Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows

by Shirley Wells

  She always bought her eggs from the pub. Having come close on several occasions to killing the hens that wandered at will across the road to the hill opposite, she knew they were as free range as it was possible to get. Meredith had bought her a good lunch, but that was hours ago and a full cholesterol-laden hit of bacon and eggs called.

  ‘Hello, Jill. The usual, is it?’ The landlord’s hand was already resting on the lager pump. On only her third visit to his pub, he’d asked if she wanted her ‘usual’.

  “I only wanted some eggs, but perhaps I’ll have a quick drink while I’m here. A whisky with lots of ice, please, Ian.’

  For a moment, he was thrown, but he soon recovered and filled a tumbler with ice cubes before adding a measure of whisky.

  ‘There you go, love.’

  He went to the store at the back for her eggs, leaving Jill to nod to a couple of people she knew by sight.

  Ian put the eggs on the counter. ‘You won’t get fresher than that.’

  ‘Thanks. Business doesn’t look to be booming/ she commented, handing him a ten-pound note. Usually, the small bar was packed with locals.

  ‘It were busy at lunchtime,’ he told her, ‘but it’s been quiet since. What a time, though. The whole village is in shock.’

  ‘Dreadful,’ Jill agreed, knowing how this sort of thing affected not only the family involved but also the whole community. Everyone knew everyone else in these small Lancashire towns and villages.

  ‘And fancy them arresting young Michael,’ he went on, his voice lowered. ‘I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. No, I can’t have that. Stands to reason. He’s a smashing lad. He helped me out last summer - we had the old taproom decorated and he were that helpful. Honest, hardworking - he works at the filling station on Saturdays now.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Idolized his mother,’ Ian went on. ‘Closer to her than to his dad, I reckon. Not that he don’t get on well with his dad. A terrible business all round. But I won’t have him down as a killer. I won’t.’

  A young couple walked in, strangers to Jill and to Ian, and Jill picked up her change and left him to serve them.

  She sat at a small round table in the corner, next to the fire.

  People had warned her about the harsh winters endured in this corner of Lancashire, but she’d had no idea those winters arrived so early.

  She liked The Weaver’s Retreat. It was on the edge of the village, on the Todmorden Road, and was popular with the locals. Ian always had a warm welcome for his regulars; it was a homely place to relax.

  Not that Jill was feeling relaxed. She was still trying to picture Alice Trueman as a fun-loving ex-dancer. It didn’t fit. Except, of course, she’d had the elegance and grace of a dancer, and those long, shapely legs. She was also curious about the sort of people Jonathan Trueman thought his son was mixing with. What had he meant by that? Kids taking drugs? Or simply kids from the council estate?

  What would he have made of her, she wondered, if he knew of her lowly beginnings?

  ‘Are you turning to drink?’

  Jill looked up, startled to see that Andy Collins was in the bar. He must have come in through the back door.

  “I called in for eggs,’ she explained with a smile, ‘and was tempted to linger in the warmth. Winter’s come early.’

  ‘Winter? This is a pleasant autumnal day,’ he told her with a laugh. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘I’d be glad of the company.’

  He paid for his pint and brought it over to the table.

  Before sitting down, he brushed a couple of specks of mud from his trousers.

  ‘I’ve been showing a prospective purchaser round Top Bank Farm,’ he explained, ‘and the chap insisted on walking through the fields. It’s ankle deep in mud. Still, a sale is a sale,’ he added, downing almost half his pint in one swallow.

  ‘You look as if you needed that,’ Jill remarked.

  “I can’t seem to get going at all at the moment.’ He shuddered.

  “I keep thinking of poor Alice. I liked her a lot.’

  ‘Dreadful, isn’t it? I wish I’d known her better. Did you know she’d been a dancer?’

  ‘Yes. Years ago, she was in one of those groups - you know, like Pan’s People or Hot Gossip. Or perhaps that’s before your time.’

