Conflicted Innocence

by Netta Newbound

  “I’m a writer—you may have heard of me. I write as Aaron Clark.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell, Mr Clark. But I still don’t get what that has to do with our Monica.” His once friendly eyes had narrowed and taken on a wary expression.

  “My current book is dedicated to little known, unsolved murders, and Monica’s first husband, Damien Faber, is one of the subjects.”

  “I don’t know what you expect to find out from Monica. She was kept in the dark. The bloody police were nigh on useless.” He began a full-on tirade about the police and crime in the area, and the way the younger generation have little or no respect.

  James let the man vent his anger, nodding in agreement every so often.

  “I understand that, sir. And I’m sorry to have brought up some obviously distressing memories for you. But there was very little recorded back then, and we can only find a limited amount of information. I thought Mrs Fabe—I mean, Mrs Turpin, or anybody else who happened to be around at the time, may be able to fill in a couple of blanks.”

  “She’s not here. She’s in a nursing home and can’t remember what happened five minutes ago never mind fifty-odd years.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Are you her husband, Mr Turpin?”

  “Aye, lad. That’s right.” He held his hand out for James to shake.

  “I’m James, James Dunn, and this is my partner, Geraldine.”

  The man took my hand and smiled, his kind eyes twinkling once again. “Nice to meet you, lass.”

  A small bright green car pulled up behind the Jeep. A middle-aged woman dressed in blue, and carrying a black bag, got out and approached the three of us.

  “Here she is,” Mr Turpin said. “And how are you today, Lisa?”

  “Good morning, Harold. I’m parched. I hope you’ve got that kettle on.” She grinned.

  “Don’t I always—and a pack of your favourite bickies at the ready.” He turned back to us. “I’m sorry. I’d invite you in, but you won’t want to see what she has in store for me, I promise you. Sorry I couldn’t be of any help.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks anyway,” James said.

  “This man’s an author, Lisa. Writes real books and all. Have you heard of him? James Dunn.”

  “Actually, I write under a pen name—Aaron Clark.”

  “How exciting,” Lisa gushed. “I’ve never met a real life author before.”

  James laughed and backed up, his arm around my shoulder. “We’ll leave you to it. Thanks again, Mr Turpin.”

  Once we were back in the car, I turned to James. “I knew we should have called—all this way for nothing.”

  “Don’t be such a defeatist.” James grinned. Taking out his phone he began trawling the internet. “Bingo!” he said.

  “What?”

  “There’s a nursing home with a dementia unit not far from here. What’s the betting that’s where we’ll find our Mrs Turpin?”

  “You can’t just...”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno really. It just seems rude.”

  “Doing this kind of job makes you develop a thicker skin. Nobody will offer an interview if they’re getting nothing out of it, so you learn to be cunning and one step ahead of people. Oh, and never take any one person’s account of anything as gospel. In my experience every single person will embellish a story in some way or other to suit themselves.”

  Ten minutes later we pulled up outside Nimping Nursing Home, a lavish brick building in Little Nimping, a quaint village on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent.

  The building was surrounded by an iron fence, and the gates swung open as the Jeep approached. Once we’d parked up, we headed through another pedestrian security gate and strolled along the path to the main entrance.

  A man with crinkly, kind eyes who appeared to be in his late thirties, with sandy-coloured close-cropped hair and a beard, sat behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning. Welcome to Nimping. How may I help you?”

  James cleared his throat. “Hi, we’re not expected—we were just passing, but I think my aunt is a resident here. Monica Turpin?”

  “Ah, yes. I bumped into her in the lounge a few minutes ago. If you’ll just sign in then I’ll take you through. I’m Charlie—Charlie Fenton.” He shook James’ hand before indicating the day book.

  Once James had filled in our details, Charlie led us down a plush carpeted hallway with soft lighting and ornately framed artwork.

  The nursing home in Cumbria, where my nan lived, looked tired in comparison.

  As we neared the highly painted, white French doors, Charlie turned to us. “Now, when did you last see your aunt?” he asked.

  “Oh, gosh. Years ago,” James lied.

  “You are aware she has dementia, aren’t you?”

  “I was told, yes. She might not remember me, is that what you’re getting at?”

  Charlie nodded. “I’m afraid so. She often has lucid moments but, on the whole, she’s confused. Don’t be alarmed.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  Charlie pushed open the swing door, leading us through to a large, bright and airy lounge. Several clusters of armchairs sat about the room. In the few occupied chairs, the residents all had the same, zoned-out expression on their faces.

  We approached a woman wearing a lemon-coloured top and pale blue cotton trousers. Her hair was brushed back off her face and hung limp and uncared for. I imagined, considering the quality of her clothing, that she would have had weekly visits to the hairdresser for a shampoo and set not many moons ago. She sat beside a large picture window which overlooked the pond and water feature in the centre of manicured gardens.

  “We have a surprise for you today, Monica,” Charlie said in a raised voice.

  Is she deaf? I wondered.

  The woman didn’t acknowledge us.

