Ted stared at the television. Peter twisted his head around to watch his brother-in-law’s response to the announcer’s words.
‘The operation involved over 100 policemen and there was little resistance once the police were inside.
‘A spokesman for the Commune, calling himself “Father Paul”, said the squatters were attempting to establish a home for many of Manchester’s homeless people. This is the third mill in the Manchester area to be taken over in the last six months.
‘Negotiations have been going on to allow the Commune to leave peacefully, but the squatters ignored a High Court Order issued a week ago ordering them to get out, and the police were brought in to evict them by force from the old mill.’
‘A mill, Ted.’ Peter breathed. ‘They say about a mill.’
‘What about it?’
‘Where do we know where there is a mill?’
They stared at each other.
‘You and Mary were so sure that Victoria would be in Manchester…’ Ted slowly fingered the faint scar on his cheek. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s too close to here. She wouldn’t…’
‘Still, we should look. Ja?’ Peter’s voice shook. ‘We must go there.’
Chapter 74: Victoria Schormann
Ashford: Tuesday, October 21st
‘What’s the big deal?’ River leant against the kitchen door-frame. He took a long drag from his spliff, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s only a shag.’ His voice was strained as he held onto the smoke before letting it trickle out of his nostrils. ‘Or two.’
He threw the tab-end onto the flags, ground it beneath his sandal and took a couple of steps into the room, pulling the door behind him and wedging a chair under the handle.
Victoria dropped the tie-dyed skirt she’d been washing into the sudsy water in the tin washtub, and whirled around to face him, wiping her hands on her purple chiffon kaftan . ‘Take one step towards me and you’ll be sorry,’ she said. She cursed inwardly in disbelief; she’d spent the last few days making sure she was never alone. Ignoring the snide whispers behind her back that she’d been ‘let go’ by Seth, she made herself stay with the other girls, whatever they were doing. But this morning she’d made the mistake of assuming River would still be in his bed.
His face was impassive as he watched her glancing around for something she could protect herself with. The only thing that looked any good was the thick rounders bat that someone had once found and brought to the commune to be used to pummel the washing in the large metal tubs.
He moved closer. She could smell his odour; the mix of sweat and bad breath made her want to heave. She inched sideways, feeling with her hand along the draining-board whilst still keeping her eyes on his. The sunlight from the window behind her lit up his greasy hair and the grime in his lined features.
He moved again, this time so close he was almost touching; Victoria turned her head away from him but could still see him from the corner of her eye. He was a tall skinny man but deceptively strong, she guessed; there would be no way she could fight him. She had to get hold of the bat. Her fingers scrabbled for it.
Then his hand came down on hers. ‘No you don’t, missy.’ His voice was gruff, his breath hot on her ear.
Putting both hands on his chest Victoria shoved him, grabbed the bat and, with a shout, brought it down on him. It missed his head and landed on his shoulder. She thought she heard a crack beneath his shout of rage and pain. She lifted her weapon again, enjoying the surge of anger in her.
This time he caught hold of her hair and dragged her head back, wrenching the rounders bat from her and flinging it across the room.
Flailing out at him, Victoria was forced to her knees. ‘Let me go!’ The anger dissipated just as quickly as it had come. She heard the tremor of fear in her voice. Not this, she thought, not this.
Somewhere there was chattering and laughter, somewhere a guitar played, somewhere outside birds sang.
She should have hit him harder. Even as she thought it, Victoria knew it was hopeless; he was too strong. She tried to stand but he forced her back down, crushing the bones in her wrist with his grip. He tugged at the back of her woollen waistcoat, her kaftan. She wrenched her neck from side to side, held on to the front of her clothes with her free hand, trying to stop him pulling them over her head.
He let go of her wrist and gave a last pull until the sleeves of the waistcoat and kaftan were bunched over her arms pinning them together in front of her. Victoria was naked except for her knickers. Panting, she kicked out at him, twisting and turning, aiming for his crotch but he avoided her feet, dropping to his knees at the side of her and forcing her arms upwards until, wrapping her clothes around the iron legs of the sink, he tied them in tight knots.
