by Anita Waller
Doris stood and walked towards the open kitchen door, Belle following at her heels. Doris stopped halfway and looked back. She was worried, and considered ringing her own doctor and asking for advice without Wendy knowing.
Doris continued to the kitchen, poured two glasses of water, and dropped the packet of tablets into her skirt pocket. She topped up Belle’s water, and headed back down the garden, the little cat still following her.
She put the drinks down on the small table they had been using as a coffee table, and took the tablets out of her pocket, popping two of them into her hand. ‘Is two enough, or do you want three?’
By the time the doctor, the police and the funeral director had left, the sun had sunk low in the sky. Doris had cried for ten minutes, holding on to Wendy’s hand, before ringing for help; she hadn’t wanted to believe the evidence of her own eyes, she had desperately wanted to hear Wendy speak just one more time. It wasn’t to be.
The doctor had confirmed her medical records indicated a brain tumour was the cause of Wendy’s problems, not mini-strokes as she had said to Doris at the beginning of the holiday. Wendy had known her time left was limited.
The conversation with Wendy’s sister, Marjorie, had been one of the most difficult Doris had ever undertaken, and both women had cried until they were drained.
The day drew to a close. And once more, Doris picked up the phone. Three people in her life would help her get through this, and she needed to talk to each of them. She had something to tell them.
Wendy was gone.
Epilogue
Connection had closed for the day, no employees were available for investigative work of any nature. Kat, Mouse and Luke had supported Doris as she again visited City Road Cemetery, this time to see Wendy laid to rest with her late husband.
Marjorie and Doris hugged each other; neither had known of the life-threatening tumour, and each felt glad that they hadn’t known. Waiting for the end would have been so much worse than the way it did happen, sleeping quietly in the back garden of a beautiful cottage in Derbyshire, the sun’s rays warm on Wendy’s face. But knowing that didn’t stop the tears.
The slightest thing left Doris with tears in her eyes; the journals they had started on their holiday around the celebrity graves, the sight of her own yellow raincoat, the photographs they had taken and shared, all turned Doris into a river of tears. She knew it would pass. She had been the same when Harry had died, but she had got through it.
Grace and Harriet had both sent condolence cards with beautiful messages inside, something else that started the tears all over again, and Rosie had been on the phone constantly, checking that she was okay.
Rosie brought Megan to the cottage a few days after the funeral, and once the tears had subsided, Doris showed them her home. Megan was captivated by it. Doris had to explain that the reason she had children’s books in the small bedroom was because Kat had a young daughter, Martha, who occasionally stayed over with Nanny Doris. The cot had been replaced by a single bed as Martha had outgrown her original sleeping accommodation; the cot was in the attic in case it was needed again.
‘How are the twins?’ Doris asked. ‘You haven’t brought them.’
‘Resilient,’ was Rosie’s initial response. ‘Dan’s taken them fishing today, he’s bonding with them, he says. They have to share a bedroom at ours, but that’s no hardship. Over the next couple of years we’ll be extending the kitchen and that will give us another bedroom above it, so we’ve explained this to them, and they’re happy to be included in our lives. It’s sad that they’ve had to see their mother dragged through the newspapers and television, but these memories will fade, they’re still young.’
‘And you?’ Doris asked. ‘How are you coping without Shirley?’
‘I’m still struggling with it, if I’m honest. And because both of them are denying the actual act of murder, I don’t know what to think. Would I have ever believed Shirley capable of it? Not on your life. I’m the more volatile one, but I guess the years of mental and physical abuse from Mark changed her. I don’t know Juliet Vickers beyond her being a name in the order book, so I can’t say with any degree of certainty who I actually believe killed Mel. When DCI Stamford told me each one was blaming the other, it sort of went over my head. I was trying to come to terms with a two-boy increase in my family, shuffling around of bedrooms so the boys had the slightly bigger one that Megan used to have…’
‘Huh.’ Megan was stroking Belle and tickling the cat’s ears with some grass but didn’t look up.
Rosie smiled. ‘But whatever happens, Shirley isn’t going to be coming home for a considerable amount of time, and I have to cushion the twins for as long as it takes.’
Imogen North transferred the switchboard to night mode, and picked up the two letters that needed posting. To her surprise, Kevin Vickers came down the open-plan stairs, and through to reception, stopping at her desk.
‘Mr Vickers? You need something?’
‘To give you this,’ he said, and handed her an envelope.
‘For posting?’
‘Not unless you put your name and address on it. It’s a hand delivery, Imogen, and it’s to give you immediate notice, four weeks’ pay and no reference.’
