Guilty Parties

by Martin Edwards

  He shook his head. ‘No, I never saw a picture – she said she’d destroyed them all after the divorce. But I don’t think that matters too much. I think it was all in her imagination. Clutching at straws – it’s what people do when they’re desperate. And she was desperate alright. Poor woman.’

  Janet took a sip of tea. Surely the man Temple described had to be Edward Prime. Now all she needed to do was to get a confession. Which, given his track record, should be simple.

  Edward sat in his bedroom, turning the locket over and over in his hand. He’d taken it from her as a keepsake. After all, it was his by right.

  He pushed back the threadbare rug beside his single bed and lifted a loose floorboard before plunging his hand down into the space where he kept his treasures. He could feel the book down there. He’d collected everything together; all the evidence that he wasn’t who they said he was. He had kept it hidden from his mother – or the woman who called herself his mother – because he didn’t want her to discover that he knew the truth.

  He was sorry about Paula. There had been blood all over her nice dress, which had been white with red flowers, and the stain had looked like a massive flower that had spread like some evil weed to engulf the others. He’d wanted to do something to save her but it had been too late. Since then he’d dreamed about it every night. The blood and Paula’s dead, staring eyes.

  He took out the book and opened it. The whole story was there in yellowing newsprint: ‘Child missing’; ‘Where is baby Adam?’ And then there was the article that appeared in the Echo last month saying that Paula had never come to terms with her loss. That was how he’d come to realise that his mum had taken him from outside that post office. That she’d carried him off and left the empty pushchair. When he’d found the cuttings in her dressing table drawer he’d confronted her. And he’d known she was lying when she said she’d only kept them because Paula used to live in the next road and she was interested in the case.

  He’d decided to go to Howdale Road to find his real mother. He’d watched her for days and when she’d left the house to go shopping he’d followed her. He felt he must have killed her although he couldn’t quite remember doing it. But he felt guilty. He always felt guilty.

  He remembered bending over her body and unfastening the locket. And when he’d opened it he’d seen a picture of the baby which must have been himself. He’d taken the locket away with him because it was all he had of hers. He knew that if he took it to the police to prove his story, they’d take it off him. And he didn’t want to lose it so he’d lied about knowing where it was. But a lie was a little sin compared to all the others that crowded in his head.

  He heard the woman who called herself his mother calling him from downstairs, telling him tea was ready. He’d have to think carefully about his next move.

  Janet slept on the problem and, after a sleepless night, she came to a decision.

  Russell was still in bed so she grabbed a slice of toast and shut the front door quietly behind her. After what Bradley Temple had told her, she knew she had to bring Edward Prime in for questioning. She had no choice.

  As soon as she arrived at work she hurried to the DCI’s office. She could see him there behind his glass partition. Busy as usual and half hidden behind heaps of paperwork. She knocked on the door, waited a token second, and then pushed it open. He looked up and, from his expression, she knew her interruption wasn’t welcome. But she stepped forward and stood in front of his desk like a schoolgirl reporting to the headmaster.

  ‘Last night I went to take a statement from the private detective Paula Sloane hired. Bradley Temple, he’s called.’ The DCI put down his pen and appeared to be listening so she carried on with new confidence. ‘He thinks he saw a man watching Paula’s house. And the man he saw fits Edward Prime’s description.’

  ‘Then pick him up.’

  ‘Right, sir. I was going to but I thought I’d better let you know.’

  ‘Take someone with you in case …’

  ‘I know Prime, sir. I can manage on my own.’

  He returned his attention to his paperwork. It was up to her now. And she knew what she had to do.

  Prime lived in one of the streets off Smithdown Road. Most of the terraced houses were occupied by students and the Primes’ stood out from the rest with its hanging basket beside the front door, its fussy lace curtains and its cat ornaments on the windowsill. Most of the students had gone home for the summer so the street seemed deserted as Janet rang the doorbell and waited.

