A Place to Lie

by Rebecca Griffiths

  ‘Who?’ Timothy Mortmain lowered his newspaper to peer at his daughter over the rims of his reading glasses.

  ‘Dora Muller’s niece; the older one.’

  ‘What does she want?’ A clunk as he slotted his incisors into the grooves they’d made on the stem of his pipe down the years.

  ‘How do I know?’ She glared at him, at the way he sucked on his pipe as if it was a dummy. If anyone else had done that it would be amusing; but nothing her father did was amusing – she hated him too much for that.

  ‘Did you invite her in? Please tell me you didn’t leave her on the doorstep.’ He squeezed his criticism through his teeth.

  ‘I told her to come in, but she won’t budge. The creepy cow.’

  ‘Amy! ’ the vicar snapped his automatic rebuke, knowing his daughter’s insult was mild when comparing it to the expletives he applied to his parishioners behind their backs. Leisurely folding his paper and removing his glasses, he dropped them and his pipe on to the shelf-wide arms of his chair that, littered with everything from biros to TV remote controls, resembled the flight deck of a jumbo jet.

  A noise from above. The dull bump of wheels rolling from rug to floorboards, then back to rug again. Amy and her father tilted their heads to it.

  ‘Mum’s woken up,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll go and see if she wants to come down for something to eat.’ And she dived from the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Cecilia Mortmain was washed almost curd-yellow in this strange light. She knew she was still beautiful from the way people looked at her in admiration whenever she was well enough to go out. Not that she craved praise, certainly not in the way her husband did. Although, whenever she gave it, digging deep for fresh adjectives to describe the potency of his sermon, or a new poem he’d written, he made her feel as if the receipt of compliments were somehow beneath him.

  She could never get it right and wasn’t sure she cared either way any more. As a girl, and full of romantic notions of what a marriage should be, she believed for love to survive you needed to live your life through each other and keep nothing back for yourself. This would have been fine, had her husband been as open as she was, but Timothy could be so secretive, increasingly so since her diagnosis, and his moods made him a difficult man to penetrate and be close to. It mostly stemmed, Cecilia was certain, from his growing disenchantment with God. Something that was glaring in his poetry. But in giving way to a general malcontent, it oozed from his pores and was increasingly hard for him to disguise. She realised over time, their love would only last if she too shut aspects of herself off from him – for him to be ultimately less important – otherwise it was all too painful, and his rejections too hard to bear.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’ Amy was beside her; such a darling girl. ‘Need a hand with anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just come and chat with me, tell me about your morning.’ Cecilia patted the bed, wanting her daughter to sit. ‘The rain’s stopped at last,’ she said, trying to sound perky. ‘Who was that at the door?’

  ‘Dora Muller’s niece,’ Amy said flatly. ‘The older one. She’s come to see Dad.’

  ‘Is it about Ellie?’ Cecilia asked.

  ‘Dunno, she wouldn’t talk to me.’

  ‘You don’t like her, do you?’

  Amy smiled. Her mother didn’t miss a trick. ‘Not much. I don’t trust her. She was always following Dean around like a lovesick puppy. It was pathetic.’ Amy listened to the meanness of her words and was surprised by them.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on her, sweetheart.’ Cecilia heard it too. ‘She’s had a rotten time. Did you hear what her mother tried to do to herself?’

  Amy nodded, ashamed. And avoiding her mother’s searching gaze, stepped up to the window.

  ‘Wonder what they’re talking about?’ Cecilia rolled alongside to look down on Timothy and Caroline, who stood facing each other on the vicarage’s wet front lawn. ‘She’s got a lot to say.’

  *

  ‘I told Liz and Ian, and the women in the shop. They was the ones who said I had to come and tell you – that you’d tell the police what I saw.’ Caroline stared at the hairy dunes inside the vicar’s ears and shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it. Why’ve you waited until now?’

  ‘I haven’t waited till now – I told Liz and Ian on Ellie’s birthday.’ This wasn’t going well; Timothy Mortmain wasn’t nearly as gullible as other villagers. ‘But then with everyone trying to find her, they must’ve forgotten about it.’

  Mortmain didn’t answer, his eyes busy working her out from beneath his black flap of hair.

