My Mother, the Liar

by Ann Troup

  Ratcliffe could see something unpleasant floating in the liquid; no doubt it was some body part that had been pickled by Dr Death. His face betraying his revulsion, he asked, ‘What is it?’

  Julia smiled, looking at the sample fondly. ‘It’s a piece of skin, well, scalp actually. I recovered it from the shed door at The Limes. It’s from Frances Haines.’

  Ratcliffe was nonplussed. ‘And?’

  She looked as if she was savouring the moment. Making him come down and look at things that revolted him was one of her favourite pastimes. He was sure that it amused her to see him squirm. At a guess, he’d say it was because she’d found out his nickname for her and was enjoying the punishment.

  ‘I tested it – the DNA matches with the hair that was found on Baxter. Gene for gene, so to speak,’ she said, waiting for him to react. ‘I only ran the test for the sake of being thorough; after all we were looking for Stella Baxter’s DNA, but I’ve run her sample, and there is no match.’

  Ratcliffe’s face fell.

  ‘Methinks you have the wrong sister,’ Ferris said.

  Ratcliffe’s mind was processing nineteen to the dozen, but like every good computer, he was able to convert it to a background activity. ‘What about the baby? Does Stella’s DNA check out with that?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Not able to get a sample – he was too far gone. There’s not a lot on a baby that would withstand the process he was exposed to, or would last that length of time. But I ran Rachel’s sample against Stella’s and there is a match. It’s not complete though and to be honest is a bit confusing. It proves they’re related, but not that Stella is Rachel’s mother. So my guess is she could be telling the truth about the baby, but there’s no way of proving it I’m afraid.’

  ‘And what about the father?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much all these tests cost, Ratcliffe? Or more to the point, do you care? Well, Benton does, and she’s after your hide for all this. But in answer to your question, William Porter is Stella’s father, but is not Rachel’s. I took the liberty of requesting Stella’s biological mother’s medical records. She didn’t die of TB; she died of syphilis. By the way, I’ve not met Stella Baxter, and I only have her DNA on a slide, not a blood sample. Tell me, is there anything odd about her eyes, and the way she moves?’

  Now he came to think about it, Ratcliffe supposed there was. ‘Well, she kind of shuffles around a bit, like her joints are stiff, and she squints a bit but I’d put it down to probably needing glasses. Why?’

  ‘She could have syphilis too, but I’d need to do other tests to be sure.’

  ‘She’s fifty-six years old; surely it would have come to light by now?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Not necessarily – she could have inherited a latent, tertiary form of the disease from her mother, which can take up to fifty years to manifest symptoms. If her joints and her eyes are affected, my opinion would be that it has been slowly taking over for some time now. Are there any personality changes?’

  ‘I don’t know about changes, but she’s fucking barking if that’s any help.’

  ‘Not really, it’s a rather subjective view, Ratcliffe,’ Julia said scornfully.

  ‘Surely Porter would have it too? So how come he’s not being treated for it?’

  ‘Well, I pulled his records too, just to square the circle. He was a street drinker I believe, and there is a rather tenuous diagnosis of Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome. Put it this way: I would stake a bit of money on the fact that it’s not WKS at all, but the late stages of latent syphilis.’

  ‘But surely the unit would have tested for that, and his own doctor would have found it?’

  Julia sighed. ‘He’s an old man in an underfunded psych unit. They don’t run tests unless they have to. All they ever did was a blood count, which showed him to be nutritionally deficient, which is consistent with chronic alcoholism – and liver function tests, which show cirrhosis. All typical. You only look for a disease if you suspect it’s there. The WKS diagnosis didn’t come about through clinical evidence, merely by a psych’s speculation based on the history and the presentation. You’d do well to remember that everything comes down to budgets, Ratcliffe.’

  Joking apart, he’d figured that the Porter clan were rotten to the core – now he had proof.

  ‘And they seem such a nice family,’ he quipped. ‘What about Rachel Porter? What’s her clap status?’

  Julia shook her head in despair. ‘You’re getting your STDs in a twist. The clap is gonorrhoea. I think it’s the pox that you are so ineptly alluding to. As for Rachel, I don’t know. It’s unlikely because despite Stella’s claims, there’s not enough evidence to suggest that they’re mother and daughter.’

  Ratcliffe noticed that she was still holding the jar that contained a piece of Frances Haines’s scalp, waving it around as she spoke. There was no doubt about it: Julia Ferris profoundly unnerved him. So, if Stella or Valerie weren’t Rachel’s mother, who was?

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than get a lecture in sexual health and semantics from me,’ Ferris said, turning to her desk and starting to rifle through the mound of files and papers that were strewn there.

  Summarily dismissed, Ratcliffe made his way back to the office. He needed to get Angie and go and see Frances Haines, but most of all he needed to stay out of Benton’s way until the case was resolved.

  He barrelled into Angie just as she turned the same corner from the opposite direction, knocking the file she was carrying out of her hand. ‘Been looking for you,’ he said breathlessly as she scrabbled on the floor to retrieve the contents of the file.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ she said, looking unamused by the fact that he just stood there watching as she grovelled on the floor. By the time he’d cottoned on, she’d picked everything up.

