by Ann Troup
Edie scrambled out, clutching the bundle of money and wasting little time in putting as much distance between herself and Johnno as she could. Out of curiosity she paused in the shade of the tree, watching what he did next and surprised that he hadn’t driven off immediately. She could see by the light of the screen that he was making a phone call. It didn’t take long and when the call ended, he wound down the window and hurled the phone into some bushes. Had it not been pitch black she would have tried to retrieve it once he’d driven away, but she’d been through enough and the thought of foraging about in the dark was just too much. If she could work out where she was, she’d just tell the police where they could find it.
The station was tiny, unmanned, had no toilets and no payphone, but there were seats and a late train bound for London due to arrive in a few minutes. Edie fed one of the notes from her pile into the automated machine, took her ticket and waited. According to the little card she was in Chartham, wherever that was, and she would arrive in London just before midnight.
Mercifully the train held hardly any passengers, but even so she headed straight into the toilet, bolting the door behind her and sinking down onto the tiny loo. She knew that she was filthy, she had crawled around a cellar, then across an attic and had been practically barbecued in a fire. Blood had crusted and dried into her hair from where she had hit her head falling out of the attic. On shaking legs, less firm now that the shock was beginning to set, she stood and took a look in the small mirror. The only part of her that was remotely clean, even if it was red raw, was the area of skin that had been covered with tape. She did the best she could with the thin trickle of water and the tiny sink, but still looked like an extra from a zombie film when she’d finished. Not unusual in central London, a bit of a rarity on a late night train coming in from the sticks. She spent the rest of the journey locked inside the toilet, hoping against hope that the train had no conductor.
For once fate seemed to be on her side and the change at Ashford not only told her that she was in Kent, but also allowed her to find some better toilet facilities where she could clean herself up a bit more, though the whole thing felt like an exercise in moving the dirt around. When she came out, looking only slightly less dishevelled than when she’d gone in, she realised that she had missed the connecting train. In that moment all her tolerance snapped and her stoicism failed under the strain. In a mess of tears she looked around for a member of staff but there was no one around. In her chaotic and hysterical state she drew a few horrified glances from the people moving through the station but no one came to help. She probably wouldn’t have either, had she been them. What she did find was a payphone so she made her way over to it, dialled 999 and asked for the police. For a few moments she knew that the woman at the end of the phone thought she was a crank, it was only when she mentioned Sam’s name that things changed and all she could assume was that his name had triggered some kind of alert which changed everything about the attitude of the woman on the other end of the line.
Alone, bereft, filthy and terrified she waited for the police to arrive. All her gumption had ebbed away and she sat, head on her knees on the floor beside the phone. She didn’t even have the energy to laugh when some pitying person threw fifty pence at her feet, even though she was literally sitting on a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of ill-gotten gains.
When they came, she told them everything – by that time she would have sold her soul for a hot cup of tea and a bath. When it was all over, and she had learned about the extent of the fire and that Number 17 was a no go zone, that the body of an unknown man had been found on the premises and that Lena Campion had passed away, they asked her where she wanted to go. Having handed over the money, which had been stowed away in an evidence bag, she was penniless, homeless and struggling to find any semblance of hope. They asked her if she had any friends or family that she could go to. With Rose currently on a ship somewhere and Will in Australia, the answer was no – there were no friends, Simon had seen to that. The only person that she could think of who might fit that description was Matt, so she asked to be taken there. The irony of her needing him after everything that had happened was not lost on her, but the fact of the matter was, she was way past caring.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Matt had come to a decision. Now that he knew that he’d been right all along, and that Frank Morris had been responsible for the murders, his obsession had ground to a halt and fizzled out. He was sick of looking at the dead women’s faces and staring at the files. He no longer cared where his carefully pinned strands of red string led, and the map was just a huge meandering symbol of how trapped he felt by everything that Winfield stood for. He’d had enough.
While Sophie slept like a log (and snored like a hibernating bear) in his bed, Matt quietly and systematically dismantled his collection. He wanted to take it outside and burn the lot, but figured that the square had seen enough fires to last it a lifetime. The bulk of it he threw into a bag, ready to be thrown away, the rest of it – the photographs, the locket, the case files – he put into a document box, unsure of whether he wanted to keep it or not. Probably not, but he’d never been one to make hasty decisions. He was puzzled to find that the scarf had disappeared, but given his mood and his level of distraction he thought that he might have already packed it, either that or it had fallen down behind the desk. It didn’t matter, it was hardly important now.
Glancing at Sophie first, then at the clock and noting that it was half past five in the morning and that the night had slipped away from him, he picked up the rubbish bag, opened the door and made his way downstairs. Half of the others in the house didn’t surface until noon, so no movement would stir them – he called it the Tennent’s Super stupor.
Sitting on an upturned crate in the bin area (a patch of scrubby broken concrete which the landlord somewhat nefariously referred to as ‘the garden’) he found Edie. ‘You’re up early,’ she said, her smile as feeble as she looked.
‘I never went to bed. You’re all right then?’ It was a stupid question, her clothes were filthy, she had manmade bruises and she looked like hell.
