The Man in the House

by Emmy Ellis

  “I didn’t think of it like that.”

  He hasn’t thought much at all!

  “You have no one left apart from Robbie and the boys, Jacob,” she said. “It seems this Franklin has done exactly what he said he’d do. What if he extends that threat to those little lads? What then?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “No, you didn’t think. We’ve established that bit. What did he want you to do?”

  “Pinch money off our dad.” Jacob flushed. “I’m not proud of that, but he forced me to do it. I believed him when he said he’d kill everyone. I took money out of Dad’s wallet, and Franklin bought booze and fags. He looked old enough, so it didn’t surprise me the first time he came back with a stash.”

  “So when your dad died…?”

  “That was my fault. I said I wouldn’t steal anymore, then Dad had the car accident. The brakes were faulty.”

  Helena’s inner alarm went off. “Why wasn’t that investigated more thoroughly by the police?”

  “It was, but they didn’t do anything. It was borderline. Like, they couldn’t prove they’d been actually messed with, but I know they were. It was him. He fucking said so, the bastard. ‘See what I did, twat?’ That’s what he said.”

  This bloke here had been comfort eating for years, blaming himself for his father’s death, when some cretin teenager had possibly done it.

  “Okay, I’m going to get someone to check the details on that. If you think Franklin had something to do with the brakes…”

  Jacob shrugged.

  Helena sighed. “So, I’m going to ask you again, and please, please don’t keep anything back from me now. Do you know where Franklin lives?”

  “No!” He paused, then, “He used to sneak out of our room at night and go into the girls’. He’d be in there for a bit, then I’d hear him opening the back door. I looked out the window. He always stood drinking a beer, a fag in the other hand. He did it every time he’d been in there.”

  “Did your sisters say why he’d gone in their room?”

  “They said he didn’t, but I know he did. His voice came through the wall.”

  Helena’s stomach hurt from tensing her muscles. What did Franklin need to go into the girls’ room for? Her mind went to a dark place, and she shoved the thoughts away. They came back, though, with something she needed to find out. “Did the flowers appear outside their bedrooms before or after Franklin moved in?”

  Jacob frowned, clearly searching his memory bank. “I was eight when I got the red toy car, and Franklin was there then, because he was a wanker at my birthday party. He broke one of my presents—a Power Ranger figure. He snapped the arms and legs off. Said that’d be me if I opened my mouth about him telling me to nick the money.”

  Christ. It was looking likely this foster kid was a nasty little shit who’d sadly gone down the wrong path because of his upbringing.

  “Anything else you can think of that might help us?” she asked.

  “The hamster was strangled, so the vet said.”

  Oh. Now this was getting text book. And disturbing. “After Franklin’s arrival?”

  “Yeah. He must have done it in the night, although I didn’t hear him opening the cage. If you let me go home, he might turn up at mine, then I can let you know he’s there, and you can come and ask him some questions.”

  She wanted to do more than that, like kick his head in, but funny enough, Yarworth would frown on that. “No. You have to stay here. There is no way we can allow you to leave yet. Don’t worry, your boss has been informed of your sisters’ passing. Just hang tight, and we’ll do our best.”

  “Be careful. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “What does he look like?” She glanced at Andy: write this down.

  “About six-two, built like a brick shithouse. Dark hair, although he dyes it. Got to, because he was blond as a kid and until about ten years ago. He must do his eyebrows and all.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  He nodded.

  Helena walked out of the flat. She got the latest from Clive, which was nothing more than what they already knew, then she and Andy went back to the station. There was a lot of sifting through data to do, and she intended to help out. If all four of them were searching, they’d find the information quicker.

  Andy went to his desk, and Helena made everyone a coffee. After an update from Olivia and Phil, she settled at a spare desk, booted up the computer, and got to work. With a phone number found for the local social services, she lifted the phone to give a Mrs Featherstone a ring.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Inspector Stratton, and I’m calling regarding a child who was in the system. I realise you might not be able to give me details, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

  “It depends what you want to know,” Mrs Featherstone said.

  “I’m working on a triple murder enquiry, and we need to speak to a man urgently. His name is Franklin Marston, and he went to live with the Walker family in ninety-six when he was thirteen. Smaltern. My colleague has tracked his National Insurance number, but it stopped appearing in the records a decade ago. She’s been trying to find out whether he changed his name, but if he did, he didn’t apply for an Enrolled Deed Poll from the Ministry of Justice, so it isn’t on public record. Sadly, the lady at the office wouldn’t hand out any information without a warrant. We’re waiting for one now. However, I’m chancing my arm here to see if you can possibly email me an image of Franklin Marston, just so I know who I’m looking for.”

  “Triple murder?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The three daughters in the Walker family. We have the fourth sibling, a son, in a safe house at the minute. Some information has come to light that means I really do need to speak with Franklin as soon as possible.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  Forgive me for lying… “Not at present, no. I need information about the time he was living with the family. He may remember something that might help us with the investigation.”

  “I shouldn’t really, not without a—”

  “Warrant, I know.”

  “But…” Mrs Featherstone sighed. “A picture won’t hurt, will it?”

