A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

Hanson shook her head. ‘No. We haven’t forgotten. I wrote it all down.’ She stopped. She wouldn’t convey how important it was and risk him embellishing his recall.

  Her notebook in plain sight on her knee, her pen ready, she said, ‘I need you to say it again. Everything you remember.’

  He gave an exaggerated wink. ‘I get you. You’re not into interrogation methods, right? I’ve been interrogated many times and revealed nothing.’ His head came up, he squared his shoulders. Any optimism Hanson had hit the floor.

  ‘Just tell me everything you heard.’

  She watched him lean his head back. ‘He said, “Oohh, I’m right here and I know you’re here and I said we’d always be together so look into my eyes again, mother.”’

  Hanson shot a quick glance at Ellen who was looking unnerved.

  ‘How was that?’ he asked. ‘I might have missed the odd word because he wasn’t talking that loud.’ He tapped his fleshy nose. ‘Sounded like he was on about something a bit personal. I’ve just remembered something else.’

  Hanson paused, her face and her voice relaxed. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He said, “You could have been safe but you didn’t stay.”’

  She knew this was the first time he’d said this. She fought a strong urge to fix him with a look and demand that he focus.

  ‘Did he say anything after that?’ she asked, her voice even.

  Myers shook his head. ‘No. It sounded like he ran out of breath. Probably all that digging he was doing.’

  Digging.

  Hanson stared at him as he pointed at the wall clock and stood. ‘I’d better get off to the tea room now.’

  Knowing that she was diverting from her plan to merely listen, she said, ‘Wait! You’re saying he was digging?’

  Myers gave a quick nod. ‘Yeah. I heard it, plain as anything.’

  ‘What about his voice,’ she asked. ‘Did he have a local accent?’

  ‘You mean, like Birmingham?’ He gave it some thought. ‘No.’

  She watched as he went, followed by Ellen. The door drifted closed.

  The words Myers had heard were spoken by a man digging Elizabeth Williams’ grave. Twelve months later that man attacked Amy Bennett.

  Hanson was at home, examining the words supplied by Myers and those provided by Amy Bennett, now printed on side-by-side sheets, her eyes moving from one to the other then back. Each contained certain recurring words although few of the utterances matched completely. She saw again the insistence that the victim look directly into his eyes. What exactly had this man wanted from Elizabeth Williams? She was already dead when he said those words. What had he wanted from Amy Bennett? Her life? Two lives? She shook her head. All of it meant something to him. Myers had described it as ‘something a bit personal’.

  Hanson’s eyes narrowed on specific words from Myers’ recollection: ‘You could have been safe but you wouldn’t stay.’

  What did that mean? It made no sense. Elizabeth had ‘stayed’. He’d killed her. Was he blaming Elizabeth for her own death?

  Hanson pressed her fingers against her eyes, blinked, read the words again. ‘You could have been safe.’ It sounded as though he was rebuking Elizabeth – but why? Had his expectations of Elizabeth not been met? It wasn’t unusual for men who sexually attack women to demand certain verbal behaviours from them. Complimentary words about their attacker’s power, his prowess, his skills. Others tried to shape the attack into something else, transform it into a date, a relationship even, by demanding that the victim say how attractive she found him or that she loved him and wanted to be with him. In fear of their lives, wanting to get away, victims often complied with those demands. Hanson knew of one offender who’d arranged a date with his victim as he left her, bruised and bloodied. He’d duly arrived two days later at the appointed place and time his victim had ‘agreed’ to meet him. He had been shocked to find the police waiting to arrest him.

  She shook her head, out of ideas and answers. Neither of these young women had been safe with him. He’d killed Elizabeth Williams and traumatised Amy Bennett.

  Hanson’s spirits dipped further. Beyond the emphasis on the neck, there was little to no confirmation of any clear sexual interest in either of their cases. She looked down at the words used by a man focused on his victims’ faces, their eyes. As far as it was possible to know, Elizabeth Williams had not been strangled. Hanson reached inside an envelope lying on her desk and drew out copies of police photographs taken of Amy soon after she arrived at the hospital. She examined them for several seconds, angled her desk lamp and examined them again. Amy had told them she feared he might strangle her yet the photographs showed no physical signs of violence to her neck. Had something occurred which stopped him carrying through with that behaviour?