‘Just about. I’m sorry Matt, but I didn’t know where else to go. The police dropped me off an hour ago, but I didn’t want to ring the bell and disturb anyone.’
‘So you’ve been sitting here all that time?’
‘Yeah, the square is a funny old place at dawn, so quiet. I went and looked at the lane, the fire made quite a mess.’
‘It certainly did.’ He didn’t know what to say – though he was inordinately pleased to see her, he had no words to begin to ask what had happened to her.
She stood up and wrapped her arms around her chest as if she were naked. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’
He nodded, ‘Sure.’
‘Can I use your bathroom and borrow some clothes? Mine are all in the house and they won’t let me back in there.’
‘Of course.’ He held the back door open and followed her through, trailing after her as she climbed the stairs as if they were the north face of the Eiger. He had never seen a person so weary or careworn.
He didn’t bother to apologise for the state of the shared bathroom, just fetched her a clean towel, toiletries and a T-shirt and joggers that he used for pyjamas. He told her to make sure that she bolted the door. The shock of one of his neighbours wandering in to perform their ablutions was all she needed. By the look of her, an unexpected confrontation with a hairy drunk nursing a hangover would just about finish her off.
Before he left her, she asked about Sophie – had he seen her? Was she all right? The look of relief that flooded her face when he told her where Sophie currently resided was like watching the sun come up over a stormy sea, the effect of it settling the waves and bringing calm. ‘Thank God, the police wouldn’t tell me much, just that she’d got out.’ she said.
‘Have your bath, I’ll make some coffee and we can talk after.’
It seemed that neither of them had slept that nig
ht, so to prop them both up he broke open the good stuff, putting an extra spoonful of the pungent dark roast coffee into the jug. They needed this pick-me-up to be industrial strength.
When she came into the bedsit, hair wet and slicked back, looking faintly ridiculous in his over-sized clothes, she looked more like the Edie that he knew and loved. Loved? Had he thought that? The prospect made him pause the pouring of the coffee and fumble with the sugar pot. He brushed the thought away, it was just a saying. ‘You look a mite better,’ he said, passing her a mug of coffee that was so dark it was almost viscous. ‘Consider that a quadruple espresso.’
‘Thanks, I think I might need it.’
He watched as she stood for a moment looking at Sophie as if she was her own sleeping child. The tenderness in her expression was so moving that Matt felt forced to turn away and busy himself with his own drink.
He offered her the comfortable chair and sat down at the desk. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’ he offered. Though he was curious to know, he had a feeling it was going to be difficult to contain his anger.
To his relief she shook her head. ‘Not yet, I’ll tell you when Sophie is awake. I don’t think I can do it twice, well three times if you count the police.’ She gave him a wan smile, sipped her coffee, grimaced and raised her eyes to the wall behind his head. ‘You’ve taken it all down.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to explain why, to tell her that he’d been right and that it was her father who’d been the killer, not his own. Then there was Lena’s diary and its contents and all the implications that went with it. She would have to know sooner or later, but this didn’t feel like the time to carve new wounds. To his relief she didn’t press the issue and instead changed the subject.
‘I suppose I need to look for somewhere where Sophie and I can stay. Even if they let me into the house I don’t suppose it’s liveable. I hope the company that owns it has it insured, because I doubt Dolly did. Mind you, I didn’t really go through the paperwork, there was so much of it, I just put it in a box for later. Something to look forward to I suppose, finding out just how much of a mess she left everything in.’
The coffee turned to ice in Matt’s stomach, he’d forgotten all about Dickie and the evidence that he was still alive – he’d have to break that to her too. She had spoken so casually, he couldn’t bear to try and explain it now. Besides, there was very little to say, he’d never made it to the care home because of Lena. Jesus, Lena, did she even know about that? Every topic on conversation felt like a minefield. Out of desperation he seized upon her first, and possibly her safest, observation. ‘You can both stay with me if you want.’ he blurted out without remotely thinking it through, but instead of instant regret he found that he didn’t mind the idea.
She smiled, and almost laughed. ‘You’re very kind Matt, but three of us can hardly stay here.’ She waved her arm around the small room. ‘What are we supposed to do, take it in shifts to sleep? Besides, you’re not the Matthew Bastin hostel for waifs and strays.’
He returned her amused smile and shook his head. ‘No, not here of course. I have a house.’ It was true, he’d bought it while he was still in the army and had paid it off with his end of service pay out. He owned it outright, had furnished it, decorated it, sat in it, admired it… and never spent a single night there. He had created a home, but it didn’t feel like that to him. He couldn’t live there with the ghosts of the past still snapping at his heels. They belonged in the square, and that’s where they needed to stay.
As if on cue Sophie rolled over, sat up and addressed the room. ‘You have a house and you decided to live in this shithole? You’re friggin’ mad. And why didn’t you wake me up and tell me Edie was here? Yo Edie, you OK?’
She was all crazed hair and sleep-filled eyes, but the swelling in her face had gone down and her speech was more coherent. ‘Morning Sophie, want some coffee?’
She looked over at the pot with its black brown contents. ‘Yeah, but not that stuff, I’ll have a proper one though.’
