by Paula Daly
‘At Ken’s?’ she asks.
‘I’m not sure. I was bringing out the recycling boxes, it was late . . . I was crouched by the gate, and I had assumed she had come from the other house next to Ken’s. Didn’t look like his usual type of visitor, if you know what I mean, so I made the assumption she’d been visiting Susannah. But I suppose, now that I think about it, she could have been at Ken’s.’
Joanne writes this down. ‘That would have been around what time?’
‘Oh, ten at the earliest.’
‘Would you be willing to identify this woman if necessary?’
‘Certainly, dear.’
‘Thank you Mr Gasnier, that’s—’
‘Jerry, please.’
‘Can I give you my card, Jerry? Anything else you remember, you can give me a call on that number there. Whenever’s convenient.’
He takes the card and bids her goodbye, walking the last few remaining paces back to his home.
As Joanne watches him go, she thinks: ‘Leggy blonde?’ and feels the stirrings of something in her stomach.
36
I HAVE IN MY head a physics experiment. The doddery, bespectacled teacher is stretching a thin piece of copper wire between two points. We’re not studying, as one might assume, the properties of various conductors, though, we’re studying elasticity. Hooke’s Law. The teacher turns a ratchet and we watch as the wire gets thinner and thinner. We are looking for the point at which the wire loses its elasticity and becomes what’s known as plastic. This is referred to as the elastic limit or yield point. The material will not spring back to its original shape. It’s the point of no return. Things will never be the same again.
I am at this point.
I have reached my limit.
The girls will be home from school in an hour and I’m faced with the task of telling them that there won’t be a funeral on Tuesday. Dad’s body is now the property of the coroner and we won’t have a funeral until – well, I have no idea when.
How do I tell them he was murdered?
Don’t. Keep it to yourself.
I did think of that. I thought: Let’s make absolutely sure before we put them through further upset. But then I realized they’ll find out within a matter of minutes of being home anyhow. They’ll be at their laptops, seeing it for themselves. How many times have they said, ‘Yeah, we already know. Someone put it on Facebook.’
I didn’t know anything as a child. Wasn’t privy to any adult business. My dad watched the news while I did something else. I was kept in blissful ignorance of the world’s troubles and I wonder now if the outrage, sadness, helplessness I feel upon hearing news bulletins will not be the same for my children. Have they become so heavily saturated at such a young age that they will grow up to be weary and apathetic? And, if so, will they adopt the attitude of: What’s the use in becoming distressed over things we can’t change?
I have my head in my hands as I rehearse what I need to say. Sean offered to do it, but I couldn’t stand the sight of him here any longer so I asked him to get out. He told me my anger at this was good. Told me I should harness it, turning it into strength, so I could be there for the girls, that it was much better to feel rage rather than grief, that I should—
I told him if he continued trying to find one positive in any of this, I would stab him in the fucking eye.
The doorbell rings.
I ignore it.
It rings again.
I ignore it.
A moment later there’s the sound of a key tapping on the glass and I turn, eyes bleary, neck like it’s caught in a vice, to see Mad Jackie at the kitchen window.
I beckon her in as I mouth: ‘The door’s open.’ And, seconds later, she’s inside, her arms around me, as we cry together into one another’s hair.
‘I thought you were bringing the cat,’ I sob, when eventually we pull apart.
‘I’ve not been home yet,’ she explains, ‘I came straight from Crook when I got the call from our Joanne about the . . .’ Jackie pauses here, can’t bring herself to say the word ‘murder’. Eventually settles on . . . ‘ “development”. Our Joanne says ’cause of the development, we’ve all got to present ourselves at Kendal police station sometime in the next forty-eight hours for questioning.’
I stare at her. ‘Who?’
‘All the care staff.’
‘You’re suspects?’
‘It wasn’t an accident, Natty,’ and her voice catches in her throat. ‘They need to talk to anyone who had any kind of link to the house, and to your dad.’
She pauses as the gravity of what we’re facing settles on us both. There will be an investigation, a trial. Christ, I’m going to have to go to court at some point and face the person who did this to us.
