by Ann Troup
She looked at it all for a long time, reading the sticky notes, following the red strings from the faces of the women to the locations of their deaths on the map that formed the centre of his web of evidence. He pottered about behind her, surreptitiously tidying up while she perused his life’s work. She turned and caught him red-handed with a pair of dirty boxer shorts in his hand. She was holding a file. ‘May I?’ she asked.
He waved his free hand in an expansive gesture. ‘Help yourself, look at anything you like.’ Just don’t comment on my poor housekeeping he thought, annoyed that her good opinion of him should matter so much. He could understand her reluctance to believe his theory, and could empathise with her reaction. He hadn’t wanted to be the child of a killer either and he had to agree that passing the buck was unlikely to really achieve anything. The need for vindication was ingrained in him, he couldn’t shake it off even if he tried and he hoped after her previous reaction that she had seen that and had understood it.
She lowered herself into his desk chair and began to flick through the file. ‘Any chance of a cup of something, I don’t mind what – as long as it’s not Earl Grey.’
He gave her an embarrassed half laugh, wondering what she took him for. Did he look like a man who would drink poncey tea? ‘I can do bog standard tea or coffee?’
She didn’t look up, but leaned forward peering at the file, a concerned frown knitting her brow. ‘Either, I don’t mind,’ she said absently.
He filled the kettle, desperate to know what she was thinking. He wanted to grab the files, show her all of the important bits and guide her thoughts on what had happened all those years ago, but he dare not. It was achievement enough that she was sitting in his room taking any notice at all.
He made her a cup of coffee and sat on the chair drinking his own, while hers sat on the desk and went cold as she got more and more absorbed by the contents of his files. Eventually she spoke; he had become so used to the silence, only punctuated by the rustling of paper as she flicked through the pages, that he felt as though he had been hypnotised in some way and had lost a chunk of time. ‘So, my father disappeared on the same day that yours was executed… why? Why would he leave then, another man had taken the blame, he was free to get on with it.’
Matt nodded. ‘I know, it doesn’t really make sense. I’ve often assumed that he must have felt guilty, but would a man capable of such brutal murders have the capacity to feel guilt?’
Edie shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not sure that I know anything any more, you’re not the only one who seems to know more about my family than I do.’ She sighed and put the file that she had been reading back on the desk. ‘I can see that you tried to trace him, but that there were no leads. No one saw him, no one heard from him. Why do you think that the police didn’t take more notice of him leaving?’
‘Dickie made the report, but your mother and your aunt were adamant that he’d just walked out.’
‘So I suppose that they weren’t that concerned about a grown man abandoning his family.’ She rubbed her face with her hands; she looked tired. ‘Tell me again why you are so sure that your father was innocent?’
Matt gave her a wry smile ‘Because he said so? Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? He wrote my mother a letter from prison, swearing on my life that he was innocent, and yes, of course she believed it. The thing was, he admitted to the affair with Sally Pollett – he’d admitted it to her before Sally was killed, he had no motive, she couldn’t do him any harm. The prosecution said that he’d killed her because she had threatened to expose their affair, but he’d already fronted up.’
Edie nodded. ‘OK, but that doesn’t explain the others.’ She waved her hand at the wall indicating the small sea of faces that Matt had pinned there.
‘No, it doesn’t, but he wasn’t tried or convicted for killing them, just Sally. Because the way she was found mimicked what had gone before, it was just assumed that he had. There was only enough evidence to try him for her.’
Edie’s eyebrows rose, ‘That’s almost inconceivable!’
‘Now yes, but back then… it’s just like the Christie case.’
Edie leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘When I first arrived and went to the house I told Rose that it was just like 10 Rillington Place, seems somewhat ironic now.’ She rested her chin on her clasped hands for a moment. ‘I’ve read your files, looked at what you’ve found… but I still can’t work out what my father’s motive would have been. I talked to someone this morning who told me a little about what kind of man he was, but I still can’t quite get my head around it.’
‘It’s always been the bugbear for me too, until Sophie found what she did under the floorboards. I think it was revenge, for your grandmother.’
Edie looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
Matt sighed and stood up, then walked across the room to put his empty cup on the draining board. ‘As I understand it, they were very close. Frank was Beattie’s favourite, when he got called up she was devastated – I’ve been told that’s what tripped her up where her conviction was involved, she made a mistake and injured a girl, which was what led to her arrest.’
Edie nodded, it fitted what Lionel had told her earlier.
‘I think Frank took it out on the girls that had been to his mother for an abortion, I think he blamed them for bringing the family to its knees, and I think that was his motive.’ He pointed to the pictures on the wall behind her head. ‘I couldn’t prove it until now, and I’m still not sure that I can, but the notebook that Sophie found has dates, amounts and initials, some correspond to those women’s initials. I know, it may still be a coincidence, but I do know for a fact that at least three of them visited your grandmother and paid her for an abortion. I was able to interview their families, well, what’s left of them anyway.’
Edie frowned. ‘What about the other two?’
Matt shook his head ‘Sally Pollett has no family left and Elizabeth Rees’s refused to talk to me.’