  ‘She was that sort of dancer?’ Jill was amazed. I’d imagined her ballroom dancing.’

  Andy shook his head.

  ‘She was a real little raver by all accounts. Lovely woman, though. Lovely family come to that,’ he said.

  ‘Michael - now I know the police don’t arrest people without reason, but I simply can’t believe it of him. He’s a smashing lad. Jon’s the same. He gets on his high horse now and again, but he’s a good enough sort. Once you get to know him, you’ll find he’s a good laugh.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Not that he’s got anything to laugh about now.’

  ‘No, poor man.’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing you see on the TV,’ he murmured, ‘not the sort of thing that happens in real life, to real people. And certainly not in a place like this.’

  Isn’t that what everyone caught up in these situations said? Whether you lived in a sleepy little hamlet or on a bustling inner city estate, it was one of those things that happened to other people in other places.

  The door opened and Tony Hutchinson came in.

  ‘Andy! Jill!’ he called out. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Jill refused. It was tempting to enjoy the warmth a little longer, but she was hungry. Andy accepted another pint.

  ‘Is this a private party,’ Tony asked, ‘or can anyone join in?’

  ‘Sit down.’ Jill moved round the table to give him more space.

  ‘What a day,’ Tony said, taking a drink. “I had all the kids together for a special assembly this morning, but it’s damned difficult knowing what to say to them. They’re all so different, too. While we were praying for Alice and the family, one girl of ten was in tears and another girl, the same age, was happily chewing gum and writing “I love Dave” on her arm.’

  ‘That’s kids for you,’ Andy said. ‘Criminals in the making, most of them. I’m glad I don’t have your job, Tony. I’d never have the patience.’

  ‘Most of them are fine,’ Tony argued. ‘They’re our future, remember.’

  ‘Then we’re all doomed,’ Andy said with a rueful smile.

  Tony turned his attention to Jill. ‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She wished he’d shut up about it, and she wished he didn’t make her feel so uncomfortable.

  ‘Forgiven?’ Andy asked curiously. ‘What have you been up to, Tony?’

  ‘Liz told me I was rude to Jill at the party,’ he explained.

  ‘It’s just that I’m fascinated by her work. It’s a bit like that film, The Silence of the Lambs, isn’t it?’

  ‘No/ Jill said drily, ‘it’s nothing like that.’

  Tony looked embarrassed, and Jill hoped she hadn’t made him look a fool.

  ‘The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit is very different to anything we have in this country,’ she explained. ‘It has to be - you only have to think of the size of the country. And, well, that was a film. My work is - was totally different.

  Very boring,’ she added lightly.

  “I bet it’s fascinating,’ Tony said.

  “Fraid not,’ she said, managing another smile.

  ‘To think that Alice is gone,’ Andy murmured vaguely.

  ‘It doesn’t sink in, does it?’

  ‘I’ve just called on Mary and Gordon,’ Tony told them, ‘and I saw Jon. He’s staying with them, did you know? He seems to be holding up well, considering. Perhaps if you believe in God - well, I mean I believe in God, but if you devote your life to Him, perhaps you see some reason to it.

  Perhaps you can believe she’s gone to a better place.’

  At that, Andy looked as doubtful as Jill felt. ‘Michael won’t be going to a better
place, will he?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Tony agreed.

  “I was just saying to Jill that I can’t believe it of him.

  He’d never do such a thing. Never.’

  ‘Did you teach him, Tony?’ Jill asked curiously.

  ‘When he was a youngster, yes. He must have been - let me think - nine years old when the family came to the village so I only had him for a couple of years.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Bright, a quick learner, polite - the ideal pupil. A little out of it at times,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but that goes with the territory.’

  Seeing Jill’s puzzled expression, he explained. ‘As the son of the vicar, you’re going to be considered different by the other kids. It’s the same for the headmaster’s son. Used to be the same for the local bobby’s son in the days we had a bobby.’ He grinned smugly at her, as if he’d caught her out. ‘You’re the psychologist.’

