‘I see. Well done, Lindsay. Is this him?’ Colgate pointed to the picture of a young boy, a tentative smile displaying a gap where a front tooth was missing.
‘Yes, sir. Robert Pratchett. He still lives in Southgate. His address is listed as Selbourne Road but he seems to have moved out; marital problems. He’s currently renting a room on the High Street above a kebab shop.’
‘Good work, Lindsay. Listen, it’s now Wednesday eleventh.’ Colgate checked his watch to confirm not just the date, but the time. ‘It’s ten minutes past ten. We’ve got exactly two days and under six hours to follow my hunch and find out if Miss Digby’s life really is in danger. Have we heard from her again?’
‘She came in yesterday with more evidence of threatening emails, late-night phone calls and suspicious sightings of a hooded stranger wandering round her back garden in the dark. She’s virtually barricaded herself in.’
‘Okay. Let’s get moving.’ Colgate knocked back his plastic cup of coffee, wincing as the bitter dregs hit his throat. ‘Christ this coffee’s got worse. I didn’t think it was possible.’ He scrunched up the cup, threw it in the bin and lifted his jacket off the peg before striding out ahead of his young colleague. As an afterthought he went back and pocketed the photograph and statement of the young Robert Pratchett and folded them away in his top pocket.
Bob covered his ears against the drum roll of knocking. The rotting door frame shook on its hinges but the percussion beat wouldn’t stop. Louder and louder. Surrender was nigh. Bob flicked off the music, ran a cursory hand across his thinning pate and tugged down the tatty T-shirt which covered his ribs. A rattle of empty beer cans drew a wry smile. One of the police officers must have tripped over the pile of crates stacked on the landing.
Bob unfastened the chain, puffed out deep regular breaths, remembering Ms Evans’ advice. Her calmness infiltrated the darkness. ‘It’ll help against hyperventilating.’
‘Yes. How can I help?’ Bob’s fingers beat on the door frame. ‘I’m rather busy,’ he continued, peering through a reluctant gap.
‘Mr Pratchett? Mr Robert Pratchett? I wonder if we could come in and have a chat. DCI Colgate and PC Lindsay.’ The detective flicked open and closed an identification wallet.
Bob inched the door back and the detective raised an eyebrow as the unoiled hinges creaked. ‘Come in. Excuse the mess.’
Bob led the way across a corridor strewn with clothes, papers, shoes and all sorts of random paraphernalia. Two tennis rackets and a can of balls leant against one wall and tucked behind the door was a rickety bicycle and a large pile of unopened letters and junk mail atop a rotting wooden crate. Bob’s barefooted tread was light, his thin wiry legs, encased in voluminous shorts, picking their way carefully through the debris.
A black cat tore past, a meaty tail wriggling in its mouth. PC Lindsay’s scream pierced the air while Bob’s laugh kept sync with Colgate’s disapproving stare.
‘Mr Pratchett, we’re looking into an old murder case from some years back and were hoping that you might be able to help us.’
‘Oh. What case would that be?’
‘The Garden Shed Murder. Do you remember it?’
‘Vaguely.’ Bob scrabbled together a mess of papers, drawings, sketches and newspaper cuttings which lay strewn across a small table by the window and pushed them to one side.
‘Coffee?’ Bob rinsed through a couple of dirty mugs, banging the crockery carelessly as he went. With both hands he violently shook a large half empty jar of Nescafé before digging a spoon through the congealed granules.
‘No, thank you. You’re okay. This won’t take long, but don’t let us stop you.’ Colgate’s lips gusted out an aggravated blast of air while Bob filled the kettle.
‘We’ve reopened the case of Mr Chuck Curry who was murdered twenty-five years ago in a garden shed a few roads from here. You were only a kid at the time but we know that you came forward, after the event, with accusations against the deceased.’ Colgate paused as Pratchett digested what he’d said. ‘However, recently there have been new leads in the case, which we’ve now reopened. I wonder if you could go over what happened all those years ago. I hope it won’t be too upsetting, but we’re really trying to get a grip on recent events. We have an original statement from you given after the murder and it would be really helpful to hear it from you again directly.’
