Mummy's Little Secret

by M. A. Hunter

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Before – Morag

  I’m alone with only my own thoughts, as Angus has taken Daisy to the cinema. He left a note saying he would treat her to a burger and fries on the way home, and that I should send him a message if I want something too. I can’t think of anything worse, and I can’t handle rattling around what still feels like someone else’s home. I’ve never been one to pay any attention to local gossip, but something Nadine said at the school meeting has been playing on my mind. She said that Jess had been in some scandal involving the local council, and I can’t deny my appetite has been whetted.

  With no computer at our house – Angus says they can be traced as easily as phone lines these days – I head out into town, conscious that it won’t be long before the local library closes. Northwood town centre is made up of a number of banks, estate agents, and hair salons. In amongst all these are a handful of cafés, restaurants, and bars, and the occasional non-franchised shop. The library is tucked behind the shops, in what resembles an old church. The familiar musty smell of old pages greets me upon arrival, and I’m pleased to find a woman of similar age behind the main desk.

  ‘I want to check your newspaper microfiche records, if possible?’ I say to her.

  Her glasses hang around her neck by a string of pink and purple beads, not in keeping with the bright yellow cardigan she’s wearing despite the heat. ‘Certainly. What time period are you after?’

  That’s a good question. I can’t be all that certain when Jess had the car accident, nor when she made her accusations against the local council. ‘Last three years?’ I suggest, given Grace is four, and they would have waited a year or so before trying for a second baby.

  ‘Ah,’ the woman says, frowning. ‘We only use microfiche for historic records. Any newspapers from the last fifteen years are now online.’ She nods at a bank of desks off to my left by the main wall.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could help me find them?’ I ask, as the heat rises in my cheeks.

  The truth is, I’m not all that comfortable with computers and the internet. I know that must make me sound naïve in the modern age, but my generation missed out on Information Technology at school, and has been playing catch-up ever since. My only real interaction with computers was a bit of data entry here and there at the hospital.

  She considers me for a moment, before turning to the younger man behind her. ‘José, can you keep an eye on the desk while I help this customer?’

  The younger man, whose tight afro and pierced nose don’t look Hispanic, readily agrees, and takes the woman’s place at the desk. I follow her to the bank of computers, and once we’re both seated, she opens an internet page.

  ‘Is there a particular journal you wish to review?’ she asks.

  I’ve never felt so out of my depth. What I really want to say is that I want any and all background information on Jess Donoghue, but something tells me this woman won’t have any clue who that is. Maybe I should have just asked Nadine and that other mother at the meeting.

  ‘I’m interested in a story from the last couple of years,’ I begin. ‘It was something to do with a local woman making accusations against the council, accusing them of misappropriating funds.’

  The woman is staring blankly back at me. Perhaps the story wasn’t as well known as Nadine suggested.

  ‘Do you know the accuser’s name? Or which newspaper reported it?’

  I shrug pathetically. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I really don’t know how I can help,’ she says eventually, glancing over at the queue of people now gathering at the front desk, where José clearly isn’t coping. ‘All I can suggest is you search for key terms on some of the newspaper sites, and see what comes up.’ She opens three new windows, one for each of the periodicals that focus on the town and its immediate neighbours. ‘Try these to begin with, and I’ll come back and check on you in a bit.’

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond before leaving her chair and returning to the front desk.

  My first instinct is to type in Jess’s name in the first search box, and although a dozen links to pages appear, none of them relate to the story I’m interested in. I thought this would be a lot easier. Angus’s private investigator Lawrence didn’t suggest finding information about potential targets was so difficult.

  After half an hour of reading and dismissing articles, I give up, and thank the woman for her help. If I want to know what really happened to Jess, and why Nadine clearly doesn’t hold her in much regard, I’m going to need to confront Jess directly, or request Lawrence take me on as a private client, so that Angus won’t find out.

  Leaving the library, I’m surprised to see how much the sky has clouded over. A blanket of grey has me fearing a downpour as I hurry along the road in the direction of home. As I stop at the pedestrian crossing my heart skips a beat when I see a red BMW with darkened windows pull up at the lights. It’s only when I read and re-read the licence plate that I realise it isn’t his. I remain on the kerbside just in case, and as the car pulls away, my eyes watch it until it’s out of sight.

  Here I am, so focused on trying to find out what Jess is hiding, when my own past isn’t so neatly buried. What if my casual trip to the library had resulted in him finding us? I would never forgive myself. Picking up the pace, I now can’t wait to be back indoors where I can shut out the painful world.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Now

  The woman across the table from him hadn’t spoken a word since he’d invited her in, and explained that whilst she wasn’t under arrest, he was going to caution her prior to recording the interview. She’d shaken her head when asked if she required legal representation, and Mike had been pleased when PC Wozniak had agreed to come in as a second pair of ears.

  Morag Kilbride, aged fifty-five, or so she’d claimed. Mike would have put her closer to sixty, but since she carried no kind of formal identification on her person, he would have to take her word for it. For now, anyway.

