‘We’ll call an ambulance,’ one said. She didn’t let them.
They gave her Kendal Mint Cake. Took her home to her perfect house with the trees either side of the door. They waited to be invited into the warmth, to be offered hot tea and biscuits. She stumbled up the front step, closed the door without a second look.
Clothes soaked, she opened the bathroom cabinet. Took out a small brown plastic bottle; knocked two tablets into her hand. Washed them down with a scoop of water from the tap. Turned on the shower, undressed, let the hot water rush over her, warm her.
Twelve hours later she woke. Covered in sweat. Trembling. Her dreams have turned to nightmares. I can tell. He’d been in her head again. He waits for her, taunts her.
She left the lamp on after that.
I think she can hear me sometimes. Lily, that is. To be exact, I’m not speaking out loud. I stopped that a long time ago. We had a going of our separate ways of sorts. She had to move on. I had to accept it.
The watch on her wrist vibrates, the alarm. It’s six o’clock, where’s the time gone? She scrambles out of bed – time to get ready for work.
Normally, she’d be cleaning the clean stuff. It’s the first thing Lily does. But today she seems totally over that OCD thing. Doesn’t even clean her teeth or wash her bits. She’s charging at a great rate in the opposite direction. Transforming from Clean Queen to Filthy Cow. An Oppositional Deviant. Well, that’s what she’d call it.
It’s dark outside, she gets on the computer – Googling. Veronica Lightfoot. Karen Albright. Those are the names she’s typed. Loads of stuff comes up, thousands of web pages. 377,451 pages to be exact. And that was just for Veronica Lightfoot. Fame at last.
It’s seven o’clock. She digs out the manual for that fancy intruder alarm. The one she had installed when she bought the place. The one you can access through your phone. You can see and hear everything. She spends thirty minutes reading the manual, then another fifteen re-programming the alarm – setting up new codes, checking that the cameras work.
Now it’s seven forty-five – she sprints upstairs, pulls open the wardrobe door. Stares at herself in the full-length mirror, gets right up close.
‘Who… are… you?’ The words come out in tiny faltering steps. Her head inclines to the side, her face right up to the mirror. Her breath blurs the glass. Her whole body quivers.
Something is going on inside that head of hers. She closes the wardrobe door, moves across the room, slumps onto the bed, lies back on the pillows.
Who are you?
I’ve realised what she’d just said.
Who are you?
She must believe there’s another person in her head. We’ve read that. Post-Traumatic Stress can develop into MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder.
Lily closes her eyes, her body completely motionless. Like a toy whose batteries have run out.
10
Mel focuses all her attention on the car; the tension on the accelerator, the traction of the tyres. The lightness of the steering wheel; she holds it steady with her right hand as she works down through the gears with her left. It’s stupid to go out in this weather, but she wants to see the crime scene before the blustering snow and freezing cold temperatures obliterate everything.
Thirty minutes later, muted blue lights glint in the fog. She slows the car down, lets out a sigh of relief. The site looks deserted, yet as she nears, shadows appear out of the mist. TV crews cluster around the road closure sign. A long line of mobile media units, Sky, BBC, ITN, are parked up. Speculation, rumours, lies, a smidgeon of truth, she knows what to expect from the media at times like these. They’ll be pissed off, frozen and hungry and with execs on their backs baying like wild dogs.
Occasionally there is someone decent, someone, who wants to know the truth, who won’t sensationalise it. A journalist, a local one with a conscience, who helps rather than hinders. She’s worked with one or two of them. At the other end, the nationals, pushing, demanding interviews. Preening themselves in front of the camera, wheedling their way into the investigation. Making promises to family and friends that they never keep. Writing whatever will make the best copy or get them a spot on the news.
The police tape is torn at by the wind, four marked vehicles are parked behind it and a large mobile CSI Unit behind them. The crime scene manager will have stopped the clock on the crime. They’ll keep the press out. She runs the names of CSMs through her head and wishes she’d checked before she left.
