by Mark Tilbury
‘That might work in our favour.’
‘How?’
‘I honestly don’t think she’ll risk hurting the baby.’
‘Who knows what she’ll do if we rattle her cage. At least the baby will stand a chance if I don’t—’
‘But what sort of life will it have?’
Hannah didn’t answer for a while. She stared at the floor, rubbing her stomach in slow, rhythmic circles. And then: ‘What about your boyfriend? Won’t he be looking for you?’
‘Yes. But he won’t have a clue where I am.’
‘You said he interviewed Connie.’
‘Twice. But she didn’t say anything to make him suspicious. He was a bit freaked out by her dad, though.’
‘John’s harmless. He touched my tummy once, when I was about a month or two gone. He didn’t say anything, just ran his hands over it like it was a crystal ball. It was weird. He looked really sad.’
‘Do you think he knows something?’
‘How could he?’
‘But the blue baby. It’s almost like…’
‘Like he thinks it will die?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like he knows something’s wrong.’
‘John’s a sweet guy. Unlike his mad bitch of a daughter.’
‘He might know something about Connie. Something he’s not letting on.’
‘I don’t believe in all the psycho-babble nonsense. There’s no way he could have known I was pregnant. And there’s certainly no way he could’ve known what Connie would do.’
‘Maybe he was thinking about the past. Something Connie did.’
Hannah shivered. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. Something to a baby?’
‘Oh God, don’t say that.’
Maddie hoped with all her heart she was wrong. ‘We need to do all we can to stop her.’
‘That’s all right for you to say. You don’t have to fight her with a baby in your belly.’
‘You won’t be alone, Hannah. God will be with you.’
‘I don’t believe in God.’
‘Nor do I. Not in the sense of some divine being. But there is a force out there, Hannah. A force for both good and evil. It doesn’t really matter what we call it. That’s where faith comes in.’
‘I haven’t got any faith left.’
‘That’s what evil relies on. But we have to hold onto it for all we’re worth.’
‘I don’t feel like I’ve even got the strength to take a pee. I can’t do it. Fake labour or not.’
Maddie went straight to quoting her father. ‘Strength lies within all of us, Hannah. Mostly, we don’t need to use it. But it’s there. Have you heard ever the story of the arthritic pensioner who lifted a car off a man trapped beneath it?’
Hannah hadn’t.
‘Where do you think he got the strength from to do that?’
‘Spinach?’
Maddie smiled. ‘Yeah. Probably. But seriously?’
‘Search me.’
‘Inner strength, Hannah. If you’d asked the old man to lift the car off the ground just for the sake of it, do you think he’d have been able to?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘But because someone was being crushed, he found the strength to do it. Just like you’ll find the strength to fight Connie Sykes.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Think about Robert. Think about the baby. You have to, Hannah.’
‘I keep telling you: Connie’s not stupid. She’ll twig something’s wrong. She’s got a sixth sense.’
‘But she won’t be expecting it.’
Hannah didn’t answer. She rubbed her stomach and stared at the cold concrete floor, as if it somehow represented her thoughts.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Connie studied the pitiful wreck of her adversary. With his mouth bound with duct tape, Crowley’s eyes looked as if they were trying to act as his defence attorney.
Connie squatted down so as she was at eye level. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oomph, ma-oomph, oomph.’
‘Do you want water?’
Crowley bobbed his head.
‘No. You’ll only end up wetting yourself again.’
‘Oomph, oomph, ma-oomph.’
Connie shook her head. She didn’t have time to pander to his whims today. She was as busy as a bee in a tulip field.
Crowley waved his free hand at her as if trying to hail a taxi.
‘Put your hand down. You’re not in a classroom.’
Crowley flapped his hand even more enthusiastically.
She noticed a puddle of blood and urine on the garage floor. It would need a damn good scrub and a lick of paint before she put Fourwinds up for sale. Perhaps a nice shade of yellow to commemorate Crowley’s cowardice.