  She read all of the words again for what had to be the eighth or ninth time. What did they say about the man who’d uttered them? That, rather than wanting to create some kind of relationship with Amy Bennett, he was controlling and directive? ‘I want to see your eyes blaze.’ She frowned at the last word. An unusual choice. Not one she recalled ever being used by any offender in the cases in which she’d been involved. Did he want Amy angry? Did he want her to fight him? Does this man fear women? Does he resent what he perceives as his dependence on them? Does he loathe what he regards as his own vulnerability where they’re concerned? Had he killed Elizabeth Williams and attacked Amy Bennett as a way of showing that the power was his?

  Hanson thought of the men whose names they had so far. Michael Myers who pined for his mother and struggled to act appropriately towards women he didn’t know. Chris Turner, a young man who related to women by bullying and controlling them. Lawrence Vickers, who saw Elizabeth Williams and Chloe Jacobs as sexual opportunities. She thought of two other names: Hugh Downey traumatised by the near death of his wife. Aiden Malahide who visited his elderly mother and had no wife.

  Hanson’s thoughts drifted to the men she knew: Kevin and his chafing at the demands of a long-term relationship and his serial romancing, Watts, still mourning the loss of his years-dead wife although he would never admit it. And Corrigan, whom she knew had a close relationship with his mother.

  She pushed away from the desk. So much for theory. There seemed to be as many different ways for men to relate to women as there were different men. She scribbled a reminder in her diary: they had to see Amy Bennett again.

  She started at the slam of the front door and looked through the window as the headlights of Candice’s car swept the drive.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ called Maisie.

  Hanson came into the hall and gave her a hug. ‘Did you have a nice time at Chelsey’s?’

  ‘Yeah. Candice took us to see Chelsey’s grandpa. He’s been ill but he’s fine now. He made pound coins drop out of our ears.’ Seeing her mother’s grin she said, ‘He did. I know it was like a trick but you couldn’t tell.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘We went to the High Street and had Chinese food which was yummy.’

  They walked into the kitchen together, Hanson listening as Maisie chattered. She knew what she had to do later this evening. It didn’t require planning or analysing or any other kind of over-thinking. It was something she’d been avoiding for far too long because it left her feeling open and vulnerable.

  But this wasn’t about her. It was about Maisie.

  They were in Hanson’s bedroom, Maisie grinning at the screen action of the film she’d chosen.

  ‘I love this, even though it’s ancient. Just imagine, Mum, if it like, really happened and every day for me it was a lesson on Citizenship that I had to do over and over, and for you it was Bernie Watts ringing you on your mobile and saying “Is that you, doc?” every, single morning.’

  ‘I get the horrific drift,’ murmured Hanson, getting out of the bed. Opening her wardrobe door she reached inside then returned with a small envelope which she placed on the bedside table. The film ended and she aimed the remote.

  ‘Go on, Mum.
What’s your idea of a terrible repeat day? Don’t tell me, I can guess: Daddy coming here and complaining about his work–life stress.’

  ‘Your father’s fine,’ she said quietly.

  Maisie’s head was all that was visible above the duvet, curls spread on the pillow, face earnest. ‘Do you think it’s wrong to talk about people? I don’t. It’s fun because people are interesting.’ She squirmed to look up at Hanson. ‘You must agree ’cos people are your job.’

  Hanson looked down at her. It was as good an intro as she was likely to get. ‘I want to talk to you about something interesting and important about people.’

  Maisie wriggled her feet under the duvet. ‘Fire away. Is it about boys? Daddy says next time you bring it up, looking all serious like now, I should say “What’s up, Mum? If there’s something you don’t understand, ask me.” Daddy’s funny.’ She laughed up at Hanson, then stopped. ‘Wha’?’

  Hanson took a breath. ‘OK. This is about my family. My mother and father.’