  She had been dreading an encounter with Prime’s mother. Like all mothers she was bound to be a fearsome defender of her young and she couldn’t face the thought of a confrontation. She was relieved when Edward himself answered the door, opening it a crack and peeping out.

  ‘Edward. I need another word. Shall we do it here or shall we go down to the police station?’

  Edward’s eyes lit up. ‘You believe me then? You believe I killed her? I’ll come down to the police station.’ He suddenly looked disappointed. ‘Mum’s out at the shops.’

  ‘You can let her know later,’ Janet said quickly. ‘It won’t take long. We just need to talk to you, that’s all.’

  There was a spring in Edward’s step as he walked to the car and Janet tried her best not to feel sorry for him as he sat next to her in the front seat, gazing out of the window like a child on a day trip. He looked proud and excited. He was important now. The police were going to hang on his every word.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as she turned onto the road that ran beside the river. ‘This isn’t the way to the police station.’

  ‘There’s no hurry so I thought we’d take the scenic route. It’ll give us a chance to have a chat if that’s okay.’ She had reached Otterspool now and after negotiating the roundabout, she brought the car to a halt on the promenade. She could see the expanse of churning grey water to her right as she opened the window to let the odour of Edward’s sweat out of the car.

  She turned to him and smiled to put him at his ease. ‘Somebody saw you watching Paula Sloane’s house shortly before she died.’

  ‘I’ve told you already. I was there.’

  ‘You admit you killed her.’

  He suddenly looked unsure of himself. ‘She was lying on the floor and there was blood. I must have killed her, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Did you take her locket?’

  He nodded. ‘It had a picture of me inside.’ He said almost in a whisper. ‘I wanted to keep it.’

  Janet saw the tears in his eyes and she felt an almost maternal urge to comfort him, to tell him that everything was going to be alright. But she knew there’d be no comfort from now on.

  ‘A picture of you?’

  ‘When I was a baby.’

  ‘Think carefully. Did you see anyone coming out of the house before you went in?’

  A secretive smile appeared on his lips and his eyes met hers. ‘Yeah. I did see someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  He looked away. ‘I’ll put it in my statement.’ He said the last word with relish, as though making a statement meant that the police were finally taking him seriously. He was going to be a murderer. A kind of celebrity.

  Janet opened the car door. ‘Would you like some fresh air, Edward? You’re going to need it if you’re going to be cooped up in a cell for the next few years.’

  ‘Yeah. But I need to tell Mum where I am.’

  ‘You can phone her when we get to the police station.’

  Janet looked round. Because of the bad weather the promenade was empty except for a solitary runner, oblivious to everything except the music from his headphones. She waited till he was out of sight then she walked round the car and opened the passenger door.

  The body was washed up at Crosby two weeks later. And because the river had done its worst, it had to be identified by DNA and dental records.

  Of course his confession to Janet had no witnesses so it wouldn’t stand up in court but the police weren�
�t looking for anyone else in connection with the murder of Paula Sloane. The discovery of the locket in Edward’s room had clinched it.

  Mrs Prime had sworn her son’s belief that he was the missing baby, Adam Sloane, had no basis in fact. Edward got these ideas in his head, she said. He’d always been the same. She had been willing to take any tests they wanted to clear her of Adam’s abduction and the DCI had taken her up on her offer.

  The results confirmed that she’d been telling the truth. Edward had been her son alright. She had only kept the newspaper cuttings because Paula had lived in the next road: it had been a bit of local excitement, that’s all. Maybe if Edward hadn’t found them, he would still be alive.

  When Janet saw the DCI emerging from his office, she began to study her paperwork, trying to look busy. She was aware of him approaching her desk. Then she heard his voice.

  ‘Have you finished with those witness statements?’

  Janet picked up a cardboard file and handed it over.

  ‘I’ve just had Mrs Prime on the phone … Edward’s mother. She still can’t understand what happened.’