  Jill supposed he had a point, except she hadn’t thought that applied these days. Perhaps it did in a relatively small village like Kelton Bridge.

  ‘Kids like that go one of two ways,’ he went on. ‘They either keep to themselves and concentrate on their studies, or they become the local troublemaker, determined to show their mates they’re no different.’

  ‘And Michael concentrated on his studies?’ she guessed.

  ‘He did. A model pupil.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He brought an injured blackbird to school once. We reckoned it had got on the wrong side of a cat. During the lunch break, he took it to Betty Taylor’s place. She keeps the animal sanctuary on New Road. Eventually, the bird recovered and Betty released it, but Michael called to see that bird every morning on his way to school.’ He took a quick swig from his glass. ‘I’m with Andy on this. I don’t believe he could pull a knife on any living thing and certainly not his mother.’

  They fell silent, each thinking, Jill supposed, of young Michael.

  ‘How’s Liz?’ Jill asked at last.

  ‘Fine, thanks. I expect she’ll be along in a while …’

  Jill didn’t stop to find out. She was ready for her bacon and eggs.

  It was after nine when Max called at Lilac Cottage that evening. Jill wasn’t in the least surprised by his visit.

  The cats, despite knowing he wasn’t a cat person, gave him a royal welcome. Even Rabble, who didn’t approve of visitors, was walking in and out of his legs. It did her no good; he took no notice whatsoever.

  ‘Michael confessed,’ he announced grimly. ‘Just like that.

  He asked for a glass of water, then said he’d like to tell us how he killed his mother.’

  Jill had liked Michael. She’d warmed to him from the start, and she felt let down. Saddened and let down.

  Everyone in Kelton Bridge would feel the same, too.

  Michael was a popular member of the community, the young man who’d been so helpful at the pub, and the lad who had visited an injured bird every day.

  ‘So what’s with the long face?’ she asked, sighing as Max threw himself down in her armchair as if he’d come home after a hard day at the office.

  ‘His confession’s complete crap.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘According to him, he came home from school, carrying a knife he’d bought from a complete stranger in Rochdale or it might have been Burnley some time ago, saw his mother standing in the hall, looked her in the eye and killed her.’

  ‘So he can’t say where he got the knife from?’

  ‘Nope. Or when.’

  ‘Looked her in the eye? She was killed from behind, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was. It doesn’t seem as if our Michael’s aware of that though.’

  ‘So who is he protecting?’ Relief flooding through her, Jill sat in the chair opposite Max. ‘We know he arrived home early, and we know he was expecting his father to be out. Was he also expecting his mother to be out? Perhaps he had someone with him? Does he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘He doesn’t have many close friends - lots of acquaintances, but not what you’d call real friends. But he couldn’t have witnessed the murder,’ Max pointed out. ‘If he had, he’d know his mother had been attacked from behind.’

  ‘Does his father know?’ Jill asked.

  ‘That he’s confessed, yes. That his confession is worth diddley squat, no.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘I’ve just come from there and he’s pretty distraught.

  When it first happened, he was amazingly calm. But he was still trying to resuscitate her when we got there couldn’t accept she’d gone. I thought he was doing OK

  considering, but he’s going downhill.’

  ‘He didn’t look too good when I saw him, poor chap.

  Only the thought of praying for Michael seemed to help.’

  Max grimaced. ‘He can’t accept she’s dead, and he certainly can’t accept that Michael killed her. His latest idea is that someone was at the vicarage and was still there when we arrived. Either that, or the driver of the mysterious red van killed her and then took off.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, I suppose.’

  ‘A very slim one,’ Max replied. ‘There was blood everywhere.

  Whoever killed her would have been covered in the stuff, just as father and son were. There’s no sign of any by the front door or the back. No shoe-prints.’

  Jill curled her feet beneath her, and tried to get things straight in her mind. Michael hadn’t seen the murder perhaps, but he had to be protecting someone. Who? It must be someone he cared about deeply.