Mel eases the car behind an ancient Peugeot, caked in mud, the windows misted up. There will be nothing of Karen left here now, she thinks to herself. Yet it is important she sees the place, gets a feel for it, fuels her imagination – gets inside the head of whoever did it. Her hands root around under the passenger seat, catch hold of a plastic bag. Mindful of her fingers, she takes hold of the rubber and steel crampons for weather like this. Stretches one then the other over the sole of her boots. At least she’ll be able to stay on her feet, she thinks to herself.
The banter of the press pack enfolds her as she pushes her way through the barrier.
‘Who is it?’ calls a voice from the back.
‘Do you know her?’ It’s a woman, accentless. Probably a TV reporter.
‘A copper,’ she recognises that voice, although the name of the owner eludes her. She looks to check. A rapid burst of camera flash blinds her momentarily. She squints, tries to cover her face with the back of her hand. A police community support officer ambles towards her, arm outstretched – he gestures for her to stop. Dark-skinned with a snubbed nose, water drips from the peak of his cap onto his chest – despondency writ large across his face.
He asks her name, she shows him her ID. He checks the list of authorised personnel in his hand, smiles, pulls up the tape and lets her pass, already aware that she’d be attending.
‘Who’s the CSM?’
‘Dave Tanner,’ he glances up towards the large mobile CSI unit further up the hill. ‘He should be in there.
She’d heard of him; he plays five-a-side football with Badger on a Saturday. Her eyes strain to pick out the landscape, she totters towards the mobile unit, the ground beneath her feet now compacted with snow.
Nothing prepared her for the reality of the devastation. Shrouded by the mist, giant root formations taller than herself, ripped out of the earth by excavators. They lie on their sides like hundreds of victims, arms reaching out, begging for help; the property developers unaware of what lay hidden. Behind the carnage lay mile upon mile of unforgiving woodland, the trees intensively planted, barely a space between them.
A flurry of snow hits her in the face. Without missing a beat, she wipes the wetness away with the end of her sleeve. ‘God knows what the crime scene will be like?’
Although she cannot see it, she knows in the distance will be a sealed off area, far away from prying eyes. The inner area is where the action is, at the point where the crime scene is screened off over head height, running straight through to the scene of the crime, metal tiles denoting the common approach path that all authorised personnel must take. Everyone must be suitably attired; no contamination, no transfer.
Ten minutes later she is kitted up and inside the evidence tent. The sides vibrate like a rattle, freezing cold air blasts its way through every nook and cranny. A good foot taller than herself, Dave Tanner looks nothing like she imagined, clearly five-a-side football was more combative then she thought. Two cauliflower ears and a broken nose give him the look of a boxer. He’s gesturing to one of the tables. Photographs replace the original finds – human remains, scraps of clothing, a single hooped earring – all in situ, exactly where they were found. Beyond that another table, laden with physical evidence: curled up tissues, desiccated condoms, glass bottles, tin cans and fast food wrappers. All bagged and tagged.
‘Any DNA?’
‘None on the earring we found among the remains. However, there’s lots of DNA around here,’ He winks at her. ‘Unlikely to be of help tho
ugh.’
‘You never know, he could have been back.’ She resists the urge to over-speculate.
He nods his head in agreement. ‘If it’s a he? Who knows at this point? Maybe. It’s all being processed anyway.’ He takes off his latex gloves, pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes momentarily. ‘You’ve got a long list of people to interview, mainly men, I would think.’
And none of them are likely to be cooperative, she thinks to herself. Her eyes widen suddenly, ‘Now that’s interesting.’ She points to the polyester gun bag.
‘Not unexpected, though. We’ve found eight so far. The rest are back at the lab. All replica handguns – German. Been re-bored so they can fire live rounds.’ He picks up the bag. ‘Quite a trade in it – they go for about seven hundred pounds a time. No serial numbers, obviously.’ He places it back on the table. ‘The gangs stash them up here. Clearly whoever they belong to didn’t get up here in time to retrieve them. Good to get them off the streets, though.’
‘Any more remains?’
‘Not yet, but we are extending the search area, I’ll let you know what we find.’
