My Mother, the Liar

by Ann Troup

  ‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, jumping up from the bed and scurrying to the door. ‘Hi, love, put the kettle on will you? I’ll go in and wake Rachel,’ he lied, making a big show of knocking on the door he was holding. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his stubbled face. The towel smelled vaguely of Rachel.

  ***

  Rachel lay in the bed, her right side chilled by the absence of Charlie’s body heat. Conversely her leg was throbbing and hot, in fact her whole left side felt as if it were on fire. She didn’t feel good.

  Charlie had left her tablets on the bedside table, so she took two of everything just to be sure. Then she painfully inched her leg out of the bed. She was defeated by the mere thought of trying to get dressed, so instead helped herself to Charlie’s dressing gown, which was hanging on the back of the door.

  Getting downstairs was a slow and painful process, and mostly involved putting her body weight on the banister and swinging the duff leg onto the stair below, before gritting her teeth and making it bear her weight for a second or two. By the time she reached the bottom, she was flushed in the face and exhausted. The night’s sleep may as well not have happened for all the good it had done.

  The look on Diana’s face as she entered the lounge, red-faced and wearing Charlie’s clothes, told her that Diana thought her state was down to entirely different reasons than fever and tiredness, but she felt too lousy to bother explaining herself. She eased herself onto the sofa and took the coffee that Diana held out for her with grateful relief.

  Charlie and Amy were in the kitchen; Rachel could hear his mobile phone ringing above the noise of cupboards being open and shut and to her surprise he came in and offered her the phone. ‘For you: DS Ratcliffe.’

  Hesitating for a second, she took the phone. She had been dreading this. ‘Hello?’ Everyone’s eyes were on her as she listened to the detective. Finally, she handed the phone back to Charlie. ‘I’m not sure how you turn it off,’ she said in a voice that sounded too weak and too thin to be her own.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Diana asked, leaning forward.

  ‘They’ve had confirmation that it was Stella who was in the house. Apparently, it’s more complicated than that – other things have come up. He wouldn’t tell me on the phone, but he’s coming here later. Apparently, I’m not to go anywhere.’

  ‘Just as well looking at the state of you; in fact I don’t think you should leave that sofa today,’ Charlie said, pressing his hand to her forehead and looking concerned.

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss,’ she said, batting him away.

  ‘Hmm. We’ll see. Look, Amy and I are going shopping. There’s barely any food in the house and we need milk desperately. We won’t be long.’

  Amy had hung back, quiet after yesterday’s outburst, almost shy in fact. Rachel gave her a tentative smile, and was pleased to have it returned.

  ‘I have to go with him, or we could be living on pot noodles for a week,’ Amy said.

  Rachel wanted to laugh, but it hurt.

  After they had gone, Diana turned to her. ‘So what did that detective really say?’

  Rachel was surprised. Diana had never questioned her before. ‘Like I said, he wants to talk to me sometime today. He wouldn’t say much over the phone.’

  ‘But what do you think? Look, Rachel, your sister was killed in a fire, your other sister has been arrested for murder, your mother died a few weeks ago, your long-lost husband and daughter have just popped out of the woodwork, and people aren’t who you thought they were. Need I go on?’

  ‘When you put it all together like that, it’s a pretty abysmal catalogue of disasters,’ Rachel said with a wry smile.

  Diana nodded vigorously, the expression on her face exaggerated by her raised eyebrows. ‘Yes, it is. It’s a bloody mess, and you’re sitting there showing less reaction than someone who has just been told that the post will be late today.’

  Rachel sighed; she didn’t feel well. Diana was right. She should be reacting differently but she was looking at it all as if she were at one end of a long tunnel, and the cataclysmic mess that threatened to engulf her was at the other. She explained this to Diana, and added, ‘So, do you suggest that I rush to meet it head on?’

  Diana looked guilty for pushing the matter. ‘No, of course not. I suppose I’m just a bit shell-shocked by it all. I forget you’ve been living with a lot of these issues for a long time. Though I don’t know how you’ve managed it. I think you’ve been remarkably strong.’