Crowley made a horrible gurgling noise in the back of his throat. It sounded like the garbage disposal unit in the kitchen.
Perhaps he’s emptying his thoughts down his throat.
Connie thought the Wolf might be right. ‘I’ve got business to attend. If you’re good, I’ll let you have some water when I get back.’
Crowley’s broken wing flapped again. He shook his head like a dog with a stick.
‘Don’t be such a child. From what I know of you, sitting on your fat backside all day should be right up your alley. You want to thank your lucky stars I’ve bandaged your leg.’
Crowley didn’t look very grateful. His cheeks puffed like bellows as he tried to defy physics and speak through a solid mass. Connie locked the garage door and left him to stew in his own juices. He could huff and puff all he liked, she wasn’t in any mood to kowtow to the demands of a filthy swine like Frank Crowley. Not today. Not ever.
By the time she reached Sunnyside, her tummy felt queasy. And little wonder. She had the Three Little Piggies to think about. Not to mention Da and work. It was like trying to juggle with one hand tied behind your back.
The Three Little Piggies will all be bacon, soon, Sweetcakes. And Crowley shall be crowned the King of Whodunit.
Connie walked into her office and sat at the desk. The Wolf was right. Crowley would be posthumously declared a multiple murderer. The sooner the better.
A lamb to the slaughter.
Connie wasn’t sure she agreed with the Wolf’s portrayal of Crowley as a lamb. ‘More like a jackal, if you ask me.’
‘Ms. Sykes?’
Connie jumped and banged her knee on the desk. ‘Didn’t anyone teach you to knock, Lisa?’
‘I did knock.’
‘Try using your knuckles next time. What is it?’
‘It’s your dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘I was trying to cut his toenails, and he went off on one. Started shouting about the “whizz-bangs” and the “blue baby” and foaming at the mouth.’
Connie’s stomach fell down a lift shaft. ‘And you’ve just left him up there on his own?’
‘No. Of course not. Sarah’s with him. We were getting him ready for his bath.’
By the time Connie reached her father’s room, he seemed to have calmed down. He sat in a chair overlooking the gardens.
Sarah held his hand and rubbed his arm. ‘He just started fretting, Connie. Like he was trying to say something but it wouldn’t come out. Then he started going on about—’
‘The whizz-bangs?’ Connie interrupted.
‘Yes. I—’
‘You can leave now.’
Lisa hovered in the doorway. ‘You’ll be all right?’
Connie nodded. ‘Aye. Go on, I’ll deal with it. Close the door on your way out.’
Connie tried to dredge a smile from the slurry in her mind. ‘What are you doing panicking everyone like that, Da?’
The old man had a trail of spit running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. Not the faintest flicker of recognition.
‘Oh, Da. You gave me such a fright.’
Da didn’t seem too concerned about that.
One of his hands clawed at the air, as if trying to cling on to reason.
‘We’ll be going home soon,’ Connie promised him. ‘Back to where we belong.’
His tongue moved slowly across his lips, as if tasting words that would never be spoken.
‘Everything’s set. Hannah’s almost ready to give birth now.’
John Sykes looked at her with blank haunted eyes.
‘You remember Hannah?’
A grunt. A primal noise in the back of his throat.
Connie didn’t hear it. Her head was too full of plans and promises to hear anything other than her own thoughts. ‘As soon as baby Jacob is born, I’m going to take you back to Fourwinds. How does that sound? No more Sunnyside. No more care assistants messing about with you. I’ll look after you. Then we’re going back to Yarmsworth.’
John shook his head. He appeared to be trying to swallow his own lips.
‘The Wolf says that the whizz-bangs will go away once you’re settled at home. What do you think about that? No more headaches.’
He reached out a hand. Arthritis had sculpted the knuckles into a lump of gnarled wood.
Connie took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll still take you home on Christmas Day as usual. But just for the day, mind. I’m too busy at the moment to make it permanent.’
Da squeezed her hand back.
