by Ann Troup
Delia saw where his gaze fell, ‘Well, you’re not going to get an answer by looking up there, are you? Sit down for god’s sake, you take up too much space,’ she said irritably, watching with grim amusement as the big detective perched himself uncomfortably on the edge of another fat chair. ‘I don’t know anything about a baby, but I wouldn’t put anything past that family. They liked their secrets,’ she added enigmatically.
‘What secrets?’ Angie wanted to know.
‘Well if I knew that, they wouldn’t be secrets would they?’ Delia countered with a satisfied smile. ‘Look I walked out of there the day Patsy died, and I never looked back. I don’t know anything about what you found there and I’ve had no contact with any of them since. I can’t help you.’
Ratcliffe glanced back up at the photo, ‘what about Rachel, did you have contact with her?’
Delia shrugged, ‘for a while, she was a nice kid. Couldn’t help her family could she? Anyway, I haven’t seen her for getting on for twenty years, she moved away, cut herself off. Didn’t even go to the funeral.’
‘Did you go to the funeral?’ Angela asked.
Delia pursed her lips, ‘I did. Wanted to make sure the old cow really was dead.’
Ignoring this comment, Ratcliffe pressed on, ‘Why didn’t Rachel go, it was her mother after all?’
Delia looked away from him, her eyes flicked rapidly from side to side before she answered, ‘they fell out. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but I think it was over money. William’s sister died; left the lot to Rachel, which was when she buggered off to London, lives in Lila,’s old flat as far as I know. Look, they were a weird lot, Stella wouldn’t say boo to a goose, Frances was so far up her own backside she thought her shit didn’t stink and Valerie wasn’t much better, she made Maggie Thatcher look like a pussycat. I just worked there. A long time ago.’
Angela sighed, this was going nowhere, ‘is there anyone else you can think of who might have known the family?’
Delia shrugged again, ‘Not likely, they weren’t exactly the kind that had friends. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where Stella is.’
Ratcliffe called it quits, they were getting nowhere fast with Delia Jones but both of them knew that she was holding back. They could see her now, staring at them through her net curtains as they sat in the car. Angela put they key in the ignition, ‘what now boss?’ she asked of the man brooding beside her.
Angela gazed out of the windscreen, straight ahead, at nothing in particular while she waited for his answer. She had fast tracked through the force, on a degree programme that meant quick promotion and instant status, but if she was honest, she was a bit out of her depth sometimes, especially around the Ratcliffe’s of the world. Older male coppers intimidated her. The only way she had learnt to deal with it was to refine a cool, detached persona that she hoped others saw as enigmatic and intelligent. The truth was, she was confused and often struggled to find a way forward, especially in cases like these. Everything she had learned in college flew out of the window when she was faced with someone like Delia Jones, the theory was there, she knew what she was supposed to achieve, but she just didn’t have the knack of engaging reluctant witnesses. She turned to Ratcliffe, who said, ‘talk to Charlie Jones. First, we go to the hospital and visit Frances’.
The first thing that Rachel saw when she woke was Charlie. He was sitting on a chair, feet up on the dressing table, watching TV with the sound off. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched him. The aftermath of a fit was always the same, severe exhaustion and a strange sensation of de-realisation. She couldn’t really remember much of what had happened, other than she had been in a café, and Charlie had walked in.
Slowly she realised that she was back in her hotel room, in bed, stripped down to just her bra, pants and T-shirt. Charlie must have found her key, brought her back, and undressed her. The thought made her wince with shame. Her mouth felt sore, and she could taste the slight tang of blood, she must have bitten her cheek during the fit.
‘Feeling better?’ Charlie asked.
Rachel hadn’t realised he was looking at her. ‘Thirsty’ she croaked.
Charlie pointed to a glass of water standing ready on the bedside table and watched as she took a long gulp. ‘How’s your mouth?’
It was raw causing Rachel to wince again. ‘Painful,’ she said flopping back against the pillows, unable to make her mind grasp the surreal situation. She felt like a limp rag. ‘Why are you here?’
