by Maggie James
‘What about the DNA evidence? Those scratches on your back?’
He blanches. ‘I admit I lied to the police about those. There was no drunken fight, not that I remember. The guy who I picked up – he must have clawed Jessie’s nails down my back, once he’d drugged me.’
When she doesn’t respond, he continues, ‘I only have one hope now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That the bastard will strike again, become careless. Get arrested, before another girl dies. Or gets caught setting a fire, like he did that night.’
‘What about your expulsion from school for torching waste bins?’ She’s been reading up on this after what Damon Quinn told her. ‘Not uncommon, it seems, for teenage arson to lead to rape and murder in adulthood.’
Spencer bites his lip. ‘Dad’s obviously told you and Dana about that. I was blowing off steam, nothing more. I went off the rails after Mum died.’ The mention of his mother surprises Lori; she’s always been a taboo topic. ‘It didn’t mean anything. Just teenage rebellion, fuelled by grief.’
Time to find out if he’s lying. ‘Look at me,’ Lori says, her tone a command. Spencer’s head jerks up, his eyes wary. Her gaze on him is laser-pointed, ready to ferret out any lies. For Lori, everyone else fades away, leaving just the two of them.
‘Tell me the truth. Did you kill my sister?’ she asks.
Spencer swallows nervously, but doesn’t attempt to avoid her piercing stare. ‘No. I swear on my mother’s memory I’m innocent.’
Deep in Lori’s gut, her intuition’s at war with logic, but wins the battle. What he’s revealed has shocked her, but he’s telling the truth, naked and unvarnished; she’s sure he’d never have mentioned his dead mother otherwise. And why else would he admit to being at The Larches that night? The tone of his voice, as well as the plea in his eyes, also convinces her. As do the cards, those evil missives that have continued to arrive since he was remanded in custody. And the more recent arson attacks were committed after he got banged up.
None of this will carry any weight with the police, of course. The cards could be the work of a crank. As for the fires, she guesses they’re a matter for Spencer’s lawyer to argue in court. Whatever a jury may make of the evidence, Lori’s already decided. The man sitting opposite her is innocent.
Where does that leave him, though? He’ll never survive life in prison. Hell, he looks like shit already, and he’s not been here long.
They chat some more, before time’s up. ‘You’ll come again?’ Spencer pleads.
‘Yes,’ Lori says, before she’s had time to think it through. Ryan might not approve, but he won’t try to stop her. As for Dana, no way will she tell her mother. She’d be devastated.
On her way home, her doubts intensify. If Spencer didn’t kill her sister, who did? Jessie’s death in her mother’s house, the fact she took the key, all point to her knowing her murderer. Aren’t killers usually found close to home? Jake Hamilton’s been ruled out. So who’s left?
Damon Quinn’s name slithers into Lori’s mind again. A firefighter, one she already mistrusts, with a troubled family history to boot. She considers a possible scenario. Was the shadowy male figure Spencer’s casual pick-up? Did they interrupt Damon raping Jessie, causing the other guy, who must have been one hell of a cowardly shit, to run off? Might Damon have then framed Spencer to provide an alibi? Physically, he’s more than capable of overpowering him. Sure, he’d need to have some drugs to hand, but if he’s a rapist, he might well carry a roofie or two in his pocket. Or Spencer could have bought some ketamine at Murray’s.
In Lori’s head, the idea takes root, flourishes. Without evidence, though, what can she do?
Nearly two weeks later, it’s a chilly Tuesday morning, the day of Jessie’s cremation. Lori is sitting beside her mother at Canford Crematorium, the seat hard under her bottom. God, she wishes Ryan was here, but she understands why he’s not.
‘Believe me, if I could be there with you, sweetheart, I would,’ he assured her. ‘But I still feel it’s inappropriate to meet your parents at your sister’s funeral.’
‘I agree.’
‘Soon, babe, I promise. I’ll be thinking of you, Lori.’
The memory of his soft voice warms her throughout the rest of the morning. She glances at her mother, pale and tense to her right. Jake Hamilton is sitting on the other side of Dana, staring ahead, his expression strained. Since Spencer’s arrest, the atmosphere in the Golden house has become colder than the Antarctic. Chilly silences reign at mealtimes, over which her mother shoots icicles from her eyes at Jake. Guilt by association, Lori surmises. Small wonder their relationship is unravelling like a ball of wool. The only wonder is that Dana’s not yet packed Jake’s bags, thrown them on the pavement and locked the door behind him.