Connie looked at him. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Another squeeze. This time a little harder.
‘Ooh, Da, I can’t wait until baby Jacob is born. It will be just like before.’
The old man gripped her hand tighter. His nails dug into her flesh.
Connie didn’t feel it. ‘We can take Jacob down to the mine when he’s old enough. You can show him how to shoot the tin soldiers.’
‘The…’
‘Da?’
A tear slipped down the old man’s cheek. ‘The… the…’
Something squeezed Connie’s heart. ‘Don’t fret, Da. It’s nearly over now.’
‘The… blue… baby…’
Connie closed her eyes. ‘Jacob’s all right, Da. Don’t start all that again.’
His nails dug deeper, drawing blood. ‘THE BLUE BABY! THE BLUE BABY!’
Connie tried to free herself, but this only caused him to grip tighter. ‘Stop it, Da. You’re hurting me.’
‘THE BLUE BABY! THE BLUE BABY.’
Suddenly, a switch flipped in Connie’s mind, transporting her back to the morning after she’d put the pillow over baby Jacob’s head. Back to hearing her mother screaming and yelling at the top of her lungs. ‘The baby’s blue. The baby’s blue, John. Oh, my God, he’s not breathing. He’s all blue. Call an ambulance. For God’s sake, call a fucking ambulance.’
Connie had never heard her mother swear before. Not even when the Ice Queen had sliced the tip of her finger off with a paring knife.
‘What do you mean, the baby’s blue?’ Her father’s voice, rolling along the landing, every word accentuated by the thud of his footsteps on the wooden flooring.
‘He’s not breathing.’
And then silence. As if the house had been swallowed whole. For a few moments, as Connie held her breath and gripped the edges of her mattress, she’d truly believed that she was dreaming. None of this was happening. Any minute now, baby Jacob would start hollering at the top of his bionic lungs. Her father would walk along the landing and talk to him in that stupid way most adults spoke to babies. All that bibby-babby-boo stuff that sounded as if it belonged in a nursery rhyme.
Keep quiet, Sweetcakes.
The voice came from her Beatrix Potter lampshade. But that was stupid. Peter Rabbit couldn’t talk; any idiot knew that.
Go back to sleep.
‘How can I sleep with all this going on?’
Just close your peepers and drift away.
The voice sounded like her Da’s. But he was downstairs now. On the phone in the hallway, by the sound of him. Shouting. Explaining how baby Jacob wasn’t breathing. How he was all blue. No, he didn’t know how long for. No, he hadn’t checked for a pulse. Yes, he was fine when they put him to bed. And a whole load of other stuff Connie didn’t hear too well with her heart thumping in her ears.
Connie closed her eyes. She heard her father’s footsteps coming back up the stairs. She then heard her mother start sobbing. Da was saying something, but Connie couldn’t make it out above the awful racket her mother was making.
In spite of all of this, Connie managed to fall asleep. By the time Da woke her up some time later, baby Jacob had already been given a one-way ticket to the hospital. Da had snot and tears all over his face. He tried to explain to Connie what had happened to baby Jacob. Connie would never forget the look in his eyes. As if he was being haunted by all the ghosts in Hell.
Several times following the tragedy, Connie had heard her parents arguing about silly things. Was baby Jacob too hot? Too cold? Connie had been tempted to tell them to stop fretting; there was nothing they could have done. He was as fit as a fiddle. It was her fault. She’d sneaked into his room and put a pillow over his head.
‘THE BABY’S BLUE!’
Connie jumped back from memory lane as her father struck her across the side of the face. Not just a slap. A great big ear-splitting whack designed to capsize a brain.
‘THE BABY’S BLUE!’
Connie wrenched her hand free and staggered back. ‘Da?’
He’s not stable.
Connie jumped at the sound of the Wolf’s smooth, textured voice.
‘THE BABY’S BLUE! THE BABY’S BLUE.’
You need to sedate him.
