My Mother, the Liar

by Ann Troup

  ***

  The charred skeleton of The Limes looked sad rather than eerie, illuminated as it was by the sliver of moon that glowed weakly above the trees. Angie hardly knew what she hoped to find there, other than some vague wish that the smoke-blackened bricks might have some sentience and would whisper some dark secret that would be the key to the whole case.

  Instead, she just stood on the drive and felt a bit stupid. There was nothing left. Everything the house ever was had been incinerated – if not by Frances and her initial pyromaniacal rampage, then by this second elimination. But why?

  She agreed with Ratcliffe. There had always been another person in the loop, someone they had completely overlooked. The discovery of an unmissed, unmourned body so many years after death wasn’t much of a deal, just find the culprit, throw the book at them – job done. It was simpler, in fact, to pin it on Frances rather than Stella. If she had still been alive, Stella would have been declared unfit to stand trial, and would have ended up in a secure psychiatric unit at best. No satisfaction for anyone there. Frances would stand trial, be found guilty, go to prison, and they could all move on. She and Ratcliffe could close the case nice and neatly.

  Everyone happy.

  A good result.

  But for some reason this other element, this third wheel, had ballsed up. Re-entering the picture in such a way that their presence could not go unnoticed. But why?

  There had to be a reason why this person had decided to wipe Stella Baxter and her family home off the face of the planet. There had to be a reason why the same person had tried to do the same thing with the flat. The only explanation in Angie’s mind was that all three – Stella, The Limes, the flat – could reveal the identity of the third man.

  Or woman.

  Yes, definitely a woman. Angie’s instincts told her that the whole miserable affair had a woman’s touch running all the way through it. Nothing was simple; the things that had happened were cruel, devious and designed for lasting effect. Men didn’t hold onto bodies, they disposed of them, they buried them in woods, or pushed them into rivers in cars, or put them under tons of concrete. They didn’t make cured ham out of them and keep them in the shed. Male killers might keep trophies, but not whole cadavers.

  A recent experience with a friend had set her mind on this course. Her friend had found out that her husband was having an affair. She had packed his belongings into bin bags, dumped them outside on collection day, and had then gone on to carve the word ‘arsehole’ into the bonnet of his prized possession: his car. Not only had her friend wanted to destroy her husband’s most valued things, she had wanted him to know she had done it. She had wanted him to feel the effects of her fury and relish his distress as a souvenir.

  Whoever had been at work in the Porter family had wanted the same. Had wanted to see them suffer, and had wanted them to know the source of it. Not only that, they wanted to be sure the Porters were embroiled in it enough themselves to never be able to point the finger.

  Angie had once had a debate with her brother. She had been involved in a case where a paedophile had abducted a child. They had caught the man after the damage had been done. Her brother had said that if he were the child’s father he would have found a way to kill the man and would not have turned a hair. Angie had argued that if she were not constrained by the law, she would lock him up for ever and personally make every day of his life hell, and she would make sure he stayed alive to experience it. Women are much more cruel beasts, she had explained. Men like to put the sinners out of their misery; women like misery to put out the sin.

  The more she applied all this to the Porters, the more she saw a woman’s touch.

  Taking a small torch out of her bag, she made her way into the ruined building, completely ignoring the no entry signs that the fire service had liberally scattered about. The torch beam brought small areas of destruction into sharp focus. The water that had been used to put out the blaze had been almost as damaging as the fire itself. What the flames hadn’t consumed, the blast from the hoses had washed away, finishing the demolition job.

  A portion of wall had fallen and bits of sodden wallpaper still clung to damp shards of plaster. She shone the torch over it, the last evidence that this ruin had once been a home. The water had washed away some of the soot and she could still see the ghost of the pattern underneath the grime. There was something else there, part of a word. She stepped closer, almost losing her footing on the rubble. All she could make out were the letters s and u, then the top half of another that may have been e or an f. The paper below was gone.

  As she searched around, there were other fragments, but exactly that, just fragments. Nothing complete, no way of divining the meaning. However, something had been written on the walls, and the fire may have been started to make sure that no one ever read it. Either what the fire hadn’t destroyed had been washed away, or it had disintegrated as the structure of the building had collapsed in on itself.

  Nevertheless, she took photographs on her phone of the fragments she had found, and resolved to get someone there the next day to salvage what they could. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something, a reason why Stella might have died.

  ***

  Ratcliffe had to go and break the news to Frances Haines about her sisters. One dead, one as near as, damn it. Not that he expected her to react much. So far she hadn’t shown a sliver of family loyalty, and if others were to be believed, she wouldn’t start now. Still, it had to be done. Besides, he wanted to do it before she was moved to the prison where she would be on remand until her trial. Because, despite his theories, if she didn’t talk, and he didn’t find another suspect, she would go to trial and it would be for murder.

  His gut was telling him that she didn’t do it. Not that anyone else was inclined to agree with his theory. He’d run it past Benton first thing, but she wasn’t buying it unless he came up with solid evidence.

