by Agatha Frost
“This is not the same as teaspoons!” Greta screamed in a voice louder than any Claire had ever heard her use before. “You’re sick, Patrick! Sick! Not only did you murder two people, but you had your niece fired too?”
“She was playing silly games with her father!” He scrunched up his face, hands either side of his head. “I had to scare you away, Claire. I thought losing your job would make you stop.”
“And yet, it gave me the drive to keep pushing.” Claire lowered her head, no energy left in her body. “Can someone call the police? I don’t think I have the stomach to do it.”
Pat spun around and dove for the door handle. He swung it open and ran for freedom, but he crashed into Alan, who had a cane in one hand, and a pair of handcuffs in the other. Pat fell backwards, losing his balance enough for Alan to attach one side of the handcuffs to his younger brother’s wrist. He tightened the other side around the door handle.
“I knew he’d run,” Claire’s father said, sighing heavily as he limped into the hallway towards the house phone on the table. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be the one to make this call.”
Pat thrashed and screamed against the door loud enough that the rest of the cul-de-sac came out to see what was going on, including Mrs Beaton and a small army of cats. They scattered when two cars police zoomed into the cul-de-sac.
“Can I just say something?” Janet called out as the officers dragged Pat towards a police car. “I never liked him!”
Chapter Sixteen
Claire made feeble attempts to sleep that night, but her eyes never stayed shut for more than a few minutes at a time. How could they? Every time she closed them, her childhood memories played against her eyelids like movies; Uncle Pat was in all of them.
Donkey rides on the beach in Blackpool.
Caravan holidays in Anglesey.
Soggy camping trips in the Lake District.
Until tonight, they’d been a normal family like anyone else’s; Uncle Pat had taken that away. He was a murderer, and yet Claire couldn’t shake those happy memories.
She tossed back the covers and climbed out of bed, finally giving up on the idea of sleep. Sid and Domino glanced up at her from the bottom of the bed, too comfy to move. If a fairy godmother popped up and offered to turn her into a cat, she’d take it in a heartbeat.
“Such an easy life,” she whispered, stroking them.
After pulling her dressing gown over her pyjamas, she crept downstairs, not that she needed to creep; no one else was sleeping, either.
Granny Greta remained where Claire had left her in the sitting room, still surrounded by all the photo albums she’d dug out from the cupboards. She clutched a glossy photograph to her chest, the almost drained whisky bottle pulled tight against it. Without needing to look at it, Claire was sure the picture showed Pat as a child.
“He was such a sweet little boy,” Greta had kept repeating all night. “Barely ever cried. Never caused me any trouble.”
Greta gave her a weary smile. Claire smiled back, but she didn’t venture inside. She knew that tonight, her gran wanted to be left to her thoughts.
Claire found her mother in the darkened kitchen, where the only light came from the dim under-cabinet spotlights. The contents of all the cupboards covered the island, and Janet knelt on the marble counter in her pyjamas, scrubbing the insides. Claire had last seen this behaviour on the night of Alan’s tumour diagnosis.
Janet didn’t spot her, so Claire crept through the backdoor, not wanting to interrupt her mother’s ritual cleaning. This was Janet’s way of getting her rage out – everything chaotic had to be returned to order. The polite smiles and perfect outfits would return in the morning.
Even without the soft glow of the light coming from the shed at the bottom of the garden, Claire had known where she’d find her father.
She didn’t bother to knock.
“Can’t sleep either, little one?” he asked, quickly wiping away his tears as she slipped inside. “Too much excitement, eh?”
Claire perched on her usual plant pot. She went to glance at the investigation wall, but every sheet had been ripped down, and only the pins and hanging string hinted anything had ever been there.
“We got it so wrong, didn’t we?” he said, following her gaze. “Well, I did. You figured it out. My own brother. Maybe I’m ready for the scrapheap, after all.”
“You’ll never be ready.” She reached out and rested her hand on his knee. “I stumbled across it. I got lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck,” he said, smiling sadly. “Credit where credit is due. You cracked this one on your own.”
She looked at the framed photograph in his hand. Alan and Pat were stood in front of a Christmas tree in matching pyjamas, arms wrapped around each other. She knew the picture well; it had sat on the fireplace for as long as she could remember.
“Christmas 1966,” he explained, handing over the frame. “I was ten, he was six. Things were tight that year. I knew Mum and Dad couldn’t afford both our Christmas lists, so I told them to just get Pat what he wanted because he was younger. When Christmas morning came around, he realised I barely had anything to open, so he split his toys with me.”
Claire smiled down at the picture. She’d heard the story many times, but never before laced with such sadness and heartbreak.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we, Dad?”
“‘Course we will.”
Alan attempted to smile, but he couldn’t muster one, not even for her. The tears broke free, harder and quicker than they had all night. Claire wrapped herself around him, having only seen him cry like this twice before: the night of his father’s funeral and the night of his tumour diagnosis.
The crying went on for what felt like an age, but she didn’t move until the final tear fell. He wouldn’t cry in front of her about this again; she knew him well enough to know that.
“C’mon, Dad,” she said, helping him up from his chair. “I think it’s time for bed.”