  ‘But now Ellie’s been found.’ Trapped by what she’d set in motion, but too embarrassed and overwhelmed, Caroline couldn’t go back on it now. ‘They said they need you to tell the police ’cos it could be important.’

  ‘Dean , you say?’ Timothy Mortmain, throwing his head heavenward, was given an unwitting glimpse of his wife and Amy looking down from the upstairs window. He prayed they couldn’t lip read. ‘Being rough with Ellie, then chasing after her on his motorbike? But that doesn’t sound like him – whatever else he is, he’s not a bully.’

  ‘I know what I saw.’ Caroline persisted with the lie that was too late to recant. ‘He was shaking her, hitting her. He looked really scary and angry, he made her cry, and everything!’ Her voice was loud enough for the vicar to throw an arm around her shoulders and steer her towards the gate, out of any possible earshot. ‘Ellie tried to skate away as fast as she could, but he went after her on his bike … He chased her into the woods. I saw him.’ Losing herself to the part in the same way she did on Ellie’s birthday, it wasn’t hard to adopt a suitable face to show she was on the brink of tears; she needn’t dig deep, not when the pain of Dean’s duplicity continued to float so close to the surface.

  Timothy unravelled the implications of what this child was telling him … They rushed at him like bullets he couldn’t duck away from. ‘And you say you want me to drive you to the station, so you can talk to the detectives in charge?’ He glowered at her. ‘Gracious me, child; can’t your aunt take you?’

  ‘No, she can’t,’ Caroline said as she arranged the vicar’s smattering of moles into some kind of order. ‘I can’t tell Dora, she wouldn’t understand – she knows nothing about the terrible things men do.’

  ‘And you think I do?’

  ‘Course you do,’ she sniffed, eyes dry. ‘You’re a man. And you’re the vicar – they’ll take notice of you.’

  The Reverend Mortmain was no longer listening. His mind a honeycomb of possibilities … Dean ? Dean ? Would it be such a bad thing if the druggy bastard was put away? It would solve a lot of problems if he took the blame for Ellie’s death. Amy, for one, never mind his own sordid little secret. Taking a moment to assess what Caroline might or might not have seen, he had to concede the girl could be telling the truth; and if not, who cared? Plenty around here, himself included, would be happy to see the back of Dean Fry.

  Present Day

  Back in the car, her hair smelling of cigarette smoke, Joanna checks her mobile for messages before driving away. She sees she has one through Facebook. From Kyle Norris. It’s short, concise, but what he has to say lifts her spirits: Are you in London? I’d be happy to meet up, would make me feel better to have the chance to talk it through with you too; and as a P.S. he gave Joanna his number.

  She presses the number into her phone before reversing out of the parking space along Liz and Ian’s street and driving away. Out on the main road, heading towards Witchwood, she activates the call, her heart thumping.

  ‘Hi … hello … hello . Is that Kyle. Kyle Norris?’

  ‘Hi, yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘Oh, this is, um … it’s Joanna Peters calling. You messaged me, I’m Caroline Jameson’s sister.’

  ‘Hi, Joanna.’ He sounds nice, it immediately puts her at ease. ‘Thanks for calling me. Are you in London, then?’

  ‘I’m af
raid I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, shame,’ he says. ‘It would’ve been nice to meet up.’

  ‘Are you okay for us to talk on the phone – I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘No. Cool. Great,’ Kyle assures. ‘Look, I’m so sorry about what happened to your sister, it must be awful.’

  ‘Thank you, Kyle, but it must have been pretty awful for you too. It’s why I wanted to speak to you … I want to explain.’

  ‘Just wrong place, wrong time,’ he chips in lightly.

  ‘That’s the thing, Kyle, it wasn’t as straightforward as that. Me and my sister, we’ve not been in touch with each other for years … I don’t want to bore you with all that, but I need to try and explain her state of mind to you. She was suffering from mental health problems, and although she was having treatment for it, she’d sort of been neglectful of it lately. And the thing is, Kyle, seeing your photo on your Facebook page, I’m afraid, looking like you do – and you’re a nice-looking guy, I don’t mean it that way.’ A jittery laugh. ‘I think, in her state of mind, I can see how she would have mistaken you for someone she was, for whatever reason, very frightened of.’