  Until then, Stella’s murder was a separate issue, not linked until he could prove it otherwise.

  ***

  Frances was waiting for him in an interview room in the company of a young female officer, who looked to Ratcliffe like she had just fallen out of the gates of junior school and into a uniform. Were they getting younger, or was he getting too old? After the past few days, he concluded it must be the latter.

  He offered Frances a cup of tea, but she refused. Then he explained about the fire, about Stella’s death, and about Rachel’s critical condition. She didn’t say anything but he saw a range of emotions flicker across her face: shock at Stella’s death, then a knowing frown when he mentioned the fire, possibly a glimmer of concern for Rachel, but too brief to be sure. Then calculation. She was weighing something up in her mind.

  ‘Do you have any questions, or is there anybody you think we should contact?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, as if his words were an irritating distraction to her thoughts.

  ‘Right, Officer Kelly will escort you back to the custody suite.’ He stood up to go, reminded PC Kelly what time the prison transport was due to arrive, and opened the door to leave.

  ‘Wait. There is something. Is Rachel safe?’

  Ratcliffe turned to her. ‘As I’ve explained, she’s seriously ill. Hopefully she will respond and make a recovery. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that. I mean is she safe? Are people with her?’

  ‘I don’t really understand what you mean,’ he said.

  She let out an impatient sigh. ‘You have just told me that my stepsister was murdered. I am simply asking you if you have considered that there might also be a risk to Rachel from the same source?’

  Given the current physical condition of Rachel Porter, he doubted that a murderer would have much of a job to do. ‘She is in the ICU, receiving constant care. I think she’s safe. Only close family are allowed to visit.’

  ‘Then she is not safe,’ she said simply.

  Ratcliffe sat back down. ‘Do you have something you would like to
tell me, Mrs Haines?’

  ‘Possibly, but only if you will give me a guarantee that you will post an officer in the ICU to maintain Rachel’s safety.’

  ‘I don’t really think you are in a position to make demands. Rachel is quite safe, at least from any external risk. Perhaps if you tell me who you think might pose a threat, I can help.’

  ‘Post an officer first, then I’ll tell you everything.’

  Ratcliffe shook his head, ‘Uh-uh. No deal.’

  Anger flashed across her face. ‘You fail to understand me – there is no time. For you to understand the nature of the threat, you will need to hear a long story. By the time I tell it and convince you to protect my sister, it may be too late. I will tell you, but only if you place an officer in the ICU with Rachel at all times until you make an arrest.’

  Ratcliffe mulled it over for a moment. He wasn’t in the habit of giving in to such outright manipulation by a prisoner, but he did want whatever information she could give.

  ‘OK, I’ll send someone down there. But whatever you’ve got better be good.’ He stepped out into the hallway and rang Angie, told her to get her arse to the ICU and stay with Rachel until she heard different from him. She asked him why, and he told her he didn’t have time to explain. She called him something both unmentionable and deeply unprofessional, and said she had information he might find interesting.

  ‘Tell me later. Haines is about to spill and I don’t want the window to close while I’m out here arsing about!’ he said, losing patience and ending the call by pressing buttons on his phone with more pressure than was absolutely necessary. Which resulted in him inadvertently switching it off.

  Back in the interview room he told Frances that DC Watson would be with Rachel in ten minutes, and would stay by her bedside for as long as she needed to.

  Frances closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘Then you had better assemble the cabal.’

  Chapter 33

  Angie was deeply pissed off – Ratcliffe was being a complete arsehole. She had just spent half the morning running around piecing together some decent evidence, and now he wanted her to sit in a hospital and babysit an unconscious woman. She’d had enough of that crap when she had worn a uniform. Still, looking on the bright side, it would give her a chance to mull over what information she had and form it into something coherent. She was going to crack this case if it killed her. Even if death did come in the form of abject boredom by the bedside of a woman she despised.

  On the ward, she showed her warrant card, explained her mission, and was shown into the waiting room, where she found Charlie Jones, looking ten years older than he had the day before, and in dire need of a good wash and a shave.

  ‘Rough night?’ she said, hoping that it sounded like sympathy rather than an indictment.

  ‘You could say that. Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Not really, I’m here to sit with Rachel – orders from above, just thought I would let you know. Is anybody with her now?’

  ‘Diana and Amy, only two at a time. Why do you need to sit with her?’

  She shrugged, turned out her palms. ‘Ours is not to reason why, et cetera. My guess is that as Stella was murdered, there might be some concern from the powers that be that Rachel is at risk too.’

  Charlie snorted in disbelief. ‘What, in the ICU, surrounded by nurses and her family?’

  ‘Like I said …’ Angie offered, as if it explained everything. ‘Perhaps you could take it as an opportunity to go home and get some rest, and, um, whatever,’ she said, waving her hand at him.

  He looked down at himself, ran a hand over his stubble, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Fair point, maybe you’re right. They say she’s stable now. But you’re not going to stop us coming back,’ he asserted.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Shall I send the others out?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Charlie said, his voice blurred by exhaustion.

