by Mark Tilbury
Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Think about it, boy. What could he possibly know?’
‘I wish I knew. And there’s something not quite right about Connie Sykes.’
Geoff leaned back. ‘Like what?’
‘Her manner.’
‘How old is she?’
‘How should I know. Forty-something? Fifty?’
‘She’s probably going through the menopause.’
Ben sat on the edge of the desk. ‘But you’d think she’d be more concerned about Hannah. The woman went missing from work. She was the last person to see her.’
‘Some people just have an abrupt manner. You shouldn’t read too much into that. You upset her father. And she doesn’t like Crowley. It’s probably nothing more than that.’
‘If you say so. But you weren’t there.’
‘I don’t need to be. I’m applying logic.’
‘And I’m just a scatterbrain, right?’
‘No one’s saying—’
‘You didn’t see how her dad was. The way he looked at me.’
‘I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
Sensing another argument brewing, Maddie intervened. ‘Come on, Ben. We need to go. You can drop me off up the road from the pub.’
By the time Ben parked the car a short distance from The Three Horseshoes, Maddie was beginning to wonder if the mysterious ‘blue baby’ had anything at all to do with Hannah.
Ben switched off the engine and turned to face her. ‘I know it’s probably a load of rubbish, but what if John Sykes is psychic?’
‘But he has dementia,’ Maddie said. ‘I don’t understand how he—’
‘That’s the whole point, Maddie. He’s got dementia. Who’s to say he can’t see things the rest of us can’t? They say young kids and animals are psychic. Why? Because they haven’t had a million doubts rammed down their throats.’
Maddie considered telling Ben of her own beliefs. About the way she’d tried on numerous occasions to contact her dead mother. How she’d managed to walk down into the Garden of Healing and sit in the stream. ‘My Nana Ruth had dementia. Apparently, she used to see little men standing in the kitchen cupboards. Guarding the food, apparently.’
‘Exactly,’ Ben said. ‘So who’s to say—’
‘It doesn’t mean they were really there, though, does it?’
‘But what if they were?’
‘I doubt it. I’m more inclined to believe the wiring in her brain was faulty.’
‘Maybe the dementia took her inhibitions away.’
‘Wow. Ben Whittle being all philosophical. Wonders will never cease.’
‘You have to admit, the blue baby is a bit close to the mark.’
‘Maybe he’s overheard the staff talking about Hannah. How she was pregnant.’
‘Or he’s seen something. And he isn’t processing it properly.’
‘But he’d be up in his room most of the time.’
Ben ran a hand through his tangled mop of dark hair. ‘What if he saw something out the window?’
‘Like what?’
‘Hannah’s abduction?’
Maddie sighed. ‘We’ll never know, will we? From what you’ve said, Connie Sykes isn’t going to let you anywhere near him again. And he’s hardly going to pick up the phone and call you, is he?’
‘It’s a shame I can’t talk to him. Without Connie Sykes in the room.’
‘How are you going to talk to him? You said he’s got late-stage dementia. Let’s just concentrate on Crowley for now.’
Ben didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Seb might help us. Smuggle us into Sunnyside during the night-shift.’
‘That’s a rubbish idea, Ben. What happens if the old man creates merry hell? What if he wakes the whole building up?’
‘Maybe we could get Seb to talk to him for us.’
‘And risk his job? That’s asking too much. He’s already looked through the CCTV for us. Just let it lie, Ben. The whizz-bangs and the blue baby are probably just figments of his imagination.’
‘Or the whizz-bangs are his way of trying to describe something he saw.’
Maddie ended the conversation. Her father had once described Nana Ruth’s dementia as ‘a terrorist taking hostage of her mind until death paid the ransom’. A very apt description of a sad and terrible condition. ‘Have you got my Christmas card yet?’
‘I’ll get it tomorrow. I haven’t had time to go to the shops yet.’
‘You know tomorrow never comes? I want a nice big one with a huge love heart on the front.’
Ben looked about to say something. He then closed his mouth and stared out the window.
‘Ben?’
Finally: ‘Are you really my girlfriend?’
‘No; I go around kissing all the boys for fun.’
‘It’s just ...’
Maddie reached out and held his hand. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re way out of my league.’
‘Don’t be so daft. I’m not in anyone’s league. I’m me. Maddie. Nothing special.’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘What?’
‘How lovely you are.’
Maddie smiled and pulled him close. ‘And you don’t know how special you are, Ben Whittle.’
‘I’m—’
‘Shut up and kiss me.’
He leaned closer and opened his mouth. Maddie closed her lips over his and kissed him. Slowly. There wasn’t a hint of dominance in those lips; just a beautiful, soft surrender. When they broke apart, Maddie opened the door and stepped outside. She didn’t want to say anything else. She wanted to savour that kiss and let it sustain her through the long and strenuous evening ahead.
It was as if she somehow knew that she wouldn’t see Ben again. Not for a very long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As Maddie walked into The Three Horseshoes’ car park, Crowley honked his horn and wound down the window. ‘Hey.’
Maddie looked at his hideous, grinning face, distorted and eerie in the glow of the security lights. She resisted an urge to turn away and run.