She follows him out of the tent and into the falling snow.
‘Thanks, I just wanted to get the feel of the place.’
He gives her his card. ‘Just in case you need me direct.’
As Mel makes her way back to the car, she squints down at the card. Tanner – then it slips seamlessly into her memory. Of course, she’d read it in case notes. Frank Tanner was the name of the original investigating officer.
Was Dave his son?
A little unease settles into her, she’ll have to be mindful of that.
11
Jimmy Fairfax pulls out his earpiece, weaves his way around the tables in the restaurant, out of the front entrance and into the night. He lifts the lapels on his jacket to block the chill on the back of his neck, his suit not much protection from the icy temperature that greets him. He stamps his feet to keep warm, tiny balls of ice crunch beneath the soles of his shoes. Five minutes ago, hailstones as big as pearls drilled down onto the pavement like a power shower on full.
Headlights slowly stream by him, late night shoppers on their way back from Spinningfields; car boots crammed with the last remnants of the January sales. He sees a gap in the traffic, hurries across the road towards his car, parked four hours ago, and now covered in a thick layer of snow and ice. A metallic black Mercedes C300 with tinted windows; a personal indulgence that masquerades as a legitimate business expense. Hired out occasionally for special events – along with Sid, his driver and friend since he was sixteen years old. He eases himself into the driver’s seat, turns on the ignition. Within seconds the heated seat gives warmth to his tired bones.
I’m getting too old for this.
He looks out of the window, back across the street. New York loft meets warehouse, his daughter had said; industrial lighting, steel girders, silver duct pipe, metres of it. The refurbishment had cost him plenty, but it had worked. Right now, the restaurant is half empty, a temporary lull, the tipping point between after-work diners and nightclub goers with something to celebrate. Within an hour every table will be occupied, the kitchen a frenzy of activity. Round two. Then through the night until six in the morning. He’s always been a night-bird.
In the private room on the second floor, a group of women unwind with liquors and petit fours. Businesswomen at the top of their game, confident, articulate; wealthy. Feet shod in Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin, bodies clothed in Missoni and Vivienne Westwood. Their waistlines untroubled by fad diets and protein shakes. They revel in each other’s company. It is one night per month where all pretence is discarded at the door.
He likes them – they like him.
A newspaper rests on the dashboard. He picks it up, turns the pages, skims the headlines. A photograph on page four is obscured by a yellow Post-It-Note. Sid’s childlike handwriting scribbled across it.
‘I think you should read this.’
He removes the note, reads what is beneath it, lets out a slow breath. He winds down the car window, rests the newspaper on the steering wheel. The blast of cold air sobers his mood.
‘What—’ He almost jumps out of his skin as two sharp fingernails prod him in the shoulder.
‘Come on Dad. You’re such a slack arse.’ His daughter giggles at his unease, ‘Get back in there and work.’
Thirty minutes later his mobile buzzes, drowned out by an impromptu karaoke session in the private room. The women conga around the table to an enthusiastic rendition of I am What I am. He claps in tune, a broad smile on his face, all thoughts of the newspaper article pushed to the rear of his brain. His daughter, the complete centre of his universe, dancing on the table, microphone in hand.
12
‘Don’t…’ The palm of her sister’s hand covers her mouth. ‘Don’t you dare tell Mam and Dad I’ve gone out.’
She climbs out of the window, drops to the ground, the dogs snap at her heels. Her sister runs into the dark, into the fields. Thomasine hangs out of the window, cries out to her, begs her to come back, not to leave her. A gun goes off, again and again.
Bathed in sweat, Thomasine jolts herself out of her nightmare. She sits bolt upright, heart racing, barely able to breathe, tears streaming down her face.
The room is pitch black and freezing.
What was it? A memory, something repressed, a nightmare? Did she try to stop her, try to pull her back?
Why can’t I remember?
She raises her head, eases her foot out from beneath her. Slowly her eyes adjust to the gloom. Out of the darkness, shapes form. A fringed shade. The turn and twist of oak. The standard lamp – she’d fallen asleep by the fire in the kitchen.