  ‘I’ve been through it time and time again, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘Edward wanted some fresh air so I parked at the promenade. We were walking along chatting when he suddenly took it into his head to run off. I did my best to chase after him but … He just jumped into the water. I threw a lifebelt but there was no sign of him.’

  ‘There’ll be a thorough investigation, you know that.’

  She nodded meekly.

  ‘What I can’t understand is what you were doing there in the first place.’

  ‘I didn’t think it’d do any harm to have a stroll and a chat before we came to the interview room. He was unlikely to see the outside world for years if he was convicted and I felt a bit sorry for him if you must know. I suppose I’ll be disciplined.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. You screwed up.’ He paused. ‘You should know better at your age.’

  She looked round and saw the young blonde DC smirking into her coffee.

  ‘I suppose Paula’s murder was playing on his conscience and he couldn’t face life any more. But if he really believed she was his mum, why kill her?’

  ‘Who knows, Janet? Maybe she laughed at him. He’s hardly the son of most women’s dreams. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.’

  The DCI walked away, barking an order at one of the others. Janet returned to her paperwork, trying to ignore the stares and sniggers. As far as they were concerned, she’d miscalculated badly.

  That evening she managed to get home at a reasonable time but she found the house empty. Russell was out. He’d left her a note saying he’d gone round to a friend’s house and wouldn’t be back till later. He couldn’t have timed it better because there was something she had to do.

  As soon as she’d changed out of her work clothes, she took her collection of old photograph albums from the bottom drawer of the sideboard. It was the early ones she was looking for, the ones containing pictures of Russell when he was very small. She knew she should have destroyed them years ago but she’d been down in London then and it had all seemed so very far away.

  It had all been planned down to the last detail. The day after she took him she travelled to London where she stayed with her cousin who’d been completely unaware of her deception. She hadn’t told her about her late miscarriage: instead she’d let her believe that she’d had the baby and was struggling as a single mother.

  After the miscarriage the need to replace her lost child had become so urgent that she’d searched round for a child to take; a child who would become her own. She’d watched Paula Sloane, sick with envy that she had a beautiful baby when hers had never lived. She’d seen Paula ignoring her baby’s cries and leaving him alone in the cold outside the post office. And she’d seized her opportunity.

  She began to take the photos of the smiling baby from the album. They were so like the picture in Paula’s locket, now in the exhibits store at the police station, that anyone seeing them would guess the truth at once. She carried them over to the grate and lit a match, turning away because she couldn’t bear to see the image of the innocent child licked by flames.

  Everything had been good down in London: she’d enjoyed her work in the Met and she hadn’t even minded when they’d teased her about her Liverpool accent. She’d rented a small apartment that had suited her and Russell just fine. And she’d nursed her secret so closely that she’d almost forgotten its existence.

  Then years later she’d had to return to Merseyside to care for her elderly mother because there’d been nobody else to take on the responsibility. By the time her transfer up north came through, Russell had started at university and her mother had died six months later. But all had been well until she’d spotted that piece in the newspaper – the article about Paula Sloane’s shattered life – and the reality of what she’d done all those years ago had struck her like a hammer blow.

  Everything came to a head when Paula spotted Russell one day and noticed his strong resemblance to her ex-husband. For twenty years Paula had scanned every face in every crowd for that resemblance and all her instincts had told her that she’d finally found the one she’d been looking for. She’d followed Russell home and pushed a note through his door which Janet found. She knew she should have ignored it but she’d needed to know how much Paula suspected. So she’d paid her a visit.

  Paula had reacted hysterically, screaming and threatening to report Janet to the police, saying that she’d go to prison for a long time. And, worst of all, she’d threatened to tell Russell – or Adam – what kind of monster had brought him up. Janet had realised that even if she threw herself on Paula’s mercy, there’d be no calm reconciliation, no embrace of forgiveness. And, faced with Paula’s wild fury, she had been forced to pick up a knife and defend herself.