  “It’s your nephew. He’s come a long way to see you, so don’t be shy,” he said, again his words seeming to fall on deaf ears. He turned back to us. “Can I get you a cuppa?”

  “That would be lovely, thanks,” James said, sitting in a chair beside Monica. With a flick of his head, he gestured I do the same. I took the chair on the other side of Monica.

  “Hi, Auntie Monica,” James said as Charlie walked away.

  “The bees are dying off,” Monica said in a flat tone.

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “The bees. They are dying and then we will all die.” She nodded out of the window.

  “Oh yeah. I heard something about that,” I said.

  Monica suddenly turned to face me with a wary expression on her face, then she smiled. “Do you like gardening?” she asked.

  “I do, but I’m not very good at it—not like you. I’ve just been to see your beautiful garden. You are very talented.” I had no clue if she was the talented gardener, but I didn’t think it would hurt to say.

  “Petunias.”

  “Sorry?” I said, glancing at James, unsure if she had just sworn at me.

  “Petunias are my favourite flower. Do you know there are lots of different species of petunias?”

  “No. I didn’t know that. Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?”

  She quickly scrutinized me again. “Do I know you?”

  I shook my head. “No. We wanted to talk to you about Damien.”

  “Who?”

  “Damien Faber—your first husband.”

  “Oh, him.”

  I flashed a look at James who nodded for me to continue.”

  “Yes. We wondered if you could tell us what happened all those years ago. If you have any theory or clue as to what happened to him.”

  “I know what happened to him.” She held her hand up, making her fingers resemble a gun. “Pow!” she said.

  “Sorry. Yes, I know he was shot. I mean...” I glanced at James for assistance. “I’m not doing very well here.”

  James nodded at me once again.

  I cleared my throat. “It must have been a shock fo
r you—to be left alone like that, with two little kiddies.”

  She shrugged. “Better off without him—lazy good-for-nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “Do I know you?”

  Charlie suddenly appeared with a tray. “Here you go, peoples. A nice pot of rosy-lee.”

  James got up and took the tea tray off him, then placed it on the coffee table between us. “Do you want tea, Auntie Mon?” he asked for Charlie’s benefit.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, a worried expression on her face.

  Charlie smiled and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Give me a shout if you need anything,” he said, and then he was gone.

  My heart was in my mouth. I felt bad for using her illness against her. James motioned for me to continue.

  “So. Where were we?” I asked, aware of a slight quiver to my voice.

  James placed a cup and saucer in front of Monica.

  “Thanks Jimmy. You’re a good lad.”

  Shocked, I glanced at James who shrugged.

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

  “Sweetheart.” She laughed. “You always were a flirt—just like your dad. I’m just so pleased you didn’t turn out like him in other ways.”

  “Who was his dad?” I asked, confused.

  “You know. Damien,” she said.

  It suddenly clicked. She thought James was her son. I could tell he understood too, from the expression on his face.

  “Can you tell me what happened to Dad?” he asked.

  She frowned, her lips suddenly tight. “Do I know you?”

  “It’s me—Jimmy.”

  “My Jimmy?” She leaned forward and reached her hand out to him.

  James nodded and took her frail hand in his.

  “Don’t let him know you’re here. You know what he’s like,” she hissed, glancing around as though suddenly terrified.

  “Who?”

  “Worst thing I ever did was marry him. He was far worse than your real dad—all sweetness and light on the surface. But I don’t need to tell you, do I, son?”

  My stomach twirled. Could she possibly be talking about the kind old man we’d just met?

  James agreed with Monica.

  “Although your real dad was a ladies man—he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “So you think Damien was having an affair?” I asked.

  “Gawd no—not that time. He was following me!”

  “You! Were you having an affair?”

  Her eyes clouded. “Do I know you?” She suddenly snatched her hand away from James and leaned into her chair, putting as much distance between us all as possible.

  “It’s me. Your Jimmy.” James tried once more.

  “I don’t know you. Help me! Help me!” she screamed.

  Charlie and two nurses suddenly appeared.

  James and I got to our feet to allow them room to get close to the now hysterical woman.

  Moments later, Charlie left the nurses trying to calm Monica and turned to us. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s best if you leave.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry,” James said, shaking the other man’s hand.

  “All in a day’s work, unfortunately. I hope you managed to have some moments of clarity, though. It’s hard on the family when this happens.”

  “Yes. Yes, we did thanks. Would it be okay to call in again next time we’re passing?”

  “Of course, if this little episode hasn’t put you off. Your friend looks petrified,” he said, nodding towards me.

  I laughed, and shook my head. “Do I? No, I’m fine.”

  We said our goodbyes and hurried back to the safety of the car.

  “I feel sick!” I said, as soon as I slammed the door.

  “Why?” James chuckled. “It was a buzz.”

  “I felt bad for pretending you were her son—it was cruel.”

  James shrugged. “I know, but she won’t remember.”

  “It just felt ikky though. I would hate for something like that to happen to my nan.”

  “When you put it like that, maybe it was a little cruel. We needed to do it, though, so she would tell us all she knew.”

  “I know why you did it. I just didn’t like it, that’s all. What do you think about what she said?”