Charlie didn’t say anything. Instead, he took the glass and walked into the bathroom to refill it. It was a good question; he just didn’t know how to answer it.
By the time he came back into the bedroom, Rachel had gathered herself together a little.
‘Thanks for helping me, but you didn’t need to stay.’
Still Charlie didn’t speak, just sat back in the chair looking at her, an inscrutable frown wrinkling his brow.
Rachel was at a loss, feeling vulnerable and stupid. She had never been able to stand pointed silences and fought to fill the gap. ‘How are you?’ she asked, immediately feeling idiotic.
Charlie gave a wry laugh and glanced heavenward before turning his gaze back to her and stating coolly, ‘old, tired, bitter. Some things don’t change Rachel.’
‘I’m sorry’ was all she could say, directing the apology towards the room. It would have been impossible to look him in the eye and say it.
Charlie was silent for a moment. ‘That was a bad fit.’
Rachel watched as he stood then turned towards the window, staring out onto the street below, anything other than have to show his face to her even though the ice had been broken. ‘It’s not usually that bad, not these days. But you know how it is, stress related. What with everything that happened yesterday and then seeing you, well…’ she trailed off.
He had turned towards her and his jaw was twitching, the way it did when he was angry or tense or upset. It unnerved her.
‘So Roy got killed and stuffed in a box in the shed. What about the other one Rachel? Has your family found an even more effective way of disposing of their unwanted children? Rather than just abandon them without a word, kill them off and hide the bodies. Gruesome but efficient I must say,’ he hissed trough gritted teeth.
Rachel had been bracing herself for this from the minute she saw him walk through the café door. She had spent nearly half her life avoiding this moment, because there was no way, no possible way that she could tell him the truth of why she’d left him. Fortunately, she was saved from making any kind of response by the sound of a single, loud rap on the door.
Ratcliffe had drawn a blank with Frances. The bang on the head had turned out to be worse than expected and she was still in hospital, unconscious, while the doctors waited for the haematoma that was pressing on her brain to subside. They had no idea when she would come round, so Ratcliffe had decided to re-question Rachel in the meantime. His boss DCI Benton had conveniently extracted herself from the case leaving him to rake over the ashes of this bizarrely soulless case. No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren’t talking much. It seemed to him, there were so many hidden agendas going on and no one cared about the two bodies that had given him some really disturbing dreams the previous night. He had managed to speak to Frances’s husband, Peter Haines, a supercilious man in Ratcliffe’s opinion, who had been far more concerned with the fact that his good name would be brought into question by the case, than he had been about either his injured wife, or the fact that two bodies had turned up at her former home. Ratcliffe had instinctively disliked the man, and looked forward to dragging him into the station to make his statement in due course. In the meantime, some gaps needed filling in.
He hadn’t bargained that Rachel would have company in her hotel room, so he was completely wrong footed when a man opened the door. So much so that it took him, a moment or two to realise that Rachel’s visitor was none other than Charlie Jones. ‘Well well well’ he said pulling
out his warrant card and pushing it under Charlie’s nose, as if Charlie didn’t know already exactly who he was, ‘not often we get to kill two birds with one stone.’ The fact that Rachel Porter was sitting up in bed half dressed and Jones was looking decidedly shifty, told him that whatever had been happening in that room wasn’t something that they would want to share. For some strange reason, the sight of her like that, disheveled, half-naked, irked him more than it should.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences Mr. Jones, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?’
Charlie patiently explained that he had bumped into Rachel that morning, that she had had another fit and that he had helped her get back to the hotel, it was as simple as that. Ratcliffe wasn’t buying it.
He glanced once more at Rachel, sitting up in bed her eyes wide, like she was auditioning for the part of something cute and innocent, like Bambi. ‘Really? As simple as that? I didn’t have you down as the good Samaritan type Mr. Jones,’ he said eying the room, his gaze settling once again on the woman in the bed. The fact that Rachel’s mouth was swollen bothered him, but he wasn’t there to talk about that. ‘We’ve been to see your sister Rachel. She’s not well, not at all.’
