“But if you don’t tell her, she’ll see it on the news and then her reaction will be far more extreme. She might even send you to a convent.” Annie reached out to squeeze my hand again, but I was too quick for her. “Besides, she might be able to help. Isn’t her husband something important in the City and didn’t he used to know Tom?”
I scowled. “You mean Fatty Fanshawe? He’s a complete dick.”
“Cut me some slack Flo. I’m only trying to help. What I’m saying is, surely this Fanshawe bloke will have contacts? I mean anyone’s got to be better than Ollie.” She paused and then said in a quiet voice. “You know, your parents must have loved each other, once upon a time.”
“That’s debatable.”
“For God’s sake, Flo.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll call her.” The back door opened and a plain-clothed officer with large sweat patches under his arms pointed at me and tapped his watch.
Annie nodded. “She’s just come back for a few more things.” I stood up and Annie copied. “I’ll have to come with you.”
I shrugged and flounced up the stairs, pretending like I didn’t care, but all the time tutting as I bundled more of my stuff into a suitcase.
“I’ll take you down to the station to make a statement about what happened with regards to the pond,” said Annie. “I expect the new DCI will want to question you about some other matters…” She paused and I swore under my breath as I fiddled with the zip on my overnight bag. “After that’s over I’ll drop you off at Grace’s. In fact, she’s already at the station helping the police with their enquiries so she might even hang on and wait for you.”
I climbed into the police car and buckled-up, closing my eyes as we drove through the nosy neighbours and reporters, me hoping to knock a few of them over as we went. We wound our way along the country roads towards the police station and I got Mum’s number up onto the screen and stared at it. Nina Jackson-Fanshawe. Even the way Mum pronounced her own name made her sound like she was whingeing: Nee-nah! Deep down, of course, I loved her, but there was a reason I only stayed with her and Frank at their flat in Chelsea for the occasional weekend; Nina was suffocating, and Frank was like something from the Edwardian era and a little bit creepy.
Mum walked out on me and Dad when I was eight.
Nina Jackson was what Dad called ‘a right stunner’. He had met her when she was working in a café around the corner from The John Radcliffe Hospital which was where Dad was based. He was an alright-looking, junior doctor at the beginning of his medical career and Mum, an art student, jumped at the chance to marry him. He could support her and at the same time she could carry on with creating her weird sculptures. But, when Dad realised towards the end of his training that it wasn’t for him, they moved from Oxford to Rutland and Dad took a job as a science teacher. Mum wasn’t happy – she felt tricked. It was impossible for her to get by on a teacher’s salary and her half-hearted attempt at running a café never got off the ground because she was allergic to hard work.
No, Mum wanted to pursue her artistic muse and in order to do this she had to get out of her marriage to Dad and trap someone else while she still had her looks. She left and for the next few years I didn’t really fit in with her aspirations to bag herself a rich husband, so I mainly stayed with Dad. Then, before we noticed, it was just the two of us with Mum sweeping in and out of my life when it suited her. Fast forward several disastrous marriages later and Mum was exactly where she wanted to be, married to a super wealthy businessman. And this was the weirdest thing, it turns out she had first met her current husband, Frank, years ago when she was still with Dad. In fact, it had been Frank who had given Dad his first hospital posting – what a coinkydink.
But now that Mum was well and truly settled with several successful exhibitions under her belt, she felt it was time for me to come and live with her; it was her turn to play at being a parent. Plus, Frank didn’t have children of his own and, according to Mum, dearest Frankie was super keen for me to come and live with them.
There was no way that was ever happening.
“Daaaarling,” came Mum’s voice on the other end of the line. “How lovely to talk to you.”
Unable to help myself, I started sobbing. “Mum,” I wailed. “Can I come and stay with you?”
“Goodness! Were your mocks that bad?”