‘Mother’s made tea for us.’
Maddie swallowed hard and conjured a smile. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Jump in.’
The car reeked of cheap aftershave. The sort of stuff the boys at youth club splashed on their chops long before they ever needed to go near a razor. The mask of masculinity. Hey, look at me, I smell grown up.
Crowley started the engine. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
Maddie buckled her seatbelt. A picture of Hannah’s name badge flashed in her mind. Did Hannah get into Crowley’s car just like this? Lulled into a false sense of security by familiarity?
‘She’s baked scones. Do you like scones?’
Maddie imagined Hannah trying to struggle free of Crowley on the grass verge. She saw him tearing at her clothes with his filthy hands.
‘Madeline?’
Maddie jumped. ‘Huh?’
‘Do you like scones?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Do you like jam and cream?’
Maddie nodded, barely registering what he was saying.
‘She makes homemade jam. Strawberry, raspberry and plum.’
Maddie didn’t care. Mother could make arsenic on toast as far as she was concerned. There wasn’t enough air in the car. ‘Can I open a window?’
‘But it’s freezing.’
‘I’m hot. I think I might be coming down with something. I haven’t been feeling too well lately.’
Crowley pulled out of the car park and sped away from the pub. ‘You’ll be all right once we get to Mother’s. You can have a tot of brandy, seeing as it’s Christmas.’
Maddie didn’t want to give Crowley any encouragement. Especially if he thought he would be able to ply her with alcohol. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘Not even at Christmas?’
‘No.’
‘It might do you good
to have a drink now and then. Loosen you up.’
Don’t let him lead you. ‘I don’t want to be loosened up. Thanks all the same.’
‘It’s just that you seem… uptight.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you nervous about meeting Mother?’
No. I just want to go home and take a shower. ‘No. I told you. I’m not feeling too good.’
Crowley parked in a narrow street of brightly coloured terraced houses. He switched off the engine and turned to face Maddie. ‘Don’t take too much notice of Mother. She can seem a bit abrupt when you first meet her. But she’s all bark and no bite. Honestly.’
At least one thing had been cleared up: Crowley’s mother didn’t own the mystery bungalow. ‘I’ll do my best to remember that.’
The old lady who opened the door looked malnourished to Maddie. ‘You made it, then?’
Crowley grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘You said half seven.’
She looked at her watch, and then at Maddie. ‘He wasn’t lying, then?’
Maddie was momentarily confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘He told me he had a girlfriend. I didn’t believe him. He said she was pretty. And I definitely didn’t believe him. Turns out he was telling the truth on both counts, for once in his life.’
‘Come on, Mother. Let us in. It’s freezing out here.’
The old lady stepped aside. She told them to hang up their coats up on a row of pegs secured to the wall. ‘Then come through to the kitchen and wash your hands.’
Crowley grinned at Maddie. ‘I don’t see much point in washing your hands before you eat; it’s not like you’re actually going to pick the food up, is it?’
‘No amount of washing could wipe the dirt from your hands, boy.’
‘Very funny, Mother. Been looking at them Christmas cracker jokes again?’
‘Never mind “funny”. I want you to get some coal in. I’m running short.’
Crowley blew into his hands. ‘Hasn’t Ronnie been?’
‘He’s been. But he was pressed for time. Had a meeting to get to.’
‘Didn’t want to get his hands dirty, more like. Or get coal dust on his snakeskin shoes.’
‘Don’t you go mocking him. Just because he takes pride in his appearance. Now, get yourself out to the bunker. I don’t want the fire going out.’
Crowley took a torch from a kitchen drawer and vanished into the pitch-black yard.
Maddie washed her hands at the sink and dried them on a tea towel. She then sat down at a small pine table and rested her hands in her lap.
‘Seeing as that great lunk isn’t going to do it, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Agnes.’
‘Maddie.’
‘That’s a nice name. Pretty and practical.’
Maddie smiled. ‘Thanks.’
Agnes sat down next to her. ‘So what’s a nice girl like you doing with an oaf like him?’
Maddie didn’t have an answer to that. Other than the truth. She looked at the battered table, studying the knots. ‘I like him.’
‘I mean, if he had a pot of gold, perhaps. At a push. Not that I would condone such behaviour. Gold diggers have got the morals of alley cats. But if you’re desperate… well, I can sort of see it.’
‘I’m not desperate.’
‘That’s just as well, because he hasn’t got a pot to piss in. Pardon my French.’
‘We just seem to get on well. That’s all.’
Agnes’s bottom set of dentures attempted to escape from her mouth. She sucked them back in. ‘You’re not on the run from the law or anything like that, are you?’
Maddie laughed. ‘Of course not.’
Agnes studied her for a while. And then: ‘Have you got a job?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a secretary.’
‘Does it pay well?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘When Frank told me he had a girlfriend, I thought to myself: here we go again; he’s been casting his net out on Fantasy Island again. Either that or he’s been on one of those internet dating sites and found himself a whore.’
‘We didn’t meet on the internet.’