If Ratcliffe had expected a torrent of concern to flow from Rachel’s mouth he would have been disappointed. Rachel’s reaction was to ask what was wrong, nod her head, and then reassure him that Frances would no doubt survive the ordeal. ‘Frances is tough’. Rachel said sagely. What was it with these people?
Ratcliffe sat on the edge of the bed, forcing Rachel to edge away from him, the covers pulled up to her chin. Anyone else would have asked him to wait while they got dressed, wouldn’t they? ‘Tell me about Stella. What’s she like?’
Rachel pondered this for a moment; it was difficult to think of a succinct way of describing Stella, because she wasn’t always what she seemed to be. ‘Stella is quiet, nondescript, and timid really. She cared for our mother after her stroke, which wasn’t an easy task. The fact that she’s gone surprises me, she loved The Limes. I didn’t think she would ever leave. I don’t know what to tell you really, she might have changed. I’m not sure I would know her at all anymore.’
‘Have you managed to remember anything about where she might have gone, friends or relatives she may have decided to visit?’ Ratcliffe asked.
Rachel shook her head. ‘There are no relatives, and no friends. Stella is a shy person so she never had friends. Our mother didn’t encourage it.’
‘What about the shop, didn’t Stella work in the family business? Might she have met people there?’
‘I really don’t know, I think the shop closed when our mother got ill, I haven’t seen them for so long, I really don’t know. I’m sorry but I really can’t help.’
He turned to Charlie, ‘what about you Mr. Jones, you knew her, where do you think she might have gone?’
Charlie shrugged, ‘don’t ask me, I haven’t set eyes on her for thirty years.’ It was true, the last time he’d clapped eyes on Stella Baxter was the day she had given evidence against him in court.
Ratcliffe sighed, why the hell did none of these people know anything? ‘Rachel do you have a photograph of her?’
Rachel laughed as if surprised by the request, ‘no. We didn’t do photos, unless Frances has one, there are pictures of her wedding I think.’
Ratcliffe nodded. ‘OK, now can you tell us anything about the body that you found yesterday, the child?’
It was the first time that Rachel had shown any real emotion in front of him. Her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. I didn’t even know that there was a cupboard there until yesterday. Oh my god, I can’t believe that someone would do that to a baby!’ she said, her voice trembling.
Ratcliffe noticed Charlie’s body stiffen at Rachel’s words. ‘People are capable of some terrible things.’ he said, looking straight at Charlie.
Charlie simply looked away.
As he drove back to the station, Ratcliffe figured that there was no alternative but to get a picture of Stella in the press as soon as possible. Someone, somewhere, would have seen her recently, all they had to do was pick her up, and the case was solved as far as he was concerned. Strangely, it still bugged him that Charlie had been in Rachel’s room. Something was going on between those two, the air had been fairly crackling with tension when he had walked in and Ratcliffe would have preferred to believe that his curiosity was solely connected to the case, but he had the discomforting feeling that it wasn’t. Thoughts of Rachel Porter needled him. Not just in his role as a police officer, but as a man. There was more to that situation than met the eye, and he was going to find out what it was, even if it did mean DS Watson staying up all night to find out.
Back in the incident room, he picked up a message to call Ferris. News was in on the bodies. All he wanted was a decent cuppa, not a visit to the morgue. Why couldn’t these forensic people just send a report? He never had understood the necessity of having to be shown the gruesome evidence. What was he supposed to do with the image, chat about it to his wife over dinner? Although, it might make an interesting change to Maria Ratcliffe’s usual diatribe.
Ferris had completed a basic exam on both victims. Her initial conclusions were that Baxter, whose identity she had confirmed by discovering his wallet still intact inside his rotting clothes, had been alive when he was placed in the trunk. She showed the detective the feeble scratch marks that scarred the underside of the lid.
