‘I don’t see it happening,’ says Badger, a look of disappointment on his face. ‘This is running like an episode of the Twilight Zone.’
Kinsi pulls her hair back into the elastic band that had been wound around her wedding finger. ‘It might be months before she can speak.’
‘We can’t rely on her, then,’ says Badger, brushing some imaginary dust off the table with the palm of his hand. ‘Back to the legwork and my old pal the PNC.’
‘How do we know it’s a hypnosis session?’ The scepticism in Kinsi’s voice rings loud. ‘There’s nothing to indicate that. It could be one big act.’
No one answers, Mel can see a whirr of internal thoughts on the facial expressions of everyone in the room.
Kinsi continues, ‘I’m wondering what drugs they used. We all know there’s a lot of stuff out there that could generate that kind of response. That can make people open to suggestion. And make them very confused.’
‘Oh God, you’re not telling us she just made all that up.’ Jenny’s voice cuts in.
‘Hopefully, not,’ interjects Mel. ‘Let’s go with what we’ve just seen and heard.’
Every single one of them had written down the names of those mentioned. The name of the nightclub, and anything else that they thought was useful. On Mel’s notepad, there was one word written in large black letters.
JIMMY. Everything in her gut tells her it’s him.
49
It takes Thomasine a while to find Jacky2422’s house; an old converted railway cottage about ten miles from Chester. There’s a small garden at the front, an arched trellis over the gate. All very twee. She walks towards the house – a knot of discomfort sitting in her chest. She has been in two minds all the way over. Should she call Mel and tell her what’s she’d found online? If she does, Mel will refuse to involve her in the interview. She mulls it over for a moment – the door opens before she gets the chance to ring the bell. The decision is made for her.
There’s a hesitant smile on Jacky’s face. ‘Did you get lost?’ Her accent has a trace of someone trying to move away from their Liverpudlian youth ‘People always do.’ She’s slender, petite, her pale grey eyes look back at Thomasine through thick, mascara-covered lashes. She tries to guess her age, late fifty’s or early sixties. It’s hard to tell.
Thomasine offers out her hand, ‘Thomasine Albright.’
‘Jacky, Jacky Wainwright. You can’t keep calling me Jacky2422.’ Her hand is clammy, uncomfortable to touch.
Jacky welcomes her in. The small sitting room is shabby chic, bright and airy. A gas fire blazes away in the fireplace. Motivational quotes, stencilled in italics on thin panels of whitewashed driftwood, are dotted around the room. If Thomasine were a betting woman, which she isn’t, she’d say Jacky Wainwright was in the interiors business, but she doesn’t ask. Jacky gestures for her to take a seat and disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes then returns with a tray in her hands.
‘I’ve made some refreshments.’ She places the tray on the large footstool between them, pours thick black coffee into white cappuccino bowls, asks whether Thomasine would like cream and sugar.
‘Milk, no sugar, please.’
Jacky disappears into the kitchen again and brings out a small jug of milk. ‘I have cream myself,’ she looks Thomasine in the eyes, ‘you know like the Americans do?’ Then edges a plate of biscuits towards her. ‘Help yourself, they’re from Waitrose. Organic, chocolate chip.’ Her eyes widen as though expecting a comment.
‘Thanks, I’ll just let the coffee cool.’ Thomasine resists a smile.
‘So how can I help you? Are you interested in Northern Soul?’
‘Not particularly.’
A confused look crosses her face, ‘Oh, I thought you were.’
Polite protocol would dictate that – right at that moment – Thomasine pick up a biscuit, bite into it, tell her how organic is ‘worth paying the extra for’, but she does neither of those things, she wants to get to the point.
‘It’s about the picture, one of the ones you posted on the internet,’ she takes an A4 folder out of her bag, flips it open, takes out a photograph. ‘This one.’ She holds it out for her to see.
Jacky places her coffee cup on a coaster. She smiles again, ‘Yeah, that one at the Golden Torch, those were the days, I loved that place.’ Then her gaze shifts to the fireplace, to the flames. ‘Young and free, eh.’
