Giving their daughter up was something she knew pained Nathan no end. It brought them together each year on the day of her birthday. If he knew Ruby was directly in communication with her he would stop at nothing to have her back in his life. The only thing that had prevented him from finding her already was the hope that she was happy and settled with a family of her own.
‘I’ll go to the flat. But not tonight. Stay awhile, please?’
Nathan answered by leaning back on the bed and folding his arms.
Sleep overcame Ruby, and soon she was back in one of those dreams where she and Nathan had lit a fire in the squat. They were lying back on the blankets, staring up at the ceiling; her head on his chest as they dreamt of the future.
* * *
The shrill ring of the alarm pierced her brain into an abrupt awakening. She grasped the floor for the clock that was vibrating on its back as the key wound anticlockwise, sounding the only ring that was loud enough to wake her. Slowly she began to piece together the happenings of the night before, and she leaned up on her elbows, casting her eyes around the room for signs of Nathan. Was he really here last night? She lifted the pillow to her face and breathed in his familiar intoxicating smell. He must have fallen asleep for a while, then left at dawn. It didn’t matter what time it was he always woke with the sun. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, and she smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth; awaking with her usual regret for putting her weakness on display. Why did she drink when it made her so needy?
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stepped out of bed and smiled at the empty cup on the table. She vaguely remembered making hot chocolate, and was pleased to see he had drunk it. She could cope with Nathan cutting himself out of her life as long as she knew he was there if she needed him. It was selfish but not something she was willing to give up just yet. A year without her lover had brought pain and loneliness she had never felt before, and as she picked up the empty bottle of whiskey and threw it in the bin a small part of her vowed never to return there. But it was not something she had the luxury of dwelling on – as she stepped out from under her dripping showerhead her phone rang to demand her presence at work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Monica winced as light flooded the room, cutting into her brain and stinging her eyes. She had lost all track of time, falling in and out of consciousness, gratefully accepting the blackness as respite from the terror she was unwilling to comprehend. She realised that at some point she had wet herself, but it was a calm acceptance as her grasp on reality weakened. Somewhere deep within a voice was telling her to struggle free from her bindings, but every time she tried a wave of nausea passed over her, and the thought of choking on her own vomit terrified her more than being left in the basement to await her fate. And now, as bare feet descended the stairs Monica forced her eyes open in order to plead unblinkingly at the person who put her here.
‘Hello, Mother,’ Lucy said, brightly, as if she was meeting Monica in a coffee shop rather than having her tied to a chair in the basement of Lucy’s home. ‘Did you have a nice sleep?’
She was wearing a fluffy towelling robe, with blue and white striped pyjamas underneath. There was something about her hair… Her fringe was crooked. Monica peered, noticing for the first time that she was wearing a wig. The woman’s make-up appeared hastily applied in the same style as Monica’s usual look: dark kohl-lined eyes, arched eyebrows, and baby pink lipstick. But today, as the fairy lights blinked red and green, her face looked gaudy, like a freakish circus clown.
Monica’s nostrils flared to accommodate her panicked breaths as Lucy dug her fingers into the side of her jaw.
Turning Monica’s face to one side she surveyed the damage. ‘Ouch,’ she said, sucking sharply through her teeth. ‘You’re still bleeding. That’s got to hurt. You should have been nicer to me, then I wouldn’t have had to knock you out.’ A small titter escaped her lips. ‘I forgive you now, though. It was just the shock talking, wasn’t it?’
Monica exhaled a muffled groan; her eyes rolling to the back of her head. The darkness was dragging her back down, deep into the abyss. Three sharp slaps stung her face, and Monica drew back her head to avoid the fourth.
‘That’s better,’ her captor smiled, her teeth stained with bright pink lipstick. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to fall asleep in company?’
She’s mad, Monica thought, snapping out of her stupor. Fresh tears blurred her vision as the words rebounded in her mind. This person is insane.
