by Kerena Swan
They say the quality of life depends on the bed you’re born in. Well I was born in the right bed but I was pushed out by that cuckoo. The rational part of my brain tries to tell me that Jenna is not to blame for this, but if she hadn’t been born I’d be living a happy life. I want to scream, ‘You bitch!’ but I bite hard on my lip to hold the anger inside.
Be patient, I tell myself. There’s no rush. Far better to plan carefully what to do next. She’s stolen the life that’s rightfully mine but I’ll get it back somehow. Whatever it takes.
Chapter 42
March | DI Paton
Paton watched from several metres away as the Tactical Aid Unit team heaved the last few items from the skip. Builders’ rubbish was stacked haphazardly to the left, but to the right was a promising haul of personal items. An old TV which may yield some fingerprints if the plasterboard dust hadn’t obscured them, a flowered fabric suitcase of considerable weight, a box of kitchen utensils and ornaments, and another box containing old packets of food.
An eager young officer approached Paton. ‘We’ll get these items over to the CSI team for fingerprints and photos. Let’s hope we can match some fibres from the clothes to those found at the cabin.’
Paton raised his eyebrows at being told the blinking obvious but he bit back a retort and thanked him, then checked the address of where the evidence was heading. He’d go to his hotel now. A good meal and an early night would set him up for tomorrow. He’d visit the CSI team in the afternoon. Hopefully by then they’d have catalogued and bagged all the evidence, and taken samples for testing.
Paton awoke early and headed to the adjoining restaurant for a full English breakfast. He might as well make the most of it as he didn’t often get to stay in hotels, even basic ones like this. He dipped a large piece of bacon into the yolk of an egg and thought about his plans for the day. He needed to return to the Spar to find out more about Trina. Perhaps he’d go there before he checked out the evidence from the skip. He also needed to visit the Manchester owner of the silver Fiesta.
Before he set out he phoned Mitchell. Paton could check HOLMES on his laptop for an update but he preferred the personal approach.
‘Any update from the ANPR data on where the two Fiestas went?’ he asked, hope fluttering in his chest. ‘I haven’t checked HOLMES yet. I’ll log on later.’
‘Got some news.’ Mitchell paused for effect and Paton let him have his moment of drama. ‘The Manchester owner, Britney Smith, was tracked going towards Salford, where she’s registered as living, and, as you know, the other car went further south.’
‘Do we have any more trace on that one?’
‘It got off at Junction 17 of the M6 before Sandbach and onto the A534 but then it must have taken the side roads because we don’t have a trace after that.’
‘If she doesn’t live around there, then she’s bloody clever,’ Paton muttered. ‘If she is our suspect, either she has inside knowledge of how police camera systems work or she watches a lot of detective dramas like Tommy.’ The other day his son had moaned that a detective on Silent Witness didn’t have shoe covers on at a crime scene. Paton had felt quite proud of him.
‘I’m going to visit the other suspect, Britney Smith, today but in the meantime, I’d like you to check her out further. Start with an open search of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram then find her financial details and phone records. If she’s not at home we might be able to track her down with those.’
‘Will do, boss.’
‘Good lad. I’ll call the action allocator in the incident room now and ask them to log your tasks.’
It was almost three weeks since the murder. Would Britney Smith still be around and was she the woman they were looking for? Was she leading a double life and renting the bedsit to carry on the affair with Robert Nash?
The property turned out to be a modest bungalow with a loft extension. Paton parked outside and noticed the neighbour’s curtain moving slightly. Brilliant! He loved a nosy neighbour. He knocked and waited, then knocked again. There was nothing to hear apart from a noisy blackbird rebuking a cat and a distant main road. He went back down the narrow concrete path and up the next. The curtain twitched again and he smiled to himself.
The door was opened almost immediately onto a security chain by a short, middle-aged woman in heavy glasses and a home-knitted cardigan. She peered up at him in consternation.
Paton showed her his police ID badge and her face relaxed slightly. ‘Do you know the woman who lives next door?’ he asked.
The door closed and he heard the rattle of the chain being released before it opened wide and he was invited in.
‘Come in and I’ll tell you a few things about her,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Miss Dawson but you can call me Betty.’
He followed Betty to the lounge where he perched on the edge of a faded brown Dralon sofa while she put the kettle on. He didn’t really want tea but found people often offered more information over a social drink. He took in his surroundings, thinking the lounge was in a time warp. He wasn’t exactly an expert on interior design but the plastic print of a girl crying and the figurines in period costume on the mantelpiece were relics from his childhood.
A large, fluffy tabby jumped up and climbed straight onto his lap, leaving white hairs on his black trousers. He stroked it and it purred, kneading his leg with long claws. Tommy would love a cat but sadly Wendy was allergic to them. Paton would have to make sure he got all the cat’s hairs off his clothes before he went home.