  Denial is a wonderful thing, Rachel thought to herself. ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. How did you get on at Delia’s last night?’

  Diana grimaced. ‘Let’s put it this way: I don’t think we’re likely to become lifelong friends any time soon.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Was she a bit rough and ready for you? She can be rather blunt, but she means well. Without Delia I think we might all have fallen apart a lot sooner. God knows what her reasons were, but she kept the family ticking for a long time. We have a lot to be grateful to her for.’

  ‘Why was she so loyal to your family?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I don’t really know, other than she had links with my mother that went back to childhood. There was some bond there. She was more loyal than she needed to be – I know that much. Mother treated her like a skivvy.’

  ‘Yet she carried on her involvement with you all even after what happened to Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t ask me to explain it. It’s impossible enough to make sense of my family as it is.’ Now her hand was beginning to throb too. ‘Do you mind if we don’t do any more questions? I think I might be getting enough of that when the police turn up.’ It was uncharacteristically rude of her, but that tunnel was getting shorter with every word.

  ***

  ‘Of course. You should rest. You look a bit peaky to be honest,’ Diana said, worried that she had added to her friend’s stress. She had come here to support her, not increase her burden. However, Rachel’s state of calm in the face of so much trauma was quite worrying. The dam had to give way sometime, and she felt she needed to be there when it did.

  As for Delia Jones, it was clear that no one else had the same reservations about the woman. Still, they all knew Delia a damn sight better than she did and perhaps she would be wise to reserve judgement. In the meantime, she needed more tea and Rachel needed rest. Quietly she left the room to take advantage of Charlie’s decent teabags in the peace and quiet of his uncluttered kitchen.

  ***

  Ratcliffe could feel the beginnings of a headache. His left eye felt twitchy and white light zigzagged around the periphery of his vision.

  Peter Haines had a cast-iron alibi for the fire; he had been at home at the time, but not alone. His sister and her husband had been with him and could account for his every move since he had left the police station after Frances’s arrest.

  If Ratcliffe had judged Peter as imperious, his sister turned out to be the high priestess of pomposity. She and her husband made Frances and Peter look positively accommodating in comparison. Ratcliffe was just glad he didn’t have to interview the Haines’s parents. He didn’t think his will could have stood it. Those two had definitely learned their high-handedness from someone.

  One thing that had been abundantly clear from their meeting was that Peter Haines had no intention of standing by his wife. Bail for Frances was out of the question, and Haines had been relieved about it, using the reprieve from his wife as an opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge. The only satisfaction Ratcliffe had from the meeting was in finding out that The Limes had not been insured – fate had made doubly sure that Peter Haines wouldn’t see a penny from the place.

  ‘Rough justice,’ Ratcliffe had commented to Angie as they left. She didn’t seem to get it. She was still wittering on about the dolls of Satan scene back at the flat.

  They had no clear suspect for Stella’s murder. His only chance was to see if Rachel coul
d shed any light on who may have wanted to bump Stella off and burn down the family home. Given that she claimed she hadn’t spoken to any of them for twenty years it was a long shot, yet it was the only chance he had. He might have put Charlie Jones in the frame if he hadn’t been with Rachel the day of the fire. Charlie had motive – Stella’s testimony had put him away, and he might have had a claim on the house if his marriage to Rachel had panned out.

  If Stella had ever told him the story she had recounted at the police station, he might have had even more reason to bump her off in a fit of fury. However, Charlie wasn’t there, and hadn’t done it, so all this mindless conjecture was useless. Though it was better than thinking about DI Benton having his head on the block.

  By the time they reached Charlie’s house and pulled up on the drive, his head was pounding. ‘Got any paracetamol?’ he asked. Women always had stuff like that.

  Angie rummaged in her bag and passed him a pink box. ‘Will these do?’

