The Philosophy of Disgrace @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } The Philosophy of Disgrace By Ann Troup Edited by Frankie Sutton Copyright © Ann Troup 2011 This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Smashwords Edition Prologue Valerie Porter had been fond of blanket statements that set others indelibly in their places. Proud of her insights into the characters of others she had set out her children’s traits like a script. As if they were pickles in jars, all three of her daughters had been indelibly labelled and preserved by her assertions. Frances was the clever one, as opposed to Stella who Valerie deemed useless, and of course Rachel, who was just downright difficult. Did all parents like to define their offspring, leaving their children floundering and typecast? Rachel, in particular felt imperfectly moulded by her family, a skewed version of the woman she should have been. An inconvenient, bit part player in the drama that had been her life. These were Rachel’s thoughts on the day she received her second letter from Frances. The contention moulded and delivered by her mother’s tongue still echoed in her mind, so much so that she had completely ignored Frances’ first missive, the letter that had informed her of Valerie’s demise. This second communication was a demand that she return home and assist with sorting out her mother’s affairs. Instinct told her to tear it up, put it in the bin, and pretend that it had never arrived. However, something tugged at her conscience enough to make her contemplate going back, even if it was only to make sure that Valerie really was gone. Only when she was sitting on the train, when it was too late to turn back and take refuge again, did she allow herself to think about the disappointment that had been Valerie’s life. Valerie had married William Porter in 1960, inheriting Stella from him, bringing Frances with her, according to Delia Jones, the person who had known Valerie the longest, and also the only person who would have dared discuss her in such terms;. Rachel had arrived in 1967, a day before her father died. More of Valerie’s words, accompanied by a wan sigh and a sad expression, had often described how William had hung on just long enough to know Rachel had made her entrance into the world. On the occasion of her marriage, Valerie had also inherited the real object of her desire, William’s family home, The Limes. It was an imposing residence long coveted by Valerie as the house of her dreams. The Limes was one of the more impressive buildings that edged the park, and it occupied the corner plot of one of the more desirable roads in town. Ever since she had first glimpsed the tall chimneys and the stately pretensions of the house, having spied it from the top deck of a bus, Valerie had fantasised about it. She conjured up a three dimensional image of herself living in that house where she could waft about in rooms that were called morning, drawing and dining. Having grown up in a two up, two down, back-to-back terrace, such pretentious notions meant a great deal to her. So, at the age of fourteen when she had left school and started in the wages office of Porter and Son Engineering, she had made it her sole business to become an invaluable asset to �śand Son.” Her diligence and commitment did not go unnoticed and at eighteen, she became William Porter’s personal secretary, just in time to congratulate him on his engagement to Elizabeth Roache. Valerie’s reaction to this blow was to allow Reg Bowen, the boy next door, to indulge his persistent and amorous attentions. Which, prior to William’s engagement, she had haughtily rejected on an almost daily basis. The result of her liaison with Reg was a foetal Frances, followed by the hasty purchase of a wedding ring from Woolworths, which she wore for appearances sake. Reg’s response to the situation was to show rather more enthusiasm for the prospect of National Service than he had hitherto expressed, which he promptly backed up by donning uniform and going off to drive a lorry around Palestine. When he came back, he ignored Frances’s existence and married a girl he had met in the NAAFI. Valerie was left with the baby, a green stain on her finger where the rolled gold had worn off the ring, and a reputation that she spent the rest of her life trying to shake off. The opportunity to reestablish her presence in William’s life came when she read in the hatched matched and dispatched column of the local paper that Elizabeth had died. Valerie sent her condolences, then followed them up with a sombre and sympathetic visit to her former employer, and then followed that with another and then another. William had been grateful to Valerie. He had loved his fragile girlish wife and had been distraught when she died. Stella, the daughter they had produced, was dazed and a little lost under the circumstances. William’s mother Venetia, a woman who due to Alzheimers, slipped in and out of time, could barely remember that Elizabeth had existed. Therefore, she was more of a liability than a help. Valerie was a godsend, she appointed herself as Williams help meet, pandered to the mother, fed and watered the daughter, and soothed William’s ego to such an extent that he began to believe that he couldn’t do without her. Six months after Elizabeth’s funeral, they married. Socially, marrying Valerie had been a huge faux pas. Elizabeth had been popular and was much missed and mourned with quiet dignity by the social circle that the Porter clan had carefully nurtured. Valerie’s eagerness to fill Elizabeth’s shoes, coupled with her coarse pretensions did not go down well amongst the local ladies, and the increasing knowledge that Porter and Son had its back to the wall did nothing to endear the men. Williams’ mother, Venetia, soon alienated the few friends that did maintain contact. People who had known the family in their heyday dined out for years on the story of Venetia Porter’s fall from grace. Rumour had it that some ladies had been invited to lunch at The Limes, which, curious to see the new Mrs. Porter in action, they had deigned to attend. Old Mrs. P, former mainstay of the WI and pillar of the community, appeared to be having a bad day, much to the embarrassment of new Mrs. P, who it had to be said, had tried a little too hard to impress. The pinnacle of the occasion had been when the old lady had been caught short during lunch and she had used the coalscuttle as a piss pot, to the public horror and the private amusement of all the ladies present. After old Mrs. P’s party piece, The Limes became a social wasteland. Invitations sent were never accepted and none was ever received by Valerie. William’s business, so lovingly built by his father, went rapidly downhill under his pathetically inadequate management, and only narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the Official Receiver by being bought for a song by one of William’s business rivals. It was a harsh blow, and one that William decided was better considered if he viewed it through the bottom of a brandy bottle. Valerie’s disappointment was both bitter and tangible, the life she had dreamed of for all those years had turned into a nightmare. All she had tried to do was better herself and all she had achieved was to land herself with a penniless drunkard with a mouse of a daughter and a witless old hag for a mother. By then, she had managed to enrol Frances at the same modest prep school that Stella attended. Frances was a bright child, academically adept and supremely confident. In comparison, Stella was timid, average and in Valerie’s mind not worthy of investment. Stella was taken out of her private school and placed in the local primary; the money saved in fees was spent on finding a genteel residential home for Venetia. Frances, who showed promise, remained at the prep school. William acquiesced to everything; he had married Valerie because she was an efficient and decisive woman who seemed to know what was best for them all. That she was becoming sour and dominant had escaped his notice, alcohol had softened all of life’s sharp edges, and William was content to wallow in its blurry influence. In Venetia’s absence, Valerie sold anything and everything she considered to be of value and raised enough money to buy a small shop that she intended should provide them all with an income. Wanting something that would have longevity, she invested in a Stationers, which brought in enough, just enough, money to keep up some semblance of a lifestyle. Therefore, the Porter family survived, aloof, isolated and nursing their privations with as much dignity as they could muster. Until February 2007, when Valerie died. Until Rachel, the accident who should have been a boy, as Valerie had so often reminded her, returned to her family home, opened a cupboard and was forced to stand to one side as the skeletons came marching out. CHAPTER ONE A week after Valerie’s ashes had been consigned to a green plastic jar and unceremoniously placed in the boot of Frances’s car, Stella disappeared, and Rachel was summoned by the second letter to return to the family home for the first time in nineteen years. While the train took her relentlessly towards �Śhome’, she pulled out the letter and reread Frances’s words. �śI am patently aware that you still harbour resentment about the past, however the house is a joint responsibility and whatever grudges you still bear, I feel you should put them aside for once and show a little loyalty to the family.” Frances’s letter baldly stated. Rachel could imagine the gritted teeth and grim expression that had fuelled those words. Though it was only stale guilt and obligation that got her on to the train, she had to admit some curiosity for the nature of the �Śthings’ that might need her intervention. Since when had Frances ever needed anything from her? With every mile the train advanced, she felt an increasing sense of apprehension. Given the circumstance of her departure, all those years ago it seemed bizarre that Frances would contact her at all, let alone request her help. The only logical conclusion she could draw was that her presence was needed in order to release some kind of financial settlement. Given that, for most of her life, Frances hadn’t been able to stand even being in the same room with her for more than a few minutes, it was unlikely that she wanted anything else. By the time Rachel arrived at The Limes, Frances had already sold everything of any remote value that Valerie hadn’t, and had resorted to burning what was left on a large bonfire in the overgrown garden. Things that couldn’t be burned, like the ancient enamelled cooker that Venetia had bought in 1959, and the six broken vacuum cleaners that had languished in the attic for years (along with numerous other aged and dishevelled domestic items) were taken to the local tip by one Sid Priday, �ŚThe Man With A Van’ and his monosyllabic sidekick, Steve. Sid and Steve were cheap, available and discreet, and Frances valued discretion. Sid and Steve had been at the house for days, repeatedly loading the van and making trips to the local landfill site as Frances steadily forced The Limes to disgorge its contents and bare its mouldering soul. Rachel arrived with barely enough time to salvage Stella’s meagre belongings from the purge, and only just managed to stop Steve feeding yet another box of books onto Frances’s pyre. They were Stella’s books, only children’s things, but classics that Stella had kept from her own childhood and had read to Rachel during hers. Frances argued that if Stella had wanted the books she would have taken them with her, but Rachel had shrugged and said that she was keeping them anyway. One of the rare pleasures of her childhood had been listening to Stella read those stories, so even if Stella didn’t want them, she did. Besides, monstrous though Frances could be, what kind of person would burn books? In all honesty, Frances had been so eager to clear the house that she hadn’t really left much that Rachel could do, except stand by and wonder at her sister’s vigorous enthusiasm for incinerating every last stick the house had ever contained. It felt as if she were only there to witness the destruction. �ŚI’ve spent too many years being oppressed by all this junk!’ Frances yelled above the crackling conflagration, eyes blazing bright as the fire as she gleefully watched the flames consume yet another chunk of their past. �ŚIt’s liberating, don’t you think?’ Sid, standing next to Rachel, shaking his head, said �ŚI dunno, seems a shame really, could have got a few quid for it on eBay. Sacrilege’ then he looked back at the house, �Śmust really have been something in its day.’ �ŚProbably’, Rachel said dully. Not that she could ever remember it being anything other than dark, damp, cold, and gloomy. By the time she had been born, The Limes was already suffering from serious neglect. Valerie had been too mean to heat the rooms they didn’t need, so mildew had taken hold and run riot over the walls, leaving an open invitation for anything associated with rot and decay to come on in and have a ball. Even in winter, it had sometimes been warmer outside than in, and at least the air outside wasn’t chock full of spores and must. The house had eight bedrooms, in Rachel’s memory only three had ever been regularly used. Of the four bathrooms, they had all shared one, and out of the study, drawing room, morning room, and reception room, they had only ever used the morning room, as it was close to the kitchen and easier to heat. The attics and cellars had been no go zones for so long that she had almost forgotten they existed, other than as repositories for the things Valerie had been too lazy to throw away. As far as Rachel was concerned, The Limes was a mausoleum that housed a bitter past. If it ever had a heyday, it was so far back in the mists of time, she would have to squint to imagine it. Much in the way that she needed to squint at Frances who was prodding the fire with an old hoe, her eyes glowing with reflected flames. In that moment, with her eyes blazing like fiendish rubies, she looked for all the world like a reject from the legions of hell. The thought made Rachel shudder, despite the heat that rolled across the neglected lawn. �ŚRight, that’s going nicely.’ Frances called. ’Stephen, you come with me and we’ll tackle the outbuildings and Sidney, you can go with Rachel and make sure there’s nothing left in the house.’ A brief flicker of panic crossed Steve’s face as he looked at Sid. Both men had fallen foul of Frances’s imperious temper over the past few days and it was the short straw if one of them had to work alongside her. �ŚCome on, chop chop!’ She shouted, clapping her hands as if Steve was a refractory Pekingese. Rachel watched them go. �ŚI suppose we’d better follow orders’ she said to Sid, preparing herself to go back into the near naked house. Free of its clutter, the house was even more cavernous than she remembered, all its strident objections to old age and infirmity amplified by the lack of furnishings. With nothing to soak up the sound and attract the eye, it seemed bare and ashamed of itself and Rachel almost felt sorry for it, nobody loved it, and she couldn’t remember anybody ever having been really happy there. As a home, its heart had been hollowed out by acrimony and neglect, now it was being finished off by indifference. She and Sid ascended the stairs, the bare treads creaking in protest. They checked the bedrooms, finding them only damp and empty, until they entered her mother’s room. Valerie’s room had always been sacrosanct, an oasis of calm and solitude that she had often retreated to, complaining of a headache and clutching a medicinal bottle of sherry. Rachel couldn’t actually recall ever having been allowed inside. Now, only a few black sacks stood against the wall, ready for Sid’s next run to the tip. This first and final ingress into her mother’s secret chamber, the room that had been the inner sanctum, the room that had been the container of Valerie’s personal misery, was a frankly a disappointment for Rachel. As a child, she had often spied into the room, by squinting through the keyhole like a woebegone Alice, imagining that beyond the locked door, lay another realm. The wardrobe in the corner might have been the entrance to another dimension, where Valerie existed differently and found the peace she had so often demanded before shutting the door against the needs of her family. Although in Rachel’s memory the White Witch had always had much more of a resemblance to Valerie than had ever been entirely comfortable. Though Valerie’s recent presence still echoed in the hollow shabby room, Rachel could not for the life of her imagine what peace of mind her mother had ever found from lying on the bed staring drunkenly at the blowsy roses that scrambled across the wallpaper beneath the dust and cobwebs. Those keyhole shaped memories had suggested something exotically different from the chilly, mildewed reality she now faced. The only piece of furniture not yet consigned to the tip, or dispatched to be consumed by the greedy flames of Frances’s blaze, was the wardrobe. Rachel walked over to it, touched its mirrored door, which creaked open. She gave it a wry smile, unsurprised that it wasn’t, after all, filled with fur coats and melting snow. �ŚShe said I could have that.’ Sid said, afraid that Rachel would condemn it to the fire. �ŚI was saving it for when we finished. That way I can put it on the van and take it straight home’. The faintest aroma of mothballs wafted out as she shut the door. �ŚI’ll lock it so it’ll be easier to move. You should hang on to the key, they’re always better when they still have their keys.’ The door was a little warped, and she had to shove it hard to make it fit properly, promptly dislodging the prized key in the process. ’Bugger!’ she said. The key had bounced on the bare floorboards and hidden itself underneath the wardrobe. On hands and knees, Rachel peered into the murky spider graveyard that lay beneath, �ŚI can’t see it, we’ll have to pull the bloody thing out’. Sid obliged, and together they coaxed the heavy wardrobe into a reluctant slide across the wooden boards. As Rachel bent to retrieve the key, something prodded at the edges of her awareness. �ŚI didn’t know that was there’ she murmured, standing up and looking at a door, which had been hidden from view by the wardrobe. �ŚBuilt in cupboard’ Sid pronounced knowledgably. �ŚWhat d’you need a wardrobe for if there’s a built in cupboard?’ Rachel shrugged. �ŚMore junk for you to get rid of I expect.’ she said, prising open the cupboard door and cringing as the hinges squealed in protest. The cupboard was surprisingly empty, given the rubbish that had always cluttered the rest of the house. A faint flurry of fetid air wafted into their faces as they peered into its dark recess. On its single shelf stood a biscuit tin and on the floor there was a metal box. Rachel took down the biscuit tin and levered of the lid, various bits of paper and old photographs nestled there, mostly showing Frances as a young child. The papers proved to be old school reports, all describing Frances�Śs attributes in glowing terms. Rachel couldn’t recall Valerie keeping a record of either her, or Stella’s school records, though Frances probably would have burnt them if she had. Neither had she ever seen a photograph of herself as a child anywhere in the house. Under the photographs was a small red book, the type that had a tiny lock, she took it and the photographs and stuffed them in her back pocket, maybe Frances would want them, maybe not. The rest she put back in the tin and threw the whole thing into one of the black sacks that flanked the room. Sid grabbed the metal box, �ŚBloody hell, this is heavy. Hey, perhaps we’ve found the family jewels!’ he quipped. Rachel responded with a sardonic smile. The box was little bigger than a loaf of bread but looked like it weighed a ton. Sid placed it at Rachel’s feet. �ŚWant to do the honours?’ he asked. She shook her head, watching as Sid attempted to release the lid. Though the metal had been galvanised, some substance had affected it, causing rust to scab the edges and eat into the structure. Sid took out a Swiss army knife and used the screwdriver bit as a lever, giving a satisfied grunt as the orange crust gave way. He lifted the lid, revealing the contents. ’It’s full of sand.’ He said, puzzled. �ŚSand?’ �ŚHang on, there’s something poking out of it,’ he tugged, dislodging a torrent of dry, gritty matter as the object released. It was some kind of parcel, wrapped in dirty cloth. Sid unwound the material, causing more sand and grit to fall and glitter the floor, as each layer of fabric came away and disintegrated in his hands. �ŚWhat is it?’ Rachel asked, peering over his shoulder at what appeared to be some type of shrivelled, leathery doll. However, Sid didn’t speak. His skin had turned a ghastly shade of grey and all Rachel could see as she peered at his stricken face, was his Adam’s apple, bobbing up and down like a fishing float as he fought for words to describe the thing that was now lying on the floor. Frances’s scream literally rattled the glass in the rotten window frames. Buffeting Rachel’s eardrums and snapping Sid out of his shocked stupor as effectively as if it had taken tangible form and slapped him in the face. Once the sound receded, everything became horribly quiet as if there had been a sudden solar eclipse and the birds had stopped singing in deference to the dark. Time seemed to become elastic, as seconds extended themselves into blurry, suspended pockets of disbelieving minutes. Then, Sid’s mobile phone began to ring. The tinny, incongruent tones of �ŚMy Way’ shattered the silence and stirred him into action. When he finally answered the thing, after fumbling for it in every pocket, Rachel could hear Steve’s tremulous voice in the background, panicking as he told his boss of the scene outside. Rachel doubted that Steve had ever uttered so many words in one go before, which was probably why he was confused. She could have sworn she heard him say that there was a dead body in the shed. CHAPTER TWO Rachel didn’t know who to deal with first, the paramedics who had arrived, speeding up the drive, sirens blaring, or the police who were wandering around shouting things into their radios and telling people what to do. Sid still didn’t look a good colour and was being tended to by a pretty Detective Sergeant, who had given him a blanket and a cup of tea. Steve wasn’t faring much better, he just stood in the middle of the melee, staring at his bloodstained hands like a confused Lady Macbeth. Frances was out cold, and was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, as Rachel watched the incredible scene unfold. According to Steve, Frances had taken one look at the contents of the trunk in the shed, had staggered backwards, tripped over a black bag, and as she fell, bashed her head with a sickening thud on the edge of the door. Only when he had stoically dragged her out and put her in the recovery position did he realise that the blood on his hands was coming from a patch of her exposed skull. He had finally lost the plot when he had spotted a piece of hairy scalp dangling neatly from the latch of the shed door. At that point, he had vomited up his lunch, all over Frances’s cashmere sweater. All Rachel could think of was that it was a good thing Frances was unconscious at the time; she could be a bit obsessive about things like that. Noticing Rachel’s bemused demeanour, the DS left Sid and gently led Rachel into the kitchen. �ŚYou’ve had a bit of a shock love, let’s get you a cup of tea,’ she said, her voice soft as she took Rachel’s trembling hand. Rachel never drank tea, but accepted a cup anyway, and sat there in The Limes kitchen staring into the tea’s murky depths as if scrying for an improved view of her world. The last time DS Angela Watson had set foot in a house like this had been ten years ago when her history teacher had dragged a group of them around some National Trust pile. Angela had found the whole thing so stultifying that she couldn’t even remember the name of the place now, but she did remember that it had been a lot like this, only bigger and much, much cleaner. The only nod towards the 20th century seemed to be the kettle she had used to make the tea, everything else in the room was straight out of a museum. Angela’s taste in kitchens and furniture leaned more toward Ikea than Antiques Road show, and she looked around the room with barely disguised distaste. No wonder these people always seemed to have money, by the looks of it they never bloody spent any. She had just taken out a ten grand bank loan and was using every penny of it to have a new kitchen put in, and if the look of this one were anything to go by it would be money well spent. There was no way that she would stand at an old stone sink, doing the washing up and dumping it on a wooden draining board, not when some genius had invented the dishwasher. Bored with critiquing the kitchen, she turned her attention to the woman at the table, who seemed to be trying to read her tealeaves, without realising she had to drink the stuff first. Other than giving her name, she hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived, had just stood around staring at everyone like she was a bit vacant. This was only Angela’s third shift at this station and she hadn’t expected to find herself babysitting a spaced out scruffy woman. God, she hoped she didn’t end up looking like that by the time she was forty, no make-up, shapeless clothes, and hair that hadn’t seen the good edge of a pair of scissors for god knows how long. It was a nice colour though, sort of brown, like conkers. However, those split ends needed to go, she thought, absently running a hand through her own straightened and highlighted hair. The woman was skinny, not in a good way, but as if she hadn’t had a decent meal in years, which always made women look haggard and drawn in Angela’s opinion. This particular observation made her feel better as she thought about the number of points she had left that day, and whether she could sneak a takeaway for tea that night, without it showing on the scales the next time she went to slimming club. She supposed that she ought to try to get Rachel talking, but considering that Ratcliffe would be here any minute, there didn’t seem a lot of point. Might as well leave it to the suit to sort out, it was hardly as if she was going to crack the case in five minutes flat, besides, looking at the state of Rachel, the only thing she looked like she was capable of murdering was a good meal. DS Mike Ratcliffe sat down on a kitchen chair and found himself blushing as it groaned under his weight. He smiled at the woman nursing the cold tea and introduced himself. �ŚMiss Porter, I’m Detective Sergeant Mike Ratcliffe. Would you like a fresh one of those?’ He hoped so; he was spitting feathers and looked hopefully at Angela whilst nodding towards the kettle. Rachel shook her head, �ŚIt’s gone cold’. �ŚI know, would you like another?’ To his disappointment, she shook her head again. He sighed as Angela set the kettle down and shot him a smug look. ’Your sister should be fine, we’ve contacted her husband and he’ll meet her at the hospital. I’m sorry you weren’t able to go with her, but we do need you to answer some questions.’ Rachel nodded at him then turned her gaze back to her tea. �ŚDo you know how we can contact your other sister, Stella?’ Rachel shrugged, �ŚShe’s gone. She should be here, Stella’s always been here.’ �ŚWhen was the last time you saw her?’ Rachel didn’t even have to think about it, the date was engraved on her mind like a bland epitaph on a tombstone. �ŚOctober nineteenth 1989’. �ŚThat’s both very precise and a very long time ago. I’m told that your mother recently died, didn’t you see your sister at the funeral?’ �ŚNo, I haven’t seen either of them since 1989. I didn’t go to the funeral.’ �ŚWhy not?’ Rachel was surprised at the boldness of the question. �ŚWe had a row; I was excommunicated from the family. It happens. I don’t even know what I’m doing here now to be honest, I should have stuck to my guns and stayed away.’ �ŚWhy are you here now?’ Ratcliffe asked. It seemed odd and a little mercenary to ignore the funeral, but turn up to pick over the family bones. �ŚFrances asked me to help sort out the house. I wanted to see it again, see if it was as awful as I remembered,’ she paused and looked around. �ŚIt is.’ Ratcliffe wanted to know why they had all fallen out. �ŚMoney. Always money isn’t it? My aunt died, she left me her flat and some money, my mother and Frances thought I should share and share alike, I didn’t want to, so we fell out.’ Her answer had been too trite, too neat for his liking. �ŚWhat about Stella, what did she think?’ �ŚI can’t recall her being given the chance to say what she thought,’ Rachel replied. �ŚDoes any of this have anything to do with the fact that dead bodies seem to be popping up all over the place?’ Ratcliffe leant back in the chair, heard it moan again as the weak joints adjusted to the shift in weight. Rachel was an attractive woman, natural, with no frippery, simple and wholesome like Felicity Kendal in the Good Life. Nice. It made a change to look at a woman who wasn’t plastered in makeup and parading the latest fashion. She had good teeth and nice hair. Too skinny though. At a guess, he would have put her age in the mid-thirties, and having taken a quick glimpse at the two bodies. His guess would be that she had been a kid when someone had killed them, covered them in sand, and hidden them away. Still, that didn’t really explain her flippant view of the situation. �ŚYes, about that,’ he said, tapping the table with the tips of his fingers. �ŚThe bodies. Do you know who they are?’ Rachel wasn’t feeling too good; things were starting to go fuzzy round the edges. She wanted to say, �ŚWell, let me see, the big one could be Lord Lucan I guess, and I don’t know, perhaps someone left their doll in the sandbox!’ Instead, she put her head in her hands and said, �ŚI don’t know,’ only a moment before she slipped off the chair onto the floor, and began to jerk and twitch like a thing possessed. Ratcliffe hadn’t been expecting that, �ŚGet Ferris in here now!’ he yelled sending Angela scurrying for the door. Julia Ferris was more accustomed to dealing with dead bodies than live ones at that stage of her medical career, but immediately recognised that Rachel was having a seizure. �ŚShe’s having a seizure’ she said with her usual cool detachment. �ŚAren’t you going to do anything?’ Angela wanted to know. �ŚOther than move that chair so she doesn’t smash her face on it, no. She’ll be out of it in a minute or two, just let her settle and give her some water. She’ll probably be a bit sleepy too, so let her rest if she needs to. Now, does anybody mind if I get back to the dead guys now?’ She was peeved; she would have to get garbed up in another paper suit to go back to the crime scene. Angela seemed shocked by the Doctors reaction, but Ratcliffe was just relieved that Rachel hadn’t been having a stroke or a heart attack. So far, he had two dead bodies, one witness in hospital, a potential suspect, who was fuck knows where, and his second witness was writhing on the floor like a demented snake. In fact, in that moment she had stopped writhing and just seemed to have gone limp. �ŚGet her some water will you?’ he asked Angela as he bent down to help Rachel up. �ŚYou had me worried for a minute or two’ he said, helping her onto the chair. It took a while for her to recover properly. Rachel took the water and drank it down quickly. �ŚSorry, that one seemed to come out of nowhere,’ she said reaching into her pocket and pulling out an old SOS bracelet. �ŚI used to wear it, but the catch broke. Haven’t had a fit in ages.’ �ŚAre you okay, do you need anything?’ Ratcliffe asked, his heart rate only just beginning to settle back to its normal pace. �ŚMore water please’, she said, still feeling disorientated. Having drunk the second glass straight down, Rachel explained that she suffered from epilepsy and had since she was a child. Though usually well controlled, the fits could be brought on by stress. �ŚI think you would agree that my day has been stressful’ she said to Ratcliffe. �ŚJust a bit. Look, if you need to take a break we can pick this up later,’ he said, genuine concern showing on his face. �ŚNo, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’ she insisted. Ratcliffe looked doubtful about that but decided to press on. �ŚWhen your sister saw what was in the trunk in the shed, she called out before she fell. The young man out there said that she called out the name �Ś�ŚRoy’’. Does that mean anything to you?’ Rachel blinked at him for a moment as she absorbed his words, �ŚRoy? Roy was Stella’s husband. Are you saying that’s him in the shed?’ she asked, screwing her eyes up in an attitude of dazed disbelief. Roy had walked out on Stella thirty years before, just up and left. It couldn’t be him. Then the prickling sensation in her head began again. �ŚI’m sorry, but I think I’m having another one,’ she managed to mumble before she went down again. It was no good. By the time Rachel came out of the second fit, she was so exhausted that Ratcliffe would have been hard pressed to get her name out of her in any sensible form. The only reasonable thing he could do was to tell Angela Watson to drive her to the hotel she was staying at and call it a day. The only useful information he gained from the whole interview was gleaned from Rachel’s parting words as she walked wearily out of the door. �ŚBy the way, if the body in the shed has a gold tooth, a canine, then it is Roy.’ Julia Ferris was in the yard discussing the logistics of moving the trunk, complete with sand and body, with the Crime Scene guys when Ratcliffe approached her. �ŚDoes our victim have a gold tooth?’ He asked. �ŚYeah, a canine, why?’ �ŚCos I think I know who he is, and given that his wife is missing, I think I can make a conservative guess at who killed him. The deceased may well be one Roy Baxter, husband of the eldest Porter girl.’ �ŚThe one who’s gone missing?’ �ŚStella’. Ferris frowned, �Śdoesn’t mean she killed him, if it is him, which I admit is likely but we don’t actually know yet. What about the baby, any ideas?’ �ŚNot a clue, yet. Anyway, what’s with the sand? I don’t get it.’ Ferris stripped off the latex gloves she had been wearing and wiped a powdery hand across her forehead. �ŚWhoever did this to them attempted a rudimentary form of mummification by the looks of it. It’s sharp sand, the kind builders’ use, so it contains salt, which absorbs the moisture that bodies release as they decompose. Salt is also a preservative. Whoever it was didn’t do a bad job, the bodies are in pretty good nick.’ Ratcliffe shuddered, ’But why mummify them, why not just dig a hole and bury them?’ Ferris shrugged. ’Could be anything, keeping them as trophies ala serial killer maybe, or couldn’t be bothered to dig the hole. Let’s face it, it’s a lot easier to tip sand in a box, than it is to dig a grave deep enough to bury a body without risking being seen, or the body being dug up by a curious dog or an over enthusiastic gardener. Dunno, you tell me, but one thing, mummified bodies don’t smell so bad, it’s why they don’t decay, they don’t attract flies and bugs and so don’t betray their presence so easily.’ Ratcliffe nodded thoughtfully, it was a fair point. �ŚSort of gruesome though, implies a lot of thought. How long do you think they’ve been there?’ �ŚI’m not sure, but a fair few years. When did your Baxter guy disappear?’ �ŚQuite a long time ago, I think.’ Hopefully, the sisters would help them pinpoint the exact time period. Unfortunately, what they hadn’t helped with was the preservation of the scene and any potential evidence. Anything that might have offered clues to what had happened, had more than likely been burned, or was now languishing somewhere on ten acres of landfill site. The clearance guy, Steve, had been more than happy to tell him of the enthusiasm with which Frances had disposed of her family’s belongings. Information that told Ratcliffe that Frances wasn’t going to be an easy woman to deal with. So far, all they had managed to salvage were a few bags of Stella’s possessions, a box of kids’ books, an old and seriously ugly wardrobe, and some bags of rubbish. Ratcliffe suddenly felt very tired, he wasn’t going to find out anything worth knowing anytime soon. At half past four in the afternoon, when Rachel reached her hotel room, she could barely keep her eyes open and had flung herself fully dressed onto the bed. The next time she looked at the clock, it was ten past eight, and it wasn’t until she opened the heavy curtains that she realised she was looking out the window onto the beginnings of a bright new day, rather than on the quiet twilight she had been expecting. There were two things she liked about hotels, the anonymity that was afforded by them, and the oodles of hot water that allowed a bath to be drawn in minutes. Sometimes, in those rare moments when she felt as though she might like to re-enter the human race, she would just book a room for the night. On a whim, she’d walk into a random hotel in London, get a room, and spend the time there watching TV, ordering room service, and having baths. It wasn’t that Lila’s flat didn’t have a bath, it did, a huge, deep, claw footed cast iron thing that emptied the tank at five inches and chilled the water within seconds. This in mind she opened the taps in the clinically modern bathroom, perched herself on the edge of her rented bath and watched the steam rise with pleasant anticipation. The epileptic fits of the day before had come as a shock; it had been a long time since she had faced the humiliation of having a seizure in public. The medication she took daily had kept them in check for years, and if she had one at all, it was when her defences were down and she allowed dark thoughts to run riot. On those occasions, the fits had been transient partial seizures, which to anyone else would look like daydreaming or drunkenness. A full-blown fit was so rare she could actually remember the day the last one had happened, and she didn’t want to think about it, dwelling on that period of her life was something she actively avoided. Coming back had brought some things way too close for comfort already but questioning herself about why she had come in the first place was pointless, it didn’t matter. What did matter was how soon she could get away. Soaking in the bath, she chose not to think about anything other than coffee and food. Fits made her hungry, and she needed caffeine. She bathed quickly and only half dried her hair before she dressed and went out of the door in search of breakfast. As she wandered up Westgate Street, towards the Cathedral and the only café she could remember, she thought of Stella and wondered where she had gone, and why. Perhaps Frances had finally managed to drive her out. As an accomplished escape artist herself, Rachel didn’t question why her sister had disappeared, anyone who had known the family would have been able to answer that. However, she was greatly puzzled as to where Stella had run. Stella had spent the last nineteen years looking after Valerie, she didn’t have friends or a social life, or a bolthole like Rachel had, and was hardly the type to reinvent herself in the way that Frances strived to. Besides, she was quiet, timid, nervy and not the sort of person who could easily disappear. Perhaps she would turn up; she was probably avoiding Frances, which Rachel could entirely understand. Once inside Café Milano, she immediately experienced a rush of nostalgia. The place had hardly changed since the days when she and Stella had lingered over their milkshake and coffee, pretending for an hour or so that they didn’t have to go home. She took a breath, filling her lungs with the scent of vanilla and fresh ground beans, smiling as she recalled that she had discovered Italian coffee in this very place, long before Starbucks had flooded the world with skinny lattes. There was a seat at the back, half hidden behind a screen, a perfect place to watch from, without being seen herself. She ordered coffee and a bacon roll, then sat back and looked around at the other customers. A tall man entering the café drew her attention. The way he moved was horribly familiar and her heart seemed to flat-line for a long elastic moment, while she fought to accept that her eyes and her memory were indeed in tune. CHAPTER THREE He was sure this time. He had caught glimpses before, the turn of a head, or the sound of laughter so painfully familiar that it induced a sensation of time grinding to a standstill. His heart flopped, fluttering pointlessly like a dying moth. So many times over the years, he’d found that it wasn’t her after all. Just some woman who thought he was a weirdo freak. Now he was holding up the queue at the cash point as he stared at the café door, one hundred percent sure that Rachel had just walked through it. �ŚYou asking to be mugged?’ a woman said aggressively, pushing in front of him so that she could get to the machine. Charlie had been so rapt by the realisation that Rachel was back that he’d forgotten that he was standing in the middle of town with a hundred pounds in crisp twenties just sitting in his hand, looking ripe for the picking. �ŚAsshole!’ the woman hissed as he moved away hastily pushing the money into his pocket ready to launch himself across the road. He got as far as the café door before chickening out and turning towards the Newsagent’s instead. If he were going to go in and confront her he needed to gather his thoughts, he would buy a paper, something to hide behind when he pretended that his being there was just an accident. A lot was at stake, if he had any sense he would walk away and make himself believe that he hadn’t seen her at all. He would pretend it was the same as all the other times he’d felt a faint glimmer of hope only to see it fade and die as soon as he’d called her name and been given an odd look by a complete stranger. As his mother would say, only one good thing had ever come from dealing with the Porter family and that was Amy. Everything else that touched them always turned to shit. However, he’d been waiting a long time for this moment, and he was going to have his say now. The woman in the shop wanted to chat and he just wasn’t in the mood. �ŚComes to something doesn’t it?’ she said with a cynical shake of her head. Charlie hated random statements. �ŚPardon?’ �ŚIn the paper. Bodies. Here, right on our doorstep and the woman who did it has gone missing. Not that they’re saying that, but it’s obvious isn’t it? If she’s done a runner, she must have done it. Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ she said, shuddering as she handed him his change. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but accepted his change with a tolerant smile and glanced down at the paper. His eyes were immediately drawn to the left hand column on the front page. The names stood out like two nuns in a brothel. Porter and Baxter. He scanned the article, and exhaled slowly. No wonder she was back. Rachel knew that he had come in looking for her. She should have known that it would happen eventually if she came back, but had stupidly hoped that she could avoid it. By now, if the police hadn’t insisted that she stick around, she would have been back in London, instead of sitting there wondering why fate was such a relentless bastard. Charlie had aged; they both had. She just looked old, but on him greying hair and lines around the eyes seemed to have enhanced the air of artless charm that he had always been blessed with. She watched helplessly as he ploughed an inexorable path through the crowded café towards her table. Had there been a back door, she would have bolted, but she was trapped. Stomach pitching and rolling, she could do nothing but wait for the moment she had been dreading for nineteen years. Charlie spotted her easily; she was half-hidden behind a bamboo screen and obviously trying to avoid him. He made his way to her table and slapped the paper down in front of her. �ŚI didn’t think anything would bring you back, until I read this. It’s been a long time Rachel,’ he said more bitterly than he had intended to. Rachel glanced down at the paper. Until that point she had almost convinced herself that the events of the previous day had been a surreal nightmare, the kind that hung around after waking, leaving an unpleasant taint which was impossible to ignore. Every word on the page sent a slug of reality into her brain. Each time a sentence landed in her grey matter, her mind seemed to fizz and pop like a damp firework, until the whole thing short-circuited and she felt herself going down. The whole café seemed to hold its breath as Rachel hit the floor, taking the tablecloth with her. A mesmerising cascade of sugar skittered across the floor like a million microscopic diamonds, only to be crushed under Charlie’s feet as he rushed to move furniture out of the way. Someone shrieked as Rachel’s body began to twitch and jerk, and almost everyone panicked as Charlie knelt down and seemed to be trying to strangle the woman with her own scarf. �ŚOh my God!’ the waitress yelled, trying to pull him off. Charlie shouted, and shrugged her off �ŚGet off me you silly cow, and move the bloody tables out of the way, she’s having a fit!’ All his old, familiar instincts had kicked in as soon as he’d seen the look in Rachel’s eyes before they had glazed over and rolled back into her head like a couple of milk white marbles. Adrenaline surged through his body as he struggled to loosen her scarf while trying to ignore the chattering voyeurs. The waitress was twittering on about calling an ambulance, but he told her no, even though she shrieked again as blood began to dribble from Rachel’s contorted mouth. ’She’s bitten herself, it’s nothing, she’ll be fine in a minute, just give her some space will you, and tell those bloody people to stop gawping.’ he shouted. �ŚAre you a doctor then?’ the terrified girl asked only to have her question completely ignored. Rachel’s body had begun to relax, Charlie found himself trembling with relief. He had not had to deal with one of her seizures in a long time. He sat back, stretched out his legs, and pulled her limp, exhausted body into his lap, propping her head against his chest, and stroking the damp hair away from her pallid face. He wasn’t sure which one of them was more shattered. �ŚCan you get her some water please?’ he asked the traumatised waitress. The girl nodded and went to scurry off, briefly pausing to turn, and ask �Śstill or sparkling?’ Charlie glowered at her. �ŚTap’ he said impatiently. The girl returned with the water, the proprietor of the café in her wake, a sensible woman who offered to pull the screen across and give them some privacy. Charlie accepted gratefully and took the water, holding it to Rachel’s mouth and making her drink though, she was still disorientated. The café woman ushered the waitress away, �ŚCan I do anything? Should I check her bag, call a relative or something?’ Charlie shook his head, �ŚNo, its fine, I’ll look after her’ The café woman frowned, she had watched him come in and had seen the way he’d approached the woman, she wasn’t sure of him at all, he could be anyone, �ŚNot being funny, but do you actually know her?’ Charlie closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. �ŚYou could say that I do.’ The woman frowned, �ŚAre you a relative?’ He nodded, �ŚI’m her husband.’ CHAPTER FOUR When the doorbell rang, Delia Jones peered through the net curtains, as was her wont, and smiled with grim satisfaction at the predictability of the police. She had been waiting for them all morning; ever since she’d read the paper. On opening the door, she smiled at them both, listened as they introduced themselves and perused their warrant cards with unnecessary scrutiny, then said with an air of weary disinclination, �ŚI suppose you had better come in.’ Detective Inspector Mike Ratcliffe followed Detective Sergeant Angela Watson into Delia’s cluttered sitting room and formed his first impressions while Delia lowered herself into a very fat armchair and took her time settling in. The whole room was stuffed to the gills with cheap china and whimsical little ornaments. It was the kind of room that could send a grown man very slowly and very steadily crazy over time, but then, Delia Jones struck him as the kind of woman who probably knew that, and coveted her collection even more for that very reason. �ŚI know why you’re here, I read the paper. But if you’re looking for my son, he doesn’t live here anymore. Besides, whatever you lot think he’s no killer and Roy Baxter was alive and well long after he was locked up, so you’ll be barking up the wrong tree anyway.’ Delia said with smug satisfaction. Sometimes Ratcliffe hated reporters; they were way too quick off the mark with their stories and speculation. They hadn’t even had definite confirmation that it was Roy Baxter yet, god knows how the paper got hold of the name, but they’d run the story anyway. �ŚThere is nothing that we are aware of that would link your son to this case Mrs. Jones, but we will talk to him at some point. It’s you we’ve come to see.’ he said. They’d done some checks back at the station, and had been surprised to find that there had been another body found at The Limes, thirty years before. That one had been fresh though, still bleeding when discovered, complete with the murderer, knife in hand, standing over it. The victim was one Patsy Jones, daughter in law of Delia. Patsy had been having an affair with Roy Baxter, an error in judgement that had led to her death. The murder had been committed by Delia’s son, who had been found next to his dead wife holding the murder weapon, with which he had stabbed Patsy four times, after he had bashed her over the head with a blunt object that incidentally, had never been found. It had been an open and shut case. Delia’s son had served ten years of a possible fifteen and hadn’t come to the attention of the police since. Delia was right in saying that he couldn’t have had anything to do with at least one of the bodies found yesterday, because he had been on remand when Roy had gone missing. There was no obvious link between the two cases, other than The Limes appearing to be a popular venue for untimely and horrific deaths, but they did need to talk to Delia Jones. She had been the Porter’s housekeeper thirty years before and was likely to be one person that knew more about them than anyone else. Uniform had completed some preliminary door-to-door enquiries, and from the little information they had gathered, Watson and Ratcliffe had concluded that the Porter family were not neighbourly types. Of those people who were aware of their existence, most described them as eccentric, standoffish, and weird. The only real contact any of the neighbours had with them was on the odd occasion that someone had plucked up enough courage to complain about the run down state of the house and the untamed jungle that may have at one time been a garden. All had been given short shrift, and had not tried again. Consequently, the only person who might have any useful information on the family, particularly regarding the period of time that Roy Baxter had been a part of it was Delia Jones. This recalcitrant old lady who was at that moment in time, very busy giving both of them some seriously dirty looks. Scowling she said, �Śwhat do you want to talk to me for? I didn’t bloody kill him, though if I had Charlie wouldn’t have had to pay for something he didn’t do. If you ask me Roy Baxter got everything he deserved.’ Angela ignored her, �ŚHow did you and your son know Mr Baxter?’ �ŚI would have thought you already knew that, I was the cleaner at the house, and Charlie worked for Roy. He was a builder, gave Charlie work, and only did it to piss Valerie off. She wasn’t keen on Charlie.’ �ŚWhy not?’ Ratcliffe asked. Delia laughed and shook her head, �ŚValerie Porter didn’t like anyone much.’ Ratcliffe didn’t buy it; he looked at Angela and by his guess, neither did she. �ŚWhat do you mean?’ Delia shifted in her seat, �Śshe was a bitter woman sergeant, a dried up old stick who liked to make other people miserable when she could. She was always the same, even when she was a kid, a nasty spiteful bitch who thought she was a cut above everyone else. Put it this way, it takes more than a posh house and a good name to shift a reputation like hers.’ �ŚShe must have liked you, she gave you a job.’ Angela said. �ŚHuh! She gave me the job because I was the only person stupid enough to do it for the lousy money she paid, liking didn’t come in to it. Besides, she enjoyed the fact that someone she knew worked for her, made her feel important.’ Delia said bitterly, obviously still suffering the indignity of her lot. �ŚWhy stay if she was so unpleasant, paid so little?’ Angela wanted to know. Delia looked her up and down, taking in the smart suit and the air of self-assurance, no doubt gleaned from a good education and decent parents, more than she had ever had, so she told her so. �ŚI don’t suppose a woman like you would know what it’s like to be left on your own to bring up a kid. I left school at fourteen, got married when I was seventeen, had Charlie when I was twenty and was widowed at twenty two. I had no money, and a roof to pay for, wasn’t quite so easy to go to the social cap in hand then. I had to work, and I had to go somewhere I could take Charlie with me. Needs must Sergeant. You should be glad the world has changed, if it hadn’t you wouldn’t be sitting there in your nice suit calling the shots. You would have been chained to the sink with a load of snot nosed kids round your ankles, just like all the other women I knew back then, so don’t judge me lady. I wasn’t too proud to earn my own living even if it was cleaning up someone else’s muck, at least I wasn’t raking through it like you lot do!’ Angela was a bit taken aback by the level of venom in Delia’s tone, but Ratcliffe seemed un-phased by the attack. Her boss was known as a tough cookie, though Angela saw him more as thick skinned, like a suit wearing rhino. He had a good brain on him, but wasn’t exactly a people person. Yet another thing that conspired to make her life more difficult than it needed to be. �ŚYou may have read that there was a second body found, a baby. Can you tell us anything about that?’ Ratcliffe said, not looking at Delia but studying her crowded mantelpiece. A photograph had caught his attention. A pretty, dark eyed girl smiled out at him from the confines of a silver frame, she looked familiar. Delia saw where his gaze fell, �ŚWell, you’re not going to get an answer by looking up there, are you? Sit down for god’s sake, you take up too much space,’ she said irritably, watching with grim amusement as the big detective perched himself uncomfortably on the edge of another fat chair. �ŚI don’t know anything about a baby, but I wouldn’t put anything past that family. They liked their secrets,’ she added enigmatically. �ŚWhat secrets?’ Angie wanted to know. �ŚWell if I knew that, they wouldn’t be secrets would they?’ Delia countered with a satisfied smile. �ŚLook I walked out of there the day Patsy died, and I never looked back. I don’t know anything about what you found there and I’ve had no contact with any of them since. I can’t help you.’ Ratcliffe glanced back up at the photo, �Śwhat about Rachel, did you have contact with her?’ Delia shrugged, �Śfor a while, she was a nice kid. Couldn’t help her family could she? Anyway, I haven’t seen her for getting on for twenty years, she moved away, cut herself off. Didn’t even go to the funeral.’ �ŚDid you go to the funeral?’ Angela asked. Delia pursed her lips, �ŚI did. Wanted to make sure the old cow really was dead.’ Ignoring this comment, Ratcliffe pressed on, �ŚWhy didn’t Rachel go, it was her mother after all?’ Delia looked away from him, her eyes flicked rapidly from side to side before she answered, �Śthey fell out. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but I think it was over money. William’s sister died; left the lot to Rachel, which was when she buggered off to London, lives in Lila,’s old flat as far as I know. Look, they were a weird lot, Stella wouldn’t say boo to a goose, Frances was so far up her own backside she thought her shit didn’t stink and Valerie wasn’t much better, she made Maggie Thatcher look like a pussycat. I just worked there. A long time ago.’ Angela sighed, this was going nowhere, �Śis there anyone else you can think of who might have known the family?’ Delia shrugged again, �ŚNot likely, they weren’t exactly the kind that had friends. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where Stella is.’ Ratcliffe called it quits, they were getting nowhere fast with Delia Jones but both of them knew that she was holding back. They could see her now, staring at them through her net curtains as they sat in the car. Angela put they key in the ignition, �Śwhat now boss?’ she asked of the man brooding beside her. Angela gazed out of the windscreen, straight ahead, at nothing in particular while she waited for his answer. She had fast tracked through the force, on a degree programme that meant quick promotion and instant status, but if she was honest, she was a bit out of her depth sometimes, especially around the Ratcliffe’s of the world. Older male coppers intimidated her. The only way she had learnt to deal with it was to refine a cool, detached persona that she hoped others saw as enigmatic and intelligent. The truth was, she was confused and often struggled to find a way forward, especially in cases like these. Everything she had learned in college flew out of the window when she was faced with someone like Delia Jones, the theory was there, she knew what she was supposed to achieve, but she just didn’t have the knack of engaging reluctant witnesses. She turned to Ratcliffe, who said, �Śtalk to Charlie Jones. First, we go to the hospital and visit Frances’. The first thing that Rachel saw when she woke was Charlie. He was sitting on a chair, feet up on the dressing table, watching TV with the sound off. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched him. The aftermath of a fit was always the same, severe exhaustion and a strange sensation of de-realisation. She couldn’t really remember much of what had happened, other than she had been in a café, and Charlie had walked in. Slowly she realised that she was back in her hotel room, in bed, stripped down to just her bra, pants and T-shirt. Charlie must have found her key, brought her back, and undressed her. The thought made her wince with shame. Her mouth felt sore, and she could taste the slight tang of blood, she must have bitten her cheek during the fit. �ŚFeeling better?’ Charlie asked. Rachel hadn’t realised he was looking at her. �ŚThirsty’ she croaked. Charlie pointed to a glass of water standing ready on the bedside table and watched as she took a long gulp. �ŚHow’s your mouth?’ It was raw causing Rachel to wince again. �ŚPainful,’ she said flopping back against the pillows, unable to make her mind grasp the surreal situation. She felt like a limp rag. �ŚWhy are you here?’ Charlie didn’t say anything. Instead, he took the glass and walked into the bathroom to refill it. It was a good question; he just didn’t know how to answer it. By the time he came back into the bedroom, Rachel had gathered herself together a little. �ŚThanks for helping me, but you didn’t need to stay.’ Still Charlie didn’t speak, just sat back in the chair looking at her, an inscrutable frown wrinkling his brow. Rachel was at a loss, feeling vulnerable and stupid. She had never been able to stand pointed silences and fought to fill the gap. �ŚHow are you?’ she asked, immediately feeling idiotic. Charlie gave a wry laugh and glanced heavenward before turning his gaze back to her and stating coolly, �Śold, tired, bitter. Some things don’t change Rachel.’ �ŚI’m sorry’ was all she could say, directing the apology towards the room. It would have been impossible to look him in the eye and say it. Charlie was silent for a moment. �ŚThat was a bad fit.’ Rachel watched as he stood then turned towards the window, staring out onto the street below, anything other than have to show his face to her even though the ice had been broken. �ŚIt’s not usually that bad, not these days. But you know how it is, stress related. What with everything that happened yesterday and then seeing you, well�Ś’ she trailed off. He had turned towards her and his jaw was twitching, the way it did when he was angry or tense or upset. It unnerved her. �ŚSo Roy got killed and stuffed in a box in the shed. What about the other one Rachel? Has your family found an even more effective way of disposing of their unwanted children? Rather than just abandon them without a word, kill them off and hide the bodies. Gruesome but efficient I must say,’ he hissed trough gritted teeth. Rachel had been bracing herself for this from the minute she saw him walk through the café door. She had spent nearly half her life avoiding this moment, because there was no way, no possible way that she could tell him the truth of why she’d left him. Fortunately, she was saved from making any kind of response by the sound of a single, loud rap on the door. Ratcliffe had drawn a blank with Frances. The bang on the head had turned out to be worse than expected and she was still in hospital, unconscious, while the doctors waited for the haematoma that was pressing on her brain to subside. They had no idea when she would come round, so Ratcliffe had decided to re-question Rachel in the meantime. His boss DCI Benton had conveniently extracted herself from the case leaving him to rake over the ashes of this bizarrely soulless case. No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren’t talking much. It seemed to him, there were so many hidden agendas going on and no one cared about the two bodies that had given him some really disturbing dreams the previous night. He had managed to speak to Frances’s husband, Peter Haines, a supercilious man in Ratcliffe’s opinion, who had been far more concerned with the fact that his good name would be brought into question by the case, than he had been about either his injured wife, or the fact that two bodies had turned up at her former home. Ratcliffe had instinctively disliked the man, and looked forward to dragging him into the station to make his statement in due course. In the meantime, some gaps needed filling in. He hadn’t bargained that Rachel would have company in her hotel room, so he was completely wrong footed when a man opened the door. So much so that it took him, a moment or two to realise that Rachel’s visitor was none other than Charlie Jones. �ŚWell well well’ he said pulling out his warrant card and pushing it under Charlie’s nose, as if Charlie didn’t know already exactly who he was, �Śnot often we get to kill two birds with one stone.’ The fact that Rachel Porter was sitting up in bed half dressed and Jones was looking decidedly shifty, told him that whatever had been happening in that room wasn’t something that they would want to share. For some strange reason, the sight of her like that, disheveled, half-naked, irked him more than it should. �ŚI don’t believe in coincidences Mr. Jones, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?’ Charlie patiently explained that he had bumped into Rachel that morning, that she had had another fit and that he had helped her get back to the hotel, it was as simple as that. Ratcliffe wasn’t buying it. He glanced once more at Rachel, sitting up in bed her eyes wide, like she was auditioning for the part of something cute and innocent, like Bambi. �ŚReally? As simple as that? I didn’t have you down as the good Samaritan type Mr. Jones,’ he said eying the room, his gaze settling once again on the woman in the bed. The fact that Rachel’s mouth was swollen bothered him, but he wasn’t there to talk about that. �ŚWe’ve been to see your sister Rachel. She’s not well, not at all.’ If Ratcliffe had expected a torrent of concern to flow from Rachel’s mouth he would have been disappointed. Rachel’s reaction was to ask what was wrong, nod her head, and then reassure him that Frances would no doubt survive the ordeal. �ŚFrances is tough’. Rachel said sagely. What was it with these people? Ratcliffe sat on the edge of the bed, forcing Rachel to edge away from him, the covers pulled up to her chin. Anyone else would have asked him to wait while they got dressed, wouldn’t they? �ŚTell me about Stella. What’s she like?’ Rachel pondered this for a moment; it was difficult to think of a succinct way of describing Stella, because she wasn’t always what she seemed to be. �ŚStella is quiet, nondescript, and timid really. She cared for our mother after her stroke, which wasn’t an easy task. The fact that she’s gone surprises me, she loved The Limes. I didn’t think she would ever leave. I don’t know what to tell you really, she might have changed. I’m not sure I would know her at all anymore.’ �ŚHave you managed to remember anything about where she might have gone, friends or relatives she may have decided to visit?’ Ratcliffe asked. Rachel shook her head. �ŚThere are no relatives, and no friends. Stella is a shy person so she never had friends. Our mother didn’t encourage it.’ �ŚWhat about the shop, didn’t Stella work in the family business? Might she have met people there?’ �ŚI really don’t know, I think the shop closed when our mother got ill, I haven’t seen them for so long, I really don’t know. I’m sorry but I really can’t help.’ He turned to Charlie, �Śwhat about you Mr. Jones, you knew her, where do you think she might have gone?’ Charlie shrugged, �Śdon’t ask me, I haven’t set eyes on her for thirty years.’ It was true, the last time he’d clapped eyes on Stella Baxter was the day she had given evidence against him in court. Ratcliffe sighed, why the hell did none of these people know anything? �ŚRachel do you have a photograph of her?’ Rachel laughed as if surprised by the request, �Śno. We didn’t do photos, unless Frances has one, there are pictures of her wedding I think.’ Ratcliffe nodded. �ŚOK, now can you tell us anything about the body that you found yesterday, the child?’ It was the first time that Rachel had shown any real emotion in front of him. Her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she shook her head. �ŚI don’t know, I really don’t. I didn’t even know that there was a cupboard there until yesterday. Oh my god, I can’t believe that someone would do that to a baby!’ she said, her voice trembling. Ratcliffe noticed Charlie’s body stiffen at Rachel’s words. �ŚPeople are capable of some terrible things.’ he said, looking straight at Charlie. Charlie simply looked away. As he drove back to the station, Ratcliffe figured that there was no alternative but to get a picture of Stella in the press as soon as possible. Someone, somewhere, would have seen her recently, all they had to do was pick her up, and the case was solved as far as he was concerned. Strangely, it still bugged him that Charlie had been in Rachel’s room. Something was going on between those two, the air had been fairly crackling with tension when he had walked in and Ratcliffe would have preferred to believe that his curiosity was solely connected to the case, but he had the discomforting feeling that it wasn’t. Thoughts of Rachel Porter needled him. Not just in his role as a police officer, but as a man. There was more to that situation than met the eye, and he was going to find out what it was, even if it did mean DS Watson staying up all night to find out. Back in the incident room, he picked up a message to call Ferris. News was in on the bodies. All he wanted was a decent cuppa, not a visit to the morgue. Why couldn’t these forensic people just send a report? He never had understood the necessity of having to be shown the gruesome evidence. What was he supposed to do with the image, chat about it to his wife over dinner? Although, it might make an interesting change to Maria Ratcliffe’s usual diatribe. Ferris had completed a basic exam on both victims. Her initial conclusions were that Baxter, whose identity she had confirmed by discovering his wallet still intact inside his rotting clothes, had been alive when he was placed in the trunk. She showed the detective the feeble scratch marks that scarred the underside of the lid. �ŚI don’t think he was alive for long, and I don’t think he had much strength left when he made these marks. There is some considerable damage to the skull; I suspect that he was hit repeatedly with something heavy and hard. He would have died from a combination of those injuries and suffocation. There was a substantial amount of sand in his throat. Now that he is out of the sand, and out of an airtight box, he’s going to deteriorate rapidly so I needed to find out as much as I could as soon as I could. I also found something in his hand, an earring,’ she held up a bag containing a small gold earring, shaped like a teardrop. �ŚMy guess is that it belongs to whoever killed him.’ Ratcliffe took the bag and examined the earring. It wasn’t an uncommon design, nothing special at all. Still if someone could identify it as belonging to Stella, it might strengthen the case. �ŚWhat about the baby, anything there?’ Ferris sighed, hardened as she was to the nature of her job, kids were always depressing to have to deal with. �ŚI think he was dead before he was put in the box, it looks like he was stillborn. To be honest it’s difficult to tell. From the skeleton, the size of the skull and the length of the long bones, it looks like he had congenital problems. We did manage to salvage this though,’ she passed him another bag, containing several thin strips of material. �ŚIt was what he was dressed in.’ Through the clear plastic, he could see a name, embroidered on the fabric. �ŚDaniel’ he said aloud, �Śat least the poor little thing had a name.’ Ferris couldn’t afford to get too sentimental about such things. �ŚAnyway, I still have tests to do, and should be getting more results in soon. I’ll let you know as soon as anything comes in.’ Ratcliffe was relieved to be outside again breathing air that didn’t have a rancid aftertaste of decay. No matter how scrupulously clean Ferris’s staff tried to be in there, the whole place still stunk of death as far as he was concerned. He was puzzled by the assertion that Baxter had been alive when he had been stashed in the trunk, from what they did know about Stella, she was a tiny little thing. Baxter had been six foot tall. How had such a small woman managed to manhandle someone that size into a great big trunk? His only conclusion was that she must have had help, which meant that someone else had known that the body was there. His money was on the mother, the dead and therefore perpetually silent Valerie. They had to find Stella, which meant he had a very good excuse to pay Peter Haines a visit. CHAPTER FIVE In Rachel’s room, the atmosphere was thick with negativity. Waves of tension seemed to emanate from Charlie’s taut expression, washing over Rachel and forcing an uneasy silence. The policeman had only just left, but his questions glowed neon bright in Charlie’s mind as if displayed on an imaginary autocue. �śHow well did you know Stella?”, �śwhat kind of person is she?”, �śdid she ever discuss her relationship with her husband?” Stella’s evidence against him in his trial for Patsy’s murder had ensured his conviction. He had spent ten years in prison because of Stella, the woman who had sworn on the bible to tell the truth. Yes, she had walked into the hallway that day and had been open mouthed with horror to see him kneeling next to Patsy’s body. However, she had only seen what she wanted to see, she had assumed that because he held a knife in his hand, that he was responsible. In his mind’s eye, he could see the wounds even now, great, savage rents spewing out torrents of blood. If he closed his eyes, it was still there, red pools of it, blossoming on the tiles like overblown poppies. Blood soaking into his clothes, clinging to the knife. The acrid, metallic tang of it still haunted his nose. Only one person had witnessed what actually happened. A ten-year-old kid who had epilepsy. A child who couldn’t be believed, who according to her mother, was a fantasist and a drama queen. Moreover, Valerie had despised Charlie for years. Valerie had described Rachel as a problem child to the police, a problem child with an inappropriate crush on an older man. Valerie had blamed herself of course, telling them that it was her fault that Rachel followed Charlie around like a lap dog, she hadn’t realised it was a problem, until Rachel was prepared to bend the truth for him. To think that it had gone so far that her child was prepared to lie for him, Valerie had found untenable, an indictment on her own poor parenting. The police had reassured her, Charlie was a devious and charming man, and no doubt, he had coerced Rachel into falsely defending him. All Rachel had told them was that Charlie had pulled the knife out, not stuck it in and that he had found Patsy there, in the hall, after she had been stabbed. The Police had said that she would, wouldn’t she? The child was clearly terrified of Charlie Jones, so of course she would lie. They had shaken their heads at her with a mixture of pity and disdain. Perhaps, that was where it all really began for Charlie. That single moment when he had realised that the only person in the world who truly trusted him had been Rachel, a geeky ten-year-old kid. The adult Rachel watched him warily; a muscle in his jaw was tensing. A bad sign that meant he was in a place where no one else was invited. It was difficult for her to remember a time when she hadn’t felt some form of love for him. An image of Charlie’s smile was one of her oldest memories. Charlie had never brushed her off, never told her to go away, never told her to be quiet and stop pestering. Back then, he was like a big brother, fourteen years her senior and awe inspiringly estimable in her eyes. When Delia was working in the house, Charlie could often be found in the garden, hacking at the undergrowth in a vain attempt to abate its creeping bid for dominance. Then in later years, when he had begun working for Roy, and had started to bring the lascivious Patsy with him to The Limes, he had always, without fail spared time to say something nice to her. What a pitiful little kid she must have been, grateful for such meagre crumbs. Frances had been the one with the real crush, but Charlie either hadn’t seen the looks she gave him, or hadn’t noticed the efforts she made. Frances had even tried to emulate Patsy, by plastering on makeup and cutting off her skirts, until Valerie had slapped her face and called her a slut. She had backed off then, and had treated Charlie with condescending contempt ever since. His conviction, for the murder he didn’t commit, had made her day. Rachel knew he wasn’t responsible. She had been the first one into the hall that day, having raced away from Stella, up the drive and into the house, panting for breath, cheeks like rosy apples from the chill winter air. The hall had been strangely silent as if time was holding its breath as she had hung her scarf and coat on the hallstand. Only when she turned towards the kitchen, had her mouth sagged open and her feet turned to lead. Patsy was lying on the floor, a crumpled, bloody heap. A blood streaked bubble popping on her lipstick slick mouth as she died. Rachel had been transfixed, even when Charlie had strolled into the hall from the kitchen, immediately issuing a guttural, almost primeval cry at the sight of his broken wife. He had thrown himself down onto the floor next to Patsy, instinctively pulling the knife from her chest, staring inanely while a pool of blood crept silently, still warm, towards his knees. Rachel couldn’t remember how many minutes the old grandfather clock had marked before Stella walked through the door and something other than death had begun to happen, it had felt like an aeon. Charlie maintained that he had walked in to the back of the house having come from the park, using the small gate that gave the residents of The Limes private access. However, there were no witnesses. The prosecution postulated that Charlie could have been in the house for any amount of time, no one else was in, so no one could corroborate his story. No one except Rachel, but her evidence was inadmissible and at best purely circumstantial. Ten-year-old children were not reliable witnesses. However, Rachel knew Charlie hadn’t stabbed Patsy, she had heard him cry, it echoed in her memory like the sound of nails being dragged slowly down a blackboard. However, most of all it was the recollection of the hollow devastation in his eyes that assured her of his innocence. If she told him now, told him the true reason she had walked away from him and Amy, she would see that look again. Not just the shadow of it that reflected back at her when he looked at her face and sought out the truth in her eyes, but a full-blown re-creation of the moment his world had fallen apart. In Rachel’s memory Patsy had been a magical creature, the only person that she ever remembered in colour. On the rare occasions, she ever allowed herself to look back at her childhood, everyone else either appeared in black and white, or materialised as a faded, jaded representation of their younger selves. The seventies had been like that, dull, and leached of colour. However, Patsy, she had been vibrant and alive, like a bird of paradise among a flock of less luminous creatures. When she was in a room, she had the effect of magnifying everyone else’s idiosyncrasies. Stella became smaller and dowdier in her presence; Valerie became pinched and bitter, even more like an indignant bird of prey than was usual. Frances’s arrogance rose even higher than normal and Roy puffed himself up like the peacock he was. Rachel just became more insignificant in Patsy’s presence, the spare in a cuckoo’s nest. Only Charlie didn’t change. Charlie never changed. Charlie wasn’t thinking about Patsy anymore, or Stella, he was thinking about Rachel. �ŚSo come on then tell me why you really left? Now we’re here and its confession time, you can tell me everything. You owe me that at least.’ However, Rachel’s thoughts were still consumed with the memory of Patsy, lying on the hall floor like road kill. She tried to speak, but the prickling had started in her head again making her brain feel like an over shaken coke. When the seizure had abated, and Rachel lay once again in a deep sleep, Charlie rifled through her bag, found her medication and saw that the days dose had been taken, then he looked in her purse and found a card with the name and contact number of her neurologist, and made the call. Jeffrey Parnell, consultant neurologist, Rachel’ doctor for the past nineteen years, was deeply concerned that Rachel’s epilepsy had intensified so dramatically. He needed to see her, soon. Could Charlie bring her back to London as soon as possible? It seemed that Charlie didn’t have a choice; there wasn’t anyone else who could take her. By the time Rachel woke up, groggy and hung over from the overactive neurotransmissions that seemed determined to destabilize her brain, Charlie had packed her bag, paid her bill and he was waiting, keys in hand, to drive her back to London. She couldn’t have been more relieved if she’d tried, even if she did have to go with him. The drive to London was silent and strained. Charlie wasn’t saying much and Rachel spent the journey with her head resting against the window watching the overhead lights blur and streak across the evening sky as they sped past. Charlie thought she was resting, and figured it was better just to keep his thoughts to himself. He didn’t want to trigger off another fit, not in the van. He had debated phoning Delia, to tell her he wasn’t going to be around that night, but two things stopped him. If Delia knew he was with Rachel, she would probably blow a gasket and the last thing he wanted to have to deal with was his mother having a stroke. Besides, at fifty-two years of age it was hardly necessary to call his mother and check in. The second was Amy. He glanced at Rachel, and tried to work out what on earth had induced him to get involved again. Any other man would have just walked away, given her a piece of his mind and disappeared, but not him. What kind of mug was he? He must be some kind of masochist, going back for more. She was the woman who had just about broken him, but she was also the woman who had given him the most precious thing he had. Amy. Grown up and looking far too much like Rachel than was good for his mental health, and still thinking that her mother was dead, because that’s what he’d found easiest to let her believe. Not that anyone had ever stated it as a fact; it had been something she had assumed. There was a vague memory of her asking Delia about it. Amy would have been about five, just started school and she had asked outright if her mummy was dead. Some snot nosed kid in her class had said that if she didn’t have a mum it must be because her mum had died. Delia had heard these innocent words and had looked at him, raising her eyebrows as if that unknown kid had presented them with the perfect solution. Then she had soberly lied and told Amy that, yes, her mummy was dead. Charlie had never had the guts to disabuse her of the notion, his mother had been right; it had been an easy solution at the time. He knew for a fact that over the years Amy had excused his lack of meaningful relationships, his need for solitude and his moody silences as chronic grief. That was Amy; she could always take something dark and weave it into a bright shiny ideal just by deciding it was the way things should be. Charlie wished he found it so easy to put such a spin on life. The romantic fantasy that Amy had manifested had satisfied her enough that she hadn’t pressed Charlie for details about Rachel; she didn’t want to cause him pain. If only she knew, was his wry thought. Charlie had never been able to bring himself to shatter Amy’s illusion’s, a decision, which he was only just beginning to realise, had been a big, big mistake. There had been other women over the years, he wasn’t a monk! He had never taken any of them home, didn’t want Amy to meet them, and didn’t want them involved with her. So all he had managed was to establish a number of brief liaisons that had fizzled out quicker than a damp match would. He could honestly say that, overall it didn’t bother him. It wasn’t as if his track record with women would stand up to scrutiny. Something of the kiss of death followed him where partners were concerned. Not that Rachel was dead, far from it, though there had been times over the years that he wished she were. How much simpler it would have been to just grieve her loss in the same way he had grieved for Patsy, but from behind the bars of a different kind of prison. Then again, his relationship with Patsy had been much simpler. She had been another one, a woman that didn’t really want him as he was, but at least Patsy hadn’t wanted to save him from himself like most women. Why did they always want to save him, when the only thing he had ever needed saving from had been them? Rachel was the only one who had ever been happy with him just the way he was, or so he had thought, and that was why hers had been the biggest betrayal of them all. He almost laughed. Any chance that anyone had of saving him was so far in the past you’d need the TARDIS to get to it. Perhaps what those women had always said would prove to be true after all. He would die a lonely old man. If Amy ever found out about Rachel, he was certain of it. Rachel pretended to sleep, trying desperately to relax so that she would look more convincing. Anything to avoid having to talk to him. All she wanted to do was to get back to the flat, Lila’s flat. Then she could shut the past out again and go back to the half-life where she had hidden safely for years. An impossible feat now that the biggest part of her past was sitting right next to her, about to invade the only sanctuary she had. What would he make of her existence? Maybe he would be shocked to see the way she lived, as a wistful ghost haunting another woman’s life. Nothing in the flat had been changed since the day Lila had died. Not a thing. Even the dust just seemed to re-circulate and settle back, exactly where it has come from. Lila’s clothes still hung in the wardrobe, her perfume still sat on the dressing table, her rings were still on the mantelpiece, all as if she had just stepped out of the room. The furniture was exactly as Lila had placed it, still hiding the bald spots on the rugs and covering the stains. Rachel had preserved it all. Like a cleaner, more sanitary Miss Havisham, she had conserved Lila’s existence in an eternal tableau of old comfort. There was no bitterness in her desire to maintain Lila’s home intact, just a need to hang onto something old, familiar, and warm. Lila’s flat was a home in the way that The Limes never could be. Lila had been happy in her home and Rachel relentlessly tried to preserve that happiness, constantly hoping that the essence of it would magically transfer itself to her, like a blanket of peace. The flat was her bolt hole, her sanity. To someone else, to Charlie for instance, it would look precisely the opposite. Hard evidence of her instability. Proof of her inability to cope with real life. Would anybody else understand that if you could force time to stand still and preserve a perfect moment of tranquillity that you could step in and out of that place at will? Lila (or strictly speaking Lilian) Porter had been the polar opposite of her brother. Where William had been dull, she had been a bright beacon of life. Where he had been mean spirited, she was generous to a fault. Where William resented, Lila embraced. In Lila’s company, everyone felt alive. Even Valerie had grudgingly liked her, until Lila had died and had left all her worldly goods to Rachel. After that Valerie hadn’t liked anyone much. Frances had needled Rachel to sell the flat, it was London real estate, worth a small fortune, which would be life changing in the right hands. However, Rachel had measured her wealth differently and had hung on to the flat even though her decision had been one of the issues that had permanently damaged the family ties. The other issue she still couldn’t and wouldn’t, talk about. Delia tried Charlie’s mobile number and listened to the dull uninspiring voice on the message service for the umpteenth time. There was no point in leaving yet another message; he clearly hadn’t picked up the last three. Why the bloody hell did people bother having mobile phones if they were always going to leave the bloody things switched off! In frustration, she slammed her own phone hard on the table, dislodging the battery cover in the process and sending it, skipping over the tabletop and onto the floor. �ŚSod it!’ she hissed, bending stiffly to retrieve it, fiddling with it to reattach it to the body of the phone. A horrible feeling was hatching in her belly, an instinct that something was wrong. Charlie was incommunicado and Rachel was back on the scene, adding two and two together was coming up with nothing other than four, no matter how she tried to make it five. If she was right, and he was with Rachel, they might well have another dead body on their hands by the time she caught up with him. She was too old for all this! By the time Ratcliffe reached the hospital, Frances had lost consciousness again. According to her doctor she hadn’t said anything of note during the short time that she had been lucid and their only conversation had been with Peter Haines, Frances’s rather urbane yet supercilious husband, whose main concern had been that his good name was being linked with something as tawdry as murder. He was adamant that he didn’t know where Stella had gone, but had reluctantly agreed to supply a photo of her, though he couldn’t guarantee a recent one. He had only conceded to that request, because Ratcliffe told him that his wife’s purge of The Limes had been so meticulous that they had failed to turn up even the remotest clue as to Stella’s whereabouts, or her intentions. Even with a photograph and the help of the press, they were clutching at straws. If a person wanted to disappear, it wasn’t particularly difficult to make a thorough job of it. Thwarted by Frances’ insentient state, Ratcliffe called it a day. However, as he headed home something preyed on his mind, nudging at his consciousness in the same way that a slowly dripping tap eroded sleep. Visions of Rachel kept floating across his field of thought, superimposed on the memory of Delia’s overstuffed living room. God knows why. By three o’clock in the morning, he had it, a connection. The photograph on Delia’s mantelpiece was the spitting image of Rachel, and for some reason he couldn’t fathom, it really bugged him. Surprisingly there was a parking space outside the flat, instinctively Charlie reversed in and switched of the engine, only afterwards thinking that he should just drop her and drive away. Just the same as all those times, long ago, he had stood on this very pavement, looking up at her windows his courage failing him and forcing him to leave things well alone. �ŚAre you going to come in?’ she asked fervently hoping that he wouldn’t. He didn’t even bother to reply, just got out of the van and followed her up the steps into the building. Inside the flat he stayed silent, as the stale essence of Lila wrapped itself around him like a ghost; assaulting his senses and pulling him forcibly back in time. In resistance he thought of Amy, how she would love this place, see it as a giant dressing up box where she could pretend she was someone else entirely. She had always told him that her fantasy would be to travel back in time. It seemed that her mother had achieved it. Rachel hovered in the kitchen doorway, clearly reluctant to allow him further into her domain. �ŚI can do coffee if you don’t mind it black.’ Charlie glanced around, glimpsing her existence, finding it wanting. �ŚOK’. He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table under the window, keeping her in his line of sight, but maintaining a safe distance from her, while he watched her fumble with the kettle. �ŚSo, what do you do with yourself then, are you working?’ She poured water in the cups and shook her head. �ŚNo.’ �ŚWhat then?’ He demanded as she put them into saucers, and put them all on a tray, just to bring them the few yards to the table. Just like her mother would have done, anything to keep up appearances. She put the tray down, immediately silencing the rattling china that had been so effectively serenading her anxiety. �ŚI read a lot, walk, and watch the world go by. Time passes, I don’t notice it much.’ He picked up a cup, its dainty fragility incongruous in his calloused hand. It almost made him smile. �ŚI half expected to find Stella here.’ Rachel hovered, reluctant to pick up her own cup in case it started jangling in its saucer again. She gave a wry smile and shook her head, �Śshe wouldn’t come here, because Lila scared her. Too much life for Stella.’ That a woman long dead, yet still so tangibly present, had the ability to dismay the living in such an assiduous way scared him a little too. �ŚYou know that Amy thinks you’re dead? She thinks that our relationship is sad and romantic and that I’m tortured by unrequited love and grief.’ He laughed, the sound of it full of scorn. �ŚI’ve never had the heart to put her straight.’ The acid in his tone caused her to dig her fingernails into her palms. �ŚI suppose it’s better for her to think that she was left by someone who didn’t choose to go.’ She said quietly, hating herself for the lie. Charlie couldn’t help it. The bitterness of what Rachel had done had been burning a hole in his gut for years. �ŚBetter than knowing that your own mother dumped you without a word? Yeah, I’d say so. Anything would be better than that.’ Lila’s kitchen clock ticked, marking the moments that his words hung in the air, �ŚBetter than knowing why.’ She said finally. He gripped the cup, almost crushing it in an effort not to hurl it at the wall and watch the jagged shards flail her as they fell. �ŚWhat about me? I’m not a little girl who needs to be protected from life’s shit Rachel.’ He yelled watching her wince at the violence of it and not caring �Śdon’t you think I deserve to know why?’ Every nerve in her body was screaming, she felt sick, she was sick. Vile, disgusting and sick. An aberration. Couldn’t he see that for himself? �ŚI didn’t love you, I didn’t want her. I made a mistake.’ Even though she closed her eyes when she said it, she could sense that her words had sliced him like a razor, sharp and sure, the extent of the damage delayed by the swiftness of the cut. He stood, moved towards her slowly, every step an exercise in measured control. He felt drunk, surreal, and incapable of coherent thought. CHAPTER SIX Peter Haines stared down at the impassive, unconscious form of his wife and wondered if he loved her. Wondered if anyone could truly love a woman like Frances? She was admirable in many ways, cultured, elegant, and formidable. Qualities quite desirable in a partner, but traits, which could hardly be termed as lovable and cosy. This was the first time he had ever observed her in a state of relaxation, she looked different, not soft, just less determined than normal. It was a strange experience to see a woman you had shared a bed with, shared a life with, suddenly being transformed into a stranger because of a bump on the head. Quite disturbing really. He had always been proud of having her as his wife. She represented him well, even though she could be a little strenuous in her opinions at times, even though her proprietary efficiency was a little forced. She was a good wife, a faithful wife, but passionless. Her emotions ran cold and had set like stone, only ever emerging as grit toothed, hard sound bites, and only then when absolutely necessary. Children might have helped. However, they had never come along, and if he were honest, he wouldn’t have known what to do if they had. He wasn’t a man able to tolerate mess and chaos, so maybe it had been for the best. He had no memory of being a child, couldn’t relate to what it was like at all. Even in his mother’s house, proudly populated with pictures of decreasingly younger versions of himself, he couldn’t make the connection, just felt slightly embarrassed by the tight-lipped, two-dimensional boy that he saw staring back at him from the photographs. Sometimes he was sure that he’d been born old. Despite all that, the one thing he had never, ever anticipated was the prospect of being associated with scandal. Part of the reason that he had chosen Frances for a wife was because her background was good, her family were a little odd, but of good pedigree as he had been led to believe. Never would he have contemplated that they could be capable of the level of depravity that was splashed all over the newspapers. It had been a shock. In some respects, his other recent discovery had been a greater shock. When Valerie had died both he and Frances had been relieved, not only were they free of an unlikeable burden, they stood to inherit a share of The Limes. Initially he had held out hope that Valerie had made a will, cutting out at least Rachel, and favouring Frances above Stella. Typically, she had not. The process of probate would be lengthy but at least straightforward, he’d assumed. He’d been wrong, a complication had emerged already. Not only had Valerie not left a will, neither had William, and to top that, there was no evidence that William was actually dead. When he had heard from the solicitor that no death certificate was in evidence, he had been incredulous, until he had discovered that there was no grave either. No funeral had taken place, no notice had been in the papers, and it seemed that William had simply disappeared. The only will that had ever existed that decreed ownership of the house was that made by Venetia, which meant that William still owned the property. It was a nightmare situation, and one that was costing him eighty-five pounds an hour every time their solicitor even thought about resolving it. If just one of the bodies had been William it would have been far more simple, distasteful, but simple. Now that he thought about it, the whole thing had been a sham. In selecting him as a husband Frances had achieved respectability, had managed to disguise herself and her family so that they couldn’t be recognised for what they were. He’d been duped, all his assumptions were wrong. Stella, the single most ineffectual example of the human condition in his opinion, had been someone to be pitied. Valerie, her pride in Frances had been nothing but guise and guile, all designed to ensnare him and link him to a family of felons and sycophants! He couldn’t even bear to look at Frances anymore, lying there peaceful and oblivious, with nothing worse than a head wound when his whole life had been torn apart by her lies. In disgust he took the flowers he had bought for her, a beautifully arranged hand tied bouquet, and rammed them into the waste bin. He was a decent man, a good man, honourable and upright, and he wasn’t equipped for this. Resource-less and angry he stalked from the ward. Amy was well and truly pissed off. Sent home from her placement early, she had caught a train home, desperately trying to phone her dad for the duration of the journey so that he could pick her up from the station. Only he wasn’t answering his phone, and now she would have to catch a bus. She hated buses, especially late buses. They were full of drunks and sodcasting kids and people with hygiene problems. All her life Charlie had been there. She had never come home to an empty house, had never been turned down when she had asked for a lift, had never opened the fridge and found it bereft of food. Dad was always there, always had been, and now he wasn’t and she was more annoyed with him than she wanted to admit. Besides, it was his fault she was here at all, standing on a freezing bus stop next to a person who obviously failed to see the relevance of the �Śi’ in i pod. Where the fuck was he? They needed to talk, about what was in the papers. She had been in the office writing up patient notes before handover, when the other student, that supercilious prat Nick Gribble, had slapped the paper down on the desk. Everyone had looked up, as he’d said, �Śnever told us your dad was a criminal Amy.’ Mortification hadn’t been the word for it, so she’d told him to fuck off and had got a bollocking from her supervisor and told to go home. Somehow the prospect of bouncing of the walls in the nurses home hadn’t appealed, so she’d come home, and no one was here for her. What made her really angry was the fact that if something that really mattered to people had happened that day, like a bank had gone out of business and money was at stake, the stupid papers wouldn’t have even thought about raking something up that had happened over thirty years ago. There was a photograph of him, her dad, taking up half the page, and all because the woman who’d gone missing, the one who’d killed her husband and baby, had been a witness at his trial. Didn’t put a photograph of Stella Baxter in there did they? Don’t suppose her kids had her past rubbed in their faces! How fair was that? Neither he nor Gran had ever talked about why he’d been in prison. She’d always known he had been, ever since her second day at school when Lee Price, a particularly noxious kid who always had dried snot on his jumper sleeve, had said, �ŚMy mum said your dad is a murderer. He chopped your mum into little pieces.’ She’d stared at him in disbelief, trying to equate what he had said with her dad, her big, strong lovely dad. �ŚAt least I’ve got a hanky! I don’t wipe bogeys on my clothes’, she’d cried. She still felt stupid when she thought about it. Gran had picked her up, and had been shocked to see a bandage on her hand. Lee Price had stabbed her with a pencil over the snot jibe. It had all come out in a tearful torrent, and Gran had told her that it was true that her dad had gone to prison, but that it wasn’t true that he’d killed anyone. His first wife had been killed, but not by him. She had taken this on her five-year-old chin, because it was gospel if Gran said so. She had never since questioned his innocence, even though she had been haunted by the thought that he did seem to have a habit of marrying people who suffered untimely deaths. After that, Gran wouldn’t discuss it, and she had been warned on pain of death to ask her father about it. However, the story ate at her, the dead first wife became the antagonist in her nightmares and she’d had no choice but to find out what had happened. When she was thirteen, she’d gone to the library and had mastered the mysteries of the microfiche machine in order to read the reports of what her father was supposed to have done. It didn’t stand up in her mind, the words �śfrenzied attack” in the same sentence, as her father’s name was so incongruent she had laughed at it. In her mind she had packed it away in the same place as the death of her mother, and it was in the mental filing cabinet labelled �ŚRomantic Tragedies’, along with other things that were too difficult to think about often. As far as she was concerned, the fact that bodies had been found at The Limes proved that her dad was innocent beyond doubt, whoever had been killing people there, it hadn’t been him. Whoever it was had more than likely framed him. Simple. At least, that’s what she believed on good days. That’s what she would tell someone if they asked. On not so good days, when the world was full of dark impending shadows and seemed a sunless place, she felt very differently. Torn. Between what she wanted to believe and what her logical mind suggested to her. The belief that her father was incapable of being a frenzied murderer was absolute, but the suspicion that he might be capable of great passion, immense feeling and deep hurt was a worm that crawled in her brain often. Making her wish that she were someone else, somewhere else. All she could base her darker thoughts on were the facts that her father loved her with a devotion that bordered on obsession, and he still loved her mother. If Gran didn’t stay him, he would have locked Amy in her room forever where he could keep her safe. She wouldn’t just be wrapped in cotton wool; she would be incarcerated. Just in case. He didn’t, but she could tell he wanted to, and that only the voice of reason stopped him taking her to a desert island where she would be safe forever. She knew he still loved Rachel, because he never talked about her, and if anyone asked him his face would cloud with hurt so intensely that no one dared ask him again. If he had loved the first wife as much, would he have killed her rather than lose her to someone else? She knew for a fact that he would kill anyone who threatened her safety. He had said so often enough. Once, when she was seventeen, she had shared her worries with her best friend Kayleigh. Kayleigh had said that the only way to find out if he had killed the first wife was to ask her. They had hidden themselves in her Gran’s bedroom and made a Ouija board out of scrabble tiles and had invoked the spirit of Patsy. Gran’s room had seemed a good choice of venue, after all how scary could anything be if it was experienced on a bed of quilted pink satin surrounded by kitten ornaments whilst breathing in air that smelled only of Cyclax and Coty L’aimant. Bloody terrifying as it turned out, they had scared each other shitless. Kayleigh had led the proceedings, her mother owned a deck of Tarot cards and she was familiar with the ritual of such things having been witness to many a prediction of handsome strangers and sudden windfalls. Kayleigh had laid the letters out in a circle and had written �Śyes’ and �Śno’ on two pieces of paper, on a third she had written �ŚGoodbye.’ These she placed in the circle, and in the middle, she put a glass tumbler. They had debated the glass, it had a picture of Blackpool tower on it and didn’t seem a serious enough object to use in the circumstances, but it was all they had to hand and neither of them thought that any restless spirit would be too concerned about a bit of kitsch. Kayleigh had said that any spirit manifesting in Delia’s bedroom would have to be oblivious to tat, otherwise they wouldn’t bother coming at all. Amy had laughed with her, but had felt mildly offended all the same. They had both said the Lord’s Prayer, just in case, before putting each putting a tentative digit on the upturned glass. �ŚIs anybody there?’ Kayleigh had asked, sounding like Boris Karloff in a bad horror film. Amy had nearly fainted when the glass started to move, and had pulled her finger away accusing Kayleigh of pushing it, which she strenuously denied, sulkily saying �ŚIf you’re not going to take this seriously I’m going home.’ Amy had reassured her that she was deadly serious and they had tried again, watching incredulous, as the glass seemed to propel itself around the circle of letters. The first few words it spelled out were nonsense, not even real words. Only when Kayleigh asked for Patsy to communicate with them did anything significant happen. �ŚAre you Patsy?’ Kayleigh asked the air. Amy had shuddered as the glass moved towards the slip of paper bearing the word yes. �ŚWere you murdered?’ was the next question, again the glass moved to yes. Kayleigh had stared at her, eyes wide, �ŚWho murdered you?’ she said ominously. Amy had been barely able to breathe as the glass had moved round the circle in undecided moves, finally spelling out the words, �Śnot him.’ �ŚSee,’ Kayleigh had said, pleased with herself. Scared and unconvinced, Amy had asked the question again, but nothing happened, the glass just seemed to quiver under their fingers. �ŚDid my father kill you?’ she demanded, feeling desperate for a reiteration that it wasn’t him. The glass moved again, sweeping around the circle again and again in dramatic arcs, then stopping suddenly in front of the slip of paper, which said �Śgoodbye’. Unnerved by the experience they had scooped the letters back into their little bag and shoved it back in the Scrabble box. The notes that Kayleigh had written they screwed up and threw into the bin. Kayleigh was convinced that Amy had conclusive proof that Charlie was not a murderer. Amy wanted to believe it but wasn’t sure, her logical mind refused to allow her to accept that they had just communicated with a dead woman. But what else could it have been? �ŚWhat’s up, you scared?’ Kayleigh had asked. �ŚNo’ she’d lied. �ŚI was just wondering, if we could do it again, see if we can talk to my mum?’ They had agreed to try it again the next time they had the house to themselves, probably Tuesday when Delia would be out at bingo again. They had, but absolutely nothing had happened at all, the glass hadn’t even attempted to move. Kayleigh had explained that it was because Rachel’s spirit was at rest, she had passed peacefully and wasn’t earthbound like Patsy. Delia had put an end to any further forays into the paranormal, she had found the screwed up words in her bedroom bin and had instantly worked out what they had been up to. Her attitude towards dabbling with the unknown had been expressed with enough fear and anger to dissuade Amy from trying it again for a very long time, especially when she had insisted that she couldn’t sleep soundly in that room afterwards. Amy would never tell her whose spirit they had been trying to talk to, and suspected that her Gran’s insistence that the bedroom was tainted by their activities was just an excuse to get Charlie to redecorate the other, larger room and move her things in there. Delia had even gone so far as to burn the Scrabble game, just in case it was tainted too. She hadn’t kept in touch with Kayleigh, not since they had left school and gone their separate ways. She missed her, there was no one else she could be as open with, or who knew so many of her secrets. However, given her experience with Nick Gribble, maybe that was a good thing. The bus finally arrived and she climbed aboard behind the iPod idiot and found a seat at the back. She tried her dad’s number again, just to let him know she was on her way home. He still didn’t have it switched on. She felt irrationally annoyed that he wasn’t available to her when she needed him. At least now, because of the things she was learning about psychology in college, she could identify that her reaction was that of her inner child who felt abandoned. Consciously she tried to rationalise her feelings by persuading herself that her father was a grown man who was entitled to an independent life. Perhaps he was with a woman, was out on a date? She pushed that thought away, it hooked her inner child badly and she couldn’t be bothered to analyse it. When she finally reached home, she found the house quiet, dark and empty and it made her shiver. Her first task was to turn on all the downstairs lights, switch on the TV and crank up the heating. Only then could she stop looking over her shoulder every few seconds to check if she really was alone. She had half expected to find a note from her father explaining where he was, but he hadn’t been expecting her home until the weekend, so it was an irrational desire on her part, yet she was disappointed. �ŚYou are not the centre of the universe’ she said, speaking out loud as if the sound of the words would have a greater chance of admonishing her selfishness than if she’d merely thought them. For one lonely moment she thought about ringing Gran, but would have to explain that she’d been sent home in disgrace, and why. It wasn’t worth the hassle. Instead, she wandered out into the kitchen and began to mooch in the cupboards in search of something easy to eat. She found a pot noodle lurking in the back of the cupboard, but rejected it on grounds that appealing as it was in principle, it would taste of reconstituted cardboard. They always did, even after a couple of pints when most bad food seemed to take on an edibility which when eaten sober it wouldn’t have remotely possessed. Eventually she settled for a microwave pizza. She picked at it, nibbling at bits of the topping as she watched TV mindlessly, trying to decide whether to have a bath, or ring round to see if anyone was out and wanted company. In the end, she decided to work on an essay, a case study on one of the patients at Tynings, the unit where she had her placement. Bill had been the wrong patient to choose in a way, she couldn’t examine his past, as nobody knew about it. He had been a street drinker until the police sectioned him and he was admitted to the unit. Then he had been diagnosed with Werner Korsakoff syndrome, an alcohol induced dementia. Because it was a rare diagnosis it he had seemed like an interesting case to study, now that she had to produce fifteen thousand words on the man, it seemed to be the worst choice ever. It wasn’t even as if he was a pleasant character, he was dirty and he gave her the creeps. But it was too late to change now, the essay was due in a week and she would just have to make the best of it. The doorbell rang, jolting her out of her reverie with the subtlety of a brick. �ŚSorry to bother you love, but does Charlie Jones live here?’ �ŚYes’ Amy said, �Śbut he’s not in at the moment, I can get him to ring you when he gets back.’ She said politely. If your dad was a builder it wasn’t unusual to have complete strangers banging on the door because they’d locked themselves out and wanted to borrow a ladder, or they had a leak, or a blockage or something. �ŚOh no, don’t worry, I only wanted to drop this off to him, only I thought it might be important.’ She reached into her pocket and handed a broken SOS bracelet to Amy. �ŚI think your mum must have dropped it when she had that fit in the cafe today, poor woman, I hope she’s feeling better now. I didn’t find it until after they’d gone or I would have given it to her then, but I remembered seeing your dads van parked on the drive so I thought I would drop it off on my way home. It’s lucky really, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with it if I hadn’t recognised your dad, and he did a lovely job on my sister’s extension. Anyway, I must be off, hope your mum is better love.’ She said as she waddled off down the drive. �ŚThanks.’ Amy said. The word was so quiet it wafted into the night unheard. She shut the door and stared at the bracelet, puzzled, her mind trying to make sense of the woman’s words. Perhaps she had the wrong Charlie Jones. But she couldn’t have, she’d said she recognised him. It dawned on her that maybe he did have a girlfriend, one he hadn’t told her about, one who had a habit of having fits in public places. Perhaps that was where he was now, in hospital with this sick woman, whoever she was. She pried open the bracelet to get a look at this woman’s name. If her dad had met someone, she had a right at least to know her name. She had to look twice at the tiny piece of paper to establish that what her eyes were telling her brain was correct. The name inside the identity bracelet was Rachel Porter. But it couldn’t be, that was the name of her mother, and her mother was dead. Her mother had died after having her, Gran had told her. This couldn’t be right. The truth didn’t dawn; it hit her full pelt, like a punch, leaving her reeling from the impact. She felt sick. She threw the bracelet across the hall as if it was a toxic thing, a physical lie. She stared at it, half expecting it to dematerialise in front of her, but it lay on the bottom stair, tauntingly real. The address had said London, Bayswater. She shook her head and went back into the lounge, she would prove this wrong, prove that stupid woman wrong. At most, this would be a coincidence. They wouldn’t have lied to her about this. It wasn’t possible. She had discovered that the internet was a wonderful thing a long time ago, you could find out pretty much anything if you knew where to look, and 192.com was a good place to start. All you needed was a name, and a vague idea of location, then you could find out someone’s phone number, address and even whether they were registered to vote. Rachel Porter had no phone, but she was on the electoral roll, she did exist. Amy still wasn’t quite convinced that this Rachel Porter was the same Rachel who had married her father and died in childbirth like the tragic heroine of her fantasies. It occurred to her that there would be a death certificate, a record of her mother’s demise, and she knew exactly where to look. Her dad had a trunk at the end of his bed where he kept his personal things, if evidence was anywhere it would be in there. Dispassionately she headed for the stairs fully prepared to break into the trunk. Most of what she found was old business accounts, copies of VAT returns and such like. Plus there were drawings and fathers day cards that she had made for him over the years, all wrapped in the shawl she had used as a baby. Before this she would have thought how sweet he was to cling on to such things, but at that moment in time she was so angry she wanted to tear everything to shreds. In the bottom of the trunk was tin box, locked. She had never picked a lock, wouldn’t have had a clue how to do it and didn’t fancy spending hours pissing about with a hairgrip and getting nowhere. Neither was she prepared to waste time looking for the key. Her father was a security conscious man, had spent too long in the company of felons not to be, so wherever the key might be, she would be unlikely to find it easily. Instead she ran down to the garage, taking the box with her and broke it open with a pickaxe, the contents exploding all over the concrete floor on the third blow. The box was ruined, she couldn’t have cared less, was only interested in the contents. Sure enough, she found her own birth certificate, and his and Rachel’s marriage certificate. No death certificate. Just a pile of letters addressed to HM Prison, Dartmoor. She opened just one, and realised that they were the letters her mother had sent to him in prison, she opened more, scanning the handwriting and seeing that some were from her Gran too. Only one envelope seemed to stand out from the others, it was stiff and large, the address typed and to this house, her home. It was from a London solicitor, from Rachel’s solicitor, warning Charlie not to contact or visit or they would have no alternative but to apply for an injunction against him. �śMy client has no wish for further contact with you”, she read. The letter was dated fifteen years ago, she had been five. Rachel had been alive and hadn’t wanted to see them, had gone so far as to threaten legal action if Charlie even tried. If her mood was angry before, this discovery only served to fuel the flames, she was incandescent! Rachel’s address was now etched into her mind; she would go there, confront the woman who had faked her own death. Amy wanted to know why, and she wanted to know now. It took only moments to look up train times and find that if she was quick she could be on a train in forty-five minutes, in London an hour and a half after that. She took the letters and stuffed them in her back pack, she also took her father’s secret stash of cash, five hundred pounds, rolled up and secured with an elastic band and kept hidden in a piece of spare waste pipe in the back of the sink unit cupboard. He thought she didn’t know about it, but she had watched him many a time unscrew the dummy pipe and store his money. He owed her at least this, so she wasn’t going to feel bad about it. As she headed across the sitting room towards the door, she looked towards the mantelpiece and saw the photograph of her father holding her, she had been about four and was sitting on his shoulders and they were both grinning at the camera. It was a mutual favourite picture and she couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been on display somewhere in the house. She was sick of it! It wasn’t real. None of it had been real. Not this house, not her dad, not this life. She picked up the picture and hurled it against the wall, wincing as the image shattered, littering the floor with tiny shards of glass. For good measure, she followed it with the cold pizza, watching in satisfaction as it slid slowly down the wall, leaving a trail of cold, congealed tomato paste in its wake. Then she left, slamming the front door so hard that the glass pane at the top cracked with the impact. For a moment or two, Rachel thought that Charlie might hit her, she would have let him. It would be well deserved. He was breathing hard, gritting his jaw against all the things he wanted to say, clenching his fists to stop himself tearing the flat apart and smashing her life, just like she had smashed his. Rachel watched him, wary. �ŚTell me about Amy, what’s she like? And I know I don’t deserve to know’. The desire to know something of her child fought gamely with her fear of his anger. Charlie sighed, the tension suddenly ebbing away, leaving him deflated, exhausted, done. He couldn’t be bothered to fight her. What was the point �ŚShe’s like you, to look at.’ Rachel was disappointed at this; she would have preferred her to look like him. �ŚDoes she have friends, is she happy?’ �ŚShe’s happy enough; she’s at college, training to be a nurse. There are plenty of friends, no boyfriends, or at least none that I know of, not that she would tell me. She’s a good kid.’ �ŚYou always were good at scaring off unwanted boyfriends’. She said, a sad little smile just turning up the corners of her mouth. He jammed his hands in his pockets and gritted his teeth again. �ŚLet’s not attempt small talk eh?’ He knew exactly what she was talking about but was in no mood for gentle reminiscences. Instead, he moved away from her, out into the hallway and into the sitting room, shocked that Lila’s presence in the flat was still stronger than Rachel’s, even though Lila had been dead for twenty years. He fingered the spines of books, peered at photographs, breathed in the scent of the undead past. Rachel watched him from the doorway, noticing as he touched the books that he still wore his wedding ring. She hadn’t kept hers; she’d left it behind, on the table, the day she’d left. She had thought it would help him to hate her, help him move on, have a life. Nevertheless, here he was, waiting for her to tell him the truth. It wasn’t going to happen. The truth was story no one should ever have to hear. But she owed him something, and she really needed him to leave. �ŚAfter I had her, the fits were really bad, you know that. I was really scared I would hurt her. I couldn’t cope. I thought she would be better off without me, you both would. I was a liability.’ She said, unable to look at his face. Charlie didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at her, standing in that mausoleum of a flat, looking like she was still a gawky kid, expecting him to believe everything she said. He shook his head and gave a wry laugh. �ŚBullshit!’ Rachel was floundering, she needed him to leave. �ŚLook, you only married me because I was pregnant with Amy, then you realised you couldn’t even leave me on my own with her. What kind of life was that, for any of us? I was grateful you took me on, but I grew up and realised it was never going to work. That’s it, all there is to say. You should thank me; I did us all a favour.’ Charlie’s aw fell in disbelief, he shook his head. �ŚChrist! You’re just like the rest of them! What is this? The Porter curse or something? He whirled round throwing his hands into the air, making her flinch away from him, which only served to make him even angrier. He made for the door, �ŚDo us both a favour Rachel, and don’t come back, not ever. OK?’ Rachel winced as the door slammed. One of Lila’s plates wobbled and fell of the dresser, smashing irretrievably on the hard floor of the kitchen. When she was sure he wasn’t coming back she bent to pick up the pieces, struggling to breathe as the knot of pain in her chest started to unravel, releasing eighteen years’ worth of grief and anguish as it unfurled. The pain of it made her gasp, she grasped one of the slivers of broken china, squeezing it hard, hoping that the sensation would cancel out the choking agony she felt. White light shot through her brain, shorting out the capacity for further thought. Charlie gunned the van, screeching away from the building like a man possessed, frightening the living crap out of a gang of drunks who were serenading the neighbourhood on their way home. He didn’t care if the police pulled him over; he didn’t care if he lost control and went crashing into the nearest lamppost. All he knew at that moment was that Rachel was right; she had done them all a favour. His temper was still white hot when he reached the M4. Amy’s train had come to a complete standstill, grinding to a halt in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. All she could see when she peered out of the window was her own face staring back at her, the glass made mirror by the pitch-black night. The carriage was almost empty, its few passengers staring at each other and shrugging with confusion at the delay. Amy had two seats to herself, and was glad she wasn’t opposite anyone who might want to engage her in inane conversation. Just in case, she stared at the floor in a deliberate attempt to avoid potential eye contact. Had the station shop been open she would have bought a magazine and hidden behind that, but everything had been closed when she got there, even her ticket had come out of a machine. Hers was the last train, so not even a buffet car, so she was stuck. Then she remembered the letters. It seemed that fate had presented her with an opportunity to look through them before she got to London. Knowledge was power, and if she intended to confront her mother, a little power wouldn’t go amiss. She rummaged in her bag for the bundle of letters just as an announcement came over the speakers, telling them all that there was a delay up ahead and that the train would be moving again as soon as they could resolve the problem. She opened the first letter to a chorus of grumblings and sighs from her fellow passengers as they complained about the delay. To her disappointment, the letter was from her Nan, but its contents were quite interesting. �śRachel comes to see me most days, calls in after school. I can’t say I blame her not wanting to go home to those nutcases. Although she seems a bit brighter now Roy has gone, I still can’t get over that, him just up and leaving like he did. I thought he would hang in there until the bitter end, still given what he was up to with poor Patsy I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone, even though it should be him behind bars and not you. Anyway, little Rachel sends her love, poor kid!” The rest of the letter was of no interest to Amy, just her Nan wittering on about the price of meat, and what colour she was going to paint the lounge. Some things never changed. The date was interesting, April 14th 1978. She pulled out the marriage certificate and checked Rachel’s date of birth. When the letter was written she her mother would have been eleven years old. Until this point Amy hadn’t known that her mother was one of the Porter family, hadn’t realised that she had been connected to what had happened to her dad. How stupid she’d been, never to ask any questions, to have just blithely gone through her life thinking that everything was just tragic and lovely, and that everyone in it was fundamentally OK! All this time and she’d not even been curious, what the hell was that all about? She tore open the next letter; this time dated 1979, and scanned the page looking for a mention of Rachel in the mundane ramblings of her Nan’s scrawl. �śRachel still visits, she’s growing up fast, and I don’t suppose you would even recognise her now. Still, she sends her love, always asks after you.” And so they went on, letter after letter, marking the years of her father’s incarceration with nothing more than a few flimsy pages. Rachel was made to sound wonderful, a girl who blossomed over the years, who was sweet, charming, and kind. This Rachel did not sound like the type of person who would abandon her child. Wonderful, lovely Rachel. Then the last letter, when Rachel was eighteen �śI can’t tell you how upset I am. Rachel came today, it had been raining, came down in bloody buckets, so by the time she got here she was soaked to the skin. Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that wet, so, like you do; I got her to strip off her wet things. Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m that upset I have to tell someone. Anyway, I made her take her blouse off, and you’ve never seen anything like it! That bloody bitch of a woman has been beating her with a belt. That poor kid has scars all over her back. You can see the buckle marks where the skin is broken. I couldn’t believe it, I knew Valerie Porter was a bitter woman, but I never thought she would do that to a kid. I tell you, it was all I could do to stop myself going round there and taking the belt to the old bitch herself!” Amy stopped reading, her head full of the picture that her Nan had described. Then she turned the page, only to find that the words had been blocked out in heavy black ink. The whole page had obviously been screwed up at some point, and then smoothed back out. She guessed that was her father’s doing, he must have read it and lost his cool, being stuck in a cell where he could do nothing about it. There were no more, because in ten years, he’d only kept the letters that mentioned Rachel. Amy didn’t want to dwell on it, something about a grown man, her father, being that fascinated by a kid bothered her. She stuffed the letters back in her bag and stared back at the window, trying to look beyond her own frowning face. If she did the maths, her dad was fifteen years older than Rachel was. That would be like her going out with Brad Pitt now, or George Clooney. It didn’t seem quite so perverse when she thought about it like that. Plenty of girls went out with older blokes, one of the girls in college was knocking off a lecturer, and if looks were anything to go by, her dad had a good ten years on him. Still, she wasn’t related to them. What did it matter anyway? It wasn’t the reason Rachel had abandoned her, and it wasn’t the reason her Nan and her dad had lied to her. The only thing that was clear was that her Nan had loved Rachel, and so had her dad, so god knows what had gone so wrong that they had rather pretend she was dead. And as soon as the damned train got moving, she would find out what it was, straight from the horse’s mouth. CHAPTER SEVEN Mary Hammond sat down, sighed heavily and kicked off her shoes under the desk. If time were on her side, she would get a glance at the morning paper before the day shift got in. Although she would be lucky, the patients had been buzzing all night, God knows what got into them all. When she’d taken the job as Night Sister on the unit, she’d hoped it would be an easy ride, but this lot were like night owls, perking up as soon as the sun went down. Lunatic was the right word, all lively when the moon was out. She had only just managed to get Bill Smith back in his bed, and to manage that she’d had to ply him with Ovaltine and force a couple of Zopiclone down his neck. Something was upsetting him, usually he was the least of her worries on nights, but according to his notes he hadn’t been much better during the day lately either. What with that and the student’s kicking off at each other, so much so that one of them had to be sent home, things weren’t particularly rosy in the workplace. That was one thing about regular nights; no snot nosed student’s to deal with. She’d met the lad, Nick, bit of an arsehole in her opinion. Thought he was God’s gift to nursing and had all the answers. She thought with a smug smile on her face, give him a couple of years and he’d know the score. There were no cures in this game. She’d met kids like him before, they really wanted to be doctors, but hadn’t made the grade, or didn’t have the stamina, so they would try their hands at nursing, throwing their weight about, calling the shots. Mary had a good cure for them, send them round the ward with a trolley full of enemas’ then send them back half an hour later with the bedpans to deal with the fallout. That usually shut them up. It gave a whole new meaning to a shit day at work, she knew that much. The girl student, Amy, had seemed all right, worked hard and she was willing to learn. It seemed a shame that she was the one that had been sent home. Christ, her back was aching! If she’d changed one wet bed that night, she’d changed a dozen. What with that, and Bill wandering up and down all night babbling rubbish, she had just about had it. Stroll on home time. Still, she had better write up the case notes while she had the chance, it didn’t look like she was going to get to the paper after all. The trouble with trying to get your brain to work at five in the morning was that it always wanted to wander off and think about things that weren’t relevant to what you were trying to do. Despite the fact that he was now securely in his bed, Bill Smith kept on walking into her head. She could remember clearly the first time she had ever met him, the day he’d arrived at the unit. He had been a street drinker, living for years in doorways and derelict hovels’, he had stunk to high heaven and was as mad as a box of frogs. The official diagnosis was of Werner Korsakoff Syndrome, an alcohol induced dementia. The thing that had always puzzled everyone was his voice. Regardless of the content of his bizarre ramblings, his voice had the cultured lilt of an educated man. It jarred on Mary’s worldview that an educated person should end up on the streets; she was of the liberal persuasion that a good education cured all social ills. The police had brought him in. He was sectioned because he posed a risk to both himself and others, having acquired the habit of launching himself in front of oncoming cars, and occasionally harassing young women, believing them to be his relatives. It was Mary’s impression that the police had been hoping for a long time that one of the cars would have finished him off and solved the problem, but fate had not chosen to dispose of Bill so neatly. So, they were stuck with him, the man with no past, and certainly no future. A mystery, so much so that they weren’t even sure that Bill Smith was an accurate name, the William bit seemed right, but the Smith part had been adopted by the Police as a convenient way of filling in all the boxes on the paper work. Bill had been with them for five years now, the scourge of the unit, constantly disturbed by thoughts he couldn’t articulate, constantly offensive to those who tried to care for him. Sometimes, Mary thought, we keep people alive far too long. With a long sigh, she completed the last of the entries in the notes, slept well, bowels open plus plus plus, disturbed night, prn meds administered, and so on. All seemed quiet in the unit, so she finally took a look at the paper, last night’s late edition. She was curious to see if there was anything more about the murders, which had caught everyone’s attention. Always fascinated by the macabre, she scanned the pages looking for something new, something exciting. Given that the most gruesome thing she ever got to see these days was the aftermath of a dose of laxatives, she figured she could be forgiven for taking an indecorous interest in murder cases. According to the paper, there hadn’t been much progress in the case, though DNA material had been found with the body of the man, which might lead to the identification of the killer. That was the trouble these days, people watched TV, including criminals, and everyone was forensic savvy thanks to shows like CSI and Silent Witness. The thought of it all gave Mary a quiet thrill. On the next page was a grainy photograph of the missing woman, Stella Baxter. So old it would be hard to identify anyone from it, but Mary studied it carefully nonetheless. Mousy, non-descript, hardly the face of a callous murderer in her opinion, but then, it was always the quiet ones you had to watch. A side story caught her attention. Of course! The row between the students! Mary had been told that Amy’s father had been tied up with the case in some way. She couldn’t believe that such a juicy morsel of scandal had escaped her attention, she must be tired. There was a small picture of the house where the bodies had been found, the paper was calling it the �ŚHouse of Horror’, too right! If walls had ears, that place would be screaming out loud. Some places just seemed to attract misery and devastation, she should know, she had started her nurse training in one of the old asylums. Seven hundred beds, all full of mad, sad and bad people, shut away in a red brick Victorian monstrosity. There had been a motto, carved in stone over the main door, she couldn’t remember exactly what it had said now, but in her memory, it always seemed to be �śAbandon hope, all ye who enter here”. It gave her a shudder to think of it now, that building, all those corridors and dark corners, all those rooms that had soaked up the torment of their inhabitants over the years. There was no doubt in her mind, buildings had an influence on people, and that place, The Limes, where all those people had died, seemed to have a particularly malevolent one. She had to feel sorry for Amy though, can’t have been nice finding out your own father was a killer. No wonder the kid had chosen psychiatry as a career; she was probably desperate to stay on the right side of the sanity fence. She glanced at the clock, nearly time for the day shift to arrive. Reluctantly she eased on her shoes, ready to make her final round of the night. Amy’s train had been stuck for hours, so long in fact that the other passengers gave a small cheer when it finally started moving again. She had overheard that some idiot had driven a van off the motorway, and had rolled it down a bank onto the railway line. The driver was dead, so it had taken a ridiculous amount of time to clear the line. Amy couldn’t have cared less about the van and its driver, all she wanted to do was get to London and sort her own mess out. She didn’t even bother to look out of the window as the train pulled slowly past the charred and battered mess of the white builders van. By the time the train reached Paddington, she was starving and knackered, so much so she didn’t know which to deal with first. Something about the crashed van was niggling at her conscience, she had been so absorbed in her own dilemma she hadn’t considered that someone had lost their life that night. In the cold morning light, that fact injected some perspective into her own situation, and she found herself alone in the huge station, feeling more than a little foolish. Mike Ratcliffe got to the office early that day. Stella’s picture had been published in the late edition of yesterday’s papers, and was all over the morning news. Today he was going to get a result, he was sure of it. Ferris had come through with more forensic evidence too, strands of hair had been found clutched in Roy Baxter’s desiccated hand, still in good enough condition for them to get some decent DNA from it. Once Stella had been located, all he needed to do was to tie up a few loose ends, and close the case. Sorted. Frances Haines had regained consciousness too, but was still not fit for interview. She remained in hospital heavily sedated until the swelling around her brain subsided. Ratcliffe had to pity her really, nutcase family, cold fish husband, not a lot there to motivate her to pull through. Still, he fervently hoped she would, she was his only hope of actually making some sense out of this odd case. He still needed to find out about the baby, Daniel, even though it didn’t appear that the child had been murdered, someone had concealed the body, and someone needed to answer to it. Pondering this issue, he rifled through the papers on his desk, finding that Angela Watson had come up with some interesting stuff on the Porter clan. On seeing a copy of Charlie and Rachel’s wedding certificate, he didn’t know whether to be surprised or smug, given that his hunch about them had come to something. He recalled the photograph on Delia Jones’s mantelpiece, and smiled to himself as the penny dropped; a daughter! No wonder the face in the picture had been familiar, a less ravaged version of Rachel. Sure enough, there was a birth certificate to prove it, Amy Jones, born only a few months after her parent’s marriage. Perhaps there was some nobility in Charlie Jones after all, must be if he’d made an honest woman of Rachel. The whole thing must have stuck badly in her family’s throat though, the youngest daughter marrying a convicted murderer, having his child. He had never quite bought Rachel’s story of a row over money, the marriage and the child gave him a much better idea of why she had been rejected by her family. Strange that she would come back after the mother’s death though, still the prospect of an inheritance brought all sorts out of the woodwork. He found himself feeling quite disappointed in her, much to his puzzlement. Angela had also managed to unearth the fact that there was no record of William Porters death. Not that it had any bearing on the Baxter case, Porter had been long gone by the time Roy Baxter was killed, but if they could find him, he might know something about the child. However, that wasn’t a priority, which in a way was a relief. Tracking down people who didn’t want to be found was a tedious process at the best of times. He put the papers to one side, feeling a little guilty that he had made Angela trawl through the process of finding them when they shed so little light on the case. Still it had kept her busy and out of his hair for the day. Next, he found a memo, telling him that Rachel Porter had returned to London. Great! He probably would need to see her again, and schlepping up the M4 wasn’t really on his list of favourite pastimes. Still with Stella’s picture out there, he was feeling positive. It would be a good day. Delia was worried sick, Charlie still didn’t have his phone switched on, there was no choice, she would just have to go round there and find out what the hell was going on. As she trudged the half mile to his house, she grumbled to herself, she was too old for all of this, her legs couldn’t take it, and her heart couldn’t take it! You spent your whole life worrying about your kids, assuming that once they grew up the bother would be over. Not for Delia, with Charlie the bother just kept getting worse. There was no doubt in her mind that his lack of communication had something to do with Rachel, no doubt at all. Not that Rachel was likely to spill the beans, but Delia couldn’t be too careful, better to be safe than sorry. As she reached the gate, she fumbled in her bag for her key. Charlie’s van wasn’t on the drive. Typical, he was obviously avoiding her. Well, she would just sit tight until he came back home. Her first thought was that the house had been burgled, smashed glass, food down the walls. She had her hand on the phone ready to dial 999 when she noticed the bracelet, instantly recognising it as the one Charlie had bought for Rachel when Amy was born. When she looked around the room again it was clear that nothing was missing, so not burglars. The computer was on, Delia was not au fait with technology, but knew if she clicked the mouse thing something would happen. It did, the screen flickered into life and showed her Rachel’s address in London. Had he lost the plot and gone chasing up there again? The answer machine was flashing, she pressed the button, expecting to hear the usual work enquiries, as Amy’s voice filled the room she had to press her hand to her mouth as two and two clumped together into a great big four in her mind. Amy had been here, had come home. It wasn’t Charlie who had gone looking for Rachel. �ŚOh my God. What am I going to do?’ She said aloud into the empty room. Charlie would kill someone for this. It had been her idea to allow Amy to believe Rachel was dead, the child had asked the question and it seemed simple at the time, better than trying to tell her some other lie about why her mother had left. Simpler for Charlie too, it closed the door, meant he wouldn’t have a good reason for chasing after the impossible any more. Because Delia knew better than anyone that any relationship with Rachel was impossible, for all their sakes. It was why she had helped her to leave, had taken Amy for her, had kept her wedding ring to prove to Charlie she had really gone. It was for the best. It was the only way, but this, Amy going up there, this could ruin everything. Neither of them would ever forgive her. For the first time in more years than she could remember, Delia wanted to cry. CHAPTER EIGHT Mary was knackered, all she wanted to do was get through the handover and go home, have a quick bath and go to bed. So the fact that Laurel was reading her paper while she was talking was really pissing her off. �ŚSo’ she said, loudly �ŚBill had a really unsettled night. I gave him Zopiclone PRN and he’s been settled since. Am I boring you Laurel?’ Laurel was frowning, she had heard Mary speak, but didn’t register that the words were aimed at her. The sudden silence drew her attention. �ŚHuh?’ Everyone was looking at her. �ŚSorry, sorry. Just something in the paper caught my eye. Sorry Mary, carry on.’ �ŚThank you so much.’ Mary said, her weary tone loaded with sarcasm. �ŚAs I was saying. Someone needs to have a word with the doc about Maisie, get him to change her script will you. That laxative needs to be given in the morning not at night. We’ve got enough to do on nights without having to bath her at two in the morning because she’s covered in shit. Right, I’m done. I’m going home. You can keep the paper Laurel, as it’s a source of so much fascination to you.’ Laurel was frowning, �ŚSorry, it’s just this photo. Here, Martin, do you reckon it looks like the woman who’s been visiting Bill?’She threw the paper to her colleague. While Mary impatiently struggled into her coat. �ŚCould be. Difficult to say, this is an old photo, but there is a vague resemblance, to be honest I haven’t paid too much attention to her.’ The others crowded round him, peering over his shoulder at the picture of Stella. The general consensus was that Stella Baxter, wanted for questioning over her husband’s murder, was Bill’s mystery visitor. Mary took her coat off. Knackered or not she wasn’t going home until this little drama had been resolved. �ŚI’ll call the head of nursing, hand it over to him. And you lot, not a word about this to anyone til we know what we’ve got to do.’ Something was nudging at the edges of Charlie’s consciousness, hauling him reluctantly up from under the black blanket of sleep he was so warmly wrapped in. He opened one eye, wincing against the sharp intrusion of light and shielding himself from it with his hand. Someone was banging on the window. Everything in him revolted against the requirement to move, but he needed the banging to stop. Fumbling he wound down the window and squinted out. �ŚBloody hell mate I was beginning to think you’d died in your sleep! You OK?’ The stranger said, sounding far livelier than anyone had a right to be at that time of the morning. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if the action would make it easier for him to open them again. �ŚSorry to wake you mate, but you’re on my pitch. I need to get the Snack Bar set up’. �ŚShit, sorry, give me a minute and I’ll shift’. Charlie said, shaking himself awake and trying to ignore the cramping stiffness that was threatening to cripple his movements. �ŚAny chance of a cup of tea when you get set up?’ He called. His mouth felt like an Arabs dap. He fumbled for the keys then used the side of his hand to clear the condensation from the inside of the windscreen, hoping that his senses would gather themselves into some semblance of reactivity. He was exhausted, bad sleep was almost worse than no sleep. He had given the trip up as a bad job as soon as the motorway signs had started to say �Śaccident ahead’. Figuring that the combination of foul mood and tiredness was a good indicator to pull off and take a break, so he’d parked up in the nearest lay by off the motorway and had intended to shut his eyes for half an hour and give himself the chance to wake up and calm down. He hadn’t expected that he would still be there in the morning. He must look like hell, yesterday alone had aged him ten years, with the salt and pepper stubble that had invaded his face overnight he must look like an absolute e wreck, no wonder he had been mistaken for a corpse. Right now though he needed a pee more than anything else, so he shunted the van forward a few yards, go out and made good use of the grass verge. It took ten minutes to get his tea, a strange, strong orange concoction only available from roadside snack bars, but fundamentally life giving to a connoisseur. �ŚNasty accident last night a few miles up. Van ended up on the railway line, caused a five car pile- up on the motorway, I reckon you made a wise move kipping in your van mate’. The snack bar man said as he laid out fatty strips of bacon on a greasy, unsavoury looking griddle. �ŚBacon bap to go with that?’ Charlie shook his head. The man shrugged and threw a handful of cheap sausages into a deep fat fryer. The sight of it made Charlie’s stomach lurch. �ŚSo what’s up then, you in the doghouse with the Mrs. What did you do to deserve that then?’ The man quipped. Charlie put his empty mug on the counter. �ŚNothing much, just married her in the first place.’ The man laughed heartily, pointing a fish slice at Charlie as he bellowed, �ŚThat’s a good one that. I like it.’ Charlie smiled and moved away from the van just as a lorry pulled into the lay by, he needed to get home. Have a shower, do some work, and get Rachel out of his head for a few hours. He still wasn’t in the best of moods when he finally got home, so the last thing he needed was to see his mother sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed and looking just about ready to explode. Neither was he too chuffed to see half his belongings strewn across the floor, nor the remains of god knows what stuck to the wall. �ŚWhere in the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick!’ She yelled, before he’d even had chance to put his keys down. �ŚDon’t start, I’m a grown man and where I’ve been is my business’ he shot as his eyes took in the scene in front of him, �Śwhat the hell happened here?’ Delia was on her feet now, �Śyou might well ask!’ He spotted Amy’s bag on the floor. �ŚOh my God, where’s Amy, what happened, where is she, is she alright?’ he demanded, adrenaline surging through his system like acid, making his heart cringe with fear. �ŚHow should I know? This whole bloody mess is all your fault!’ Delia cried hurling Rachel’s SOS bracelet at him, so that it hit him square in his chest. �ŚShe could be anywhere thanks to you, you stupid sod.’ Charlie bent to pick up the bracelet. �ŚWhere did you get this?’ His voice a hoarse tight whisper. �ŚI found it on your coffee table, and before you ask I don’t know where Amy got it from, but I’m pretty damn sure she worked out what it was and who it belongs to. Look on the computer, she found out where she lives.’ Delia said desperately. �ŚShe’s been in your box upstairs too; I found this in the garage.’ She showed him the ravaged tin, empty of its contents. Realisation dawned on Charlie, draining the colour from his face, and robbing the strength from his legs. �ŚFuck, she’s gone to look for her hasn’t she?’ He said staggering towards the sofa and collapsing on to it. Glass crunched under his feet, he picked up the shattered picture frame. �ŚOh God. Everything was in that tin, letters, the marriage certificate, Rachel’s ring, everything. She knows we lied! Oh God.’ �ŚWell, he isn’t going to be much good to us is he?’ Delia said, her anger suddenly ebbing away, leaving her feeling like the tired old woman she really was. Charlie leapt to his feet and lurched towards the kitchen where he flung open the cupboard door and saw the false pipe hanging loose. �ŚWhat the hell are you doing now?’ Delia called. �ŚShe’s got five hundred quid in cash; I think she’s gone to London,’ he said, already back in the lounge searching for his keys. �ŚI’m going to get her.’ �ŚYou think she’s going to want to see you after this?’ Delia demanded, waving her hand across the room, framing the chaos for him as if he hadn’t noticed the significance of it himself. �ŚI’m not prepared to give her the choice. Besides it was you who told her Rachel was dead, not me. I didn’t have a choice but to go along with it did I?’ Delia set her mouth into a grim line. �ŚIt was for the best.’ She said defensively. Charlie hit the door with his fist, �ŚWhat so she could find out like this? Did you honestly think Rachel would stay away forever, that one day it wouldn’t all come out?’ He yelled, making Delia jump. In Delia’s mind, the best form of defence was always attack. �ŚDon’t you bloody well blame me for this mess! All I did was to help make the best of a bad job, clear up after yet another of your balls ups. She agreed, the day she left, and she agreed that Amy should think she was dead. It was the best way, the only way. If it were up to her she would never have come back, but you, you had to keep pushing it, going up there, pushing her and pushing her. You’re like some filthy dog, having to go back again and again to smell your own shit!’ Charlie stared at her, confused. �ŚWhat did you say? The day she left, what about the day she left?’ Delia looked away from him, her temper had got the better of her and she had said too much. Charlie leapt across the room, grabbing her by the arm, pinching the loose flesh and shaking her. �ŚYOU SAW HER DIDNT YOU?’ he yelled. Delia closed her eyes and tried to pull away from him. He dropped her arm and turned away from her in disgust, clutching the sides of his head as if it were a bomb about to explode. �ŚEighteen years mum. Eighteen years you’ve let me believe that she dumped my daughter on your doorstep and walked away. Why would you do that, why would you let me despise her for something she didn’t do? You talked to her, you saw her, and you let her go.’ He was shaking his head in anguish, unable to accept this new information, which was so fundamentally undermining to everything he held to be true. Delia couldn’t answer him. Grief and regret were overwhelming her, causing her whole body to tremble. Her world was falling apart and she didn’t know what to do to stop it. �ŚI’m sorry, so sorry.’ It was all she could say. �ŚTell�Ś me... what... happened,’ Charlie demanded through gritted teeth. Delia shook her head, having to hug herself to stop the shaking. �ŚI didn’t know what else to do, she came round with Amy, and she was in such a state. She was in bits. She told me to tell you she’d abandoned her, she knew you would never let her go if you didn’t have a reason to hate her.’ �ŚDamned right I wouldn’t have let her go! She and Amy were everything to me, my whole world. We would have been OK, we would have coped, once I got her away from that damned family she wouldn’t have had the fits anyway, you know that, she was always all right when she was away from them. I know she was scared, but we would have been OK. So what was it mum, did she come to you for help? Did you talk her out of staying, so damned glad to see the back of her that you persuaded her to go? Tell me how it was, tell me what you thought was better about letting her go and destroying our lives?’ He spat so angry he could have grabbed her by the throat and gladly squeezed. Delia was in bits, everything she had tried so hard to hold together was slipping away. Amy had run away and her son could do nothing but look at her with hate in his eyes. All she had ever done was do her best to protect him, all of them. That day there had been no choice, to tell him the truth would have destroyed him completely. What she had done had been the lesser evil, the choice with the least collateral damage attached. He needed to know that, he needed to hear the facts, and then he would know that she had never done anything other than shelter him and Amy. She took a breath �ŚAlright. I tell you how it was, but you’re not going to like what you hear, so we’d better both sit down and pull ourselves together.’ Charlie dropped heavily into a chair and stared at her, waiting, his jaw twitching with anger. Delia lowered herself wearily onto the sofa, �ŚYes, you can look at me like that and blame me for everything that’s gone wrong for you. Why change the habit of a lifetime? Always someone else isn’t it? Everyone always out to get you aren’t they? Well, son, did it ever occur to you that this whole, vile mess all comes back to you?’ She looked at the expression on his face, �Śyes Charlie Jones. You, and believe me it is a vile mess too.’ She paused, �Śas for Rachel, I loved that girl like she was my own. I would never have hurt her, not in a million years. But you, you hurt her deeper than anyone ever could have and you didn’t even know it, because you were so wrapped up in yourself. If anyone has a right to be bitter and hard it’s that poor girl, and she was the one left alone to shoulder the lot, while you screwed you life up feeling sorry for yourself.’ She shook her head sadly, wearily. Charlie sighed, �Śare you ever going to get to the point, or would you just like to carry on digging at me?’ Delia rounded on him. �ŚShut up! You arrogant little sod! You have no idea what you are asking me to tell you here, so shut up and have the decency to hear me out, or by God I’ll slap that look off your face once and for all! I’m seventy five years of age and about to tell you about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life, so show me some damned respect you little shit!’ She took a breath, and crossed her arms. �ŚThat day Rachel had gone back to the house, to tell them that you and her were married, that Amy was yours, and that she was leaving for good. You knew that, you were the one that wanted her to do it, stand up to them, remember? Yes, so don’t sit there looking all innocent like. Anyway, I got a visitor that day, her Ladyship herself deigned to call, and she had something very interesting to say. Got your attention now have I? Good.’ She took another deep breath, her face creasing in distaste as she went on. �ŚShe had a tale to tell alright. Quite a tale. You see Charlie boy it turns out that she isn’t Rachel’s mother after all, Frances is. Yes Frances, your little playmate way back then. Pregnant at fourteen. Of course, Valerie couldn’t face the shame of it, so she took Frances away, and came back telling the world that the baby was hers. Remember that? Yeah thought you might. No one was any the wiser were they?’ �ŚYeah, bit of a shocker admittedly, but what does it have to do with Rachel leaving?’ Charlie asked with a shrug. �ŚMakes no difference to me who her mother is, the fact that it’s not Valerie is a bonus in my mind’. Jesus, poor Rachel! Delia shook her head from side to side several times. �ŚSee there he goes with the arrogance again. Rachel overheard that conversation Charlie, she had come in the back door, was standing in the kitchen listening to the whole thing. So how do you think she reacted when she found out who her father was? Eh?’ Charlie was confused. �ŚWhat the hell are you on about Mum, get to the point will you!’ Delia stood up; she didn’t want to be sitting down when she said the next words. �ŚPut it this way, how do you think Rachel felt when she heard that she and Amy have the same father?’ Nothing happened for a minute or so, no sound intruded save the ticking of the clock, nothing stirred except the shifting look of horror that crossed Charlie’s face again, then again. His stomach erupted sending a torrent of thick yellow bile up into his throat so that he had no choice but to spew it out onto the carpet until he was empty, feeling nothing but spasms of pain in his gut. Delia could do nothing but stand and watch. �ŚI’m sorry son. I never wanted to tell you, but you gave me no choice. Perhaps now you’ll understand why she left.’ She said eventually. Charlie, head hanging over the side of the chair, gulping in air to stop the retching turned to her. �ŚI was a fourteen year old kid mum’ he gasped, incredulous. �ŚI know, doesn’t make it any less the truth.’ She said sadly, still ashamed. Charlie gripped the arms of the chair, anchoring himself to its structure because it felt so much more solid to him than his own body did. �ŚTruth? Truth? I can’t remember that last time I heard a word of that from anyone’s mouth. Are you telling me you actually believed what that poisonous old bitch told you? That I had got Frances pregnant?’ he demanded, he felt feverish, he felt weak, the implications of what he had just heard bombarded his brain like angry hornets. Sweat born of growing panic beaded his forehead. Delia didn’t speak. �ŚLike I said, I was a kid. Fourteen.’ He was running it through his head, the past, going over it again and again, just to make sure he had it right. Could he have forgotten something like that? Could a man forget his first sexual experience? No. Without a doubt no. �ŚIt never happened, she was lying. If you want to know the truth, the real truth. Patsy was the first, and I didn’t meet her until I was seventeen.’ Christ, at fourteen he had barely just discovered that you could do anything else but piss through it! Delia just stood there, blinking like a dumb animal caught in the beam of a torch. Charlie suddenly started to laugh. �ŚIs ironic isn’t it, you never believed I was capable of murder, stood by me through all that. But ask if a man is capable of keeping it in his pants and you don’t believe a word of it! Thanks Mother, thanks a lot!’ �ŚNo one would lie about that surely?’ Delia asked, not even to him, but to the ether as if it could give her a more convincing answer. �ŚThey lie about murder, why not that?’ Charlie reasoned bitterly. Then he roared in frustration, pain and grief, �ŚHow many years of my life does that family want? How many pounds of my flesh?’ Delia started to shudder again, she was defeated, suddenly feeling every one of her years hanging off her bones like lead weights. Charlie looked at his mother, feeling nothing but disgust for her. He stood up, watching her flinch away from him as he moved across the room. �ŚI’m going for a shower. I need to think. When I come out I want you gone.’ �ŚWhat are you going to do?’ She whispered, her voice trembling. �ŚGo and find my daughter, and my wife, and fix this mess.’ From all the calls, they had received from people claiming they had seen Stella Baxter, only one warranted a follow up in Mike Ratcliffe’s mind. Putting anything in the papers always brought the cranks and the hoaxers out of the woodwork, but a phone call from the NHS didn’t exactly fit that category. It even seemed like he might have caught two birds with one stone. He had a reasonable suspicion that he had tracked down William Porter too. Ferris had completed her work up on Roy Baxter and was currently awaiting the DNA results on the hair that was found on his body. With a bit of luck he’d be able to close the file soon, get Sam Benton off his back and take a bit of time off. A fishing trip, alone, away from home seemed like a good idea, a beatific smile came to his lips at the thought. �ŚLooking smug boss, what’s making you so happy?’ Watson asked, placing a mug of tea down in front of him. Ratcliffe grinned at her, �Śnothing more gratifying than a plan coming together Angela, we all sorted for this afternoon?’ �ŚAll ready to go. Apparently, our woman always visits at two O’clock. We’ll be in place well before then. We need to set off from here by ten at the latest.’ Ratcliffe leaned forward and rubbed his hands together in fervent anticipation, �Śbring it on DC Watson, bring it on.’ �ŚI contacted Roy Baxter’s sister, about the body being released for burial.’ Angela said, perching on the edge of his desk, and then standing again quickly when he raised his eyebrows at her. �ŚAnd?’ �ŚDidn’t want to know, in fact her exact words were �śyou can shove him in a bin bag and stick him on the local tip for all I care”. Nice woman’ she added with a wry grin. �ŚI think we can safely say that he was not a popular man then. Better contact the relevant and get them to sort it then.’ �ŚWhat about the baby, doesn’t seem like anyone wants to sort that out either.’ �ŚSame goes.’ Ratcliffe said with a resigned shrug. Angela nodded, though putting an innocent child into an unmarked mass grave, didn’t seem right to her. The director of nursing didn’t want either his staff or his patients involved in the arrest of the suspect He insisted that whatever intervention the police were planning, it must take place outside the unit. Given that the unit couldn’t be accessed without a key code, it wasn’t likely that they would miss Stella, if she was Stella, when she arrived. The plan was to intercept her calmly as she made her way to the building. Two officers would be inside the building just in case, and uniformed units were stationed discretely at all exit points. As they were dealing with a small, nondescript middle-aged woman, Ratcliffe didn’t anticipate too many problems. After all, she was hardly likely to pull a gun on them and start shooting, but it was best to be prepared, because you never knew what was going to pan out. It always paid to be one step ahead of the game. According to the unit staff, her habit was to arrive at around 2 O’clock. She always signed herself in as Barbara Smith, never engaged in conversation with the staff, and left promptly an hour later. The biggest risk of the day was that she would have seen the media coverage and would know that she was likely to have been recognised by someone, ergo she wouldn’t turn up and Ratcliffe would have to justify some expensive policing to the powers that be. But, the unit staff had said that she looked very similar to the photograph, just older, so it didn’t seem that she had gone to any great lengths to disguise herself. Having arrived early, they had attempted to interview Bill Smith, but had got nowhere, unable to get any sense out of him at all, he hadn’t even remembered that he’d had a visitor, let alone who she was. According to Peter Haines, William Porter had died in 1970, leaving his family practically destitute having lost the family fortune through bad management and ill temper. Their only means of support was the income from a small stationary shop, which was run by Stella, but had been closed down when Valerie Porter had had her first stroke. Peter had urged them to sell the house and put Valerie in a nursing home, but Stella had refused to budge on the issue, even Frances Haines had been surprisingly reluctant according to Peter. Of course, it was now apparent that if Bill Smith were in fact William Porter then the house would not have been able to be sold, notwithstanding the fact that someone was concealing dead bodies on the premises. So Ratcliffe felt that he could safely conclude that Stella at least knew that her father was still alive. Had she bolted from the house after Valerie’s death because she knew the game was finally up? Sitting there, in the car park, waiting for his first glimpse of her, Ratcliffe was impatient for answers. �ŚDo you know what I don’t get’ Watson said as they scanned the area, �Śhow come no one ever questioned that Baxter or Porter had disappeared?’ Ratcliffe thought it was a fair point, and something he’d been giving a fair deal of thought to, �Śwell, the way I see it is that someone would have to give a shit about you to notice you were gone. As we have established, there are no friends, no relatives that give a damn. No work colleagues, not even a bloody milkman, hence no one to notice, no one to make a report. Porter was a recluse, and Baxter was a bastard, so it was good riddance to the Baxter, and Porter, Porter who?’ Watson had to agree; she had done most of the interviews of the neighbours, and had the misfortune of meeting Baxter’s sister, Maureen. None of the neighbours could remember William Porter, as all of them had moved in since 1970, besides not many of those big detached houses were private homes anymore, not many people could afford them. The house next door had been a Dentist’s surgery for the last thirty years. The one opposite had been converted into bedsits in the 1980’s and had an ever-shifting population. One was a bail hostel, one a residential home for the elderly, another owned by an elderly woman who had fallen foul of Valerie Porter somewhere back in the annals of history, and had stoically ignored her existence ever since. Ratcliffe was right, nobody knew and nobody cared. Even the family GP had to get their medical notes out of long-term storage and couldn’t recall ever having seen any of them. His predecessor was the one who had treated Rachel’s epilepsy, and there was no mention of any maternity care for any of them. Stella had done all the shopping, banking and paying of bills, and she had been so faceless that people had struggled to place her at all. As for Baxter’s family, they had a good riddance to bad rubbish attitude. He had left home at sixteen and hadn’t kept contact since. The few people who had known him as an adult that she had managed to track down and talk with had all bought the same story, that he had left his wife for pastures new and no news was good news. One or two people still claimed he owed them money, so they had figured his no show as par for the course. In any case, he had never been a popular man. Watson found it hard to believe that people could live like that, almost completely devoid of contact with others. The only ones who seemed remotely normal were Frances and Peter, who seemed to have successfully distanced themselves from the rest of the family right up until Valerie’s death. From what she could surmise, they had only got involved then because Haines had thought the house would be worth money, and even he was being pretty unhelpful now he’d found out that William Porter might still be alive. She was pretty sure that Rachel knew more than she was letting on too. It seemed a bit convenient that she sparked out every time the questions got awkward. If Ratcliffe wasn’t so smitten with her, he would see that for himself. The radio crackled into life, one of the other units had spotted Stella Baxter. �ŚCome on kid, we’re on!’ Ratcliffe said, launching himself out of the car. CHAPTER NINE By rights, he shouldn’t be driving, he was knackered and probably more distracted than he would have been if he’d downed a bottle of scotch before getting in the van. Sick of trying to work out how he felt, he had extracted himself from the emotional melee and he was busy trying to work out how many bricks he would need to build a one-story extension on the back of a three-bed semi. Anything to reign in his thoughts! He would have recited his twelve times table out loud, if he thought it might help. Memory was playing tricks on him he knew that he had never touched Frances, yet now it had been suggested to him the vision of it kept nudging at him, insistently inviting him to give it credence. Could he have? Did he? Had he blocked it out? No one would lie about such a thing; they had to think it for a reason. Unable to accept that anyone could indict him like that, his mind could only make sense of it by trying to make it real. But it wasn’t, he knew it for a fact. Patsy had been the first and an event in his life that he would always remember, so indelibly was the humiliation of it carved on his psyche. Oh sure, she’d been sympathetic when he’d only managed to last two minutes, but he would never forget the lascivious smile that had gone with it, or the wry sigh of tolerance when she had told him it was OK. No, his mind could play as many tricks as it liked. He had never touched Frances Porter. Not that she hadn’t wanted him to; in fact, he distinctly recalled her calling him a filthy cretin when he turned her down. She had treated him with the utmost contempt ever since. She and Valerie were like peas in a pod. To the best of his knowledge, the only child he had ever fathered was Amy. Although the marriage to Patsy had only come about because she’d claimed to be pregnant, no wonder his mother had been so ready to believe the Porters. Patsy’s baby had never materialised, a miscarriage she had claimed, and he’d pitied her at the time, married a month and losing a baby. Hindsight had often made him question, whether there had ever been a baby at all, or whether she’d just wanted a ring on her finger as an excuse to leave home. Her mother had been as vile a harridan as Valerie had, the only difference was that Patsy’s mum had resorted to more profanity and wore shorter skirts. They had both been a bitch that was for sure. He had known, the day she died that she was going to leave him. That knowledge had been one of the things that had sealed his fate that day, that and being stupid enough to pull the knife out of her. The papers had called it a crime of passion, but he’d be hard pressed to remember any passion in their relationship. From the day they got married, she had treated him like a recalcitrant dog. Her affair with Roy Baxter had probably started at the reception, but Roy had been his boss and back then, he hadn’t had the balls to challenge it. In fact, if he had been capable of being entirely honest at that age, he’d been relieved when she’d told him she was leaving. She had let him off the hook. Not that anyone had wanted to believe that, the knife in the hand had obstructed any objective views! Patsy had been beautiful, no doubt about that, and he’d been in awe of her, mistaking it for love, but not for long. Not everything that glitters is gold. There was only one woman he loved and he had brought her nothing but misery. He didn’t even want to imagine what it must have been like for her all these years, believing what she’d been told. Even thinking about it, made him want to scream, and roar, and break the world. It must have been like ten kinds of hell. She would have blamed herself, sucked up the responsibility of it and worn it like a hair shirt. The whole woebegone Miss Havisham set up suddenly made sense. It was her idea of penance. Change nothing, affect nothing. He had spent all these years feeling so sorry for himself, so hard done by, so hurt and it had all been misplaced. Why had she believed them? Why had she listened to a word Valerie said? An image of Rachel sprang into his mind; she had her back to him, her flesh bare, and the light from the bedside lamp washing over her skin, highlighting the scars left there by Valerie’s weapon of choice, a thin leather belt. Of course she had believed it, she would have been too afraid not to. The only time in his life he had ever felt capable of cold blooded murder was the day he had first set eyes on those marks. If Valerie had been stood in front of him in that moment he swore he would have ripped her heart out with his bare hands and spat in the hole he’d left. He had not long come out of prison, a few weeks at most, paroled to his mother’s house. On his way back from his weekly visit to his Parole Officer, it had started to rain, so heavily that he’d had to shelter in an alley. As he waited for the downpour to ease, he’d spotted Rachel, running up the road with her boyfriend in tow. He hadn’t taken to the boyfriend, had him down as an obnoxious little shit the first time he’d clapped eyes on him. The kid had been yelling at Rachel to hurry up, dragging her along the road, yanking at her arm. She’d stumbled, gone down on her knees, and the asshole had lost the plot with her. Hauling her to her feet, he had screamed obscenities into her face and had shaken her like a rag doll. She had started to seize, he saw her head go back and her body stiffen, the guy dropped her, right into the gutter, still bawling at her. He’s started to move then, instinct taking over, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to deal with her having a fit, when she’d been a little kid he’d often been the one who’d had to see her through it. Then the boy had looked around him, checking, and had kicked her, landing his heavy boot right in her ribs. Something primal kicked in inside Charlie’s head, ten years in prison, an ingrained abhorrence of injustice, whatever, it took over and propelled him across the street, balled his hand into a fist and sent it smashing into that pompous, spotty, arrogant little face. The kid had gone down like a sack of shit, and Charlie had warned him, fist an inch from his busted nose that if he ever went near Rachel again, he, Charlie Jones, convicted killer would personally rip his head off and crap down the hole. The kid had threatened him with the police. Charlie had simply said �ŚBring it on Kid, I’ve already done one stretch for murder, another won’t make much difference.’ If it hadn’t been so damned wet from the rain, he would have sworn that the kid pissed himself. All those long boring days inside with not much else to do other than fool around in the prison gym had made him twice the man he had been, in every sense. The kid had been scared shitless. Rachel had been a mess, she had cracked her head on the kerb when she fell, and was covered in muck and god knows what. She was fuzzy after the fit, and he’d more or less had to carry her back to his mum’s house. Delia had been out at the time, so he’d had no choice but to try to sort her out himself. He probably should have taken her to A&E, but reality had kicked in again and he had started to feel a bit panicky about hitting the kid and the prospect of being arrested again. Rachel had been in shock, teeth chattering, unable to speak, unable to look at him properly. He’d run her a bath, she was filthy and freezing, her clothes soaked. She sat in there for an age, probably would have stayed in there if he hadn’t knocked on the door with a towel and some dry clothes. He’d given her an old T-shirt and a pair of jogging trousers of his own; somehow, his mother’s frilly dressing gown hadn’t seemed appropriate at the time. When she’d come out of the bathroom, he’d asked her to show him where the kid had kicked her. She was moving awkwardly and he reckoned she had a busted rib. She’d sat on the edge of his bed and lifted up the top. Purple spots of bruising had already started to pepper her skin. He’d told her they should strap her ribs, so he’d dosed her with Paracetomol and ripped up and old sheet for long bandages. He’d had to strap his own ribs a few times over the years, so he knew what he was doing. She couldn’t hold the top up, it hurt too much, so he’d helped her to ease it off, looking away as she blushed and tried to cover her breasts. He’d told her to turn around and lift her arm. It was then that he first saw the scars. His mother had written to him, ages ago and told him the Valerie had hit her, but he thought she’d been exaggerating. The marks were old, but still red and raised where they hadn’t healed well. He’d touched one and she’d flinched away from him, gasping in pain from her injured ribs. He’d strapped her up, and helped her put the T shirt back on, then he’d made her get into the bed, and had brought her a cup of tea. �ŚWhy did she do it?’ he’d asked. Rachel had looked at the wall when she answered, her damp hair hanging in strands, covering her face. �ŚBecause I wouldn’t shut up about you. I kept telling them you hadn’t hurt Patsy, but no one would listen. She said if I didn’t shut up about it she would shut me up, so she got the belt.’ �ŚBut the scars, she must have nearly killed you.’ She hadn’t said anything for a minute. She’d just sipped at her tea. �ŚShe rubbed salt in, they got infected.’ He hadn’t been able to believe what he’d heard. The thought of the pain she must have been in made him feel nauseous. All because she’d defended him when nobody else would. He remembered wanting to cry at that moment, and she’d seen, and told him she was sorry, the irony of it had made him laugh. Then she’d put her arm round him and laid her head on his shoulder, and he’d pulled her onto his lap and started to rock her because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. It had begun there. On that day. When he’d first realised she wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nothing had happened between them, not then anyway. But he’d thought about it, when they were led on his single bed, her curled up against him, sleeping, her face tensing every now and again with the passing flicker of bad dreams. It was a woman’s body that he held, but he couldn’t shake off the memories of the little girl. It made him feel bad, perverse. Warped even, and he’d wondered if the years inside had twisted him in some way. Lik the essence of immorality that pervaded the prison air had seeped into his being and left him diseased. When she’d woken he’d fed her toast and made her drink more tea, and had wanted to know about the boyfriend. �ŚMother likes him, she approves. His father is a bank manager.’ She’d said, as if it explained everything. They had met in the shop, where Rachel had been working with Stella since leaving school. He’d been OK at first, given her an excuse to be away from the house sometimes. Charlie had wanted to know when the violence had started. �ŚYou know me, I get things wrong, I annoy people.’ She’d said with a shrug, as if it were normal to be oppressed by bullies, to be beaten up. What had she got wrong that day? She wouldn’t agree to sell Lila’s flat and hand over the money, the boy, Simon, had asked her to marry him and she’d said no. Everybody had been annoyed. He had liked Lila, not least because she had always been kind to Rachel. The only person in the family that had ever given her a break, in fact. Lila had died a month before, of a number of cancers that she had kept a secret until they had finally consumed her. She had lived a vivacious single life, well away from her extended family. She had never settled for marriage, preferring the company and support of other women’s husbands. Given her background, Charlie didn’t blame her. He didn’t think she had ever worked; there had been some kind of trust fund, which had given her independence and a flat, paid for, in Bayswater. When she died, leaving everything to Rachel, it turned out had she owned the whole building, and had conducted her fiscal affairs with the kind of business acumen that through some genetic fluke had completely bypassed her brother, William. Rachel had become a wealthy woman overnight. Valerie had nearly succumbed to an apoplectic fit when she heard the news, and had immediately challenged the will, but it was watertight. Lilian Porter had had the last laugh. Valerie had given Rachel an ultimatum; sell the property and release the money to the family, or leave. Rachel had chosen to leave. Simon had sided with Valerie, had made his move, even bought a ring. He hadn’t been a lad who took rejection well, and that day had been dragging Rachel back to her mother’s house to �Śtalk some sense into her’. He had never coped well with her epilepsy, and had called her a retard. She hadn’t argued with him, Rachel didn’t do arguments, but she had stuck to her guns about her intentions. �ŚSo what are you going to do?’ He’d asked. �ŚI don’t know. I don’t think I could cope with London. There are too many people, it scares me. I don’t really know what to do.’ He’d told her she could stay with him and his mother until she’d made her mind up. Anyway, Delia was out most of the time. She’d met a bloke, Howard, and was half shacked up with him in his three-bed semi across town. So she’d stayed. He’d let her have his room, sleeping instead in his mother’s garish boudoir, under her pink nylon sheets, with the smell of her perfume preventing restful sleep. At least he’d blamed his insomnia on that, though the truth was his nights were dominated by thoughts of the girl in the next room. He would lie there every night, hemmed in by Delia’s kitsch paraphernalia. A row of sinister looking china dolls peering at him like some toy town jury, their little chubby china fingers finger’s pointing towards him, glass goggle eyes full of accusation. The memory of them made him shudder. He had never once, in all her years, bought Amy a doll. Looking back, he saw that he and Rachel had been the same back then, two prisoners released into a world they weren’t equipped for. They had naturally gravitated towards each other finding comforting traits of institutionalised behaviour that felt less gauche, less insane if they stuck together. Nights in front of the TV, eating food that came from tins, drinking copious amounts of tea, going to bed at half past ten. Lights out. Neither of them went out unless they had to, Rachel almost never. She didn’t want anyone to know where she was. Charlie stayed home because he didn’t really know where else to be, though his parole officer was pushing him to look for work. They existed like that for a couple of weeks. Rachel had bought new clothes, ordered from Delia’s catalogue, paid for with Lila’s money, but mostly she slopped about the house in his old clothes. She had said that it was like wearing a comfort blanket, and he had been secretly chuffed, though he told her she looked like a reject from a concentration camp in his oversized shirts. Things got near the knuckle one night when they had been watching some ridiculous old horror film. Like bookends, they had sat either end of the sofa, nursing mugs of tea, sharing a packet of custard creams. As the atmosphere of the film grew more, and she had edged her way towards him, curled into a tight ball, and she had watched the film from almost behind him, clinging to his arm and peering out from time to time, cringing and squealing at the images on the screen. Eventually, he had turned round very slowly, and had scared her half witless by yelling �ŚBoo! Reducing her to a screaming heap of hysterical laughter. She’d clung to him, tears streaming out of her eyes, and he’d been about to kiss her, had her face in his hands, an inch away from giving in. Then his mother had walked through the front door and they had sprung apart, but she hadn’t missed the look on his face or the blush on hers. She’d frowned at him and cornered him in the kitchen after Rachel had gone to bed. �ŚWhat’s going on with you and her, then?’ She had demanded. �ŚWhile the cats away the mice will play?’ �ŚDon’t be stupid mum, nothing’s going on. We were just having a laugh, watching a film, that’s all.’ �ŚHmmmn. I believe you, thousand wouldn’t.’ She’d said. She stayed home that night and he was relegated to the sofa. At least there were no accusatory eyes to disturb his peace. But the cushion he laid his head on smelled of Rachel, and that was enough to make for a very uncomfortable night. His mother left again the next day, the lure of her social life greater than the pull of her conscience. �ŚWatch yourself; she’s half your age.’ She’d said in the hallway as she was putting on her coat. �ŚNot quite mum, she’s a grown woman.’ Delia had looked at him for a long moment, a concerned frown creasing her brow. Then she had shrugged. �ŚIt’s your funeral’. She’d said finally. That night he’d gone out, for the first time since he’d left prison. He hadn’t explained had just told Rachel he was going to the pub and had ignored the look on her face, the disappointment that was there. He’d stood in the bar, grinding his teeth, wondering when the foul tasting beer he’d been drinking would kick in and make him relax. It was surprising how vile alcohol tasted when you hadn’t had any for a long time. A woman had come up to him, vaguely familiar, wearing too much make up and too few clothes. �ŚCharlie Jones, as I live and breathe.’ She had said, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side in a slow appraisal of him. �ŚYou’re looking well. Very well.’ �ŚYou too.’ He had said, bemused. He didn’t have a clue about who she was. She had laughed at him. �ŚYou don’t remember me do you? Sadie, Sadie Phelps. We went to school together, you used to give me Wagon Wheels if I showed you my knickers behind the bike shed.’ She had laughed at his sudden embarrassment. �ŚBloody hell, don’t worry about it, we were only kids. You going to buy me a drink then or what?’ He had bought her a drink, Cinzano and lemonade as he recalled. �ŚI heard you’d come out. It was in the papers.’ She’d said, putting a slim hand, with long red nails, onto his arm. �ŚYeah, well. Ancient history.’ He’d said. Tense again. �ŚStill, we don’t have to talk about that do we?’ She said, squeezing his arm and stepping closer. They had ended up back at her flat, where she paid her babysitter and poured him a whiskey, before wedging herself next to him on the sofa and kissing him. She’d tasted of lipstick, fags, and booze. But he had kissed her back, determined to exorcise his sexual demons. It hadn’t worked. She had been down to her bra, her skirt up round her waist, had started to undo his belt, his shirt was already off. Then a kid had started crying. �ŚJesus! Fucking kids!’ She’d said, �Śwon’t be long’. By the time she got back, he was fully dressed. Left alone in the lounge he had looked around him, taken in his surroundings, noticed that his shirt was lying on a dirty carpet that emitted a faint but pervasive odour. An offensive mixture of ammonia, grease and dirt. The walls were stained yellow from nicotine and on the coffee table sat an overflowing ashtray and a rolled up, dirty, disposable nappy. �ŚNow, where were we,’ she said lasciviously, sashaying into the room, her face dropping as she realised the game had changed. �ŚWhat’s wrong?’ �ŚNothing, just got to get back home.’ He’d said, his gaze dropping to the dirty nappy. �ŚI see’ she’d said, her tone taking on a tinge of spite, �ŚSo I’ve got kids, not a crime is it?’ �ŚI’ve got to go, thanks for the drink’. He’d said, striding towards the door. He didn’t quite hear what she yelled as he shut the door behind him but it sounded like she’d called him a fucking asshole. She was right, he was. Back at the house he’d let himself in and had headed straight for the shower, he wanted the scent of Sadie Phelps off his skin, the image of her and her dirty flat out of his head. She had been another Patsy, or who Patsy might have become if she had lived. The thought of touching her made his skin crawl, and he scrubbed himself raw with Delia’s loofah to rid himself of the sensation. When he was done, he wrapped himself in a towel and crept downstairs. He perched himself on the edge of the sofa, and sat there in the dark, looking at the shifting shadows that played across the walls. Then he had started to cry. He didn’t know here it came from, but he couldn’t stop. He pressed his fist into his eyes, and took great gulps of air to stop shaking. Cool hands took his face, wiping away the tears, pulling him towards her. �ŚShhh. It’s alright. It’s alright’, she’d said. And he’d believed her, and let her kiss him, kissed her back, and forgot himself. He had never come back, the best part of him still lost somewhere inside Rachel. CHAPTER TEN The previous evening Miss Lucille Barnes-Harman had nearly jumped out of skin when the door had slammed upstairs, Miffy, her aged Bichon-Frise had started to bark with such vigour that her little feet actually left the floor with the exertion of it. Scooping her up, she’d gone to the window, and though she was not, under ordinary circumstances, a curtain twitcher, she had allowed herself the minor indignity of observing the door banger leave the building. That man again. She had observed him many times over the years, standing across the street, staring up at Miss Porter’s windows. But not for a long time now, so she was mildly surprised to see him again. Secretly she had always thought him to be a rather fine looking man, and had never been able to understand Miss Porter’s absolute refusal to have anything to do with him. It seemed that emotional dysfunction was the mainstay of modern relationships, and the mere thought of the energy required to sustain such animosity exhausted her. So much less draining simply to own a dog on which to lavish affection. However, Miss Porter was a strange sort at the best of times, too quiet, too timid even for someone of Miss Barnes-Harman’s genteel sensibilities. It had been hard to get much more than a quiet, but civil �Śgood morning’ out of the girl for the last twenty years. Not that she would have encouraged more, she had always preferred the company of dogs to that of people, but it was always disappointing to be faced with someone even more socially inept than oneself. However, they had been good neighbours, happily and comfortably leaving each other alone. This suited Miss B-H just fine. Even the rent, which gratifyingly had never increased since Miss Porter’s arrival, was still paid monthly to the solicitor. So all in all, no contact was strictly necessary. Had a visitor of the rather less urbane Mr Samuels, the tenant of the third floor flat, slammed the door she would almost certainly have complained about the disturbance. However, he was away, and even when he wasn’t his visitors were rare and usually civilised. Though she did have a suspicion that he might be homosexual, which wasn’t a subject she allowed herself to dwell on for any length of time. Much too confusing. The door-slamming incident had disturbed her equilibrium though, to the extent that she had had to resort to a small sweet sherry in order to settle herself for the night. Miffy had remained excitable all night, and had persisted in whimpering by the door for several hours afterwards, until Miss B-H had raised her voice to her, and shut her in the lounge. After all the ruckus, she’d had no choice but to attempt to sleep with earplugs in. Miffy was still unhappy when she got up, and had scratched the paintwork on the door in her efforts to get out. Most unlike her, she was usually such a docile little thing. Miss B-H had found herself quite upset by the change in her little pet. Miffy had even urinated on the kitchen floor. An event previously unknown to Miss B-H, and something that came as a most unpleasant shock and would necessitate the purchase of new carpet slippers. Even then it hadn’t occurred to her that something might be wrong, not until she had dressed herself and had Miffy on her leash ready for their morning walk did she realise that the dog had sensed a problem, and not even then until Miffy had tried to run up the stairs, rather than to the front door. In a fit of relief that her mistress had finally acknowledged her distress, Miffy pulled herself free of Miss B-H’s grip and hurtled up the stairs, trailing her lead, both barking and whimpering in turns. When Miss B-H reached the top of the stairs, the dog had disappeared in side Miss Porter’ flat, the door stood ajar, the latch set. Confused, she called out to Miffy, who came running out, tail wagging, tongue lolling and jumping up at her skirt. �ŚDown Miffy!’ she commanded, annoyed that the dog’s paws had marked her dry clean only tweed. She brushed at the marks, stared in horror at her hand, then at the floor, where Miffy was excitedly turning circles leaving perfect, bright red paw prints all over the parquet. Amy took a taxi to Glengarry Terrace, realising �Ł7.50 too late that she could have walked it from Paddington in a matter of minutes. She gave the cabbie a tenner and told him to keep the change. It was her dad’s money, what did she care? She was still lividly angry with him, but now that she was here, outside Rachel’s flat, the wind had dropped out of her sails at the prospect of finally confronting her mother. There was a small cafe right opposite, so she went in and ordered herself a coffee, glad of the cheery atmosphere which smelled of normality. She found a seat by the window so that she could watch the flat. Maybe her mother would come out and she would at least be able to get a look at her before, well before whatever. A plump Mediterranean looking woman brought over her Latte, and followed her gaze through the window to the building across the road. �ŚThere you go love’ she said putting the drink down, �Śright old to do over there this morning. I’d only just got me pinny on when this old dear comes running out of there yelling her head off covered in blood!’ the woman shook her head as if to tell Amy that she didn’t know what the world was coming to. �ŚTurns out some woman who lives there has been attacked or something, course I called 999 and all hell broke loose, police, ambulances, you name it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the bloody coastguard had turned up just for good measure!’ she had added with a cheery laugh. �ŚPoor old dear that found her was in a right old state though, kept babbling on about some bloke turning up last night in a white van, banging doors. Reckoned he’d done the woman in. Mind you, there was a heck of a lot of blood. Had the police over here going through me CCTV tape, got to have it these days see, there’s some rough sorts up Queensway, and sure enough, there he is, bold as brass, on camera, screeching off in his van. On my CCTV, can you believe it?! Tell you what love; you see it all round here. Never a dull moment.’ The cogs in Amy’s brain started to click and whir. �ŚWhat kind of van was it?’ she asked, heart lurching. �ŚWell, put it this way, the bloke won’t get far. It was builders van, had his name plastered all over it. Bloody fool! C. Jones, General Builder even had the bloody phone number. Might as well have left a calling card! Eh, you all right love? You don’t look so good’. Apprehending Stella Baxter had gone like a dream. So smoothly in fact that there had been a frisson of disappointment amongst the team, members of which had been hoping for something a little more exciting. But Stella had just come quietly. So quietly, that she hadn’t said a word since. Inside the interview room, Ratcliffe took a long hard look at the benign little woman who sat opposite him. She seemed comfortable, calm even. Not what he had expected at all. He reminded her of her rights. She sighed, examined the back of her left hand, then turned it over and examined the front. �ŚDo you understand Mrs Baxter, Stella?’ he said, sharing a weary, wary glance with Angela Watson. Stella sighed. �ŚYes I understand, and no I do not wish to seek legal representation or take legal advice. I have done nothing wrong. I am aware of my rights and I am happy to answer your questions.’ Well, that took the wind out of my sails, Ratcliffe thought, loosening his tie and shifting in his seat. He cleared his throat. �ŚOk, let’s begin with an explanation of your whereabouts for the last week.’ Stella nodded. �ŚI’ve been staying in the flat, above the shop.’ He could feel Watson staring at him and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Bollocks! No one had thought to ask if there was a flat above the old family shop. They would need to check it out, and soon. Embarrassed, he nodded to the amused looking WPC who was standing by the door, and told the tape that Officer Harper had stepped out of the room. Nothing more was said until she came back in, when he announced to the tape that the interview would continue. �ŚWere you aware of the discovery of two sets of human remains at your old home The Limes?’ Stella gave a wan smile. �ŚI would have to be deaf dumb and blind not to be. I have read the newspapers.’ �ŚSo you were aware that we were searching for you?’ �ŚI wasn’t very far; you could have found me easily enough.’ She said with a nonchalant shrug. �ŚWhy didn’t you hand yourself in, when you knew we were looking for you?’ �ŚBecause I was wanted for murdering my husband, which incidentally, I did not do. Also, I had things I wanted to sort out.’ Ratcliff chose to ignore her assertion of innocence for the time being. �ŚWhat things.’ �ŚI had affairs to settle. People I wanted to see.’ �ŚWilliam Smith?’ �ŚYes.’ �ŚHow long have you known, or suspected that William Smith was your father?’ She laughed, �ŚI’ve known he was my father since I was born Detective Sergeant. And before you ask, yes I knew he was alive. I have always known that. Who do you think has been financially supporting him all this time?’ she paused. �ŚLook why don’t I just tell you everything I know and you can ask me questions when you feel it’s necessary?’ It wasn’t the kind of process Ratcliffe was used to, though he much preferred to play the nice cop in these situations, he wasn’t used to being told how his interviews were going to be conducted. �ŚWhy don’t you do just that Mrs Baxter?’ He said, folding his arms and settling back into his chair, this at least would be interesting. Stella had been thinking about this kind of moment for days, had known it would come sooner or later. Had even rehearsed what she might say. Now that the time had come, she felt a sense of relief. �ŚI’d like to start by explaining my background to you, I know you may already have this information in factual form, but it’s important to me that you understand how things were for us as a family. Facts do not explain context. My own mother died when I was very young, she suffered from Tuberculosis and spent a great deal of time away from home, in a sanatorium. No one told me when she died. I was allowed to continue to believe that she was getting better in some clinic. In fact I didn’t find out she wasn’t coming back until my father married again.’ She paused, checking their faces for a response. Ratcliffe nodded, �Śgo on.’ Watson leaned forward with his hands clasped on the table and studied the little woman intently. �ŚI was sent to stay in London with my aunt Lilian. When I came home, my father had married our housekeeper, my grandmother had lost her mind, I had a new sister who I hated and my world had changed beyond all recognition. My father was never a man who found it easy to take responsibility, by then he preferred to view the world through the bottom of a bottle. I went to a small private prep school, I was happy there. It was the one constant in my life. But there wasn’t much money and Frances was considered brighter than me, so she took my place, and my grandmother was put in a home. I was eight years old.’ She checked their reactions again. �ŚPlease don’t misunderstand me, I’m not looking for pity, I just want to paint a picture of what life was like in that house.’ �ŚMy father was too busy messing up his business and losing all the family money to be too worried about me. And his new wife was not a happy woman, she hadn’t realised things were such a mess. I think she felt she’d been cheated, and she became very bitter. Very bitter. I think she blamed me to some extent, or at least she took it out on me. I think the only person she cared about was Frances. You see I was small and plain and too much like my mother and I don’t think Valerie could tolerate any of those things well. She despised my father for letting her down. Anyway, in order to save money she had my grandmother moved into a state run home, persuaded my father to bail out of the engineering firm and bought the shop. The house was mostly shut up, to save on bills, but she still managed to find the money to pay a cleaner.’ �ŚDelia Jones?’ Watson interjected. �ŚYes, Delia. Anyway, I’ll spare you the details, but life was not pleasant at home. I left school at sixteen and worked in the shop. I wasn’t considered much good for anything else, and it saved on wages. Frances stayed at school. Delia’s son Charlie went to the same school as me, and he used to spend the holidays at the house. Valerie hated him, I don’t know why, but she absolutely despised him. There wasn’t a lot she could do about it though because she needed Delia, and nobody else would have been willing to work for us, not for the money she got anyway. We weren’t exactly a conventional family. To be honest I think she resented him because she had always wanted a son. I think she had a couple of miscarriages when I was younger. Eventually she had a hysterectomy, and it sent her a bit strange. She blamed my father for it, in fact I think she had a bit of a breakdown. Could I have some water please?’ Watson fetched her water, while Ratcliffe asked, �Śwhat about Rachel, you haven’t mentioned her yet?’ Stella sipped her water. �ŚRachel wasn’t born at that time.’ �ŚBut you said Valerie had a hysterectomy’ Watson said, confused. �ŚYes, she did. Valerie wasn’t Rachel’s mother.’ Ratcliffe leaned forward. �ŚSorry?’ �ŚValerie wasn’t Rachel’s mother’. �ŚThen who was?’ Watson asked. Stella sighed, and cast he gaze around the steel grey walls of the interview room. Then she inspected her hand again, both sides, like Lady Macbeth. Finally, she answered, �ŚI am. Rachel is mine.’ Mike Ratcliffe and Angela Watson were sitting in his car, outside her house, trying to come to terms with one of the oddest days either of them had ever experienced. �ŚYou want to come in for a drink boss?’ Angela asked, undoing her seat belt. He glanced at his watch, it had been a long day, and the wife would complain that he was late again. �ŚSure, why not? But don’t call me boss.’ �ŚOK, guv.’ She said with a grin. He laughed, he hadn’t realised before, but she was a really nice kid. Inside she offered him a beer, deftly cracking off the cap on the side of the sink. He was impressed. �ŚParty trick?’ She shook her head, �ŚNah, lost the bottle opener. Cheers.’ She said raising her bottle to her mouth and taking a good long slug. �ŚAhhhhhh.’ Ratcliffe grinned and followed suit. �ŚSo, here we are, drinking beer, in your kitchen.’ Angela shrugged, �Ścan drink it in the lounge if you want. I have chairs.’ He followed her through and perched himself on the edge of a large leather sofa. �ŚNice place.’ �ŚThanks. Is it me, or have we just had a bloody strange day?’ �ŚOddest I’ve never known. Mind if I recap, you can correct me if I’m wrong?’ �ŚFire away guv, fire away.’ �ŚOK, let me see if I’ve got this right. The mother is barking, lost the plot. The father is a drunk, a waste of space. Frances is a spoilt bitch; Stella is the Cinderella character. Right?’ Watson nodded and handed him another beer. �ŚPorter had been interfering with Stella for years and the mother turns a blind eye to it, there has been one pregnancy when Stella was thirteen, which explains our dead baby. Ferris says stillborn, Stella says smothered at birth by Valerie. The clothes he was found in were the clothes intended for Valerie’s child, the one she miscarried. When Stella is sixteen, there’s another baby, Rachel, who Valerie takes on as her own kid. Stella leaves school, ends up working in the shop so no one knows she’s pregnant, and the mother, sorry Stepmother takes the kid on and passes her off as her own. Have I got this right?’ �ŚThat’s the way I heard it boss.’ Watson said with a shudder. �ŚRight, so, Valerie’s had enough of the old man’s shenanigans when she finds out he’s having a go at Frances, so she boots him out and pretends he’s dead. But Stella looks out for him, gives him money, takes him food lets him live in the flat above the shop til he takes to the streets. By the way, we have some explaining to do to Benton about the fact we missed the flat above the shop. She is not going to like that one bit.’ �ŚFuck Benton, off the record of course. What I don’t get is how Stella could look after the guy when he’d done that to her, her own father for Christ’s sake. Makes me want to vomit!’ Angela said with a shudder, trying to push the picture of it out of her mind. She had seen the man in the psychiatric unit, a filthy old drunk. In her opinion, he should be shot. �ŚI know, I know, difficult to stomach. The only thing I can think of is that he was the only one left out of her old life. Let’s face it she is one seriously fucked up individual. Whatever the truth, we aren’t going to get a conviction out of this, so she’ll be going to Broadmoor.’ �ŚWell at least we know what happened to the baby, poor little sod. I don’t’ know about you but I don’t believe that Valerie smothered him. I think Ferris is right, besides if Valerie wanted a boy, she would have kept him and smothered Rachel, right?’ Ratcliffe pulled a face, �ŚMaybe, don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Besides its all semantics really, even if Stella is telling the truth, there isn’t anyone to bring to book.’ �ŚWhat about Roy Baxter, do you buy her version of events there?’ Angela wanted to know. Ratcliffe rubbed his forehead and exhaled slowly. �ŚDon’t know, but she’s still the prime suspect even though she insists it wasn’t her. I kind of want to believe her though.’ He said, looking at Angela for affirmation of his instincts. Angela scoffed, �Śwhat? You want to believe all that about him having a fling with Charlie Jones’s wife and planning to leave, and her being relieved. I mean, come on, she claims that Valerie practically sold her to Baxter with the promise of money he soon found out didn’t exist! I mean I can accept it was a loveless marriage and all, but her story isn’t exactly an alibi, in fact it’s more of a motive than anything else.’ �ŚI think she genuinely believed that he left her. She hated him all right, and I can’t say I blame her. But, if she is a killer, why not kill Valerie? She made her life more of a misery than Baxter ever did?’ Angela threw herself back in the chair, defeated. �ŚI don’t know guv. I can’t make head or tale of any of it. It’s the weirdest story I’ve ever heard, that’s a fact’. �ŚYou’re not wrong there kid. Got any more of that beer going?’ �ŚYeah, but you’re driving aren’t you?’ He gave her a sly grin, �ŚThought I might commandeer your sofa tonight?’ Angela shook her head and fetched him another drink. �ŚNo wonder your wife doesn’t bloody understand you!’ Stella contemplated the meal the custody sergeant had just deposited in front of her. A shrivelled beef burger, some congealed beans, and a scoop of mashed potato, all served unceremoniously on a paper plate. He handed her a plastic knife and fork and she thanked him. Though it was possibly the most unappetising food she had ever been faced with, she ate it anyway. Better to force it down than stay hungry. She had a morbid fear of hunger. Withdrawing food had been one of Valerie’s favourite punishments. After she had eaten, and placed the plastic cutlery neatly on top of the plate on the shelf near the cell door, she lay on the hard bunk, rolling up the blanket to make a pillow. They had taken her shoes, her coat and her belt. Anything in fact, which she might have used to hurt herself with. Curling herself into a tight, foetal ball, she went back over what she had told the police that day. She had told them the truth. Of course, they were shocked about her relationship with her father. Nevertheless, she loved him, despite all his faults, she loved him. And he loved her. Though now he didn’t even know who she was. Was it so wrong to seek comfort in the people one loved? By the look on their faces it was. She had always known that other people wouldn’t understand, her father had told her that. They would impose wrongness on it, he’d said. He was right, they had. Valerie had never prevented it, but she must have known, wasn’t it her jealousy of it that had driven her to do the things she did? It must have been or she would never have taken the babies the way she had. The first one had been a shock. She had known that something was happening to her body, she was getting fat, which was hard in a house where food was a bargaining chip. No one had noticed, not until the pains had started and she had thought she was going to die. Valerie had made Frances hold a rag in her mouth to stop her screaming during the birth, there had been a lot of pain, and a lot of blood. She had never seen the baby, it had never cried, neither had she. She didn’t even know it was a boy until she had read the paper, she had cried then. Had whispered it into her father’s ear the next time she saw him, but he had just stared at her, his eyes blank. Rachel had been different, she had known then what was happening, had hidden it too, but had known what was making her belly swell. Valerie had noticed more quickly that time, had pulled her out of school, had fed her and made her rest and then taken the baby for her own. Her father had not been pleased, had turned away from her, and now wouldn’t look at her anymore. He just drank and shut the door in her face. He wouldn’t speak to anyone, only Frances. She had hated Frances even more than usual then. She wasn’t allowed to touch the baby and she wasn’t allowed to see her father. Then Valerie threw him out because she had found him in Frances’s room. He had stayed in the flat for a while, taking her money, eating the food she took for him, drinking the brandy she left by the door. But he didn’t love her anymore. Didn’t even look at her. Valerie had found out about the flat and had made him leave, he had lived on the streets then, but she’d still looked after him. Until he disappeared. It had taken her years to find out where he’d gone, but she’d gone to him as soon as he’d found out. They hadn’t believed her about Roy, she knew that for sure. They still thought that she had killed him. It wasn’t true, though she had thought about it a few times. Valerie had made her marry him, because he’d thought they had money. Valerie had thought vice versa. She was easily taken in by a well cut suit and a flash car, but that was all there was to Roy. Just a car, some clothes, and a temper. He had been a builder, had taken Charlie Jones on as his little acolyte, enjoying the role of teacher and mentor, enjoying the fact that he could seduce Charlie’s girlfriend with practised ease. She wasn’t the first, and she wasn’t the only one either. Even Frances chased after him like a lovesick puppy, giving Stella snide glances as she flirted with him. She flirted with Charlie too. However, she hadn’t really cared, she had her father and she had Rachel, what the others did hadn’t mattered. She had stood in court and given evidence against Charlie Jones, not just because it was the right thing to do, she had seen him kneeling by Patsy’s body holding the knife after all. No, it hadn’t been just that, she had been angry too. Roy had been planning to leave with Patsy, she had wanted that, wanted to be free of him, and in killing Patsy, Charlie had robbed her of that freedom, it was only fair that she played her part in robbing him of his. Only fair. When Roy had gone a few months later, she had been relieved. So relieved she had never questioned it. In the weeks after Patsy’s death, he had been a mess, showing a depth of grief that had surprised her. She hadn’t realised he was capable of love, or the kind of cruelty the loss of it had brought out in him. When he had gone, the space he had occupied in their lives had closed subtly and succinctly, it was as if he had never existed. No one talked about him, and no one grieved his absence, not even Frances who had been his biggest fan. Life had consisted then of the shop, of home, of Rachel, of keeping her father alive, of tolerating Valerie, avoiding Frances when possible, of being civil to Frances’s fiancé Peter, and being rude to Rachel’s boyfriend. Then Lilian had died, Valerie had smelled money, and Rachel had run away. It had broken her heart when she found out that Rachel had had a baby and had married Charlie Jones and that she would never see her again. It was only a few years ago that she had found out what Valerie had done, had heard the cruel lie that had robbed her of her daughter and her grandchild. Valerie had been particularly unpleasant that day, her health was failing and she was eaten up with bitterness by then, and would goad, push and poke at Stella at every opportunity. But the best strategy with Valerie was never to bite, never to acknowledge the sting of her words. She had tried to walk away that day, but Valerie liked to win, and had played her trump card, spewing out the lie she had told that had sent Rachel away. Then she had laughed, Stella could her now, in her mind’s eye, laughing at her, head thrown back, showing her rotten yellow teeth, pointing her skinny crooked finger at her and laughing. It had felt like a piece of elastic snapping in her brain, a twang that had released her from the quiet reason she had always known. Something unfamiliar and liberating had sent her running across the room towards that hideous gaping hole of a mouth and had forced her to pick up a cushion and press it with all her might against the source of that awful tortuous noise. She had kept it there until the skinny arms had stopped clawing at her, and had sagged lifeless to the old woman’s sides. Only then did she take the cushion away so that she could spit in the face that had caused her so much misery. Valerie hadn’t died, but she had had a stroke, her face collapsed in a horror mask of shock and disbelief. Stella had watched dispassionately as her tormentor had fought to get out of the chair, her face creasing with confusion as her body and her voice refused to do her bidding. When she was sure that Valerie was not going to regain her speech she had called an ambulance. It was a day later, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure, she had spent a long time watching. She hadn’t told the police about the cushion, just that Valerie had had a stroke and that she had closed the shop in order to care for her. And care for her she had, in that mouldering old house, just the two of them, Valerie silent with just her own thoughts for company, Stella at peace with her world, though it was decaying around her ears. It was surprising how little money two people could survive on, especially when one of you ate so little. Just porridge, twice a day, every day. Cheap and nutritious, at least that had been what Valerie had told Stella when she’d fed it to her as a child. If you economised on one person, the other could have more, and Stella had whatever she wanted, and ate it in front of Valerie. She had learned a lot from Valerie over the years, everything she knew about looking after those less fortunate than herself had come from her stepmother’s teaching. Then, Valerie had died all on her own. Another stroke. And Stella had been free for a little while. She had left the house the day of the funeral, after Frances and Peter had left. She knew there would be trouble as soon as Peter found out there would be no inheritance, not then anyway. There was no reason to stay. So she had gone to the flat and then sought out her father to tell him the good news. Then her face had been in the newspaper. She had read the article and come to the quiet conclusion that there was no peace for the wicked. After all, hadn’t her whole life been a cliché? Ratcliffe lay on Angela’s sofa, zipped uncomfortable into a too warm sleeping bag, wearing just his underpants. He had phoned Maria and left a message telling her he would not be home that night. She was used to it, so used to it she didn’t even bother to stay home and wait for him anymore, god knows where she was when he rang, probably at some Pilates class or at her book group. After the day he’d had even Angela’s sofa had more appeal than a night in front of the TV with a microwave meal and his own company. Even when Maria did come home she would just complain about the mess he’d made, then take herself off up to bed in the spare room, where she would spend the night banging on the wall to interrupt his snoring. He didn’t know why he stayed really, or why she did for that matter, he guessed that neither of them really had anywhere better to be, either that or it didn’t occur to them to look. He didn’t hate her, but he just didn’t like her very much anymore. When he thought about the Porter clan, he figured he ought to count himself lucky. His loveless marriage was a walk in the park compared to that melting pot of iniquity. The story that Stella had told beggared belief and left him in a difficult situation. She had accused her father of incest, but the man was old, hardly able to withstand arrest let alone trial. Besides, though she had made the claim, she didn’t see it as the real crime of her past. In Stella’s mind, Valerie was the real abuser. The whole business left a sour taste in Ratcliffe’s mouth and for the first time since he had worked for her he had to concur that his bosses instincts about his case had been good, Benton had steered well clear of it. However, Stella had still not confessed to the murder of her husband. They couldn’t legitimately hold her much longer without charging her, so either way, confession or not, he would have to charge her the next day. He glanced up at the clock, and saw that it was already the next day. Amy sat on the steps of the building where her mother lived, aware that the woman in the cafe was sending surreptitious glances at her from across the road. In less than twenty-four hours, everything that she had ever been certain of had turned on its head, and she didn’t know what to do. The door behind her clicked open and a small, elderly woman towing an excitable little dog made her way down the steps giving Amy a disproving glance as she passed. �ŚCome along Miffy, we shall go for our walk in the park, where there are benches for people to sit on’, the woman said loudly as she made off down the road, her chin raised showing an indignant profile. Amy glanced backwards and noticed that the door was still slowly easing shut, without thinking she hurtled up the steps and caught it a fraction of a second before it closed. Without looking behind her, she slipped quietly into the building and found herself in a large hallway. The house was immensely quiet after the busy rush of the London streets. Now that she was inside, she was undecided about her next move. She walked along the silent passageway, noting the number of the first door. Her mother’s flat must be upstairs. Feeling like a thief, she made her way up the stairs, expecting that at any moment someone would leap out and start yelling at her. But the hushed house presented no unpleasant surprises. Except for the dried blood on the landing floor, smeared and dirty from many feet. The door to her mother’s flat stood ajar. A thin strip of crime scene tape had been stuck across the doorframe as if it would actually keep anyone out. Checking once more to be sure, some silent, stealthy witness wasn’t observing her, she ducked under the tape and walked into the flat. Opposite the front door was a kitchen, the floor of which was thickly covered in smeared, congealing blood. She stared at it for a long time, unable to establish the name of any emotion she could attach to the scene. The blood looked so incongruous, juxtaposed as it was against a backdrop of faded 1950’s domesticity. All china and chintz, it looked like a murder scene set from a bad Agatha Christie film. It occurred to her that a pool of blood on the floor would never look congruent, no matter what the setting. She wandered through to the sitting room. It was furnished like a rococo boudoir. Everything was ornate, all scrolled and fussy. Not what she had expected at all, it painted a picture of some femme fatale, dressed to kill, sporting a martini. There was even a cocktail cabinet to prove the point. It wasn’t the picture of her mother that she’d had in her mind at all. From the one or two photo’s she had ever seen, Rachel did not look like someone who would drape fringed silk shawls over lampshades. This didn’t fit. She was trying to imagine her father here, last night, attacking her mother. It didn’t fit. Though her heart told her he couldn’t have done it, logic told her he must have. Rachel had been attacked, he had been here, and his van was on CCTV. And it hadn’t been the first time. An unexpected butterfly of fear unfurled its’ wings in her gut and fluttered painfully through her chest. No one was who they pretended to be, not him, not the mother who was supposed to be dead, not her grandmother. If they weren’t who they were supposed to be, who was she? It seemed she was the child of a violent misogynist and some kind of nostalgia freak hooker, and the grandchild of a liar. The thought made her laugh and want to cry at the same time, she put her hand across her mouth to stifle a sob and sank down miserably onto a chaise longue. She didn’t notice her father come into the room. �ŚAmy?’ The sound of his voice sent a frisson of panic through her, she scrambled backwards and screamed. �ŚDon’t come near me!’ she shrieked. He stepped towards her, confused. �ŚAmy, what’s going on, what happened. Where’s Rachel, are you all right?’ She wedged herself into the corner of the chaise, shaking. �ŚYou tell me, you’re the one who was here last night, you’re the one who attacked her.’ Charlie’s face contorted into a mask of confusion. �ŚWhat? Look, I know your upset, but I can explain.’ Amy stared at him in disbelief. �ŚI don’t want to hear it. There’s blood all over the place, and you want me to listen to you explain? You’ve lost the plot.’ Her voice was wavering. Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance, at least four policemen had run onto the flat bawling at him to get down on the floor. He just stood there for a moment, blinking at her, until the mechanical click and whir of a taser,being primed brought him to his senses and he dropped to his knees. As the men swarmed into the flat and manhandled him Amy found herself dissolving into the worst kind of hysteria, blubbing like an idiot, covering her head with her hands and curling herself into a pathetic little ball on the chaise longue. She couldn’t watch as her father was dragged out of the flat in handcuffs and loaded into the back of a police van. When she was brought out, still shaking, her arm held in the firm grip of a huge policeman who looked as if he was geared up for a riot, she saw the woman from the cafe, and the lady with the dog staring across at her, their expressions loaded with concern. Out of shame, she looked away. CHAPTER ELEVEN Rachel’s head felt like a lead weight, and a vague pain was travelling through her right leg, all the way up into her right arm where it throbbed and peaked into a searing heat in her hand. She tried to sit up, but the effort of it became diverted and it came out of her mouth as a feeble groan. She opened her eyes and ascertained from the glimpse of faded green curtains and the whiteness that she was in hospital. She managed to turn her head to the left, though the movement was exhausting and saw a bag of blood hanging from a drip stand, feeding itself steadily into her left arm. The sensation of heavy bandaging on her limbs made her feel as though she’d been mummified. A nurse came into view and fiddled with something on the line, and smiled. �ŚYou’re back with us then? Good, I’ll fetch the doctor’. A few minutes later a balding middle-aged man wearing baggy scrubs appeared at her bedside, gave her a transient, insipid smile and began to flick through a brown folder. She watched as he scribbled something down. �ŚA narrow escape I should say Ms Porter.’ He said with another insipid smile. Rachel blinked at him, a narrow escape from what? �ŚYes, you’ve had several pints of our very valuable blood today.’ �ŚWhy?’ she rasped, her mouth felt like she had been force fed dry cream crackers. �ŚI’ll get the nurse to bring you some water. But take it easy, we could do without you being sick.’ Again, the smile, did he think he was being amusing? �ŚI imagine you will need to stay with us for a while, you’ll be taken up to the ward as soon as we are happy that everything is stable. We’ve managed to repair the damage to the blood vessels in your leg, but it will be a painful recovery and I expect you will have some extensive scarring from the wound. Your hand has been stitched, your blood has been topped up and in a few days, you should feel much better. I’m told that there are two police officers waiting to talk to you, so when you are feeling up to it, let the nursing staff know and they’ll send them in. I’ll be along to check on you later.’ He gave her a curt nod and moved away. Leg? Blood? Police? What the hell had happened? Detective Sergeant Sally Morgan was a tired looking woman, with dry hair and a cheap polyester suit. Her young apprentice, DC, Matt Bulmore, was an altogether smarter proposition. He stood at the end of the Rachel’s bed looking deadly serious, legs apart, feet firmly planted on the floor. His hands were loosely clasped in front of him and he looked like he should be wearing mirrored shades and be guarding the president. Rachel’s’ fuddled mind invited her to laugh, but she bit it back, everything hurt too much. DS Morgan pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, �ŚHow are you feeling?’ She asked’ �ŚSore, confused. What happened to me?’ �ŚWe were hoping you’d be able to tell us. Do you remember anything at all?’ Rachel raked back through her memory. �ŚI cut my hand on a broken plate, I was upset I think.’ �ŚWho had upset you?’ �ŚI’d had a bad day.’ She said simply, she didn’t have the energy to explain. �ŚDo you remember Charles Jones being in your flat last night?’ �ŚYes, he brought me home. I wasn’t well, I have epilepsy.’ �ŚHow did the plate get broken?’ Rachel screwed her eyes up, concentrating on recalling what had happened. �ŚWe argued, he slammed the door and it fell off the shelf.’ �ŚDid Mr Jones cause your injuries?’ Rachel stared at her, �ŚWhat? Charlie? No, of course not.’ �ŚSo how do you explain your injuries?’ DS Morgan asked wearily, as if she were tired of stupid females covering up for violent men. �ŚI don’t know, I know I cut my hand, but Charlie didn’t do anything, he’d gone by then.’ �ŚSo how do you explain the bruising to your face and the stab wound to your leg?’ Rachel was starting to feel mildly panicked, �ŚI don’t know, I must have done it myself, had a fit or something, but it wasn’t Charlie. Honestly’. �ŚHow can you be sure? It would be difficult to inflict those kinds of injuries to oneself. You are aware that Mr Jones has a history of violent attacks on women?’ She made it sound like he was some kind of serial rapist. �ŚWhat exactly is the nature of your current relationship with Mr Jones?’ She pressed. �ŚWe were, are, married, but have been separated for a long time.’ �ŚOur records show that you took an injunction out against Mr Jones some time ago, on grounds of harassment, that injunction had a power of arrest attached. It would appear that you have some fear of your husband.’ Oh God! �ŚIt wasn’t like that, it wasn’t for violence. Charlie has never hurt me’. She said, beginning to really panic, how could she possibly explain this without opening a whole can of worms. �ŚWhy would you take an injunction out against someone who posed no risk to you?’ Rachel was floundering, but was saved from answering by Mr FBI’s phone ringing. He left the ward to take the call, beckoning to DS Morgan to follow. While they were gone, she tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. There had to be a simple solution to this. DS Morgan and Mr FBI came back into the ward and placed themselves back by her bed. �ŚRight, where were we?’ Morgan said, looking moderately annoyed. �ŚIf I state that I was not attacked by Charlie, you can’t do anything can you?’ Rachel asked. Morgan sighed, and then leaned forward, clasping her hands together and resting her forearms on her knees. She looked up at Rachel from beneath her frizzy fringe. �ŚI’m afraid that’s not the case anymore. If we have grounds to believe that Mr Jones caused your injuries, we can prosecute him with or without your testimony. Domestic violence is a serious matter. Besides I have just been informed that Mr Jones has been taken into custody, he was witnessed breaking into your flat a few hours ago.’ �ŚI don’t believe you.’ Rachel said instinctively. DS Morgan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mr FBI, �ŚNevertheless. Mr Jones is currently sitting in a cell, awaiting an interview. It would help us to understand exactly what happened last night.’ Rachel tried desperately to stop her thoughts from spitting and popping like fireworks, determined that the tingling sensation that fizzed through her nerves would not result in a fit. The last thing she could remember seeing was Mr FBI’s face contorting as her eyes started to roll back into her head. Amy had never cried so much in her life. Before this, there had never been anything to cry about. It made her realise how cushioned she had been by her family, how much Charlie and Delia had done to protect her from everything that might hurt her. As a consequence, she had just wandered blithely through her life expecting it always to be a smooth ride. Now, sitting in a side room in the police station, being fed cheap coffee, and handed rough tissues by a WPC who looked as if she would rather be sticking pins in her eyes than babysitting an overwrought girl, Amy realised that she had been spoilt. Her burgeoning resentment told her that they had protected themselves more than they had ever cushioned her. Look at her now, fallen at the first hurdle. Another WPC came into the room and whispered something to Amy’s sentinel. �ŚYour dad’s being released without charge.’ She said coolly when the other had left the room, her tone indicating that she would like to charge them both with wasting police time. �ŚCan I see him?’ �ŚI’ll take you through to reception and you can wait for him there.’ Amy gave her a tearstained smile, �ŚThanks’, and got a grudging nod in return. When Charlie finally came through the security door, he looked like he had aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Amy was shocked, he had always looked pretty good for his age, so to see him like this, unshaven, exhausted, defeated, was like a smack in the face. �ŚDad?’ He didn’t speak to her, just closed his eyes for a moment and took in a deep, deep breath. Outside he walked ahead of her. He had never done that, never ignored her before. She really didn’t like it. �ŚDad where are you going?’ He didn’t stop walking; just spoke to her over his shoulder. �ŚTo get the van.’ He stuck his hand out and flagged down a passing taxi. He didn’t even hold the door for her, so she just had to scramble in after him. Inside she looked at him tentatively, scared of him for the first time; she had never known him like this. He lay his head on the back of his seat, closed his eyes and seemed to let out that long breath he’d taken a few minutes before. �ŚDad?’ She said, the tears threatening her composure yet again. He didn’t open his eyes. �ŚLook, Amy, I know you’re upset and confused, but I can’t talk to you now. I’m sorry. I haven’t slept in twenty four hours, I’ve had a pretty shit day, and to be honest with you I just need you to shut up and give me a break for a bit, OK?’ He had never spoken to her like that, not once, she had always been his little princess and it came as a jolt to find that he wasn’t putting her first for once. She bit her lip and tried not to start bawling again. He didn’t speak to her for the rest of the journey, just kept his eyes shut the whole time. Once back outside Rachel’s flat she was surprised to see him feeding the parking meter, instead of getting into the van. It already had a ticket on it, but he ripped it off the windscreen and put it in his pocket. Then he stalked round the corner and walked into the first hotel he came to and booked a room. She wouldn’t have said it was seedy, at a hundred and fifty pounds a night, it couldn’t have been that bad, but from the snide looks the young male receptionist kept giving them, she figured it wasn’t exactly the Savoy. Under normal circumstances she would have countered his sly looks with a haughty �ŚI’m his daughter, actually!’ but today, she just wanted to disappear into the nearest big hole. Besides, she could see his point, an older bloke, looking a bit rough round the edges, booking one room with a young woman in tow. It would have looked bad to most people. The receptionist returned Charlie’s credit card and glanced self-importantly over the counter, �ŚAny bags sir?’ he asked with barely disguised disdain. Charlie didn’t bother to reply, just snatched the key card out of his hand and stalked towards the lift, Amy following, shamefaced, in his wake. Inside the room, Charlie took off his jacket and threw it onto the chair. Then he took off his boots and flung them unceremoniously onto the floor. �ŚI need to sleep. I can’t think straight. Wake me up in four hours, and if you can’t wake me, go and shove some more money into that damned meter will you?’ With that, he lay on the bed and turned his back to her, and was snoring within seconds. Amy sat on the chair for a few minutes, listening to the rise and fall of his apnoeic breathing. She had never felt this bad in her life. She thought about phoning her Nan, but knew she would only end up dealing with Delia’s misery over the whole thing, she wasn’t up to it. There were her mates of course, but they would have too many questions, the same ones she had, so what would be the point. The only person she really needed right now was the man on the bed doing the fantastic impression of a foghorn. But even if he hadn’t been asleep, he didn’t want to talk to her. In a way she couldn’t blame him, all her shrieking when the police had turned up hadn’t exactly helped the situation. They were half convinced he had tried to attack her, and by the looks of him now, they hadn’t given him an easy time of it. Not that they had beaten him up or anything, but they’d dragged him into the back of the van as if he was a sack of potatoes. They had handcuffed him too. She felt really bad, she shouldn’t have shown off like that, but the whole scene in the flat had really freaked her out, what with the blood everywhere. It had taken some talking to convince them that he hadn’t hurt her, and even to persuade them that she was his daughter. Fortunately, she remembered that she had her birth certificate in her bag, along with the letter’s and the marriage certificate. Only when she’d shown them that, had they believed she hadn’t been the victim of something terrible. They had grilled her about what she was doing in the flat, and why he’d come back. She couldn’t answer for him but told them she guessed he’d come to find her, but that only made sense in the context of her having run off to find her mother. One of them had said that if the whole tale had been a plot on East Enders, they would never have screened it. They were probably right. The fact was there was no way she could sit there for the next four hours doing nothing, her head would explode! She was knackered herself, but any chance of sleep was impossible, notwithstanding the questions that were whirling around in her head, the snoring alone would have stopped Rip Van Winkle from nodding off. There was only one thing she could do, finish what she had started, and go to find her mother. Just in case he should wake up, she left him a note. �ŚGone to find Rachel, I’ll be back, don’t worry. X.’ She set the bedside alarm to go off in three and a half hours, just to be on the safe side. She hoped she would be back by then, but she had to find Rachel first. After the fit they had given her some pretty heavy sedatives, she had slept for hours. When she woke up it was almost dark, and she had been moved to a side room. Everything was even more painful than it had been before, as she found to her cost when she tried to sit up. The last thing she could recall was the frizzy haired policewoman telling her that Charlie had attacked her. Anything could have happened in the hours she had been sleeping. The call bell for the nurse was on her right side. She tried to reach across with her good hand, but the pressure on her leg as her weight shifted caused her so much pain that she nearly passed out with the effort. There was no choice, she would just have to sit it out and wait for someone to come in. As she laid there, the twilight sending creeping shadows across the walls, she wished that they hadn’t found her at all, that she could have just faded away on the kitchen floor. Then they might have tried to say that Charlie had killed her. Oh God! Would it never end? No matter what she did, trouble just kept coming. Even in death, her mother was having the last laugh! She should never have gone back, should have ripped up Frances’s letters without ever having read them, then none of this would be happening. Everything would have just gone on as it had before. Maybe she had grown complacent over the years, even curious. It had been so long since she had seen Frances, there had been a strange compulsion in her to go back and study her. Maybe she had been looking for some kind of redemption, though she should have known she would never get it from Frances. That day, when she had arrived at the house, when Frances had been purging the place, there had been no acknowledgement of the albatross around Rachel’s neck. Frances had just greeted her as the feckless younger sister who needed to share the load. Then other things had taken over, had muddied the waters, and had led them to this. A point where in order for anything to change, the truth had to be told. The door swung open, �ŚLook at this, let’s put the light on shall we, we don’t want you lying here all on your own in the dark do we?’ The nurse said, flicking the light switch and forcing Rachel to screw up her eyes against the sudden intrusion. �ŚJust come do your checks.’ She added, wrapping a tight cuff around Rachel’s arm and sticking an electronic thermometer into her ear. The cuff on her arm began to inflate, to the point where it was causing her more discomfort than the injuries. �ŚThat all seems fine.’ �ŚWhat happened to the Police, are they still here?’ �ŚOh no dear, they’re long gone. Hasn’t anyone been in to tell you?’ Rachel shook her head. �ŚOh, right. Well, never mind. No they went after they’d spoken to Dr Pritchard.’ Her neurologist, �Śwhat did they say to him, what did he tell them?’ �ŚWell from what I can gather he seems to think you might have done this to yourself, he spoke to the surgeon who patched up you leg and he seems to agree that it didn’t look like the kind of thing someone else might have done to you. It looked to him like you’d managed to lacerate yourself during one of your seizures.’ Rachel gave a huge sigh of relief, �ŚDid the police believe them?’ �ŚI don’t know dear, must have done I suppose, they haven’t been back anyway.’ �ŚSo what happens now?’ �ŚWell, Mr Pritchard has completely reviewed you anti convulsion medication, and we are trying you on a new regime. You’ll be allowed home as soon as we know its working and you are up and around on that leg. Did yourself quite a bit of damage there.’ �ŚIt must have been the broken plate, when the seizure started I had it in my hand, I must have gone down and managed to ram it into my leg.’ She mused. The nurse paused what she was doing and looked down at her. �ŚLook dear, I know it’s not my place to say, and I’m not saying that their explanation isn’t possible, but I’ve seen the marks on your back, and you’ve got bruises, old ones and new ones. If you are in a violent relationship, there are ways of getting out. I’ll bring you some leaflets, pop them in your bedside drawer, you can take a look at them and give it some thought eh?’ she said, patting Rachel’s hand. Why was it that people thought the cruel ones were always men? The scars on her back had healed a long time ago, as would the one on her leg. The wounds in her mind had never healed, and no man had caused them. There were so many hospitals in London! Amy had almost used up all her minutes for that month ringing round to find out where Rachel had been admitted. After she had finally managed to track her down, she felt mildly stupid on realising that St Marys was only a stone’s throw away. Outside Rachel’s room she hesitated, unsure of what she would find when she went inside. She had an ominous feeling that she could be about to make really bad day considerably worse. There was hardly a clearly defined etiquette for such things. Bracing herself she pushed open the door, walked in, and regarded the woman propped up in the bed with her eyes closed. How could everybody, but her, manage to sleep through this horrendous situation? This is my mother, she thought, this hollowed out, fragile, injured woman is my mother. There was something about hospital beds, drips, and machines with LCD displays and alarms, which had the effect of reducing people to something of a shadow of their selves. It was something that she had noticed during her Nurse Training, illness and dependency diminished people. The woman in the bed was just that, an older, diminished version of herself. Looking at Rachel’s careworn face, she realised how few of her father’s features her own face held. People had often said that she must look like her mother, but until now, she had only had a few old photographs from which to make the comparison. To be confronted with this faded version of herself was a shock. I am not like you, she told herself, I would never walk away from my child. Rachel was aware of another presence in the room; she could smell perfume, so knew it wasn’t a nurse. Whoever was there wasn’t moving, but she could feel their eyes on her, sense the appraisal. She opened her eyes and turned towards her visitor. �ŚAmy’. The girl looked surprised, �Śyou know who I am?’ Disadvantaged, Rachel tried to prop herself up further, but her left hand was hampered by the drip. �ŚOf course.’ She said breathlessly, finally managing to find purchase on the crisp sheets by using her elbows. She knew that this might happen one day, on good days she had fantasised about it, a wonderful reunion where the past had no meaning. On most days, bad days, she had dreaded it. �ŚThey told me you were dead.’ Amy said, still standing, her bag held in front of her like a shield, as if Rachel might leap out of the bed and do something untoward. �ŚI know.’ �ŚThey arrested my dad today, they thought he attacked you.’ �ŚYes, the police came. He didn’t do anything, is he alright?’ �ŚLike you care.’ Rachel looked down at her bandaged hands, at the tube that was still slowly dripping blood back into her body. It was hard to imagine why people would go to such lengths to keep her alive. If she were a dog, they would have let her die. �ŚThey let him go’. Amy said, finally. �ŚI went to your flat. Someone found your bracelet. I found out you were still alive and I went to your flat’. Rachel closed her eyes, trying to imagine what her home must look like to someone like Amy, an ordinary girl, with a normal life. �ŚIt was my Aunts flat’. �ŚWhat kind of person lives like that? Surrounded by all that junk!’ Amy said spitefully. �ŚDoes it matter how I live?’ �ŚIt explains a lot, tells me what kind of person you are. It tells me you don’t care.’ Care about what? Who I am, where I live, how I live? I don’t, Rachel thought, but she couldn’t say that, she owed this child, her child more. �ŚI never got round to changing it.’ She said, knowing that it sounded lame. Amy moved to the end of the bed, braver now that she knew Rachel wasn’t going to fight back. �ŚWhy did you come back? If you hadn’t come back none of this would have happened.’ She said, gripping the bed rail, her knuckles white. �ŚMy mother died. There were things to sort out. I’m sorry, I never meant you to find out about me like this.’ Amy felt her emotions shift a little, thrown off by the revelation of a death. �ŚWell I’m sorry about your mum.’ �ŚDon’t be, no one else is. She wasn’t much of a mother. It seems to be a family trait.’ Rachel said with a wry laugh. Amy felt defeated, she had expected something quite different to this, she wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t this. All of a sudden, she felt incredibly tired and overwhelmingly sad. There was a chair by the bed, she dragged herself over to it and flopped down. �ŚI don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know what I expected to find. I want to hate you, but look at you, lying there looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.’ Rachel regarded her daughter, and denied the rush of regret that would threaten them both, Amy most of all. �ŚYou want to know why I left, well this is why.’ She said, indicating her battered body. �ŚLast night I had a seizure, I had a piece of broken china in my hand, I managed to mutilate my own leg, and I didn’t have any control over it. Imagine someone capable of that in charge of a baby? What might have happened to you if I’d stayed?’ Amy shook her head, �ŚNo, that’s not it. You had help, my gran, dad, they would have helped you. No, it’s more than that.’ Rachel plucked at the cotton blanket, ignoring the discomfort in her hand from the big needle that insistently dripped life into her veins. �ŚIt’s hard to explain, because I don’t know how much you know about your dad’s past.’ �ŚIf you mean that he was in prison for bumping off his first wife, yeah, I know.’ Amy said drily. �ŚRight. Well, what you might not know, because he doesn’t talk about it, or didn’t use to, was that I was there when Patsy was found. I saw what happened, and I know your dad didn’t do it.’ �ŚSo why did he go to prison then?’ Amy demanded. She had not expected things to go in this direction. Rachel sighed. �ŚIt’s complicated. I was only ten when it happened, I was a kid who had fits, and no one believed me. See, your dad had the knife in his hand; I was the only one who had seen him find Patsy like that. She had been having an affair with my sister’s husband, so he had a motive. Lots of people gave evidence against him, my family included’. Amy hadn’t known that they knew each other before. It made her feel weird, her father being a grown man when her mother was still a child. �ŚLook, I know he was innocent, anybody who knows him would say the same.’ Though she had to admit she’d had her doubts when she had gone into the flat that morning. �ŚI know, but that’s not what I’m trying to say, I’m trying to explain the background. We got together not long after he came out, I suppose we gravitated towards each other, like we were the only friendly faces each other could see. I’d stayed in touch with your Gran, she was a good friend. My family weren’t, aren’t, decent people.’ �ŚYeah, I gathered, I read the papers.’ �ŚQuite. Anyway, I was lonely and unhappy, so was your dad, so we just drifted together for the wrong reasons. I doubt it would ever have worked, and for the reasons I’ve given you, I couldn’t take you with me. I thought the only option I had was to leave, for good, and give you all a chance of a decent life. My family would never have left us alone. It’d difficult for me to explain to you what they were like, but they knew I had been left some money, and they would never have left us alone until they got hold of it. I’m not saying I did the right thing, but I did what I thought was right at the time.’ Rachel explained, knowing that elements of it were true, but as an explanation, it was so full of holes, it could give a colander a run for its money. At best, it would leave Amy despising her but not asking her to say any more. �ŚSo, you came into money and buggered off, leaving your family behind and you want me to believe it was a noble gesture?’ Amy said, already on her feet. �ŚI don’t know why I came here, I wish I could just wipe out the last few days and have still gone on thinking you were dead! Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your freedom, because I can tell you now none of us have. My dad never got over you leaving us, never! He doesn’t trust anyone anymore, not even me now because of you. You did that to him!’ She was shouting now, Rachel looked towards the door afraid that the staff would hear, �Śso, thanks a lot you selfish cow! Take a good look before I go, because you won’t be setting eyes on any of us again, I promise you that!’ She yelled, barging towards the door and pushing past an astonished nurse who had come to see what the problem was. �ŚWhat was all that about? Are you alright?’ the nurse asked, peering down the corridor to observe the girls hasty flight. �ŚI’m OK, it’s OK, she’s just a bit overwrought that’s all.’ Rachel said, still shaking, desperately trying to hang on to her senses. The nurse fussed with her bedding and pulled up her pillows. �ŚYou’re telling me, we could hear the shouting at the other end of the ward. Are you sure you’re all right?’ Rachel nodded, �ŚJust tired.’ The nurse frowned, �ŚOK. Well, we’ll be round with the medication in a minute. I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea too. Then you can get some rest.’ Rachel gave her a weak smile, and sank back onto her pillows. It was all for the best really, better that Amy despise her than know the truth. Even so, it had been harder to do than she had thought. One of the hardest, other than walking away in the first place. If she could get out of the damned bed she would do that now, walk away. Make her way down to the embankment, stand on a bridge and contemplate throwing herself into the Thames. It had been a favourite pastime over the years, Blackfriars Bridge at 5 am always being the favourite. But the fact that Amy already thought she was dead had always stopped her. That and the thought of the poor person who would find her body. The same with the underground, an overdose, hanging, all of it, she had weighed the options so many times. Someone would always have to suffer for her actions; there had never been an easy way out. Charlie was roused from a deep, deep sleep by the screeching insistence of an alarm he hadn’t set. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, the sight of the unfamiliar surroundings catching him off guard and bringing him instantly upright on the bed and instantly alert. Irritated, he fumbled with the alarm in a vain attempt to switch it off, eventually resorting to pulling the plug out of the wall. Though his brain was awake, his body didn’t seem to want to follow suit. Still exhausted he rubbed his face and looked round the room. His mind was telling him that something important was missing. His thoughts fumbled around for what it could be. Amy! Suddenly energised by an abrupt shot of anger, he leapt to his feet, looking for his shoes. Only when he went to retrieve his jacket did he see her note. �ŚOh for God’s sake!’ he said out loud, dropping back down onto the bed, then, �ŚFuck! The bloody van!’ What was it with kids that they could never just do what they were told, why did they always think that they could go one better with their insatiable need for instant gratification? He was still champing on his temper when he reached the van, figuring he had better move it before it was clamped or towed away. While fumbling for his keys he realised that he was being watched. Someone was peering at him from behind a net curtain in the flat below Rachel’s. He could hear a dog frantically barking from somewhere inside. He gave the voyeur a wan smile. Immediately the curtain was dropped and the face disappeared. Shrugging he got into the van and drove it around the block until he found an empty parking space, then he went back to the flats and rang the doorbell. Anyone else who owned a building in London would have had some kind of security system fitted, but not Rachel. The front door was solid, but anyone could have got in if they’d had half a mind to. Besides, both he and Amy had been able to walk in to the flat that morning, not even the police had thought to release the latch on Rachel’s front door. He rang the bell again, and saw a dim light through the glass, someone was coming, but they didn’t open the door. �ŚIf you do not leave immediately I will have no choice but to telephone the police,’ came a tremulous yet imperious voice from behind the door. �ŚPlease, I need to speak with you about happened, I need to explain.’ He called loudly, both to penetrate the glass of the door and to rise above the persistent yapping of the dog. �ŚPlease leave immediately!’ The woman shrieked. �ŚDad? What are you doing?’ Amy was at the bottom of the steps peering up at him. He gave up on trying to persuade the woman to let him in, he was clearly getting nowhere. �ŚI was trying to get her to let me in; someone needs to clear up that mess upstairs.’ Amy looked aghast, �ŚYou’re what? I don’t believe you, after all that woman’s done you want to go in and clean her kitchen?’ Charlie reached the bottom of the steps and sighed, �ŚYou don’t understand, there isn’t anyone else to do it, and I can’t let her come back to that.’ He said. �ŚOh. My. God. You’re honestly telling me that after everything, you still care about her? Are you mad?’ Amy said, incredulity written all over her face. Charlie felt his anger flare again. �ŚDon’t you dare speak to me like that! You don’t have a clue about what’s going on, so don’t even pretend to have a valid opinion on my actions!’ Amy blinked in surprise. He had never raised his voice to her. �ŚShe pretended to be dead. You lied to me. And now you don’t think I have a right to be upset?’ Charlie’s anger fizzled out like a cheap indoor firework. �ŚOK, ok. I think we both need to calm down a bit. I know you need an explanation, we need to talk, but I need some food first, I’m absolutely bloody starving and it’s making me irritable.’ Amy was equally hungry; she’d had nothing since that morning except too much caffeine, which was making her nerves jangle. �ŚThere’s a Burger King round the corner, we could get a takeout, go back to the room?’ �ŚThat’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Come on, but you’ll have to pay. I put the last of my money in the parking meter.’ He said, finally relenting and putting his arm round her shoulder. �ŚNo problem. I’m loaded. I nicked your stash from under the sink.’ �ŚI know, you’re not supposed to know about that. Anyway, what the hell are you doing wandering around London with that kind of money on you? Anything could have happened!’ �ŚChrist dad, look at the state of me? Any would be mugger would probably take pity on me, not rob me.’ They were at the door of the burger bar. �ŚWhat’re you having, the usual?’ They took their food back to the room, past the suspicious gaze of the hotel receptionist, and ate it sat on the bed. Charlie propped against the headboard, Amy sitting cross legged at his feet. �ŚWhy does crap food always taste so nice?’She asked, cramming the last mouthful of burger into her mouth, mayonnaise dribbling down her chin. �ŚBecause you’ve had to survive my cooking for twenty years’. It was true, because at best Charlie’s culinary style could be described as �Śrustic’. �ŚWas she a good cook?’ Amy asked. It was a good �Śin’; they needed to get to it sooner or later. Charlie laughed, �ŚRachel? Cook? She was abysmal, she could burn water.’ Amy tried to smile, but it wouldn’t happen. �ŚI saw her, earlier. I went to the hospital.’ Charlie nodded, �ŚI got your note. What did she say to you?’ �ŚWhy she left, that she couldn’t cope, that you and her would never have lasted because you were together for all the wrong reasons.’ Charlie frowned and nodded slowly. �ŚWe didn’t deliberately lie to you about her. It was just an untruth that was more convenient than it ought to have been. I’m sorry, I should never have let it go on so long.’ After she had left the hospital, Amy had gone for a walk in the park, had done some thinking and had concluded that, though it was totally out of order, her Gran and her Dad had only lied to protect her. She didn’t like it, but she got it. �ŚI get it, it’s OK. Better than growing up knowing your own mother didn’t want you I guess.’ Charlie raised his eyebrows. �ŚIf that’s what she told you, she was lying.’ �ŚWell what else could it be, yeah sure, I know the story, the epilepsy and all. But if she loved us at all, she would have stayed. I mean life wasn’t easy for you, but you didn’t bail out on me when it got tough’. �ŚYou’re wrong; she left because she did love us. Believe me. You don’t know her. She would never have gone if she hadn’t had a really good reason to think it was for the best.’ He didn’t want to tell her the truth, but he couldn’t see another way. If he lied she would hate Rachel forever, and that wasn’t fair, if he told the truth he would open up a whole new wound full of confusion and hurt. Lies had brought them to this, the truth might hurt, but at least there was a chance. �ŚWhat possible excuse could anyone have for doing something so selfish?’ Amy asked, her tone heavy with derision. Charlie exhaled slowly, and leaned forward. �ŚA pretty good one as it happens, and I only found out about it myself this morning, so don’t fly off the handle with me and think I’ve been keeping things from you again. It’s kind of hard for me to tell you this, because there is a lot of history behind it, but bear with me, OK?’ He told her what Delia had told him that morning, and watched as a melee of emotions clashed on her face, twisting her features into a hundred kinds of shock. �ŚOh my god! That’s disgusting, no, it’s worse than that. I can’t find a word for it. It’, it’s ...evil. How? Why? Why would anyone do that, lie about something so awful? What was wrong with that woman that she would say something so vile? No wonder she went back after the bitch died, probably checking that the coffin lid was nailed shut just in case!’ Amy gasped, struggling to grasp the meaning of what she had just been told. �ŚThat’s just sick, it’s twisted. It’s foul.’ She shook her head from side to side as if the action might make the information settle in her mind in some kind of acceptable order. �ŚWell, given what they just found in the house, it’s not surprising. Even I didn’t think Valerie Porter was capable of something like that, and I’ve seen her at her worst’. Charlie said, unsure of whether he had his own mind round the implications of it. �ŚDad, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not true is it?’ �ŚNo, it’s not true. I swear, But doesn’t it give you some idea of how fragile she was, is, that she believed it?’ Yes, it did. Rachel had been kicked when she was down, was still being kicked now. Amy put her hand to her mouth. �ŚOh Dad, I was really, really horrible to her today. Really spiteful’. A sob caught in her throat as she thought back to the venomous things she had said. Charlie reached out and patted her knee, �ŚIt’ll be ok, she can handle awful, she’s used to it. It’s nice she can’t handle.’ �ŚShe told me that you two only got together because of circumstances, is that true?’ �ŚNo, I don’t think so. Not for me anyway, I loved her, I still do. I always have and I probably always will. Whatever else happened, you came out of it, and I wouldn’t change that for anything’. �ŚGod dad, don’t go soppy on me, I’m really trying not to cry here!’ Charlie ruffled her hair affectionately and she batted him away. �ŚSeriously though, you have to tell her the truth. You can’t let her go on believing that filth. Christ, if it had been me I think I would have topped myself!’ �ŚNot Rachel, she would think it was selfish to do that. No, she will have just sucked it up and carried it on her own.’ Though his tone was casual, the pain of his statement was so acute it sent an agonising tremor of distress right through his heart. So much so, that it seemed to skip a beat or two. �ŚThat flat. The way she lives, it’s as if she’s an intruder in someone else’s life. At first, I just thought she just had tacky taste, like Gran. But it’s not that, is it?’ �ŚNo, it’s not that. She has money, in fact, she’s loaded. I think that’s the reason Valerie did what she did. I think she never changed it, never made it her own home because without us, without you, it meant nothing to her. Home is where the heart is, and her heart was always with you. I think it’s why I kept going back, trying to make sense of what she’d done. I could understand why she left me, but never why she left you. OK, I’ve heard the epilepsy excuse a million times, but I never bought it. I mean she could have paid someone to help care for you. It never made sense.’ Amy nodded in agreement. �ŚAnd it would have meant contact with you. Under the circumstances, I suppose she couldn’t risk that. I think she really loved you, God, her life must have been absolute hell!’ Tears filled her eyes, �ŚOh dad, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad in my life!’ She cried. Charlie eased himself towards her, and started to rub her back, she was right; he had never felt so sad either. But he would mend it. The very next day he would mend it once and for all. CHAPTER TWELVE Lucille Barnes-Harman had had enough. If that man persisted on ringing her doorbell one more time, she would take a stick to him herself. Just because the police couldn’t be bothered to deal with his type effectively didn’t mean that elderly women should be terrorised in their own homes. She would tell him one more time, and that was that, if he carried on the worm would turn! Consequently, she marched resolutely towards the front door clutching in her trembling hand a large marble rolling pin. The nearest thing to a stick she had been able to find. Miffy gambolled excitedly at her slippered heels, eager for action. �ŚI’ve told you before, go away! I have to warn you, the police are on their way and I am armed!’ She called down the hallway, brandishing the rolling pin in a wild act of bravado. �ŚMiss Barnes-Harman. It’s me, Rachel. Can you let me in please? I don’t have my keys.’ Lucille stared at the door in disbelief. It couldn’t be. Rachel had been carried out on a stretcher. There had been so much blood. It was impossible that she had recovered enough to be allowed home. In fact, Lucille was having a hard time coming to terms with the reality that Rachel had survived her ordeal at all. Typical of the NHS, sending people home who were barely alive. She had always favoured private medicine, a much more civilised system in her opinion, though it was true of life really, you only ever got what you paid for. Fortunately, she had always functioned with the best of health and some good British stoicism, that and a fundamental mistrust of men that were far too handsome for anybody’s good. The doorbell rang again. �ŚAre you there? Please open the door, I really don’t feel too good. Miss Barnes-Harman?’ Shaken from her reverie by the fragile tone in Rachel’s voice, Lucille plonked the rolling pin on the hall table and made for the door, and was shocked at what she found when she opened it. Rachel was leaning against the wall of the porch, her face drained of colour, her hair stuck to her face by the glaze of sweat that clung to her pallid skin. Instinctively Lucille put out her arm to help the girl inside. Rachel clung to her, gratefully, and hauled herself through the door limping badly. �ŚGood grief Miss Porter! Look at you; I can’t believe they allowed you to come home in this state.’ Lucille was genuinely shocked. Rachel was wearing a blood stained T-shirt, the same one she had been wearing when Lucille had found her, and a pair of blue cotton trousers, the kind that surgeons wore. Both her hands sported dressings, and on her feet, she wore only carpet slippers. She looked like death warmed up. �ŚOh, I’m fine. Just a bit sore. They needed the bed, you know how it is.’ Rachel lied. In fact, she had just had an unholy row with the on call doctor who had point blank refused to agree to discharge her. In the end, she had threatened to walk out, wearing nothing else but her hospital gown. The doctor had grudgingly relented and had signed a prescription for her medication, and told the nurse in charge to give her some clothes to wear. He had made her sign a detailed disclaimer, absolving the hospital of all responsibility for her welfare. The A&E staff had cut off her trousers, but fortunately, there was still a twenty-pound note in the pocket, a little bloodstained, but still legal tender. The cabbie had been happy to take it when he realised that he was going to get to keep the change. He hadn’t helped her get out of the cab though, and had just driven off, leaving her to haul herself painfully up the steps to her house. Despite her gung ho attitude in the hospital, she really did feel like death. �ŚI’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I didn’t have my keys’. She said wanly, trying to reassure the frightened old lady. �ŚMy dear child. Let me get you inside properly.’ She said, supporting Rachel’s weight on her thin shoulders and half carrying her to the stairs. Muttering all the while about gross neglect and abject negligence. She wanted to help Rachel into the flat, but Rachel refused, insisting that she would be all right. Both of them ignored the rust brown blood that still stained the floor, though Miffy sniffed at it and licked it with unreserved interest. Rachel thanked Lucille profusely for her help, and remained, smiling, clinging to the doorframe until she heard the door to the downstairs flat click shut. Once alone, she hobbled into the flat, just about ready to pass out. They had given her painkillers and stronger anticonvulsants and she needed to take both. Unable to face the mess in the kitchen she hauled herself into the bathroom and took the drugs with handfuls of water from the cold tap, clinging all the while to the edge of the basin for support. Unable to move another step, she sank down onto the toilet, straightening out her injured leg, which was stiff and swollen, the sutures pulling painfully with every movement. Only then did she dare to breathe and let her mask slip, allowing her face to crumple into a contorted agony as her desperate tears began to flow. When the tablets kicked in, when she felt better, she would pack a bag. Now that Amy had been here, now that she was exposed she had no choice but to leave. She didn’t have a clue where she would go, one of the other flats perhaps. Lila had owned quite a few. She was pretty sure that one or two would be empty. In the meantime, there was always the hotel option. One with a huge walk-in shower preferably, where she could wash away the tide of guilt that was threatening to make her smash her head into the bathroom tiles with the next wave. Angela woke her boss and presented him with a cup of coffee. She was already washed and dressed having had a sleepless night spent wondering what the hell she was doing getting her boss drunk and letting him spend the night on her sofa. It was dangerous ground and she knew it. It was common knowledge that his marriage was a farce. Angela had never met his wife, but had heard on the grapevine that the woman was a harridan. But it wasn’t an excuse for encouraging him to stay. Not that there was anything in it other than a bit of mutual liking, but it wouldn’t look good if anyone at work found out. The thing was, she did like him, he was a decent bloke, and a good copper, even if he was a bit burned out. This case had taken it out of both of them yesterday. Stella Baxter’s interview had run like a bad film plot, evil stepmothers, incest, insanity, the lot. What it left them with was the chance that they wouldn’t get a prosecution based on the suspect’s blatant instability. To be honest she would be glad when the whole thing was done and dusted, then they could go back to dealing with normal felons. The type that didn’t sleep with their fathers and hoard mummified corpses. �ŚThere’s a new toothbrush in the cupboard in the bathroom and some razors and shave gel on the shelf, that’s if you don’t mind smelling of mountain flowers instead of old spice.’ She called from the kitchen, determined to avoid seeing Ratcliffe in his underpants. Once she heard him unzip the sleeping bag and stumble up the stairs she went into the lounge and removed all traces of his presence there, folding up the bedding, throwing out the beer bottles, spraying the room with air freshener. No evidence here, she thought quietly as she heard him empty the sink and flush the toilet. They drove in together, but Ratcliffe dropped her off a street away from the station, just so they could arrive separately in the office. The cold light of day had seemed to filter some sense into him too. There was a message on her desk from the hospital, Frances Haines was conscious. Also a message from the Met, Charlie Jones had been arrested the day before for a suspected attack on Rachel Porter, she was in hospital, and he had been released without charge. Lack of evidence. She showed Ratcliffe the messages, adding �ŚWhat the hell is it with these people?’ Ratcliffe had said nothing, he was too busy trying to get an extension on the length of time they could hold Stella Baxter without charge, and he was trying to get a psych report done on her. In the meantime, he told Angela to grab one of the uniformed officers and get down to the hospital to get a statement from Frances Haines. Angela took one look at the woman, propped up regally in her hospital bed, and decided that she didn’t like her. There was something gratingly theatrical in the woman’s pose that smacked of someone milking their disadvantaged position to the max. As Angela sat down, Frances gamely struggled up on her pillows and asked her for a glass of water. Which Angela grudgingly poured for her and waited patiently for her to drink, watching with mounting irritation as the woman fell back onto her pillows with a wan sigh, saying �ŚI’m not sure how much I will be able to tell you, it’s all been such a blur.’ �ŚWe just need a statement of what happened on that day.’ Angela repeated, reluctant to engage in whatever game Frances Haines wanted her to play. The woman gave a stifled sob, holding her hand over her mouth and waving her apology at Angela. Angela and the other officer, PC Phil Bennett, exchanged glances. �ŚI’m sorry, it’s all just so terribly upsetting, but I’ll do my best. Right, here goes’. She said taking an exaggerated breath. �ŚI was at my former family home, clearing it after my mother’s recent death. My sister, Rachel was inside the house and I was outside with one of the men we had employed to help. Having done the bulk of the work in the house, I decided to tackle the outbuildings. I knew it was going to be a long job as no one had been in them for years. I went in first and started to hand things out to the man. Eventually I uncovered a large tin trunk, assuming that it was full of old junk I asked my helper to pull it out and help me to open it. We were surprised to find that it was extremely heavy. It’s difficult to recall what happened next, it’s still all quite a blur I’m afraid, but I know we managed to get the lid up. All I can remember then is seeing a hand, a human hand. I think then that I must have staggered backwards and hit my head on the door. That’s it, that’s all I remember.’ She said with an apologetic smile. Angela waited until PC Bennett had finished writing and handed over the paperwork, and then she read Frances’s words back to her, asked her to read it then asked her if it was an accurate account of the events on that day. Frances agreed that it was, and put her signature to the page. �ŚIs that all?’ She asked. �ŚYes thank you.’ Angela said, getting to her feet. �ŚWe’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need from you.’ �ŚWell that’s all there is to tell I’m afraid. My husband tells me you’ve found Stella, how is she?’ Frances said, a pained expression on her face. �ŚMrs Baxter is currently helping us with our enquiries.’ Angela said, a little more curtly than perhaps she should have. �ŚBut how is she bearing up, she’s never been a terribly capable sort, if you know what I mean. I must admit I find it hard to believe my own sister capable of such a thing.’ She said stifling another sob. �ŚI’m afraid I’m unable to discuss the details of the case at this stage. We’ll be in touch Mrs Haines.’ With that, she nodded at Bennett and turned to leave, not even bothering to say goodbye. Back in the car, she turned to Bennett. �ŚWhat did you make of that then?’ Bennett shrugged. �ŚNot for me to speculate really, but I reckon it was worth at least a BAFTA, if not and Oscar.’ �ŚYeah, that’s exactly what I thought too.’ Angela said, wondering how a woman who had been in a coma for three days could have rehearsed a statement so thoroughly when the subject of her account had been the discovery of her deceased brother in law crudely mummified in a tin trunk. Back at the office, she compared Frances’s statement with the one taken from Steve Budd on the day the bodies had been discovered. They tied up, except for the fact that Steve had reported that Frances had called out the word �ŚRoy’ when the trunk had been opened just before she had knocked herself senseless. What DS Angela Watson wanted to know was how Frances could have identified her brother in law from the mere sight of a mummified hand? The finding of an intact wallet and the presence of a gold canine tooth had identified Roy Baxter’s body. From the glimpse that Angela got of his remains, the only thing she could have identified him as on that day would have been a man-sized piece of beef jerky. Where was Ratcliffe? They needed to talk. Ratcliffe was once again standing in Julia Ferris’s office, hovering in the doorway as usual, ever reluctant to venture in to the domain of the dead. �ŚYou wanted to see me?’ Julia peered at him over her glasses and treated him to an amused smile. �ŚI did indeed; I have some interesting news for you.’ She picked up a small plastic jar and swirled the contents. Ratcliffe could see something unpleasant floating in the liquid; no doubt, it was some body part that had been pickled by Dr Death. His face betraying his revulsion he asked. �ŚWhat is it?’ Julia smiled, looking at the sample fondly, �ŚIt’s a piece of skin, well, scalp actually. I recovered it from the shed door at The Limes. It came from Frances Haines.’ Ratcliffe was nonplussed. �ŚAnd?’ Julia savoured the moment, making Ratcliffe come down and look at things that revolted him was one of her favourite pastimes. It amused her to see him squirm. Not that she disliked him, she didn’t, and he was a nice guy. But his approach to her and what she did amused her and she liked to play him a little, especially since she had found out his nickname for her. �ŚI tested it; the DNA matches with the hair that was found on Baxter. Gene for gene, so to speak.’ She said, waiting for him to react. �ŚI only ran the test for the sake of being thorough, after all we were looking for Stella Baxter’s DNA, but I’ve run her sample, and there is no match.’ Ratcliffe’s face was a picture. �ŚMethinks you have the wrong sister.’ Ratcliffe’s mind was processing nineteen to the dozen, but like every good computer, he was able to convert it to a background activity. �ŚWhat about the baby, does Stella’s DNA check out with that?’ Julia shook her head. �ŚNot able to get a sample, he was too far gone. There’s not a lot on a baby that would withstand the process he was exposed to, or would last that length of time. But, I ran Rachel’s sample against Stella’s and there is a match. So my guess is she could be telling the truth about the baby, but no way of proving it I’m afraid.’ �ŚAnd what about the father?’ �ŚDo you have any idea how much all these tests cost Ratcliffe? Or more to the point do you care? Well Benton does, and she’s after your hide for all this. But in answer to your question, William Porter is Rachel’s father, but is not Stella’s. I took the liberty of requesting Stella’s biological mother’s medical records. She didn’t die of TB, she died of Syphilis. By the way, I’ve not met Stella Baxter, and I only have her DNA, not a blood sample. Tell me, is there anything odd about her eyes, and the way she moves?’ Now he came to think about it Ratcliffe supposed there was, �Ś Well, she kind of shuffle’s around a bit, like her joints are stiff, and she squints a bit but I’d put it down to probably needing glasses, why?’ �ŚShe could have it too, but I’d need to do other tests to be sure.’ �ŚShe’s fifty six years old; surely it would have come to light by now?’ Julia shook her head, �ŚNot necessarily, she could have inherited a latent, tertiary form of the disease from her mother, which can take up to fifty years to manifest symptoms. If her joints are affected, and her eyes my guess would be that it has been slowly taking over for some time now. Are there any personality changes?’ �ŚI don’t know about changes, but she’s fucking barking if that’s any help.’ �ŚNot really, it’s a rather subjective view Ratcliffe.’ Julia said scornfully. �ŚSurely Porter would have it too, so how come he’s not being treated for it?’ �ŚWell, I pulled his records too, just to square the circle. He was a street drinker I believe, and there is a rather tenuous diagnosis of Werner Korsakoff Syndrome. Put it this way, I would stake a bit of money on the fact that it’s not WKS at all, but the late stages of latent Syphilis.’ �ŚBut surely the unit would have tested for that, and his own doctor would have found it?’ Julia sighed, �ŚHe’s an old man in a psych unit, and they don’t run tests unless they have to. All they ever did was a blood count, which showed him to be nutritionally deficient, which is consistent with chronic alcoholism, and liver function tests, which show cirrhosis. All typical, you only look for a disease if you suspect it’s there. The WKS diagnosis didn’t come about through clinical evidence, merely by a psych’s speculation, based on the history and the presentation. You’d do well to remember that everything comes down to budgets, Ratcliffe.’ Joking apart, he’d figured that the Porter clan were rotten to the core, now he had proof. �ŚAnd they seem such a nice family.’ He quipped. �ŚWhat about Rachel Porter, what’s her clap status?’ Julia shook her head in despair, �ŚYou’re getting your STD’s in a twist. The clap is gonorrhoea. I think it’s the pox that you are so ineptly alluding to. As for Rachel, I don’t know, but she may be OK. It isn’t always passed on, especially in the latent types. But I’d tell her to get it checked out if I were you.’ Ratcliffe noticed that she was still holding the jar that contained a piece of Frances Haines scalp, waving it around as she spoke. There was no doubt about it, Julia Ferris profoundly unnerved him. �ŚWell, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than get a lecture in sexual health from me.’ She said, turning to her desk and starting to rifle through the mound of files and papers that were strewn there. Summarily dismissed, Ratcliffe made his way back to the office, he needed to get Watson and go and see Frances Haines, but most of all he needed to stay out of Benton’s way until the case was resolved. He barrelled into Angela just a she turned the same corner from the opposite direction, knocking the file she was carrying out of her hand. �ŚBeen looking for you’. He said breathlessly as she scrabbled on the floor to retrieve the contents of the file. �ŚFunny you should say that’. She said, un-amused by the fact that he just stood there watching as she grovelled on the floor. �ŚYeah, been to see Ferris.’ He explained what Ferris had told him. �ŚFunny you should say that.’ She repeated, handing him the file he had made her drop. �ŚHer statement doesn’t add up. She knew it was Baxter in the trunk, but at that point only his hand was showing.’ �ŚRight, I think we need to go and see her, don’t you?’ �ŚDo we need a warrant?’ �ŚProbably, but that would involve Benton.’ He said pensively. �ŚOh yeah, I meant to tell you, she’s on the warpath.’ For a moment, Ratcliffe toyed with the idea of arresting Frances without a warrant so that he could avoid his boss. However, that move could have implications. He had no doubt that her snide husband would have a lawyer in there quicker than he could blink. He had no choice; he had to do things by the book. He had to go and see Benton. After wiping the floor with him for wasting time and resources,(an approach that he particularly resented as it came from someone who was young enough to be his daughter, and in terms of years of experience on the job was practically a foetus in comparison to him), Benton finally agreed to authorise a warrant. She wanted the case closed, she wanted it off her desk, and she wanted his head on a plate if it didn’t happen soon. By the time he got out of her office, all Ratcliffe wanted was a cup of tea, a good rant and a change of career. While waiting for the warrant to come through, he fantasised about winning the lottery and telling Benton exactly where she could shove her bright, shiny, fast track degree. The image in his head involved a distinct lack of sunshine and an unmentionable act involving a certain body cavity. By the time he had finished his tea, he felt better. Much better. Charlie had slept badly, his neck was stiff, and his back crunched like it was made of gravel when he tried to move. Amy was still curled up comfortably in the double bed, emitting gentle, girlish snores. Charlie, however, had spent the night wedged into a small tub chair, with his feet up on the bed, and only his jacket to cover him. He was getting too old for all this. However, it was time to move the van again. He woke Amy and told her he would be back soon, and to meet him in the breakfast room. After moving the van a few spaces, and feeding yet more money into a parking meter, he picked up his phone, switched it on, and dialled Delia’s number. She picked up on the third ring. �ŚCharlie? Is that you?’ She sounded worried, even a bit frightened. �ŚYeah, it’s me.’ He said, the full extent of how guilty he felt making him sag against the van. �ŚLook, I’m sorry about what I said yesterday.’ �ŚIt’s alright love, you had every right to be angry, but you understand why I kept quiet don’t you?’ He guessed he did, but it still irked him that she had believed it. �ŚYeah. We’ll talk about it another time, okay? I found Amy and before you ask she’s alright, but she went to see Rachel.’ He explained that Rachel was in hospital and that Amy had visited her there. He left out the part about being arrested; he’d had enough grief already. Delia didn’t say anything for a moment. Part of her was relieved that the meeting hadn’t gone well. It was all the more reason for things to get back to normal. �ŚWhat about you, have you seen her?’ �ŚNot yet. I’m going this morning.’ He heard her take a sharp intake of breath. �ŚI have to tell her Ma, you know that.’ �ŚThink about it Charlie. She’s lived with that knowledge for nigh on twenty years, it ruined her life. She lost you, she lost Amy. She lost everything. How do you think she’s going to take it? It could tip her over the edge. Imagine what it would have been like for you if you’d had to live with that knowledge for all that time. It would have driven you mad. Don’t you think it would be better to leave things just as they are?’ Her words stymied him for a moment. He had been so clear about her need to hear the truth, clear about his need to set things straight. Maybe his mother had a point, he knew from personal experience the damage that could be done by a lie. He had spent ten years in prison as an innocent man. How much worse would it have been if he’d spent those years thinking he had committed a crime, enduring the knowledge of it, and had then found out it had all been a mistake? His mother was right. He would have gone out of his mind. Would the truth make Rachel’s life easier, or worse? �ŚOk Ma, I take your point. I’ll think on it. We’ll be home later. Oh, by the way, would you clean up the mess in the house. I don’t want Amy to feel bad when she gets home’. �ŚOk love, I will. Be careful won’t you, don’t do anything stupid.’ She put the phone down and bit her lip. She had already cleaned up the mess in the house. She was just worried about who would clean up the mess Charlie might make if he didn’t keep his head. Charlie took a walk around the block, he needed to think. Last night, when he had been trying to get off to sleep in that damned chair, he had indulged himself in some vague fantasy that once he told Rachel the truth, everything would be all right. She would want him back, would come home to him and Amy. �ŚAnd we would all live happily ever after’. He said aloud, to the surprise of a passing jogger, who gave him a wary look and an extra wide berth. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to leave her alone, if he saw her at all, he could tell her that it was over, he wouldn’t ever bother her again. Perhaps she would find more peace in that. Perhaps it was his turn to carry the load and protect her. Though the thought of it made his heart feel hollow. Over breakfast, he tried to explain it to Amy. �ŚYou are joking, right?’ she said aghast, a piece of toast half buttered in her hand. �ŚYou can’t do that. You have to tell her the truth.’ Charlie propped his head in his hands to contain his frustration. �ŚYou’ve seen the state of her, how she lives because of this! What if she can’t take it, what if it’s the final straw?’ �ŚAnd what about the truth setting you free?’ Amy argued, the toast still suspended mid-air. �ŚDo you really think it’s up to you to choose who gets to know the truth and who doesn’t, isn’t that playing God?’ �ŚI’m only trying to protect her from more harm Amy’. �ŚYeah, and that’s what she thought she was doing for you, look where it got her, and you for that matter.’ �ŚWhat do you mean?’ he said, taking his head out of his hands. �ŚWell, it’s like twenty years ago someone hit the pause button on both your lives. You’ve both spent all this time going through the motions, neither of you actually living. You just exist. All because of that terrible lie. You don’t have a choice dad, you have to tell her.’ Amy said, waving her toast as if it were the gavel, which would decide the matter. �ŚWhen did you get to be so wise?’ He asked, amused. �ŚI watch a lot of Dr Phil.’ she said with a cheeky smile. �ŚSeriously though, she has to know. If you don’t tell her, I will.’ She threatened, pointing at him with the toast. Charlie threw his hands up. �ŚOK, ok. I get it. I’ll tell her’. But he didn’t have a clue how. �ŚNow will you please do something with that bloody toast before you have my eye out!’ He smiled as he said it, but he was faking. There was nothing to smile about. They walked to the hospital, Amy had agreed to wait in reception and sit tight while he saw Rachel. She told him to take his time, and kissed him on the cheek for luck. He wished he had her conviction that he was doing the right thing. Amy had told him which room to go to, but when he reached it, the bed was empty, freshly made. He went to the nurse’s station and asked for Rachel, irritated that the woman behind the desk didn’t even look up at him when he spoke. �ŚRachel Porter? Oh, she discharged herself last night.’ The woman said, continuing to tap away at her keyboard. �ŚPardon?’ Charlie said. �ŚShe discharged herself. She’s not here. Now if you don’t mind....’ He did mind, he minded a lot. So much so, that she threatened to call security if he didn’t calm down. He calmed down and asked to speak to a doctor. The woman grudgingly paged the Senior House Officer, who grudgingly arrived twenty minutes later, and equally grudgingly repeated what Charlie already knew. Rachel had discharged herself against medical advice. He knew the extent of her injuries, since the police had taken great delight in describing them in graphic detail when they had believed he had inflicted them. He couldn’t believe she would do something so stupid. Then again, she was a woman who believed she had married her own father and given birth to her sister, hardly a recipe for a strong streak of self-preservation. He ran down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift and give precedence to the sick and injured. As he approached Amy, she looked up at him, her expression hopeful. �ŚHow did it go, is she OK?’ �ŚShe’s gone.’ He said breathlessly, bending forward, hands on his knees to support the effort of getting his words out. �ŚShe discharged herself last night.’ Amy was horrified, she had seen the state that Rachel was in. �ŚOh my god, we have to find her, make her come back!’ Charlie nodded, dragging air into his lungs as if he could store it up. Given the reception he got from the downstairs neighbour the night before, Charlie decided to loiter around the corner while Amy went up to the house. She had agreed to ring him once she got inside the building, so she could let him in without the old biddy calling the police again. When Amy finally rang, he was practically at the door before he answered, but her words halted him instantly. �ŚShe’s not here, she’s gone. She got into a taxi about an hour ago with a bag. The old lady doesn’t know where, but she said she looked really ill. What are we going to do?’ Charlie didn’t have a clue. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Stella was curled up on her hard bunk, her back to the door. She had been staring for a long time at a small sample of graffiti that someone had managed to carve into the wall with some implement of destruction that the custody sergeant had missed. Someone had left those words for her, she was sure. It was a message, just like the others. For some time now, there had been signs, small communications from a higher power. Even here, in the police station, they were everywhere. Yesterday when they had led her down the corridor to her cell there had been a message written on the floor, disguised as a pattern in the carpet. SOS in Morse code, three dots, three dashes, three dots, repeatedly. As she had walked, the carpet had spoken to her. Yesterday, save our souls, today Peccavi, peccavisti. I have sinned, you have sinned. It was, literally, the writing on the wall. The final instruction indicating a course of action that had been spelling itself out for months now. As she finally figured it out, she heard a sigh of relief from outside the door. They must be pleased that she finally had it right. This was confirmed for her a short time later when the cell door opened and she was told that she was free to go. All those months trying to decipher the meaning of the messages, the days of consternation when she consistently had it wrong, the derision hissed in her ear for her failure. The presenter on the local evening news had been the most aggressive, staring straight at her every night as her colleague delivered the daily epistle, turning away in disgust when Stella just didn’t understand. How tired they must have been of her lacklustre efforts. Of course, they had checked up on her, whispering outside her door at night, sending men to watch her in such paltry disguises. Come to read the meter indeed! As if a fool would believe it. She had been cautious not to speak too loudly in the hall after that, sure that the spy in the uniform, with the clearly faked ID, had used that strange gadget he had brought with him to programme the electric meter to record her every word. The pressure had mounted after that, the communications subtle but relentless. Examples were set on a daily basis. In fact, every time she turned on the television, opened a newspaper, or looked at a magazine someone was trying to show her what she had done and what she had to do about it. Now that she had a solution, she could have kicked herself for being so stupid! Shouldn’t it have been obvious when the daughter in East ender’s had found out that her sister was her mother? Or in that other soap, when a man’s wife had killed him for sexually abusing their daughter. It went on and on, day after day, stories in magazines, �ŚMy husband tried to kill me’, �ŚMy ordeal at the hands of my mother’, �ŚMy secret love child’ all messages, all for her. Hadn’t Jeremy Kyle yelled it at her every morning for years now? The newspapers had been battling with her stupidity for months, but had worked out that subtlety didn’t work. Finally, they had published her picture, to make sure she finally got it. The headline had spelled it out in black and white, �ŚIs this the inconspicuous face of evil?’ When the police had found her, she had almost rejoiced. Yes, I am. I am the inconspicuous face of evil. That’s why she had sought out her father, to check with him that she had interpreted the messages correctly. He hadn’t made much sense, had refused to know her for a time. Not that she blamed him. Then one day he had looked her square in the face, his eyes clear with recognition, and he had said those words. Peccavi, peccavisti. Now that she had finally understood, everyone was being nice to her. The policewoman who returned her belongings smiled and held the door for her. The man who had told her he was a doctor, smiled at her and wished her luck, told her that he would arrange for her to have a check up with a consultant for the following week. He was pleasant about it, but there was a clear warning there. They would be checking up on her. No room for mistakes this time. After leaving the police station, she had wondered where she should go, she thought about the flat above the shop, but it wasn’t the right place to do what she needed to do. She knew that she was being followed. People were looking at her, and even pointing. Until she took the road that led to The Limes. Then she was alone, no followers, no disapproving whispers. All alone. She knew that this was the right place to go. Home. Everything had already been prepared for her. The police had left signs telling other people not to enter. The house was empty, cleaned of its contents so that there were no distractions for her. She was angry with herself; she should have worked it all out weeks ago. But no matter, she was here now. The sense that everything was finally going to be solved was like a balm, she felt peaceful, serene, and serendipitous. Diana Lovell had been surprised to find Rachel waiting for her when she got home from the library that day, even more surprised to see the state of the girl. She had dropped her books and lurched forward to catch the girl just as the expression on Rachel’s face had mutated from relief at Diana’s arrival to pallid dread as her legs gave way. Diana had managed to get her inside the house and into a chair, and had wanted to call an ambulance, or at least a doctor. However, Rachel had insisted that she didn’t, told her she had been discharged from hospital the night before, that she had medication but just needed someone to help her out for a few days. Would Diana let her stay? Diana had instantly agreed. There was no way the girl could cope on her own, and Diana of all people knew that there was no one else to look after her. After she had tucked her up under a quilt on the sofa, made sure she had taken her medication and waited with her until she fell asleep, Diana contemplated the nature of their friendship. She had first met Rachel on Blackfriars Bridge, on a particularly cold and foggy February morning, five years before. Diana had always loved the London of early morning when the city was always magnificent, and quiet. Its beauty unhampered by the bustle of the day, and unsullied by the hordes that swarmed it’s streets like voracious termites. Just after dawn was the only time Diana could almost guarantee she would not hear a police siren, a scream, or a cacophony of arguing voices. So that was when she walked. The few people she did see on her dawn constitutionals she ignored, and they ignored her. Either too busy getting where they wanted to go, or still too drunk from the night before to be bothered with the niceties of being polite to strangers. At first, she had walked past the girl on the bridge. Though Rachel was forty now, she always seemed like a girl to Diana. But something had drawn her back, as if an invisible thread had caught on her clothes and hampered her progress. She had paused a few feet away, following the girls gaze to the water below. �ŚTempting sometimes, isn’t it?’ She’d said. �ŚNever quite tempting enough,’ Rachel had said, taking a step backwards, away from the balustrade that edged the bridge �ŚDid you know that years ago there were people specifically employed to dredge this river for bodies? I have always thought that it must have been a particularly oppressive occupation.’ Diana had mused. There was something peculiarly compelling about this particular lost soul. �ŚI was just about to treat myself to a full fat Latte Macchiato, a pre breakfast tipple. Would you care to join me?’ Rachel had glanced behind her briefly, as if Diana had been issuing the invitation to someone else. �ŚThere’s a rather pleasant little cafe just over the bridge in Southwark. It opens early, just me and a few of the more discerning cabbies usually.’ She added as if the extra information would act as some kind of inducement. Rachel had looked at her dubiously. Diana had smiled and flapped her hand, �ŚOh, ignore the dog collar. I’m not trying to save you. Just offering to buy you a cup of coffee. In fact, to be honest with you, I’m having rather a crisis of faith at the moment. God and I aren’t seeing eye to eye.’ �ŚThen I’m the last person you should be talking to.’ Rachel had said. But she had accompanied her anyway. And over the years, they had become friends of sorts. Diana had developed a great deal of affection for Rachel, mainly because Rachel demanded so little from her, had no questions that demanded answers beyond Diana’s knowledge, wanted nothing in exchange for her company. In fact, the request for help and shelter was the first thing Rachel had ever asked for, though she had given Diana so much. Though she would never acknowledge it. That first morning, as they had sipped their coffee Rachel had asked. �ŚAre you a vicar? Diana had shaken her head. �ŚNo, merely a curate. A part timer I’m afraid. Though I am sometimes trusted to collect the hymn books.’ She quipped. Rachel had given her a half smile. �ŚWhat about you?’ Diana had asked, hoping that it sounded casual. �ŚMe? Oh, I’m nothing much, a bit of a curates egg if you like’ Rachel had replied, with the other half of the smile. �ŚI’m all bad, but you’ll be too polite to say so’. Diana had never found out which bit of Rachel was bad, had had to assume that she must mean the epilepsy which dogged her. But knew that it was not. Rachel held a belief that she was inherently bad, but always refused to explain her conviction. Rachel was not a talker, and that was part of her appeal. What pieces of her history Diana had managed to glean had been accidentally released by Rachel. Some of Diana’s impressions of her were the profits of guesswork, that and an innate talent for jigsaw puzzles. Though Rachel was the type of puzzle where there were so many pieces missing that only a vague impression of the finished article could be formed. Diana had assembled enough of the picture to establish that there had been a difficult childhood, an early trauma and a bad relationship. She had the shapes, but no detail. It both frustrated and intrigued her. In her experience, Rachel had always been unstintingly generous, almost singlehandedly funding the women’s centre that Diana ran. In fact she had been there supporting the centre from its original inception. The idea had been needling away at Diana’s conscience way before she met Rachel. In her role as curate of a small, impoverished parish, in the east end she had hoped to be able to provide something more than a poorly attended service on a Sunday. She had wanted to be active in the community, give something to the people, particularly the women. The church, or more specifically the bishop, whose incumbents were somewhat of a burden to him, had not supported her ideas and her efforts. After Diana had left the church, she had realised that her crisis of faith had been with the church, not god. At her lowest ebb, God had provided, God had sent Rachel to her. Not only did Rachel financially support the centre, but also through her property portfolio, she had provided good quality housing for many women who had suffered domestic violence, were single parents or who were just down on their luck with no way out. As far as Diana was concerned Rachel was a saint, and she didn’t see her nearly often enough. So, to see her now, so pale and ill, was heart breaking in the extreme. It was impossible to imagine what it must be like to suffer from an illness, which could cause so much direct harm. It was impossible to know what to do to help. But Diana’s home was Rachel’s home, for as long as she needed it. In fact, as Rachel owned the house, it needed no consideration at all. Though Diana knew where Rachel lived, she had never visited. Rachel’s privacy was sacrosanct, as was Diana’s faith. It was an unspoken, rule and mutually unquestioned, that neither would ever cross the line. However, it didn’t stop Diana from being curious, from wanting to complete the picture. As she prepared vegetable soup for Rachel, Diana pondered on the circumstances of her injuries. Something must have triggered the fit. Rachel’s epilepsy was erratic, but rarely that bad. It was one of the rare subjects that Rachel was prepared to talk about, so Diana was fairly well versed in the path of the illness. For instance, she knew that stress was a major trigger for Rachel, so what had happened that could have caused it. To an extent, it was pointless to speculate, Rachel wouldn’t tell her. In fact, it would be hard enough to get her to have the soup, let alone disclose her secrets. Diana had never known someone so indifferent to food. In her world, there were two great comforts in life, faith in God and a good dinner. �ŚRachel, I’ve brought you some food.’ She said gently, placing the tray on the coffee table before gently shaking Rachel’s shoulder. �ŚUh?’ Rachel uttered blearily, �ŚI’m not really hungry. But thank you.’ �ŚI don’t care whether you’re hungry or not, you’re going to have the damned soup. Now, sit up and eat!’ Diana demanded in a tone that brooked no argument. Rachel knew when she was beaten, and took the soup. While she ate, she wished that she could talk to Diana, tell her all the things that had happened in the last few days, but Diana was her only friend and she dreaded alienating her. So she swallowed it down with her soup. Amy was distraught, adamant that they had to find Rachel. �ŚI have no idea where to start, Amy, what do you want me to do?’ he pleaded, completely at a loss. He was worried too, but Rachel had always been a law unto herself. She could be anywhere. There were seven million people in London, Amy seemed to expect him to just wander round the morass of the city and pluck her out of the crowd. �ŚSomeone must know where she’s gone; she must have friends, contacts, something? We can’t just go and not know where she is. You didn’t see her dad, she was a mess. It’s all my fault. If something happens to her, it will be my fault.’ She cried, tears filling her eyes. That did it for Charlie; he had never been able to stand seeing her upset. �ŚOK, we’ll try, alright. We’ll try.’ Amy wiped her face, and sniffed loudly. �ŚWe could ask in the local shops and stuff, someone’s bound to know her.’ Charlie nodded, if he knew Rachel as well as he thought he did, it would be a dead end. But if it kept Amy happy, they could try. Amy attacked the task with unbridled enthusiasm, waltzing in and out of the shops in Queensway hoping to find someone who knew her mother. No one did, she soon concluded that no one knew anyone in a place like this, especially when the person in question didn’t want to be known. Charlie had trailed round after her, an apologetic look on his face when she bombarded people with questions. �ŚYou’re not exactly trying very hard’. Amy told him outside yet another shop where she’d had no luck. Charlie shrugged, �ŚLook, why don’t we take a break from it, get a coffee or something and rethink tactics?’ Amy looked as if she was going to argue, just for a second or two. Then she agreed. Charlie led her into the nearest cafe, a rather seedy place that smelled of old grease and burnt spices. At the counter he ordered their coffee and paid, then loitered impatiently as it was noisily and steamily made. As it was, he wasn’t that fussed about the coffee, but his feet ached from trudging the streets and he just wanted to sit down. It seemed that it wasn’t possible simply to get a coffee these days, not even in a greasy spoon joint like this. Waiters were now baristas who had to turn the simple act of producing a hot drink into a virtuoso performance. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the sticky counter and looked around. Next to him on the wall was a cork notice board with a variety of yellowed business cards and curling notices attached. Minicabs, locksmith’s, masseurs, French lessons, all the usual. A letter of thanks for a fundraising effort was pinned there. It didn’t seem like the kind of place where charitable efforts were rife so the letter caught his attention. Apparently, the cafe had raised four hundred and fifty two pounds for a women’s centre in Southwark. It struck Charlie as odd that a Bayswater cafe would be raising money for a charity in Southwark. As he absently scanned the page, he noticed a familiar name, in the small print, right at the bottom of the page. The Chairman of the charity was none other than R.L.Porter. �ŚGotcha’. He said to the surprise of the man who was trying to present him with two cups of milky froth. When the man had disappeared behind a grubby bead curtain, Charlie looked around, saw that no one was paying him any attention, and ripped the letter off the board, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, grabbed the coffee and made his way over to Amy. Ratcliffe and Angela arrived at the hospital, closely followed by two uniformed officers. Just as her husband was helping Frances Haines into her coat, the ward sister told Ratcliffe that Mrs Haines had just been discharged. That made his task even easier. He made his way down the ward with an air of gusto, a sardonic smile on his face as he spied his prey. �ŚGood afternoon Mrs Haines.’ He said, watching the look of consternation that flickered briefly across her sharp features. �ŚWas there something else you needed? Only I’ve been discharged, we were about to go home’. She said, her face now suffused with an expression of helpful concern. �ŚYes, as a matter of fact there is. We have a few more questions that we would like to ask you. Would you mind coming down to the station with us?’ Frances glanced at her husband. �ŚAs I told your colleagues this morning, I really have nothing else to add to my statement. I really don’t see how I can be of any help.’ �ŚI think you can help us a great deal Mrs Haines.’ Ratcliffe said, extending his arm as if to usher her out. �ŚNow look here’ Peter Haines interjected angrily. �ŚMy wife is going nowhere, except home. She has just been discharged from hospital and she is in no fit state to be interrogated about something she has no knowledge of.’ Ratcliffe glanced at Angela and raised his eyebrows. �ŚI have spoken to the doctor, and he assures me that there is no reason why your wife can’t accompany us. I would prefer it if you agreed to come voluntarily.’ Frances was suddenly as imperious as her husband was. �ŚAnd if I refuse?’ �ŚThen I will have no alternative but to arrest you’. The gasp of shock came from Peter, not Frances. She just stood there, swaying slightly. �ŚOn what grounds?’ Peter demanded, suddenly aware that every pair of eyes on the ward was on him. �ŚI think we should discuss that outside, don’t you, sir?’ Ratcliffe said, banking on the fact that Peter Haines was a man who liked to keep up appearances. Peter looked around him, people were staring, whispering. He swallowed and turned to his wife. �ŚDo as they say, we don’t want a scene.’ He hissed. Frances looked at him with a mixture of dismay and disgust. �ŚWhat?’ �ŚJust go, before this turns into a debacle! I’ll get Nigel Latimer to come. Just don’t say anything stupid before he gets there. In fact don’t say anything at all.’ �ŚBut I have done anything Peter.’ She said �ŚThat doesn’t matter. Just don’t say anything until I get there.’ With that, he left, leaving his wife to face the music alone. �ŚThis way Mrs Haines.’ Ratcliffe said, indicating the direction in which her husband had just fled. Frances set her jaw, raised her head and walked out of the hospital with an air of what was, under the circumstances, admirable hauteur. As Ratcliffe observed her demeanour, he was surprised to see certain similarities between Frances and his wife, Marie. The aura of indignation and specious innocence was tangibly familiar, so much so that it sent an unpleasant thrill through his gut. Not that he would have considered Marie capable of murder, but it occurred to him in that radical moment of truth that his wife was an exceedingly unpleasant woman. Outside, when Frances had been safely confined to the back of the patrol car, Angela turned to her boss. �ŚWhat’s up?’ Ratcliffe rubbed his face wearily. �ŚNothing. Any chance I can hijack your sofa for a few nights?’ Angela frowned. �ŚWhy, is something wrong?’ �ŚFar from it, in fact everything is great. Just having a little epiphany, that’s all.’ �ŚOkay�Ś If you say so. Should we discuss this later perhaps, after we’ve dealt with Frances Haines?’ At that moment, Ratcliffe’s mobile phone began to ring. He walked away from her in order to answer it, and she watched his shoulders sag a little as whoever was calling gave him news he didn’t want. She didn’t know exactly what was going on with him, didn’t particularly want to if she were honest, but equally didn’t know how to say no to his request for help. And by the look on his face, things weren’t getting any better. He ended the call and walked back towards her, �ŚDetour,’ was all he said. Thick smoke billowed down the drive in curling, toxic plumes, making the fire fighters into masters of the disappearing act. Both Ratcliffe and Angela had to squint and cover their mouths as soon as they got out of the car. Angela managed to locate a spare fireman, she showed him her warrant card, and asked him what the deal was. �ŚDifficult to say what caused it, the chief is thinking it was deliberate, it started inside anyway, and given the pattern of combustion I’d say he’s right, but no way of knowing till we get in there, and we’re a way off that. We’ve broken the back of it but it’ll be a while before it’s completely under control.’ Angela’s eyes were streaming, the acrid air burning her throat. �ŚAnyone in there?’ �ŚNo one that we managed to get out anyway’. He said, more casually than perhaps he should have. �ŚPut it this way, if there is anyone in there, they won’t have survived. We’ll let you know.’ Ratcliffe emerged from nowhere, as if he were walking out of a fog. �ŚCall came in from the dental surgery next door.’ He said before coughing heartily into a handkerchief. �ŚCome on, let’s go.’ Angela wasn’t going to argue with him, all they were doing was cluttering up the place. �ŚDo you think Stella was in there?’ She asked when they were back in the car. �ŚMore than likely, she gave this place as her home address when she was released. I think she probably caused it.’ They didn’t talk again after that, not until they got back to the station, Angela couldn’t speak for him of course, but she wondered if he was feeling the same sense of creeping guilt that was crawling through her conscience. They should have sectioned Stella Baxter, she had clearly been unstable. They should have used the law and taken her to a hospital, perhaps then, The Limes would still be standing, and they wouldn’t be waiting for a call to tell them that Stella had been inside. Peter Haines was waiting for them, antsy in the company of his solicitor. �ŚI’d like to take my wife home now. You have no right to keep her here, and since taking legal advice we have decided that she will not be giving you an informal interview.’ He said, his weak chin jutting forward. Ratcliffe sighed, �ŚOK Mr Haines, take a seat while I talk to Mr Latimer for a moment.’ Peter looked nonplussed, undecided whether to sit down as instructed or stand his ground. He sat down. Ratcliffe took the solicitor to one side. �ŚI’m going to arrest her.’ �ŚOn what grounds?’ Nigel Latimer asked. �ŚThe murder of Roy Baxter. We’ve got DNA evidence.’ He said wearily, �Śdo you want to talk to her again before we see her?’ �ŚYou know I’m going to advise her to make no comment don’t you?’ Ratcliffe sighed, of course, he was, they always did, and he would have to sit in a room going through the motions for hours on end because of it. �ŚYou do your job, I’ll do mine.’ Latimer nodded. �ŚOK Mike, just so as we know where we stand. By the way, I hope you’re going to change that suit before we go in, you smell like a barbeque.’ Ratcliffe sniffed is jacket sleeve. It was rank with acrid smoke. �ŚYeah, you might like to inform Mr Haines there that his inheritance has just gone up in smoke.’ �ŚPardon?’ �ŚThe Limes, the family pile. They’re still trying to put it out.’ Latimer rolled his eyes, this was all he needed. He’d known Peter Haines a long time, one of the penalties of being a member of the Rotary Club. Consequently, he knew that Haines would have a worse reaction to the knowledge that probate would be granting him power of attorney over a pile of ash than he had so far had to the knowledge that his wife was sitting in a police station about to be arrested for murder. He damned well hoped there would be enough money left to cover his fees. Angela was pissed off. She had done a lot of the donkey work on this case, and now Benton had breezed in at the last minute and insisted on doing the interview with Ratcliffe. Not that it would do her much good, Angela had seen clam’s with looser lips than Frances Haines had. Not that it mattered, since they could safely leave this one to the court to decide. All the evidence they needed for a conviction had been found clutched into the stiff, dead hand of Roy Baxter. There would be some back up work of course, that was no problem, and she enjoyed that part. Better than sitting in an interview room for hours on end listening to some dodgy scrote saying �ŚNo comment’. Nah, Sam Benton could carry on driving her desk. It would be Angela and Ratcliffe that got this one sorted, despite how it would look on paper. It was unfortunate that Stella was out of the picture, and given that a body had been found in the charred shell of The Limes, she was pretty sure that was the case. Not that Stella would have been much help in a courtroom; it would have been like throwing a pork chop to a bunch of hungry dogs. But she would have been useful for background. Not like Frances or the other one, Rachel. She didn’t relish having to talk to Rachel Porter again, not after the last time, all that thrashing about and foaming at the mouth. She felt like she would be better off approaching the woman with a first aid kit and a portable defibrillator, just in case. That was pending she could track her down. God this family were good at disappearing! If they weren’t missing, they were un-contactable. It was as if no one had told them they were living in the 21st Century, where normal people had mobile phones, e-mail, and addresses where they actually could be found in residence. Rachel Porter didn’t even have a landline. Angela was pretty sure they had told her to let them know what her movements would be. But all she had managed to do so far was to contact a particularly unhelpful neighbour, who spoke as if she had a gob full of plums, only to be told that Rachel Porter was �Śaway’. Not only did she have all that on her plate, but there was also the prospect of Mike Ratcliffe taking up residence on her sofa. Finding Rachel Porter seemed like a much more appealing prospect than dealing with her boss and his midlife crisis. It was quite obvious that he was going to bail out on his wife, but why he had to choose Angela as the repository for his marital misery was beyond her. She was too nice for her own good and that was her problem. Amy was bouncing around like a Ping-Pong ball in a bingo machine. Since discovering that there might be a way to find Rachel she had become like a thing possessed, all of which was completely unnerving Charlie. He sat in the back of the taxi, arms folded, watching her as she harangued the driver to get a move on. Too much time spent with his mother he supposed, that and youth which was full of expectations and the need for instant gratification. He knew she meant well, she wanted to find Rachel and make everything better. So did he, but he had been around for a lot longer and had the certain knowledge that things were never as simple as they should be. Even if they did track her down, and there was no certainty that they would give that they only had her name on a piece of paper and there was a good chance that there was more than one R.L.Porter in London, there was every chance that they would just make things worse. He was inclined to think that his mother was right. Finding out the truth might make Rachel’s life much worse. But not knowing would leave it just the same, miserable, lonely, and irretrievable. She was in stasis, a perpetual state of suspended animation. He had been stuck too, but his existence at least had redeeming features. The lively girl next to him for one, though the way she was behaving was a mite embarrassing. Even if Rachel did fall apart at realising her life had been a mockery, at least she might have a chance of building a relationship with Amy. That had to be something on his side at least. He didn’t think there would be any going back for them, him and Rachel. How did two people move on from something like this? She was hardly going to welcome him with open arms and say, �ŚWell that’s all right then.’ Besides, she had told Amy that their relationship had been founded on desperation. He had never seen it like that, but if she did, it had been wrong from the beginning. The beginning. He had first set eyes on her when she was a tiny bawling scrap, dumped on his mother because Valerie had a headache and couldn’t cope with her. Delia had made him hold her. He had been fifteen, and he would rather have boiled his own head than have to deal with a baby. He could remember looking at her tiny face and being fascinated at how perfect every feature was. A real human being in miniature. He could also remember being absolutely terrified that he would drop her, but most of all he had been overwhelmed at the amount of noise that she was making. Then Stella had come in and taken her away. She had always been closer to Stella than to any of the others. In fact Frances couldn’t have paid less attention to her if she tried, her only acknowledgement of Rachel’s presence having been �ŚCan’t somebody shut that thing up.’ He hadn’t spent much time there then, as little as possible if he could help it. Only when his mother demanded that he go to The Limes had he reluctantly gone there, and even then, he had stayed out of the way as much as possible. For some reason Valerie Porter particularly disliked him and only tolerated him at all because if she wanted Delia, then she had to accept Charlie too. How many times had he begged his mother to find another job over the years? However, she never would, doggedly staying loyal to a woman who treated her like dirt and paid her a pittance. He knew that she and Valerie had grown up together, had even been friends in childhood, but it wasn’t something that Delia ever talked about. Valerie had been a detestable woman, a bitter, twisted bitch. Whatever was at the root of his mother’s loyalty to her, it was beyond him. Visits to the house became more frequent when he had started to work for Roy, that had been down to his mother too, and he had just slipped into it, leaving school one minute, working for Roy Baxter the next. If he met the man now he would probably punch him as soon as look at him, but at sixteen he had thought Roy a god. Charlie Jones, a pathetic little sycophant. The first time he’d watched Roy bully both Rachel and Stella, he had soon learned his lesson. The man had taken pleasure in scaring women and children, had actually enjoyed it. Stella had been terrified of him anyway, and as far as Charlie saw it, she had only married Roy because she thought he would take her away from home, Roy had only married her because he wanted that home. Stella had been more entrenched in the microcosm of life that was The Limes than ever after the wedding. Roy had believed the family had money. After all, they lived in a big house, so it stood to reason. Valerie had believed that Roy had money, since he drove a flash car. Both had been disappointed, and Stella had borne the brunt, caught like a squash ball between two embittered people who thought they had been cheated. Rachel had just been caught in the crossfire. Roy knew that Stella favoured her, so he went out of his way to terrify the child, just to intimidate his wife further. As a kid, Rachel would descend into a fit at the mere sight of him. Then Roy had taken Patsy from him, without a second thought. Maybe he had even killed her. Sure as eggs, someone had. Charlie shook his head, and ran his hand over his face, as if the cobwebs of the past could be so easily wiped away. These were maudlin thoughts about things that could not be undone. He had to focus on the present, work out what could be changed. �ŚWe’re here dad.’ Amy called, launching herself out of the cab and leaving him to pay the fare. �ŚYou do realise that this may be nothing to do with her, and I might have just spent twenty five quid on a wild goose chase.’ He said as they stood outside the Southwark Women’s Centre. �ŚYou can be wrong dad. Sometimes. Honest.’ Diana was faced with a dilemma. Two people who she had never heard of were looking for Rachel. Unfortunately, one of the volunteers had already told them that Rachel had links to the centre, so denying all knowledge of her wasn’t an option. This reminded her that she must run another session on confidentiality, because the message clearly wasn’t getting through. She looked at the two people who were sitting in her office and tried to weight them up. A young girl who looked like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days, who was fidgety and eager, perched on the edge of her chair. And a man, who looked equally tired, who was the opposite. Self-contained, pensive, not willing to give anything away. Not the usual type of man that turned up at the centre, demanding his rights and shouting the odds. But she still didn’t trust him. Bracing herself, she walked into the office, �ŚHello, I’m Diana Lovell. How can I help?’ She said, not offering to shake their hands, but sitting behind her desk and smiling helpfully. It was the girl who spoke first. �ŚWe’re looking for Rachel Porter. The woman out there said you would be able to help.’ Diana kept smiling, and folded her hands on the desk. �ŚMight I ask who you are?’ The girl looked anxious, she glanced at the man, his expression still inscrutable �ŚI’m Amy Jones, and this is my father Charlie.’ She said, as if it were supposed to mean something to Diana. Diana sighed and put her hands flat on the desk. �ŚI get a lot of people here asking for the whereabouts of certain women, as you can imagine. Given the nature of what we do here, I’m not in the habit of disclosing much.’ The man, Charlie, unfolded his arms and leaned forward. �ŚWe understand that, we’re concerned about Rachel, she had an accident and discharged herself from hospital, we just want to know if she’s safe.’ �ŚI’m sorry Mr Jones, but I don’t know you from Adam, even if I did know your Rachel, I wouldn’t be able to discuss anything with you.’ �ŚBut the woman out there said that you did know her.’ The girl said, upset. �ŚI’m sorry but I can’t really help you.’ Diana said, starting to rise. �ŚYou don’t understand, this is really important!’ the girl cried. Diana felt sorry for her, she seemed genuinely upset, but what could she do? The man put a hand on his daughters arm, �ŚIt’s Ok Amy, don’t get upset. We’re putting Ms Lovell in a very difficult situation here.’ He said, reasonably. �ŚI realise that you might not be able to talk to us about this, but that doesn’t prevent you from listening does it? If I were to explain our situation, you might at least be able to take a message. Is that possible?’ Diana settled back in her seat. �ŚI’m happy to listen.’ Charlie took a breath; his daughter reached out and held his hand, a brave little smile on her face. �ŚRachel porter is my wife, and Amy is our daughter. A few weeks ago, Rachel’s mother died, and certain events came to light as a result of the house being cleared. It appears that Rachel’s brother-in-law had been murdered and his remains were found in her old family home. As well as that, she also had to see me. We have been separated for a long time, and it was a bit of a shock to her, which resulted in her having an epileptic fit. I’m trying to cut a very long story short here, so please bear with me. Anyway, that fit resulted in quite severe injury, and landed Rachel in hospital, she discharged herself, has disappeared from her home, and is in no fit state to look after herself. We are both very concerned about her welfare and only want to know if she’s safe.’ �ŚAnd there is something really important we have to tell her.’ Amy added eagerly. Diana sat back in her chair and looked at the two people who sat in front of her. It had to be a bizarre coincidence that the Rachel Porter they were looking for had epilepsy and had been in hospital. Stranger things had happened. She felt sorry for them; they seemed genuinely concerned for this poor woman. �ŚI’m very, very sorry, I can see how upset you both are, but I really don’t see how I can help. I think you have the wrong place. There is a Rachel Porter who is a patron of the charity, but I don’t think she is the same person you are looking for.’ She said apologetically. The girl looked crestfallen, the man just frowned. �ŚThis has to be the right place.’ The girl said. �ŚRachel Porter lives in Flat two, number twelve Glengarry Gardens, Bayswater.’ Charlie said, pulling out his wallet and extracting something from inside. �ŚThis is a photograph of her, it’s old, but she hasn’t changed much.’ He handed it to Diana. She took the picture and studied it, a young Rachel, holding a small baby, smiling. Rachel smiling was not a familiar sight. But it was definitely her. Diana’s mind was reeling with possible and impossible explanations. She handed the photograph back. �ŚWould you mind giving me the long version of your story? I think I might need to hear it.’ Charlie told her, everything except that Rachel thought he was her father. As the woman had said, they didn’t know each other from Adam. �ŚWell’ Diana said when Charlie had finished. Then she paused. The tale he had told definitely filled in the blank that was Rachel’s history. It even explained her reticence, but only so far. There was more to this, Diana was certain of it. But whether she had a right to know was a different matter. �ŚI can understand your predicament. But I am still not able to discuss Rachel with you. The fact that she has not made contact with you since Amy’s visit to the hospital suggests that she has made a conscious choice not to communicate. Much as it might be difficult, I think we have to respect her decision. The only thing I can do is to assure you that she is well and is being cared for.’ Amy lurched forward in her chair, �ŚSo you know where she is?’ Diana merely smiled. Charlie stood up and took Amy’s arm, �ŚCome on Amy, we’ve done everything we can.’ Amy pulled her arm away. �ŚNo. We have to see her, you have to tell her the truth!’ she turned to Diana, �ŚYou’ve got to tell us where she is!’ �ŚMs Lovell doesn’t have to do anything Amy, now pull yourself together.’ Charlie said firmly. Amy’s eyes flashed, �ŚThen she’ll have to tell her for us.’ She turned to Diana, mouth open to speak. Charlie’s voice stopped her in her tracks. �ŚENOUGH!’ he shouted, making both women jump. �ŚIt’s not yours to tell Amy.’ He said quietly, a heavy warning in his voice. Amy opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with just a look. He turned to Diana, �ŚThank you for your time, I appreciate it, even if my daughter doesn’t. I wonder if you see Rachel, could you please pass on a message. Just tell her it’s not true. If she wants to contact me, she knows how.’ Diana nodded. �ŚOf course.’ With that, he led his daughter out of the office and through the building. After they had gone, Diana sat back in her chair and stared at the door for a long time. Whatever it was that wasn’t true, it was the one thing that was holding Rachel back. Finally, Diana gathered her things ready to go home. It might be a very long evening. She sent up a little prayer as she left the building, just in case. Amy was fuming, how could he? They had been in a prime position to track Rachel down, and he had blown it! Bad enough that she had been denied her mother for twenty years already, now he had taken her away for a second time. In that moment she hated him, he was nothing but a selfish stubborn pig. Unable to vent at him she sat in silence as their cab made its way back to Bayswater through the heavy traffic. She would never forgive him for this! That woman wasn’t going to pass any message on to Rachel, and she had made that patently clear. Well, Rachel had to go back home sometime, didn’t she? And when she did, Amy would find her and sort this mess out once and for all. Charlie could sense Amy’s temper. It was coming off her in waves. Emanating, like some kind of sonar, showing him up as the tangible object of her gross displeasure. He knew that he was right, and she was wrong, he also knew that there was no point in trying to argue it. She would calm down soon enough. And Charlie was nothing if not a patient man. He settled himself into a state of tolerant calm, a condition he was well practised in achieving, having spent years practising the technique. Then his phone rang. Startled for a moment he answered it, �ŚHello?’ �ŚHello Mr Jones, this is DC Angela Watson, I’m trying to track down Rachel Porter, is she still with you?’ �ŚNo. No, she’s not. In fact I don’t know where she is.’ �ŚIt’s crucial that we contact her, do you have any idea where we might find her?’ �ŚNone I’m afraid. Has something happened?’ There was a pause. �ŚYes, look I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or not, but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. We need to speak to her, urgently. If she doesn’t contact me on this number in the next two hours, I’m going to have to report her as missing. It’s in her interests to contact us Mr Jones.’ Charlie pondered for a moment, �ŚOK, I hear you. I’ll do my best.’ He guessed the game had changed. DC Watson rang off. He turned to the taxi driver, �ŚChange of plan mate, can you take us back to Southwark?’ The cabbie mumbled something unintelligible but clearly unpleasant and turned sharply down a side street, throwing Amy across the seat against Charlie. �ŚWhat’s going on?’ She said huffily, pulling away from him quickly. He told her what Angela Watson had just said. �ŚOh, so we have to find her now, since the police want her. Well that’s just great isn’t it? Don’t worry about what your daughter wants. But the police say jump and you jump!’ she said sulkily. Charlie had to smile, �ŚThat’s about the size of it.’ He said. She would learn. The cab finally dropped them outside an internet cafe. Initially they had gone back to the women’s centre, but had found it closed. So Charlie had asked the very disgruntled cabbie to drop them at the nearest internet cafe. He didn’t know this part of London at all well, but the ten-minute drive seemed to him to be spitting distance from the centre. He supposed it was what you got for hacking off your driver round here. �ŚNow what are you doing?’ Amy asked temperamentally. �ŚTaking a leaf out of your book, finding out where Diana Lovell lives.’ �ŚDo you think she’s there?’ �ŚEighty percent sure.’ Inside they found a free computer and logged on, going straight to 192.com. It was shockingly easy to find people, as long as they were on the electoral register. Diana Lovell was, and they had her address in minutes. The next task was a MapQuest search for Diana’s street in relation to their location. It was an easy walk away, Charlie said. �ŚIt’s miles away dad!’ Amy protested, but Charlie insisted he wasn’t going to get in another cab again that day. Besides, he was starving and wasn’t going anywhere else with an empty stomach. The offerings in the internet cafe were none too appealing, so Amy went to pay for their session while Charlie went outside to suss out a decent place to eat. While she was waiting for the man behind the counter to work out what they owed, she glanced up at the TV he had been watching. Sky news. There was no sound, but a reporter stood in front of a burnt out house, firemen still wandering around in the background. People in white paper suits and blue plastic shoe covers could be seen in the distance. But it was the moving headline that really caught her attention. �ŚFurther tragedy at The Limes’. She handed over the money to the man, telling him to keep the change. Outside Charlie had beaten her to it, he was standing outside the newsagents next door, staring at the latest news that was scrawled in black marker pen behind the mesh of the A board outside. This one was more graphic, �ŚAnother gruesome death in House of Horror’. He held a newspaper in his hand, a late edition hot off the press. Now they knew why the police wanted to speak to Rachel so urgently. Amy scanned the article over his shoulder, it told them nothing except that the house had burned, a body had been found and that Frances had been arrested in a �Śshocking twist’. �ŚWho do you think it was, in the fire?’ �ŚStella’ Charlie said unequivocally. A shiver had run down his spine when he had spotted the headline, it triggered a memory long buried. A passing comment, made years ago, one day after a particularly vitriolic exchange between Valerie and Roy. They had been arguing about the house as usual, Roy had wanted her to re-mortgage it, she had refused. Stella had been caught between them as usual. Charlie had been hovering in the kitchen, keeping out of the way when Stella had come in. She had walked over to the sink and gripped its porcelain edge, her knuckles white from the effort. He had asked her if she was all right. �ŚOne day I’m going to take a torch to this place, with me in it, then neither of them will have it,’ she had said. He’d laughed at the time and told her he wouldn’t blame her. Diana let herself into the house quietly, closing the front door with the merest hint of a click. She suspected that Rachel would be sleeping, or at least getting some badly needed rest. In the hallway, she hung up her coat and debated how she would approach the subject of her visitors that day. It would expose Rachel, peel away her defences, and Diana didn’t know where that would leave them, didn’t know if their relationship could stand that level of knowledge. She was half-tempted to say nothing, just leave things well alone, but an economy of truth was equal to a lie. Diana never lied. A single episode of a soap opera told you all you needed to know about the injurious nature of falsehood. �ŚI didn’t hear you come in, want a cup of tea?’ Rachel’s voice startled her, �ŚOh, I thought you might be asleep. In fact why are you in the kitchen when you should be resting?’ She said, her maternal switch instantly flicking into the �Śon’ position. �ŚBecause I’m feeling a lot better. Go and sit down, I’ll make the tea.’ �ŚAnd how are you going to carry it hop-a-long?’ Rachel looked down at her duff leg and smiled, �ŚFair point. I’ll make it, you carry it.’ Diana followed her into the kitchen, and watched pensively as Rachel pottered about. �ŚHow was the centre, manic as usual?’ Rachel asked as she set out two mugs. Might as well get straight to the point, �ŚNot too bad actually. I had a couple of unusual visitors.’ �ŚYeah?’ She waited until Rachel had put the kettle down, she didn’t want a scald added to her list of injuries. �ŚCharlie and Amy Jones, they were looking for you.’ Rachel paused, a spoonful of sugar suspended in mid air. �ŚDid you tell them I was here?’ �ŚOf course not. But they seemed worried about you.’ �ŚSo you know who they are then?’ Rachel said, depositing the sugar in the mug with more precision than Diana had expected. �ŚCharlie explained the situation.’ �ŚHe would. Can you bring these? I think we should sit down.’ Diana picked up the mugs and carried them through to the lounge. She waited until Rachel was settled on the sofa, and passed her the tea. �ŚHow did they trace me to you?’ �ŚFrom a letter, he said it was pinned up in a cafe. One of our fundraiser thank you notes, your name is on the bottom.’ Rachel nodded slowly. �ŚWhat else did they say?’ �ŚThat they were worried about you, that you had discharged yourself from hospital.’ Diana noted the flush of shame that swept Rachel’s cheeks. �ŚAnd that there was something important you needed to know.’ �ŚWhat?’ Rachel hadn’t looked into Diana’s eyes since Charlie and Amy had been mentioned, her tone was defensive and Diana could see the walls going up with every second that passed. �ŚI don’t know what it means but he said to tell you �śit’s not true”. He seemed to think it was pretty important.’ Diana said expectantly, wondering what Rachel’s response would be. Rachel just shrugged. �ŚNo idea. So how do you feel now, knowing that I kept the truth from you, that I abandoned my husband and my child?’ Diana looked at her friend and felt a rush of sorrow for her. �ŚRachel, this is me you’re talking to. I don’t judge, you know that. I spend my life with women who make difficult decisions because of difficult circumstances every day. Of all people, I know that everyone has their reasons for what they do. I respect you privacy, just as much as I ever did. Yes, I have questions, but I’m not going to ask them, yes, I’m concerned for you, but I’m not going to force the issue. The thing I’m most upset about is knowing that you jeopardised your safety by leaving hospital too soon. It hurts me that you care so little about yourself.’ Rachel stared into her tea, �ŚI know and I’m sorry. I had my reasons, for all of it.’ They sat in silence for a while. Diana knew that Rachel had no intention of elaborating on Charlie’s story, knew that there was good chance she would be out of the door as soon as her back was turned. Desperate women did such predictably self-destructive things. �ŚHave you eaten anything since I left?’ Diana finally asked. She knew when to leave things alone. �ŚI’m not hungry.’ Rachel said. Diana resolved to feed her anyway. Food was the only thing she could impose on her. Just as she got into the hallway, the doorbell rang. �ŚI’ll get it’ she called. Her face dropped as soon as she opened the door. �ŚThis really is a step too far!’ She said sharply, instantly shutting the door and finding it blocked by Charlie’s outstretched hand. �ŚWait, please. It’s not what you think.’ He called. �ŚWhat I think seems to have no impression on you at all Mr Jones. Now, please take your hand away from the door. This is harassment.’ It wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with an upset male in pursuit of a missing spouse, though it wasn’t often that they cornered her on her own territory. But just in case, she kept two things behind the front door, a baseball bat, and a panic button. She braced her foot against the door and reached for the bat, she was just about to press the button, which would summon the police, when he called out again. �ŚSomething’s happened, the police are trying to contact Rachel, they phoned me, and the only thing I could think of was to find you. It’s urgent, please...’ Something in his voice made her relax her grip on the bat and pull her finger away from the button, she glanced round. Rachel stood in the lounge doorway. Diana raised her eyebrows and nodded towards the door. Rachel frowned then nodded back. �ŚLet them in.’ She said quietly. Diana took her foot away from the door and opened it. �ŚThank you,’ Charlie said, he looked stressed. Amy stood behind him, chewing on a fingernail. Diana realised how much she looked like Rachel now that her young face bore the marks of anxiety. �ŚI really am sorry to bother you at your home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t explain properly before but the police need to speak to Rachel urgently about the murder case. There have been some events that she really needs to know about, do you know where she is?’ Diana held the door wide, �ŚYou’d better come in.’ �ŚNo, its fine. If you know where she is, I’ll just give you the number of the officer in charge and you can pass it on. I don’t want to bother you any more than I have done already.’ He was reaching inside his jacket to get the number. �ŚThere’s no need, Rachel’s here.’ She stood back to let them in, watching as Amy surged forward, the anxiety in her face quickly replaced with eagerness as she realised that her mother was inside. Charlie let her pass, and gave Diana a weary smile, �ŚThank you.’ He said as she closed the door behind him. Amy was already in the lounge; she ran up to Rachel and flung her arms round her neck, nearly knocking her off her already unsteady feet. �ŚOh God, mum, I’m so glad we found you, I’ve been so worried! I’m so sorry for the things I said to you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.’ She babbled, clinging on to her mother like a large, hysterical monkey. Rachel felt tears, not her own, on her face. This sudden onslaught of human contact caught her completely off guard and she froze for a moment, unable to respond. Unable even to breathe. A cacophony of emotions jostled for space in her mind, her body was suffused with a rising panic. She felt sure that the pounding in her chest would surely deafen the girl. Then some instinct took over, some bizarre primal response that took her by surprise. She found herself putting her arms round this other human being, and holding her back. She found some untapped part of herself intuitively murmuring words of comfort into her daughters hair, her hands began to rub the girls back, and her body started to rock gently, both of them swaying until the taught emotions started to ebb and Rachel could command herself again. Charlie could see the shock and confusion on Rachel’s face, this was all too much for her, he reached out and gently pulled his sobbing daughter into his own arms, �ŚCome on love, let your mum sit down, she’s not too steady yet, remember?’ He said as Amy buried her face in his jacket and sobbed uncontrollably. Rachel stood trembling, her mouth silently forming the word, mum, as if it were utterly foreign and she was searching for its meaning, she started to sway. Diana shot forward, catching her by the arm and guiding her to the sofa, �ŚLet’s get you sat down before you fall down.’ Amy pulled herself away from Charlie, and wiping her face on her sleeve glanced sadly and sheepishly at Rachel. �ŚAmy, why don’t you come with me? I’ll find you some tissues and we’ll get you and your dad a cup of tea?’ Diana said, before the emotions in the room reached critical mass again. Charlie gave her a grateful smile and gently pushed Amy towards Diana. When they had gone, he took the chair opposite Rachel, �ŚYou OK?’ He was searching her face for signs of the fugue state that always presaged a fit. She looked dazed, but she didn’t have the kind of vacancy in her expression that he had been expecting. As soon as his words were out, he could see her fighting to regain control of herself. �ŚRachel?’ She shook her head, as if fending off a cloud of annoying insects. �ŚI’m Ok, I just wasn’t expecting that.’ She said. �ŚI’m not sure Amy was either, she’ll be mortified that she showed herself up.’ He quipped. �ŚShe called me mum.’ Rachel said absently. �ŚWell, that’s what you are.’ She shot him an unexpectedly cold look, and then turned her head away from him. �ŚYou told Diana the police needed to talk to me, what do they want?’ Charlie closed his eyes for a second in deference to the moment that had so suddenly passed, and just like that, they were back to business. He had always underestimated her ability to compartmentalise everything, and it had always been to his cost. �ŚDS Watson phoned me earlier, there have been some developments. Have you seen the news?’ Rachel shook her head, she didn’t own a TV, didn’t read papers. Life was oppressive enough without the media piling on the misery. �ŚNo, why?’ Charlie realised that she probably didn’t know what had happened since he had left her flat. He took a breath. �ŚThey’ve arrested Frances, I don’t know the details but it seems there is some new evidence that links her to what happened to Roy.’ He paused, waiting for her reaction. Rachel raised her eyebrows in surprise. �ŚFrances?’ �ŚYeah. Like I said, I don’t know the details. And there’s something else.’ He took another breath and told her about The Limes, and Stella. �ŚNo one has confirmed it’s her.’ He added, but he knew that she thought the same as him. Rachel pushed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from crying out. Stella was the only one she had ever cared about, the only one she had ever felt guilty about leaving in that bloody house. �ŚOh God! Stella’ she groaned, her gut wrenching with grief and regret. Charlie put his hand out to touch her arm, offer his support, but she recoiled from him as if he had given her an electric shock. �ŚDon’t! I’m OK’. She said sharply, instantly back in control. Charlie sat back in his chair. She was holding her arm where his fingers had brushed her skin, and he could see the battle going on in her head. He had to tell her, he couldn’t stand to watch her like this anymore. Diana couldn’t have passed on the message, or she would already know. �ŚThere’s one more thing’ he said, praying that Diana would have the prescience to keep Amy in the kitchen, �ŚThere’s something I need to tell you. I know why you left, and it’s not true.’ She was still holding herself, and staring at him with abject confusion on her face. �ŚIt’s not true Rachel. It was a lie. Valerie lied.’ She pulled her head back, her brow creasing with uncertainty. �ŚWhat are you saying? I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’ She said, sounding irritated. �ŚI’m not your father Rachel. They lied, Frances, Valerie. They lied. It’s not true.’ Her face contorted as his words sank in, he could see the pain it was causing her, and it squeezed his heart. His own reaction had been gross, but this? What the knowledge was doing to Rachel was tortuous. She looked like she was going to vomit, the colour had drained out of her face, he shot forward, just in time to stop her falling as the inevitable happened and she descended into another fit. When she came round, it was to find Diana at her side, ready with the water. Rachel tried to speak, but Diana hushed her. �ŚIt’s alright. Drink this and give yourself a minute, then I need you to take your meds.’ Rachel did as she was told, swallowing the water, then the drugs and settling back onto the cushions of the sofa with a deep sigh. �ŚI know what happened, Amy told me. I think she needed to tell someone, so don’t get angry.’ Diana said, as Rachel turned her face away from her. �ŚYou have an awful lot to come to terms with now, but it can wait. No one is expecting anything of you right now. Except the police, I’m afraid. They’re insisting that you go back.’ Rachel knew that she had to. But she could handle that. �ŚIt’s fine. I’ll get a train.’ She mumbled, trying to sit up, and suddenly feeling utterly drained. She didn’t think she could make it to the front door, let alone to the station. �ŚDon’t be absurd! You have just had a massive fit, and I have just spent god knows how long arguing with some uppity little madam in the police station, trying to convince her that you are in no fit state to go anywhere. But since when have the police been reasonable? Anyway, the upshot is that Charlie is going to drive you there, and Amy and I are going to get a train. They’ve gone to get his van now.’ She put her hand up to silence the protest that Rachel was about to make. �ŚNo arguments, it’s all arranged! The safest way to get you there is with Charlie, he knows exactly what to do if you have another seizure. Amy and I are going by train, and we will meet you at Charlie’s house when you get there. We are both going to stay there until the police are done with you. One of us will be with you whatever happens. You can protest all you like but this is how it’s going to be! So like it or lump it.’ Diana stated, she was being deliberately obtuse, but for all the right reasons. Rachel flopped back on the cushions again, too weak and too tired to argue. She didn’t care what any of them did. She just needed to close her eyes. The nightmares of sleep were far more preferable to the one she faced if she stayed awake. Rachel was bundled uncomfortably into Charlie’s van, wrapped in a blanket, given a hot water bottle and a thermos full of soup. (Diana was a great believer in chicken soup as a salve for the soul). She was tired and confused, her mind flicking between shock over Frances’s arrest, grief for Stella and the unutterable truth of her existence for the past twenty years. In reality she didn’t want to think about any of it, she just wanted to shut her mind down completely. Now she had been told that she would be staying with Charlie and Amy while the police completed their enquiries. There was no escape from any of it. She would have cried, but all capacity to weep had escaped her a long time ago. All of the reactions she should have been having just seemed to have gathered themselves into a big knot of misery which choked out everything else, except one question, why? Her childhood had been full of acrimony and dysfunction, a poverty of spirit that had sapped everything. But to tell a lie of such vitriolic magnitude, to have so much hatred of something, to find the will to invent such a monstrous perjury was inconceivable to her. Whatever had happened to her family, whatever demon seemed bent on destruction had achieved its aims. Frances had killed a man, Stella had committed suicide in the worst possible way, and it had ruined Rachel’s life irretrievably. All because Valerie Porter had been disappointed with her lot in life? Hard to believe. Rachel could only conclude that something much more malign was at work in their lives. It occurred to her that Stella must have thought the same thing. That maybe burning down the house was her solution to end it. Though everyone kept telling her that it might not be Stella who had set light to the house, that it might not be her charred remains that had been found, Rachel was certain, who else could it be? Everyone else that had been touched by the malevolent force that seemed rule their lives was accounted for. Amy and Charlie were with her, Frances was in a cell somewhere, and Valerie, Roy and Patsy were all dead. Only Delia remained, a kind- hearted old lady who had done her best. Over the years, Rachel had lost count of the times that she had relived those moments in Delia’s kitchen when she had been told of Valerie’s visit, told of what had been said. The pivotal moment, when everything had toppled the wrong way. Charlie glanced across at her, �ŚAre you OK?’ he asked, knowing what a ridiculous question it was, but not knowing what else to say. Everything he said, everything he did just seemed to diminish her even more. All he got in response was a weary nod. He didn’t know what else he expected from her. Part of him felt that if anything else happened she would just disappear before his eyes, fade out in a blink, finally consumed by it all. Maybe, when this nightmare was over, she could pick up the pieces and move on. She had Amy now, she had him too, but somehow he felt that she didn’t really want him. Bizarrely that fact still hurt, after all these years of living with it. Even in light of the truth, she would think that too much damage had been done. The worst part was that she would be able to walk out of his life even more effectively this time round. Once everything had been resolved, there would be no reason for her to stay. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Angela offered Ratcliffe the last slice of pizza. They had picked it up on the way back to her place, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to cook at this time of night, besides, Ratcliffe had brought a bag with him, full of personal belongings. If she cooked for him, he might feel he could just slip his feet under the table. He had made himself at home already, had loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, helped himself to a beer and lay on her sofa. All while she got plates and napkins. �ŚCheers’ he said, grabbing the limp slice of food and cramming it into his mouth. A slice of pepperoni slid off and plopped onto his shirt, leaving a bright greasy stain. Ratcliffe just peeled it off and ate it, rubbing the stain further in with his fingers. �ŚIt’ll come out in the wash.’ He said. Angela hoped he didn’t think it was coming out in her wash. She drew the line at that. Might as well grab the bull by the horns. �ŚSo what’s up with you and Maria?’ Ratcliffe chewed his last mouthful and washed it down with a swig of beer. �ŚHad enough, can’t stand the sight of each other. So, time to call it a day.’ �ŚHow did she take it?’ �ŚDunno, she wasn’t there. It’s her book group tonight. I left her a note.’ �ŚNice, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that after all these years. So what are you going to do now?’ �ŚDunno, get a divorce I suppose, move on.’ He said, taking another swig of beer and reaching for the TV remote. �ŚI meant where are you going to live?’ �ŚI thought I was staying here.’ He was flicking through the sports channels, she couldn’t believe it. She only had the sports pack because you couldn’t get the films without it, but she would be buggered if he was going to dominate the TV too. She stood up and switched the TV off. �ŚHang on a minute, you asked if you could stay for a few nights, a few nights, like one or two, maybe three at a stretch. I don’t want a lodger. You’re going to have to sort something else out. Besides I don’t want Maria or anybody else thinking you left her for me.’ �ŚNobody’s going to think that are they? I’m old enough to be your father.’ �ŚWell, whatever. But you can’t stay here, not for longer than a night or two anyway.’ He looked a little put out, had he honestly expected her to put him up indefinitely because he had left his wife on a whim. �ŚDon’t you think you’d better talk to Maria at least, see if you can work things out?’ He sat up, finished his beer and set the bottle on the table, then stared at it as if it held all the answers. �ŚDo you know I can’t remember the last time we talked about anything? I don’t think we’ve had a proper conversation in years. We don’t even sleep in the same room anymore, she’s in the spare.’ This was heading towards too much information for Angela. �ŚOk, I get it. It’s not working. But you’ve got to get it sorted properly, find a flat or something, then get yourself a decent solicitor, otherwise she’ll take you to the cleaners.’ He didn’t seem to realise that it wasn’t as simple as just walking out the door. From what she knew about Mrs Ratcliffe he would have a right old battle on his hands. �ŚAnyway, speaking of marital discord, I can’t see Peter Haines standing by his wife can you?’ Talking about work seemed much safer ground. �ŚNo, indeed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was packing his bags and calling the estate agent as we speak.’ �ŚYou think the case is tight against Frances then?’ �ŚPretty good, we need Rachel’s testimony, and some loose ends need tying up, but I think we’ll get a conviction out of it.’ �ŚSo, did she talk at all?’ Angela still felt a mite resentful that she hadn’t been in on the interview, Ratcliffe rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. �ŚNot much, just said that she knew it was Roy because of the ring.’ �ŚWhat ring?’ �ŚShe said he had a ring, one of those chunky things with a stone. A ruby apparently. Said it was on his finger when she saw the hand, and it was how she knew it was him when the box was opened.’ �ŚI don’t remember anything about a ring,’ �ŚExactly, no one does. There was no ring. In which case the only conclusion we can draw is that she knew who it was because she put him there. That and the fact that he had a handful of her hair.’ �ŚWhat about the earring?’ �ŚSaid she’d never seen it before, then Latimer advised her to shut up. It won’t go in her favour.’ �ŚSo what do we need from Rachel?’ �ŚHistory. What Frances’ relationship with Baxter was like, can she identify the earring. We need motive, and she’s the only one who can give us that. Bit late for Stella.’ �ŚWe ballsed up a bit there didn’t we?’ Angela said, still feeling a pang of guilt about what Stella had done to herself. �ŚProbably, our asses are covered though. We did everything by the book. Wish we’d had her testimony though, mind you she was so off her trolley I don’t suppose it would have stood up.’ He said with a casual shrug. What a callous shit he could be, Angela thought, mildly shocked at his attitude. They should never have let Stella go like that, and she told him so. �ŚLook, we knew she was unstable, we referred her on, the Police surgeon arranged a follow up psych consult. What else could we do, we couldn’t hold her any longer. We deal with crime Angela, the law. Simple as that. We’re not social workers, and we’re not moral guardians, we’re the police, and that’s what we do, we police.’ �ŚSo people like Stella are just collateral damage?’ She was angry with him, for so many reasons. �ŚYeah, Watson. That’s about it.’ He stood up, picked up his beer bottle, and the empty pizza box and strode into her state of the art kitchen, �Śwhere the fuck have they hidden the bin in this place.’ He yelled. Angela stomped out after him and opened a door in a bank of cupboards, let out an irritable sigh and stood back. Ratcliffe rammed the box and the bottle in the bin and slammed the door. Impatiently, Angela opened it, took out the box and put it in the cardboard bin, took the bottle and put it in the glass bin, then slammed the door. They stood there, staring at each other, each one refusing to back down. Ratcliffe took a step forward, grabbed the back of her head, and kissed her. Angela was surprised to find herself kissing him back. �ŚNot bad for a man old enough to be my dad.’ She said afterwards, kicking the duvet off her legs, she was hot. �ŚI’m forty two.’ He yawned, �Śso I would have had to start early. What are you, twenty nine, thirty?’ She was thirty-one. Had just started checking for grey hairs and lines round her eyes each morning. Ratcliffe already had a few, a smattering of silver around the temples, and laugh lines around his eyes. Plus the deep groove above the bridge of his nose where he frowned too much, mostly because of work. It must really grit his shit to have a younger, less experienced woman telling him what to do. �ŚSo what really went wrong with you and Maria?’ He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillows. �ŚI don’t know really, just drifted I suppose. Strange to realise after fifteen years of marriage that you don’t even like each other anymore. On her part I think it was the job she started hating first, as for me, I just stopped caring that she wasn’t there when I got home. In fact, it used to piss me off if she was. Crap really.’ �ŚBut why now?’ �ŚStella Baxter, she made me think, about how life can be wasted so easily. And for the record, I’m absolutely gutted about what happened to her. But I can’t change it, and to be honest after listening to how crappy her life was, I don’t really blame her. But I can put her sister away, and it’s all I can do.’ Not such a heartless bastard after all then. �ŚAbout this’ she said, biting her lip, �Śwhat just happened. What now?’ He took a breath and rolled out of the bed, and started to pull his trousers on. �ŚI need a pee.’ She could hear him, lumbering across the landing into the bathroom. Alone in the bed, she pulled her knees up, covered herself with the duvet and felt stupid. She had just slept with her boss, and she didn’t really know how it had come about. What was she supposed to do now, make him go downstairs and sleep on the sofa as planned? He stuck his head round the door, �ŚAlright if I make a cuppa?’ She nodded. �ŚSure, help yourself.’ �ŚWant one?’ �ŚYeah.’ After he had gone downstairs and she could hear him clattering about in the kitchen, she got up, pulled on her dressing gown and followed him. He’d spilled sugar all over the worktop, she watched as he tried to wipe it up, getting more of it on the floor than in the cloth. �ŚGive it here,’ she said. He handed the cloth over, suddenly looking ridiculously humble in just his trousers, damp sugar crystals glittering on his legs. �ŚSorry Ange, I’m a bit of a mess at the moment. I shouldn’t have taken the piss.’ She bent down to wipe up the spilled sugar. �ŚYou didn’t, I wouldn’t have let you. I’m not sure where it leaves us though. Put it this way, you’re still only staying until you’re sorted. You’ve only been here a night and you’ve already trashed the place. As for the other, it happens, we’ll live.’ �ŚSo am I back on the sofa then?’ She stood up and rinsed the cloth in the sink, wrung it out and folded it neatly on the draining board. �ŚMight as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, besides, I put the sleeping bag in the wash. It’s not dry yet.’ Ratcliffe smiled and reached out for her, enfolding her in his arms, and dropped an affectionate kiss on her head. �ŚOne thing though, mention this in the office and I’ll kill you.’ �ŚMention it? By tomorrow lunch time I’ll have an incident room set up and the walls covered in ten by eight glossy photographs. I haven’t had sex in two years; I’m going to hang the bloody flags out!’ He laughed. But as he lay there that night, Angela curled up against him, it wasn’t her face he thought of as he drifted into sleep. It was Rachel Porter’s. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Delia Jones wasn’t happy, she wasn’t happy at all. She had just put the phone down after a call from Amy, and had been informed that Charlie was on his way back, and he had Rachel with him. It wasn’t what she had anticipated, and it could mean only one thing. Trouble. It had been hard work, keeping Charlie away from her all these years, protecting Amy. Protecting Rachel for that matter. Delia had a bad feeling that things were about to start unravelling. The news that Frances had been arrested was a bit of a shock, she hadn’t anticipated that, expecting that Stella would be firmly in the frame for what had happened to Roy. Just went to prove what happened when a shoddy job was done. Still, there wasn’t much else she could do about it now. It had been a long day, she was tired, and she was getting too old for all this. Whatever was going to happen next would have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, she had visitors; she needed to turn down the beds in the spare room. Rachel slept pretty much all the way back, only waking when Charlie turned the van into the road where he lived and pulled up on the drive. It was twilight, and the house was in shadow. Not that she would have recognised it any way, the house had been bought long after she left. It looked nice, a family home. �ŚI don’t know if this is a good idea.’ She said to Charlie as he opened her door ready to help her out. �ŚWhat do you propose as an alternative? You’re in no fit state to go to a hotel, and you don’t have anyone else you can stay with.’ He said, shouldering her weight as she clambered from the van. He could see that her leg was hurting her. �ŚCome on, we can argue about it inside.’ Her leg was agony, it felt as if it was on fire. Two and a half hours of complete immobility had rendered it almost useless and she struggled to chance letting it take her weight. Inside, Charlie led her to the sofa, and lowered her down. �ŚI think we should take a look at that, when did you last change the dressing?’ She hadn’t. In fact, she didn’t even know how bad it was, there hadn’t been a chance to look. �ŚChrist Rachel, are you absolutely determined to kill yourself through self-neglect?’ he snapped. �ŚTake your trousers off, let me see.’ She hesitated for a moment, then saw the look on his face. She had almost forgotten that things had changed, that she didn’t have to be wary of him anymore. She undid her trousers and slowly peeled them down, revealing a large dressing, soaked through with watery blood and pus from the wound. �ŚStay there, put your leg up. I’ll be back in a minute. Rachel hauled her leg onto the sofa, it was stiff and painful, she could feel the stitches pulling with every move. The whole rigmarole made her wince with pain, not to mention how stupid she felt lying there in just her knickers. Charlie came back in with a towel, a bowl of warm water and a first aid kit. �ŚAlways prepared. Were you ever in the scouts?’ She said in a feeble attempt to bring some humour into the situation, as he gently fed the towel underneath her. �ŚI’m always prepared where you are concerned. In fact, I’m half-tempted to arrange for an ambulance to be on standby. Brace yourself, this is going to hurt.’ The dressing was welded to her skin. He soaked it and pulled it away millimetre by millimetre, wincing for her, though she didn’t make a sound. Underneath the dressing, the skin was red and hot, swelling around the stitches, and oozing an unpleasant yellow-green gunge. He grimaced as he began to clean it, wondering how the hell she had managed to give herself a six inch, jagged gash that had obviously gone deep. After he had cleaned and dressed her leg, he took her hand, and re dressed that. Though the cut there wasn’t nearly so bad. �ŚBetter?’ he asked when he’d finished. �ŚYes thanks.’ She said, starting to sit up. �ŚWhoa! Where do you think you’re going? You stay right there, and don’t put any more strain on that leg, or those stitches are going to burst. The scar is going to be bad enough as it is.’ Rachel didn’t care about the scar. �ŚCan you at least give me a blanket then? I’m feeling a bit exposed, and Amy might walk in any minute.’ �ŚFair point.’ Charlie said. He kept a patchwork quilt behind the sofa, for those nights he slept there, when he didn’t want to spend a night in bed alone. He shook it out and spread it over her. �ŚWhere are the meds they gave you at the hospital?’ �ŚIn my bag.’ He rifled through, finding the antibiotic she hadn’t bothered to take, he shook the box accusingly in her face. �ŚTake two, now.’ Dutifully she swallowed the pills, and took the anticonvulsants that he had also retrieved from her bag. He had pulled out the single change of clothes she had taken to Diana’s. �ŚNot planning to stay anywhere long then?’ He said, holding up a worn T-shirt, and a faded pair of combat trousers. �ŚWith all that money, you could at least buy yourself some new clothes.’ He could have sworn she had that T-shirt when Amy was born. Rachel lay back and closed her eyes, what did it matter what clothes she wore? As for the money, it seemed it was still an issue for him. When she had left, she had left a cheque for him, enough to buy a house just like this one for him and Amy. He had never cashed it. A while ago, she had invested the money in a trust fund for Amy. It would mature when she was twenty-one. Her solicitor had written to him to tell him, but had never had a response. There was a good chance Amy didn’t even know that on her 21st birthday she would have enough money to buy her own house, outright. Other than that, the stuff just kept accumulating. She opened her eyes to find him standing over her, a mug of tea held out. �ŚYou should eat something too.’ He said. It was pointless to argue, it seemed even her diet was to be dictated. �ŚAs long as it’s not bloody soup. I feel like I’m awash with it. I never did like soup much.’ She didn’t like tea either but drank it anyway. He made her a sandwich, the bread was dry, so was the cheese. But she ate it anyway. �ŚThis is a nice house, very homey.’ She said. �ŚIt’s a house. Amy does the decorating, and the choosing of things. I just pay for it.’�ŚYou know she’s going to get the money, on her birthday.’ He didn’t speak but picked up her plate and took it into the kitchen. That bridge could be crossed some other time. His phone rang; he went out into the hall to answer it, shutting the door behind him so that she couldn’t hear what was being said. While he was gone, she looked round the room, on the mantelpiece there was a photo of him and Amy when she had been a little girl. The glass was missing, and she didn’t want to look at it for long. He made her jump when he came back in; she wasn’t used to all this movement around her. It was hard to adjust. �ŚChange of plan, Amy and Diana are going straight to mums, they’re going to stay there tonight.’ Rachel felt a flutter of panic, �Śwhy?’ �ŚI only have two bedrooms; Amy has decided you should sleep in hers tonight.’ �ŚI’m okay here, on the sofa.’ She protested, the panic beginning to take a more solid shape. �ŚNo, she’s right, you need a proper night’s sleep in a decent bed. It’s going to be a tough day tomorrow.’ �ŚPlease, it’s ok. I’ll stay here.’ She pleaded, her voice cracking. It felt like the final straw. How could she explain the need to avoid it? Amy’s room, her things, her memories, her personality displayed all over the walls. Her clothes, her books, maybe even her old toys. She had coped with what had happened at the house, she had managed seeing Charlie again, absorbed what he had told her. She could even contain the impact of what Stella had done, even Frances’s arrest. But being forced to digest everything she had left behind, everything she should have been part of, everything she had been deprived of, being immersed in Amy’s space... would be too much. It was bad enough just being in this nice little house, this family home. Since she had come through the door, she had been looking at it, subliminally trying to find a Rachel shaped space so that she could see if she was actually missing from the picture. But it wasn’t there. Because she had never been there. She started to cry. �ŚI can’t. I can’t. Don’t make me do this.’ It hit Charlie like a brick in the face. He had been so relieved at Amy’s change of heart, so relieved to find Rachel in almost one piece. So determined to get her where he could look after her. So desperate to relieve her of the burden of the lie, he had forgotten his initial reservations. The impact on her. �ŚI’m sorry. I didn’t think. Amy didn’t think. I expect she wanted to make you welcome, a gesture.’ Rachel was shaking, �ŚI know. I just don’t think I can face it.’ Charlie pulled a tissue out of the box on the table, knelt by the sofa, and took her hand. �ŚHere, wipe your eyes.’ He was nervous of touching her, of offering something more than wound management. He wasn’t sure how she would take it. �ŚYou can have my room. I’ll go in the princess’s parlour tonight.’ She pulled her hand away instantly. �ŚIt’s Ok, there’s nothing up there but a bed and a wardrobe. No knick Knacks, no trinkets. No memories that you don’t share. It’s just a room with a bed.’ She still didn’t look like she believed him. �ŚLook, you need to rest that leg properly; you can’t do that on a sofa. If you rip those stitches you’re going to end up back in hospital.’ Eventually she nodded. �ŚI know it sounds stupid, but I’ve had to put certain things out of my mind. My instinct is to run, but I can’t. So I have to hide. I’ve spent all her life trying not to imagine what she was doing, how she was feeling. Trying not to look in shop windows and imagine the things she would like. I shut her out, because I had to. I shut you out too. Please, just let me deal with a little bit at a time. That’s all I’m asking.’ He’d forgotten, she hadn’t been fighting for them all these years. Just fighting to stay away. �ŚOkay. One step at a time. The first of which is to get you upstairs and into bed.’ He had to half carry her up; she didn’t seem able to put much weight on the leg at all. He got her into the bedroom, �ŚSee? Nothing here, just a room,’ and sat her down on the bed. �ŚDon’t bend it, keep it straight.’ �ŚI don’t have any nightclothes with me. I didn’t think.’ She said. He opened a drawer, picked out a T-shirt, passed it to her. Thinking about the one he kept in the chest at the bottom of the bed The one she had worn on that very first night. �ŚYou get sorted, I’ll fetch your antibiotics, you need to take a couple more.’ �ŚCan you help me into the bathroom?’ Once inside she locked the door, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the sink, ignoring the personal things that littered the room. She managed to rudimentarily clean her teeth using her finger, wash her face with her hands, but the towel smelled of Charlie. The room smelled of Amy. Out on the landing she gasped for neutral air, and limped back to the bedroom, shoulder against the wall for support. Charlie was right, the room that was his was a blank canvas. Just a room. No ghosts. She eased herself onto the bed, and under the cover, hoping that the bed would smell of washing powder, just like the T-shirt. To her relief it did. He knocked, and it surprised her. �ŚOk?’ She called. It wouldn’t have felt right to give him permission to come in to his own bedroom. He made her take another handful of tablets. �ŚAny Mogodon in there?’ �ŚWorried you might not sleep?’ It was stupid question, how could she sleep with all that had happened washing around in her head? Gingerly he sat himself down on the end of the bed, not missing the fact that she shifted herself away from him, only slightly, but enough for him to realise that no bridges had been built yet. �ŚWhat do you do with yourself, up in London?’ She didn’t want to talk about it really, but it was as hard as ever to refuse him. �ŚI walk, mostly. Look at things, hang about in the museums, libraries. I help Diana out at the centre too, sometimes.’ It was an approximation of the truth. She did all of those things, but mostly she studied other people, constantly trying to figure out the traits that made them normal, functional human beings. What she had gathered was that normal people did not live in flats that were like an ark to someone else’s past. They did not wear their clothes until they fell apart, or buy the first thing that fitted in the first shop they found. They did not live on packet sandwiches and take- away coffee. They did not avoid eye contact because they were sure that everyone would be able to see their secrets in their eyes. They did not marry their fathers and bear him a child. But then again, their lives were based on some semblance of truth. Charlie was watching her, trying to read the passing expressions on her face, �ŚRachel, I have to ask, why did you believe it? Why did you think I would have done such a thing and never told you?’ Because he had, he’d told her everything, all about Patsy, all about his past. Rachel sighed, massaged her brow with the fingers of her good hand. �ŚWhy wouldn’t I? Is it the kind of thing anyone would lie about? And would you really have told me you’d slept with my sister? Don’t think I haven’t been over it a million times. But no one’s mother would lie about a thing like that.’ More specifically his mother would never lie about a thing like that. Valerie might have, but not Delia. Delia cared. Charlie got it; even now, she still believed that Valerie wouldn’t have stooped that low. He supposed he could understand, his own mother had believed it, enough to keep it from him all that time, and she’d known Valerie better than any of them. For her sins. �ŚI’m so sorry Charlie, I was in an impossible situation. I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t take Amy. I knew how much you loved us, the only thing I could think of was to protect you from it and give you at least something that you could build a future with. If I’d told you the truth, or what I thought was the truth, then all of our lives would have been ruined. I know I hurt you, but it was the lesser of evils.’ Charlie almost laughed. The irony was pitiful. He stood up to go, but Rachel didn’t want to be left alone in the blank room where she would paper the walls with the pictures in her head. She had had too many years of that. �ŚDon’t go’. Charlie was at the door, �ŚYou need to sleep. To rest.’ �ŚBut I’m not going to, and we both know it. What am I supposed to tell them tomorrow, how can I possibly explain how things were?’ He shut the door, and walked back to the bed, lay next to her on top of the covers, his arms behind his head. �ŚAnswer their questions, tell them what you know.’ �ŚI don’t know what I know, since everything I thought I knew is gone. Undone by one lie after another. I thought Valerie was my mother, I thought Frances was my sister, then that changed, and now I don’t know anything. Is Frances my mother? It might not have been you who got her pregnant, but did someone else? If she did have me, why has she always treated me as if I�Śm an offensive smell under her nose. Why did she bring me back here if she hates me so much? If she is my mother, and knew what I had been told, why risk this situation, the truth coming out?’ Actually, that last was a fair point. Charlie had already puzzled over Rachel’s sudden reappearance. It was as if France didn’t know why Rachel had left. �ŚI’ve been thinking about that, I figured she needed you back to do something about the house, sell it or whatever. I don’t know, but you’re right, it doesn’t make sense’. �ŚDo you think she did kill Roy?’ �ŚNo idea, I was in prison at the time, remember? You were there, what do you think?’ It came out with more grit than he had intended. Rachel turned her head away, and bit her lip. She shouldn’t be raking up the past for him. �ŚSorry. I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. I meant, what do you remember about when Roy went missing.’ The answer was, not a lot. �ŚOne day he was there, being, wellbeing him, the next he was gone. After, well, after Patsy he kind of lost the plot. I suppose I just figured he’d left. Let’s face it no one was sorry to see him go. He wasn’t missed.’ In fact, when she thought about it now, she couldn’t even remember the day he’d gone. It was just a blank, as if she just knew he had gone, without knowing when or why. She had never questioned it, life without Roy in the house had been such a relative pleasure, no- one had questioned it. It seemed it was a Porter quirk, never asking questions. �ŚCharlie?’ She turned her head towards him, he was asleep. That was all it had ever taken for him, his head on a pillow for a few minutes. Was that how sleep happened for people with a clear conscience? Diana didn’t like Delia Jones. Fact. It had taken just a few seconds for her to form her first impression of the woman, and it hadn’t gone well. First of all, Diana didn’t hold with kitsch. Delia’s house was full of it, and she had the distinct impression that it was a disguise. There was so much junk in the house that every item jostled with the next, clamouring for attention. On first sight, Diana had noticed a hard streak in Delia Jones, which clashed with the way she presented herself, as if the little trinkets and ornaments that cluttered every surface were a distraction from the woman’s real nature. Diana was an excellent judge of character, she had to be, she dealt with difficult people on a daily basis and had honed her ability to sum a person up so that it had become a fine art. Delia Jones did not pass muster. Second, Delia was instantly wary, and did not seem to like the fact that Rachel had an ally. She had gushed a little too strenuously about how pleased she was that Rachel had found friends in London. Third, she served cheap tea, made from cheap tea bags, in bone china cups, anathema to Diana, who would rather drink from a jam jar than tolerate a poor quality tea bag. It was an idiosyncratic thing, and she would normally have let it go. But in this instance it sealed her opinion of Delia, who was relegated the category of all (faux) fur coat, and no knickers. Given that Diana was a guest in the woman’s house, it did not bode well for her stay. A fact categorically confirmed by Delia’s decision to put her in the peach and green themed bedroom, which sported a very soft and noisy bed, which had been made up with slightly damp nylon sheets. The combination of the colours in the room and the sensation of the bedding against her skin put Diana’s teeth firmly on edge all night. Consequently, she did not sleep well, and was uncharacteristically grumpy in the morning. Delia’s idea of breakfast was a cup of the abysmal tea and three Benson and Hedges. Amy had helped herself to sliced white toast with margarine, and offered some to Diana, who refused, claiming that she wasn’t a breakfast person though she could have murdered a cup of Earl Grey and a bowl of All Bran. Not that she considered herself a snob, well not much of one, it was just that she felt that it was important to appreciate good quality food. It seemed doubly ridiculous to her that a child died of starvation every three seconds somewhere in the world so that the people of the west could eat white sliced fluff spread with copious quantities of axle grease. �ŚSo, Di, how do you think Rachel will bear up today, when the police start questioning her?’ Delia asked, whilst slowly exhaling a stream of smoke that hung like fog over the table. �ŚIt’s Diana. I’m hoping she’ll cope well, after all it’s not as if she hasn’t had considerable practice at managing stress.’ She replied with forced politeness, battling the urge to wave her hand like a fan and clear the air. �ŚSo that’s why you’re here is it, to support her?’ �ŚYes, that’s right. I think she needs people in her corner, don’t you?’ Amy was looking from one to the other, a piece of limp toast poised in her hand, she was confused. Something had passed between these two women, and she didn’t have a clue what it was. �ŚIn fact, I think I’d like to get round there and see her as soon as possible. Are you coming Amy?’ Delia just raised her eyebrows and took another puff on her cigarette. Diana was up, gathering her things, whilst Amy crammed toast into her mouth and tried to catch up. �ŚThank you so much for letting me stay, it was very kind of you.’ Diana said with as much grace as she could manage on an empty stomach. �ŚAnytime.’ Delia said, stubbing out her cigarette and immediately lighting another one. Amy ran upstairs to collect her bag, leaving Diana waiting impatiently by the door. Delia wandered out of the kitchen and leaned against the hall wall, �ŚJust a word of warning Di, I’ve known Rachel a long time. She has her problems. She doesn’t, well how can I put it, always see things the way they are. I expect it’s to do with her having fits and that. Must do something to your head over time.’ Diana narrowed her eyes and frowned at the woman in the floral dressing gown, �Śwhat exactly are you saying?’ �ŚJust that things aren’t always as they seem, that’s all.’ Delia said with a shrug, just as Amy came down the stairs. �ŚRight, I’m ready.’ She said breathlessly hauling her bag onto her shoulder and heading for the door, �Śsee you later Nan, thanks for letting us stay.’ Delia smiled at her granddaughter, but her cold stare was directed straight at Diana. Diana could only conclude that Delia had spotted something in her, some quality that she didn’t like. Probably the fact that Diana had made no secret of the fact that she wasn’t falling for the sweet old granny act. Delia Jones might be a lot of things, but sweet old granny she wasn’t. Since the moment they had met, each had instinctively been testing the others mettle. One thing Diana was sure about was that Delia Jones was not concerned about Rachel’s welfare, and she had more than a vested interest in the outcome of the girls return. Diana had met many Delia’s over the years, hard women who had lived hard lives. They were a breed apart and their motivations weren’t always immediately clear. From what she could gather, Delia’s history was closely woven with Rachel’s, and that of her family. Amy had told her a lot on the train journey yesterday, but not enough for Diana to have a completely accurate picture of what had led Rachel and her family to this point. Besides, it had been the Delia version, Amy had stressed that Charlie never talked about the past. According to Amy, her grandmother had been the single stable influence in the dysfunctional Porter family, her loyalty and hard work being the only things that had kept the household functioning at all. Valerie had been a neurotic drunk, Stella a mental case, Frances a prima donna of delusional proportions, and Rachel a poor victim of all their machinations. Amy explained that her grandmother had agreed to work for Valerie as a favour, an act of support for an old childhood friend who was down on her luck. She had stayed because she was worried what might happen if she left. Charlie had just been sucked into the family as a matter of course. Delia had painted herself as the old family retainer who had been ill paid for her efforts. Diana didn’t buy it. There was much more to Delia Jones’ involvement with the Porters than could be explained away by a glib memoir recounted to a loyal grandchild. For instance, why on earth had Delia maintained links with the family after Charlie’s conviction? Surely, no amount of loyalty to an old friend, or concern for Rachel could have withstood the betrayal of her own child. Then there was Charlie. Diana had developed good instincts about dangerous men. She had dealt with the fallout of domestic violence for enough years to spot an asshole a mile off. Charlie was not a dangerous man, definitely not a killer, though she was reserving judgement on whether or not he was an asshole. No, there was something very dark at the centre of this situation. If only for Rachel’s sake, Diana was going to find out what it was. DI Ratcliffe and DS Watson got out of his car and approached the two uniformed officers who stood outside the Stationers shop that belonged to the Porter family. A strip of crime scene tape fluttered delicately across the open door way. The smell of petrol was overwhelming. �ŚSo?’ Ratcliffe said, holding his hand over his mouth, he never could stand the smell of petrol. �ŚAttempted arson attack by the looks of it Sir. Someone poured petrol through the letterbox, but the fire never took hold; it seems there might have been a water leak of some kind recently. Everything this side of the door was too wet to burn, so the fire just fizzled out. Lucky really.’ One of the officers volunteered Angela Watson pointed up, to a CCTV camera that was aimed directly at the doorway, �ŚAnything on that?’ The other officer shook her head. �ŚNot even connected, just here for show I’m afraid.’ �ŚAnd no one saw anything?’ Angela added. �ŚWe’re still checking, but nothing so far. You might want to take a look upstairs, in the flat.’ Ratcliffe ducked under the tape and held it up for Angela to follow him. They walked past the fire scarred door, and practically paddled up the hallway to the stairs, their feet squelching on the sodden carpet that had saved the place from burning down. The report had come in first thing, when Ratcliffe had reached his desk five minutes before Angela had nonchalantly strolled into the office. The Porter’s shop had been petrol bombed, and the body recovered from the fire at The Limes had been confirmed as Stella Baxter. It stood to reason that if Stella had set fire to The Limes, she might have had a go at the shop too. What didn’t stack up was the fact that the house fire had taken place during daylight, the shop later. Ratcliffe didn’t have confirmation from the fire department of that fact, but he was sure he would. After all, the shop was on the high street, this side door just off it, it was unlikely that a burning door would not have attracted the attention of at least one member of the public. The fire brigade hadn’t even been called. The flames were all out by the time the milk delivery driver had noticed the damage, and had told the manager of the next door Mini Mart, whilst handing him a tray of semi skimmed, that someone had tried to burn down the neighbouring shop. Vishal Sharma, the owner of the Mini Mart, was a conscientious man and had reported it to the police immediately. As soon as the operator in the call centre had typed in the details of the incident into her computer, the machine had done its magic and cross-referenced the address with Ratcliffe’s case. He had been meaning to take a look at the place anyway; it just pissed him off that, incidents kept happening that made him look incompetent. He was beginning to think that someone involved with the Porter mess had it in for him. Wondering what other little surprises were in store for him that day, he led the way upstairs to the flat above the shop, where the Crime Scene Operatives were already busy about their work looking like diligent, white clad gnomes. At first glance, the sitting room looked like a typical crack house. Filthy, squalid, neglected, vile. But there was no drug paraphernalia. �ŚWhat’s the deal?’ Ratcliffe asked one of the CS Tech’s. �ŚNot much, looks like someone’s been in residence fairly recently, we’ve found traces of food that aren’t too old. Also some women’s clothes.’ �ŚStella?’ Angela asked, figuring this was where she’d been hiding out since she’d left The Limes. She was still kicking herself over the fact that they had overlooked this place. Sooner or later Benton would have Ratcliffe’s hide over it. Ratcliffe nodded. �ŚThat would be my guess.’ He stepped carefully across the room and glanced into a rancid kitchen, full of mouse droppings and the fetid remains of meals recently eaten, strewn amongst the wrappings they came in. It made him want to gag. Angela had made for the bedroom. �ŚCome and have a look at this boss’ she called. Not just because she wanted him to see it, but because being in there on her own was seriously creeping her out. Ratcliffe joined her, and neither of them spoke as they looked around the room. It had been decorated as a nursery. Lambs and ducklings gambolled across the walls on a pastel coloured background. A crib, draped with lace and frills sat in the middle of the room next to a nursing chair. A cobwebbed mobile dangled forlornly from the ceiling. Everything was damp and mouldy, so that the little yellow ducks had a green tinge to their feathers and the lambs already had a smattering of mint sauce. It would have been sad, a depressing little scene, one to tug at the heartstrings, except for the dolls. There were hundreds of dolls. Naked dolls. They sat around the walls, all their little china and plastic hands pointing into the room towards the nursing chair. Their little fingers extended, accusing, pleading, beckoning? It was difficult to tell. Angela shuddered, she couldn’t help it. �ŚLook at their eyes.’ Ratcliffe looked, the room was dim, but he could see well enough to tell that every eye, in every little head, had been poked out. A countless battalion of sinister childlike effigies surrounded them. Revulsion rippled across his senses. �ŚJesus.’ Was the only word he could think of. Angela shivered again. She knew that she was going to have nightmares about this place. �ŚDo you think Stella did this, because of the dead baby?’ She asked. �ŚGod knows, maybe. It’s ghoulish though.’ That was one word for it, Angela thought. She could think of others, macabre, grisly, gruesome, morbid, ghastly, the list went on.... �ŚCan we get out of here now?’ She pleaded. It was going to be hard enough to shake off this little tableau, without having it permanently engraved on her mind. �ŚHold on, there something else.’ He pulled a small Maglite out of his pocket and aimed the beam at the chest of one of the dolls, its empty eye sockets looked even more menacing half lit by the thin beam of light. It was like Toy Town meets the Blair Witch. Angela thought with grim humour. It didn’t help lighten the situation. �ŚWhat have you found?’ �ŚSomething’s been written on the chest’s’ he swung the beam round, randomly illuminating the tiny torso’s. Angela squinted, �ŚWhat does it say?’ �ŚI’m not sure. I think it says Peccavisti. What the hell does that mean?’ �ŚIt means, �śyou have sinned”. It’s Latin, and a bit melodramatic don’t you think?’ The sudden insertion of Julia Ferris’s dulcet tones into the creepy atmosphere of the room made both of them jump. �ŚSorry chaps didn’t mean to startle you.’ She said with a smug smile. �ŚOoh, this is a gruesome little set up isn’t it?’ She had gloves on and was suited and booted for the occasion. She picked up one of the dolls and turned it over carefully. As she tilted it, a plaintive little voice emitted from its rosebud mouth, �śMama”. �ŚNice touch’ Julia said placing it back on the floor in its original position. �ŚI take it you got my message. We have a positive ID on our crispy critter. It is Stella Baxter.’ Ratcliffe nodded. �ŚYeah, we think she must have tried to burn this place too.’ Looking around, he wished she had. The scene would be far more palatable as a pile of charred wood and molten plastic. �ŚI doubt it.’ Ratcliffe turned to face Julia. �ŚEh?’ �ŚStella was dead before the fire started. No smoke in her lungs.’ If the chair in the middle of the room had not been part of a potential crime scene, Ratcliffe would have plopped down into it and held his head in his hands in a fit of despair. Would this never end? �ŚHow did she die?’ �ŚIt looks like she was strangled. Her hyoid bone was broken. It’s a typical indication of strangulation.’ Julia said casually. �ŚGreat.’ Ratcliffe said, gritting his teeth. Now he had to look for another murderer who was also a pyromaniac. Given Frances’s propensity for burning potential evidence, he would have pointed the finger at her, but she had been in a cell at the time of the fire. Rachel and Charlie had been in London. �ŚPeter Haines?’ Angela suggested, as if she could see his train of thought. �ŚDoubt he would have the gumption, but he was pissed off when we arrested his wife. I suppose we have to go and ask some questions though.’ Benton was so not going to like this. �ŚI’m surprised your Nan didn’t want to come with us today.’ Diana said as she and Amy made their way up Charlie’s drive. �ŚOh, yeah, she said she had a visit planned. Some old friend in hospital she had to go and see. She’ll be round later. Nan wouldn’t miss out on a drama if she can help it.’ Amy laughed, fishing in her pocket for her house key. �ŚHello. It’s me, anybody up yet?’ She called from the hallway. The house was still in darkness, the curtains drawn. �ŚProbably having a lie in, he hasn’t had a decent kip in days,’ she said by way of explanation to Diana. �ŚHe’s getting too old for all this excitement.’ She said cheerfully, pulling back the curtains and letting the daylight flood in. Now that the gloom was lifted, Diana was glad to see that Charlie had not inherited his mother’s proclivity of surrounding herself with tacky clutter. His home was clean and modern, not a frill or a flounce in sight. She could breathe easy. Somewhere up above she heard the creak of floorboards. Amy’s voice had woken both Rachel and Charlie with a start. Charlie was shocked to see that the bedside clock said half past nine. Rachel was shocked to find that she had been holding his left hand, whilst his right arm had been draped across her chest. He pulled away from her as if her stunned gaze were an electric current. �ŚSorry’, he said hastily, jumping up from the bed and scurrying to the door. �ŚHi love, put the kettle on will you? I’ll go in and wake Rachel.’ He lied, making a big show of knocking on the door he was holding. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his stubbly face. The towel smelled vaguely of Rachel. Rachel lay in the bed, her right side suddenly chilled by the absence of Charlie’s body heat. Her leg was throbbing and hot, in fact her whole left side felt as if it were on fire. She didn’t feel good. Charlie had left her tablets on the bedside table, so she took two of everything just to be sure. Then painfully inched her leg out of the bed. She was exhausted by the mere thought of trying to get out of bed, so instead she helped herself to Charlie’s dressing gown, which was hanging on the back of the door. Getting down stairs was a slow painful process, and mostly involved putting her body weight on the banister and swinging the duff leg onto the stair below, before gritting her teeth and making it bear her weight for a second or two. By the time she reached the bottom, she was flushed in the face and exhausted. The night’s sleep may as well not have happened for all the good it had done. The look on Diana’s face as she entered the lounge, red faced, wearing Charlie’s clothes told her that Diana thought her state was down to entirely different reasons. She felt too lousy to bother explaining herself. She eased herself onto the sofa and took the coffee that Diana held out for her gratefully. Charlie and Amy were in the kitchen, she could hear his mobile phone ringing above the noise of cupboards being open and shut, to her surprise he came in and offered her the phone, �ŚFor you, DS Ratcliffe.’ Gingerly she took the phone, �ŚHello?’ Everyone’s eyes were on her as she listened to the detective. Finally, she handed the phone back to Charlie. �ŚI’m not sure how you turn it off.’ She said in a voice that sounded too weak and too thin to be her own. �ŚIs everything alright?’ Diana asked, leaning forward. �ŚThey’ve had confirmation that it was Stella who was in the house. Apparently, it’s more complicated than that, other things have come up. He wouldn’t tell me on the phone, but he’s coming here later. Apparently I’m not to go anywhere.’ �ŚJust as well looking at the state of you, in fact I don’t think you should leave that sofa today.’ Charlie said, pressing his hand to her forehead and looking concerned. �ŚI’m fine. Don’t fuss.’ She said batting him away. �ŚHmmm. We’ll see. Look, Amy and I are going shopping, there’s barely any food in the house and we need milk desperately. We won’t be long.’ Amy had hung back, quiet after yesterday’s outburst, almost shy in fact. Rachel gave her a tentative smile, and was pleased to have it returned. �ŚI have to go with him, or we could be living on pot noodles for a week.’ Amy said. Rachel wanted to laugh, but it hurt. After they had gone, Diana turned to her, �ŚSo what did that detective really say?’ Rachel was surprised, since Diana had never questioned her before. �ŚLike I said, he wants to talk to me sometime today. He wouldn’t say much over the phone.’ �ŚBut what do you think? Look Rachel, your sister was killed in a fire, your other sister has been arrested for murder, your mother died a few weeks ago, your long lost husband and daughter have just popped out of the woodwork, and people aren’t what you thought they were. You’ve been living as a recluse for god knows how many years, need I go on?’ �ŚWhen you put it all together like that it’s an abysmal catalogue of disaster.’ Rachel said with a wry smile. Diana nodded vigorously, the expression on her face exaggerated by raised eyebrows. �ŚYes, it is. It’s a bloody mess, and you’re sitting there showing less reaction than someone who has just been told that the post will be late today!’ Rachel sighed, she didn’t feel well. Diana was right, she should be reacting differently, but she was looking at it all as if she were one end of a long, long tunnel, and the cataclysmic mess that threatened to engulf her was at the other. She explained this to Diana, and added �ŚSo do you suggest that I rush to meet it head on?’ Diana suddenly felt guilty for pushing the matter, �ŚNo of course not. I suppose I’m just a bit shell shocked by it all. I forget you’ve been living with a lot of these issues for a long time. Though I don’t know how you’ve stood it.’ Denial is a wonderful thing, Rachel thought to herself. �ŚAnyway, let’s change the subject. How did you get on at Delia’s last night?’ Diana grimaced. �ŚLet’s put it this way, I don’t think we’re likely to become lifelong friends any time soon.’ Rachel smiled, �ŚWas she a bit rough and ready for you? She can be rather blunt, but she means well. Without Delia, I think we might all have fallen apart a lot sooner, god knows what her reasons were but she kept the family ticking for a long time. We have a lot to be grateful to her for.’ Indeed, Diana thought, �ŚWhy was she so loyal to your family?’ Rachel shrugged, �ŚI don’t really know, other than she had links with my mother, Valerie, which went back to childhood. There was some bond there. She was more loyal than she needed to be, I know that much. Mother treated her like a skivvy.’ �ŚYet she carried on her involvement with you all?’ The strident, brassy woman that Diana had met didn’t seem the type. �ŚYes, but don’t ask me to explain it. It’s impossible enough to make sense of my family as it is.’ Now her hand was beginning to throb too. �ŚDo you mind if we don’t do any more questions, I think I might be getting enough of that when the police turn up.’ It was uncharacteristically rude of her, but that tunnel was getting shorter with every word. �ŚOf course. You should rest, you look a bit peaky to be honest.’ Diana said, feeling bad that she had added to her friends stress. She had come here to support her, not add to her burdens. However, Rachel’s state of calm in the face of so much was quite worrying, the dam had to give way sometime, and she felt she needed to be there when it did. As for Delia Jones, it was clear that no one else had the same reservations about the woman. Given that, they all knew Delia a damn sight better than she did, perhaps she would be wise to reserve judgement. In the meantime, she needed more tea, and Rachel needed rest. Quietly she left the room to take advantage of Charlie’s decent tea bags in the peace and quiet of his uncluttered kitchen. Ratcliffe could feel the beginnings of a headache, his left eye felt twitchy and white light zigzagged around the periphery of his vision. Peter Haines had a cast iron alibi for the fire; he had been at home at the time, but not alone. His sister and her husband had been with him and could account for his every move since he had left the police station after Frances’ arrest. If Ratcliffe had judged Peter as imperious, his sister turned out to be the high priestess of pomposity. She and her husband made Frances and Peter look positively accommodating in comparison. Ratcliffe was just glad he didn’t have to interview the Haines parent’s, he didn’t think his will could have stood it, because those two had definitely learnt their high handedness from someone. One thing that had been abundantly clear from the meeting, Peter Haines had no intention of standing by his wife. Bail for Frances was out of the question, and Haines had seemed relieved about it, and seemed to be using the reprieve from his wife as an opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge. The only satisfaction Ratcliffe had from the meeting was in finding out that The Limes had not been insured. Fate had made doubly sure that Peter Haines would not see a penny from the place. Rough justice, Ratcliffe had commented to Angela as they left. She didn’t seem to get it. She was still wittering on about the dolls of Satan scene back at the flat. Consequently, Ratcliffe had no clear suspect for Stella’s murder. His only chance was to see if Rachel could shed any light on who may have wanted to bump Stella off and burn down the family home. But, given that, she claimed she hadn’t spoken to any of them for twenty years, it seemed like a bit of a long shot. He might have put Charlie Jones in the frame if he hadn’t been with Rachel the day it happened. He had motive, Stella’s testimony had put him away, and he might have had a claim on the house if his marriage to Rachel had panned out. If Stella had ever told him the story she had recounted at the police station he might have had even more reason to bump her off in a fit of fury. However, he wasn’t there, and hadn’t done it so all this mindless conjecture was useless. Though it was better than thinking about Benton having his head on the block, or come to that, trying to work out why he’d thought binning his wife and shagging his subordinate was a good idea. In fact, he and Angela hadn’t said much to each other at all that day, other than what was directly related to their ever-expanding case. Not that there had been much chance, between running around in crime scenes, to interviewing suspects his time had been spent avoiding phone calls from Maria. He had switched off his personal mobile, but some idiot back at the station had given her the number for the one he used for work. He had had to put it on silent, but the damned thing was vibrating so much in his pocket that he was sure it was going to interfere with his heart function at some point. Of course, he had no choice but to pick up the voicemails, just in case it was work. Therefore, there had been some uncomfortable moments of listening to Maria screaming at him before he could delete the messages and end the diatribe. Then there were the text messages, each one more profane than the last. He had no idea that his wife had such a creative command of the more vulgar aspects of the English language. Had she chosen to take the word fuck out of her vocabulary that day, she would have had very little to say. By the time they reached Charlie’s house and pulled up on the drive, his head was pounding. �ŚGot any Paracetomol?’ He asked Angela, women always had stuff like that. She rummaged in her bag and passed him a pink box, �Śthese do?’ �ŚFeminax? What the hell are they?’ he said, peering at the box and reading that they were for the relief of menstrual cramps. What the hell, pain was pain. He ripped open the box and took two, swallowing them down with tepid coffee from a polystyrene cup. �ŚUrgh!’ He had visions of them doing more than dealing with his headache. If he found himself worrying whether his arse looked too big in his suit, or discussing the price of leg waxing anytime soon he would swing for Angela Watson. �ŚTa.’ He said, handing the box back and ignoring her grin. A woman Ratcliffe didn’t recognise opened the door, he held up his warrant card. �ŚDI Ratcliffe and DS Watson, to see Rachel Porter.’ �ŚShe’s expecting you, come on through.’ The woman said with a warmer smile than either of them was used to receiving when they knocked on a door. �ŚAnd you are?’ Angela asked. �ŚDiana Lovell, friend of Rachel’s.’ She extended her hand, Angela felt obliged to shake it. Rachel was supine on the sofa, in a man’s dressing gown. She looked like shit. It seemed the impact of the last few days had taken its toll on her, her hair was dull, her face puffy, her breathing rapid. Her skin looked clammy, as if she was running a fever. Ratcliffe had quite fancied her when they’d first met. Now she looked a wreck. �ŚHello again Ms Porter, or can I call you Rachel?’ She nodded, �ŚHave a seat; I’m sure someone will make you both a cup of tea.’ Ratcliffe looked hopefully at the others in the room, Charlie Jones, Diana Lovell and the daughter, Amy, who looked more like her mother than her mother did at this moment. Charlie Jones didn’t look like he was preparing to go anywhere. He was leaning against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed over his chest. But the woman, the so-called friend had cottoned on, and ushered the girl out of the room with her. Ratcliffe sat in the chair closest to Rachel, Angela on a dining chair, which she pulled to the end of the sofa, so that she was looking directly at Rachel. They both watched as she pulled herself into a sitting position. �ŚI’m afraid we have some more bad news for you Rachel,’ Ratcliffe said, the vice that was gripping his head seemed to be loosening a bit. That girly stuff was quite good, he noted. �ŚI have been told by our pathologist today that Stella did not die as a result of the fire. It would appear that she was dead before the fire started.’ He was fully expecting her to descend in to a seizure, but she didn’t. Instead, the red flush in her cheeks slowly receded, leaving an ashen grey in its wake making her look like her skin was made of dirty wax. �ŚAre you alright?’ he asked. She didn’t speak for a moment, just closed her eyes, Charlie stepped forward, but she waved him away. �ŚIt’s alright, I’m not going to have a fit, it seems that new medication won’t let me. If she didn’t die in the fire how did she die?’ Ratcliffe explained that they suspected that she had been strangled. �ŚBy who? Who would do that?’ Rachel asked, clutching her own throat as if she were remembering what it felt like to have someone’s hands around it. Ratcliffe glanced at Charlie, he looked suitably shocked. �ŚThat’s what we don’t know. Is there anyone you know of who might have had a grudge against Stella, or who she might have had cause to be afraid of?’ To his surprise Rachel laughed, albeit weakly. �ŚSorry, it’s just that Stella was frightened of everyone. But the only three people who might have borne her any ill will are all accounted for. You have Frances, Roy is dead and so is my Mother. Other than that, she didn’t know anyone. Well, to the best of my knowledge anyway. But that’s years out of date as I told you before.’ �ŚWhy would she have been afraid of those particular people, they were her family?’ Angela interjected. �ŚWhere do you want me to start? My mother despised her, thought her weak and pointless, just used her as an unpaid maid. Frances followed suit, ashamed to be related to her, and as for Roy, he resented her, felt he had married her under false pretences, well once he found out we didn’t have any money anyway. As I remember, he was quite abusive to her. It was pretty unpleasant.’ She said all this with her eyes closed, as if she were keeping the memories at bay. Given what Ratcliffe already knew about her family life, he didn’t blame her. �ŚWhat about your relationship with her, how was that?’ Her faced creased, and she put her hand up to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. It was the first crack he’d seen in her too calm demeanour. �ŚSorry,’ she said, her voice cracking. �ŚI’m having difficulty taking all this in.’ Charlie stepped forward, like he intended to comfort her, but he seemed to think better of it and went back to brooding near the fireplace. �ŚSorry.’ Rachel said again. �ŚIn answer to your question, our relationship was as good as was possible under the circumstances. Stella was the one who looked after me, took me to school, fed me, read to me, put me to bed. She was kind. It was a rare thing in our house, an odd thing. I don’t think I was as kind to her as she was to me.’ Ratcliffe and Angela exchanged glances. �ŚIn what way weren’t you kind?’ he asked. �ŚI didn’t really know how to respond to her affection. It was a bit alien, more frightening in some ways than the others were. I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain. And of course, I left her there, when I went to London. I shouldn’t have done that.’ �ŚWhy did you leave her behind?’ Angela asked, more out of simple curiosity than the chance that the answer might take them forward. Rachel pointed at Charlie. �ŚI still blamed her for testifying against Charlie. She knew as well as I did that he didn’t kill Patsy.’ It was a difficult moment, awkward. Ratcliffe didn’t want things to digress into a discussion on whether Charlie Jones had been wrongfully convicted of his first wife’s murder. �ŚThat’s understandable, under the circumstances. So you can’t think of anyone who might have a motive to harm her?’ Rachel shook her head. �ŚHave you ever been inside the flat above the shop?’ She looked puzzled, �ŚThe flat? Not for years. Not since I was little. Why?’ �ŚWell someone attempted to burn that down as well. We were called there this morning’ Ratcliffe said, watching puzzlement transmute into complete confusion on her face. �ŚCan you describe the flat to us, as you remember it?’ Angela demanded. �ŚGod, it’s a long time ago. Typical flat really, I think it was used mostly for storage, but there had been a squatter, some old tramp. So it was locked up and left. I think there was a bit of furniture in the sitting room, Stella used to have her lunch break up there sometimes. But it was pretty grim as I recall. She stopped going up there after the tramp I think. Sorry, it’s all a bit vague.’ �ŚDid you ever go into the bedroom there?’ Ratcliffe wanted to know �ŚI don’t think so, why?’ �ŚWe think someone might have been using the place quite recently. Do you know who had keys to the shop and the flat?’ �ŚThere was just one set which Stella used. She worked in the shop, I did too for a little while.’ �ŚAnd you didn’t go into the flat while you worked at the shop?’ �ŚNo, like I said, no one did after the tramp. It was always locked up.’ �ŚWould you say that Stella had strange preoccupations at all, anything you might have found odd in her behaviour?’ Ratcliffe asked. �ŚI think we were all a bit odd. It’s a family trait. She was very quiet, timid I suppose. It’s hard to say, none of us is exactly normal are we?’ Both Angela and Ratcliffe had to concede this was true. At that point, Diana came in with a tray of tea, and handed out the mugs. �ŚWould you like me to go back into the kitchen?’ She asked. �ŚStay if you like.’ Rachel said. �ŚYou can hear all about just how fucked up we all are.’ It came out with a tinge of vitriol that surprised her, �Śsorry Di, that wasn’t aimed at you. It’s just that having to talk about us makes me realise just how weird we really are, I mean were...’ as she tailed off, she stretched out her leg and winced with pain. Charlie spoke for the first time. �ŚHave you taken your tablets?’ �ŚThis morning. I probably need to take some more.’ He nodded and left the room. They all waited while he climbed the stairs and fetched her medication. They drank their tea as she swallowed a fistful of pills. She was looking really quite ill now, and it seemed to be seriously unsettling Charlie Jones. �ŚWhat about your relationship with Frances?’ Rachel laughed again, but this time it made her breathless. �ŚCan being treated as an annoying inconvenience count as a relationship? Frances tolerated me because she had no choice.’ �ŚYet you came back when she asked you to.’ Angela said, remembering the letter Rachel had told them about the first time they met. �ŚShe didn’t ask, she commanded.’ Rachel said drily. They both saw Charlie nod in agreement. Maybe it was time he contributed to this conversation a little more, Ratcliffe thought. �ŚWhat was her relationship with Roy Baxter like?’ He asked, encompassing Charlie in the question. �ŚAs I remember, they sort of got on, they argued a lot, but more like banter. I think she liked him, no not liked, admired him. She thought he had guts.’ This was interesting, �Śwould you agree Mr Jones?’ Angela asked, aiming her gaze at him. Charlie shrugged. �ŚI suppose, she used to flirt with him a lot. Mainly because it used to bug Stella I think, but I suppose you could say they got on.’ �ŚAny idea why she might have killed him, given that it appears their relationship might have been relatively good?’ �ŚHow do you know she did, you’ve been wrong before?’ was Charlie’s barbed reply. �ŚWe have sufficient evidence to prove it. Which reminds me, do either of you recognise this?’ Ratcliffe pulled out a small evidence bag from his pocket, and showed it to both of them. �ŚIt’s an earring.’ Charlie said. Rachel took the bag and peered at the earring. �ŚFrances had a pair like that; they were a birthday present from our mother. I remember them because I borrowed them once, she went mad at me. Where did you find it?’ Ratcliffe took the bag back. �ŚIn Roy Baxter’s hand, along with a handful of her hair. Pretty conclusive I’m afraid.’ �ŚHas she confessed?’ Charlie asked. �ŚNo, and it won’t go in her favour I’m afraid.’ �ŚThen perhaps she didn’t do it.’ Charlie said. Ratcliffe gave him a dismissive look, and turned his attention back to Rachel. �ŚDo you remember anything about the day Roy disappeared, anything at all?’ �ŚI’ve been trying to think back since he was found, and I honestly keep drawing a blank. All I can say was that one day he was there, the next he was gone. I can’t even give you a date. I remember knowing he had left Stella, but no one talked about it. Everyone seemed relieved, life was calmer after. We were glad.’ �ŚHe was found in the shed, near the house. What do you remember about that shed?’ Angela asked. �ŚNothing, it was just a shed. Always locked, again, I never questioned it.’ Ratcliffe looked at Angela, it didn’t seem like they were going to get much more than this from Rachel. �ŚI think that’s about it for today, but we might have more questions. Will you be here for a while?’ �ŚI don’t know.’ Rachel said weakly. She could feel sweat trickling down the back of her neck. �ŚYes she will.’ Charlie said. �ŚOne more thing.’ Rachel said as they stood to leave. �ŚThe baby. You haven’t said anything about the baby.’ Ratcliffe sighed. �ŚStill a bit of a mystery I’m afraid. We do know that he was stillborn, so no one is suspected of murdering him. Someone could be charged with concealing the body, but we suspect that either your mother or Stella was responsible for that, and obviously, we have no way of proving it, and no one to pursue for a crime. The body will be released for burial at some point, would you like us to let you know?’ She nodded, she had found him, she would deal with it. Back in the car, when they had pulled off the drive and were a little way down the road Angela asked �ŚWhy didn’t you tell her about Stella, about her claims of being her mother? Don’t you think she has a right to know?’ Ratcliffe had put a lot of thought into this one. �ŚYeah, I do, but not yet. You saw the state of her, I don’t think she’s up to hearing that she’s the product of incest right at this moment in time do you?’ �ŚProbably not. But she’s got to know sometime.’ �ŚTrue, my plan is to let her get her head round this little lot, then call her into the station. I think we’ll let Dr Ferris explain that one. It’s her discovery.’ Angela shot him a wry smile. �ŚShe’ll love you for that.’ Ratcliffe just shrugged. �ŚGot any more of those femmy things? They’re pretty good.’ After they had gone, Diana busied herself by tidying up the tea things. She was good at knowing when to leave well alone. Charlie seemed pensive, uncomfortable, not surprising given his history with the police. Amy had explained it to her while they had made the tea. Now he was rooting about in the freezer muttering about making a meal for them all. Diana offered to do the cooking, which he took her up on immediately with visible relief. He was about to go back into the lounge, when Diana caught his arm and shook her head, pointing surreptitiously into the other room. Through the half open door, they could see Amy sitting with Rachel in what seemed to be a comfortable silence. It was a good sign in Diana’s book. �ŚLeave them to it. You could peel some potatoes if you like.’ She said. Charlie nodded, and started to run water into the sink. Diana smiled, and passed him the peeler. Amy sat next to Rachel, it was weird having this stranger as a mother all of a sudden. �ŚI don’t know what to call you.’ She said. Rachel looked up at her child, who was not a child, but a younger, better version of herself. �ŚWhat do you mean?’ She knew exactly what Amy meant, but didn’t have a solution. She figured she was lucky that the girl was talking to her at all. �ŚWell I can’t call you Rachel, it wouldn’t be right. And calling you mum is strange, I don’t mean to be horrible, but it feels weird.’ �ŚYou’re not being horrible, I understand. I don’t know what to suggest, but I won’t object to Rachel if it feels more comfortable.’ �ŚOk, Can I get you anything, you look really tired. Do you want a blanket?’ Rachel shook her head, though the movement made her dizzy and nauseous. �ŚNo thanks, I’m actually feeling really hot. My leg’s a bit sore, I probably need to change the dressing again. I think your dad’s got some stuff, would you ask him?’ �ŚSure. Can I do it for you? I need the practice, wound care and all.’ Rachel had forgotten that Amy was training to be a nurse. �ŚIf you like.’ Amy raced off into the kitchen and was back in minutes with Charlie’s first aid kit, a clean towel and a bowl of water. She put the towel under Rachel’s leg, and she started to unwrap the bandage that Charlie had put on. �ŚStrictly speaking I should be using a sterile dressing pack, but we’ll have to make do with what we have.’ She said, carefully peeling the old dressing away from Rachel’s leg. She could feel the heat coming off Rachel’s skin. It was like being next to a radiator. The wound was angry and red, the stitches tight. Pus oozed from it and she had a hard job not to turn her nose up at the sickly smell of it. This was not good. A red line extended along the leg, telling her that the inflammation was spreading. She knew enough to realise that this was a bad sign. �ŚJust going to check your pulse rate, and breathing, might as well go the whole hog as I’m here.’ She said, gently grasping Rachel’s wrist and measuring her pulse against the ticking of the clock. Not good, far too fast, as was her breathing which was shallow and rapid. She didn’t have a thermometer, so placed a cool hand on Rachel’s upper chest instead. It was hot, too hot. �ŚHow do you feel?’ she asked. �ŚPretty lousy if I’m honest.’ Rachel said with a thin smile. �ŚOK, I’m just going to go and get something from the kitchen, I won’t be long.’ She shut the door behind her quietly, her dad was at the sink, and Diana was peeling carrots next to him. �ŚDad, it’s Rachel, I mean mum. She’s running a temperature, she’s tachycardia, the wound is infected and her respirations aren’t right. These aren’t good signs.’ Charlie put the potato he had been peeling into the sink, and dried his hands. �ŚSay that again in English.’ �ŚI think she may be in Sepsis, I mean she might have blood poisoning.’ Amy said, her heart pounding almost as fast as Rachel’s. �ŚLet me look at her.’ He said, striding towards the door, sure that Amy was over reacting. Diana dropped the carrot and followed, wiping her hands on her skirt. As Charlie opened the door, they all heard a dull but significant thud. Rachel lay on the floor in the midst of a massive convulsion. Diana rushed past him, throwing herself down beside Rachel. �ŚThis isn’t like a normal fit, you’d better call an ambulance.’ She called. Charlie’s fingers were shaking as he dialled 999, while Amy quietly sobbed at his elbow. �ŚIs she going to be alright dad?’ She whispered once the ambulance was on its way. �ŚI don’t know love. I don’t know.’ He had a horrible feeling that Rachel might have pushed it too far this time, and the thought clutched at this heart like an ice-cold fist. Ratcliffe’s breast pocket started to vibrate yet again, �ŚBloody hell! What now?’ he demanded of no one on particular as he retrieved the buzzing phone. Hadn’t Maria run out of names to call him yet? It wasn’t Maria, he took the call. �ŚWhat’s up?’ Angela asked. They were in the car park, outside the station. Ratcliffe put the phone back in his pocket. �ŚRachel porter is in hospital, in the ICU, in critical condition apparently. Blood poisoning from her leg injury.’ He said dully. Angela took a breath, �ŚBloody silly cow! What is it with these people?’ She had just about had a gut full of the Porter family, they were a bloody nightmare. She couldn’t stand self-effacing people like Rachel Porter; did they honestly think they were being brave and stoic in the face of adversity? Bullshit. They were the most selfish types of all. Half of them killed themselves with self-neglect and left everyone else to pick up the pieces, the other half sucked the rest of the population dry. Shame the whole lot of them, the whole family, hadn’t been in that bloody house when it went up in flames. �ŚI need a drink.’ Ratcliffe said. �ŚYou coming?’ �ŚDoes a bear shit in the woods?’ She said through gritted teeth. When they reached Ratcliffe’s car, he let out a groan of disbelief. The bonnet had been covered in full, black sacks. �ŚYour worldly belongings I assume.’ Angela said as he started to pull them down, one by one and throw them in the boot. As he moved the last bag, she pointed at the car, �ŚWant me to nick her for criminal damage?’ �ŚEh?’ He was in no mood for jokes. Then he saw what she was looking at, Maria had carved the word �śasshole” into the paintwork of the car. Wordlessly he got into the car, slamming the door. �ŚYou do realise that the control room will have the whole thing on CCTV, don’t you?’ She said, slipping into the passenger seat. Ratcliffe just gritted his teeth and started the engine. Angela thought he would get into the pub and knock back as much booze as he could stomach, but instead he had only taken a few sips of his pint and was now staring at it moodily as he slowly rotated it on the beer mat. �ŚI know a guy who will do a cheap re-spray for you.’ �ŚEh? Oh that, I’m not bothered about that, she could have been worse, could have cut my balls off with a rusty penknife.’ He said, his expression dull. �ŚThe night is still young.’ She quipped, wishing he would hurry up and finish his drink, because she wanted another and didn’t want to look like a lush for having two to his one. �ŚWhatever’. He wasn’t with it, his mind was elsewhere, still on the case she suspected. �ŚCome on, share.’ She said, waving her hand in front of his face to break his trance. He sat back and let out a long, slow breath. �ŚJust thinking that we’ve missed something. We should at least have a suspect, and we don’t have a clue.’ �ŚThat room, in the flat, do you think Stella did it? Like some kind of weird guilt trip thing over the incest, and having a child?’ �ŚI suppose it fits, I mean you saw her, she was hardly sane.’ �ŚAre any of them?’ was Angela’s cynical response. �ŚWhat’s bugging me is that if she didn’t set fire to the flat, who did, and why? My guess is that someone else knows that room exists, and that person didn’t want it found. But that person is also getting sloppy, the fire didn’t take, the room has been seen.’ �ŚIt stands to reason that it’s the same person who killed Stella then doesn’t it?’ She said. It did stand to reason but she wasn’t entirely sure how. �ŚSo what did Stella know that this person didn’t want her to talk about? What’s in that room that might give the game away? And who haven’t we talked to that we should have?’ Always the same, more questions than answers. �ŚWell we’ve got Frances Haines for Roy Baxter, she isn’t talking and it’s not helping her. So it can’t really be to do with what happened to him, so it must be to do with what happened to the baby, given what was in that room.’ �ŚBut why isn’t Frances Haines talking?’ Ratcliffe asked, finally taking a large slug of beer. Thank God. Angela was down to the watery dregs of a melting ice cube in her glass. �ŚAnother?’ She said, now that he had less than half a pint. She stood to go to the bar. �ŚObviously she’s not talking because she doesn’t want to land herself in the shit even deeper.’ She added. It didn’t take long to be served, the bar was quiet and the barmaid wasn’t the chatty type. Mind you, they never were when it came to other women in Angela’s experience. When she got back, Ratcliffe looked pensive again, �ŚMaybe you’re right, maybe not. What if she’s not talking because she doesn’t want to land someone else in the shit?’ �ŚWhat do you mean? Baxter had half her DNA in his hand, and her earring which has now been positively ID’d’. She was glad she had bought a double, she had a feeling she might need it. �ŚWell, I’ve been thinking about that, and I think we’ve been in too much of a hurry to nail someone for this and get it over and done with. Yes, Baxter had her hair in his hand, and the earring, but he was bashed over the head with something, from behind. Did he reach behind him and grab her while she hit him. Or could it be that he attacked her, and got hit from behind by someone else?’ �ŚAre you suggesting she might be innocent?’ He shook his head, he had a mouthful of beer. �ŚFar from it, I think she’s in it up to her neck. For instance, I’m pretty certain she knew exactly where that body was, and intended to find it that day, with a witness. If she hadn’t found him someone else would have, and she would have instantly been in the frame. She knew Stella was barking, I’ll bet she figured that Stella would take the rap, and she would be off the hook.’ �ŚBut wouldn’t she have got rid of the forensic evidence first?’ Angela reasoned. �ŚThat guy had been in there for twenty odd years, back then the only police show on telly was bloody Z cars, people barely understood fingerprinting, let alone DNA analysis. I doubt it even occurred to her there would be any forensic evidence. And even if it did, I doubt she thought it would have survived.’ It wasn’t an unreasonable thought Angela concurred. �ŚSo we’re back to Stella or the mother as suspects then? Which is pointless because they’re both dead, and we can’t prove it.’ �ŚNo, we’re not, you just said it, they’re both dead, and Frances may be covering for someone who is very much alive. If the killer was dead, she could tell us any cock and bull story and we’d have to buy it, and the worst she might be facing is a charge for aiding and abetting, or concealing the crime.’ �ŚBut you’re suggesting she is worried enough to face a life sentence rather than tell us what actually happened?’ He drained his glass. �ŚOr I’m talking shit, and she did do it. Either way, there’s a story there, and we need to hear it, otherwise this one is going to bug me for the rest of my days.’ �ŚBut who’s left in the frame? Rachel?’ �ŚShe was only a kid at the time, it’s not impossible, but I don’t think she did it. But I do think she might know more than she thinks she does.’ �ŚWhat like a buried memory or something?’ She didn’t really believe in such things, but it was a thought. �ŚMaybe. But we’re not going to get that out of her anytime soon. There has to be someone else in the picture, someone else connected to the family that we don’t know about yet’. Ratcliffe said. �ŚSo who can we talk to that might know?’ �ŚThere’s only one option. Delia Jones.’ Charlie came back into the waiting room. Amy had finally stopped crying, and appeared to be dozing on the rather grubby sofa that filled one wall of the tiny room. Diana was sitting with Rachel, and had been with her while he had gone outside to phone his mother and tell her what had happened. He’d had to explain to her that it didn’t look good, that the doctors wouldn’t speculate on an outcome, and that a nurse had warned him that two thirds of people who were hospitalised for septic shock died. He had told his mother that he was prepared for the worst, she hadn’t said much and he had taken her silence as an indication of her shock at this turn of events. She had offered to come to the hospital, but he had told her not to bother. Rachel was out of it, hooked up to a ton of machines that seemed to control her very life source in a mechanical and frightening way. There was nothing anyone could do except wait, and see if her body had enough strength left in it to fight the battle. He had his doubts, even if her body did, he wasn’t sure her mind would want to wage war on this tide of misfortune. He was awash with coffee, it felt like he had done nothing but imbibe gallons of the stuff in the last few hours. Sit with Rachel, get frustrated, go out, drink coffee, calm down, go back, and sit with Rachel. It was a caffeine-fuelled nightmare on constant loop. And it was all his fault, he should have taken her straight back to hospital as soon as he found out she’d discharged herself. He’d said that to the doctor, but had been told that it might not have been the best thing at all. The leg infection was caused by MRSA, and the chances were she’d picked that up at the first hospital. There had been some mention of amputating her leg, if they could stabilise her that was. He still thought he should have taken her back to the hospital, at least things wouldn’t have gone this far. Something could have been done a lot sooner. Elton John’s greatest hits played in the background. It had been playing over and over since they’d arrived. If he heard �ŚCandle in the Wind’ one more time he thought he might go insane. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Frances sat demurely on her thin, blue plastic covered mattress stoically ignoring the paper plate full of congealing food, which had been brought in an hour before. Never, ever, had she eaten off a paper plate, or used plastic cutlery and she did not intend to start now. Over the hours, she had wondered if this was the same cell that had held Stella, not that it mattered either way. They had all been in the same cell for years, just a different kind, where the bars and the steel door were all in the mind. Peter had proven himself the abject disappointment she had always known him to be. At least that hadn’t been a surprise in this whole debacle. She put her fingers to the back of her head, and felt gently for the lump, and the slight bald spot where the hair would never grow back. If only she hadn’t fallen like that and knocked herself senseless for days. Otherwise, she might just have got away with it. Now it was too late, they had evidence of her involvement with the incident. God knows how, she had no memory of him grabbing at her that day, or of losing her earring. She never wore those earrings anyway, they were hideous. But to explain that to the police would be far too dangerous, would mean pointing the finger in an entirely different direction, with not a shred of evidence. All that planning, all for nothing. Now what? Languish in jail for the rest of her days? There had to be a way out of this, a loophole somewhere, she just needed to think. Angela had left Ratcliffe sorting through his meagre belongings, a typical collection of bloke stuff. Old fishing trophies, LPs with covers depicting obscure bands featuring men with particularly unpleasant mullet haircuts, all wearing flares. Football programmes, photo albums, old clothes, junk. All of it junk. Marie had taken the trouble of cutting the legs and arms off all of his suits, had sliced his ties in half, and shredded his shirts. She had also taken time to carve the word �Śwanker’ into his favourite CD’s. So Angela had left him, in mourning for his belongings, rifling through black bags in her lounge. If she were honest with herself she needed a bit of space, some time to think about why she had allowed her boss into her home, and more to the point into her bed. But she didn’t feel like being honest with herself, so instead she disguised her excursion as a need to consider the case in more detail. The charred skeleton of The Limes looked sad rather than eerie, illuminated as it was by the sliver of moon that glowed weakly above the trees. She hardly knew what she hoped to find there, other than some vague wish that the smoke blackened bricks might have some sentience and would whisper some deep dark secret, which would be the key to the whole case. Instead, she just stood on the drive and felt rather stupid. There was nothing left, everything the house ever was had been incinerated if not by Frances and her pyromaniacal rampage, then by this second elimination. But why? She agreed with Ratcliffe, there had always been another person in the loop, someone they had completely overlooked. The discovery of an unmissed, un-mourned body so many years after death wasn’t much of a deal, just find the culprit, throw the book at them –Job done. It was simpler in fact to pin it on Frances rather than Stella. If she had still been alive, she would have been declared unfit to stand trial, and would have ended up in a secure psychiatric unit at best. No satisfaction for anyone there. Frances however would stand trial, be found guilty, go to prison and they could all move on. She and Ratcliffe would have been able to close the case nice and neatly. Everyone happy. A good result. But for some reason this other element, this third wheel, had ballsed up. Re- entering the picture in such a way that their presence could not go unnoticed. But why? There had to be a reason why this person had decided to wipe Stella Baxter and her family home off the face of the planet. There had to be a reason why the same person had tried to do similar to the flat. The only reason in Angela’s mind was that all three, Stella, The Limes, the flat, could reveal the identity of the third man. Or woman. Yes, definitely a woman. Angela’s instincts told her that the whole miserable affair had a woman’s touch running all the way through it. Nothing was simple, the things that had happened were cruel, devious, designed for lasting effect. Men didn’t hold on to bodies, they disposed of them, they buried them in woods, or pushed them into rivers in cars, or put them under tons of concrete. They didn’t make Serrano ham out of them and keep them in the shed. Male killers might keep trophies, if they were really sick, but not whole cadavers. Maria’s antics that day had set her mind on this course. Not only had Maria wanted to destroy her husband’s most valued things, she had wanted him to know she had done it, feel the effects of her fury. Keep them as souvenirs. Whoever had been at work in the Porter family had wanted the same. Had wanted to see them suffer, and had wanted them to know the source of it. Not only that, they wanted to be sure the Porters were embroiled in it enough themselves to never point the finger. Angela had had a debate once with her brother, Stephen. She had been involved in a case where a paedophile had abducted a child. They had caught the man, after the damage had been done. Stephen had said that if he were the child’s father he would have found a way to kill the man and would not have turned a hair. Angela had argued that if she were not constrained by the law, she would lock him up forever and personally make every day of his life hell, and she would make sure he stayed alive to experience it. Women are much more cruel beasts she had explained. Men like to put the sinners out of their misery, women like misery to put out the sin. She took the heavy torch out of her bag, and made her way into the ruined building, completely ignoring the �ŚDanger’ signs that the fire service had liberally scattered about. The torch beam brought small areas of destruction into sharp focus. The water that had been used to put out the blaze had been almost as damaging as the fire itself. What the flames hadn’t consumed, the blast from the hoses had washed away, finished the job. A portion of wall had fallen and bits of sodden wallpaper still clung to damp shards of plaster. She shone the torch on it, the last evidence that this ruin had once been a home. The water had washed away some of the soot, and she could still see the ghost of the pattern underneath the dirty streaks of charcoal, and something else, part of a word. She stepped closer, almost losing her footing on the rubble. All she could make out were the letters s and u, then the top half of another that may have been e or an f. The paper below was gone. As she searched around, there were other fragments, but exactly that, fragments. Nothing complete, no way of divining meaning. However, something had been written on the walls, and the fire may have been started to make sure that no one ever read it. Either what the fire hadn’t destroyed had been washed away, or it had disintegrated as the structure of the building had collapsed in on itself. Nevertheless, she took photographs on her phone of the fragments she had found, and resolved to get someone there the next day to salvage what they could. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something, a reason at least why Stella might have died. Back at her house, Ratcliffe was laid full length on the sofa, a bottle of beer in his hand, howling along to some eighties rock ballad that was belting out of her stereo. He didn’t even hear her come in. It seemed the writing was on the wall in her house too. As Angela had been a bit gritty with him since last night, Ratcliffe decided to send her off on a mission for the morning. Besides, he had to go and break the news to Frances Haines about her sisters. One dead, one as near as damn it. Not that he expected her to react much, so far she hadn’t shown much family loyalty, and if the others were to be believed, she wouldn’t start now. Still it had to be done. Besides, he wanted to do it before she was moved to the prison, where she would be on remand until her trial. Because, despite his theories, if she didn’t talk, and he didn’t find another suspect, she would go to trial and it would be for murder. He’d run his theory past Benton that morning first thing, but she wasn’t buying it unless he came up with solid evidence. Until then, Stella’s murder was a separate issue, not linked until he could prove it otherwise. Frances was waiting for him in an interview room, in the company of a young female officer, who looked to Ratcliffe like she had just fallen out of the gates of junior school and into a uniform. Were they getting younger, or was he getting too old? After the past few days, he concluded it must be the latter. He offered Frances a cup of tea, but she refused. Then he explained about the fire, about Stella’s death and about Rachel’s critical condition. She didn’t say anything but he saw a range of emotion flicker across her face, shock at Stella’s death, then a knowing frown when he mentioned the fire, possibly a glimmer of concern for Rachel, but too brief to be sure. Then calculation, she was weighing something up in her mind. Her eyes flicked around as she measured out the information he had given her and synthesised it into something meaningful. �ŚDo you have any questions, or is there anybody you think we should contact?’ He asked. She shook her head, as if his words were an irritating distraction to her thoughts. �ŚRight, Officer Kelly will escort you back to the custody suite.’ He stood up to go, reminded PC Kelly what time the prison transport was due to arrive, and opened the door to leave. �ŚWait. There is something, is Rachel safe?’ Ratcliffe turned to her, �Śas I’ve explained, she’s seriously ill; hopefully she will respond and make a recovery. That’s all I know.’ �ŚYes, I heard that, I mean is she safe, are people with her?’ �ŚI don’t really understand what you mean.’ He said. She let out an impatient sigh, �ŚYou have just told me that my stepsister was murdered, I am simply asking you if you have considered that there might also be a risk to Rachel from the same source?’ Given the current physical condition of Rachel Porter, he doubted that a murderer would have much of a job to do. �ŚShe is in the ICU, receiving constant care. I think she’s safe, only close family are allowed to visit.’ �ŚThen she is not safe.’ She said simply. Ratcliffe sat back down, �Śdo you have something you would like to tell me Mrs Haines?’ �ŚPossibly, but only if you will give me a guarantee that you will post an officer, in the ICU to maintain Rachel’s safety.’ �ŚI don’t really think you are in a position to make demands. Rachel is quite safe, at least from any external threat. Perhaps if you tell me who you think might pose a threat, I can help.’ �ŚPost an officer first, then I’ll tell you everything.’ Ratcliffe shook his head, �ŚUh uh. No deal.’ Anger flashed across her face, �ŚYou fail to understand me, there is no time. For you to understand the nature of the threat you will need to hear a long story, by the time I tell it and convince you to protect my sister, it may be too late. I will tell you, but only if you place an officer in the ICU, with Rachel at all times, until you make an arrest.’ Ratcliffe mulled it over for a moment, he wasn’t in the habit of giving in to such outright manipulation by a prisoner, but he did want whatever information she could give. �ŚOK, I’ll send someone down there. But whatever you’ve got better be good.’ He stepped out into the hallway and rang Angela, told her to get her ass to the ICU and stay with Rachel until she heard different from him. She asked him why, and he told her he didn’t have time to explain. She called him something both unmentionable and deeply unprofessional, said she had information he might find interesting. �Śtell me later, Haines is about to spill and I don’t want the window to close while I’m out here arsing about!’ he said, losing patience and ending the call by pressing the button on his phone with more pressure than was absolutely necessary, which resulted in him inadvertently switching it off. Back in the interview room he told Frances that DC Watson would be with Rachel in ten minutes, and would stay by her bedside for as long as was necessary. Frances closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply, �Śthen you had better assemble the cabal.’ Angela was deeply pissed off, Ratcliffe was complete asshole. She had just spent half the morning running round piecing together some decent evidence, and now he wanted her to sit in a hospital and babysit an unconscious woman. She’d had enough of that crap when she had worn a uniform. Still, looking on the bright side it would give her a chance to mull over what information she had and form it into something coherent. She was going to crack this case if it killed her. Even if death did come in the form of abject boredom by the bedside of a woman she despised. On the ward, she showed her warrant card, explained her mission and was shown into the waiting room, where she found Charlie Jones, looking ten years older than he had the day before, and in dire need of a good wash and a shave. �ŚRough night?’ She said, hoping that it sounded like sympathy rather than an indictment. �ŚYou could say that, anything I can help you with?’ �ŚNot really, I’m here to sit with Rachel, orders from above, just thought I would let you know. Is anybody with her now?’ �ŚDiana and Amy, only two at a time. Why do you need to sit with her?’ She shrugged, turned out her palms. �ŚOurs is not to reason why, etcetera. My guess is that as Stella was murdered, there might be some concern from the powers that be that Rachel is at risk too.’ Charlie snorted in disbelief, �ŚWhat, in the ICU, surrounded by nurses and with her family?’ �ŚLike I said...’ Angela offered, as if it explained everything. �ŚPerhaps you could take it as an opportunity to go home and get some rest, and, um, whatever.’ She said, waving her hand at him. He looked down at himself, ran a hand over his stubble, and rubbed his eyes. �ŚFair point, maybe you’re right. They say she’s stable now. But you’re not going to stop us coming back.’ He asserted warily. �ŚWouldn’t dream of it, shall I send the others out?’ �ŚWhatever’ Charlie said, his voice blurred by exhaustion. Once they had gone, once she had dealt with the protestations of the daughter and the friend, once she had explained to the staff the reason she was here cluttering up the ward, she was finally able to pull up a chair next to Rachel’s bed and gather her thoughts. It had been an interesting morning, at least up until Ratcliffe had phoned. She had been asked to get background on the family, find out if there was anyone in their circle who might have been missed. William Porter’s family were all dead, but no one had mentioned whether Valerie Porter still had people. Angela had made it her business to find out. Valerie’s maiden name had been Mint, and she had grown up in the rough end of town, a wartime child. Despite the intervening years, and the impact of urban regeneration, it was still the rough end of town, and a familiar stamping ground for anyone in the local police force. Angela had been on more call outs there than she’d had a clean change of knickers when she’d been in uniform. Given that she changed her underwear daily, it had been an average of two incidents a day. She still had clean habits, but didn’t visit quite so often, this was a place for petty crime and domestics. Serious incidents were rare. A bit of research had told her that there were still three families living in the street where Valerie had grown up who might have known her as a child or young woman. No relatives had come to light, but these places were close-knit communities where people knew each other’s business intimately and had long memories, and often strenuous loyalties. That could be a good or a bad thing depending on the information being sought. Given that even her own children had given Valerie a bad rap, Angela was hoping she hadn’t been popular as a kid, that way it was more likely someone would choose to dish the dirt. Her first port of call was number 23, the home of Mrs Bolan and her daughter. Having rung the bell she waited patiently by the door, her warrant card ready in her hand. It took a few minutes, but eventually a small, grey haired woman, who peered out past a security chain, opened the door. Angela held up her warrant card and introduced herself, she was about to explain why she was there when a high pitched, querulous voice cut across her words, �ŚWho’s there? Who’s that at the door Edie?’ The woman, Edie, gave Angela an apologetic look, then turned and called down the passage, �ŚIt’s a lady from the police mother.’ �ŚWhat does she want? Is it about those thugs who broke the back fence? Bit late aren’t they?’ �ŚI don’t know what she wants Mother, I can’t hear her over your shouting.’ She called, clearly exasperated, she turned back to the door, �ŚIs it about the fence?’ Angela smiled, �ŚNo, not the fence I’m afraid. I wanted to talk to you and your mother about Valerie Mint, she used to live a few doors away?’ �ŚValerie Mint’ Edie repeated, rolling the name over her tongue as if it might taste the way it sounded. �ŚNow there’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’ She turned back into the hallway, �ŚShe wants to know about the Mints.’ �ŚMince? What Mince?’ The inner voice demanded in a pitch that made Angela want to wince. �ŚNot Mince, the Mints, the family that used to be down the road.’ There was silence from the back of the house. �ŚDo you think I might come in?’ Angela asked, he neck getting stiff from angling her head to peer through the gap in the door. Edie shut the door and let off the chain, then ushered Angela through the door with a surreptitious glance down the street to see if anyone was watching. �ŚMother’s in the back room’. She said. Leading Angela down a dingy passageway to the back of the house. It was a typical Victorian terraced house, stairs straight ahead, front room, back room, kitchen, bathroom. Most had been modernised, the rooms knocked through, the kitchens extended, the bathrooms put upstairs. However, this one retained its original layout and looked like it hadn’t been decorated since the seventies. Edie’s mother sat regally in a wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees that was made from hundreds of different coloured, bobble textured crochet squares. Her parchment coloured brown speckled hands rested nervously on the arms of her chair, and her thin lips were set in a defiant line. Angela introduced herself, showed her card again and asked if she might sit down. The old woman nodded and indicated an uncomfortable looking cottage style settee. Angela sat, the ancient springs groaning with every movement. �ŚI was wondering if you might be able to recall anything about the Mint family, they lived here some years ago. We’re currently investigating a case connected to Valerie Mint, or Valerie Porter as she was after she married. I was hoping to find someone who could tell me a bit about the family. It often helps us if we have some background.’ She explained. The old woman nodded. �ŚDoes it now?’ she said. It was hardly a conversation opener. �ŚWould you like a cup of tea Officer?’ Edie offered, hovering by the kitchen door. �ŚIt’s Detective, and thank you, that would be lovely.’ While Edie bustled about in the tiny kitchen, the old woman just stared at Angela, who glanced around the room and gave her the occasional smile, hoping to appear undemanding. Finally, Edie came in, with a fully laden tea tray. A pot, cups, saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl and biscuits. Custard creams. Angela hated custard creams. Edie fussed around pouring the tea, she was nervous The cups rattled in their saucers as she handed first one to Angela, then one to her mother. The old lady made a great show of stirring it and tapping the spoon on the rim of the cup, as if she were about to make a great announcement of some sort. �ŚSo you want to know about the Mints.’ She said, pursing her lips and taking a noisy sip from her cup. Angela glanced down and saw there was a chip in her cup. The china was stained yellow where the glaze was missing. �ŚIf you can remember anything about them.’ �ŚHuh’ the old woman uttered �ŚI remember them alright. Who could forget?’ Then she launched into her story, just as Angela had known she would. �ŚI take it you want to know about Lena Mint, although it all seems to be a bit too long ago to be worrying about what she got up to. She’s been dead thirty years.’ The woman chuckled wheezily. �ŚShe weren’t Val’s mother, she were an aunt. Took Valerie on when her real mother died, mind you rumour has it that were down to Lena.’ She said with a slow, precise nod of her head. �ŚWhat was down to Lena?’ �ŚValerie’s mother’s death. Died in childbirth didn’t she.’ The old woman said impatiently, with a shake of her head that implied Angela might be a bit stupid. �ŚLena was the local woman.’ Now Angela was completely lost, she looked at Edie, afraid of the old woman’s censure should she ask for clarity. �ŚLena was the woman people called on if they were in trouble, she did the laying out and stuff.’ Edie offered, adding about as much clarity as a dollop of mud in a glass of water. �ŚStuff?’ Angela queried. The old woman flapped her hand impatiently. �ŚLaying out dead people, tending em if they was sick, looking after women in trouble, and she was the local midwife. Not official like, but the one most people round here preferred. Cheaper than the doctor see.’ She took another noisy slurp of tea. �ŚBack before the war, before the �Śealth service and that, you had to pay, she was cheaper. Course after the NHS, she had to keep up with the times, not a lot of money in just laying out.’ �ŚWhat did she do then?’ Angela asked, sipping her own tea, tentatively from the opposite side to the chip. �ŚSorted girls out that had got themselves in trouble. Do it for three guineas. That how she killed off her own sister, dirty habits, infection. Nasty business.’ The woman said with a sniff fuelled by morality. �ŚYou mean she was an abortionist?’ The old woman nodded, Edie looked away, as if she were ashamed to be associated with such things. �ŚMessed a lot of women up she did, surprised your lot never caught her for it. Nasty business. Edie, wasn’t she in the picture for Elsie Brent too?’ �ŚI don’t know mother, I can’t remember.’ Edie said quietly, unable to look either her mother or Angela in the eye. �ŚOf course you do, you, Val and Del Brent were thick as thieves.’ �ŚIt was a long time ago mother, we were children.’ �ŚHardly! You was teenagers when Elsie copped it, everyone knew she’d fallen again, at her age too. Lena did her in, her with her gin and knitting needles and her dirty hands.’ �ŚShe didn’t use knitting needles, it was a tube thing!’ Edie shouted, then realised what she had said, clapped a hand over her mouth and burst into tears. For once, the old woman seemed to be stunned into silence. Edie leapt up and ran into the kitchen, slamming the door. Angela found her locked in the toilet. She tapped on the door. �ŚEdie, come out, it’s all right, no ones in trouble. I’m not here for that. Did something happen, with Lena Mint? Did she do something to you?’ All she could here was quiet sobbing from behind the door. So she waited. After a minute or two, Edie undid the door and came out. �ŚWe were just kids.’ She said huskily, her voice still loaded with emotion. Whatever had happened she must have been carrying it around with her for an awful long time, Angela thought. The woman had to be in her late sixties if she was a day. �ŚDo you want to tell me about it?’ Maybe it would help her if she did. Maybe it would help Angela if she did. Edie glanced towards the window. Her mother’s wizened face was peering out from underneath the net curtain, which was draped over her head like a veil. �ŚShe’ll never let up on me til I tell her.’ Angela gave her a sympathetic smile. �ŚBest get it over with then.’ She said, offering Edie a clean but crumpled tissue. It turned out that it wasn’t anything to do with Lena Mint, well not directly anyway. Del Brent had been in trouble, not her mother. The mother had died of natural causes, ovarian cancer that had swollen her belly so much that everyone thought she was pregnant. Del hadn’t told her family of her own predicament because of her mother’s illness, but had sought the help of Lena. Lena wouldn’t perform the abortion because Del was too far into the pregnancy, but Val had wanted a new pair of shoes, so took Del’s money and performed the abortion herself, using the equipment her auntie used, �ŚShe told us it was alright, that she knew what to do, that Lena had showed her how it worked. But she didn’t, it was awful, blood everywhere. I was only there to help out, look after Del. The baby was supposed to come away of its own accord, but it didn’t, there was just blood. We panicked, and I got Lena, then she panicked, Del was out of it then. Lena and Val, they dumped her in the street and made me phone an ambulance. Told me I would go to prison as an accomplice if I ever said anything. I was terrified.’ Angela had to dig deep for another tissue to stem Edie’s renewed bout of crying. �ŚWhat happened to Del?’ �ŚThey took her to hospital, took the baby away there. They took her womb too. Val had really messed her up. She was fifteen, we were all fifteen.’ �ŚWhy didn’t she report it?’ Angela wanted to know. �ŚShe was ashamed. Her mother was dying, she thought her family would disown her’. �ŚBut surely they found out? She was in hospital.’ Angela reasoned. Edie shook her head, �ŚLena went round there, told her dad Del was staying with them because of her mother being ill. He was grateful, Lena helped him nurse Elsie, right up to when she died. Del stayed in hospital the whole time, never told a soul, kept her mouth shut even when the doctors called your lot in. She never said a word. Never saw her mum again either. She discharged herself the day she died. Course the doctor came round, told her dad all about it, no confidentiality back then. He beat her black and blue and threw her out on the street, never spoke to her again, wouldn’t even let her go to her own mother’s funeral. I don’t know what happened to her after that, never saw her again.’ She said with a loud sniff. Angela handed Edie another tissue and wondered who the tears were for, Del Brent, or herself. The old woman just sat in her chair, shaking her head in disbelief. �ŚWell well well.’ Was all she said. Angela had been expecting some kind of moral tirade, but it seemed Edie’s story had shocked her mother into something near silence. �ŚWhat happened to Lena, and Valerie after that?’ �ŚTo be honest I didn’t have much to do with them, I sort of kept my distance from them. I do know that Del got money from her, money to keep her mouth shut. I can’t say I blame her, she had to live on something. As for Val, I know she had a kid, which was weird given what Lena did for money.’ �ŚPerhaps what happened to Del put her off.’ Angela suggested. Edie just shrugged. �ŚDunno. Maybe. She married some rich bloke, I know that much.’ She got more than she bargained for though, Angela thought. �ŚWhat about Del, what happened to her?’ Edie shrugged, �ŚNot sure, it’s all such a long time ago, we’re talking about the 1950’s.’ The old woman spoke, �ŚI know what happened to her, she went on the game, had a pimp called Barrington Jones, big black fella. She shacked up with him, supposed to have married him, but I never believed it. He had women all over, poncing of all of them. Nasty piece of work he was, rough. Got himself killed in a fight. They found him dumped in an alley with his head stoved in. I remember that like it was yesterday.’ She mused. �ŚAsk her what she had for breakfast this morning and she wouldn’t be able to tell you’. Edie whispered to Angela with a brave little smile. The cogs in Angela’s mind seemed to be on a go slow, it took several seconds for her to put two and two together. �ŚWas Del short for Delia by any chance?’ �ŚThat’s right. Delia Brent, we always called her Del.’ Edie said, before blowing her nose loudly into her tissue. Angela had certainly established the link between Valerie Porter and Delia Jones, and quite a disturbing one at that. Now, sitting here at Rachel’s bedside, she wondered if William Porter had known that he was marrying an abortionist’s daughter, well niece to be correct, but even so... She wouldn’t mind betting that Valerie had kept that quiet from her new family. The story definitely explained the connection between the two women, and gave quite a picture of Valerie’s early years. What it didn’t explain was Delia’s loyalty to the Porters, by rights she should hate them. Valerie had ruined her life, might well have killed her in fact. No wonder Valerie had felt obliged to employ her, it would have been the least she could do. It was only at this stage, as she was mulling things over, pitching the story in her head that an obvious fact occurred to her. Charlie. If Edie had been telling the truth about Delia, how on earth had Charlie come into the picture? She needed to get hold of Ratcliffe, talk it through with him. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt if she left the ward for a few minutes. After all, she didn’t even know what she was doing there in the first place. Did Ratcliffe think Rachel was going to come round and suddenly reveal some big secret that would be the final key to the whole case? CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Ratcliffe had drafted in another DS to assist with the interview, Benton wasn’t around, besides she’d shown a decided lack of interest in the twists and turns of this case, so he’d just nabbed someone out of the office who wasn’t doing anything better. The Sergeant in question was one Nick Haddon, nice kid in Ratcliffe’s opinion, not pushy, and that was just what he needed, someone quiet who would let him do the talking. They were in the interview room, he’d done the blurb for the tape, and had explained yet again to Frances what her rights were, and what would happen to the tapes. She had responded affirmatively to all his questions so far. �ŚNow, Mrs Haines, Frances, you stated to me earlier, in the presence of PC Kelly, that you were willing to explain the circumstances of Roy Baxter’s death.’ �ŚYes.’ She said, leaning slightly towards the recorder so that she could be sure that it had picked up her answer. Ratcliffe wanted to tell her that there was no need, but he didn’t want to put her off. �ŚGo on’. He urged. Frances closed her eyes, if she had to talk about this, she had to go back to it, re run it in her head like a scene from a film. �ŚAfter Patsy Jones’ death Roy had become increasingly unhappy, very aggressive, and unpredictable. He was often violent towards Stella, and though he’d never physically attacked any of the rest of us, we were all very afraid of him. He could send Rachel into a fit just by looking at her. Most of the time we would just stay out of his way. He’d got it into his head that mother had money hidden somewhere in the house, started tearing the place apart, shouting and yelling at everyone, kicking the furniture. Mother was yelling back at him, telling him that he’d had everything she had and that there was no more. Anyway, he went upstairs and tried to get into her bedroom. She always kept it locked, none of us were allowed in there, it was her private space. There was a scuffle on the landing and he hit mother, he wanted the key to her room, convinced she had cash hidden in there. I tried to pull him off her, but he pushed me to the ground, he was dragging mother along the landing by her arm, she was screaming and screaming. Stella was there too, she just curled herself up into a ball in the corner, she always did when he got started. Anyway, I don’t really remember how it all happened but Delia appeared out of nowhere, I didn’t even know she was in the house. She had the iron in her hand, must have picked it up from downstairs, I think Stella had been ironing a shirt for him. That’s what he wanted money for, he wanted to go out. Anyway, she hit him, hard, over the back of the head. He fell on the floor. I remember getting up and going over to him, he was out cold. I felt for a pulse, I couldn’t find one. I thought he was dead’. Ratcliffe interrupted, �Śare you telling us that Delia Jones killed Roy Baxter?’ it was hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. �ŚPlease, I haven’t finished’. She said impatiently, eyes still closed, still picturing the scene. �ŚHe lay on the floor not moving. She stood there with the iron in her hand. Mother was hysterical, I was terrified. It had been bad enough when Patsy had died, now there was another body. I didn’t think any of us could face all that again. Mother kept saying, �Śget rid of him, get rid of him’ so we did. Delia and I dragged him downstairs. We rolled him onto an old blanket and carried him on that. I thought we were going to bury him, or put him in the boot of his car and dump it somewhere, but Delia said no, there was too much risk he would be found. She told me how long it would take to dig a grave, how hard it would be. I had no idea, I had never disposed of a corpse before. Mother had the idea of using the trunk. Delia and I dragged him out there, and lifted him in. I can remember how heavy he was, a dead weight. Oh my god, I remember now!’ she gasped and put her hand over her mouth, �ŚDelia had gone outside, I was on my own, trying to force his arms into the trunk, but they were stiff, it was really hard. He woke up! He grabbed my wrist. I screamed. I thought he was dead. But he grabbed me. I think I must have passed out. I vaguely remember Delia with a shovel in her hands. I think she must have hit him again. Anyway, I went inside, made a cup of tea.’ She gave a slight laugh at the incongruity of this part of the memory. �ŚDelia and mother covered him in salt. Rock salt, the kind used for gritting roads. God knows why but he’d bought tons of the stuff, had it stored in one of the sheds. I think it must have been one of his dodgy deals. Mother seemed to think it would stop him rotting, stop him causing a smell. Like curing bacon she said, which was what you did with dead pigs.’ �ŚWhat happened then?’ Ratcliffe asked. �ŚWe drank tea. Agreed that we would say he’d left. Stella packed his clothes and his things; we put it in the car. Delia drove it somewhere, got rid of it. I don’t know where. I didn’t care. That’s what we told Rachel, that he’d just left. She was the only person who ever asked where he’d gone. The next time I saw him was when we cleared the house.’ �ŚBut you knew the body was there, you knew he would be found.’ �ŚYes. Of course I knew.’ �ŚWhy didn’t you report his murder to the police at the time?’ This was from DS Haddon. �ŚIt wasn’t an option’. �ŚWhy not?’ he demanded. �ŚMother would never have allowed it. Besides we were all involved, all implicated. We all played a part in it.’ �ŚBut it was Delia Jones who struck the blow, only she killed him.’ Ratcliffe stated. �ŚDelia Jones had struck many blows. She had my mother in the palm of her hand, Stella was more terrified of her than she was of Roy. None of us argued with Delia, not if we knew what was good for us.’ �ŚI don’t understand, she was your cleaner.’ Haddon said, glancing down at the file in his hand. �ŚThat’s what people were told, that’s what we allowed them to believe. But Delia was never a cleaner. Not for us anyway. Mother called her �śmy nemesis”. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know, but she had some hold over her, over all of us. She knew all our secrets, all our weaknesses. She made threats to expose things, things that would hurt us.’ �ŚLike what?’ Ratcliffe asked, he was curious now, he still didn’t believe a word of it, but he was curious. �ŚI don’t know what Stella told you when she was here, but it doesn’t matter now, it’s not going to hurt her or mother. Her father used to rape her. We all knew, but no one did anything. Mother despised him by then, and so did I. Not that I understood what was happening at the time, I just thought he preferred her to me. You know that Rachel is their daughter I suppose?’ �ŚYes, that has been confirmed.’ Ratcliffe said. �ŚWell Delia knew too, she and mother delivered Rachel. I can remember sitting on the attic stairs, listening to Stella scream. Rachel didn’t cry when she was born and it’s my fault she lived. They didn’t know I was there. I saw Delia come out of the room with mother. She had a bag, an old shopping bag, one of those with the zip across. She put it on the floor on the landing. Father was still there then, he was shouting downstairs, he was drunk. They went down. When they had gone, I crept down the stairs and looked in the bag. There was a towel inside, it was moving. Just slightly, but it was moving. I opened it up and saw a baby there. I hadn’t even known Stella was pregnant, I just thought she was getting fat. I was only fourteen. I picked it up, the baby, I was fascinated. I could hear Stella crying in her room, so I went in. She was crying for the baby so I gave it to her. She told me they had tried to kill it. Delia had held the towel over its mouth when it was born, and had put it in the bag. Mother had told her to get rid of it. Stella told me to lock the door, so I did. We locked them out. I asked Stella where it had come from. She told me about her and father. I didn’t know much at the time, but I knew that was wrong. I can’t really remember how it all came about, but Mother threw father out that night, I think he went to the flat above the shop for a while. She agreed to let Stella keep the baby, but only if we all pretended it was hers. Delia had to agree because Stella and I both said we would go to the police if anything happened to it. So that was Rachel. I’ve often wondered if that was the cause of her epilepsy, what Delia did to her when she was born. Anyway, we all had something on each other then. Delia had something on mother, we had something on her. We were all tied together in a great big mess. By the time Roy got killed, it was a way of life.’ �ŚWhat did Delia want from your mother?’ �ŚMoney. It’s what everyone wanted, her, Roy, Patsy. They all did. It was why we never had any. Too many hands in the pot.’ �ŚWhat did Patsy Jones have to do with it?’ Haddon wanted to know, he was still playing catch up from the file. �ŚShe found out about Rachel’s parentage. She and Roy were going to run off together, she was convinced there must be money to be had somewhere. Roy hadn’t managed to bully it out of us, so she did some rooting, put two and two together and came up with four. She tried to blackmail mother. Mother just laughed at her, so she tried Stella, threatened to have Rachel taken into care. Stella had pretty much lost the plot by then. Rachel was the only thing she lived for. She panicked; it was Stella who killed Patsy. She got a kitchen knife and stabbed her, left her in the hallway, then went to pick Rachel up from school as if it never happened. Of course, Charlie found her there, and he was charged with killing her. But it wasn’t him.’ �ŚYou knew this and you let an innocent man go to prison?’ Haddon asked. �ŚShe was family; he was the son of a woman who had dominated us for years. He was nothing, Patsy was nothing. What would you have done?’ She said it so calmly, as if it were a matter of fact, it stood to reason, that for a fraction of a second Ratcliffe felt himself inclined to see her point. �ŚDid you witness Stella kill Patsy?’ �ŚNo, but I knew she had. She was the only one in the house; everyone else was out. She did tell me though, later. I knew it wasn’t Charlie, I saw him walk into the house just before Stella and Rachel did’. It was as if she was describing an average, normal event, like the dustbin being collected on a Monday. �ŚSo did you keep your mouth shut to get some kind of vicarious revenge on Delia Jones?’ Ratcliffe asked. �ŚMaybe, I don’t know. It just seemed simpler to allow things to take the course they did.’ Ratcliffe was having trouble getting his head round just how fucked up this family was. Haddon was flicking through the file like a mad thing, trying to bring himself up to speed with all the characters in this mad play. �ŚWhat about the other body. The child. What can you tell us about that?’ Haddon asked. Frances looked thoughtful. �ŚI’ve been thinking about that a lot. I honestly didn’t know anything about it, but I think it must be down to mother. She had a miscarriage, or that’ what I was told. I was quite young when it happened, it wasn’t that long after she married father. I do remember her being quite big. I wonder now if maybe it wasn’t a miscarriage but a stillbirth. She desperately wanted a son. She even called Rachel Daniel all the time. I don’t think she ever really got over the miscarriage, it was when things really started to go down- hill. When Delia arrived. Yes, I think it was around that time. In fact, I think it was Delia who helped her through it. I think he was still born and she kept him. It was after that we were never allowed in her room. She would spend hours up there, every day.’ Ratcliffe had a macabre image in his head that he just couldn’t shake off. �ŚSo you didn’t know about the existence of the other body?’ �ŚNot until my husband informed me no. Where is my husband anyway?’ Ratcliffe looked away, didn’t speak. �ŚHe’s left me hasn’t he? I thought he might.’ She said with unreasonable resignation. �ŚHe never did like a mess.’ Ratcliffe leaned forward. �ŚYou’ve told us quite a story Frances. There’s only one problem, there is no one who can corroborate it.’ �ŚOh yes, my mother can.’ �ŚYour mother is dead Mrs Haines’. Haddon said coldly. �ŚYes, I realise that. But she kept a diary. I didn’t find it in the house, so it must have been with the other body. It’s all in there.’ If there hadn’t been a tape running, Ratcliffe would have sworn. He would have uttered the worst, most profane words in his vocabulary. �ŚA diary’. Was all he said. �ŚYes, it’s red, with a little lock.’ �ŚSo we’re looking for a red diary in a house that’s just burned down?’ He added. Frances shrugged. �ŚShe will have left it with the other body’. Ratcliffe knew for a fact that there had been no diary with that body, just like he knew there had been no ring on Roy Baxter’s finger. He had stuck his neck out to listen to a fairytale. �ŚSo what do you think happened to Stella? And who do you think burned down The Limes?’ he asked, unable to hide the weariness in his voice. �ŚDelia Jones of course. It’s why I asked you to place someone with Rachel. She’s not safe. Now that Roy’s body has been found none of us are safe. She killed Stella, she burned down the house to hide any other evidence. And she’s out to get Rachel. She knows we’ll talk. None of us has anything to lose’. �ŚBut Rachel doesn’t know any of this, why would she be at risk?’ Or was there something Rachel hadn’t told them, Ratcliffe wondered. �ŚNo, she doesn’t know anything. But she is back on the scene, with Charlie. Delia won’t allow that. Rachel is a threat.’ Ratcliffe suspended the interview there. He had heard enough. If he had been allowed to, he would have thrown both tapes in the bin there and then. Back in the office, he apologised to Haddon. �ŚS’alright Guv. Quite entertaining really. I’ve always wanted to be in on a case where the butler did it. It was a bit like Cluedo in there, housekeeper, on the landing, with the iron.’ He laughed. Ratcliffe sighed, and rubbed his hands over his face. �ŚAaaagh! This bloody case is driving me mad! I’ve just spent god knows how long listening to a complete fairy tale in there!’ �ŚDon’t worry about it, I’ve read the file. You have enough forensic evidence to see her away for life; she can say what she likes. She’s got no brief, she’s off her rocker, and she doesn’t stand a chance in court.’ Haddon said reassuringly. �ŚYeah, but I still have to find a suspect for the fire and Stella Baxter’s murder.’ �ŚAnd you think it’s a little old lady? According to this Delia Jones is 77 years old.’ Haddon said handing Ratcliffe the file. �ŚAnd Harold Shipman was a GP’ Ratcliffe said quietly, fishing his phone out of his pocket to phone Angela and let her off the hook. He figured he’d better start looking for alternative accommodation pretty soon, because she was going to be really pissed off with him after this. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Charlie let Amy and Diana have first dibs on the bathroom, by the time he had had his turn Amy had disappeared into her room to sleep off the long night, and Diana was tidying his kitchen. �ŚFeel better?’ she asked, handing him a cup of tea. �ŚYou look better.’ Physically he felt cleaner, he had had better days with his body, which was shot with accumulated exhaustion. Mentally he felt like he had been abducted by aliens and dropped into some surreal parallel universe. �ŚYou should get some sleep.’ Diana said. �ŚI should do a lot of things.’ He wandered through to the lounge and sat down on the sofa, easing his aching limbs into its softness, and groaned. �ŚI should go back soon, see if there’s any progress.’ �ŚYou should get some rest, or you’ll be no good to man nor beast! They’ll phone if there’s any change.’ Diana told him. There was no doubt in her mind that Rachel would recover, there was every concern in her mind about what would happen next. It seemed impossible that Rachel could stay on with Charlie and Amy, resume a life that had barely started, yet it was equally difficult to imagine that she could just go back to London and carry on the life, no, existence, that she had there. Whatever line had been drawn in the past had been overstepped now. There was no going back either way. Diana’s concern was whether any of them were ready for what might come next. �ŚWhat happens when she gets better, what’s next?’ �ŚIf she gets better.’ Charlie said with a degree of resignation that surprised Diana. �ŚYou don’t think she will?’ �ŚI don’t think she wants to. Why would she?’ �ŚFor Amy, if nothing else. Maybe even for you’. Charlie shook his head. �ŚI don’t know, I can’t think about it. I thought things might change when she knew the truth, but I just can’t picture a resolution, I can’t see a happy ending. None of us are in control of this anymore; it’s like watching a train crash in slow motion. More and more crap keeps happening, things coming back to haunt us, to haunt her. It’s not done yet. There will be more. How can she find a way out of it, even if she does get better?’ His voice had risen with every sentence, illustrating the escalation of events that had left him feeling utterly hopeless. �ŚPlease don’t tell me that time heals, and that love conquers all. I’m sure those things are true, but not for us. Time keeps throwing up more and more crap. Time is closing the gaps between events, not widening them. As for love, we might feel it, I feel it, but none of us know how to do it, not one of us knows how to conduct ourselves as loving people. Look at us, we haven’t got a clue!’ Diana couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was right, every time one of them tried to express love and care, it backfired. Their interpretation of the thing was all wrong. They were so busy trying to protect everyone else, save everyone else and sacrifice themselves that they just ended up hurting each other in the worst possible ways. Lies, secrets, death, chaos. Diana was a great believer in the concept that charity began at home. Her interpretation was that one had to take care of oneself first in order to help others. None of these people knew how to be kind to themselves, consequently they were cruel to each other. Charlie was right; none of them had a clue. Even Amy, the most stable of the lot had grown up with the lie of her mother’s death. An untruth formed to protect her by the people who claimed to love her. If that were her example, how would she manage the next steps? On the train journey they had shared, Amy had explained that she was training to be a psychiatric nurse so that she might understand what made people tick, learn to see what they needed in order to be well again. She was looking for a tool kit, one that should have been provided by her family. But they had never had it to pass on. With this in mind, she patted Charlie on the shoulder, �ŚLet’s just concentrate on Rachel getting better for the time being’. It was all she had. Charlie gave her a weak smile, and drank his tea. His jaw ached where he’d been gritting it for so long. All he wanted to do was get in his van and drive, anywhere, somewhere, as long as it wasn’t here. Knowing that Rachel was in London, that she had left of her own accord, that she didn’t want him, had been far more bearable than this. Now the damage had been done and he only had two options, watch her die in that hospital bed, or watch her live and struggle on. He wasn’t sure which would be more painful, but he did know which would hurt for the longest. Instinct demanded that he find someone to blame, and his mind erred toward his mother. She was so certain that she was doing the right thing, always had been. He supposed it was because she’d had a tough life, had had to survive the hard way. She was a hard woman, she had corners and you knew all about it if you ran into one of them. He couldn’t remember his father, had never known him, but there were early memories of his mother, indistinct, fleeting, that suggested a softer woman than the one he knew. Memories of a time when she even looked different, when she had laughed sometimes, smelled nice, felt soft. He couldn’t picture her back then, but he knew she was nothing like the tough, determined, single-minded woman he’d grown up with. Delia Jones didn’t believe in harping on about the past, you just put it behind you and carried on. You didn’t talk about it, you didn’t dwell on it, you just kept moving forward. No, he couldn’t blame her, she had done her best. She’d put up with Valerie Porter for years just to put food on the table, she had been loyal to that woman through thick and thin. Surely, that had to count for something, for some strength of character to be admired. He wished he had inherited her fortitude, however misguided it might have been. That way he might have been able to put the blame at her door, and let himself off the hook. He should have taken her advice all those years ago and kept well away from Rachel, kept well away from all of them. That was the only thing he could blame his mother for, binding their lives too closely with the Porters. The rest had been his fault. All his. Diana was right. Perhaps they should just focus on whether or not Rachel would pull through. Move forward, don’t dwell, he told himself. Delia Jones however was busy breaking her own code. It wasn’t so much that she was dwelling on the past; it was more that the past, was dwelling in her head. Normally things just unfolded in a logical orderly manner. All her actions were dictated by events as they unfolded, she carried them out and moved on. But something had changed, things had started to unravel, the past and the future were colliding unpleasantly in her mind, creating disorder and confusion. It felt like as soon as one disaster was cleared up, another was about to happen. Given that everything she had ever done had been so carefully planned, she couldn’t understand what was going wrong. Obviously when Valerie died, someone would find Roy in the shed, she had planned for that. France’s hair and an earring were in his hand, they had been there for a long time. If that failed, if the evidence had been destroyed by time, she had made sure that the blame would fall on Stella. It had been a lot of hard work over the years to make Stella pay for her part in things; it had taken time and patience to derail her sanity to the extent where no one would give her credibility. It had been a slow drip method, but it had worked. The woman was as mad as a box of frogs. But for some reason, and Delia couldn’t fathom why, it had gone wrong, Stella had fought back. Delia had been surprised that the police had let Stella go so quickly. What she hadn’t anticipated was that Stella would go back to the house, that she would scrawl all over the walls and tell everyone everything. It had only been chance that Delia had found her there at all. She had gone to The Limes to look for Valerie’s diary. It had been obvious that Frances had already looked, and had probably burned it, but Delia needed to be sure. With Frances banging her head and ending up in hospital, she hadn’t had chance to check whether it had been found and destroyed. When she got to the house, Stella was there, scribbling over the walls like some demented child doing lines on a blackboard. It had been a split second decision to kill her, and a split second more to make the decision to burn the house down. If the book was there, it would go up with the house, and with a bit of luck Stella would go with it. Frances had used petrol to light the bonfire, there had been plenty left in the shed, plus turpentine, and meths, old newspapers, and rags. Delia had used the lot, spreading them all round the house to make sure it all burned well. Then she had gone to the flat, hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t been thorough, hadn’t taken a key, had panicked and tried to do the job too quickly. Not that it mattered, nothing in the flat would point back, but it would have been better if it looked like Stella had done it. It had all happened in the wrong order. That was the problem when you were under stress. Delia didn’t do stress, didn’t make split second decisions, never had, but something had gone wrong. She had been thinking about it for days, trying to track things back to the point where it had all started to fall apart. Everything linked to Rachel coming back. If she hadn’t come back, if Charlie hadn’t seen her, if Amy hadn’t found out, everything would have panned out fine. Delia didn’t do panic, didn’t react wrong, but she had that night, when she’d seen the loss of Charlie and Amy because of Rachel. Her talent for thinking on her feet had lapsed, she had told Charlie the truth, or a version of the truth, and she couldn’t believe she had laid herself open like that. Everything had collapsed so fast, and the words were out of her mouth before she realised. Stupidly she had sent him running! Only after he had gone had she realised that Rachel might tell a different story, might tell him that it was Delia who had told her he was her father, not Valerie. This was the problem when lies strayed too far from the truth. She had to tell Rachel that Frances was her mother for two reasons. First Rachel would never have believed Charlie would sleep with Stella, and second Rachel and Frances hated each other, they weren’t likely to talk. Rachel had already turned her back on Valerie and Frances; she might not have felt so strongly if she’d known that Stella was her real mother. But that hadn’t been the point, her mind was mixing it up again, getting confused. Rachel had been about to take Charlie and the baby away, move them to London, away from home, away from Delia. That couldn’t happen. Rachel had to go. It was easy to kill people who wouldn’t be missed, like Roy, like Barrington, like Molly Kerr. Rachel would have been missed, there would have been trouble. It had been a risk, but it had paid off. A calculated gamble that Rachel, meek and pathetic, wouldn’t question what she was being told. A low self-esteem was a powerful thing in Delia’s experience. A useful tool when you wanted to convince a girl she only had a ring on her finger because a man felt guilty about an unplanned baby. The more she went over it the less sense it made. Everything was disjointed. She couldn’t remember the logic of it all anymore. It used to fit. Everything had fitted perfectly, now it didn’t. Pieces were missing, things had gone wrong. If Rachel hadn’t come back, if Rachel had done the sensible thing and topped herself like anyone else would in her shoes. In sheer anger and frustration, she swept her arm across the mantle and sent its contents flying. Charlie tapped softly on Amy’s door and waited for her to tell him to come in. Despite a few hours of sleep she still looked tired, dark circles shaded her eyes, �ŚWe’re going back to the hospital, do you want to come?’ He asked. She shook her head, �ŚNo thanks, I’ll come later. I thought I would call in and see Nan, she must be wondering what the hell is going on.’ �ŚOK, I’ll ring you if anything happens. Take it easy though, you look rough.’ As usual, he meant well, but it had come out wrong. �ŚThanks Dad! If anyone else had said that, they’d have got a smack in the mouth. I’ll see you later.’ She said, glancing at her face in the mirror, he was right, she did look rough. She looked like her mother. The tiredness of the past few days had been so great, that when she got out of the shower, she hadn’t bothered to dry her hair, had just wrapped herself in a towel and dropped like a stone onto the bed, she hadn’t woken until Charlie knocked on the door. Her hair had dried wavy, just like Rachel’s. If they were to stand next to each other like this, natural, no make- up, they could have been sisters. Weird, Amy thought. Angela tried Ratcliffe’s number yet again, still no answer. The stupid git had switched his phone off! She left yet another message and ended the call with a sigh. How was she supposed to help solve this thing if she was stuck at a hospital minding an unconscious woman! And, for that matter, why exactly was she minding Rachel? Clearly Ratcliffe knew something she didn’t, and the fact that he was pushing her out of the loop was making her really, really angry. Frustrated, she returned to the ward and resumed her vigil by Rachel’s bed, and watched the hypnotic movement of the respirator as it forced oxygen in and out of the woman’s failing lungs. �ŚWhat’s so special about you then, that you deserve a babysitter, eh?’ she asked the inanimate woman quietly. �ŚKnow something you haven’t told us, is that it?’ All she got in response was the dull thunk of the machine. Angela knew she shouldn’t be there, she should be following up on the information Edie and her mother had given her, working out the links between Delia Jones and Valerie Porter. More to the point, working out the link between Delia and Charlie. If what Edie had told her was true, there was no way that Charlie could be Delia’s son, so who was he and how did he fit into the picture? Decisively she stood, sod this, there was no way she was hanging around in a hospital for nothing. Ratcliffe could bawl her out later if he wanted, besides, there were plenty of staff in the ICU, so it was hardly likely that anything would happen to Rachel anytime soon. Angela decided that it was worth the risk, and left. To her relief, as soon as she switched her phone on, there was a message from Ratcliffe telling her she was free to leave. She headed back to the station only to find that Ratcliffe had buggered off to get his car sorted and had left Haddon to fill her in on the interview with Frances. Angela sat at her desk and mulled over what she had just been told, yes it sounded like a complete fantasy, clearly designed to divert attention away from Frances. But Angela already had suspicions about Delia, and decided a little more checking wouldn’t go amiss. She fired up her computer, found the screen she needed and typed in the name Barrington Jones. �ŚWhat’s so special about you?’ Rachel heard the question, but couldn’t for the life of her work out where it was coming from. She seemed to be in a waiting room, dressed in a hospital gown. There was some reason she was there, but she couldn’t remember it. Though the room she was in was bare to the point of starkness, it was strangely peaceful, and she felt, if she really wanted to, that she could just go to sleep there and be peaceful forever. It sounded so nice, so tempting. Somewhere outside the room, there was noise and activity, but she didn’t really need to worry about it, it didn’t have anything to do with her, she was just waiting. However, the question that had floated through the air bothered her. There was nothing special about her, nothing at all. No point to her existence in fact. But she guessed whoever had asked the question already knew that, was being rhetorical. What was it she was waiting for? Amy reached her grandmother’s house and was surprised to find that she couldn’t get in. Strange that Delia hadn’t mentioned that she was going out, nevertheless with a confident shrug she lifted up the garden gnome that hid the spare key and let herself in. The kitchen was a mess, the crockery from breakfast still languishing on the table, the fridge wide open, the milk on its side slowly dripping onto the floor. Someone had ripped open a box of teabags and had just let them spill all over the floor and loose sugar glittered the worktops like early morning frost. Amy had never seen Delia’s house in such a state, and it made her panic. �ŚNan!’ She called, running through to the next room expecting to find her grandmother collapsed somewhere with a broken hip or something. The mess in the lounge was even worse than the kitchen. Broken china and glass lay everywhere, like someone had taken a baseball bat to all the ornaments and swept them from their shelves in a fit of violence. Drawers lay open, the contents spilling on the floor, and the cushions on the sofa had been slashed, their foamy innards disgorged. Adrenaline coursed through Amy’s body and she surged through the rest of the house, convinced that she would find Delia beaten and bloody somewhere. The house was empty, Delia nowhere to be found amongst the ravaged rooms. Frantic with fear, Amy dialled 999, sure that the house had been burgled. Nan would go ape shit, all her things were trashed. God knows how Amy would tell her. She waited, agitated while she was put through to the incident room. The calm female voice on the end of the phone wanted to know if anything had been taken. It was such a mess that Amy found it hard to tell. However, the obvious things were still there, the TV was present, though it had been tipped over, and Delia’s jewellery was scattered all over the bedroom. It didn’t look like anything had been stolen at all. Just wrecked. The woman wanted to know if there were any signs of forced entry, but Amy had had to use a key to get in and all the windows were shut and unbroken. She was advised to go and sit with a neighbour until the police turned up, but she didn’t fancy tea and questions from anyone just then. She just wanted to find Delia and call her dad. Charlie’s phone cut straight to the answer service, meaning he was at the hospital and had switched it off. When she tried Delia’s phone she heard it ringing from somewhere under the debris in the sitting room. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to sit down and cry, she had no idea what on earth she should do. Feeling frightened and alone she perched herself on the edge of a shredded armchair, clutching her phone and praying that Charlie would ring. The policewoman had told her not to touch anything in the house, but it was difficult to just sit amidst the chaos and simply wait. Who on earth would do this to an old lady’s home? She asked herself, biting back the tears that threatened to engulf her. Everything that represented Delia was gone, smashed and ruined. A whole life trashed in the blink of an eye. It felt like a whirlwind had whipped through the house and turned it upside down. Everyone knew that Delia loved junk, but to see it all shattered like this, just made it look all the more ridiculous and tawdry. Headless kittens, limbless glass clowns, an eye here, a tail there, photographs torn apart in frenzy. China dolls, grotesquely disfigured by the destruction, their faces chipped and cracked, their dresses torn. In fact, now that it was all broken, it looked to Amy almost sinister. Instinctively she got up and picked her way back through the mess to the kitchen, where she decided to wait for the police outside. The gnome that hid the key grinned up at her with big Disney eyes, it made her shudder so she kicked it, figuring one more broken thing wouldn’t make much difference today. Just as Edie’s mother had said, Barrington Jones had been a pimp. Well known to the police and wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of Molly Kerr and her son. Molly had been working for him, and had been reported missing by one of the other girls. No trace of her or the child had ever been found, and when they had finally caught up with Barrington he was beyond giving any account of himself. He was found in an alley, his body bloated with drugs and his skull caved in. Technically the case was still open, but no one bothered too much about pimps and whores, especially back then. The loss of Barrington Jones had been a good thing for the town, and one less whore and her kid was no great loss to anyone. Angela found no record of him ever marrying Delia, or of her ever marrying anyone for that matter. It seemed she had just taken his name. It also seemed like she just melted away for a year afterwards too. Just like the other women who had worked with Jones. The next time Delia popped up was a year after, with a three-year-old child in tow. The people she had associated with back then had loose morals, loose tongues and unfortunately loose memories too. No one had cared that Delia had acquired a child of three; the only thing that had mattered to Delia’s old associates was where their next drink was coming from. Besides, Delia had become respectable, so what was she to them anymore? Angela had found most of this out from a retired officer who had worked the case. She had tracked him down to his allotment and had shared a cup of tea with him in his potting shed while they talked over old times. He had been clearly amused by her interest in a case that only had cursory attention at the time. His attitude had been that sometimes it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. She had asked him what he had thought of Delia back then. He had laughed and referred to her as a hard faced cow. Delia’s career on the game had been brief, and she hadn’t caused them too much trouble as he recalled. Somehow, the picture didn’t tally with the cuddly granny image belied by Delia now. Angela had asked him if they had ever considered that Charlie Jones might be the son of Molly Kerr, he’d shrugged, mulled it over and asked her if it really mattered anymore. Angela had thanked him for his time and made her exit. Deciding that it mattered a great deal. She got back to the station just in time to find Ratcliffe extracting himself from an extremely small courtesy car, �ŚDon’t you dare laugh Watson!’ he huffed as she approached him. �ŚWouldn’t dream of it sir. Want to know what I’ve been doing while you’ve been playing in your Noddy car?’ While she was filling him in on her days work, a memo was put on his desk, informing them that Delia’s house had been the target of an apparent burglary. A computer programme had flagged up the name and address, linking it to their case. A conversation with the uniformed officers who had attended told them that nothing had been taken and that there were no signs of forced entry to the property. �ŚWhat the hell?’ Ratcliffe asked as he put down the phone. �ŚAre we really considering that a 77 year old woman is a serial killer who is still active?’ he asked Angela, sincerely hoping, but without conviction, that she was going to firmly disabuse him of the notion. Angela nodded slowly and watched him sigh heavily and hold his head in his hands. �ŚI don’t effing believe this’. He said through his fingers. �ŚSo where the hell is she now? According to uniform she hasn’t been back to the house all day.’ Angela shrugged, and then realisation dawned �ŚWhy exactly did you make me stay at the hospital earlier boss?’ Ratcliffe waved his hand dismissively, �ŚSome stupid deal I had with Frances Haines to get her to talk, a precaution really, she was convinced Rachel was at risk because of what happened to Stella...’ His words trailed off and he shot out of his chair. �ŚShit, she was telling the truth!’ he yelled. Angela was already walking towards the door. Charlie had left Diana in the hospital canteen, claiming that he needed some fresh air and to stretch his legs. Besides he needed to put another ticket on the van, which reminded him that he’d thrown the London parking ticket into the foot well, he ought to retrieve it and sort it out before the fine escalated. Anything to distract him from the oppression that he felt sitting next to Rachel’s bed, feeling like he was waiting for her to die. It had been a long time since he had wanted to cry. The last time had been the day after she had left, when the shock and anger had subsided and the total rejection had set in. Now she was threatening to leave them again and he just didn’t think he could take it. Not that he would blame her if she just gave up the fight. Perhaps all this was just irretrievable. Wearily he bent down to rummage in the van, groping under the seat for the screwed up ticket. His hand found something hard, it felt like a book. Confused he pulled it out, sure that it didn’t belong to him. It looked like a diary, an old one, the binding worn, the small brass catch that held it shut scuffed and tarnished. He vaguely remembered seeing it in Rachel’s bag at the hotel. He figured that she must have dropped it in the van when he took her back to London. Dare he look inside, find out what she had written over the years they’d been apart, or was he better off not knowing? He weighed it in his hand, it smelled musty. He tossed it back onto the seat. He would give it to her later, if she ever woke up. He figured he had better check his phone whilst he was out of the hospital, god knows how much work he had lost in the last few days because of all this. The number of missed calls from Amy told him that something was badly wrong. What else was life going to chuck at them, hadn’t they had enough. The message service connected him to Amy’s panicked voice, telling him that his mother was missing and that someone had trashed her house. Immediately he rang Amy’s number. She answered on the second ring. �ŚDad! Did you get my messages? We can’t find Nan, I don’t know where she’s gone and the house is a mess. The police have just left me here and I don’t know what to do!’ She sobbed. �ŚWait there, I’m on my way.’ He said, ramming his keys into the vans ignition before he had even ended the call. By the time he pulled up outside his mother’s house, the police were back. Lots of them. Amy was outside sobbing her heart out, being comforted by a WPC who was plying her with tissues. Another was keeping the neighbours back. People in white paper suits were walking in and out of the house with what looked like evidence bags. �ŚAmy! What the hell is going on?’ he shouted, half pushing the policewoman out of the way to get to her. �ŚDad, thank god. They came back just as I was waiting for you, but no one will tell me what’s happening. Something bad has happened to Nan hasn’t it?’ she sobbed clutching at him. Someone waved a warrant card in front of his face, �ŚDC Haddon. Would you mind coming with me Mr Jones? We have some questions’. �ŚOh my god, you can’t arrest my dad!’ Amy shrieked hysterically, throwing herself in front of Charlie. Haddon smiled, �ŚI’m not arresting anyone, but I do need to ask some questions. All we are going to do is sit in the car and talk for a minute. OK?’ Charlie didn’t cope well in such situations, being forced to sit in the back of a police car, even without handcuffs was stressful. In his experience, cops rarely listened to reason and in these situations acted like hounds with the scent of blood in their noses. Haddon slid into the front seat and turned to him with a smile that Charlie assumed was meant to be reassuring. It wasn’t, it just made him want to punch the smug bastard. �ŚDo you know the whereabouts of your mother Mr Jones?’ Haddon asked. �ŚWhy?’ �ŚI’m not able to tell you that at this point, but we do need to know where we can find her. It’s extremely important’. Charlie wanted to mull it over, wanted a chance to work out what might be happening here, but he knew that the more he stalled the worse it would look. �ŚShe’s at the hospital, visiting my wife. Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?’ �ŚJust a moment sir.’ Haddon said, climbing out of the car and moving swiftly towards a colleague, who nodded at him and pulled out his radio. Charlie strained to listen but couldn’t hear anything. Haddon brought Amy over to the car, �ŚPlease wait here with your father miss. I’ll be back shortly to let you know what’s happening’. Bemused, Amy sat next to her father in the police car and stared out at the scene. CHAPTER NINETEEN Rachel awoke abruptly; still in the waiting room but aware that she was no longer alone. A familiar figure stood over her �ŚDelia? What are you doing here?’ She asked, puzzled. Delia wasn’t smiling. �ŚIt’s time that you were gone.’ She said, but her voice seemed distant. �ŚWhere am I going to go?’ Rachel asked, still sleepy, still bleary, still not with it. �ŚTime you went where you belong lady.’ Rachel felt confused, �ŚWhat do you mean?’ �ŚYou just won’t give in will you, after everything you just keep bouncing back like a bad penny. I should have done this, years ago.’ �ŚDone what? What’s wrong Delia?’ In one brief flash, the waiting room was gone and Rachel felt herself being sucked into darkness, darkness so thick, so tangible that it felt like black velvet, folding itself about her and choking out everything. In sheer panic, she fought against it, tearing at it, pushing it away from her, struggling to breathe. She was drowning in nothingness. In all her tears of nursing on the ICU nurse Jane Bucknall had never been confronted by the act of an elderly woman ripping out a patients breathing tube and then holding a pillow over the patients face. In utter shock, for just a moment, she found herself absently observing the event. Until a tall woman swept into the room and launched herself across the ward, blatantly bashing the old woman across the head with a chair. Then all hell broke loose. DC Haddon and his colleagues had patiently sifted through the debris in Delia’s house, and had come up with absolutely nothing other than the receipt of a salutary lesson in the dangers of ordering goods from Sunday supplement magazines. The general consensus was that Delia had trashed the place herself, but only god knew why. Frustrated, he wandered out onto the street, stood next to Charlie’s van and rummaged in his pockets for cigarettes, managing to drop his lighter in the process. As he bent to retrieve it, something on the seat of the van caught his eye. Something that looked suspiciously like an old red diary, with a little lock. To Diana’s surprise, the chair just bounced off the old woman, who then immediately turned round and aimed a surprisingly powerful punch to the centre of Diana’s face. The impact sent her reeling and a starburst of pain flooded her head. It took three nurses, two of them male, to bring Delia Jones down. This was how Ratcliffe and Angela found her, pinned to the floor face down under the weight of a six-foot charge nurse. CHAPTER TWENTY Amy opened the wardrobe and ran her hand across the satins, silks, and furs. �ŚMy god dad, have you seen this? This place is like vintage heaven! These clothes must be worth a fortune. The fur is a bit dodgy though.’ Charlie sighed and threw her another black sack, �ŚWhatever Amy, can we just get this place sorted out?’ The activity of clearing out Rachel’s flat had been profoundly depressing. It was like archiving the contents of a museum. All except Rachel’s room, which had been as Spartan as a nun’s cell and all the more saddening because of it. He would be glad when they were done and he had could close the door on the place. Let the next tenant deal with the ghosts. It was a shame you couldn’t put all aspects of the past in a bin bag and take it to the tip where it would be out of sight and out of mind. He sat on the bare mattress and watched his daughter shove Chanel suits and Dior dresses into the black plastic sack, and suddenly felt very old and very tired. Amy glanced at him and paused what she was doing. �ŚDad, you OK?’ He shook his head, �ŚJust tired, that’s all.’ She tied the sack, �Śwe should have got a house clearance firm in to do this really.’ �ŚNo. I wanted to do it; I wanted to be the one who shut the door on it once and for all. Closure as you so charmingly put it.’ He explained with a weak smile. �ŚSpeaking of closure, have you thought anymore about what I said, about some kind of service, a memorial or something?’ He shook his head, �ŚI can’t face it, too public. You wouldn’t get people who genuinely wanted to pay their respects, just a bunch of voyeurs who want to pick over the past and speculate. There has been enough of that already.’ She sat down next to him, �ŚI know, people are pretty sick really. All they want is the gory details. But we need to mark it somehow.’ �ŚI’m going to arrange a burial, and Diana is going to give a service, nothing religious just a few words. And only us. I don’t want anyone else there.’ She nodded in agreement and laid her head on his shoulder. �ŚWhen will they release the body?’ �ŚI don’t know, soon I think, once they’ve got all the evidence they need I suppose. Angela Watson said she would ring and let us know. Anyway, can we change the subject now? We’ve still got a lot to do.’ He said slapping his hands on his knees and rising wearily from the bed. �ŚFair play, the charity shop is going to be chuffed to bits with this lot.’ �ŚAre you absolutely sure this is the right thing to do, us to just get rid of all this? She hung on to it all for so long. It seems a bit odd just bagging it all up and dumping it’ �ŚDidn’t do her any good did it? Just anchored her to misery as I see it. Let’s just get it over with shall we?’ Amy just shook her head, shrugged and opened up another bag. Charlie picked up two full bags and heaved them out of the flat and down the stairs to the van. As he opened the back doors, he noticed the curtains of the ground floor flat twitch and the face of a small bichon frise appear. That meant that Miss Barnes- Harman was watching his every move. Despite everything that had happened, she still looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate. As if, elderly women were a benign force for god’s sake! For good measure, he gave her a polite wave. Amy came down the steps carrying another bag, �ŚDi just rang. We need to go home. Ratcliffe has just rung up and he wants to talk to us, about...Gran. He’s coming round tomorrow morning’ She said the word Gran hesitantly, still worried about how he might react to it, still unable to find a better descriptor for the woman who had pretended to be his mother. Ratcliffe perched awkwardly on the edge of Charlie’s sofa and accepted a cup of tea from Diana. �ŚTa. I’m dying for this.’ He said gratefully, always a welcome prop, tea. �ŚYou’re welcome.’ Diana replied �ŚSo now that we’re all here, and we’ve all got tea you can tell us the news.’ Ratcliffe glanced at Charlie. �ŚAre you happy for me to talk about this now?’ Charlie nodded, �ŚI think Diana has as much right to know what’s going on as the rest of us by now.’ �ŚDamned right, bloody woman broke my nose!’ She said with a smirk. Ratcliffe sighed, �ŚOK. Here goes, the crown Prosecution Service are not going to take it to trial, after extensive psychiatric assessment it has been deemed that Delia Jones is unfit to stand trial. She is has been assessed as mentally unstable, and therefore cannot be held responsible in a court of law for her actions.’ Charlie hung his head; Diana nodded sagely and with the wisdom of youth, Amy vented her spleen. �ŚYou mean that evil woman is going to get away with it! I can’t believe it! She has utterly and completely ruined all our lives, and you’re telling me that it’s not even going to court! Unbelievable!’ She huffed, her voice saturated with disgust. �ŚNo, she’s not going to get away with it at all. Under the circumstances she will remain, for an unspecified length of time, in a secure psychiatric unit. The chances are she will never come out. If at 77 she is still capable of murder, it’s unlikely she will ever be able to be treated, and she still poses a threat. She’s going to be put away for the rest of her life.’ The lack of real justice rankled with him too. Amy looked away, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. She ought to have known that really. �ŚOK’. Was all she said. Ratcliffe wiped his brow. �ŚI wanted to come and tell you myself. It means that certain aspects of the case that would normally have come out in court won’t now be given in evidence. I figured you guys might have questions.’ �ŚWhat about Frances, will she go down for her part in things?’ Charlie demanded, teeth gritted. �ŚThe case against Frances Haines is proceeding as planned. Between you and me, she’s a stony bitch, but she’s not mad. No get out clause for her.’ It was a touchy subject for Charlie, and Ratcliffe knew it. Valerie’s diary had revealed the true circumstances of Patsy’s murder, and Charlie had, rather too late in everyone’s estimation, been exonerated. It had been Frances who had stabbed Patsy, in a fit of jealous rage over Roy, who had been sleeping with both of them but planning to leave with Patsy. Valerie had witnessed the whole thing and had gladly passed the buck to Charlie, who as usual had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time that day. Ratcliffe felt bizarrely responsible for the failure of the criminal justice system in this instance, finding it difficult to look Charlie in the eye. �ŚNo comfort I know.’ He mumbled apologetically, sensing the tension in Charlie’s jaw. �ŚWhat about Molly?’ Diana asked gently, steering the subject away, not that there was an easier topic to divert it to. Ratcliffe glanced quickly at Charlie, relieved to find that he was looking out of the window, avoiding everyone’s gaze. �ŚHer remains are ready for release whenever. Just let us know and we’ll make the necessary arrangements with whichever funeral director you choose.’ He could feel Charlie holding in the emotion, how hard must it be for him? Finding out that the woman who raised you had killed your own mother and abducted you. �ŚIn fact I have something for you, DS Watson managed to track it down, and as it’s not going to court now we thought you might like to have it.’ He pulled out a faded photograph of a young, pretty woman holding a small baby. She was squinting shyly at the camera showing off the child. He held it out towards Charlie. �ŚIt’s a picture of her, with you.’ He didn’t want to say that they had founded amongst Delia’s smashed belongings, it would feel like rubbing salt into a wound. Charlie started to reach out for it, but let his arm drop. He knew if he looked at it, he would cry. And if he started crying, he might never stop. Instead, Ratcliffe put it on the coffee table. �ŚI’ll leave it with you’. Amy picked it up, on the back it said in faint pencil, �śMolly with Philip 1953”. She stifled a sob. Charlie wasn’t even Charlie now. He was Philip Kerr. Somehow, this small photograph summed up the utter mess they had to sort out, and it pained her deeply. She put it back on the table. �ŚWe need to discuss the other remains, the baby, Daniel.’ Diana interjected, steering the topic again in difficult waters. �ŚWe’d like to place him with Molly, it seems symbolic somehow, is that possible?’ Ratcliffe couldn’t see why not and agreed to look into it. He would never say, at this juncture, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Delia had been responsible for Daniels death too, though Julia Ferris was adamant that the child had never drawn breath and had been still born. Valerie’s diary had mentioned Delia’s role as midwife on that occasion, and Ratcliffe wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Delia had stifled the poor mite as he was born, as revenge for the botched abortion Valerie had performed on her. Everything Delia had done had been about revenge, and in Ratcliffe’s book that meant insane actions from a sane mind. It stuck in his throat that it there would be no trial, that she would never be called to account for the lives she had destroyed. Whether her victims were alive or dead. On that note, �ŚThat brings us to Rachel’ he said cautiously. �ŚWhat about her?’ Charlie demanded, suddenly defensive. Ratcliffe closed his eyes for a moment. Of all the things that had emerged from this case that had harmed Charlie, what had happened to Rachel seemed to be the thing that had affected him most. �ŚI know how difficult this is for you, but we need to discuss what happens next.’ �ŚNot now.’ Charlie said, through gritted teeth. �ŚIf you’ve finished, I have something I need to do.’ With that, he stood up, grabbed his van keys and walked out of the house. Amy shifted uncomfortably, she wasn’t going to apologise for him, but felt embarrassed nonetheless. Diana, ever the diplomat said gently, �ŚI think you’ll have to leave that one for a while. It’s the one aspect of all this that he is truly bitter about. The rest he seems able to live with. But I’m afraid Rachel is a very sore subject.’ Ratcliffe nodded. �ŚI understand, but we have to deal with it sooner or later.’ �ŚI know. I’ll ring you when he’s ready.’ Ratcliffe sighed, stood up and offered her his hand. �ŚThank you for the tea, we’ll be in touch.’ He smiled at Amy and glanced round the pleasant living room, only then did he notice that the photograph of Molly was gone. Charlie swung the van into the car park and switched off the engine. Checking his watch he realised he still had ten minutes to wait. He picked up the photograph from the dashboard and studied it, staring intently at the tiny face of the baby. Was it really possible that the miniature, scrunched up features were his? He smiled sadly. When he looked at the face of Molly Kerr, he felt the vaguest, softest stirrings of memory, just a whisper of warmth. He’d found out a little more about this woman in recent weeks, Angela Watson had been good at unearthing ancient history, and old memories. In fact, Angela had been quite good at a lot of things lately. He was surprised to find himself liking a detective quite so much. It seemed that Molly had been regarded as a nice kid. A nice girl from a nice home who had got herself pregnant and hence got herself thrown out of her nice home. She had been young, broke and friendless and had ended up selling herself in order to get by. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. Amy had asked him if he minded that she had been a prostitute. He didn’t. Better that than a murderess. Delia had killed her for two reasons from what they could gather, one, she was jealous of Molly’s relationship with Barrington Jones, and two she wanted Molly’s child. That was the most difficult aspect of all this, he knew that Delia loved him, in her way she had been a good mother. He dare not think about it too much, too messy by far. He was so lost in his thoughts that he jumped when the passenger door opened. �ŚSorry didn’t mean to scare you.’ �ŚI was miles away.’ He said, smiling. He started the engine. �ŚYou didn’t let on to Ratcliffe you were meeting me did you?’ �ŚUh, uh. Not a chance.’ �ŚAre you sure you want to carry on with this?’ Angela asked, reaching for her seatbelt. �ŚYeah, I’m sure. Enough is enough, time for everything to come out now don’t you think? No more secrets and lies.’ Angela sighed and nodded her assent, �ŚOK, let’s go.’ At least now that there wasn’t going to be a trial her over involvement with this would just be a matter of disapproval in certain quarters. Even so, she knew that by embarking on this venture with Charlie Jones she was risking her reputation, and possibly her career. Ratcliffe would not be a happy man if he ever found out what she had been up to. Charlie began to drive, �ŚSo tell me, before we get there. I need to know so that I can be prepared. I want to know what kind of reaction to expect.’ Pushing aside her last thread of reluctance, Angela embarked on her story and began to explain to Charlie the pattern of their investigation and how it had culminated in the arrest of his �Śmother’. �ŚA lot of this you will already know, so excuse me if I’m repeating stuff, but it helps to tell it in a logical sequence. Valerie and Delia knew each other as kids, Valerie as you know was brought up by her aunt, who was the local abortionist. We can only suppose that Valerie was supposed to take up the mantle at some point. Anyway, we know that there was a botched abortion, which left Delia unable to have children of her own, and the scandal of which alienated her from her family. From what we can gather, they were a pretty brutal family anyway, so it’s likely that whatever damage was done to Delia’s psyche was done a long time ago. Of course, she blamed Valerie for her misfortunes, and when she found out that Valerie had married, she approached her and more or less blackmailed her into financially supporting her. According to Valerie’s diary, it was the threat of revealing her past to William Porter that swung it. When William �Śdied’, Delia had already been involved in assisting the birth, and likely the death of one child, by then their fates were equally intertwined. Neither would gain anything by betraying the other. They both had enough dirt on each other to bring each other’s worlds crashing down. Of course, Valerie knew you couldn’t possibly be Delia’s child, and Delia knew not only about Valerie’s history but also about William’s incestuous relationship with Stella. They were locked together in it, like a stalemate.’ �ŚTell me about the baby, whose was it?’ Charlie asked. �ŚAnd why did they do what they did to it?’ �ŚAccording to the diary, he was Valerie’s. It appears that Valerie had the idea of �Śpreserving’ the body and hiding it. She wrote about having read something about mummified remains in Sicily, and had applied the process to keep him.’ She noticed Charlie wince at the thought. �ŚI know, it’s pretty sick stuff. We think that she was pretty far-gone mentally even at that stage. We know that William had syphilis, and it’s likely he passed it on to her. It’s a disease that can have a profound effect on mental health in the long run apparently. So it might explain some of the more bizarre behaviour she displayed.’ �ŚDid my moth..., I mean Delia, did she kill the baby?’ �ŚHonestly, we don’t know. The pathologist thinks not, Ratcliffe has his suspicions and I just have to accept that we will likely never know now.’ Charlie gritted his teeth. �ŚOK, so what about Rachel, am I right in thinking that she was the result of incest?’ �ŚI’m afraid so.’ She waited a moment while he digested the information. �ŚSo it’s not so much of a mystery why they lied to her about me is it?’ He said bitterly. �ŚI don’t suppose they thought there was anything unusual in it by then.’ �ŚThe diary tells us that Delia and Valerie hatched that plan between them, Valerie because she thought it would bring Rachel and her money home, and Delia because she wasn’t prepared to let Rachel take you and Amy away from her.’ �ŚGiven recent, and past events, I don’t get why Delia tolerated my relationship with Rachel at all, why not try and put a stop to it sooner? Why let it go on so long as they were so effective at disposing of people by then.’ This was the part that Angela hadn’t been looking forward to, not that she had been relishing any of it, she took a breath. �ŚBecause they both knew that Rachel had witnessed what really happened to Patsy, she actually saw the whole thing.’ She paused. Charlie swung into a side road and stopped the van. �ŚWhat?!’ �ŚBefore you go on’, she interjected rapidly �ŚRachel never hid anything from you, they doped her up with her epilepsy medication, the only bit she could ever recall was seeing you come in after the event. She had no memory of the events before, well no accessible ones anyway. In short, they were terrified of her, that one day she might actually remember what had really happened. They all became very frightened of what Rachel might do, say, or remember. She had the heads up on them all. While she was a child they could discredit her, but as an adult it was much more difficult.’ �ŚJesus Christ!’ was all he could say. �ŚLike I said, she had no conscious memory of the event itself, only seeing you afterwards.’ As this story had unfolded during the investigation, Angela had often wondered if it was this single happening that had brought Charlie and Rachel together in later years, the two innocents. Charlie couldn’t process it, not right then anyway. �ŚTell me about William, about the flat and what you found.’ He said changing the subject, but not necessarily into more comfortable territory. �ŚWilliam left the day after Rachel was born, he had been in tacit agreement with the arrangement that Delia should dispose of the �Śissue’ as Valerie described it. As it transpired both Frances and Stella closed ranks for once, and as Frances had learned a lot from her mother it seemed that she turned the tables on them over Rachel, and Stella was allowed to keep her. Under the proviso that Rachel was to be known as Valerie’s daughter. William couldn’t take the thought of facing the results of his actions on a daily basis, so he left. I can’t even begin to explain to you why Stella maintained a connection with him. I don’t get it, so don’t ask me to make sense of it. Anyway, it seems the dolls were down to him. Some warped conscience thing we think. Put it this way, I personally never thought that Delia was likely to have a working knowledge of Latin, so it was always likely to be someone else.’ Charlie had known about the thing with the dolls for a while. They had interviewed him about it when Delia had been arrested, shown him shudder worthy and chilling photos of the scene. It had been like looking at the stills from a bad 1980’s horror film. Given Delia’s penchant for collecting dolls, he had assumed it was her who had staged the chamber of horrors, though god knows why. �ŚSo why did Delia try and burn the place down?’ �ŚWe think she thought the diary might be in there. That’s what she told us anyway’ Charlie nodded. �ŚAnswer me this. Why would someone with so much to hide, so much shit to cover up, keep a diary?’ Angela shrugged. �ŚI have no idea, but she did. I agree that it’s totally odd. The only explanation I can think of was that she wanted it as some kind of insurance policy, that if anything happened to her it would all come out and she wouldn’t be painted as the sole bad guy.’ Charlie pondered that and started up the van again. �ŚWhat was it again, Peccavi peccavisti?’ �ŚHmmm. Something like that.’ They didn’t speak for a while, just drove. Eventually Charlie had to ask, just to make sure. �ŚHow much of this do you think Rachel knew?’ Angela shrugged again, �ŚNot much, consciously anyway. Frances is adamant that Rachel knew nothing, never suspected that Stella was her real mother, didn’t know that William existed, though she had seen him several times hanging around the shop. They told her he was an old tramp.’ Charlie nodded as he pulled the van up in the hospital car park. He switched the engine off. �ŚSo the question is, how much do I tell her? Do I tell her at all?’ Angela turned to look at him. This had aged him, but there was still an appeal about Charlie Jones. �ŚI don’t know Charlie. What would you achieve?’ Charlie screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. Rachel had barely survived the attack by Delia, but for some reason she had found the will to live and was now almost well enough to come home. She had come out of the experience a changed person, better in some ways. At least willing to let go of the past and move on. She had asked him to clear the flat, and he had felt as if she were asking him to cut down the bars of her prison. Maybe she was just clinging to him because there was no one else, maybe it was because he had Amy, and it was clear that she very much wanted a relationship with Amy. Whatever, she was back in his life, and it was better than it might have been under the circumstances. Part of him felt that she was owed the truth too, but now he had heard it for himself he had to wonder if the lies were mildly more palatable. He shook his head slowly from side to side. Angela watched him for a moment. �ŚCan I ask you a question?’ �ŚCourse. What?’ �ŚDo you still love her, or do you just have some warped sense of responsibility towards her?’ Though Angela’s feelings of antipathy towards Rachel had mellowed somewhat in recent weeks, she still had reservations. Frankly, women like Rachel scared her. Too much damage. Charlie frowned at her and started to climb out of the van. �ŚWhat kind of question is that?’ he said irritably �ŚWhat are you going to do?’ she called scrambling out after him. �ŚI’m going to tell her what I think she needs to hear.’ �ŚAnd which bits do you think she should hear?’Angela asked, suddenly apprehensive. Charlie paused and slammed the van door. �ŚThat everything is going to be OK’. Rachel watched them from the window of her hospital room. Her bag was packed, her medication lay neatly on the bed ready for her to take away, and the jagged scar that ran down her leg throbbed in time with the beating of her heart. There had been a moment where she had contemplated making her escape, but hadn’t been able to think of anywhere to run to. Now Charlie was coming, ready to save her, to take her back to his cosy little house where they would coyly play at happy families. Most of her wasn’t buying it, but there was a tiny stirring of something, the merest flutter of possibility. About the Author I was born in Gloucester (UK)and decided that I wanted to become a writer when still at school, where an English teacher marked me 11 out of 10 for a piece of poetry. Consequently, I have been writing for years, and have cupboard full of stories. As it turned out I became a psychiatric nurse instead, which just meant that the stories got a little more twisty and interesting. Now that I am in my forties, and finding middle age a liberating experience, I have decided to publish some of my 'stuff'. I write the kind of books I like to read, rollicking good stories with lots of twists and turns, sometimes preposterous, often humourous and a little dark at times. A good read is chocolate for the soul. Table of Contents The Philosophy of Disgrace. Midpoint