‘Winston, get down. Sorry, officer. He likes visitors.’ The woman placed a tray on the table. It was laden with a flowery china tea set and a plate of fig rolls. Yuk. Paton couldn’t stand fig rolls. He leaned forward for his tea and noticed to his dismay that there was a cat hair floating on the surface. He blew it to the back of the cup then took a tentative sip.
‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ Betty said. ‘My mum passed away last year and left the bungalow to me.’
Paton wasn’t interested in her family history but he nodded politely. ‘How long have you known your neighbours?’ he asked.
‘That neighbour…’ She nodded towards the house he’d just visited. ‘About a year. Britney. Flighty by name and flighty by nature.’ She sniffed then leaned forward. ‘Between you and me I think she sees lots of men to help pay her bills, if you know what I mean.’ She tapped the side of her nose then leaned back, folding her arms. ‘Always got different visitors.’
Could Britney be the woman who spent a week in the lodge with Robert Nash? Paton pulled a photograph of Nash from his folder. ‘Have you ever seen this man come to the door?’
She took the picture and studied it. ‘No, I don’t think so; he’s not her usual type.’
‘Do you have any idea when Britney will be back? Does she work?’
‘She’s on holiday. I saw her and a group of girls all wearing matching T-shirts and carrying suitcases. Made a terrible racket going out to the minibus.’
Disappointment sank like a cold soufflé in Paton’s stomach. ‘When did she leave?’
‘A couple of days ago. I’ve got two weeks of peace and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.’
Two weeks! Paton wasn’t sure what to do now. He could suggest to the SIO that they track Britney down and bring her back to the UK as a suspect but he wasn’t sure if he’d got the right woman. He needed to see the contents of the suitcase from the skip and also find out if the DNA and fingerprints matched those left in the cabin. Could Britney also be Trina? Did she disguise herself?
‘Could you describe what Britney looks like?’ Paton was about to pull the photofit picture of Trina from the folder but paused when Betty described the woman next door.
‘Tall, long dark hair, big built and fake, if you know what I mean. She has those ridiculously long eyelashes and thick eyebrows and her skin is orange.’
This was nothing like the woman from the café. No one could disguise their size and bone structure. The waitress had described t
he woman at the café as slim and delicate. Could Robert Nash have been seeing more than one female or was Paton pursuing the wrong lead?
‘One last question. Was Britney away for any length of time in February?’
‘Sadly not. Her music was particularly annoying every night and February was no different. This is the first time she’s been away this year but hopefully not the last.’
Sadly not, indeed. This definitely couldn’t be the woman they were seeking if she was here throughout February. She must have visited Perthshire for the day while the killer must have driven past Manchester towards the south.
Chapter 43
The Following September | Jenna
I expect Mrs Kingston, the twins’ mum, to invite me in with her usual smile but instead she steps outside and pulls the door almost shut as though she doesn’t want anyone inside the house to hear what she has to say. ‘I’m sorry, Jenna, But I don’t need you to look after the twins anymore.’
I’m taken aback. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘I… Er… My mother will be looking after them.’
‘I thought your mother lived in Cornwall?’
‘She’s coming to stay for a while.’
‘How long for? I could take a week or two off,’ I say, even though I know from the way that Mrs Kingston won’t meet my gaze that there’s more to this than a visit from her mother.
Mrs Kingston sighs. ‘I’m afraid I don’t want you back, Jenna. I know we don’t have a contract or anything but I’ll pay you for today and tomorrow.’
I reel back as though she’s slapped me.
‘I don’t understand. The children like me. I thought you were pleased with me.’
‘That was before.’
‘Before? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t want to get into it, Jenna.’
‘You can’t just fire me without an explanation!’
She chews on her lip then seems to come to a decision. ‘All right, if you must know, I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.’
‘Can’t… But why? What do you think I’ve done?’
‘I’ve had a call from someone who was concerned.’
‘About what?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
‘You were seen at the park with the children. Someone saw you smacking Jake quite hard for being naughty. Only on his bottom, but I can’t accept physical punishment of my children. If they were misbehaving, you should have reported it to me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What does Jake have to say about it?’
‘I haven’t asked him. I don’t want to take this further, Jenna, but I don’t want you near my children again.’
‘But it isn’t true! Who called? Was it someone you know?’
‘She just said she was local. Perhaps when you have children you’ll understand why I can’t take any chances with them.’ She slips back into the house and shuts the door.
I stand in shock, tears filling my eyes. How could she take the word of a stranger against mine? How could she turn on me like this? I’ve been looking after her children all summer and I thought we were almost friends. I lift my hand to ring the bell but hesitate. I feel betrayed by her.
I lower my hand and turn away then walk slowly down the hill towards home. I would never hit a child. I won’t even squash flies and when I put spiders out for Mum I put them gently on the ground so they don’t break their legs. I have the deepest respect for all living things.