  “No, that’s all I need. Thank you so much.” Helena rattled off her email address then ended the call. She logged in to her account, butterflies wreaking havoc inside her at the thought of seeing the possible killer. They were getting somewhere, at last.

  Her email pinged, and she clicked on the one from Mrs Featherstone. She hovered the cursor over the image attachment icon and pressed down on the mouse. A photo loaded. A blond kid who looked about eighteen, although she thought about what Jacob had said and realised this picture had probably been taken around the time he’d gone to live with the Walkers. She imagined him with dark hair and eyebrows.

  Her stomach plummeted, and her mouth went dry. It couldn’t be him, could it? He certainly looked similar, but lots of people did, didn’t they? She rummaged in her mind, sorting through their conversations for any little sign he’d let something slip.

  Nothing.

  She rang Clive. “Can you put Jacob on, please.” She had a question that would clear this up once and for all. If Jacob answered a certain way, she’d know for sure.

  A few seconds passed, then, “Hello?”

  “Jacob, it’s Helena. Does Franklin ever wear anything that would make him stand out?”

  “What, like a fucking mac and a fedora? Yeah.”

  Helena’s blood ran cold. She ended the call, hand shaking as she placed the phone down. Her head flooded with images of him and how easily she could have been Suzie, Emma, and Callie. She breathed deep and closed her eyes until her heartrate slowed.

  Then it was time to find Marshall.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  He’d found her. The hated foster mother with the garden full of flowers. He’d left the Walker home now, living by himself in a rented two-up, two-down. An adult. No longer under the regimes of tho
se so-called carers of his youth. Although the Walker parents had been good to him, he’d never fitted in. Always the outsider, despite the mum and dad trying to include him in everything, he’d wandered through those years under their care with hate twisting his heart and a demon eating his soul bit by bit.

  He’d learnt a trade, though, tiling, so their encouragement had helped with something. Shame it hadn’t healed him. Fixed him.

  He stood in her front garden, and the mad urge to rip up all her fucking flowers stroked him, an unseen hand that pushed him on the back towards the roses, the tulips, and the forget-me-nots. He picked one of each and held them behind his back while he rang the bell.

  She answered, an old lady now, hair white and wispy, skin weathered with spite, all the times she’d scowled or frowned mapped out on her skin, lines of her abuse telling the tale of a life lived mired in hatred.

  He’d lived the same life. What you reaped, you sowed, and on it went down the generations if your tendencies weren’t caught soon enough.

  “What do you want?” she asked, peering at him through thick-lens glasses, her once bright-blue eyes that had rivalled a summer sky dulled to thunder grey. She still had that dreadful eyeshadow on. Shiny blue. “I don’t buy nothing on the doorstep.”

  “I’m not selling,” he said. “I’m here to check your pipes under the kitchen sink. Council reported a leak.” He lifted his royal-blue holdall, the business end of a hammer poking out through the not-quite-closed zip.

  Her lips flapped, words failing her, and she glanced to the side and up, thinking, clearly struggling to recall whether she had a leak or not. He dropped his bag and produced a card from his pocket using his free hand. He flashed a mocked-up identity badge, laminated to appear real.

  “Tsk, fucking come in then,” she said. “Pain up the bloody arse, this is.”

  She stepped back into the hallway, and he grabbed his bag, entering the house he’d been beaten in as a kid. It still resembled the interior of the past, although thirty years ago it had been new wallpaper and paint. Now it peeled and flaked, some hanging down at the top corner by the banister rail. Her nail-painting freak of a husband obviously wasn’t here anymore to do the handiwork. Or if he was, he was too old.

  He closed the door while she shuffled off down the hall. Then he peered into the living room—no one there.

  Good.

  In the kitchen, she stood by the sink, pulling one of the cabinet doors open. “There you go.”

  He smiled at her. “Where’s George?”

  She blinked. “What’s it got to do with you, nosy beak?” Her face scrunched up. “’Ere, how did you know my old man’s name?”

  “Live on your own now, do you?” he asked, anger uncoiling inside him; she still spoke the same way. Rude. Abrupt. No respect. No manners.

  “You need to mind your own fucking business and get on with fixing that ruddy pipe,” she said, pointing at it with a gnarled finger, the knuckles bulbous.

  He brought the flowers out from behind his back. She stared at them for a moment, eyes glassy, as though she peeked back in time at what the flowers represented.

  “Did you beat all the kids who picked these for you, or just me?” He tilted his head and forced her to make eye contact.

  “Which one of them little bastards are you?” She sucked in her bottom lip.

  “Franklin Marston.”

  “Ah, him. Worst of the lot, you were. Always picking my flowers.” She flicked her gaze to the ones he held out. “Some things never change.”

  “You asked me to pick them, then you beat me.”

  “So what if I did?” She thumped her fists onto her hips.

  He placed the bag on the worktop and drew out the hammer, putting the flowers on the draining board.

  Then he staved her head in.

  Afterwards, he stared at her crumpled body on the lino, then let his gaze drift over the room. The little dining table had material on it, a rich velvet, burgundy. Beside it sat a sewing kit, the case open like a book, needles in one side, tiny spools of thread in the other.