‘This man here,’ Thomasine point to his face. ‘Do you know who he is?’
Her eyes narrow in on her for a moment, then flick down to the photograph. ‘Why do you need to know?’ her voice is light, conversational. She picks up her cup again.
Thomasine’s voice tightens, ‘I’m Karen Albright’s sister, that girl’s sister.’ Her finger points to the girl directly in front of him.
There is no trace of recognition on Jacky’s face.
‘The girl in front of him, the one whose shoulder he’s resting his hand on. She went missing back in 1973. That girl.’ She lays the photograph on the tray. Waits for Jacky to pick it up; she doesn’t. ‘She is, was, my sister.’
‘Oh God, I don’t know what to say.’ Jacky blinks, puts down her coffee.
Thomasine hesitates before speaking. Jacky Wainwright is the first stranger she’s sharing this information with. ‘They found her remains two weeks ago.’
The colour drains from the woman’s cheeks. Her hand goes to her mouth; the words mumble between her fingers. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Thomasine presses on. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember her?’
Jacky shakes her head. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘How about him?’
The woman picks up the photograph; stares at it for a few moments. Swallows before she speaks. ‘Yeah, I do.’ She has that piqued look on her face that people get when they suddenly realise their past may have come back to bite them. Her jaw clenched, her teeth a barrier to the words she fears letting out.
‘I don’t want you to worry, I’m just trying to chase up people who might have known her, for the funeral.’
The woman’s face clears, the tension dissipates. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Didn’t I put that in the email?’ She knows she hadn’t.
Jacky opens her mouth to speak, pauses, Thomasine can sense her formulating the words in her head. ‘His name was Billy.’ She traces a brightly painted fingernail over his face. ‘I can’t remember his last name. He had a car – white. A Capri. His pride and joy. Lots of the girls fancied him. He never seemed interested in them, though. He was one of…’
‘One of what?’ Thomasine copies Jacky’s light conversational style. She makes a mental note of the car. Karen had written about a white car in her diary.
Her face clouds over. ‘Nothing, I was just thinking, remembering. He liked to dance, was a good dancer.’
‘There was another girl who went missing that night. Maybe you remember her, Veronica Lightfoot? Is she in any of your photographs?’ She lays out the black and white photographs one by one in a row.
The hum of the gas fire fills the silence. The woman’s heavily mascaraed eyes scan the photographs. Her hands begin to tremble; she clings more ardently to the white cappuccino mug. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She nibbles at her lower lip.
‘Look again, take your time.’ Their eyes meet, the woman turns her head away.
‘No, I’m sure.’ She glances down at her hands, then returns Thomasine’s gaze. ‘Look, I didn’t load them all though, I have others. I was always taking photographs. I copied them all onto my computer about six months ago. That’s why I put them on the website, I’d forgotten I had them. Shall we have a look? Perhaps there are more of your sister and Billy?’
Thomasine almost kisses her.
Jacky disappears up the stairs and returns with a laptop. An hour and fifteen minutes later Thomasine has six photographs, sadly none have her sister in them. There was one of Jacky herself. Standing at the edge of the dance floor. Her body thin as a paper knif
e. Next to her is a tall girl with short frizzy hair and long thin legs. Beside her a wiry looking boy with a shaved head.
‘Who’s that?’ Thomasine asks pointing to the girl.
‘Just someone who we used to hang around with now and again.’ She tilts her head to the side, frowns. ‘I can’t remember her name for the life of me.’
‘And him?’ Thomasine points to someone else.
Jacky shakes her head, ‘John – Jim, not sure.’
‘Who took the photographs?’ Thomasine gathers the prints up.
‘Smithy, Del, I think Smithy might have taken that one.’ She leans back against the cushions. ‘I’m not being much help, am I?’
Thomasine’s disappointment sinks into the pit of her stomach. Smith, one of the worst names to trace. ‘Can you remember full names?’
Jacky shakes her head, ‘We only met them now and again.’
Thomasine wonders if Jacky’s selective memory is real or an act. ‘Do you ever keep in touch with any of them?’ Thomasine leans forward, rests her elbows on her thighs, a dull ache starts up behind her right eye.