Connie looked at her father. His arthritic hands flailed at an imaginary assailant. Spit foamed on his lips. His eyes bulged. The Wolf was right; he needed tranquilising. A great big knock-me-out dose to help him through this transitional period. The last thing she needed right now was the devil making work for idle hoofs.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ben walked into the office and paced up and down in front of the desk. ‘Have the police found anything yet?’
Geoff shook his head. ‘They’re doing their best, son. They’re keeping an eye out for Crowley’s car. They’ve been to the mobile home site a few times as well.’
‘And?’
‘Zilch. The place is still all locked up.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘They’re doing the best they can on limited resources.’
‘On limited brains, more like.’
‘I know you’re upset, son. We all are. But we need to be patient.’
Ben stopped pacing and threw his hands in the air. ‘Patient? It’s been over three days since she went missing.’
‘It’s still early days. We —’
‘I didn’t want her to go anywhere near that twat in the first place.’
‘We’re not going to get anywhere arguing over the rights and wrongs of—’
‘I had a bad feeling about this from the start.’
‘Maybe you ought to go and see if you can speak to Crowley’s mother. Andy said the cops have been out there twice, but got no answer. He’s given me her postcode.’
Ben agreed. ‘Maddie said in her text she thought Crowley might be hiding something in that house. What if it was Hannah?’
‘I very much doubt it. Not right under the old lady’s nose. She lives in a tiny terraced house, not on Penghilly’s Farm.’
Ben wasn’t deterred. ‘I read a case once where this serial killer was taking prostitutes back to his mother’s house. Killing them and burying them in the basement. Some place in America.’
‘Well this isn’t America. Yet. You’d better get a shift on. The snow’s getting worse.’
Ben programmed Agnes Crowley’s postcode into his phone app. He drove to her house with macabre images of dead bodies swirling around inside his head. By the time he parked, there was a good six inches of snow settled on the ground.
After almost five minutes without an answer, Ben was about to w
alk back to the car when the bedroom window opened. He looked up to see a woman in a knitted hat and jumper. ‘What do you want?’
Ben shivered and stamped his feet on the snow covered path. In his eagerness to get here, he’d forgotten his coat. The wind ripped through the thin fabric of his suit. ‘Mrs Crowley?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘My name’s Ben Whittle.’
‘Are you a copper?’
‘No. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Are you looking for Frank?’
‘Not exactly. Can I come in and have a chat? It’s freezing out—’
‘Ronnie says to never let strangers in the house. Not unless they’ve got some form of identity.’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
‘And how do I know that?’
Ben rummaged in his pocket. Why did everything seem as if it was happening in slow motion? He pulled out a business card and held it up in front of him.
The old woman squinted at it. ‘I can’t see that. Anyway, you can get them cards made up most places these days.’
‘It’s not made up, Mrs Crowley. I am a private investigator. I’m looking for my partner. Her name’s Maddie. Maddie White.’
The old woman’s frosty demeanour suddenly changed. ‘Maddie? Little blonde girl? Pretty?’
‘Yes. Have you seen her?’
‘Frank said she was his girlfriend.’
‘It’s a long story, Mrs Crowley. Can I come in?’
‘I’m phoning Ronnie first. He’ll know what to do.’ She disappeared, leaving Ben to wait outside in the brewing snowstorm for the best part of ten minutes.
Finally, Agnes Crowley opened the front door. ‘All right. You can come in. Ronnie’s says he’ll be over soon. He’s only fifteen minutes away.’
Ben thought the last part was a thinly disguised warning. He didn’t care. He was just grateful to be able to get out of the cold. He stepped inside and tried to stop his teeth chattering.
Agnes led them into her front room. ‘It’s a bit parky in here. I’ve been away for a couple of days, minding the kids while Ronnie and Susan went Christmas shopping in Paris.’ She emphasised the word Paris as if it was the source of great pride.
‘That’s… nice.’
‘Ain’t it just. He’s a good boy, Ronnie.’