  ‘Feminax? What the hell are they?’ he said, peering at the box and reading that they were for the relief of menstrual cramps. What the hell – pain was pain. He ripped open the box and took two, swallowing them down with tepid coffee from a polystyrene cup. He had visions of them doing more than dealing with his headache. If he found himself worrying whether his arse looked too big in his suit, or discussing the price of leg waxing any time soon, he would swing for Angie Watson. ‘Ta,’ he said, handing the box back and ignoring her grin.

  A woman Ratcliffe didn’t recognise opened the door. He held up his warrant card. ‘DS Ratcliffe and DC Watson to see Rachel Porter.’

  ‘She’s expecting you, come on through,’ the woman said with a warmer smile than either of them were used to receiving when they knocked on a door.

  ‘And you are?’ Angie asked.

  ‘Diana Lovell, friend of Rachel’s.’ She extended her hand, obligating Angie to shake it.

  Rachel was supine on the sofa, wearing a man’s dressing gown. She looked like shit. The past few days had taken their toll on her. Her hair was dull, her face puffy, her breathing rapid. Her skin looked clammy, as if she was running a fever. Ratcliffe had quite fancied her when they’d first met. Now she looked a wreck.

  ‘Hello again, Ms Porter, or can I call you Rachel?’

  She nodded. ‘Have a seat. I’m sure someone will make you both a cup of tea.’

  Ratcliffe looked hopefully at the others in the room: Charlie Jones, Diana Lovell and the daughter, Amy, looking more like her mother than her mother did at that moment. Charlie Jones didn’t look like he was preparing to go anywhere. He was leaning against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed. But the woman, the so-called friend, had cottoned on, and ushered the girl out of the room with her.

  Ratcliffe sat in the chair closest to Rachel, Angie on a dining chair, which she pulled to the end of the sofa so that she was looking directly at Rachel. They both watched as she pulled herself into a sitting position.

  ‘I’m afraid we have some more bad news for you, Rachel,’ Ratcliffe said, the vice that was gripping his head loosening a bit. That girly stuff was quite good, he noted. ‘I have been told by our pathologist today that Stella didn’t die as a result of the fire. It would appear that she was dead before the fire started.’ He was fully expecting Rachel to descend into a seizure at that point, and had been bracing himself for it. But she didn’t. Instead the red flush in her cheeks began to recede, leaving an ashen grey in its wake. Within moments she looked like a statue that had been carved from dirty wax. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She didn’t speak for a moment, just closed her eyes. Charlie stepped forward, but she waved him away. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to have a fit. It seems that new medication won’t let me. If she didn’t die in the fire, how did she die?’

  Ratcliffe explained that they suspected that she had been strangled.

  ‘By who? Who would do that?’ Rachel asked, clutching her own throat as if she could remember what it felt like to have someone’s hands around it.

  Ratcliffe glanced at Charlie, who looked suitably shocked. ‘That’s what we don’t know. Is there anyone you know of who might have held a grudge against Stella, or who she might have had cause to be afraid of?’

  To his surprise Rachel laughed, albeit weakly. ‘Sorry, it’s just that Stella was frightened of everyone. But the only three people who might have borne her any ill will are all accounted for. You have Frances, Roy is dead, and so is my mother. Other than that, she didn’t know anyone. Well, to the best of my knowledge anyway. But that’s years out of date as I told you before.’

  ‘Why would she have been afraid of those particular people? They were her family,’ Angie interjected.

  ‘Where do you want me to start? My mother despised her, thought her weak and pointless, just used her as an unpaid maid. Frances followed suit, ashamed to be related to her, and as for Roy, he resented her, felt he had married her under false pretences, well, once he found out we didn’t have any money anyway. I remember he was quite abusive to her. It was pretty unpleasant.’ She said all this with her eyes closed, as if she were keeping the memories at bay. Given what Ratcliffe already knew about her family life, he didn’t blame her.

  ‘What about your relationship with her? How was that?’

  Her faced creased, and she put her hand up to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. It was the first crack he’d seen in her too-calm demeanour. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m having difficulty taking all this in.’

