Her Deadly Secret

by Chris Curran

  The mobile was ringing once more, but she called after him. ‘Bye, Will. I can be there in ten minutes if you decide you need me.’

  He continued walking.

  Sitting in her car she watched him drive off, then sighed and rubbed her face. What a mess.

  The three missed calls were from the same unfamiliar number. She rang it. A hesitant voice. ‘Oh, Constable Peterson, it’s Sister Clara. You know, from The Children of Light – Hannah Marsden’s friend. You gave me your number.’

  Loretta sat up. ‘Yes, hello, Clara. Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s, oh, I shouldn’t be calling, but …’ She was speaking so quietly Loretta could hardly hear.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I saw Samuel talking to Hannah’s husband and, when I spoke to the boy, he said Lily took some things from Hannah’s testament box. Could that be why she was killed?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. So, Clara, if you know anything that might help …’

  The words came soft and fast. ‘As well as the memories and treasures from their past lives that go in the testament box, the converts have a special folder. It’s sealed during the ceremony and is supposed to remain like that. It’s what we call our confession – an account of any bad things we’ve done.’

  Loretta swallowed. ‘And do you still have Hannah’s confession?’

  ‘No. After the ceremony, Pastor Jerome takes them. He keeps them all.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Rosie

  Although Rosie had promised her mum she’d go over there today, and had meant to do so straight after dropping Fay off at school, she’d come home instead. She couldn’t face talking about it all again. Didn’t even want to think about it. She started on the ironing. Then she changed the beds and cleared out the fridge, all the time pretending she wasn’t waiting for the phone to ring. When, at lunchtime, it did she was tempted to ignore it, but after a few seconds she answered.

  ‘Are you coming over soon?’ The voice was tearful.

  Rosie closed her eyes, her stomach twisting into a knot. There was nothing for it. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  But even when she got into the car, she was tempted to drive in the opposite direction. Anywhere but there.

  Joe

  When Joe reached the small block of modern flats on the seafront at Bexhill where Mrs Pritchard lived, he parked on the beach side of the wide road. It was much quieter here than he’d expected and he had a good view of the building. It wasn’t until he turned off the engine that he realized this was as far as his planning had got to. He’d imagined something would happen or he’d think of something when the time came. But now that he was here, nothing was happening, and he could think of nothing except how hopeless this was.

  Some copies he’d printed out about the case were on the passenger seat and he looked again at the picture of Alice Pritchard. Hannah said she was horrible, but she looked nice – a pretty, smiling teenager. In one of the newspaper clippings, Natalie stood proudly with her friends from the youth orchestra. Another pretty, smiling girl.

  He leafed through the paperwork until he found a photo of Marion Pritchard, taken around the time of the murder. He had to get a look at the woman who lived here, at least, to make sure this was the right address. He opened the back of his van and took out his yellow jacket and a clipboard, folding an old survey plan and attaching it to the board to make it look official. Then he picked up a pen and a big metal measuring tape and walked over to the building. An elderly woman came out pulling a shopping trolley. It wasn’t Mrs Pritchard, but this was his way in. He ran forward and held the door for her with a smile, then slipped inside.

  Marion Pritchard’s place was on the third floor and, when he got to the landing, he had to lean over to catch his breath. When he was a bit calmer, he opened the glass door to the corridor and walked along till he found the right number. Was this a good idea? Maybe he should just leave it to the police. It’s easy, Dad. He swallowed and rang the bell.

  She opened the door right away, and she was smiling. It was definitely the same woman, thinner and older looking, but still recognizable and even more so when the smile disappeared. ‘Yes?’ She looked towards the stairs as if she were expecting someone. Maybe that explained the smile. Her eyes were wary, but she didn’t seem to recognize him from the TV.

  Just in case, he lowered his head and raised the clipboard. ‘Won’t keep you a moment, Mrs Pritchard.’

  The door moved. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk.’ That look down the corridor again.