Two days later, the weather was bright and hot on Easter Sunday.
Sat at her dressing table, Claire smelled her latest batch of vanilla candle samples. She still didn’t have the exact formula, but it was close enough to the one she remembered. She had no wax left, barely any fragrance oils, and considering her recent change in employment status, she couldn’t afford to keep chasing the perfection of the ripped-out page. Considering everything that had happened, she was ready to let the quest for the perfect vanilla candle go.
Perfection, after all, didn’t exist.
The revelation of Uncle Pat’s murder spree had proved her family was nowhere near perfect. Claire had never thought it was, despite how much her mother liked to present that image to the rest of the village.
Talk of the murderer with the Harris family name would continue for the foreseeable future, and they had all accepted it, even Claire’s mother. Much to Claire’s relief, her weight, lack of a husband, and childlessness hadn’t come up all weekend.
Leaving her candle-making station, she joined Sid and Domino at the window. They were looking down on Claire’s father, Alan, as he tried to get the flames of the barbeque going. They had held an annual Easter Sunday barbeque for as long as Claire could remember. She almost couldn’t believe it was still going ahead – and was even more surprised to learn it was on her father’s insistence, not her mother’s.
“We have to carry on as normal,” he had said on Saturday morning. “We aren’t the ones being charged with murder.”
Leaving the cats to continue watching him from the window, Claire joined her father in the garden. Her mother and Greta were at the kitchen table, and even though they weren’t saying much, they weren’t spitting their usual insults at each other, either.
“How’s it going?” she asked, resting her head on Alan’s shoulder.
“I’ll get the flames going soon,” he replied after kissing her on the top of her hair. “Don’t you worry, we’ll be eating by lunchtime.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He smiled. “And I appreciate you for asking, but we’re all going to be okay. We’ll get through this together like a family should.”
Claire heard the undertone; in her father’s eyes, Pat was no longer part of the family. She imagined Pat sat in a cell, charged with two counts of murder, waiting for his call to come from the Crown Court for sentencing. Despite knowing what he’d done, she still couldn’t shake the image of her short, sweet, Uncle Pat.
Claire’s phone beeped in her pocket.
“It’s Sally,” Claire said as she read over the message. “She wants to meet me in the square.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said, already stepping back from the barbeque. “That needs some time to catch anyway.”
Claire never argued when her father was trying to make himself useful; it meant too much to him. Leaving Janet and Greta to their awkward silence in the kitchen, separated by a full buffet spread, they left through the front door.
“I think someone wants to talk to you,” her father said, nodding towards Graham’s cottage. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Graham, who was pulling up weeds in his front garden, smiled at Claire awkwardly. She had avoided seeing him since the events of Friday night, but they were neighbours; they couldn’t avoid each other forever, and someone had to address the giant elephant in the room.
“Lovely day for it,” he said, standing and pulling off his gardening gloves. “The barbeque, I mean.”
“You’re invited,” she said.
“Thank you.” He smiled, and he looked like he meant it. “I’ll think about it.” He stared down at his gloves as he slapped them against the palm of his hand. “I owe you an apology, Claire. I should never have tried to kiss you.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” He met her eyes. “You’re too kind, but it’s not fine. I know it’s a cliché, but I was in a bad place. I’ve been in a bad place for a long time. Long before Nicola’s death.”
“It’s understandable.”
“As much as I hate to admit it,” he said, pausing to suck the air through his teeth, “your uncle was right. I pretended to be okay with everything that was going on in my marriage, but I wasn’t. I knew it was over, but I couldn’t let go. I was the one dragging my heels with the divorce. I hoped the woman I married would return one day, but I don’t think she ever existed. Nicola really was as ruthless as everyone said. I always tried looking for more, but I don’t think there was any. After hearing what she did to poor Bilal, I know exactly who she was now. At least the poor lad’s father finally got the answers he always wanted. Now that everything’s come out, Ben has told the police his suspicions about Nicola killing her father. He’s been singing that same tune about her framing him for years, but I never believed him. Maybe he was right all along. I suppose there’s no way to know now. Everyone who knows the truth is dead. Alas, I suppose we can only look to the future.”
Claire thought about mentioning the pills taped to the back of the photo frame, but Graham would find them eventually. Even if Nicola had murdered her father, everyone who could confirm it was dead, and Graham had already been through enough.
“And what does the future hold for you?” Claire asked, shielding her eyes from the bright sun as it broke through the clouds. “Have you figured out what you’re doing with the factory?”
“I have.” He bowed his head. “Your friend, Damon, was kind enough to tell everyone about my plans to sell. They kicked me right out of that group chat, so I started reaching out to people one by one. I heard everyone’s stories. People really rely on that factory, more than I ever realised. The joys of growing up middle-class, right? You never know how bad things are at the bottom of the ladder. I can’t let that factory become luxury apartments knowing how many lives it’d ruin. I couldn’t sleep with myself at night. So, I’m staying, and I’m going to give it my best shot.”
“That’s amazing news.”
“Can’t say I’ll make it work, but I can try my hardest, can’t I?”