‘I’ll bring Morris by in an hour or so, if that’s okay with you,’ Jackie says softly. ‘Sorry we can’t keep him.’
‘That’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘I want to have him.’
‘Oak Street’s not really a place for a cat like Morris,’ she smiles. ‘I’ve had to give him a litter tray – there’s not a whole lot of soil about, it’s mostly yards and decking. I think he might have had a bit of a scrap when he first came as well – he’s not really keen on going out now. Be much better for him here, where there’s plenty of space.’
‘Thank you. Thanks for taking him . . . and, Jackie, I’m sorry I didn’t want to see you at the hospital. It was wrong of me, I just didn’t feel—’
Jackie lifts her hand. ‘Not necessary,’ she says. And it’s only then I notice she’s still wearing the Tubigrip. It’s really grotty now. The hole she’s cut for her thumb has widened and the top edge is fraying madly.
‘How’s the hand?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it’ll be better in a couple of days.’
‘Have you had it looked at?’
‘No need. It’s not that bad. I’m only wearing this so I get a bit of sympathy. Gives people something to talk about rather than going on about the fire . . . and your dad. Gets ’em talking about their own ailments. Not that they need a lot of encouragement.’
I smile. Check my watch. ‘The girls will be in soon. I’ve got to tell them what’s happened.’
‘No easy way to do that. Probably best just to come straight out with it.’
I nod. ‘But how? How do I say “Someone tried to kill your grandad?”’
Jackie takes a step back, tilts her head to one side then shocks me into silence.
‘What makes you think it was your dad they were after?’ she asks.
Joanne and Ron are on their way back to Kendal. They finished up with the house-to-house after it became clear there was nothing more to be gained.
Television crime dramas are for ever depicting people as purposely withholding information from the police. They all have a secret to hide. They will either close up, grow defensive and shifty, refusing to talk, or else they’ll become verbally abusive before walking out of shot, scowling menacingly.
If only it was really like that, Joanne muses, as she drops down into third gear, pulling out to overtake a tractor with a trailer-load of sheep. They’d questioned six people this afternoon before throwing in the towel, and even though each knew nothing, had absolutely nothing useful to say, it didn’t stop them from trying their hardest to be of some assistance, speculating, racking their brains for the tiniest scrap of information. To the extent that Joanne’s now completely out of business cards – the cards she places in the hands of folk to end the conversation politely. Anything else you can remember, anything at all . . .
Joanne’s not given up hoping that one day, perhaps one day soon, a suspect will grimace, maybe even swear at her, before hotfooting it over a nearby fence. That’d make a nice change, she thinks.
‘Why are you driving this way?’ Ron asks as they pass the trailer. The sheep have their heads stuck between the bars. It’s common knowledge there’s a small slaughterhouse further along the Lyth Valley which the local farmers use, and Ron makes an ‘Aaw�
�� kind of sound as they draw level. ‘Bet they think they’re off to Blackpool for a nice day out,’ he says. Then he repeats, ‘Why are you driving this way, Joanne?’
‘I want to check on something before we leave Bowness.’
Joanne swings a right into the gateway of Lakeshore Lodge Hotel, follows the horseshoe driveway around and pulls up outside the grand front entrance. She tells Ron to stay where he is, and he does so without argument, flicking on the radio to listen to the cricket while he’s got the chance. The gardener raises his head from the front flower bed and is about to ask Joanne to move over to the car park when he recognizes her. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she shouts to him, and he nods, continuing on with his task.
The entrance is awash with blooms, hanging baskets everywhere, pots overflowing with all kinds of plants Joanne doesn’t know the names of. Nor does she care to. She spots a fat chef, Formula-1-flag black and white chequered trousers, cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, Marlon Brando-style. Joanne knows he wouldn’t be out front smoking if Natty Wainwright were still on the premises.
She heads to reception and flicks the bell on the front desk. Within seconds, a thin, gaunt man emerges from a rear office and greets her. ‘Good afternoon, Madam.’