Imogen stared at him. ‘You can’t do that…’
‘I think you’ll find I can. You want some advice, young lady? If you ever manage to get another job as a receptionist somewhere, make sure your mouth doesn’t give secrets and information away to all and sundry. Leave the post on the desk, and get out of the door.’
Trudy Dawson thought often of her visitor, and wondered how she was managing away from the two young boys she had loved so much. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Shirley’s life must be, living on remand and knowing prison life would be even harder in the future.
In July, Trudy had a minor catastrophe of her own when a guest had a wardrobe collapse while he was trying to hang up his clothes. She moved the man into a different room, apologising profusely, but the second room was much nicer and bigger anyway, so the man considered it a win–win situation. Shirley, too, had loved this same room.
The following afternoon Trudy moved into the room that was no longer in use, armed with a hammer and a screwdriver, and slowly dismantled the wardrobe, eager to get it out of the room to make way for a new one. The backpack was down the back of the wardrobe, not visible until she moved two large pieces of wood. Her immediate thought was that someone had stored it on top of the wardrobe, and thought no more about it because it had fallen down the back.
She pulled it out and registered it was a Nike bag, and fairly new. There was a purse and a phone inside it; inside the purse were bank cards in the name of Melanie Brookes.
Trudy’s doubts about Shirley’s guilt disappeared in an instant, and she stared at the bag. She flicked the dust off it, and took out her phone to ring DCI Stamford. There was, unfortunately, only one person who could have put the bag there, and having the bag recovered from Oleander House would definitely seal Shirley’s fate.
After a minute of deep thought, Trudy put away her own phone, stashed everything in the backpack and wrapped it in a large black rubbish bag. It would go in her wheelie bin the evening before the early morning bin collection; by Wednesday morning it would be gone. Shirley may be guilty, but Trudy had liked her, had felt sorry for her, and she was damned if she was going to be the one that put her away for life. Shirley was taking her chances with the jury, so be it.
Doris didn’t return to work until August 2019. She had spoken several times over the summer to Grace Stamford, and Grace had reassured her that the police were confident of getting a double-murder conviction.
Doris wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Thanks are going to be flying around all over the place following my completion of this book. Primary thanks, as always, go to my publisher, Bloodhound Books. Fred and Betsy have backed me from the beginning (thirtee
n books ago!), and they, along with their amazing team of Alexina, Tara, Heather and the publicity team definitely deserve my gratitude.
I also have thanks to give to my long-suffering editor, Morgen Bailey, who constantly tries to get me to understand the concept of point of view. Never going to happen, Morgen, never going to happen, but my most grateful thanks for trying!
My love and gratitude go to my friend and partner in crime, Patricia Dixon. She has cheered me on from the sidelines, read the book at crucial stages, and made me promise not to kill Doris. Patricia knows me so well. Thanks, Dixon!
With every book I write I have readers to thank, and sometimes those thanks extend to them giving me permission to use their names, even if I turn them into a corpse. Shirley Ledger is a long, long-time friend and a huge fan of my work – Shirley, thank you. Megan Steer is a budding young author who I was proud to include, and Melanie Brookes, you have a starring role!
Enid Hill was someone we met almost a year ago while on holiday in Corfu, and we became united by our Sheffield accents. I gave her one of my books to read, and within a short space of time of our arriving home, she had every one in paperback form, signed by me, and passed on in Marks and Spencer’s café in Crystal Peaks. Sadly Enid died on 9 March 2020, but she would have loved her name being used in this book; she was a huge fan of Doris.
And baby Adeline is a real baby Adeline!
I have to thank my beta readers for their encouragement during this book’s journey – Marnie Harrison, Sarah Hodgson, Tina Jackson and Alyson Read. Thank you for your thoughts, and I hope you enjoy the finished version as much as you enjoyed the first 50,000 words.
And now thanks are due to my ARC readers, who read the novel prior to publication day, and are ready and waiting to upload reviews on the day. Fantastic job, I am so grateful.
The idea for this book came from the book Who’s Buried Where in England by Douglas Greenwood. Fascinating stuff, and I sent Doris and Wendy off on their holiday after identifying some graves that were fairly close to Bradwell, their starting point. They didn’t reach the grave of Sylvia Plath, and I’m sorry about that, so I’ll go and visit her for them.
My final thanks go to my readers who didn’t want the Kat and Mouse series to end. This, although not part of the series, is my compromise!
Love from Sheffield,
March 2020
A note from the publisher
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