To Lori’s left sits Fraser Golden, his eyes fixed on his daughter’s coffin. The tight set of his jaw betrays his anger, the strong emotions he’s suppressing. Beyond a fierce hug after his arrival today, he hasn’t connected with Lori in any way. Neither has he spoken to Dana or Jake. It’s his coping mechanism; although she understands, his stony silence still hurts her.
She shivers, hugging her jacket around her body. Like her mother, she’s dressed in black, her outfit one she bought on the shopping trip to Cabot Circus with Jessie. She recalls her sister’s laugh as she told Lori she looked hotter than a backyard bonfire in it. When she’d put it on that morning she’d cried, the memory bittersweet.
She wishes Jessie wasn’t being cremated. It’s as though her sister’s killer is having the last laugh. Didn’t he try to burn Jessie once already? Dana was uncharacteristically sharp with her daughter when she voiced the thought, however.
‘Don’t be absurd. Nobody gets buried nowadays; the graveyards are full. Besides, I have other things to worry about.’ She didn’t specify what, but Lori knows the fires at her properties have frightened Dana, as they have her daughter. Her mother’s brittle, on the point of shattering, her mood as fragile as glass. She looks particularly unwell today. Lori knows Dana isn’t sleeping, eats poorly, has lost more weight. All bad signs; her mother’s health needs to be robust, both physically and mentally, for her to have any hope of a successful kidney transplant.
She makes herself a promise. Things can’t go on this way. Once the funeral is over, she’ll renew the search for her uncle, and he’ll damn well donate a kidney to his sister. He’s her brother, for God’s sake. How can he refuse?
Lori forces her mind back to the present, refusing to dwell on that now. Today she’s here to bid goodbye to Jessie, whose coffin rests on the platform in front of her. Mahogany, the wood polished to a mirror finish, the top bearing a huge arrangement of white lilies. Hard to think that within it lies Jessie, her teenage exuberance extinguished forever. Lori chokes back a sob. Seconds later, the service begins.
Afterwards, she’s outside with the rest of the family, conscious of her father behind her. The look she caught on his face as he stood to leave wasn’t pretty, and again she gets the sense he’s barely holding his emotions in check. She’s right. The moment he’s through the door and outside in the chilly air, he lets fly at Jake Hamilton.
‘Your son . . .’ He stops, fists clenched at his sides, while he struggles for words, for breath. ‘Your son should burn in hell for what he did to my beautiful daughter. You bastard. You brought him into her home, knowing he was a drug addict, an arsonist. And you—’ He rounds on Dana, fury flying from his eyes. ‘Where the hell were you when this prick’s sorry excuse for a son was cosying up to our child? Filling her head with nonsense, grooming her, and her only sixteen? What kind of mother are you, for God’s sake?’
‘Dad, don’t,’ Lori protests, laying her hand on his arm. ‘You’re being unfair. None of this is Mum’s fault.’ Although, judging by Dana’s stricken expression, her ex-husband’s words have hit home. Beside her, Jake stands immobile, biting his lip, his gaze fixed on the ground. The people around them have fallen away, clearly e
mbarrassed by Fraser’s outburst. Out of the corner of her eye, Lori spots the funeral celebrant, probably weighing up whether he should intervene.
Fraser takes a step forward towards Jake. ‘I’m telling you—’
‘Dad, please.’ Lori’s close to tears, her emotions shimmering in her voice. ‘Jessie wouldn’t have wanted this. It’s her day today, not ours.’ Her father stops short, his gaze falling on his daughter. The fury drains from his face, to be replaced with affection. He reaches out a hand, pats her cheek, his fingers soft against her skin.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ He turns towards Dana. ‘I shouldn’t have said those things. You’ve always been a wonderful mother.’
Dana bites her lip, her eyes nailed to the ground. ‘Have I?’ she mutters, so low Lori thinks she’s the only one who’s heard. Time to go, she decides.
‘Let’s get home,’ she says, pulling at her mother’s sleeve, her eyes shooting an entreaty Jake’s way. To her relief, Dana allows her daughter to lead her back to her car.