She flashes her warrant badge and the man is startled momentarily but tries to hide it, recovering quickly enough to say, ‘I am Raymond, the general manager, how may I be of assistance to you?’
He has an accent, something Eastern European, and a barber’s haircut. The kind you don’t tend to see any more. Short back and sides, greased into place with shiny pomade.
‘Hello, Raymond,’ Joanne smiles. ‘I’m looking for Dr Eve Dalladay. She wouldn’t happen to be here, would she?’
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘let me think. She was here this morning for short time, but now I am remembering she depart. With Mr Wainwright.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I really needed the registration number of her car. Where are they staying right now? Do you have an address for them?’
‘No need,’ he says. ‘Her car is outside. The small Audi, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is in car park. Mr Wainwright is driving . . . the Maserati – how do you say? – is—’
‘In for repair?’
He nods his head gravely. ‘Is much damage. If you like, I will find Mr Wainwright?’
‘Thank you, Raymond, but no. Maybe later.’
And with that she leaves.
‘Call that number in, will you, Ron?’ Joanne says, handing him her notepad with the car registration on it. She gives a quick wave to the gardener and pulls away, her brain alive with possibilities. She visualizes a telephone exchange. A round-hipped 50s secretary making connections, pulling out wires and slotting them elsewhere.
At the moment there can be many different outcomes, and Joanne’s thinking them through individually, preparing for each alternative conclusion. Whatever happens, though, she needs to head back to the station right away, as she can’t get what she needs over the phone. So she puts her foot down, wheels spinning on to the road, and Ron, the phone pressed to his ear, is thrown sideways.
As they pass Windermere Golf Club Ron tells her, ‘The car’s registered in the name of a Mr Cameron Cox,’ and he raises his eyebrows as if to say: Mean anything to you?
‘At Kirkby Lonsdale?’ Joanne asks.
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Lucky guess. He blew his brains out with a shotgun, remember?’
‘Yeah,’ Ron says, ‘I remember. Wife said he’d been having an affair.’
‘She told us the mistress in question had cleaned out his bank accounts and scarpered . . . but there was nothing for us to go on. I got the feeling at the time he’d probably been cooking the books, sensed there was a big pile of undeclared cash gone missing as well. But Mrs Cox didn’t want us looking at it too closely, in case she had the Inland Revenue breathing down her neck.’
‘Sounds about right. So,’ Ron says, lowering his window to let some air in, ‘you think maybe you’ve found this mystery mistress then?’
It is perhaps just as well that handguns are illegal in the UK.
Because if I had access to one, if I had it hidden in the wardrobe, kept it in a box beneath the bed – in case an intruder should break in during the night – I’d have already taken that gun and put it to Eve’s head. I’d have blown her pretty skull wide open in front of whoever happened to be nearby. Probably blown apart her stomach, took her kneecaps off, too, while I was at it.
As it is, I’m wandering around the house, picking up objects. I pull out the Honyaki knife from its case and examine the steel. I paid a lot for this knife. It’s a chef ’s knife. It cuts through steak like butter and, as I hold it in my hand, feeling the weight of it, I can almost hear the sound it will make on leaving Eve’s chest. It’s the sound of a child slurping warm tea. The rush of air across a wet surface.
I won’t need to stab her over and over. No, there’ll be no bloodbath. With my rudimentary anatomical knowledge, I should be able to do it cleanly. One well-placed cut, at a depth of around an inch, and I will pierce the left ventricle.
I pull a hair from my head. Dangle it high in the air between the fingers of my left hand and, with my right, I flick the blade across it swiftly. Watching as the lower portion drifts down towards the floor. This is how to test a knife.
I repeat the process to be sure.
Then I move to the laundry room. I pick up the Victorian iron we use as a doorstop. It’s heavy, black, it’s the kind of iron your great-grandmother would have heated on the fire, the kind you might want to bludgeon a person to death with, should you feel the need.