He smiled and shook his head, glancing at Edie who seemed to share his amusement. ‘I’ll make you one.’
Sophie swung her legs out of the bed and looked at Edie as if she wanted to rush over and hug her, but instead sat on her hands and resorted to her usual ebullient bluntness as if it were some kind of default setting. ‘So Edes, what the fuck happened to you? No, don’t answer for a minute, I need a pee.’ She slid off the bed and shuffled out of the room.
Edie looked at Matt and pulled a face ‘Edes?’
Matt risked an amused smile, aware that this moment of shared humour was going to be all too brief. When all the tales had been told, and the conclusions drawn, not a one of them was going to come out of this without some degree of shellshock. As if she was reading his mind Edie reached into the pocket of the filthy jeans she had put on the floor next to her and pulled out a card.
‘The police gave me this, do you think we’re going to need it?’ She held it up and he read the words ‘Victim Support’.
He looked at her pinched, worried face, and realised that for all her bravado, whatever had happened to her had taken its toll and that between him and Sophie, things were about to get much worse. ‘I wouldn’t throw it away just yet.’
She nodded slowly and drained the rest of her coffee, wincing at the bitterness but seeming to need its strength. She didn’t speak again until Sophie came back, then she waited for everyone to settle before saying, ‘Bring it, let’s talk. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sophie threw herself down on the bed and let out a dramatic sigh. Much as she liked the hotel that Edie had chosen for them, it couldn’t be a permanent solution and as good as Edie had been to her, she couldn’t expect it to go on forever. It had been four days since the fire, and their third night in the hotel. They had only seen Matt once since he’d had to sit and explain to Edie the dire truth of her family history. It wasn’t that Edie seemed to be avoiding him, it was more that since it had all come out Edie seemed to have gone somewhere inside herself. As far as Sophie could tell, Edie was still functioning – still getting up every day, getting dressed and doing what she had to do – but it was all a case of going through the motions. What Sam had done to her, what Lena had confessed to and what the police had so far confirmed seemed to have robbed her of anything resembling a zest for life. Much as Sophie cared for the woman, it was like living with one of Dickie’s automatons.
She was in the bathroom now, mechanically dragging a brush through her hair and staring into the mirror with dull eyes. If Sophie were to be honest she would admit that she was worried, it felt like Edie was going to crack at any minute and shatter into a thousand pieces.
For herself she’d liked the idea of shipping out to Matt’s house and playing happy families, even though she knew the thought was naïve – three fucked-up people trying to play it straight was never going to work. Even if it could happen, between them they would be the most dysfunctional unit in the history of sociology. Anyway, Edie was having none of it, said Matt was a nice guy but they couldn’t do that to him. Shame.
Edie had been worried about her reaction to finding out that Johnno was her biological father, but it hadn’t surprised her in the least. Her mother had never been fussy who she gave out to, and it could have been worse (if she kept telling herself that, she might start to believe it). Johnno was nothing but an involuntary sperm donor as far as she was concerned, and though he’d been an absolute bastard to her, he’d helped Edie get away, and she had to give him credit for that. Dipping out on the money had been a bit gutting though, but Alice Hale had said that if it turned out to be clean they could have it back. Two grand would be awesome, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get past where it had come from and who’d had to die for it. She hadn’t known Andrew Garvey, but Suse had been a mate and it was hard not to feel gutted about the way she’d died. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like everything ha
d turned to crap.
Edie wandered out of the bathroom and picked up her bag. It was brand new, along with everything in it, bought with emergency cash from the bank. Edie had been forced to cancel all her cards because everything she owned was still in the half-burned house. The police had finished with it now and Edie was allowed to go back in and get what she wanted before the looters took over. She was also meeting the insurance assessor, sent by the company that Dolly had sold it to. Having been inside and seen the state of it before the fire, Sophie figured that the people who owned it would get a better deal if they just took the money and ran. The best thing that could happen to Number 17 was for it to fall down, or get pulled down with everything still in it. ‘What time have you got to be there?’ she asked.
‘Eleven.’
She was getting used to Edie’s one word answers, and no longer felt offended by them. She got it – if Edie started talking, fuck knows what would come out. She felt a bit like that herself sometimes. ‘Want me to come with you?’
Edie shook her head but didn’t look round, and Sophie was glad of it – looking into those eyes since everything had gone to shit stirred something painful in her, a seam of distress that she was more than happy not to tap into.
‘No, but thanks for offering.’
Sophie didn’t know why, but once Edie had gone, she was overwhelmed with an unbearable sense of loneliness. It felt like Edie was disappearing in stages, that only her physical form was left and that she was being forced to grieve for her piece by piece.
Frustrated, confused and feeling thoroughly out of her depth, she switched on the TV seeking distraction from her difficult thoughts.
***
The only thing that Matt hadn’t told Edie was that her uncle might still be alive. Of all the revelations that he’d been obliged to batter her with, Dickie’s continued existence was probably the least worrying. Why he’d left it out he couldn’t really explain, but it felt like pieces were missing from Dickie’s story and Matt was fundamentally tired of gaps. He would tell her, but only when he had the full picture.