  ‘Yeah, been to see Ferris.’ He explained what Ferris had told him.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ she repeated, handing him the file he had made her drop. ‘Her statement doesn’t add up. She knew it was Baxter in the trunk, but at that point only his hand was showing.’

  ‘Right, I think we need to go and see her, don’t you?’

  ‘Do we need a warrant?’

  ‘Probably, but that would involve Benton,’ he said pensively.

  ‘Oh yeah, I meant to tell you, she’s on the warpath.’

  For a moment, Ratcliffe toyed with the idea of arresting Frances without a warrant so that he could avoid his boss. However, that move could have implications. He had no doubt that her snide husband would have a lawyer in there quicker than he could blink. He had no choice; he had to do things by the book. He had to go and see Benton.

  After wiping the floor with him for wasting time and resources, an approach that he particularly resented as it came from someone who looked young enough to be his daughter, and in terms of years of experience on the job was practically a foetus in comparison to him, Benton finally agreed to authorise a warrant. She wanted the case closed, she wanted it off her desk, and she wanted his head on a plate if it didn’t happen soon.

  By the time he got out of her office, all Ratcliffe wanted was a cup of tea, a good rant, and a change of career. While waiting for the warrant to come through, he fantasised about winning the lottery and telling Benton exactly where she could shove her bright, shiny, fast-track degree. The image in his head involved a distinct lack of sunshine and an unmentionable act involving a certain orifice. By the time he’d finished his tea, he felt better. Much better.

  Chapter 22

  Charlie had slept badly. His neck was stiff and his back crunched like it was made of gravel when he tried to move. Amy was still curled up comfortably in the double bed, emitting gentle, girlish snores. Charlie had spent the night wedged into a small tub chair, with his feet up on the bed and only his jacket to cover him. He was getting too old for all this. The clock told him it was time to move the van again.

  He woke Amy and told her he would be back soon, and
to meet him in the breakfast room.

  After moving the van a few spaces, and feeding yet more money into a parking meter, he found his phone, switched it on, and dialled his mother’s number. She picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Charlie? Is that you?’ She sounded worried, even a bit frightened.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he said, the full extent of how guilty he felt making him sag against the van. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said yesterday.’

  ‘It’s all right, love, you had every right to be angry, but you understand why I kept quiet, don’t you?’

  He guessed he did, but it still irked him that she had believed it. ‘Yeah. We’ll talk about it another time, OK? I found Amy and before you ask, she’s all right, but she went to see Rachel.’ He explained that Rachel was in hospital and that Amy had visited her there. He left out the part about being arrested; he’d had enough grief already.

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘What about you, have you seen her?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m going this morning.’ He heard her take a sharp intake of breath. ‘I have to tell her, Ma – you know that.’

  ‘Think about it, Charlie. She’s lived with that knowledge for nigh on twenty years. It ruined her life. She lost you; she lost Amy. She lost everything. How do you think she’s going to take it? It could tip her over the edge. Imagine what it would have been like for you if you’d had to live with that knowledge for all that time. It would have driven you mad. Don’t you think it would be better to leave things just as they are?’

  Her words stymied him for a moment. He had been so clear about her need to hear the truth, about his need to set things straight. Maybe his mother had a point – he knew from personal experience the damage that could be done by a lie. He had spent ten years in prison as an innocent man over lies. How much worse would it have been if he’d spent those years thinking he had committed a crime, enduring the knowledge of it, and had then found out it had all been a mistake?

  His mother was right. He would have gone out of his mind. Would the truth make Rachel’s life easier, or worse? ‘OK, Ma, I take your point. I’ll think on it. We’ll be home later. Oh, by the way, would you clean up the mess in the house? I don’t want Amy to feel bad when she gets home.’

  ‘OK love, I will. Be careful, won’t you. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ***

  Charlie took a walk around the block. He needed to think. Last night, when he had been trying to get off to sleep in that damned chair, he had indulged himself in some vague fantasy that once he told Rachel the truth, everything would be all right.

  ‘And we would all live happily ever after,’ he said aloud, to the surprise of a passing jogger, who gave him a wary look and an extra wide berth. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to leave Rachel alone. If he saw her at all, he could tell her that it was over, that he wouldn’t ever bother her again. Perhaps she would find more peace in that. Perhaps it was his turn to carry the load and protect her. Though the thought of it made his heart feel hollow.

  Over breakfast, he tried to explain it to Amy.

  ‘You are joking, right?’ she said, aghast, a piece of toast half buttered in her hand. ‘You can’t do that. You have to tell her the truth.’

  Charlie propped his head in his hands to contain his frustration. ‘You’ve seen the state of her, how she lives because of this! What if she can’t take it? What if it’s the final straw?’

  ‘And what about the truth setting you free?’ Amy argued, the toast still suspended mid-air. ‘Do you really think it’s up to you to choose who gets to know the truth and who doesn’t? Isn’t that playing God?’

  ‘I’m only trying to protect her from more harm, Amy.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s what she thought she was doing for you – look where it got her, and you for that matter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, taking his head out of his hands.