Boiling water spilt over the work surface, as Bob’s unsteady hands lost their grip. Colgate wasn’t sure if the random whistling came from the kettle or from Mr Pratchett.
‘Nothing new to tell. The fat bastard buggered me once a week for two years. That about sums it up. Biscuits?’
Several biscuits from a ripped packet fell on the wet floor and Bob trod on them, grinding the crumbs hard with his foot. He held out the remainder of the pack.
‘No thanks. We’re really sorry to be bringing this all up again but wonder if you might be able to tell us anything about other children who came forward at the time. Or perhaps any children you might have seen or heard of but who didn’t have the courage to speak out.’ Colgate ran a hand under his collar, loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt, grimacing at the closed windows.
Bob ducked down and opened a cupboard below the sink and took out a dustpan and brush. He swept the crumbs from side to side and pushed the soggy mess under the skirting board.
‘Queenie. She’s a good friend. We’ve kept in touch. She never talked about what happened but I know she was a regular visitor to Curry’s. I often passed her going to and from the house but we never spoke. Not until it was all over. It helped to know that I wasn’t the only one who’d grabbed his attention but it’s not something we talk about much these days.’
Bob Pratchett scratched his skin, running his fingernails back and forth along his forearms. Bright red scabs had developed from the attention and Colgate suspected a skin complaint; psoriasis perhaps. He reckoned it was a nervous condition. Shit. He wasn’t surprised.
‘Queenie? Does she live locally? Perhaps you could let us have her full name.’
Bob turned his back, switched on the radio again and bobbed about on his toes. Lindsay glanced at her boss, eyes raised heavenwards. Colgate walked over to Pratchett, stood close, face to face, and spoke directly at him.
‘Thank you, Mr Pratchett. We’re very sorry to have bothered you but we may need to ask you to attend the station to help with further enquiries. If you could let us have the full name and address of your friend Queenie, that would be really helpful.’
Bob danced round in a trance. Colgate considered that the guy might have taken some hallucinatory substance, magic mushrooms perhaps.
‘Come on, Lindsay. Let’s get going. Thanks again, we’ll be in touch!’ Colgate shouted back as they headed down the hall.
‘Lowther. Queenie Lowther. She’s my friend. She knows all about the Garden Shed.’
Colgate turned to Lindsay.
‘Did you get that? I think that’s Mrs Lowther, wife of Travis Lowther, the guy Miss Digby’s been having the affair with. Thank you, Mr Pratchett. That’s really useful. Goodbye for now,’ Colgate said before they took the stairs.
Once they’d left, Bob ratcheted up the window again, leant out and dangled his head upside down through the gap. Below he watched the excited chatter of the exiting visitors. He guessed at the direction of their conversation. He could hear it in his head, bringing it all back.
In the car, Colgate didn’t start the engine straight away.
‘Travis Lowther is the link here. Pratchett and Mrs Lowther could be working together to put the shits up Miss Digby; perhaps retribution for stealing the husband. Although something doesn’t feel quite right. Anyway, let’s keep an eye on Mrs Lowther, put our minds at rest that she hasn’t pencilled in a revenge attack for this Friday afternoon at four. Come on, let’s go.’
Through the police car windows, the pair watched Bob Pratchett wheel his bicycle across the car park and out the other side.
�
�There must have been a back entrance to the kebab shop. Do you think he’s headed for the Abbott Hospital? Looks like it to me.’
‘Yes definitely, boss. He’s heading in that direction.’
52
Hi Miss Digby
Was in the area, so thought I’d call round on the off-chance you were in. Just wanted to firm up the quote for painting and decorating.
Let me know when’s a good time. You’ve got my number.
Cheers
Vince Vickers
Painter and decorator
It took half an hour before I finally ripped open the envelope. I laugh out loud as my racing heart steadies and rub sweaty palms down my denim shorts.
Through the patio doors the new geraniums, which I bought to brighten up the graveyard, are already in full bloom. Bright red. Mum used to plant geraniums to cheer her up; quash the misery for a brief period.
I wander out and pick up a few withered leaves, plucking wilted blooms as I go. ‘Dead heading the plants,’ Mum used to say, ‘gives new buds a chance to flourish.’ Her faint, half-hearted voice whispers in my ear.