Chapter Fifteen
Grace
The interrogation at the police station took up the whole afternoon. Thankfully, I’d had a chance to sober up first. Of course, they had been delving into their records and discovered our true identities, but my reasons for the fresh start sufficed and I had their guarantee that our real names would remain hidden to all but a few important personnel. I was pleased at how I managed the spikes in my emotions.
For the most part I remained shocked and silent as the allegations about Tom spilled into the room. It was the keeping quiet, however, which was difficult because I was fighting against an uncontrollable urge to dissolve into laughter. I couldn’t help finding the whole situation absolutely hilarious.
Just before I was called in, I happened to be in Tom’s kitchen to witness a most satisfying exchange. Imagining what Tom was feeling was nothing compared to seeing his downfall played out in real time. I had popped over under the pretence of seeing if Tom was alright. He’d checked-out of the B&B that morning thinking that he would be able to return home. He was very quiet. I, however, was full of smiles and reassurance. I avoided all talk about Amelie and, thankfully, just as he cleared his throat and uttered the words: we need to talk about what happened the other night, there was a knock at the back door and in popped Annie, clutching a piece of paper in her hand. I trembled with excitement; this was how it felt when an artist finally revealed their masterpiece and tugged the cord to draw the curtain open. Ta-da! That Annie was the one asking the questions was the gilding on the frame.
Annie stared at the sheet of paper and her incessant head-bobbing, which had grown more pronounced these past few days, reminded me of a duck dipping its beak under the surface of the water in search for edible pondlife. Annie held up the page. “I believe this is a photocopy of what you set your class for homework at the beginning of the week, Mr Marchant. Can you confirm it?” Mr Marchant now. Tom let out a perplexed sigh and snatched the paper from her hands.
“Yes. Those are the questions I set. What’s this about, Annie?”
“You sure?”
He nodded and shrugged. I was at the sink, rinsing out the cafetière, my face out of sight from everyone. I bit my knuckle. Hard.
“Please will you take a careful look at question five,” asked Annie.
Tom took a deep breath and stared down at the sheet once more, his messy fringe falling over his eyes. After a couple of seconds, he gasped then spluttered.
“Shit. Shit. I didn’t write that.” He looked up, pushing his hair out of his face, blinking fast. “What is this? It’s filth.”
“So, you are saying now that you didn’t set the homework?” Annie folded her arms.
He thrust the sheet of paper back at her, but she kept her stance, leaving the offending paper shaking in Tom’s grasp, mid-air.
“Someone’s added that question.”
“Hmm! It’s funny, but we’ve checked with the other children in your biology group and it appears that only Amelie got this extra question.” Tom’s face darkened, his breathing shallow.
“I would never.” He looked at me, his eyes growing wider. “I would never.”
I sighed and hung my head before muttering something about having to rush off for an appointment at the police station. Bravo!
There was a new DCI in charge, a man called Patrick Beaumont with big, cauliflower ears and a face like a balloon with a slow puncture. Thank goodness they had taken Awful Annie and her pointy features off the case; the photos I manufactured were no doubt doing the rounds again. I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to cut off my raging desire to shout out the passwords to Tom’s compute
r; to write down his username for the chat rooms in whose forums I’d spent many evenings spouting forth obscenities.
Like a child, arm in the air, trying to get the attention of a teacher, I fought off my curiosity. Had they found the girl’s bra? What about the burner phone in Amelie’s locker? Surely they must have found its twin hidden in a false drawer at the back of his desk. Had they gone into the greenhouse and discovered the black lining was missing a couple of sheets? On and on the clues went tumbling through my mind, Amelie’s hairs in the back of his car, her key chain, the Rohypnol in the corner of Tom’s medicine cabinet, the nude photos.
I thought I would burst with excitement and it was only by using a great amount of willpower I forced myself to focus on my chipped fingernails – standards were slipping! I knew DCI Beaumont wouldn’t be fobbed off by any of Grace’s feminine wiles so, instead, I spooned some sugar into my tea and took my time stirring it, contemplating my next move.