The door swings shut, and behind it I see Felicity’s hockey stick. She’s wrapped tape around the shaft for a better grip, and I consider the possibilities. I place my weapons gently on the drainer next to the sink. It’s the sink I use for soaking grass-stained socks and bloodied knickers, for bleaching my kitchen cloths. It’s the sink where Sean once polished his shoes, where he used to whiten the girls’ trainers for tennis, where I repot my plants when they outgrow their containers.
I pick up the stick – it’s heavier than I remember – and I stand with my back against the worktop, holding it like a golf club. Swinging it high over my right shoulder, as I did once in my previous life, but this time I bring it down low. I’m imagining it’s Eve’s head on the tee, and for some reason this makes me smile. Just before the wood connects, she pleads for her life, and again I laugh.
Now I think about our friendship. About what a joke it really is. I loosen my knees, squatting slightly, line up the hockey stick ready for another swing. If you didn’t already know it, you can count up your real friends on the fingers of one hand. Everyone aside from these people are mere acquaintances. Not to be relied on in a crisis. Nowhere to be found when you really need them.
Eve was my friend. Not a childhood friend, and this allowed her to create a whole new history for herself that I never thought to question.
Eve took my husband and killed my father.
Now I shall kill her.
37
IT’S MID-AFTERNOON, AND Joanne sits at her computer, her brow puckered in puzzlement. The sun is streaming through the windows, emphasizing the streaks and filth on the glass, hampering Joanne’s ability to read the screen. She gets up, adjusts the vertical blinds, but still has to hold a folder over the computer to decipher the text.
There is absolutely nothing to be found on this woman, Dr Eve Dalladay. She has no National Insurance number, no NHS number, no cars registered in her name, no address, no criminal record, no driving convictions, no record of employment.
On the desk are the transcribed notes of the interview Joanne conducted with Natty Wainwright, from the day she rammed Eve Dalladay in her car. It’s pretty clear to Joanne now that the name Eve Dalladay is an alias, perhaps even one of a number of aliases used by Eve, and she could kick herself for not chec
king her out earlier.
She lifts her head. ‘We need to get back to Windermere, Ron,’ she says grimly. ‘Come and have a look at this.’
Ron goes to stand, grimacing as his knees crunch, and makes his way around to her side of the desk. ‘What is it?’
‘Eve Dalladay is a ghost,’ she says. ‘According to this, she doesn’t exist.’
Ron considers her words. Not one to get giddy over nothing, he says, ‘So, she’s given them a false name,’ and he shrugs, returning to his chair.
‘Well, there’s that,’ Joanne goes on, ‘and the fact she’s driving around a dead man’s car. Without insurance.’ Cameron Cox’s car was still registered in his name and to his address in Kirkby Lonsdale.
Ron leans back in his seat and puts his hands behind his head. ‘I take it you’re assuming this woman is linked to the death of Kenneth Odell, Joanne, because that is the case we’re working on, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘So you have a witness who can place Eve Dalladay at Ken’s house at the time of the fire?’ he asks.
Joanne calls to mind Jerry Gasnier’s description of Eve – a leggy blonde – and says to Ron, ‘Kind of.’
‘Kind of yes, or kind of no?’
‘Kind of no. But I’ll be able to get a positive ID at some point,’ she says confidently.
Ron picks up his pen and goes back to work.
‘Okay, Ron, look . . . a leap of faith required here,’ she says. ‘I’ve got nothing concrete as yet, but there is motive. Maybe Natty Wainwright discovered some dirt on Eve Dalladay, found out something in her past that she’s not supposed to know. Maybe that Eve Dalladay doesn’t actually exist. That’s enough of a motive right there for Eve to want to kill her.’
‘Not enough to bring her in on a murder charge, though, Joanne, you know that. See what else you can dig up.’
In the transcript Natty Wainwright was recorded as saying that Eve’s maiden name was Eve Boydell, so Joanne resumes her search there. It’s a common enough name: the database retrieves numerous Eve Boydells with charges against them. It’s going to take her an age to sift through them all, Joanne thinks, as she scans the cases, hoping something will jump out at her.