  Charlie stepped forward again as if he intended to comfort her, but he appeared to think better of it and went back to brooding near the fireplace.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rachel said again. ‘In answer to your question, our relationship was as good as was possible under the circumstances. Stella was the one who looked after me, took me to school, fed me, read to me, put me to bed. She was kind. It was a rare thing in our house, an odd thing. I don’t think I was as kind to her as she was to me.’

  Ratcliffe and Angie exchanged glances. ‘In what way weren’t you kind?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t really know how to respond to her affection. It was a bit alien – more frightening in some ways than the others were. I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain. And of course, I left her there when I went to London. I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Why did you leave her behind?’ Angie asked. Ratcliffe felt it was more out of simple curiosity than the chance that her answer might take them forward.

  Rachel pointed at Charlie. ‘I still blamed her for testifying against Charlie. She knew as well as I did that he didn’t kill Patsy.’

  It was a difficult moment, awkward. Ratcliffe didn’t want things to digress into a discussion on whether Charlie Jones had been wrongfully convicted of his first wife’s murder. ‘That’s understandable, under the circumstances. So, you can’t think of anyone who might have a motive to harm her?’

  Rachel shook her head.

  ‘Have you ever been inside the flat above the shop?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘The flat? Not for years. Not since I was little. Why?’

  ‘Well someone attempted to burn that down as well. We were called there this morning,’ Ratcliffe said, watching puzzlement transmute into complete confusion on her face.

  ‘Can you describe the flat to us, as you remember it?’ Angie asked.

  ‘God, it’s a long time ago. Typical flat really – I think it was used mostly for storage, but there had been a squatter, some old tramp. So, it was locked up and left. I think there was a bit of furniture in the sitting room. Stella used to have her lunch break up there sometimes. But it was pretty grim as I recall. She stopped going up there after the tramp I think. Sorry, it’s all a bit vague.’

  ‘Did you ever go into the bedroom there?’ Ratcliffe wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘We think someone might have been using the place quite recently. Do you know who had keys to the shop and the fla
t?’

  ‘There was just one set that Stella used. She worked in the shop. I did too for a little while.’

  ‘And you didn’t go into the flat while you worked at the shop?’

  ‘No, like I said, no one did after the tramp. It was always locked up.’

  ‘Would you say that Stella had strange preoccupations at all? Anything you might have found odd in her behaviour?’ Ratcliffe asked.

  ‘I think we were all a bit odd. It’s a family trait. She was very quiet, timid I suppose. It’s hard to say – none of us is exactly normal are we?’

  Both Angie and Ratcliffe had to concede this was true.

  At that point Diana came in with a tray of tea and handed out the mugs. ‘Would you like me to go back into the kitchen?’ she asked.

  ‘Stay if you like,’ Rachel said. ‘You can hear all about just how fucked up we all are.’ It came out with a tinge of vitriol that surprised everyone. ‘Sorry, Di, that wasn’t aimed at you. It’s just that having to talk about all this makes me realise just how weird we really are. I mean were …’ As she tailed off, she stretched out her leg and winced with pain.

  Charlie spoke for the first time. ‘Have you taken your tablets?’

  ‘This morning. I probably need to take some more.’

  He nodded and left the room. They all waited while he climbed the stairs and fetched her medication. They drank their tea as she swallowed a fistful of pills. She was looking really quite ill now, and it was seriously unsettling Charlie Jones.

  ‘What about your relationship with Frances?’

  Rachel laughed again, but this time it made her breathless. ‘Can being treated as an annoying inconvenience count as a relationship? Frances tolerated me because she had no choice.’

  ‘Yet you came back when she asked you to,’ Ratcliffe said, remembering the letter Rachel had told them about the first time they’d met.

  ‘She didn’t ask, she commanded,’ Rachel said drily.

  They both saw Charlie nod in agreement. Maybe it was time he contributed to this conversation a little more, Ratcliffe thought.

  ‘What was her relationship with Roy Baxter like?’ he asked, encompassing Charlie in the question.