‘Not really, I saw a couple of them at the reunions, I’ve not been to those for years though.’ She gazes over Thomasine’s shoulder and out through the window. ‘Billy turned up once or twice, back in the eighties. I’ve no idea where any of them are now. Life moves on, doesn’t it?’
Thomasine nods and gestures towards the laptop. ‘Are there any photographs of the reunion?’
Jacky shakes her head again. ‘Only the ones on the website.’ She hangs her head momentarily, ‘I’d like to pay my respects at the funeral if you don’t mind. I know we never met but…’
For a moment, Thomasine’s mind goes blank. Funeral? What funeral? Then it flashes back in, her lie, Karen’s funeral.
‘As soon as the Coroner’s Office release her remains I’ll let you know. It might be months.’ An idea slips into her consciousness. ‘I’m thinking of having a memorial. Perhaps we could put the date on the website. See who turns up.’
‘Thank you, I’ll do that for you if you like. Just send me the information.’ She gets to her feet. Takes a scrap of paper off the mantelpiece, ‘Here’s my mobile number, I’ll post the date of the memorial on the website for you. I’m so sorry that…’
‘It’s okay. At least it’s over.’ Thomasine knows this is untrue. It’s just the start. She stands up, ‘I’d best be going.’ She makes for the door; Jacky follows her.
Halfway out, Thomasine turns to say goodbye. The woman wraps her arms around her. ‘Let me give you a hug,. It must be such a difficult time for you.’
‘Thanks… thanks… it is,’ Thomasine disentangles herself from the embrace, ‘thanks for all your help. You’ve been really kind. I’ll text you my mobile number later.’
As she navigates the car out of the street, it dawns on her that Jacky Wainwright hadn’t asked how Karen died, nor where she was found. She didn’t talk about Veronica either. Why was that? People are curious. People like her, anyway. Her intuition tells her that Jacky Wainwright is holding something back. Something important. The names she gave her Smithy, Billy, Del… surely, she would remember the last name of one of them? She wishes she’d been able to impound her laptop as evidence.
She pulls over to the side of the road and takes out her phone. Mel can do what Thomasine can’t – interview Jacky Wainwright under caution. And she can get the tech guys on the laptop, too.
50
The incident room is under pressure, evidence boxes piled high, voices raised, fingers punching at keyboards. Jenny’s brain hurts, a tight band of pain rages mercilessly beneath her temples. Even her ears are sore. She pops two maximum strength paracetamols onto her tongue. Washes them down with a cup of strong black coffee. Only a couple more hours and then she can head off home for the night.
The last few days have been frenetic. Transcribing the cassette tapes required her full attention and concentration. The sound quality is poor. At times, she struggles to hear not only what is said but who is saying it. The result: eye-watering headaches that kick in after a few hours. She’s dog tired and living on painkillers.
She’s had to block out distractions. Remove herself from the organised chaos of the incident room, as well as ignoring the constant stream of texts from her daughter, Amy. It’s exam time and her teenage stress hormones are raging. Every couple of hours, Jenny takes herself off to the toilets and knocks out a reply. None of which seem to pacify her daughter.
The task has been laborious; days of start-stop-start-replay, type it up. This final stage is perhaps the most taxing element. Checking each tape off against its transcription. Just two more tapes and that’s it.
Mel owes me for this one.
The therapist, psychiatrist, whoever she was, proved the most arduous to make out. She spoke quietly. Often didn’t respond verbally, or Jenny assumed that was the case. And there were gaps, seconds lost, sometimes minutes. As though the tape had been tampered with.
Each session followed the same format. Typically, drugs administered by injection at the beginning. By the psychiatrist herself; allegedly to help Veronica recall memories she had repressed. Her reaction to the medication varied. Her mood swung up and down. She flitted between the two personalities and often it had been difficult to know who was talking – Veronica or Lily. At times it was only her tone of voice that gave her a clue, and that was subjective.