The muscles in the base of her spine cramp as she levers herself out of the chair. A dark-blue sky leaks in through the edges of crocheted curtains. The curtains had been Mam’s distraction, her work. Night after night, the hooked needle looping around her finger and thumb, one tiny daisy linked to another, a look of concentration in her eyes. Something to engage her thoughts and hands, something to keep prying eyes out.
As Thomasine rises to her feet, her bare foot discovers something smooth – a wineglass on a side-plate. She rakes over the memories of the previous night. She’d come back to feed the dogs. Had gone into the pantry for a bag of dried food.
It was such a bloody shock in there. The shelves had been lined with tins of food. Her mother’s cornucopia. She’d picked them up one by one. The use-by dates years since passed. Five half-eaten jars of fish paste, the jellied meat covered in a thick white mould.
Thank God, I didn’t eat any of that.
On the top shelf, pushed to the back, was her dad’s old hunting gun. He’d threatened journos with it time and time again. Beside it, a box of rat poison and four ancient traps, caked black with blood. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.
Beneath them, row upon row of Kilner jars lined the shelves. Each filled with homemade concoctions – lavender and applesauce; blackberry, onion and apple chutney. Wimberries glistening in a thick, sugary syrup. Her mother would give them as Christmas gifts. They were delicious, everyone loved them. Thomasine had felt an overwhelming sadness. Who would want them now?
On the floor, unopened bottles of dandelion and burdock pop and still lemonade, memories of summer picnics in the fields. Blue and white checked tablecloths, her mother and father drinking pale ale in pint glasses, holding hands, laughing. The valley, a brilliant mess of vibrant greens dotted with buttercups, dandelions and daisies. Blonde fields of hay lay ready to be shorn for animal feed. For a moment, she lets herself feel the warmth of that memory.
Too exhausted to cook, Thomasine cobbled together a chutney and cheese sandwich, washed it down with a glass of red wine. She only planned to have one glass, just to help her sleep. Yet, the empty bottle is evidence of the true story. One glass led to another, she had lit the fire, watched the logs burn, bathed in the glowing e
mbers as they warmed the room. Now, there’s a horrible bitter aftertaste of tannin on her tongue that even toothpaste will find hard to eradicate.
I must have nodded off.
There’s a faint tang of stale sweat mixed with something sweet. Yesterday’s clothes crushed by sleep; her mother’s homemade cardigan scrunched up her back. The creamy Arran wool still bore her mother’s scent. She shivers, pulls it tight around her, switches on the light; the forty-watt bulb casts the colour of weak tea.
There’s wood and coal in the scuttle by the fire; newspaper on the stool by the door. She tears the paper into quarters, crunches them up into small paper balls, just as her father had taught her. Then takes up the poker, rakes over the ashes, the handle worn thin by her mother’s fingers. Her cold hands layer the paper balls, kindling and coal in the grate. The box of matches on the mantelpiece is half-filled with used matches. A moment later, smoke rises from the paper. On her knees, she fans the flames with a piece of cardboard. Her mother had said the fire was like a hungry dog that’s never satisfied.
She swivels around on her knees, takes in the room, takes a real look at it. Every piece of furniture, worn and shabby, stained and tattered. So-called antiques, ancient pieces bequeathed from her father’s parents and their parents before them. Ladders of cobweb covered in dust drift noiselessly from the ceiling. Nature is taking over – a slender trail of ivy has worked its way through the rotting windowsill above the sink.
Her mother’s underwear is neatly stacked on the seat of a chair, tucked beneath the table. The clothes maiden now folded up and hidden behind the back of the settee. Did she do that? Her mind goes blank. A tall pile of newspapers teeters on top of a small wooden stool. The dresser is laden with mismatched crockery, mixing bowls, plastic containers, spent envelopes filled with recipes and phone numbers written on torn up pieces of birthday card. A row of photographs sits behind the glass on the top shelf, faded by the sunlight, faces slowly disappearing.
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 7