  His breath caught, but he forced himself on, hardly knowing what he was saying. ‘It is Mrs Pritchard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s just a safety check – fire safety. Can you tell me if you live here alone?’

  ‘Please.’ Joe could see she was close to tears. ‘I can’t talk now. I’m not well.’

  He stepped back as she closed the door, feeling a complete bastard.

  Walking down the stairs, he wondered what he’d achieved. Surely Lily wouldn’t have travelled to Bexhill? But then she was much more social media savvy than him, so maybe she’d found a phone number or even traced Bernard Pritchard himself.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He’d been so deep in thought, he had almost collided with the young woman hurrying upstairs. She didn’t look at him, but seemed equally preoccupied. On impulse he stopped, waited till she’d turned the corner, and went back after her. He stood, out of sight, on the stairway and heard the woman stop halfway down the corridor. A bell buzzed twice, then he heard tapping on a door.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. Open up, will you?’

  The door opened and he recognized the voice, still sounding tearful.

  ‘Oh, Rosemary, darling, thank goodness it’s you.’

  Joe leaned against the wall, biting his lip. Rosemary: it had to be the daughter. From the glimpse he’d caught of her, she must be in her late twenties, early thirties, and she’d rung the bell; so, presumably, she didn’t live here. That meant she might come out again.

  He walked slowly back to the van. There was a car in one of the parking bays outside the flats that hadn’t been there when he arrived. Was it worth trying to talk to this woman?

  Someone else was approaching – an elderly man – and Joe sat up straight. It was Bernard Pritchard. He didn’t need to check the photos to be sure of that. The image of the man was burnt into his brain, and fifteen years had aged him, but not changed his appearance much.

  Did he live here, after all, or was this a family get-together? Joe couldn’t imagine those would be much fun. Especially if the police had got their fingers out and actually been to see them. Whatever it was, he wasn’t leaving yet. He switched the radio on and leaned back in his seat.

  Rosie

  Her mum took so long to answer the door that Rosie thought she might have gone out, and when she did open up, it was clear she was even more upset than she’d sounded on the phone. She peered along the corridor and closed the door almost before Rosie was inside.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum? Are you expecting the police again?’

  Marion was over by the window, looking down. ‘No, I don’t think so. At least … Did you see a man as you came in?’

  ‘There was someone on the stairs, but I thought he was a workman … What is it?’

  ‘He knocked on the door. I think he might have been a reporter.’

  A shiver, remembering those awful days after Alice’s death. ‘Surely not. What did he say?’

  ‘Something about a fire safety check, but, Rosemary, he knew my name.’

  She steered her mother to an armchair. ‘Well, so long as you didn’t tell him anything.’ She looked around; she hated this place. Get it over with. ‘Where is he? Dad, I mean.’

  ‘He went for a walk. Said he needed to clear his head before he saw you. He’ll be back any minute.’ Marion’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, what if they see him?’

  There was no need to answer that b
ecause the key rattled in the door and Bernard came in. Marion cast a warning glance at Rosie then went into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  Despite the warmth outside, Bernard was wearing a fleece and Rosie watched as he struggled to take it off. His hands looked too big for his thin arms, the fingers and knuckles huge. And whether his shaking was due to age, illness, or anxiety Rosie didn’t want to know.

  He lowered himself into an armchair. It obviously took an effort but, when he smiled, stretched his legs, and leaned back in the seat, he looked like his old self.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Rosemary.’

  Rosie felt too weak to keep standing. She sat on the sofa opposite him, shaking her head, wanting to scream at him to stop trying to control the situation. As if he still had the right to think of himself as her father.

  She forced her voice to sound firm. ‘I’m here to get things out in the open.’ His eyes dropped and those swollen hands moved up and down on his knees. ‘And I thought I should give you one more chance to tell me the complete truth. We also need to discuss what I’m going to say if the police contact me.’