Is this a mistake? Has this local woman confused me with someone else? Or is she the sort of person who’d have sent poison pen letters before telephones were invented? Is she directing her malice at me in particular or am I just one of several victims? I haven’t heard of any other malicious calls but that isn’t to say they haven’t been made. Perhaps other victims have kept quiet because they feel as I do now – ashamed, even though I’m innocent. I’ll have to find another job soon. Maybe I’ll have to take on late shifts at the bar again because I need an income, not just for me but for Merlin too. What a mess.
I suppose there is one positive in all this, though. Until I get work I can devote more time to Mum when she isn’t sleeping. Sometimes I think she pretends to be asleep for a bit of peace but I want to make the most of every minute I have left with her. She’s deteriorating in front of our eyes and some days she’s too weak to get out of bed for even a short time.
I can’t bear to contemplate my life without her and sometimes I want to howl and rage at the injustice of the world. Instead, I sit quietly and hold her hand, keeping all my emotions inside until I fear I’ll break down completely and end up as a bawling and blubbering pile of uselessness. When Mum goes, apart from my dear friend Nisha and possibly Grace, I’ll only have Lucy and she appears to hate me.
A sudden thought has my hand flying to my mouth. Did Lucy call Mrs. Kingston? Is it her plan that I should be around more to look after Mum so Lucy doesn’t have to get so involved in the intimate care and her inheritance won’t be reduced by Mum paying Grace? Or is this simply part of Lucy’s campaign of malice? The carrier bag that spooked Merlin, the shove at the race and now this.
No, this is crazy. I can’t believe it. Or is it a case of not wanting to believe it?
I let myself into the utility room, pause to draw in breath and steady myself, then enter the kitchen. Mum is at the sink, her hand wobbling as she fills the kettle. I rush over and take the kettle from her.
‘Let me do that. You sit down.’
‘I’m not an invalid yet. I still want some independence. I was about to make myself a peppermint tea.’
‘Why don’t you have another of those nutrition drinks? Grace has been to the chemist and got you some more strawberry ones. They seem to help your energy levels and that’s your favourite flavour, isn’t it?’
‘I fancy a peppermint tea to settle my stomach.’
‘Okay.’ I carry the drink to the table and we sit in silence.
‘Is everything all right, Jenna? You seem upset. Has something happened at work? I thought you were meant to be there until five today.’
‘Everything’s fine.’ I can’t have Mum worrying about me. ‘Really,’ I add, when she looks sceptical.
But she puts her head on one side and simply waits. I attempt a reassuring smile but to my horror and shame I can’t carry it off. A tear steals from my eye and runs down my cheek. Damn. I brush it roughly away but more tears form and when Mum comes round the table to hug me a huge sob wrenches itself from my chest. I shudder and heave with grief. I’ve been holding everything in for so long but now Mrs. Kingston has smashed my self-control to pieces with a wrecking ball of lies.
I eventually calm down and Mum hands me some kitchen roll to dry my face.
‘I’m sorry. You don’t need this.’ I smile weakly at her and she smiles back and pats my hand.
‘I’m still your Mum, Jenna. What’s happened?’
I tell her about Mrs Kingston and Mum looks shocked.
‘I know you’d never do such a thing. There must be a mistake but I don’t want you going back there anyway. You’re better off out of there.’
I nod, but I’m still hurt and I’m worried about how I’ll get by without the income.
‘You’re thinking of the money you’ll lose?’ Mum asks.
‘No, I’ll manage.’ I absolutely don’t want her fretting about my finances.
‘I’ll pay for Merlin’s upkeep. I’ve nothing else to spend my money on in the time I have left, and although I’d love you to have a career plan for the future, I want you here now rather than out looking for another job.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘Best not tell Lucy, though, eh?’
Chapter 44
The Previous March | Sarah
I sit on the edge of my bed agonising over what to do. I can’t just turn up at the house in Bow Brickhill and say I’m the Winterbournes’ real daughter. I need some sort of proof for one thing. Maybe I should gather all the evidence to show them
– the photos, the bracelet, the DNA test results. I could suggest that they take DNA tests themselves as further proof, but they might think I’m delusional, even unstable, if I just turn up on their doorstep making claims that sound like something off a TV drama.
For a moment I lose myself in a fantasy in which my real family suspected all along and have been waiting for me to show up. I picture us hugging and crying, laughing and sharing stories, then I shake myself. I’m being ridiculous. If they suspected, they’d have come looking for me. It didn’t take me long to find them, did it? No. I need to be practical and logical.
Maybe I should involve a solicitor. I’m not keen on that idea though. I want the Winterbournes to love me for the woman I am now and this approach might look confrontational.
I need to work out the best thing to do.
I listen to the sound of Mum shuffling around downstairs and the clink of bottle on glass before the television blares out the theme tune for Love Island. I’m surprised she watches that crap but maybe it taps in to her idea of romance and relationship dramas.
I get up with new determination. I’ll sort out the photos first. I go downstairs to fetch the box of family pictures and see that Mum is in her usual place on the sofa – stretched out, head back and eyes closed but still with her hand firmly gripping the glass on the floor. As I walk past her to pick up the cardboard box, she opens her eyes.