Victoria didn’t scream; she knew there was no point. It hadn’t taken her long to see that the girls were scared of River, that they were glad he wanted her and not them. Nobody would come to help her.
He got hold of her legs and dragged her onto her back. The grit on the stone flags burned her skin. She put her feet flat on the floor and tried to push herself back into a sitting position but he knelt astride her hips, holding her down with his legs and, at the same time, whipping his grubby kaftan over his head. He wore nothing underneath and he was ready for her.
When he forced her legs apart Victoria closed her eyes and let her body go limp. His weight held her down as he pushed himself into her. She tried not to hear the grunts of each thrust, the regular scrape of the toe of his sandals on the floor. The tears slid sideways off her face as she stared at the dirty floor, the mouse-droppings, the pile of clothes and worn blankets waiting to be washed.
After the final groan River was silent except for the quick drawing-in and letting-go of his breath. Victoria felt him loosen the knot that tied her to the sink, heard the rustle of clothes, the scuffle of his feet, the squeak of the chair being pulled from the door, the click of the handle.
When she was sure he’d left, she opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet. Then she stepped into the washtub and squatted down into the cold water.
Chapter 75: Jacqueline Howarth
Bradlow: Tuesday, October 21st
‘No, Uncle Peter.’ Jackie rested her arms on top of the police station counter, winding a pen around her fingers.
‘But why?’ Peter held out his hands. ‘She could be there! And it was not on the list that you gave us. Why was that?’ In his agitation, his accent became more pronounced.
Jackie closed the door to the telephone exchange where the two telephonists were listening in silent curiosity. ‘Because I’ve already checked the Granville out myself.’ She watched him carefully. Hesitated. ‘I went with two colleagues and my sergeant the week Vicky disappeared,’ she said. ‘We’d been before, when they first arrived. The sergeant was all for getting an Order to move them on, but they did a deal of some sort with the Council and they’re being allowed to stay. For the time being.’ She put her hand on his arm, stilled him, hating to see the pain in his eyes. ‘The place will eventually be demolished.’
‘That is good.’ Peter groped in his pocket for his handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.
‘The Council have been talking about putting houses on the site.’ Jackie spoke softly, watching for a reaction, knowing she wouldn’t want a house there. Not in a place where there’d been so much misery.
But Peter only nodded to show he’d heard her and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket.
‘The people there … it’s some sort of commune … they seem pretty harmless.’ Jackie glanced at the closed door. The low murmur of voices and clicks of the metal covers on the switchboard told her the telephonists weren’t listening any more. She relaxed. ‘Anyway, they let us look all around the buildings; we took ages. Believe me, Victoria’s not there.’ She went to one of the four-drawer metal cabinets and pulled out a file. ‘I’m not supposed to show you this, but the sergeant’s giving evidence in court this morning and I�
�m on my own, so I will.’ She ran her finger down the page until she got to the paragraph she wanted. ‘See?’ She turned the file round so he could read the words with her.
‘“Conclusion: A thorough search was carried out. There is no evidence that the missing person, Victoria Schormann, is, or has been, present in the above-named premises,” That’s the Granville, Uncle Peter. And look at the date … “Tuesday the 23rd of September 1969.” That’s the day after Auntie Mary telephoned me.’
‘She didn’t tell me that you had searched there.’
‘She doesn’t know.’ Jackie closed the file and put it back in the cabinet. ‘It was the day of your heart attack—’
‘Small scare, that is all.’
‘Yes, well, she had enough to deal with. What was the point of upsetting you both?’
‘I think still I should go. Victoria may have gone there afterwards.’
Jackie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I doubt it. And it will only distress you; you have bad memories of that place.’
‘I already have been to look. There is a lock on the gates. So I want you to come with me,’ Peter insisted.
