Possibilities run through her head. A parental divorce, remarriage, a new surname signalling a fresh start. Why alter his first one, though? Try as she might, Lori can’t come up with a scenario that explains why the child once called Michael McNally might end up as Damon Quinn.
She shakes her head; isn’t the explanation far simpler? Most likely the young Damon swapped books with a friend called Michael McNally. She unpacks the rest of the stuff to sell, dismissing the Doctor Who book from her mind, her thoughts turning to Aiden. She’s arranged to go to his place for pizza tonight.
‘My treat,’ he told her when they spoke on the phone. ‘To say sorry for forgetting about the boot sale.’ From what he said, Lori’s confident Mr Silent, on duty that evening, won’t be there.
‘Hey, Ms Fundraiser,’ Aiden says later, waving Lori inside. ‘How did today go?’
‘Got rid of everything. Made just over a hundred quid.’
‘Not bad going. Listen, Damon’s here. Seems his roster got changed at short notice.’
Unease hits Lori; she’d been hoping for a chance to talk with Aiden alone. She’s no choice but to smile politely at Damon as she walks into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa, his right hand nursing a can of beer. His eyes meet hers, then slide away, as though the sight of her burns him. Considering her lack of manners earlier, she’s not surprised.
‘Hi,’ he manages, the syllable indistinct. Lori mumbles a reply, noting how Aiden has commandeered the beanbag. Her only option is to sit beside Damon on the sofa.
‘I’ve already got the pizzas cooking,’ Aiden says. ‘Listen, I need to ask you about Spencer. I can’t get my head around his arrest. He’s been charged with Jessie’s murder? Really?’
‘Yes. He’s been remanded in custody. Mum’s convinced he’s guilty.’
‘What about you?’
Lori shakes her head. ‘At first I couldn’t believe him capable of killing anyone. But all the evidence points to him being Jessie’s killer.’
Aiden bites his lip. ‘I don’t know him that well, apart from when I’ve met him with you at the Bierkeller. I agree, though. Him being a killer doesn’t fit.’
‘Seems we might both be wrong.’
‘The thing is, I don’t believe he was interested in Jessie. Not sexually.’
‘Neither do I. What makes you say that? Did he mention something about her?’
‘Didn’t have to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know Spencer likes guys as well as girls, right?’
‘Sure. He didn’t talk about it much, but, yeah, I knew he fancied men.’
‘He came on to me one night,’ Aiden says.
Lori’s not surprised. ‘I saw the way he used to look at you.’
‘Drunk as a skunk, he was. Told me he was bisexual. I got the impression that, even if he does swing both ways, his focus had shifted to men, at least for now.’ He shrugs. ‘I’d better check the pizzas.’
Aiden stands up, walks into the kitchen; an awkward silence descends on the room. Damon angles himself to face Lori. ‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ he says.
‘What?’ She’s been so immersed in her thoughts, he has to repeat himself, adding, ‘I wanted to tell you earlier. You seemed distracted, though.’
Lori bites her lip, remembering her curt behaviour that afternoon.
‘I didn’t really know Jessie,’ Damon continues. ‘Only met her a couple of times. But she seemed a nice kid.’
A couple of times? A warning sounds in Lori’s head, but before she can explore its implications, Aiden brings in the pizzas. Lori’s relieved when the conversation steers away from her sister’s murder.
‘When’s your next shift?’
Aiden asks Damon through a mouthful of Hawaiian Feast.
His housemate frowns. ‘I’m on the night roster tomorrow. Done too many of those recently.’
Lori spots her chance to pose a few well-chosen questions, check how he responds. ‘Been a lot of fires recently,’ she remarks. ‘With this arsonist on the loose, I mean. Did you know Mum’s houses have been targeted?’
Damon nods. ‘Aiden told me. Besides, I was part of the crew that got called to a couple of them. One thing’s for sure, this guy’s on a roll. There was another blaze at a warehouse last night in Fishponds.’
Lori shudders. ‘Let’s hope they catch the sick bastard soon. How can people enjoy setting fire to things?’
Damon shifts in his seat. ‘It’s commoner than you think. And whoever’s doing this isn’t an arsonist.’
She’s confused. ‘Then what the hell are they?’
‘Arson’s done for personal gain, often financial. Insurance scams and the like. This is pyromania, plain and simple. A pyromaniac gets his – it’s almost always a man – kicks from starting blazes, the bigger the better. And they’re usually the ones who alert the emergency services.’
Wow. Seems fire’s a topic with the power to unleash Mr Silent’s tongue. ‘Why would they do that? Do they subconsciously want to get caught?’
‘They get off on watching the blaze being doused. It’s part of the fun.’
‘And it’s one person doing all the fires in Bristol? The industrial units, Mum’s houses? All of them done by one guy?’
‘Probably. The recent ones, anyway. Those have all used petrol as an accelerant. Besides, there have been too many fires to pin on separate property owners trying to scam their insurance companies. No, Bristol has a firebug at work.’
Who may also be a killer, Lori thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, she queries, ‘A firebug?’
‘Our name for such people. Either they’re pyros or firebugs. Most of the guys at the station prefer firebug.’
Lori thinks back to what Dana told her about Spencer’s expulsion from school for arson. ‘These firebugs,’ she says. ‘Do they start small, then move on to bigger things?’