‘That’s more like it,’ Lucy said, drawing back her hand. ‘Are you listening? Or do I need to slap you harder?’
Monica whimpered from under the spit-drenched gag.
Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘You are a stinky mum. Have you wet yourself?’ She tutted. ‘That just won’t do. You’ve got a very special visitor coming today. But I have to warn you: she likes everything just right. She’s a lovely little girl, and she’s so excited about seeing you.’
A visitor? Monica’s heart accelerated with hope. If someone else was visiting, perhaps they could persuade this crazy woman to let her go.
Lucy pushed up her sleeve and checked her watch. ‘I must get dressed. Things to do, people to see. Now, how about a hug?’
Monica stiffened as Lucy wrapped her bony arms around her. Her towelling robe smelt of fabric conditioner, and she closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent of everyday life.
Lucy pulled away. Her robe was stained with snot, tears, and a delicate dribble of blood. ‘Aww don’t look so worried. You’ll be just fine. I really like you, Monica. I want you to be the one.’ Lucy cocked her head to one side like a bird examining a worm. Her voice fell into a conspiratorial whisper as she risked a glance upstairs. ‘But you only get one chance. Don’t mess it up.’
What was she talking about? Monica recalled the recent news broadcast of a woman who had been found murdered in the area. First her husband and then, days later, her body was found. She shuddered. It couldn’t have anything to do with Lucy, could it? Was Lucy really her daughter? Monica looked at her, pleading with her eyes. If only she had been nicer to her when she knocked on her door, or better still, not answered it at all.
‘Are you hungry?’ Lucy said, standing back with her hands on her hips.
Monica slowly nodded, each movement delivering hammering blows of pain. Anything to remove the gag from her mouth, if only for a few precious seconds. She had to speak to her, to tell her whatever she wanted to hear. And as crazy as it sounded, she did not want to be left alone. If she could just get free and apologise, then perhaps she could persuade Lucy that this had all been a horrible mistake.
As if reading her thoughts Lucy shook her head. ‘Later. You can have a drink later. I don’t think it’s a good thing that we talk to each other right now. I’m very cross with you, Mother, and I don’t know what I might do. Besides, I’ve gone to all this trouble and I know this little girl is very excited about meeting you. So take my advice, and don’t make the same mistake twice. Be kind and get the words right. I can’t face any more disappointments.’
More disappointments? Monica trembled with fear. The stains on the floor. The pungent smell. Lucy wanting her to be ‘the one’. As opposed to what? The others that had failed? Where were they now?
Lucy turned and climbed up the stairs. The light flicked off, plunging the room into darkness – the silence punctuated only by the sounds of Monica’s sobs.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Three fish. That’s all that were left in the tank, and two of them were guppies, so tiny that the elderly residents of Oakwood Care Home could barely see them. So much for being therapeutic. The Siamese fighting fish had looked beautiful when he bought it from the pet store. Who would have thought that such a handsome creature was capable of such destruction? It made him think of his own circumstances. Not for the first time, Mr Carter wondered if getting into bed with the Crosby family had been a good idea. Oakwood’s focus had always been on high quality care, and without the Crosbys’ s
ubstantial cash injection he would not have been able to progress to the next phase of development. Mr Carter knew all about the other homes that offered similar services, as advertised on their pamphlets. But their reality was far from the truth. Recently, one of his competitors had been exposed on Watchdog: shamed by hidden cameras as they highlighted the abhorrent treatment of pensioners who were left soiled, neglected, and were rough-handled on a daily basis. It was why he insisted everything had to be just right, and the response had been very encouraging. Funding the new wing was part of his dream, and having the capability to pay for decent staff who genuinely cared about their clients set them apart from other care homes in London that could barely afford to pay trustworthy, English-speaking, workers.
Of course, such things came at a price, and he had not been entirely comfortable with his new sleeping partner, but it was the lesser of two evils. The banks would have fleeced him, despite his early success.