  ‘What about Michael’s mobile phone?’ she asked. “I assume he does have one? Any text messages from girlfriends on it?’

  ‘Nothing visible but it’s still being checked.’ He gave her one of his coaxing looks. ‘Will you come in tomorrow and have a look through his confession? See what you can come up with?’

  “I suppose ‘

  ‘Thanks.’

  He looked at his watch and, with a heavy sigh, got to his feet. “I need to go home and get some sleep. Oh, and the photo that was put through your letterbox

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  Jill wasn’t surprised.

  Chapter Nine

  He liked the card, found it appropriate. On the front, From Your Valentine was written amid a mass of tiny, glittering hearts.

  Inside, it read: One day you’ll be mine. It appealed to him.

  Later, he would put it through her letterbox.

  He enjoyed being in her garden, so close to her, and often spent an evening watching her move around. She rarely pulled the curtains across until late. Even then, he liked to see lights go on and off in the various rooms.

  Better still, he liked to go inside the cottage. That was best. He liked to walk around the rooms and look at her things. She was neat and tidy, and he approved of that. He had to have order in his life and he guessed she did, too.

  Still, it was OK watching from the outside. Funny how he was at home in the dark. He supposed that was one thing he could thank his mother for. Probably the only thing.

  He hadn’t liked the darkness as a child. Those hours spent locked in the cupboard had filled him with horror. He’d begged and pleaded for a torch but she’d only laughed at him.

  ‘Great baby,’ she’d scoffed. ‘Not scared of the dark, are you?’

  He’d shaken his head, not daring to admit that it terrified him.

  He and his mum had shared a bedroom, and he’d hated that, too. It always smelted funny - a mixture of perfume and something else that he hadn’t been able to identify for years. He hadn’t known it was the smell of sex. All he had known was that he was banished to the cupboard frequently and, although he didn’t have many toys, those he did have had to be out of sight before he went to the cupboard.

  That smelted funny, too. Dusty and unused. He did nothing in there; there was nothing to do.

  It was when the men came that he was sent to the cupboard.<
br />
  Or sometimes, she sent him there when she was angry with him.

  She’d never been much of a cook, but for some reason she had enjoyed making biscuits. As she only possessed one cutter, the biscuits were heart-shaped. Once, he helped himself to a biscuit, still warm from the oven, and she was so enraged because he hadn’t asked that she sent him to the cupboard. From then on, he was sent to the cupboard whenever she made biscuits.

  ‘You’re a thief. You can’t be trusted,’ she’d said, and no protests from him would change her mind.

  “I won’t touch them,’ he’d cried, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘You won’t,’ she’d agreed, laughing at her own little joke as she’d dragged him by the arm to the cupboard.

  These days, he liked the dark. It didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust and then he was fine.

  No, he was better than fine. Standing here, at the bottom of her garden, behind the lilac tree after which the cottage had perhaps been named, he saw all sorts of things. Last night he’d seen a sleek, bushy-tailed fox. The fox hadn’t seen him. He was as wily as a fox …

  Her bedroom light dimmed and he guessed she was sitting up in bed with the lamp on. What would she be reading?

  He’d watched that policeman, Detective Chief Inspector Trentham, come and go. Some detective he was. Some psychologist she was, come to that. There he was watching them both and they were no nearer the truth than they ever had been.

  Still, credit where credit was due. That profile she’d come up with had been close. They’d published it during her glory days when Rodney Hill had been arrested.

  Rodney Hill - the very thought of the man filled him with rage. Hill had been a nothing, a nobody. All he’d done was have sex with a whore. Any idiot could do that. During those long hours spent in the cupboard, he’d peeped through the crack and seen hundreds of men arrive, all of them on the verge of wetting themselves in their excitement. They were nothing. Worthless pieces of nothing.

  At first, he hadn’t known what the men came for. It was Micky Muldoon who told him.

  ‘They have sex with your mum,’ he’d said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘She’s a whore. A dirty, filthy whore.’