  ‘My grandmother as was and my grandpa who still is.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She paused, the cornflower blue eyes on hers. ‘You’d like to see him, wouldn’t you?’

  In a single movement Maisie was on her knees facing her. ‘When?’ she demanded.

  Hanson raised both hands. ‘Wait, Maisie. Before that happens, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  The blue eyes still on hers, she hesitated, feeling her way forward.

  ‘My parents didn’t get on very well while they were married.’

  ‘Just like you and Daddy,’ said Maisie.

  ‘Yes, maybe … Anyway, what happened was … my mother met someone. Another man. They liked each other a lot and … she got pregnant with me.’

  Maisie absorbed the words then frowned. ‘So what was Grandpa doing at the time?’

  ‘He was … around. Anyway, the point is that my father, your grandpa, isn’t actually a blood relative of either of us.’

  ‘Right,’ said Maisie, frowning. ‘So, he’s not anybody?’

  Having got this far and wanting to avoid getting diverted, Hanson reached for the envelope, took out the photograph and passed it to Maisie, the one which showed both of Hanson’s fathers, one of them biological, the other not.

  Maisie took it, stared at it, then up at Hanson. She held it up, pointing to the man off to one side of the photograph. ‘This is your father?’

  Hanson nodded, relieved at her quick reasoning. ‘Yes.’

  Maisie leapt to her feet and started bouncing on the bed.

  ‘Red hair! He’s got the red hair!’ Small fists punched the air. ‘Look at it, Mum. Dark red and thick, like mine and yours.’

  She dropped onto the bed, still staring at the photograph. ‘Holy moly, he looks like you.’

  Hanson watched her daughter, searched the heart-shaped face for signs of upset. There were none. All she could see was pure delight.

  ‘I should have told you sooner but I didn’t know when or how to do it.’

  Maisie wasn’t listening. She was on her knees, looking down at the photograph now lying on the duvet’s white cover. ‘He’s got the red hair! Yay!’

  In all the scenarios Hanson had run inside her head for this moment, this wasn’t like any of them. ‘You do understand what I’ve told you, don’t you, Maisie?’

  Clutching the photograph, Maisie lay down and squeezed herself against Hanson. ‘’Course I do. My grandmother, who was your mother, had, you know, a thingy with the red-haired man in the picture and got pregnant with you. That’s cool. I didn’t think people did that kind of stuff in the olden days.’ Hanson watched the possible ramifications cross Maisie’s face.

  ‘Did Grandpa know about it?’

  ‘Maisie, you do understand what we’re talking about?’

  Maisie looked impatient. ‘Mum, I’m thirteen. I’m not a child.’ Her eyes rounded. ‘What did Grandma do? Did she tell Grandpa and her friends about you or were you hushed up? Like, kept behind a veil of secrecy?’

  ‘I’m thirty-five!’ protested Hanson. ‘This didn’t happen in Queen Victoria’s reign.’

  ‘Soz. So did Grandpa know or not?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hanson shook her head. ‘I don’t know for sure. All I do know is that when I was about fifteen he left.’

  ‘Didn’t he ever mention it when you saw each other later?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him that often, have I? But no, he didn’t. I never said anything to him because I didn’t know about it until after your grandmother died and then, well, it seemed like history.’ She looked down at Maisie. ‘Recent history.’

  Lying on her back, arms folded behind her head, Maisie looked up at her. ‘He probably wanted to get away from the past. Start again. You’ll never be in my past, Mum, ’cos I’m the one with the future and you’ll be in it.’

  ‘Thanks for that. I think.’

  ‘What’s his name? The red-haired man?’

  Hanson took the photograph from her and gave it a wistful look. ‘I don’t know.’

  Maisie got out of bed with a wide yawn. ‘Daddy’s right, you know. You shouldn’t take everything so seriously. What you’ve just told me is cool. Take my word for it, Mum, when Grandpa left, it was a case of, OK, YOLO.’

  Hanson looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘You only live once.’ She padded to the door. ‘G’night.’

  Hanson watched her go, YOLO reverberating inside her head. Maisie was most definitely Kevin’s daughter. Why had she never noticed how alike they were?