Carter shook Nathan Crosby warmly by the hand as he rose to leave. His meeting had made him sick with nerves, although the figures he had prepared were looking good, and Nathan was already getting a return on his investment. But their encounters made him nervous. Carter had always been a God-fearing man and the closest he had come to breaking the law was eating a bar of shoplifted chocolate when he was fourteen. The handsome well-dressed man before him did not look like a criminal, but neither did the bankers who should be doing time in jail, as far as he was concerned. Given a choice, he would take the Crosby family any day of the week. Since getting involved with them, Oakwood Care Home had come on in leaps and bounds. He had been too scared to ask Nathan about his interest in their client, Joy Preston. It seemed odd, given that Joy’s daughter was a police sergeant with the Metropolitan police. It had been made quite clear to him that Nathan Crosby’s involvement was to be treated with the utmost discretion, and this was something Carter was more than happy to provide. ‘Discreet is my middle name,’ he had said, as they shook hands on their agreement. Curiously, also in the agreement it stated that Ruby Preston was to be charged just a fraction of the ongoing costs for her mother, and that her discovery of their arrangement would seriously jeopardise their future working relationship. Doing anything to upset the Crosby family was not on the agenda. It was not all that dissimilar to the hotel industry, of which Carter had been such a big part in his younger days. Relationships could be found in the strangest places. The meeting concluded, he opened the door of his office and saw Mr Crosby out.
Their most popular carer, Harmony, dealt with Joy, ensuring that she had something red upon her person at all times. A hair clip, a scarf, it didn’t matter, as long as Nathan’s wishes were upheld. Mr Carter could not really understand what all the fuss was about as it was inevitable that Joy would forget her old habits given her dementia. But it seemed to make Ms Preston happy to see these little touches, and it was only then, when he thought about it, that Mr Carter realised that Nathan was going out of his way not just to make Joy comfortable but to put her daughter at ease as well. It was something Mr Carter had mentioned to his wife previously, as he tried to make sense of it all. His wife had informed him that it was a romantic gesture, made all the more romantic by the fact the woman in question was unaware. All the same, she warned him, romance would not come into it should the general public be made aware of his benefactor, so it was best to leave it at that
* * *
‘How are you doing today?’ Nathan asked, pulling up a chair as he sat across from Joy Preston.
He hated care homes, although Oakwood was one of the better ones. It was flooded with light thanks to the floor-length windows which afforded views of the flourishing garden. Heat blasted from the radiators, and Nathan noticed that half the residents were asleep. Even Joy’s eyes were drooping, and he shifted in his chair, feeling guilty for wanting to leave the woman who had saved his mother on more than one occasion. It had never been openly spoken about, but Joy’s calming influence on his family’s turbulent life was something they were all grateful for. Such debts would never be forgotten.
Joy often mistook Nathan for his father. In the beginning his visits were short because he could not bear to have such a flaw pointed out. Even hearing his father’s name made his gut churn. But now he was older and had become accustomed to her ways. All the same, it was nice when she recognised him for who he really was, even if his place was always in the past.
‘Nathan… ’ Joy said, staring at him like she had lost something in his face.
He offered her a smile. ‘Yes, it’s me. How are you doing?’
‘Killing the minutes and watching them die,’ she said, faintly, before turning her gaze to the chaffinches darting on the hedgerow outside.
Nathan grew up wishing his mother was more like Joy. Frances’s harsh upbringing gave her a warped sense of what was normal, confusing jealousy and control as signs of love. But as a boy, Nathan knew from watching Ruby and her parents that this was not the case. It was also why he and Ruby had believed that giving their baby up for adoption was the right thing to do. Back then, they were just kids. Things had seemed so bleak, and even Lenny agreed it was for the best when he confided in him about their plans. Nathan could never have known how much things would change after his father died. Shedding the old regime to work with upmarket clientele gave him the feeling that his work was socially acceptable, and with a brain like a calculator he discovered a talent for making money that he did not know he had possessed. He would be happy with his lot if it were not for Ruby and their child; he regretted the chances they had missed to make each other happy. He wondered what his daughter was doing now, and if she was happy.