“I had no idea,” I said making my voice as wobbly as possible. “I simply had no idea. That poor child.” Were those words really coming from me? I stopped myself short – I had an inkling I was starting to sound like I was performing in a pantomime.
No, I had never stayed at Tom’s house before because, unlike some and, read into that what you want to Annie Harper, I believed in the sanctity of marriage. That dreadful afternoon when they had discovered Amelie’s body by the lake, we’d all felt the need to be together, so we’d gone to Tom’s house, whereupon I had slept in the spare room.
The fish? Ah! Well, I said, I didn’t really know what to make of that, apart from the fact that Flo was a bit scatty and, I sucked in my breath, I’d only found out later that evening, when Lily’s head was half way down the toilet bowl, that the pair had been drinking. I shook my head and sniffed; of course, I blamed myself. I’d been so shocked by what had happened that I’d been neglectful of my maternal duties. It was certainly possible, although I hated to say it, that Flo, in her inebriated state, had gone out in the middle of the night and fed the fish with weed-killer or whatever it was she’d mistakenly got from the shed. Not on purpose, of course not on purpose, but…
Pat seemed to like that idea a lot and did much scribbling in his notebook, flabby cheeks wobbling as his nib scratched the page.
Was there ever anything, anything at all that might have caused her to suspect her fiancé was having an affair with Amelie or any other schoolgirl for that matter?
I toyed with the idea of fabricating an incident whereby I had caught Tom up to no good, but in the end, I decided that outraged indignation was the best course of action to take. It was more genuine.
Oh, just one more thing. Pat tapped his hand on the table and the female detective next to him pushed a clear bag towards me. I wondered what little piece of my puzzle this could be.
“Do you recognise the item in the bag?” asked Pat.
I peered closer. It was an earring, shaped like a teardrop. Curious. This wasn’t my handiwork. I smoothed out the creased plastic lining which separated the jewellery from my fingertips. I saw a tiny A was engraved into its centre. I held Pat’s gaze for further explanation.
“The earring was one of a pair which belonged to Amelie. When we examined her body, we found the other identical stud was missing. We’re most anxious to locate it. Apparently, she never took them off. Not even at night.”
I couldn’t swallow and reached for the dregs of my tea to smooth away the knot of anxiety blocking my throat. How could I have been so careless? With enormous effort I managed a shrug, trying to give off an air of nonchalance though all the time my mind was racing. I barely heard the rest of Pat’s spiel about the need for keeping in touch and if I thought of anything else, bla-bla-bla.
The moment I turned the corner from the police station, I leant against the wall and took a couple of deep breaths. I mustn’t panic. I cast my mind back to that Friday afternoon and tried to piece together each frame of the murder as though I was watching it back on a tv screen; desperate to glimpse the missing earring.
***
Rachael and Chloe, the other café workers, were busy clearing up the front of house. The lazy bitches were deep in conversation about whether Chloe should get a fringe cut to hide the wrinkles on her forehead or whether it would be too much effort for her to have to straighten it each morning. I refrained from telling her that a bag over her head was by far the best option and instead mumbled something about signing for a coffee delivery before slipping out the back door of the kitchen. I’d calculated I had approximately one hour before either of them would register her disappearance. I power-walked along the hot pavement and the moment I turned into my drive I sprinted around the side of the house to the back door where my work clothes were waiting for me; folded in a neat pile on the utility room sink. I looked at my watch. Amelie would be finishing her coffee; the gang collectively standing up, scraping their chairs across the floor as they dished out endless hugs to keep each other going for the two whole hours they weren’t going to be together.
