by Emmy Ellis
Damon coughed.
Sorry…
“Oh…dear God…” Zello deflated, sinking into her desk chair. “What… How…?”
“She died before getting to the field. So she either left here of her own accord, died, and someone slit her throat then took her there or—”
“What?” It came out as a squeak, and Zello’s face paled, then the whiteness bloomed with spots of red on her cheeks. She ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Who would want to kill Mrs Roberts? I thought…I thought she’d just run off.”
“Perhaps she did. Someone may have intercepted her.” Tracy approached the desk and remained standing, pressing her fingertips on the surface. “Is there anyone working here who might be a little…unpleasant to the residents?”
“What? No!” Zello slapped a palm to her chest. “Do you think I would keep any staff in employment if I thought for one second they’d be unpleasant?”
“Of course not. I worded that badly.” I’m so good at that. “Let me rephrase. Is there anyone you know who may have wanted to harm Mrs Roberts—nurse, cleaner, gardener, her family? Anyone at all who would have come into contact with her.”
“No. Absolutely no. That reword was just as bad as the original statement, by the way. Good grief, it’s a good job you’re not a doctor.”
“No bedside manner. I know.” Tracy didn’t bother smiling. She didn’t have the inclination to even fake being pleasant. Zello was winding her up.
Funny how I can dish it out but don’t like getting it back.
“Let’s talk about Mrs Roberts’ behaviour prior to her…unfortunate end.”
“Yes, she’d been a little unlike her usual self the past couple of days, but nothing that would make someone do that to her.” She fanned her face with her hand. “I feel quite sick…”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t puke right now. I’d also appreciate it if you could keep what happened to Mrs Roberts to yourself. Even from the nurses. We’re not ready yet to give everyone full disclosure. I’m only telling you because of the police presence, which is disruptive to the running of the home. Did you know some clothes were found?”
“Yes, that nice policeman asked us if we recognised it. Far too modern for the residents, if a bit grubby and terribly smelly, and I can’t imagine any of the nurses slinging their things out on the grass. That in itself is strange, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Very. Especially as all the nurses were supposedly asleep, so it begs the question as to who put the clothing there. What disturbs me is how Mrs Roberts got out.”
“We lock up at six once I leave, but we don’t set the alarm until after the residents are in bed at nine—we do a final check to make sure everyone is present and accounted for first. Unfortunately, that task seems to have been ignored because everyone fell asleep. I’m so angry about that.”
“Will they get written warnings?” Because they bloody should.
“Definitely.”
Tracy nodded. “Good. I’m a bit miffed at the fact that people pay hard-earned money to ensure their family members are safe here and, well, they’re not, are they.”
Zello’s head moved back sharply, reminding Tracy of an emu. “There are rules in place. They weren’t followed. That will be dealt with swiftly, I assure you.”
“I hope so. It wouldn’t surprise me if some people moved their mothers and fathers elsewhere once this gets out.”
Zello’s eyes widened. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Tracy sighed. “Well, I’ll be sending some of my team round to the nurses’ houses later to be questioned again. Best to be extra thorough. I take it you can give me their addresses—all the staff actually. Cleaners, the people who cut the grass. Everyone.”
“I can do that for you now.”
While Zello busied herself gathering the information, Tracy left the room, Damon behind her. She had SOCO to talk to.
Out on the patio that ran the length of the building in front of the back lawn, Tracy took in the scene as if she were the killer—if the killer had abducted Mrs Roberts first and had exited this way.
“What do you reckon, Damon? Would he have come through the door we just used or one of the others along the way there?”
An officer in whites dusted one of the handles for prints, while another knelt on the patio, digging out something from the moss between two.
“God knows. Coming out this way seems sensible. Less chance of being seen carrying a dead body.”
“So you think she was killed here, do you?” She cocked her head.
“Just a figure of speech. Whether she was dead or not, it’d be best not to draw attention to yourself by going out the front, wouldn’t it?”
“Let’s face it, there isn’t much traffic out there in the day, so nighttime would be even less. It was dark. All they’d have done was wait for any cars to go past then get on with it. Yes?” She looked at him.
“We’ll find out soon enough once forensics have worked it out.”
“Hmm.” She called an officer over—one by the bush—so she didn’t step on the grass. “Hi, Ben, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad. Should be here for about another three or four hours.” He lowered a mask from his mouth.
“Anything I can use here? Any information?”
“We’ve found a few of those sticky balls from undergrowth. Do you know the kind I mean? I can’t think of the plant’s bloody name.”
Tracy nodded.
“They’re not consistent with this garden,” Ben said. “As you can see, this is well cared for. Those types of weeds aren’t here.”
Might have been on the clothes?
Ben’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, and we also found some hair on the deceased’s pillow—black. Long.”
“Right. Bit weird considering the victim’s is short and grey-white.” Tracy frowned.
“It is. That’s been sent off already—thought it best we get the guys going on it sooner rather than later.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“There was also a clump of mud beside the bush. Different colour to what’s in the flowerbeds, so I’m assuming it also didn’t come from this garden. Testing will prove that one way or the other.”