  ‘Wow, really ?’ A beat. ‘Well, they do say we’ve all got a double, don’t they?’ Kyle sounds philosophical. ‘It was obvious she had some sort of problem with me from her reaction. So, that’s what it was? Wow. Weird things happen, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m really sorry you got caught up in it all. I didn’t want you to think my family and I thought you were in any way to blame. You were just unfortunate, looking like you do … and I wanted to find out if you were okay? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m doing all right. I’ve been offered counselling and stuff, but I’m not really into all that … I feel bad about your sister, I wish I could have done something, you know, saved her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you would have if it had been possible. But, well … after everything that happened, it’s really good of you to say these things.’ What a lovely guy, she thinks. ‘I’m so glad we had the chance to talk.’

  ‘Me too,’ he tells her. ‘But are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’m getting on with things. You have to, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, please accept my condolences, and um … we’ll keep in touch, yeah? Maybe when you’re next in London, we could meet up?’

  ‘That’d be nice, yes. Yes, we’ll do that.’

  ‘Okay, bye for now then.’ Kyle, drawing their conversation to a close.

  ‘Yes, bye then. Look after yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘You too,’ he says, ending the call.

  Joanna had forgotten how this far-flung part of Gloucestershire, butting up to Wales, felt about as removed as it could be from the golden glamour of the Cotswolds. Leaving behind the gentle sweep of vast agricultural fields, she and the panting Buttons – daft as a puppy and strapped into the front seat like a proper passenger – follow a signpost for Witchwood, when the road suddenly dips, snaking down into a tight tunnel of trees. Unsettled and tense since deciding to make this trip, her sense of foreboding intensifies on her approach to the village; she had hoped things would be all right, but now she’s here, she isn’t so sure. Was this a good idea? Should she have waited for Mike? This is one spooky place. Joanna, responding to the darkening atmosphere with an adult’s perspective from the driving seat of her Audi, has none of the excitement she experienced when seeing it for the first time as a nine-year-old. The lane is only just wide enough for the car, and overgrown shrubbery scrapes against its sides. High and tangled, the verges are still cloaked in winter, although there is some evidence of spring: with snowdrops on the wane, clusters of daffodils bob among the stiffened briar and scrub; but it does nothing to lift her deepening unease.

  A bend in the road, and there it is. Looking just as it did all those years ago, except without the jungle of greenery remembered as a child – Witchwood’s giant custodians of beech and oak are now bare. She switches off the stereo, cuts Eric Coates’ ‘Bird Songs at Eventide’ mid-surge, and takes a sharp right turn. The clicking indicator loud in the silence, as the generous bouquet of roses and box of chocolates bought for Mrs Hooper slam against the side of the passenger footwell. Gritting her teeth, fearing they’ll be damaged, she passes the pub, slows to look through to the beer garden, and sees a family kicking a ball through a carpet of last year’s leaves. She hears their collective laughter, the squeals of joy from toddlers who teeter about on new-found legs. But she can’t bear to go near it, it’s still too sad, too raw, even with its newish sign depicting a huge oak tree and the names of different licensees above the door.

  She then sees Frank Petley, fixing a poster to the inside of his shop window. Slightly stooped and wearing what could be the same worn-out shop coat, his hair, although almost white, is styled in the same greasy way. The sight of him makes her toes curl inside her leather boots. Speaking to him on the phone to ask for Liz and Ian’s number was one thing, but actually seeing him, yuk ; the man always gave her the creeps. She drives on past the shop, even though it’s highly unlikely Frank Petley would recognise her – she was only little when last here – Joanna’s still wary, and took care to give her name as Mrs Peters when she rang him.

  She pulls up at the kerb, engine running, to stretch down to save the roses from further damage. A sharp rapping on the passenger-side window. A faceless black shape pressed against it. The dog collar gives him away.

  ‘Reverend.’ She leans over Buttons, drops the window to greet him. Older and greyer, he’s as fit as he ever was.

  ‘Oh, it’s Joanna, isn’t it? I recognise you from your CD covers. Lillian said you were coming – how marvellous to see you again.’ Timothy Mortmain, ignoring the inquisitive snout of her chocolate Labrador.