Dark tracksuit on and hood up, I picked up the dog lead and hammer and ran out into the garden. I dived between the thick camellia bushes, my fingers grazing the waxy leaves, flowers knocking into my face like dozens of bowed heads ready for the chopping block. I kicked my way through the bark chippings and stray clumps of grass before reaching the loose fence panel which still smelt of creosote. I shuffled the board across so that there would be a big enough gap for me to squeeze through then crouched on the threshold amongst the dandelions. The wood was quiet, apart from the gentle rustle of the summer breeze in the birch trees and the occasional coo of a wood pigeon. If I pressed my face at a certain angle against the fence, I could see a couple of metres along the dappled path. From out of nowhere a couple of women sprinted past in single file and I shrank back, accidentally pressing my hand down on a patch of nettles. I cursed under my breath. Then I heard more footsteps and Amelie appeared; she was alone. I waited until the girl had gone past and slipped out onto the path. I looked around then called; Barney! Barney! Amelie startled and turned her head around.
When she saw it was me she smiled. “Hello,” she said pulling out her earphones. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “It’s Barney, The Huttons’ dog. He’s escaped again, but this time he’s got himself wedged under a tree root and I can’t get him out. My hands are too big.” I rolled my eyes and waved my palms in the air.
“Oh! The poor little fellow. Do you want me to have a go?”
Bingo! “Oh, you are sweet. Only if you don’t mind.”
Amelie stooped down and I could hear the tinny music coming from her earphones. “I can’t see him.” There was a pause. “Is he to my left, or right?”
I took another quick scan of the path before taking the hammer out of my pocket. I came up right behind Amelie and crouched over her body, pretending to follow her gaze. “Left.” As soon as the words left my lips, I brought the weapon down on the back of Amelie’s head. She slumped to the ground.
I heard laughter in the distance and bile rushed up the back of my throat. Quickly I dragged Amelie’s body through the gap.
The voices grew louder; one male, one female.
Without turning, I kicked the panel back into place and turned to check the gap had closed. Fuck! The handles of Amelie’s school bag were poking out from the base of the fencing and onto the path. Blood rushed around my ears.
“Did you hear that funny noise?” asked the girl. The couple stopped right by the break in the fence; I could see a pair of trainers.
There was a smacking slurping noise and it took a few seconds to realise the couple were kissing. If they looked down, they would see Amelie’s bag and if they stooped to examine the loop of fabric further, they might follow it through the gap and see me sitting astride a dead body as plain as Humpty-Dumpty sitting on a wall. By this time, my heart was beating so fast I presumed the young lovers must also be able to hear it. Fingers quivering, I leant forwards
and gave the neck of the schoolbag a sharp tug. Suddenly a phone rang. I sucked in my breath; for one terrible minute I thought it was coming from within Amelie’s bag.
“Huh,” said the male voice. “Yeh.” He sighed. “In ten.”
There was a shuffling.
“Your Mum?” asked the girl. The boy didn’t answer, but the shoes disappeared.
I waited until all was quiet again then hooked Amelie under the armpits and dragged her across the garden into the kitchen. It was while I was changing back into my sundress that I heard groaning. Shit, I hadn’t hit her hard enough. I rushed back into the kitchen to find Amelie on all fours, mooing like a cow in labour.
“You poor thing. Here, let’s get you to your feet.” I lifted Amelie onto a kitchen chair.
“What happened?” whispered Amelie.
“You’ve had a nasty bump to the head.”
I fetched her a glass of water and pushed the plate of freshly baked pistachio meringues in front of her. “Perhaps you would like something to eat – a bit of sugar for the shock.”
“Where…where am I?”
“You’re in my kitchen. Remember? You were helping me to find Barney, the dog, and a piece of masonry from on top of the fence fell onto your head.”
Amelie touched the back of her crown and then examined her bloodied fingertips. “I’ll call Mum,” she said looking around for her bag.
“No need.” I pulled a plastic bag out of my pocket. “She’s on her way.”
“How–”
I slipped the bag over Amelie’s bloodied head and twisted. Amelie began her death roll, thrashing and kicking her feet. The plastic expanded and then contracted with a loud slapping sound. The squealing carried on until all of a sudden it stopped. Beads of sweat rolled down my temples and plopped onto the deflated bag.
The Cry of the Lake Page 10