  ‘Mrs Kilbride,’ Mike began, when the formal introductions had been completed, ‘can you confirm you are the same Morag Kilbride currently residing at number sixteen, Bakers Drive in Northwood?’

  She looked up at him, as if trying to work out whether admitting to an address could somehow incriminate her. Mike had only asked the question in an effort to make her feel more at ease.

  ‘N – n – no comment,’ she eventually stammered in a hoarse voice.

  Mike might have expected such reluctance from the usual hardened characters he came face to face with in formal interviews, but not from someone with nothing to hide. Reaching for the tall plastic jug of water, he filled a beaker and slid it across the table to her, before filling a second and taking a long drink himself.

  She eyed the water suspiciously, before her trembling hands coiled around it, and she raised it to her lips.

  ‘I’d like to remind you, Mrs Kilbride, that you are not under arrest, and that you came here to the station this evening of your own volition. Now, I believe you are the resident at the aforementioned house in Northwood where a vicious assault has ended in the loss of life of an as yet unidentified male subject. All I want to establish is how much you know about that incident, whether you bore witness to what happened, and whether you can confirm the identity of the victim.’ He paused, watching her for any kind of telling reaction. ‘When you arrived at the station earlier, there was an altercation between you and another woman. Can you tell me what that was about?’

  Whilst there was little she was doing to keep the fear from her expression, he had yet to determine if that fear was due to the formality of this interview, or to Jess Donoghue’s earlier outburst.

  ‘Okay,’ Mike sighed, his patience already wearing thin, ‘how about one I think we all know the answer to. Can you tell me who that woman was?’

  She looked straight at him, her eyes filling, wanting to be unburdened, but untrusting.

  ‘How do you know Jess Donoghue?’ he asked blu
ntly, and this time the widening of her eyes confirmed recognition.

  ‘Sh – sh – she… Her daughter Grace goes to the same school as my wee one Daisy,’ she said, pulling a tissue from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes.

  ‘But you know her, right?’ Mike pushed. ‘She certainly seemed to know you, using your name when you came into contact earlier.’

  Morag nodded. ‘Aye, I know her… Well, not all that well… We only met last week.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  She frowned at the question. ‘I really don’t know her all that well.’

  ‘Tell me about how the two of you met.’

  Something passed between her eyes, a memory maybe, but gone in a blink. She made no effort to answer the question.

  Mike referred back to the list of questions he’d managed to scrawl in the five minutes between her being shown into the room and him joining her with PC Wozniak. ‘When you arrived at the station this evening, you said something about wanting to report a crime. What crime did you want to report?’

  ‘I d – d – don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Mrs Kilbride, I know what I heard, and I’m pretty sure Dr Savage witnessed what you said also, so please don’t take me for a fool. What made you come to the station so late on a Wednesday evening?’

  ‘I – I – I thought someone was following me. I came to the station in the hope that they would turn back, and they did.’

  This wasn’t what Mike had expected to hear, and the statement threw him momentarily. ‘You thought somebody was following you?’

  ‘Aye, in a red car, but when you opened the door, and I turned back, the red car was gone. Probably just my eyes playing tricks on me.’

  Mike had always prided himself on his ability to spot when someone was lying to him, but he couldn’t say conclusively that Morag wasn’t telling the truth.

  ‘Describe the car to me. Make, model, what the driver looked like.’

  ‘As I said it was red, a BMW I think, but I’m not very familiar with models of cars. I couldn’t see the driver’s face as it was so dark.’

  Mike didn’t like that the interview was diverging, and sought to correct the course. ‘What have you been up to this evening? Where were you prior to coming to the station?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘My husband and I took our daughter for dinner, on account of it being her first day at school.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Mike smiled, hoping a softer approach might lull her into thinking he was falling for the story. ‘Where did you go to for dinner?’

  ‘A wee restaurant about an hour’s drive away.’

  ‘Which restaurant? Maybe I know it.’

  ‘I can’t remember its name, to be honest.’

  Mike dug the nails into his hand to keep from giving away that he knew he had her on the ropes. ‘Fair enough, whereabouts was the pub? What town or village?’

  ‘In Chalfont St Peter.’

  ‘I know the town well,’ Mike bluffed. ‘My mum’s from there. Was it The Crown or The Old Speckled Hen?’ He had no idea if there were any pubs in Chalfont St Peter, let alone what they were called, but he sensed she didn’t either.

  ‘I really can’t remember. We’d never been there before tonight, and to be honest I’m not even sure I’d be able to find it again.’ She reached for the beaker and began to raise it towards her mouth, the quivering in her arm slowing.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Mike said, making a show of shrugging towards Wozniak. ‘Tell me, Mrs Kilbride, when were you last at your house?’

  The beaker stopped its trajectory and nearly slipped from her grasp. ‘I haven’t been home most of the day. I collected Daisy from school and then we went straight out for dinner.’

  Mike looked at his watch. ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Five – no, wait, four – she isn’t five until Friday.’

  ‘So presumably you collected her from school around three o’clock?’