Her mother’s silent as Lori drives them all home. The tension in the small space is so strong she can almost taste it, sour and rank, on her tongue. Nobody speaks. At least, not until after they’re back inside the Golden house. Dana takes off her coat, laying it over an armchair. Then she turns to face Jake, not bothering that Lori’s in the living room with them. ‘Fraser was right,’ she says. When Jake doesn’t reply, she steps closer. ‘Your son killed my daughter. I can’t live with that. Or you. Pack your bags and leave. Now.’
From Jake’s expression, he’s been expecting this. He doesn’t bother to argue, merely starts up the stairs.
In the kitchen, Dana fills the kettle, pulls mugs from the rack, tea bags from the canister. She flicks the switch on the kettle, then turns to face Lori. ‘I can’t bear being in the same room as him. You get that, don’t you? He makes my skin crawl.’
Lori nods, before heading to her bedroom. Once upstairs, she sees Jake stuffing clothes into a bag, his hands moving fast and furiously. As she passes, he looks up.
‘Bet you’re glad I’m going,’ he says.
Lori’s not sure how to respond. When she doesn’t reply, Jake moves closer, stands right in front of her. ‘Be honest with me. You suspected me of Jessie’s murder at one point, didn’t you?’
Words of denial hover on Lori’s tongue. Before she can voice them, Jake speaks again. ‘Don’t deny it. I saw it in your eyes. Hell, you said as much. How could you think I’d do something so vile?’
She shakes her head, mortified by what he’s asking her to reveal. ‘I can’t tell you. Don’t make me.’
‘Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?’
When she doesn’t respond, he urges, ‘Please, Lori.’
She sighs, defeated. ‘OK. But you won’t like it.’
‘Try me.’
‘You used to stare at her. A lot.’
‘What? You mean—’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ.’ Jake runs his hands through his hair, disbelief in his face. ‘I never looked at Jessie that way! For God’s sake, you couldn’t be more wrong.’
‘Don’t lie. I saw you doing it. Often.’
Jake clenches his fists. ‘I can explain. You – you’re the spitting image of your father. Same eyes, same jawline. Jessie, though . . .’ He swallows, his gaze fixed on the floor. ‘She resembled my daughter.’
Lori’s stunned. ‘You’ve never mentioned a daughter,’ she says. ‘Neither has Spencer.’
‘We don’t talk about Amber. She was eight when she died ten years ago, killed in the same car crash as her mother. Dana knows, but I asked her not to say anything for Spencer’s sake. Since their deaths, he’s suffered frequent bouts of depression.’
Lori reaches out her hand, places it on Jake’s arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘He didn’t cope well afterwards. Nor did I. Naomi and Amber, they were the talkers in our house. Always laughing, forever chatting. After they died, Spencer and I, we fell apart. Went days without speaking to each other. Neither of us could help the other.’
Lori’s silent. The reason behind Spencer’s teenage arsonist tendencies isn’t difficult to imagine.
‘After I met Jessie, I found it hard not to stare. Her hair, the way she laughed, the shape of her face. It was as though Amber had come alive again.’
‘I get that.’
‘When your sister was murdered, it brought it all back. How it feels to have someone you love ripped from you.’ He blows out a breath. ‘Having to identify Jessie’s body in that awful place – God, that was hard. I couldn’t help but think about Amber’s death.’
Lori recalls the pallor of his face, the stiffness of his posture at the mortuary, understanding the reason at last. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, aware how inadequate the words sound.
Within the hour, Jake has left the house. ‘I’ll stop by next week to collect any mail,’ he tells Dana. She doesn’t respond.
Now it’s just the two of them, plus Oreo. The house seems too big, too empty; once its four bedrooms housed five people, and three of those are now gone. Lori’s eyes wander over her mother’s face, its pallor, the way the flesh on her cheeks has slid south in recent weeks, and remembers her decision about her uncle. The sooner Dana gets a kidney transplant, the better.
Alone in her room that night, she logs onto Facebook. Time to beef up the search for her uncle; she finds new missing persons’ groups in which to post an appeal. The more the better. With a safeguard: she stipulates that anyone claiming to be Ross Reynolds must provide her maternal grandparents’ names. A precaution to ward off practical jokers. Please, please let this work, she prays. Dana’s health is reaching breaking point, and the thought terrifies her.