  ‘Well, it’s like twenty years ago someone hit the pause button on both your lives. You’ve both spent all this time going through the motions, neither of you actually living. You just exist. All because of that terrible lie. You don’t have a choice – you have to tell her,’ Amy said, waving her toast as if it were the gavel that would decide the matter.

  ‘When did you get to be so wise?’ he asked, amused.

  ‘I watch a lot of old Dr Phil,’ she said with a cheeky smile. ‘Seriously though, she has to know. If you don’t tell her, I will,’ she threatened, pointing at him with the toast.

  Charlie threw his hands up. ‘OK, OK. I get it. I’ll tell her.’ But he didn’t have a clue how. ‘Now will you please do something with that bloody toast before you have my eye out!’ He smiled as he said it, but he was faking. There was nothing to smile about.

  They walked to the hospital. Amy had agreed to wait in reception and sit tight while he saw Rachel. She told him to take his time, and kissed him on the cheek for luck. He wished he had her conviction that he was doing the right thing. Amy had told him which room to go to, but when he reached it, the bed was empty and freshly made. He went to the nurse’s station and asked for Rachel, irritated that the woman behind the desk didn’t even look up at him when he spoke.

  ‘Rachel Porter? Oh, she discharged herself last night,’ the woman said, continuing to tap away at her keyboard.

  ‘Pardon?’ Charlie said.

  ‘She discharged herself. She’s not here. Now if you don’t mind …’

  He did mind, he minded a lot. So much so that she threatened to call security if he didn’t calm down. He calmed down and asked to speak to a doctor. The woman grudgingly paged the Senior House Officer, who grudgingly arrived twenty minutes later, and equally grudgingly repeated what Charlie already knew. Rachel had discharged herself against medical advice.

  He knew the extent of her injuries since the police had taken great delight in describing them in graphic detail when they had believed he had inflicted them. Charlie couldn’t believe she would do something so stupid. Then again, she was a woman who believed she had married her own father and given birth to her sister, hardly the recipe for a strong streak of self-preservation.

  He ran down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift. He was puffed out when he reached the bottom.

  As he approached Amy, she looked up at him, her expression hopeful. ‘How did it go? Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ he said breathlessly, bending forward, hands on his knees to support the effort of getting his words out. ‘She discharged herself last night.’

  Amy was horrified. She had seen the state that Rachel was in. ‘Oh my God, we have to find her, make her come back!’

  Charlie nodded, dragging air into his lungs as if he could store it up.

  Given the reception he’d got from the downstairs neighbour the night before, Charlie decided to loiter around the corner while Amy went up to the house. She had agreed to ring him once she got inside the building, so she could let him in without the old biddy calling the police again.

  When Amy finally rang, he was practically at the door before he could answer, but her words halted him instantly.

  ‘She’s not here; she’s gone. She got into a taxi about an hour ago with a bag. The old lady doesn’t know where, but she said she looked really ill. What are we going to do?’

  Charlie didn’t have a clue.

  Chapter 23

  Stella was curled up on her hard bunk, her back to the door. She had been staring for a long time at a small sample of graffiti that someone had managed to carve into the wall with some implement of destruction that the custody sergeant had missed. Someone had left those words for her, she was sure. It was a message, just like the others.

  For some time now, there had been signs, small communications from a higher power. Even here, in the police station, they were everywhere. Yesterday when they had led her down the corridor to her cell, there had been a message written on the floor, disguised as a pattern in the tiles. SOS in Morse code: three dots, three dashes
, three dots, repeatedly. As she had walked, the floor had spoken to her.

  Yesterday, the floor had said save our souls; today the wall said Peccavi, peccavisti. I have sinned; you have sinned. It was literally the writing on the wall, the final instruction indicating a course of action that had been spelling itself out for months now. As she finally figured it out, she heard a sigh of relief from outside the door. They must be pleased that she finally had it right.

  This was confirmed for her a short time later when the cell door opened and she was told that she was free to go. All those months trying to decipher the meaning of the messages, the days of consternation when she consistently had it wrong, the derision hissed in her ear for her failure.

  The presenter on the local evening news had been the most aggressive, staring straight at her every night as her colleague delivered the daily epistle, turning away in disgust when Stella just hadn’t understood. How tired they must have been of her lacklustre efforts.

  Of course, they had checked up on her, whispering outside her door at night, sending men to watch her in such paltry disguises. Come to read the meter indeed. As if a fool would believe that. She had been cautious not to speak too loudly in the hall after that, sure that the spy in the uniform, with the obviously faked ID, had used that strange gadget he had brought with him to programme the electric meter to record her every word.

  The pressure had mounted after that, the communications subtle but relentless. Examples were set on a daily basis. In fact, every time she turned on the television, opened a newspaper, or looked at a magazine, someone was trying to show her what she had done and what she had to do about it.

  Now that she had a solution she could have kicked herself for being so stupid. It had been happening for years and she hadn’t grasped the message. Shouldn’t it have been obvious when the daughter in EastEnders found out that her sister was her mother? Or in that other soap, when a man’s wife had killed him for sexually abusing their daughter. It went on and on, day after day.