‘And then he told me that this so-called girlfriend was young and pretty. And it turns out you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Young and pretty and hooked up to a middle-aged man who’s about as attractive as mud. Do you see why I’m confused?’
Maddie did. ‘He’s not that bad.’
‘He is! And some. He lives in a tin shack and unblocks toilets for a living.’
‘I thought he was a maintenance man?’
‘Amounts to the same thing. You know what Ronnie calls him?’
Maddie didn’t.
‘A turd technician.’
‘That’s a bit unfair. I’m sure he does more than just look after the toilets.’
‘Who knows? He’s as sly as a fox with two tails.’
‘Can I ask you something? Something personal?’
Agnes nodded. ‘As long as you don’t mind the truth.’
‘Is Frank going to inherit any money?’
Agnes laughed and deposited a small glob of spit on the table. ‘Is that what he’s told you?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘Is that why you’re with him?’
‘No. It really isn’t,’ Maddie said, truthfully. ‘It’s just that he took me to this bungalow and told me it was his.’
‘What bungalow? Where?’
‘I’m not sure. It was dark. Out in the countryside somewhere.’
Agnes seemed to mull this over for a few moments. ‘Means nothing to me.’
‘He’s got no relatives that might have left it to him?’
‘Nope. His father had a brother, but he went to Canada years ago. There’s only me and Ronnie left that’s blood related. And I haven’t got a bean in the bank.’
‘Maybe it belongs to one of the residents at Sunnyside.’
‘Why would anyone leave him anything? Anyway, those care homes make you sell your house to pay for your keep.’
‘What about friends?’
‘He ain’t got no friends. Not unless you want to count drinking pals, and they ain’t the sort of friends that’s gonna leave you anything other than an unpaid bar bill.’
Maddie was satisfied that Agnes Crowley knew nothing of the bungalow. She decided to let it drop. ‘Maybe he was just trying to impress me.’
‘I’ll tell you this for nowt: he’s up to no good. I can smell it on him. Skulking away up in that room of his.’
‘Room?’
Agnes pointed at the ceiling. ‘His old room. It ain’t natural.’
‘What does he do up there?’
‘Buggered if I know. But he’s got a bloody great big padlock on the door. Ronnie wants to bust it off and take a look.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘I’m afraid of what we might find in there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m worried he’s been up to funny business again.’
‘What funny business?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Please. Tell me.’
‘Never mind,’ Agnes said. ‘Forget it.’
The back door opened. Crowley walked into the kitchen carrying a large bucket of coal. He put the bucket on the floor. ‘Forget what?’
‘We’re talking about you,’ Agnes said. ‘Not to you.’
‘I thought my ears were burning.’
‘Hurry up, boy. You’re letting all the warmth out.’
‘I’ve got another two buckets to fetch. That’ll keep you going the rest of the week.’
What did Crowley have hidden in his room? Maddie thought. What was so secretive that he had to put a padlock on the door?
‘At least Ronnie’s got central heating,’ Agnes said. ‘He doesn’t have to faff around with coal. If I had my way, I’d go and move in with him tomorr
ow.’
Maybe Crowley’s got Hannah hidden up there.
But how would he feed her? Take her to the toilet? Tend to her needs?
Who says she’s still alive?
Maddie shuddered. But a corpse would stink to high heaven.
Not if he’s found a way to preserve it.
Crowley struggled back inside with two more buckets of coal. ‘There’s not much left in the bunker. You’ll need to order some more soon.’
‘If I’m still around to do it,’ Agnes said. ‘Make yourself useful and get the fire going. I can barely bend down with my knees.’
Crowley seemed more concerned with his belly than his mother’s knees. ‘Are the scones ready?’ I’m feeling peckish.’
‘Yes. And there’s apricot jam. Finish up with the fire and I’ll get them ready.’
By the time Crowley had finished his chore and washed his hands, Maddie’s appetite had completely abandoned her. Her mind kept throwing up images of Hannah Heath’s corpse rotting away in Crowley’s bed.
Crowley helped himself to three scones and plastered them with lashings of butter and jam. He crammed half of one into his mouth. ‘Mmm. Delicious.’
Agnes scowled at her son. ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough scone with your butter and jam?’
Crowley ignored her and chewed the food with his mouth open.
Agnes looked at Maddie. ‘He always was a pig. Even as a child he’d try to cram it all in at once. He’s got no manners.’
Crowley finished his mouthful. ‘That was delicious.’
Maddie put a thin layer of butter on her scone and took a small bite.
‘Don’t you want jam?’ Crowley said. ‘You can’t beat homemade jam. It’s so much nicer than that muck you get in the supermarket.’
‘No. Thanks. I feel a bit sick.’
‘Sick of him, eh, love?’
Maddie tried to dislodge a mental picture of Hannah lying dead on Crowley’s bed. ‘I haven’t been feeling too good all week.’
Crowley crammed another half a scone into his mouth. ‘We’ll scoot off back to mine soon, if you like.’
Maddie nodded. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to go back to Crowley’s mobile home and spend time alone with him. But she wasn’t going to get anywhere near the truth if she ran away every time her imagination played tricks on her.
Chapter Twenty-Three