‘Lucy,’ he exhaled the words in a sigh, not realising he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
‘Lucy,’ Joy repeated. ‘She came to see me the other day. Such a nice young woman. I hope she comes again soon.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ruby’s heart felt like it was going to pound its way out of her chest as she sidled into Worrow’s office. Situated on the fourth floor, it was where all the higher ranking officers kept a safe distance from their minions. The ‘ivory towers’, as Downes called it, with primrose-scented tissues and a newly installed air-conditioning system. She swiped a jelly baby from the glass bowl on Worrow’s clutter-free desk, casting her eyes over the expensive leather chair and top-of-the-range computer. In comparison, Ruby’s office looked like it had been furnished from the remnants of a warehouse closing down sale. She brought her focus to the task in hand, trying not to look as guilty as she felt. She couldn’t believe that she was doing this, but what choice did she have? It was for the greater good, she told herself, and Downes would be a hypocrite to criticise her. Lenny must have known something was going down on his patch. The Crosbys’ ability to spot a plain clothes police officer had always amazed her, but she had not been privy to the information he sought. It had to be something to do with a drugs deal and a possible police raid.
As loath as she was to help him, she was left with little choice. Passing information on to Lenny might help her catch the murderer, or, at the very least, find Lucy. But getting caught was not an option. Ruby shuffled the mouse on the desk, her eyes flitting to the open office door. The password request box popped up, but there was no way she was going to leave a digital footprint by typing in her own. She had noted Worrow’s keystrokes plenty of times during the conversations when she logged on, and quickly typed in ‘Miss Marple’: the name of Worrow’s pug. Bingo. She was in. Her breath accelerated as she looked up the briefing online, her eyes darting from the open door to the screen.
Worrow was entitled to read the latest operational command, but it was not in Ruby’s remit. And even if it was, she did not want a record made of her search. She quickly accessed the information she needed, scribbling down the date and time. She had been right. Intelligence stated that a furniture lorry was destined to enter the port of Harwich from Holland in two days’ time – believed to be carrying class A drugs. Ruby bit
her lip. This was big. Much bigger than she anticipated. A shipment like this could be worth a small fortune, and here she was about to pass on information, jeopardising any possible raid. Footsteps echoed in the hall, eliciting a flurry of panic inside her. Trying to exit the programmes all at once had caused an egg timer to pop up, and Ruby moaned under her breath as the footsteps approached. It was Worrow: she could tell by the tone of her pernickety voice. ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ Ruby whispered, as the clip clop of Worrow’s sensible shoes echoed in the corridor. A red flush spread across Ruby’s chest as she clicked out of each site in turn.
The log off screen flashed up, but it was too late to leave the office now. Ruby grabbed her scrap of paper and pen just as Worrow walked in. Ducking down behind a filing cabinet, she wondered what the hell she was going to say when she was found. A lost contact lens? A missing earring? She slid her reading glasses into her breast pocket. Lame excuses, but ones she was willing to use. But as Ruby’s DCI entered the office the phone on her desk rang. Ruby exhaled. Saved by the bell. Worrow was too engaged with her telephone call to notice her presence. Her voice was hushed now, and Ruby peeped out to see her close the door. So much for open door policy, Ruby thought.
‘I’ve told you before, don’t ring me at work,’ Worrow said, her back to Ruby as she leaned against her desk, pausing as the buzz of a raised voice was returned. ‘I know… no I… no, of course I don’t want that… ’ Worrow exhaled sharply as the voice on the line voiced their displeasure. ‘I’m not answering my mobile because I’m busy.’ Worrow ran her fingers through her hair, clasping a handful at the top of her scalp. ‘You’ll have to sort this out on your own.’
Love You to Death: An Absolutely Gripping Thriller with a Killer Twist Page 13