  He was still looking down, rubbing at the shiny patches on his trousers, seeming at a loss for once. Good. Then her mum bustled in to plonk a tray on the coffee table. Rosie wanted to pick it up and hurl the whole lot against the wall. As if tea or coffee could solve anything.

  But her dad was relaxed again, looking up with a calm, ‘Thanks, love’; although, he still shook and had to grasp the mug with two hands.

  Rosie ignored the mug Marion pushed towards her. Didn’t trust herself to touch it. ‘To start with, I want to know all about Natalie Grant. I’m sick and tired of the way you two have been keeping things from me.’

  ‘Rosemary!’ Her mother’s voice was still shaky.

  But Bernard looked straight at her and nodded. ‘You’re right, we should have trusted you from the start. I can see that. But will you let us tell you everything before you ask any questions?’

  Oh no, he wasn’t getting the upper hand. ‘I can’t promise that.’

  As if he hadn’t heard he nodded and leaned forward, feet drawn back, clawed hands clasped around one knee. ‘Poor Natalie was a very talented girl. A brilliant musician, a wonderful swimmer, she could have had a great future. But with that background, she probably never stood a chance.’

  Marion gave a tut of impatience and Rosie shifted in her seat, but didn’t speak.

  ‘We tried to help her, as you know, and, Rosemary, please believe me, I always behaved towards her appropriately.’ He looked at Marion. ‘As did your mother. Although …’

  ‘Bernard, darling …’ Her mother clutched his hand.

  He patted her arm. ‘We owe it to Rosemary and to Alice. Go on, Marion.’

  Her mum moved back in her chair, clutching herself as she spoke. ‘Just before it all happened, she rang me to ask if she could come round. It was obvious she was worried about something, so naturally I said she could.’

  She pressed the knuckles of one hand hard against her lips, her eyes staring. ‘It was before Dad and I had the row. Before I decided to go and stay with my sister. And I didn’t think to contact Natalie to let her know I wouldn’t be there that weekend.’

  Bernard was looking hard at Rosie. ‘And, of course, Mum couldn’t know that Alice would stay behind instead of going to tennis with us.’ His hand, the veins standing out purple under the thin skin, came up to his mouth in an old man’s gesture. ‘We think she might have turned up on that Saturday morning, you see. And the thing I’ll never forgive myself for is that, if I hadn’t been having the affair, none of it would have happened.’

  Rosie leaned forward and touched her mum’s knee. ‘So you’re saying you’ve always known she could have been there when Alice was killed? Why didn’t you mention this at the time?’

  ‘With everything that happened, I didn’t give Natalie a thought. I didn’t think about her even when those postal orders arrived. But when they did, I knew I had to see your dad. That was when he told me about the letters. We both realized who must have sent them, and I finally remembered telling her she could come round.’

  Marion’s eyes were almost closed, arms tight over her chest. She was twisting her wedding ring – when had she started wearing that again?

  Rosie wanted to shake her, but she turned to her dad instead. ‘You think she saw something? Witnessed the killing, even?’

  ‘At first I did.’ He was looking hard at Rosie and she felt a deep quiver inside. Then he took a long breath and went on. ‘But, as I reread the letters I realized there could be another explanation. They were full of more than sympathy. They were full of guilt. And the fact that she’d run away made me think she might not be a witness to the murder at all. She might be the killer.’

  This was ridiculous. ‘But why? Why would she want to harm Alice?’

  Her father sighed and ran his trembling hand through his thin hair. ‘You know how Alice felt about my pupils and, for some reason, she seemed to particularly dislike Natalie. Therefore, if Natalie arrived unexpectedly, I can imagine Alice being – well, you know how she could be.’