‘So if these people knew that their daughter, sister, whatever she was had had an illegal abortion, why didn’t they make the connection and point the finger?’
Matt sat down again and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Because it was years before the killings started.’
‘Out of curiosity, how did you get these people to talk to you?’
Matt looked away, his face flushing red. ‘I lied, I told them I was a criminologist doing research for a book about the murders.’
Edie nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
They sat in silence for a moment or two, Matt unable to look at Edie and actively avoiding her stare. He’d just played his hand and told her that he would lie to get his way. It was hardly something that would endear him to her.
Finally she spoke. ‘OK, we go back to the house, I have plenty more to do and the sooner it’s done the better. You can help, if you find anything that adds…’ she waved a hand at his collection ‘… to this, you’re welcome to it. But I have to be honest and tell you that it all feels like it’s a bit too late.’
‘You may be right, but I have to finish this.’
She stood up. ‘Come on then, let’s get on with it. Sophie will be wondering where I am.’
Astounded by her capitulation, but unwilling to forgo this opportunity, Matt followed her.
Chapter Sixteen
Derek Sellars pulled the tray of jewellery towards him, picked up his loupe and focused on the first item. A cameo, probably a fake, and not much of a popular item these days. He assumed that it must be a fake, a front facing Medusa would be a pretty rare find, and one made from shell in an 18 carat setting even rarer. He had to admit that whoever had reproduced it had done exquisite work, such a shame that talent like that was wasted on a con. The thing was filthy, obviously uncared for and he had no choice but to use a mild solvent on the back to see the assay marks, if there were any. There were none, but there was a signature – Aniello Pernice. Derek put the piece down, stared at it
for a moment then picked it back up and re-examined it. There was no doubt now that he was looking at something rare, not a fake and an item of exceptional quality. He found himself entirely shocked, nothing this good had come through the door in years and it gave him a quite a buzz.
Eagerly he rooted through the rest of the tray, most of it looked like typical junk, a gold charm bracelet only good for scrap, a few rings, nothing special, cheap stone chips in unfashionable settings that wouldn’t fetch much even on eBay. The paste caught his eye and he disentangled an earring, gave it a quick clean and examined it using the loupe – his eyesight was so bad now he almost needed the loupe to be a permanent attachment, he felt as though he needed binoculars to find his own desk these days.
Once cleaned, the earring caught the light and refracted it beautifully, casting rainbows on the walls of Derek’s cluttered workspace and illuminating the room with more colour and excitement than it had seen in years. This was not paste, it wasn’t cheap tat and was possibly one of the finest, largest diamonds that Derek had ever seen. It was practically flawless. With mounting excitement he separated the rest of the set from its tawdry companions. Once examined he laid them out on his desk and called for his son, ‘Bernie, shut the shop and get in here. You need to look at this!’
Bernie laid down his paper and sighed, what was it now? ‘Can’t it wait, I’m busy,’ he called, annoyed that his focus on the day’s racing line up had been interrupted.
He was surprised to see his father emerge from the cavern at the back of the shop and bustle to the door, where he swiftly locked it and pulled down the shade. Bernard couldn’t remember the last time his father had ventured out of the back room, let alone looked animated. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him move that fast. ‘What’s up, are you ill?’
Derek turned a frustrated yet excited face to his son. ‘Don’t be daft boy! Go out back, and take a look at what’s on my desk, tell me what you think.’
Bernard rolled his eyes and slid off his stool. It was clear that his father was all wound up about something and that he would get no peace until he indulged the old man. ‘Oh for God’s sake, what is it now?’
Derek ushered him through, and hovered like an impatient imp while Bernard looked at the jewels. Bernard examined each piece carefully and laid them back on the desk with unusual reverence. ‘Bloody hell!’
Derek nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a demented meerkat’s. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
Bernard was confused, ‘Right about what?’
‘They’re the Van Pelka diamonds.’
Derek’s gleeful enthusiasm did little to answer Bernard’s question. ‘The what? All I know is that they are diamonds, and good ones at that.’ He thought back to the unassuming woman who had brought them in, his mind trying to equate her and her humble appearance with the possession of something so valuable. It wasn’t adding up. He turned to his father, who was rifling through a filing cabinet and muttering.
‘I know it’s in here somewhere, I always keep them, because you never know… aha!’ He pulled out a sheaf of paper and waved it at Bernard. ‘Police bulletin, fifteen years ago. Those diamonds. Stolen.’
Bernard snatched the papers and looked through them, comparing the grainy photocopied image with the necklace and earrings spread out before him on the desk. His father was right, they were the same – no wonder the old boy was hyperventilating. The Van Pelka diamonds had been part of a private collection and had been stolen from a country house fifteen years previously along with some other items of jewellery and a large quantity of bearer bonds. Bernard often wondered why people bothered stealing diamonds; they were almost as unique as fingerprints and impossible to sell on any market, let alone the open market. If he’d been the thief he’d have stuck with the bonds and dumped the jewels. Anyone could cash a bond, no questions asked. He was aware of his father dancing about like a hyperactive pixie behind him.
‘Go and put the kettle on Dad, and for God’s sake calm down. I’ll call it in.’