  “Well. She’s clearly not in her right mind, but, some of the things she said, I actually believed. I wonder what really happened all those years ago?”

  “Exactly. So what now? Home?”

  “No way. Did you say Lydia offered to collect Grace if we’re not back in time?”

  “Yes. I already put her name on the enrolment form. I need to call them, that’s all.”

  “Call Lydia first, and, if she doesn’t mind, we’ll go to Manchester to see if there are any cab drivers who were around back then.”

  “This is so exciting.” I grabbed the phone and dialled Lydia’s number.

  Chapter 25

  Lee pushed his chair back and lifted both feet to the desk, wearily. He felt exhausted and needed to close his eyes, just for a few seconds.

  They didn’t get back until well after midnight. If not for his solicitor he doubted he would’ve got back at all. He almost caved in and confessed everything when the detective mentioned the hair. But quick-thinking Phillip played a blinder, and they backtracked before too long.

  He didn’t know how long he could keep this facade up. The lies and deceit were taking their toll, causing him to be snappy and off his food. He barely slept a wink without jumping awake in terror. He knew it was just a matter of time before it all came crashing down around him.

  He wished, more than anything, that he could tell Lydia the truth. But how could he? She’d been through so much already. And now, when they should be able to try to piece their lives back together, here he was about to be hauled off for murder. Would this nightmare ever end?

  Lydia was barely coping as it was. Only that morning she seemed distracted and, after several minutes of persuasion, she finally told him she thought Candice had been in her room all evening, drinking.

  He was livid.

  With everything that had gone on recently, he would give anything to be able to seek solace in the bottom of a whisky bottle but he resisted, for Lydia.

  Candice had been told from the outset that their home was an alcohol-free zone, and he’d be damned if he would allow her to disrespect him or his wife in that way. She still hadn’t surfaced by the time he left for work, but he intended to give her what for later.

  ***

  The taxi company occupied a small corner area of a building in the backstreets of Manchester.

  A hefty woman, with bleached-blonde hair and ginger roots, sat behind a grubby desk. Her lips smacked noisily on the biggest wad of chewing gum I’d ever seen.

  “You’ll have to wait,” she barked. Her strong accent made it sound more like ‘Yer’ll ‘av ta wayt’.

  “Sorry?” James asked, closing the door behind us.

  “No cabs for at least half-hour.”

  “I don’t want a cab. I’m after a chat.”

  The woman visibly bristled. “Are you the filth?” She used her knee to shove the drawer shut beside her.

  “If you mean the police then no, I’m an author. I’m currently working on a book about historic crimes in the area, and I would appreciate it if you could point me in the right direction of anybody who may remember Damien Faber.”

  “Who?”

  “He was a driver here in the sixties.”

  “I wasn’t even bloody born then,” she guffawed.

  “No, I can tell that,” James flirted. “But, I was hoping there may be somebody still here that was.”

  “You could ask Chris. His dad owns the place, although he doesn’t work here anymore—he’s living in sheltered accommodation somewhere towards Didsbury.”

  “Where could I find this Chris?”

  “Doin’ an airport run. You’d usually find him in the back office playing Candy Crush on his lappy, but we’re short
staffed today and so he’s had to get his lazy arse out of the chair and do a bit of work for once. Do you wanna cuppa while you wait?”

  I glanced around at the grubby kitchenette, taking in the grimy kettle and chipped, mismatched cups, and I shook my head. “Not for me, thanks.”

  James also declined and perched on the edge of the windowsill, offering me the only chair.

  “So, is business booming, then?” James asked, making small talk.

  I almost heaved as she stretched a line of gum from her mouth until it snapped, and then she snaffled it up again slurping on her fingers.

  “Nah, not really. It’s just that we had an airport booking, and one of our drivers called in sick.”

  “Ah, I see. Don’t let us keep you from your work.” He nodded at the pile of papers on the desk.

  “Got nowt to do. Just wait for the phone to ring. I won’t do anything that’s not in me contract. I work me bloody arse off usually, but what thanks do I get—nothing. So what kind of books do you write?”

  “True crime.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I write as Aaron Clark.”

  “Oh, I know you. My old fella used to read your stuff all the time.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Can I get your autograph?”

  James nodded and pulled out a pen.

  She reopened the drawer and produced an envelope. I craned my neck to see what she’d tried to hide earlier, but she quickly kneed the drawer closed once again.

  “Here, this’ll do.” She thrust the envelope towards James.

  “What’s the name of the person you want it for?”

  “Me! Jeannie Meadows.”

  James scribbled on the envelope and slid it back towards Jeannie on the desk.

  “Will this be worth anything?”

  “I seriously doubt it.” He laughed.

  “What’s the point of that then?” She snatched up the envelope and shoved it back in the drawer.

  “I’ve got no idea.” James shot a glance at me and rolled his eyes.

  Soon after, a tall, stocky, grey-haired man arrived. Dressed in beige slacks and a navy jumper over a grey shirt, he looked out of place in the grubby surroundings.

  “Chris—just the man. These people are waiting to speak to you. Don’t worry. They’re not the filth,” Jeannie said.