Chapter 12
DECISION
Nearly five weeks after being remanded in custody, Spencer Hamilton arrives at a momentous decision. Clarity comes to him one night as he tosses and turns, unable to relax into sleep while his cellmate snores and farts on the bunk below. His eyes gritty from lack of rest, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, Spencer administers a reality check to himself. The evidence against him is overwhelming, meaning he’s looking at God knows how long on remand before the case comes to court, then enduring the trial itself. He realises how shaky his testimony will seem, set against the DNA obtained from under Jessie’s nails. Not to mention his inability to remember the events of that night or to provide a credible alibi. With all that against him, he’s staring down the barrel of a possible life sentence, and in that moment his brain clears, the fog departs, allowing lucidity to dawn.
It’s not that prison life’s so terrible. From watching television shows, one might think his main concern would be big beefy guys sodomising him in the showers. Nothing like that’s happened, thank God, despite the sexual innuendo often tossed his way, more from machismo than menace. The prison officers are vigilant, too, especially with the new arrivals. So far the worst he’s endured has been the food and his cellmate’s flatulence.
On a physical level, that is. Mentally, he’s falling apart. Depression grips him by the balls, forcing him into a dark tunnel, the walls of which shrink closer every night as he lies in his bunk. The black dog has stalked him for years, luring him for months at a time into a dark pit of despair, and he senses it with him now, in his cell, its fangs bared. Sleep eludes him as the hours tick by, his mind looping through Jessie’s death, Dana’s hatred, his arrest and transfer to jail. If only he could turn back the clock – but he can’t, and now he’s facing years of this hell. Somehow the days pass, although he’s no longer alive in any meaningful way. As he lies there, Spencer’s certain of one thing. He wants to die.
Impossible to endure what passes as his life. Besides, has he truly been alive since the deaths of his mother and sister? A tragedy about which he’s never talked; better by far to bury their loss deep within, never to be spoken of. Over the years, he’s developed coping mechanisms, such as setting waste bins ablaze. The wonders of the
k-hole. Now, though, the black dog has his balls in its bite, and he’s unable to break free. The darkness buried within is rising to the surface.
As for what he’s planning, he’s certain nobody will miss him. Not his father. Certainly not Dana. Not Lori, either. Oh, she made all the right noises when she visited, but that’ll change once he’s convicted. He has no real friends, apart from Vinnie. His best years will have passed by the time he’s released. When that day comes, he doubts anyone will welcome him back. He’ll have no family, no support. Some people adapt to prison life, even thrive inside. Spencer Hamilton’s not one of them.
Decision made. He’s surprised by how calm he feels.
The why is easy. It takes two days for him to figure out the how. From the moment he makes up his mind, he’s on the lookout for a way to accomplish his death. He dismisses the idea of cutlery. The prison uses plastic knives, forks and spoons, and the officers check each tray as the inmates toss any remains into the waste bins. A missing item will engender a body search. Besides, what damage could he do with a plastic knife anyway?
A bag, then. How to get one big enough and of the right sort won’t be easy. The canteen is his best bet; a discarded carrier bag, perhaps, but he realises he’s never seen one he could have stolen. The staff must have been warned they pose a suicide risk. He can’t wait for Shirley, the canteen manager, to be careless.
The answer comes to him during yet another sleepless night. So simple; why hasn’t he considered it before? The solution is in his hands, literally. His fingers caress his duvet. He’ll rip it up, use it to strangle himself. How, though? Spencer props himself on his elbows, surveying what he can see of his darkened cell. His gaze travels to the window. It’s made from reinforced glass, the bars on the outside. No opportunity to hang a noose from there. Besides, he has no idea how to tie one so it looks like the ones on television, a loop from which neat coils emerge, and isn’t that best done with rope anyway?
His eyes fall on the radiator, on the temperature knob. Yes. That’s how he’ll kill himself. He’s seen it done in television dramas. First he’ll tear up his duvet cover, releasing a long strip of cloth. Next he’ll fasten one end around the radiator knob and wind the other around his neck, tight against his windpipe. Then he’ll turn his body through a complete circle. The trick is to keep twisting, so that eventually he slides into unconsciousness and then sweet oblivion.