“That’s all you can do,” Claire said, smiling. “William would be proud.”
He smiled, and for the first time in a long time, Claire saw her neighbour again. She had always thought of Graham as a simple, kind man, and she didn’t think her assumptions had been too far from the truth. He’d been pushed into situations he didn’t want to be in, and which didn’t show his best side, but he wasn’t a bad man.
“I’ve been keeping myself busy,” he said, stepping back and looking down at the weeds he’d yet to pull up. “I’ll let you get on. I might see you later at the barbeque if I feel up to it.”
“I’m just off to see Sally,” Claire explained, glancing at her father in the car; he was reading one of his mystery books, quite content. “How are things between the two of you?”
“Over,” he replied, already kneeling back onto the grass. “I called things off on Saturday night. To be honest with you, I only agreed to that because I thought it might make Nicola jealous. Sally’s a nice lady, but I’m not ready for a commitment right now. I leaned into it for comfort when Nicola died, and we both got carried away with visions of new lives. As appealing as a fresh start is, I’m not ready to give all of this up. Not just yet. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll meet a woman who wants the same things out of life that I do. Until then, I’m going to have my hands full with the factory.” He paused and smiled up at her. “Good luck with it all, Claire.”
“You too.”
Leaving him to his gardening, Claire joined her father in the car. As they drove away from the cul-de-sac, she peered at Graham through the rear-view mirror. He hadn’t offered to let her come back to work at the factory. She hadn’t expected him to, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it anyway.
Too much had happened to go backwards.
They drove silently into the village, parking outside the post office. Claire was surprised to see Sally atop a ladder outside Jane’s Tearoom, taking down the ‘TO LET’ sign.
“Who’s the lucky person that signed on the dotted line?” Claire called from the bottom of the ladder.
“You,” Claire’s father said when he caught up with her. “It’s yours.”
“What?”
“Claire, how long did you think you could keep this secret from me?” he asked, a pleased smile spreading ear to ear. “I saw you viewing this place at least twice. I had a feeling what you were up to, but it wasn’t till Sally called me yesterday that I realised how much you really wanted to open your own candle shop.”
“Sorry, mate,” Sally said as she climbed down the ladder, the sign tucked under her arm. “I had to. You were going to let this slip away, and after everything you’ve been through, I couldn’t let that happen.”
“I don’t understand.” Claire stepped back and shook her head. “I can’t afford this.”
“Yes, you can.” Her father rested his hand on her shoulder. “Check your bank.”
With shaky fingers, Claire pulled her phone from her pocket and logged into her banking app. When she saw that £3000 had been transferred to her account, she almost dropped the phone.
“Dad, I can’t take your money.”
“It’s not my money,” he said, holding up a hand. “It’s yours. I talked to Graham yesterday. Turns out, he found the ripped-out page of your book at the factory after all, and after some negotiating, he decided to buy the formula from you to use as the star product for the new and improved Warton Candle line.”
“Why didn’t he say anything?”
“Because I told him not to.” He winked. “Wanted to surprise you. I hope you don’t mind. I think he was going to use the formula regardless, so it’s only fair you get something for it after putting in seventeen years at that place. Plus, I think he feels guilty for everything that happened with firing you. It’s enough to pay the deposit and get things rolling.”
“Dad, I—”
He cupped her face in his palms. “I k
now you wanted to do this on your own, and I admire that, but you can’t live your life with your dream just out of reach. Not when we can help you. As much as I love having you back home with us, I know it’s not where you want to be.”
“Dad, I don’t know what to say.”
“Just promise you’ll give it your best shot.”
“I promise I will.” Claire fought back the tears. “This is truly all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Then there’s no way it can fail.” He pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ve always been proud of you, but the way you investigated and solved that made me so proud to call you my daughter. I’ve never seen you so determined and driven before. It was a side I loved seeing, and if you work at this only half as hard as you worked at uncovering what your uncle did, you’ve got this in the bag, little one. Now, I’ll leave you two to talk. I’ll be waiting in the car.”
When he was back in the car, Clair grabbed hold of Sally and hugged her tighter than ever.
“Thank you,” Claire whispered to her.
“You don’t need to thank me,” Sally whispered back. “It’s the least I could do. I’ve been a terrible friend to you, Claire.”
“Sally, it’s—”
“No,” Sally cut in, pulling away from the hug. “I have. I really have. I haven’t been there for you, and I shut you out because I was embarrassed. I hate myself for admitting this, but I’ve always known you were jealous of me. I didn’t want to shatter that. Knowing you wanted what I had kept me clinging on in a small way, hoping it would be what I wanted too.”
Sally reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver chain. Claire knew what it was immediately.
“You found it,” Claire said.
“I never lost it.” Sally fingered the necklace charm in her palm. “Best friends forever, right? I mean it just as much now as I did then, and I promise that I’ll never lock you out again. I love you, Claire.”
“I love you too.” They hugged again. “Graham told me he ended things.”
“I let him think that.” Sally chuckled, pocketing the necklace. “I was going to end things, but he started talking first. I think he needed to think it was his call more than I needed to.”