  Joanna swings her legs out of the car and fastens her coat against the chilly wind.

  ‘I was so terribly sorry … ’ The vicar pauses. ‘To hear what happened to your sister. It must have been terrible for you. I know what an upsetting ordeal it was for Kyle,’ he says, then immediately covers his mouth as if wanting to push the words back in.

  ‘Upsetting for Kyle ?’ Joanna frowns as she tugs her curls into a ponytail. ‘What? You know him?’

  ‘Oh . Oh, my dear – I thought Lillian had told you?’ he flounders, steps away.

  ‘Told me what? No, she hasn’t. She hasn’t told me anything.’

  ‘I … erm … I think you best speak to her.’ And he’s gone. Surprisingly agile for a man of his age, it is with a sinister tinkle of the bell that he disappears inside the shop.

  Summer 1990

  Caroline was sticking to her story and didn’t care who she told. Not the cliché of a man with scribbling hand and greasy raincoat who came to write a feature for the Cinderglade Echo, or the nice lady family liaison officer and the young male police constable that have called round to go over her initial statement.

  ‘I saw him. In his motorbike shed. He was being really nasty to her,’ she said, enjoying the sound of her own voice as she worked at the hole in the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘And so angry, I’d never seen him that angry. He really hated Ellie, you know.’

  Thrilled by the attention, the nods of interest from her audience, she happily spiced them with details about how aggressive Dean would get with drinkers at the pub, how scary it was when he hid in the woods puffing on his wacky baccy.

  ‘I told you not to go in there.’ Dora, unable to contain herself. Cross with Caroline on so many levels, she blamed Gordon’s rapid vanishing act on her niece’s behaviour, and now, having to contend with yet another interruption to her afternoon indulgences; it was too much. ‘I told you it was dangerous.’ Dora meant both the pub and the woods, although she knew the truth of it was that she didn’t warn anything of the sort – glad to be shot of her charges, she couldn’t have cared less what Joanna and Caroline got up to. Only since Ellie’s murder had she started questioning their safety, but not rigorously enough to stop them wander
ing off to play wherever they liked.

  The sharpness of Dora’s rebuke did nothing to alter the course Caroline was determined to travel.

  ‘They were always fighting. But the morning of Ellie’s birthday was the worst.’ Caroline, eyes glinting, adjusted her Alice band and combed out her fringe with her spoiled finger-ends. Unperturbed by Dora’s noises from the sidelines, she was showing off to the rather good-looking police officer in the same way she did with the stone-faced hack. She would deal with her aunt later; ensuring he wrote everything down was far more important.

  ‘Dean is such a bully. He hit Ellie when she wouldn’t get off his motorbike, yelling, “You scratch my bike with those skates, you little bitch, and I’ll kill you”.’ Caroline screwed her face up. ‘And when Ellie went off on her new roller skates, crying, he got on his motorbike and went after her.’

  Dora didn’t recognise her niece: self-confident and brazen; where was the shy, woebegone child she collected from Gloucester train station six weeks ago? Was the trauma of finding Ellie’s body having this awful effect on her – and was her need to invent things perhaps her way of blocking out the reality? There was talk of counselling, Dora remembered, but they seemed to have dropped that idea now. She wished Imogen was here to sort her child out. Dora didn’t know what to do; all she could think was how out of her depth she was – how little she knew about bringing up children.

  ‘Come, come, child – that’s enough now.’ Dora tossed the officials a look of despair. ‘She does have the most vivid imagination – don’t you, Carrie, dear?’

  Putting these accusations of Caroline’s aside, it didn’t sound as if things were going too well for Dean. The rumour was that the police already had him in their sights, and had questioned him several times already. Reading only this morning in the Echo how Ellie had been raped and suffered a fatal knife attack before her body was pushed into the lake, and now detectives were engaged in a fingertip search of the area for the murder weapon. Dora’s mind spun again to her father’s dagger, still missing from its hidey hole at the bottom of her wardrobe … the traces of dried blood embedded in the silver cross-guards … the fact she’d reported it stolen. She hoped the police weren’t about to find the wretched thing in Dean’s possession.