“Okay, thanks, Ben. I need to be getting back to the station. See you soon.”
Ben replaced the mask and got on with his work. Tracy walked inside with Damon, heading for Zello’s office. The door was open, so they stepped in.
“Here you go,” Zello said, holding out a piece of paper with names, addresses, and phone numbers printed on it.
Tracy folded it and slid it in her pocket. “Thanks. I’ll need the bags from out of the safe.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. Such a strange thing to do, leaving clothes out there.” Zello walked over to a waist-high safe and twisted the dial on the front—left, left, right.
“Why such a big safe?” Tracy asked.
“We keep the residents’ valuables in here. You know, rings, necklaces, their spending money.”
“Spending money?”
“Yes, there’s a van that comes round once a week, a mobile shop, and everyone buys what they want there. Sweets, snacks, books, things like that.”
“What’s the name of the company?” Tracy glanced at Damon and gestured for him to get his notebook out.
“Shop on the Go.” Zello opened the safe and took the bags out.
Damon tucked them under his arm. “And the person who runs it?”
“Martin,” Zello said. “I just know him as Martin.”
Tracy resisted rolling her eyes. “So, another security lapse, maybe?”
Zello locked the safe then turned, her cheeks flushed. “It seems so.” She appeared crestfallen, genuinely upset. “I didn’t think…”
“You’d benefit from a security course, something like that,” Tracy said. “Anyone could come along with a van, chat to the residents, find out if they’re worth a bob or two.”
“Christ, do you think…?”
> “You can never be too careful in life, Mrs Zello—you can’t be too careful with other people’s lives either.” Says the woman who let her sister go free to kill again.
“Are you blaming me?” Zello’s eyes watered.
“I’m not doing anything of the sort.” I tell so many lies. “Just pointing out where things could be tightened up in the future.” Tracy paused. “So this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”
She strode out, not in the mood to get into an argument with the woman—and that was where it would go if Tracy remained. Zello would most probably want to defend herself, but the fact was plain that someone had taken Mrs Roberts from here, or the woman had walked away, and no one had known for hours.
Not good enough.
In a private corner, she rang Nada to check out the company Shop on the Go and find out who the hell this Martin bloke was.
As if they needed more suspects than they already had.
Chapter Eight
He’d sped away from the care home and made straight for the car wash, wanting to get rid of anything that might have got on the vehicle during his little nighttime jaunt.
He’s in his garage now, hoovering the car’s interior, especially the back seat where the old dear had been. He can’t be doing with skin cells or hair being left behind.
Job done, he goes into the house and thinks over the past few hours. Once Mrs Roberts’ disappearance had been discovered, all hell had broken loose with nurses muttering about losing their jobs for falling asleep. No mention of an elderly resident being gone, not at first. Then the enormity of it all had kicked in, and he’d watched them, fascinated, as they’d scurried around trying to find her.
He’d offered to check the unused wing. While there, he’d made sure nothing was amiss from storing Dirty Girl there. Luckily, later, when the police had arrived, they’d been more interested in finding Mrs Roberts, not a bag of men’s clothes, which he’d put in the incinerator before the authorities had arrived. Many a soiled sheet went in there, the material burning to ash.
The officer who’d spotted Dirty Girl’s outfit in the garden had stared at it for a while and had appeared ethereal for a moment, bathed as he was by the outside wall light casting its glow on him. The items had been placed in clear plastic bags then shown to all the nurses.
Things had gone exactly to plan.
Except for Dirty Girl getting away. He’ll have to fix that later, no time now. He needs a shower to remove any evidence from his body.
Chapter Nine
I wake to the sound of the doorbell twanging on my last nerve. I’ve barely had five hours of sleep, and my mind takes a moment to catch up. Tendrils of memory float inside my head, something about last night, a terrible thing happening, something to do with me, then it all comes tumbling back. Someone had taken Mrs Roberts, and my main concern is that they’ll suspect me. I’ve been a little short with her lately, what with her antics, and once people really think about it, they’ll remember how I’ve been acting around the old woman and tell someone.
I stumble out of bed, and the door chimes again, seeming louder, more urgent. I grab my peach-coloured dressing gown that smells manky and drag it on, then go to the front door. There’s no glass in it, so I can’t see the shape of anyone there. I look through the peephole.
Shit. It’s those police officers from earlier.
My heart pounds, and a lump sits at the back of my throat.
I open the door and smile, lips twitching with the nerves kicking in. Are they here to accuse me? I haven’t done anything wrong except to snap at Mrs Roberts, so surely they’re not here to arrest me or anything.
Unless you can be arrested for sleeping at work.
“Ah, Miss Ordsall,” the woman says—Tracy something or other. “May we come in? Sorry if we just got you out of bed. I appreciate you can’t have had much sleep. Are you back at Blooming Age tonight?”
“No.” I blink, for some reason surprised it’s getting dark out. Is it even the same day? Wake the hell up. “Mrs Zello has let us skip a night to catch up. What do you want?”