‘I don’t think he was alive for long, and I don’t think he had much strength left when he made these marks. There is some considerable damage to the skull; I suspect that he was hit repeatedly with something heavy and hard. He would have died from a combination of those injuries and suffocation. There was a substantial amount of sand in his throat. Now that he is out of the sand, and out of an airtight box, he’s going to deteriorate rapidly so I needed to find out as much as I could as soon as I could. I also found something in his hand, an earring,’ she held up a bag containing a small gold earring, shaped like a teardrop. ‘My guess is that it belongs to whoever killed him.’
Ratcliffe took the bag and examined the earring. It wasn’t an uncommon design, nothing special at all. Still if someone could identify it as belonging to Stella, it might strengthen the case. ‘What about the baby, anything there?’
Ferris sighed, hardened as she was to the nature of her job, kids were always depressing to have to deal with. ‘I think he was dead before he was put in the box, it looks like he was stillborn. To be honest it’s difficult to tell. From the skeleton, the size of the skull and the length of the long bones, it looks like he had congenital problems. We did manage to salvage this though,’ she passed him another bag, containing several thin strips of material. ‘It was what he was dressed in.’
Through the clear plastic, he could see a name, embroidered on the fabric. ‘Daniel’ he said aloud, ‘at least the poor little thing had a name.’
Ferris couldn’t afford to get too sentimental about such things. ‘Anyway, I still have tests to do, and should be getting more results in soon. I’ll let you know as soon as anything comes in.’
Ratcliffe was relieved to be outside again breathing air that didn’t have a rancid aftertaste of decay. No matter how scrupulously clean Ferris’s staff tried to be in there, the whole place still stunk of death as far as he was concerned. He was puzzled by the assertion that Baxter had been alive when he had been stashed in the trunk, from what they did know about Stella, she was a tiny little thing. Baxter had been six foot tall. How had such a small woman managed to manhandle someone that size into a great big trunk? His only conclusion was that she must have had help, which meant that someone else had known that the body was there. His money was on the mother, the dead and therefore perpetually silent Valerie. They had to find Stella, which meant he had a very good excuse to pay Peter Haines a visit.
CHAPTER FIVE
In Rachel’s room, the atmosp
here was thick with negativity. Waves of tension seemed to emanate from Charlie’s taut expression, washing over Rachel and forcing an uneasy silence. The policeman had only just left, but his questions glowed neon bright in Charlie’s mind as if displayed on an imaginary autocue. “How well did you know Stella?”, “what kind of person is she?”, “did she ever discuss her relationship with her husband?”
Stella’s evidence against him in his trial for Patsy’s murder had ensured his conviction. He had spent ten years in prison because of Stella, the woman who had sworn on the bible to tell the truth. Yes, she had walked into the hallway that day and had been open mouthed with horror to see him kneeling next to Patsy’s body. However, she had only seen what she wanted to see, she had assumed that because he held a knife in his hand, that he was responsible. In his mind’s eye, he could see the wounds even now, great, savage rents spewing out torrents of blood. If he closed his eyes, it was still there, red pools of it, blossoming on the tiles like overblown poppies. Blood soaking into his clothes, clinging to the knife. The acrid, metallic tang of it still haunted his nose. Only one person had witnessed what actually happened. A ten-year-old kid who had epilepsy. A child who couldn’t be believed, who according to her mother, was a fantasist and a drama queen. Moreover, Valerie had despised Charlie for years.
Valerie had described Rachel as a problem child to the police, a problem child with an inappropriate crush on an older man. Valerie had blamed herself of course, telling them that it was her fault that Rachel followed Charlie around like a lap dog, she hadn’t realised it was a problem, until Rachel was prepared to bend the truth for him. To think that it had gone so far that her child was prepared to lie for him, Valerie had found untenable, an indictment on her own poor parenting. The police had reassured her, Charlie was a devious and charming man, and no doubt, he had coerced Rachel into falsely defending him.
All Rachel had told them was that Charlie had pulled the knife out, not stuck it in and that he had found Patsy there, in the hall, after she had been stabbed. The Police had said that she would, wouldn’t she? The child was clearly terrified of Charlie Jones, so of course she would lie. They had shaken their heads at her with a mixture of pity and disdain.