  Marion leapt to her feet with a guttural cry. ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare start that again. My Alice wasn’t to blame.’ Her eyes blazed at Rosie. ‘He keeps making excuses for her. Still feels sorry for her. Can you believe it? He feels sorry for someone who killed my baby and destroyed our lives.’ She spat out the final words, her head jerking back and forth between Bernard and Rosie. When they said nothing, she groaned and turned away. Her foot caught the leg of the coffee table and she grabbed at the back of the sofa to stop from falling. Rosie’s heart gave a huge thump but, before she could move, her mother was gone, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  They sat, Bernard with his hands pressed against his mouth looking towards the bedroom, and Rosie listening to the vibrating silence and the beat of her own heart. Then he shook his head, speaking very softly.

  ‘It’s been almost unbearable for Mum. First, she just felt terrible about everything. The fact that it was she who invited Natalie over, as well as doubting me for all those years. And the idea that Alice’s killer had got away unpunished began to torment her. For a while I thought she was going to have a breakdown.’

  ‘But you adored Alice too. Surely you want to see her killer brought to book?’

  He shook his head and leaned back in his chair again. ‘Prison changes you, Rosemary, and it’s still possible we’re wrong and Natalie was just a witness. If so she probably had very good reasons for keeping quiet. And whatever Mum says she knows as well as I do that the poor girl was no monster. It wouldn’t bring Alice back to lock Natalie up and deprive another child of its mother. And, as I said, I did feel partly to blame. If I hadn’t been having an affair, if I’d been a proper husband and father, none of it would have happened.’

  Rosie walked to the window. It would be hours before dark, but the clouds had a pink tinge, as if a storm was brewing. ‘Assuming, for a moment, you’re telling the truth and any of this makes sense, I still can’t understand why mum agreed to keep quiet. Alice was the apple of her eye.’

  ‘She was very unhappy, at first, and tried to persuade me to do something, but finally agreed there was no point in telling the police.’

  ‘Did you know she went to see Natalie’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, she shouldn’t have done that, but nothing came of it anyway. And now, like me, she just wants to start again with the family we have left.’ Rosie knew he was looking at her and she turned to face him. His eyes were misty. ‘You’re all that matters to us now, Rosemary. You, Fay and Oliver.’

  Her head thumped and she pressed her fingers to her temple, then looked at her watch. ‘I need to go. Fay’s due back from school. And I have to think about all this.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ He didn’t move as she walked to the door.

  She stopped. Remembering all the things she had meant to say. ‘I’m going to have to think about
what to tell the police if they do come to see me.’

  He nodded with a small smile, then looked away – towards the bedroom door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Joe

  When the young woman emerged from the flats, Joe started the van and followed her car. This was probably madness, but it seemed the only thing he could do. She drove towards Hastings, turning off before the town and seafront, and down a wide road lined with detached houses. Here she pulled into one of the drives and let herself into the house.

  Joe parked. Now what to do? Should he try to talk to the woman? Ask if she knew anything about Natalie? He was about to open the van door when he froze and ducked down in his seat. A police car had come past him and was pulling into the driveway. Joe grabbed his notebook and stepped out of the van to stand sheltered by a tree. He heard one of the men say, ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Weatherall. Could we have a word inside?’

  It looked like the police were talking to the Pritchard family. That had to be good news. It would probably be better if he didn’t interfere by speaking to this woman, but he wanted to make sure he could if he had to. He walked along the road until he came to the street sign and made a note: ‘Rosemary Weatherall (daughter) 54 Granville Park Avenue. Standing by a bus stop he watched until the police car drove away.

  Almost immediately another car pulled into the drive – a four-by-four this time – and a little girl jumped out and ran towards the door. He walked back, keeping his head down and watching from the corner of his eye. Rosemary Pritchard/Weatherall stood on the driveway holding the child’s hand and talking to the other woman from the four-by-four as the little girl bounced up and down beside her.

  Joe stayed there, not caring that he might be spotted, until the four-by-four pulled away with a toot of its horn and Rosemary and her child waved and turned to go in. They made a lovely picture and, for a moment, he imagined them inside. The mother making her daughter a snack, pouring her a drink, while the little girl chattered about her day at school.