‘No. There’s no need. You’ll only upset yourself.’
‘I know how I will feel. It was a bad time in my life. But I need to do this. I insist, Jacqueline.’
She blew out a long breath and leaned against the counter, aware she wasn’t going to win the argument. ‘Okay. But it will have to be before my shift tomorrow.’
‘I want you to go in your uniform – show that you are official?’ His voice was strong, determined now that she’d agreed.
Jackie pressed her lips together; she knew she would get into trouble if caught. ‘I suppose I could do that, if it was right before my shift. But it wouldn’t be official, Uncle Peter. I couldn’t tell my sergeant; he’d want to know if there was any new evidence that she’s there. And there isn’t.’ It would be a complete waste of time. Jackie inwardly cursed her cousin. But she’d do this for her uncle. He didn’t deserve all the worry his daughter had selfishly put him through.
‘And I do not want your aunt to know this,’ Peter said. ‘She will only worry.’
Chapter 76: Mary Schormann
Ashford, morning: Tuesday, October 21st
Mary rested her hand on the lichen-covered pillar at the end of the drive and stared towards the large grey stone house, a whole range of conflicting emotions rippling through her: fear, anger, apprehension. She took in a long quivering breath. It looked like an old rectory with the large bay windows. Three long steps led up to a porch and double doors. Ironic that such an evil man was now living there.
A car passed behind her on the lane and she jumped, glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the black Jaguar again. Putting her hand to her throat she steadied her breathing, looking down at the ground. There were curved marks in the gravel as though the large gates were often closed, but today they were pushed back against the low walls that separated the lawns from the drive. George Shuttleworth could be out. What if his wife answered the door? Mary hadn’t prepared for that. Stupid, she berated herself; what would she say?
She looked back at the house, studying each window. There was no sign that anyone was at home but the thick white net curtains could have hidden anyone behind them.
The gravel crunched under her feet, echoed in her head as she marched to the front door. If he was inside, if he was watching her, if he even recognised her after all this time, she was determined to show no fear.
She needn’t have bothered; the slack-jawed shock on his face told her she was the last person he expected to see standing in front of him. His expression tensed, his eyes narrowed.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
Mary had practised what she was going to say from the second she knew this moment would come. She’d gone over and over it as she drove from Henshaw Street, parked the Hillman Minx further down the lane and pulled on the handbrake. Each time she stopped to read the names of the large houses she recited her speech.
But now, faced with the man she’d hated for so long she couldn’t get the words out.
‘Well? What do you want?’
‘I’ve met your step-daughter, Karen,’ Mary said, her voice husky.
She saw him half turn to look behind him, ‘Where is she?’ His voice was abrasive, coarse ‘Where’s she hiding?’
‘She’s perfectly safe.’ Mary swallowed; that wasn’t how she’d intended to start. ‘I hoped I’d never see you again,’ she continued, ‘but it was inevitable you’d crawl out from under your stone sometime.’
The skin of his face blotched; his top lip drew back over an uneven row of teeth.
Mary forced herself to speak again. ‘My son and Karen are seeing one another.’
‘Over my dead body.’ The knuckles on his fisted hands whitened.
Mary raised one shoulder, ignoring the threat. ‘It was as much as a shock for me and Peter to find out who she was—’
‘Where is the Kraut then?’ George Shuttleworth cut in, peering over her head, balancing on his toes and moving from side to side in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Oh, I see, nowhere,’ he jeered. ‘Too much of a coward to come with you?’
‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’ As soon as she spoke Mary realised her mistake. He took a step towards her, locked his bloodshot eyes on hers. She didn’t move, even though she could feel the panic tighten her scalp. ‘Think yourself lucky he’s not with me,’ she managed to say.
He smiled, casually leant against the wall of the porch, his thumbs jammed into his trouser-pockets. ‘I’m scared!’ He pretended to shiver. ‘So fuckin’ scared.’