  She nodded. ‘Half past actually.’

  ‘Which school does she go to?’

  ‘Hillside Infants.’

  ‘I know the place. Up near that road with the width restriction on it. Yes, yes, I know the school. That’s quite a trek from your home. Did you walk or drive to collect her?’

  ‘Walk. My husband Angus was using our car.’

  ‘And did he collect you from the school then?’

  ‘Aye, and then we went on to the restaurant.’

  Mike pulled up his shirt sleeve and looked at his watch, before comparing the time to that on the recording apparatus. ‘That’s some meal out. I make it bang on midnight, which means you’ve been away from your home – or so you claim – for the best part of nine hours. Where’s your daughter now?’

  ‘With a neighbour.’

  ‘And where is your husband?’

  For the first time she looked down at her hands, but didn’t answer.

  Mike didn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you know what happened at your house this evening, Mrs Kilbride?’

  Her head remained bowed.

  ‘Are you aware that a man was stabbed to death, and bled out all over the kitchen floor?’

  Fresh tears filled her eyes, as she looked up at him, her bottom lip trembling.

  Mike reached for the tablet he’d brought into the room, unlocked the screen, and flipped to the photograph Dr Karen Murphy had sent over following the post-mortem. Mike slid the tablet across the table so she could see it. ‘Who is this man in the photograph?’

  She stared at the image for a long time, her expression frozen in horror, before the tears burst free of their dam, and she pushed the tablet away. ‘I’m not saying another word until I speak to a solicitor.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Before – Jess

  The journey home has left me physically drained. I feel awful watching my mum flutter about setting the table with plates and cutlery, while Charlie has gone out to collect the pizza. Grace is happily stretched out on the sofa, her face buried in yet another book. I envy her ability to switch off the rest of the world and get lost inside the words and magical lands she reads about.

  I keep thinking about that website Rosie mentioned. Although it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack, I desperately want to search it for any sign of Daisy’s face. My phone is charging in the kitchen, and with Charlie set to return at any moment, I daren’t start using the laptop just yet. Maybe later. Or more likely in the early hours of the morning when insomnia comes to check on me.

  I start as Charlie’s phone buzzes to life on the coffee table next to me. He must have left it on vibrate. Leaning over, I see Doug’s name on the screen and that it is the third missed call from him. Grace hasn’t even seemed to notice that there is any noise shattering the silence. I’m tempted to answer and explain that Charlie will be back soon, but then think better of it. Answering the call feels like an invasion of his privacy, although I have met and spoken with Doug before.

  Silence returns to the room and the missed call counter increases. It’s so odd that Charlie has gone out without taking the phone with him. In the past there have been calls as late as midnight. I used to joke when I’d hear Charlie’s phone go that Doug had just had another brain fart he needed to share. Charlie has never mentioned it, but I am curious to know whether Doug disturbs the rest of the team as much as he does my husband.

  I’m about to wheel to the kitchen to check if Mum has managed to find everything for the table when the vibration starts again. Whatever he wants, clearly Doug is keen to get hold of Charlie. I reach for the phone and accept the call, keen to protect Charlie from getting into trouble. I’ll just tell Doug that we’re about to eat and that Charlie will call him back after, but as I place the phone to my ear, I’m surprised to hear a woman’s voice instead of Doug’s gruff bark.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. Can you talk?’

  I open my mouth to speak, and explain it’s not Charlie, but something holds me back, a
nd the words don’t emerge. I check the display again, but it is definitely the name ‘Doug’ on the screen.

  ‘Charlie? Are you there? Can you hear me?’

  I’m going to have to answer, and I clamp my eyes shut to silence the dozens of questions trying to burst through: who is this woman? Why is she calling on Doug’s number? Why was her first question whether Charlie could talk?

  ‘Hi, sorry,’ I say,’ keeping my eyes closed, ‘this is Charlie’s wife. He’s just had to nip out and forgot to take his phone. If you tell me your name, I’ll ask him to phone you back.’

  There is a pause on the line, and what I’m certain is a sharp intake of breath. ‘Um, hi… Uh, sorry that’s… I wasn’t expecting you to answer.’ Another breath. ‘Can you ask Charlie to call me back?’

  There’s a tingle as the hairs on the back of my neck brush against the loose material of my T-shirt. ‘Of course,’ I say, desperately trying to keep the anxiety from my voice, as my heart thuds in my chest. ‘And who should I say called?’

  Another pause. ‘Um… Kerry.’

  The questions keep coming, and I don’t want to listen to any of them.

  ‘What number should he call you on?’

  ‘This one’s fine. I’ll be here until eight, but I need to speak to him urgently about our meeting tomorrow.’

  An echo of Charlie’s voice from Sunday morning: I’m away at the client’s offices in Oxford on Tuesday.

  ‘I’ll let him know you called,’ I say, before the line goes dead, and I finally exhale.

  You’re being paranoid, I tell myself. Just because Charlie has never mentioned this Kerry before, it doesn’t mean there is any reason for me to be suspicious.