  She called after her. ‘Maisie? Can I have the photograph?’

  She brought it back. After a few more seconds of studying it, she looked up at Hanson, eyes shining. ‘Red hair! What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know that, either.’

  She took Maisie by the shoulders. ‘The thing is you have a grandpa.’ She pointed to the tall man in the photograph. ‘The man you’ve always known about and sometimes met.’

  Maisie nodded. ‘My grandpa. Your sort-of father. When do we get to see him again?’

  Hanson heard the inclusiveness behind Maisie’s words. She wasn’t about to tell her that it wasn’t that simple. That this man whom she’d known as her father for the first fifteen years of her life, who had left, had only rarely contacted her since.

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Cool. Can we go to the Thinktank museum tomorrow?’

  Hanson lay staring at the blank television screen. It had gone much better than she’d dared hope. Maybe she had worried too much about it? She frowned. Had it gone too well? Was Maisie too worldly for her age? That was ridiculous. Maisie was in many ways quite young for her age. Kevin’s voice came into her head.

  Oh, zip it.

  She thought of the impact of early relationships and how they influence later ones. My father left because he was cheated on by my mother and I chose Kevin who was and is a serial cheat. And now I have to contact the man who was my father until he decided or knew that he wasn’t and left. And what about the man who really is my father?

  She did some deep breathing. She was no longer keeping a secret from Maisie. Maisie was happy. It was enough.

  ‘Zip it.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Watts and Corrigan exchanged glances then looked back at the tall, well-built man with a faint twang in his voice sitting across from them inside the small interview room.

  Watts gave him a close look. ‘Let’s get this straight, Mr Hollis. You were a student at the college at the same time as Elizabeth Williams?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hollis. ‘But not in the same year. She was a second year. I’d just finished my fourth, a post-grad master’s degree.’

  ‘Right. Carry on.’

  ‘Like I said, I didn’t know any of the second year students very well but I knew Elizabeth because she often used the track when we were there.’

  ‘We being?’

  ‘The guys I did football training with outside of lectures. It was that Sunday, the twenty-thir
d of June when I saw her at around two thirty in the afternoon.’

  ‘How come you’re so sure of that?’ asked Corrigan.

  Hollis looked at him. ‘I’d dropped in at the college to check I hadn’t left anything. I had a taxi waiting to take me to the station. I was staying overnight at Heathrow then flying out next day to Austin, Texas. I’d been offered a one-year contract to play with a soccer team there. I saw Elizabeth as I was coming out of the college. She was heading out too.’

  ‘Did you speak?’

  ‘Yeah. I told her I was leaving. She wished me luck and said she was looking for an internship which was worthwhile rather than just career-related. So I wished her luck with that.’

  The two officers exchanged glances. ‘You’ve got a good memory Mr Hollis,’ said Watts.

  He gave an easy grin. ‘I remember what she said about the internship because she was doing the opposite of what I was doing back then. I kept my focus totally on sport. It got me to Texas.’

  ‘Did she give you any details about this internship?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘If she did I don’t recall, except that she had an interview somewhere around Five Ways that day, which I thought was kind of odd, it being a Sunday.’

  Hollis appeared unaware of a sudden rise in tension.

  Corrigan regarded the tall, open-faced man. ‘Did she say anything else?’

  Hollis frowned. ‘I remember I offered her a lift in my taxi but she said she didn’t need one. That she was on her way to visit a relative and then she had to change her clothes for her interview. I remember thinking that her interview had to be pretty late.’

  Watts studied him for a few seconds without speaking, then ‘What else did you make of what she said?’

  Hollis shrugged. ‘Nothing much, except like I said, I thought Sunday was a strange day for it.’

  Watts leant on his forearms, eyes on Hollis. ‘How come you’re here now telling us this?’

  ‘I came back to Birmingham a few days ago, picked up with some friends who used to be at the college and they told me what happened to her. It was a real shock. I knew nothing about it.’ He met Watts’ eyes.

  ‘When they said that her case was open again I phoned you straight away.’