‘I’ve come to tell you…’ Mary lifted her chin. ‘You hurt one hair on Richard’s head and I will make sure you go to prison. I will tell the police how you killed Tom. How I saw you run him down in cold blood.’
‘And how you were the only witness … hmm? Of this so-called killing?’ He looked into the hall of the house behind him and lowered his voice. ‘How long ago? Nearly twenty years? And no proof?’ he mocked. ‘I don’t think they’d be interested, somehow.’
He straightened up and, with the flat of his hand, pushed Mary, following her as she stumbled backwards down the steps. The heel of her shoe turned on the gravel, twisting her ankle. Despite the sudden pain she kept her face impassive, instinct telling her he would do no more than this – not in front of his own house.
‘Your fuckin’ brother died because he murdered Frank.’
‘Tom didn’t kill Frank.’ She’d said it without thinking, a subconscious denial. As soon as she’d spoken his eyes became slits. For a moment everything became still and quiet. ‘I mean…’
‘Yeah, what do you mean? Huh?’
She couldn’t think. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘I didn’t…’ she couldn’t breathe for the fear filling up in her.
‘So?’ He stroked his forefinger along the side of his nose. ‘Tom didn’t kill Frank.’ It was a statement, an awareness of the truth. ‘But, looking at you, you know who did.’
‘No, I…’ Mary stepped back as he closed in.
With a slight movement of his shoulders, he said, ‘Don’t matter to me – must have been one of you by my reckoning. Getting rid of one bastard Howarth is one less anyway.’
He caught her arm as she swung her hand towards his face, his grip viciously pinching her skin.
‘What is it they say? “An eye for an eye”? Well, maybe killing one of you isn’t enough. Maybe I’ll want more. Something different, after all your lot did to me.’ Still holding her arm, he was so close his face was almost touching hers. ‘Your niece has grown up to be a looker. Bit different from that skinny kid I last saw. Looks like she could be some fun now. Hmm?’
Mary tried to steady herself by filling her lungs with air. Jerking her arm away, she forced herself to stay so close to him. She gritted her teeth. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
It was as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘And
didn’t I hear somewhere you had a girl as well? How old will she be? Seventeen? Eighteen? Oh – now, didn’t I hear you had twins? So same age as that bastard son of yours. Good age to start learning the facts of life.’
‘Leave my family alone.’
‘Well, you see, I can’t do that. Now your son has taken my stepdaughter off me, it’s reminded me of everything else I’ve lost.’
‘Then be prepared to lose more.’ Mary’s breath came in shallow gasps, her head swam. ‘I’m not the only one who knows what you did,’ she said. ‘Your mother has nothing to lose by telling the truth. She knows you killed Tom. You told her. Remember?’
‘The old cow still alive then?’ He looked shocked, but gave a low laugh. ‘Don’t go near that crummy side of town any more so wouldn’t know one way or the other.’ He pulled his mouth into a sneer. ‘Still, I’m bloody amazed.’
‘She is, and, believe me, she’s not afraid of you.’ As soon as she’d said that Mary knew it was a mistake. She listened in dismay to his next words
‘Well, she should be. You tell her that.’
Mary straightened up, lifted her chin and met his eyes. ‘I promise you this,’ she said. ‘Touch my son, harm anyone in my family, any of my friends, including your mother … and I will kill you.’
The silence between them was dense with hatred.
Then George Shuttleworth laughed. He patted her cheek. ‘You can fuck off now,’ he said. ‘Go on, on your way. You’ve had your say.’
Despite the pain in her ankle Mary walked firmly to the end of the drive. She went cold when, as she turned on to the road, he called out, almost casually. ‘But watch your back. That goes for the rest of your bloody family, too.’
Chapter 77: Mary & Peter Schormann
Ashford, afternoon: Tuesday, October 21st
‘You should not have gone on your own.’ Peter was agitated; he sat on the bed, then got up and paced the room. Up and down. Up and down. Rubbing the palms of his hands over his head when standing and over his thighs when he sat.
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