  When she’d realised the full horror of what she’d done, she’d dashed from the house, praying that she hadn’t been seen. Being in on the investigation, she knew there’d been no sighting of a fleeing woman so she’d imagined she was safe. Until Edward Prime made his confession. And when he hinted that he’d seen her leaving the crime scene, she knew she had to act.

  She was sorry about Edward. She’d always remember the look of terror on his face as she shoved him into those grey inhospitable waters. It would be there with her forever, preying on her conscience.

  The last remnants of blackened paper glowed and curled in the grate. The pictures were burned now. She was safe. As she straightened herself up she saw a car drawing to a halt outside, and when the doorbell rang she brushed the ashes from her fingers and hurried over to the bay window. The DCI was standing at the front door with the smirking blonde. Only this time she looked deadly serious.

  When Janet opened the door the visitors said nothing and, as they stepped inside, she knew it was over.

  ‘A witness has come forward,’ the DCI began almost apologetically. ‘He was running on the promenade and …’

  Janet bowed her head. Perhaps it was time she unburdened herself. She had so much to confess.

  TELL IT TO THE BEES

  Jane Finnis

  Jane Finnis lives in Yorkshire, near the coast. Her books about innkeeper and reluctant sleuth Aurelia Marcella tells of life and death in first-century Roman Britain, the turbulent province of Britannia, on the very edge of the Roman Empire.

  When I was little I told all my news to the bees. Every day after tea I’d run down to the hives at the far end of our garden, and pour out my day’s happenings. The bees didn’t reply, but their calm buzzing showed they were glad to see me.

  Mum and Jeff used to laugh at me, but Grandma didn’t. ‘It’s a good old country custom, Susan. And you’re a country girl now. So tell them everything, good and bad, silly and serious.’

  I was about six when we moved down to Sussex, Mum and Jeff and me. Dad stayed in London and I never saw him, which was sad, but I had news of him from Grandma. I never saw her either, becaus
e Mum and Jeff had fallen out with her over somebody called Will. But she wrote me the loveliest letters every week, funny and wise. I enjoyed reading them to the bees.

  Mum and Jeff never came near the hives. Jeff said we should get rid of them, but Mum liked honey, so she paid our next-door neighbour, Mr Crowley, to look after them for us. His garden backed onto ours, and he worked there a lot. He usually gave me a friendly wave over the fence. Sometimes he came through onto our side to tend the hives, and he’d talk to me while he worked. He was a kind old man. I called him Uncle Crow.

  When I was nine I overheard Mum and Jeff whispering together about Grandma. ‘Death without pain … a blessed release … she’s had a good life … we must make all the arrangements … not a word to Susan.’

  Grandma dead? I was heartbroken. I loved her and I couldn’t imagine my world without her. I was puzzled too. Why ‘not a word to Susan’? But if I wasn’t meant to know, I couldn’t ask them about it, much as I wanted to. Jeff had a terrible temper and Mum always sided with him.

  I went straight out to the hives. I didn’t even stop to wave to Uncle Crow. ‘It’s awful, bees. Grandma’s dead, and she’s the only one who really cares about me. I mean cared.’ I wanted to cry, but I made myself go on. ‘Even after the falling-out, she never stopped loving me, and I never stopped loving her. What will I do without her?’

  The bees couldn’t answer that, but I was comforted because I knew they understood.

  All next day I waited for Mum or Jeff to tell me about Grandma, but they never said a word about her, so I couldn’t either. After tea I cried as I walked down and stood by the hives. ‘Bees, I’m so sad. Grandma is dead, but they won’t tell me about it …’ I stayed there a long time, talking and crying. Uncle Crow waved to me over the fence, but I was too miserable to speak to him.

  I didn’t mean to get anyone into trouble. Honestly I didn’t.

  How was I to know that Grandma’s death wouldn’t be till next week?