  Once they had gone, once she had dealt with the protestations of the daughter and the friend, once she had explained to the staff the reason she was here cluttering up the ward, she was finally able to pull up a chair next to Rachel’s bed and gather her thoughts.

  It had been an interesting morning, at least up until Ratcliffe had phoned. She had been asked to get background on the family, find out if there was anyone in their circle who might have been missed. William Porter’s family were all dead, but no one had mentioned whether Valerie Porter still had people. Angie had made it her business to find out. Valerie’s maiden name had been Mint, and she had grown up at the rough end of town, a wartime child.

  Despite the intervening years, and the impact of urban regeneration, it was still the rough end of town, and a familiar stamping ground for anyone in the local police force. Angie had been on more call-outs there than she’d had a clean change of knickers when she’d been in uniform. Given that she changed her underwear daily, it had been an average of two incidents a day. She still had clean habits, but didn’t visit quite so often. It was a place of petty crime and domestics. Serious incidents were rare.

  A bit of research had told her that there were still three families living in the street where Valerie had grown up who might have known her as a child or young woman. No relatives had come to light, but these places were close-knit communities where people knew each other’s business intimately and had long memories and often strenuous loyalties.

  That could be a good or a bad thing depending on the information being sought. Given that even her own children had given Valerie a bad rap, Angie was hoping she hadn’t been popular as a kid – that way it was more likely someone would choose to dish the dirt.

  Her first port of call had been number 23, the home of Mrs Bolan and her daughter. Having rung the bell she’d waited patiently by the door, her warrant card ready in her hand. It had taken a few minutes, but eventually a small, grey-haired woman, who’d peered out past a security chain, had opened the door. Angie had been about to hand over her warrant card and introduce herself when a high-pitched, querulous voice had cut across her words.

  ‘Who’s there? Who’s that at the door, Pam?’

  Pam had given Angie an apologetic look, then turned and called down the passage, ‘It’s a lady from the police.’

  ‘What does she want? Is it about those thugs who broke the back fence? Bit late aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know what she wants, Mother, I can’t hear her over your shouting,’ she’d called in exasperation, and then turned back to Angie. ‘Is it about the fence?’

  Angie had smiled. ‘No, not the fence I’m afraid. I wanted to talk to you and your mother about Valerie Mint. She used to live a few doors away?’

  ‘Valerie Mint,’ Pam had repeated, rolling the name over her tongue as if it might taste the way it sounded. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’ She’d turned back into the hallway. ‘She wants to know about the Mints.’

  ‘Mince? What Mince?’ the inner voice demanded in a pitch that had made Angie want to wince.

  ‘Not Mince, the Mints, the family that used to be down the road.’

  There was silence from the back of the house.

  ‘Do you think I might come in?’ Angie had asked, her neck getting stiff from angling her head to peer through the gap in the door.

  Pam had shut the door and let off the chain, then ushered Angie through the door with a surreptitious glance down the street to see if anyone was watching.

  ‘Mother’s in the back room,’ she’d said, leading Angie down a dingy passageway to the back of the house. It was a typical Victorian terraced house: stairs straight ahead, front room, back room, kitchen, bathroom. Most houses in the area had been modernised, the rooms knocked through, the kitchens extended, the bathrooms put upstairs. However, this one retained its original layout and looked like it hadn’t been decorated since the Seventies.

  Pam’s mother had sat regally in a wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees made from hundreds of different bobble-textured crochet
squares. Her brown speckled hands had rested nervously on the arms of her chair, and her thin lips were set in a defiant line.

  Angie had introduced herself, showed her card again, and asked if she might sit down. The old woman had nodded and indicated an uncomfortable-looking cottage-style settee. Angie had sat, the ancient springs groaning with every movement. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to recall anything about the Mint family. They lived here some years ago. We’re currently investigating a case connected to Valerie Mint, or Valerie Porter as she was after she married. I was hoping to find someone who could tell me a bit about the family. It often helps us if we have some background,’ she’d explained.

  The old woman had nodded. ‘Does it now?’ she’d said.

  It was hardly a conversation opener.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Officer?’ Pam had offered, hovering by the kitchen door.

  ‘It’s Detective, and thank you, that would be lovely.’

  While Pam had bustled about in the tiny kitchen, the old woman just stared at Angie, who’d glanced around the room and given her the occasional smile, hoping to appear undemanding. Finally, Pam came in with a fully laden tea tray: a pot, cups, saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl and biscuits. Custard creams. Angie hated custard creams.

  Pam had fussed around pouring the tea. She’d looked nervous. The cups had rattled in their saucers as she’d handed first one to Angie, then one to her mother. The old lady had made a great show of stirring it and tapping the spoon on the rim of the cup, as if she’d been about to make a great announcement of some sort.

  ‘So you want to know about the Mints,’ she’d said, pursing her lips and taking a noisy sip from her cup.

  Angie had glanced down and noticed there was a chip in her cup. The china was stained yellow where the glaze was missing. ‘If you can remember anything about them.’