***
Whenever Lena had contemplated the prospect of her life flashing before her eyes, she had always imagined that it would be a rapid thing, a series of flashbacks whipping past her at breakneck speed. This slow, tortuous reliving of things she had long tried to forget was not what she’d envisaged. This wasn’t retrospection – it was punishment, and it had to stop.
When she’d left the house that morning she’d had no idea where she was going to end up, it was a toss up between the church and the police station. Either one would provide someone to hear her story, but neither was likely to bring much in the way of redemption. She wasn’t even sure she deserved redemption, so it became a choice of which place was better for getting it off her chest. The church was cold, draughty and she had never been a frequent flier there. Funerals, weddings and christenings had been her limit, though she understood that God would always embrace the truly penitent. The police station was warmer, marginally more comfortable and at least she wouldn’t have to endure any attempts at empathy. Not even the most hardened man of God would willingly attempt to put himself in her shoes and she could live without any bumbling attempts to do so. No, if she was going to unburden herself, it had to be to the law. They could deal with her as they saw fit. With a degree of stoicism she hadn’t previously believed that she was capable of, she made her way to the police station and presented herself at the desk.
The young lad behind the counter looked bored, distracted and as grey and pallid as the chipped paint on the walls. Lena suspected he might have drawn the short straw that morning, manning the front counter had to be the least desirable job in the place. The poor kid had probably grown up watching episodes of The Bill and imagining a life fighting crime and upholding truth and justice. She doubted that he had anticipated long hours of dealing with people’s neighbour problems and logging in lost property. Ah well, what she had to say might relieve his boredom and give him something to tell his girlfriend when he got home that night. She assumed a girlfriend because he didn’t look old enough to have a wife. From her point of view it seemed that the police were recruiting from primary school these days. She approached the counter and gave a small cough to get his attention. The two-second delay between the noise and his looking up at her seemed to emphasise the level of his disinterest, and his slow appraisal of her before speaking only served to make her more determined to shake up his morning.
‘How can I help you?’ he said, eventually.
‘I doubt that you can, son, to be honest. I need to speak to someone a bit more senior.’
She watched as one of his eyebrows began to rise and a look of mild indignation spread across his thin face. ‘If you’d like to explain the nature of your enquiry, madam.’
‘I’m here to confess to a crime.’ she said, noting the change in his expression, which was mutating into a subtle smirk.
‘And what is the nature of the offence you wish to confess to?’
At least she had his attention now, even if he was intrigued more than concerned. She supposed that from his point of view there wasn’t much that she might be capable of, she was old, weak and invisible to people like him. But it hadn’t always been that way. She said it in a matter of fact tone and watched with detached amusement as his face paled.
‘Could you repeat that please madam?’
‘Yes. I said, murder.’
***
The house seemed inordinately quiet, as if a blanket had settled over it and had muffled out any sound. Edie called Sophie’s name and was met by a thick, uncomfortable silence. ‘She must still be in bed,’ she said to Matt, ‘I’ll go and turf her out, the lazy madam.’
When she was halfway up the stairs she already knew that the girl had gone, she could feel it. A quick check of the tiny bedroom and the absence of Sophie’s bag and her usual clutter confirmed it. She sat down on the narrow bed and sighed, feeling more bereft than she had ever felt. When Will had left home it had stung, bu
t had felt like a natural progression, the logical emptying of the nest, and she had felt wistful and nostalgic. Sophie’s disappearance without a word felt so much worse, like a blow or an insult. Edie felt the sting of tears as she contemplated how attached she had become in such a short time, and how ridiculous it was to have invested so much into a stranger. She heard Matt’s steady tread on the stairs and braced herself. As he leaned through the door, his face suffused with concern, Edie closed her eyes.
‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’ he said.
All she could do was nod. She could sense his hesitation and knew that he wanted to sit next to her and offer some comfort. Nice as it was to know that he understood, she couldn’t have borne the sympathy. ‘Ah well, bound to happen I suppose. No point stewing over it. Might as well get on.’ She checked her watch. ‘I have a woman coming round to collect some stuff in a minute. I’ll take it downstairs.’
With that she got up, made the few short steps to the door and sidled past him. With Sophie gone there was only one thing that she could do, get on with the task of clearing the house and shut the door on the whole damned thing.
Matt watched as she walked into Dolly’s old room and started to organise the boxes; he was at a loss to know what to say or do. It was clear that the girl’s absence had hit her hard. He wanted to comfort her, offer some reassurance, but there was such an air of vulnerability about her. It felt like a force-field, an impenetrable and brittle shield that might shatter irretrievably if he breached it. Guessing that she wanted to be alone, he wandered into Dickie’s room and stood in the middle surveying the chaos and wondering what kind of man had inhabited this space. He remembered Dickie of course, a quiet, solitary sort of man who had been shy and avoidant. The kind of man who would cross the road rather than come face to face with a neighbour and have to look them in the eye. Matt wondered if living in Frank’s shadow had made him that way? Like plants that struggled to grow in the shade, Dickie and Dolly had seemed like thin weeds that had given up trying to reach the light.