Coffee drunk, and another one in hand, Jenny gathers up the cassettes and typewritten notes. She’s sequestered herself a room in the Interview Suite again. Whilst not comfortable, the small windowless rooms allow the benefit of isolation. Through the walls, she hears the occasional scrape of plastic chairs on lino and the odd rumble of conversation when voices are raised.
Just two to go, just two to go, Jenny keeps reminding herself of that.
She sits down, slips on her headphones. Each cassette is numbered and in sequence. She inserts the penultimate one into the player. Pen in hand, she places the transcript in front of her then sets a ruler underneath the first line of the text. Everything must be one hundred per cent accurate before distributing it to Mel and the team. Her work will, very likely, form part of the evidence. It could be challenged by the defence. She doesn’t want anything coming back at her.
The psychiatrist’s voice flows into her ears as soon as she presses the play button.
‘Tell me about that night, when you first met Jimmy?’ She sounds calm, distant. Jenny ticks off word after word on the transcript.
‘Me and Paula were at the bus station, the main one, the one at Bar Lane. Before Christmas, a Saturday night I think. It was late. Huddling together to keep warm. The wind roared through that place, even the bus shelters were open to the elements. I was blocked, we were blocked.’
‘Blocked?’
‘High… high on amphetamines. Both of us. Everyone we knew took them. They kept you awake. I’d lost a lot of weight. Everyone had. Paula sold drugs. I didn’t know that at first. That’s why she always had money. That’s why people were friends with the bitch. Did I tell you she was a bitch?’
There’s no response.
Jenny presses the stop button on the machine. Tries to clear her head. She would have asked her for Paula’s second name. There’s so much she wants to know; wants to ask her. Everyone in the team will feel the same. Listening to the tapes has given her a sense of Veronica. Who she was and who she became. Piecing her story together has been interesting. Jenny has been diligent. Never making a note of anything that wasn’t on tape. Never adding or taking away. At times Veronica’s accent changes. It thickens. As though the young Veronica, the teenage northerner, is narrating her own past. As though Lily is merely a vehicle for her voice. At other times the accent disappears; it matures. Her language morphs into something more educated, cultured.
Jenny brings herself back to the present. To the task. She doesn’t want to have to redo it again. Her forefinger presses down on the play button; the words flo
w again.
‘I need a drink; can I have a drink of water?’
There is a sound of a chair being pushed back, footsteps, the pouring of water into a plastic cup.
‘Here.’
Moments later Veronica carries on, her voice laboured.
‘There was a crowd of us, dozens, all around the same age, eighteen. Maybe some as old as twenty-one, but not many. Everyone dressed the same, like a code, like a tribe, the boys in short leather jackets, sleeveless T-shirts, Oxford bags, hands cupped around their cigarettes. Stamping their feet to keep warm. The girls all in long thick winter coats and boots, talking, huddled.
We were waiting for the midnight coach… to an all-nighter… I can’t remember where.’ Her speech slows, the medication must have started to kick in. ‘There was music. Paula had brought a cassette player along. One of those battery-operated ones. Everybody started moving side to side, shuffling their feet.’ She started to hum. Jenny recognises it straightaway, ‘Marvin Gaye, “Ain’t That Peculiar”. ‘I love Marvin Gaye,’ says Veronica. ‘Sometimes I play that song in my head. Those four beats going again and again. I shut her out, Lily that is, that other me. I imagine my body spinning, my arms outstretched. Lily hates Northern Soul. She’s more of an Abba and Queen sort of girl.’ A sly tinge leaks into her voice. ‘She has shit taste in music.’
Another pause, she coughs.
‘The lights at the bus station went off at half-eleven. I didn’t feel nervous. It didn’t feel dangerous; not to me. I was one of them.’ She pauses, waits, as though the information has to be downloaded into her head. ‘A big cheer rose up. It always did when the coach turned up. It was passing the Odeon. Lights on full beam. Smog pumping out of the back – freezing in the air. I wonder if the Odeon’s still there? It used to be filled with hundreds of teenagers on a Saturday morning. I can remember it. I can remember being a kid and screaming my head off at some Beatles sound-alike band.’ She let out a sigh.
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 24