by Ann Troup
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.
‘You 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.
‘Asshole!’ 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.
‘Comes to something doesn’t it?’ she said with a cynical shake of her head.
Charlie hated random statements. ‘Pardon?’
‘In 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. ‘I 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 c
afé 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.
‘Oh my God!’ the waitress yelled, trying to pull him off.
Charlie shouted, and shrugged her off ‘Get 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.
‘Are 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. ‘Can 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 ‘still or sparkling?’
Charlie glowered at her. ‘Tap’ 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, ‘Can I do anything? Should I check her bag, call a relative or something?’
Charlie shook his head, ‘No, 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, ‘Not being funny, but do you actually know her?’
Charlie closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. ‘You could say that I do.’
The woman frowned, ‘Are you a relative?’
He nodded, ‘I’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, ‘I 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.
‘I 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. ‘There 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, ‘what 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, ‘How did you and your son know Mr Baxter?’
‘I 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.’
‘Why not?’ Ratcliffe asked.
Delia laughed and shook her head, ‘Valerie Porter didn’t like anyone much.’
Ratcliffe didn’t buy it; he looked at Angela and by his guess, neither did she. ‘What do you mean?’
Delia shifted in her seat, ‘she 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.’
‘She must have liked you, she gave you a job.’ Angela said.
‘Huh! 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.
‘Why stay if she was so unpleasant, paid so little?’ Angela wanted t
o 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.
‘I 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.
‘You 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.