“Oh, we’re interviewing everyone again—formally this time. Everyone who was there last night when Mrs Roberts went missing. Nothing to worry about.”
Right. So it is the same day.
I step back and allow them to enter, then lead them into the living room. “Do you want any tea?” I need one.
“No, thank you. We’ll sit down, though, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m not used to visitors.” Never was any good at making friends. “Yes, you have a seat. There.” I point to the brown, old-fashioned sofa, then scratch my head, wondering if it would be rude to go and make myself a drink.
The female officer hands over a card, and I stare at it, a bit dumbfounded. Collier, that’s her surname.
“That’s in case you need to contact me,” Collier says, parking her backside. “You know, if you remember anything after we’ve left. Oftentimes, people get random memories way down the line, so if you recall anything else, you can use those numbers.”
“Right. Thank you.” I clutch the card, and my hand shakes.
“You okay?” the man asks.
Damon Hanks. I remember that name.
“Um, I haven’t had enough sleep.” I’d planned to get at least twelve hours in, but these two have fucked that up. “I’ll just make myself a cuppa. That’ll wake me up.”
I go into the kitchen before they have a chance to stop me, popping the card under a magnet on the fridge. I make my tea quickly, using my instant water heater rather than the kettle. While I add sugar and stir in milk, I think about last night. I was the one who was supposed to have got Mrs Roberts to bed, but she’d messed me about, and someone else had done it—although none of the other nurses are admitting to it.
Why is that? They’re going to think I’m lying about not putting her to bed. They’ll say it was me and I’m covering up.
But I swear, I haven’t done anything wrong.
I take my cup into the living room and sit on the edge of one of the chairs that matches the sofa. The suite is my mother’s, and it reminds me of my childhood, something I don’t want to remember all that often.
“Okay,” Collier says. “Go through what happened again.”
While Mr Hanks writes what I’m saying on an official-looking form, I repeat what I told her last time in between taking sips. I’m sure I haven’t left anything out, but my legs tremble, and I have to lean my elbows on my knees to stop them jittering. Tea sloshes, dives out of the cup, and lands on my skin. I pretend I haven’t noticed.
It dribbles down my bare shin.
“Do you want a cloth for that?” Collier asks, her eyebrows turning into one long strip.
They need plucking.
“What?” I glance down. “Oh.”
Collier cocks her head, and a strange expression flits over her face, then it’s gone before I can catch on to what it signified.
“I think we’ll leave you to go back to bed, Miss Ordsall.” She rises, as does Mr Hanks.
I’ve messed this up, have come across as some airhead, nothing like when I met them earlier, when I was moody but confident—moody because I don’t want my life ruined by what’s happened. Not when I’m so happy with my lot. “Sorry. I really am out of it. A double shift, plus staying on longer after what went on…”
“You’ve had quite a few hours awake, then. No wonder you’re spaced out.” Collier smiles. “I’d be the same. Right, we’re off. If you could just quickly read your statement, then sign it at the bottom there…”
I take the form from Mr Hanks, the words swimming in front of me, blurry and jumbled. I put my cup down and sign anyway, desperate to crawl back into bed, to get these two out of here so I can forget everything for a while.
They leave, and I return to the bedroom, settling down and closing my eyes. Just as I’m dropping off, a distant, frantic knocking pulls me back, and I open my eyes as though that will help me hea
r better.
There it is again, that knocking.
What the fuck is it?
Then it stops, and I shrug, finally losing myself to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Six Months Ago
He stands there staring at himself in the full-length mirror, disbelieving his eyes. Is that really him? Is he there again, right there, in those brown trousers and a white shirt, a taupe tie knotted tight? His hair is a different colour to what he’s used to, and it takes a moment to register that he isn’t the same anymore—he doesn’t look the same as he has for the past ten years.
Things came to a head recently, sending him back there, his past bustling in, taking over the rational side of him, changing him back to the surly person he used to be. Someone who’d grown bitter from a life spent with his mother.
Once she’d died, for a while he’d been content as the recent part of himself—the part he’d suppressed because his mother hadn’t liked it. With her gone, it had seemed everything horrible regarding that bitch of a woman had died with her. He’d lived like everyone else, smiling, happy, a great weight lifted, being who he really was inside.
Then someone had activated a memory—someone called Mrs Roberts—and things had gone to shit.
Now he can’t stop thinking about her, that lady who had caused so much aggro in his childhood. She had been a player around the time he’d been born, and he’d grown up listening to his mother spouting vitriolic words about her.
And there they had resided in his head, a silent partner, pretending to fade but coming back as soon as a trigger had released them.
A plan had formed, of how he’d get rid of her, because, as his mother had once said: Things would be okay if Mrs Roberts didn’t exist.
He’d pushed that woman to the back of his mind when his mother had died, and now look what had happened. Mrs Roberts was back in the forefront, in his actual life, there every work day, babbling on and on, rasping on his nerves.
If she was no longer in the picture, life would go back to how it had been the last ten years—calm, safe, a wonder. He’d be happy again if he was the person he’d become before she had swanned into the care home.