  He sewed up her mouth with black cotton so she couldn’t say hateful things ever again. Black for her ebony heart. Rested the flowers on her chest. And painted her nails with different colours.

  Red. Pink. Purple.

  He took the sewing kit with him, a sense of peace flowing through his soul for the first time since he could remember.

  * * * *

  In his new car outside the back of the police station, parked in a long line of vehicles, he reflected on earlier this morning. He stroked his sewing kit while holding it against his chest. It gave him so much comfort. It had been there from his first time, and while he held it, he experienced the same peace.

  Seeing Helena at the leisure centre with that Andy bloke had brought on anger so fierce he hadn’t been able to think straight. He shouldn’t have done that neck-slicing gesture, though. She was a strong woman and wouldn’t take it lightly. He’d thought she was The One, the person to help him raise a family, to mend everything that was broken inside him. To be the kind of father to their children he’d never had.

  Once she’d gone inside, he’d driven to the flats—him tailing the car that had taken Suzie and Jacob there had been worth it. Following Helena also had its advantages. He’d known, when he’d approached her in The Blue Pigeon that first night, who she was and that she would deal with any murder investigations. She hadn’t remembered, but she’d nicked him in her rookie days. When he’d been blond. When he’d been Franklin Marston. When she’d had long hair instead of the short cut she had now. He’d banked on her forgetting the arrest, and she had. He hadn’t banked on her finishing with him, though. He’d planned to pick her brains every time he killed one of the Walkers, encouraging her to spill information he might need to know in order to remain off the radar.

  Still, he’d managed it so far without her, so that was a bonus.

  The picnic blanket, bowl, strawberries, and plaited reed had been a nice touch. While they’d eaten on the beach all those years ago, he’d enjoyed staring at Suzie. Frightening her. Silently bending her to his will. Once he’d killed her, he’d placed the things inside her then sewed her up, using the purple thread that was so Suzie. He’d done it by the light of the torch app on one of his phones after he’d laid her out on the grass under the silent, reproachful gaze of the trees standing sentinel beside them.

  His run along the path had led him to an alley, and he’d dipped into it, slowing to a walk on the housing estate. Gulls had squawked in the distance, and a meek sun had risen, turning the black sky to a browny-grey. Someone had come out of a house and got into their car, on the way to work, he’d reckoned. He’d clamped his arms over the bloodstain on his mac, thankful it was still murky enough for the wet patch not to show.

  Home again, he’d shoved the mac in the wash then showered, off out once more to tail Helena.

  Ah, there she was. She shot up the road, and he followed at a steady pace, allowing another car to come between them at one point. On she went, through the town centre, then turning right onto an industrial estate. Down a winding road, she indicated right and stopped outside Tim’s Tiles.

  His workplace. Why had he told her he worked there?

  He carried on, going to the end and parking, engine idling, facing the way he’d come so he could watch what happened next. She was probably there to serve him with that fucking restraining order, or did they come in the post? Fingers of anger clutched at his belly, and his cheeks grew hot, itchy. It shouldn’t have come to this. They should still be together, her letting him move in; they could have been a family then.

  Why had he got nasty with her over his mac and hat that time when she’d laughed? Why hadn’t he just brushed off what she’d said? She’d known, then, he wasn’t who he’d made himself out to be. She’d glimpsed the demon inside.

  Suzie’s belly button lay heavy in his stomach. The navel, a symbol of having been born and of giving life. The special li
nk between a mother and child. He’d cut it out from jealousy. Her bratty sons didn’t deserve a woman like her. She’d let herself go to pot since she’d had them, her lovely figure becoming disguised, heavier. Or had she let the weight pile on so he wouldn’t want to go near her again?

  Why would he once she’d been with Robbie?

  Same with the other two. They were all soiled.

  Helena’s car nudged over the intersection line, and she drove back down the winding road. He gave chase, and they ended up in his street. He’d called in sick since he’d killed Callie, so his boss had probably told her that. Wow, she really did want to hand him that order personally.

  Bitch.

  While she parked on his drive, he slid his car between a silver Ford and a bubblegum-blue Fiat. Helena and Andy got out and walked up his path. She knocked on the door with the side of her fist, and Andy peered through the living room window. Helena bent down and pushed the letterbox in.

  He opened the car window.

  “Marshall?” she called. “Franklin Marston, open this door!”

  His skin rippled with goosebumps, and his heart thumped wildly. He hadn’t heard or used that name in years, but somehow, she’d found out who he was. Had she done so because of the restraining order? Deed Poll weren’t supposed to share your old name. What the fuck was going on?

  She knocked on the door again, and Andy went down the alley at the side of the house, while Helena stepped back and stared up at the bedroom window. He’d fucked her in there, so she knew the layout. She was checking whether he was upstairs in his room, peering down at her.

  Crafty cow.

  Andy returned, shaking his head, and they chatted quietly, heads together. Helena nodded, then they left his place and walked to the next-door neighbour’s. He stared in fury, riled up beyond measure—they were messing with his life, and there was nothing he could do about it.