I hold a small red petal to my nose and wonder at the lack of smell. The yellow roses against the wall reek with a heady aroma. No older than ten, I used to make perfume with their mushed-up leaves.
‘Perhaps one day you’ll be a perfumer.’ Mum smiled as I ground the precious petals to a pulp. That’s why I kept at it. Her smile. It was a rare sight. ‘You have the gift.’ But with a light kiss on the tip of my nose she’d be gone; back to her private prison where she’d throw away the key and ignore all who came calling; me included.
I sit on the small stone wall, wiggle my bare toes in the sunshine and close my eyes. Life has come full circle. I’ve travelled the long way round but I’m back, like the geraniums, where it all started. Back home.
Ms Evans is in my head. She’s been trying to dead head me, get rid of the poisonous growth that I’m not quite willing to shed.
‘Why do you think you stalk your lovers, Beverley?’
Ms Evans thinks I’ve been in denial all along. But I don’t stalk them, I’m just keeping them close. It’s become a way of life, gives me meaning and keeps my mind occupied; less time to mope.
A sharp little laugh gurgles out from the back of my throat. Ms Evans always uses the word stalking, never the word ‘following’. Stalking seems to keep the guilt angle going, the sinister connotations that attach to the action and I think she needs to use the word ‘stalking’ to justify her part in my treatment. I wonder which bit of my behaviour is deemed to be a danger to the public; the bit which has already cost the government quite a chunk out of their mental health budget.
Taking pictures of Scott and Danielle wasn’t in the least bit threatening. Perhaps slightly weird, and a bit obsessive, but I don’t think I should have been threatened with prison and dragged off to therapy for taking a few blurry photographs. There was nothing linking me to Danielle’s tumble down the concrete stairwell, so using the unfortunate aftermath as a means to get me ‘under the couch’ still seems completely unfair.
Travelling to America to try to find Jeremy, after he disappeared, was an attempt to get closure after the end of our all-consuming passion. I thought we had something special and I needed to understand what happened. I still don’t get how people can walk away and start over. Shallow, unfeeling and rather fickle would be my summation.
‘If someone doesn’t want to be with you, what makes you want to be with them?’ Ms Evans again. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be with someone who wants to be with you? Someone more loving?’
Ha. Of course. Who wouldn’t? But I always feel there’s work to be done; work to earn the love, the trust, the caring. It’s a belief in the possibility of a normal stable relationship that keeps me going. If I can get the warm blanket cover of a perfect coupledom, it will smother all the rest; the really bad bits.
‘Why is that? Why do you have to work so hard? Try so hard? What started all this desperation to hold on?’
I blame my father. I need someone to blame; someone obvious to explain away my unbalanced behaviour to Ms Evans. My father took my mother from me and left me with no one. That was his sin and he had no idea of my torment.
I wander over to the roses and peek out through a hole in the trellis into my neighbour’s garden. There’s a rickety shed in the far right-hand corner and the doors are thrown wide open. Today I can see inside where a lawnmower, a wheelbarrow and a whole stack of tools are lined up along the back wall. Outside, in front of the cabin, is a small pebbled courtyard where Mr Tucker has placed a couple of rattan chairs and a small coffee table. He used to sit there in the summer evenings, drinking Sangria from a pitcher, with his wife Prue.
Funny what you remember. Prue died a few years ago and now he sits there in the evenings talking to himself. Beer is his tipple these days, not quite so celebratory. A tiny stereo system plays CDs until the light fades and the heat dies down. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Engelbert Humperdinck and occasionally Elvis Presley croon until the moon appears.
My mobile suddenly rings through from the kitchen. I turn my head in the direction of the noise, but I don’t move and instead look once more through the fence. I shiver as the sun slithers behind a cloud, darkening the sky and withdrawing its warmth. The smell of roses is overpowering, choking. Inside the flimsy wooden shed I eye the little row of neatly arrayed tools; spades, hoes, rakes and forks. But a small scythe holds my gaze. A ghost walks over my grave. It’s a saying Mum used and I now know what she meant.
The Grim Reaper haunts me. I learnt his name when I was very young. He’s only make-believe but underneath I know he’s a real person. His thick layers of disguise are there to mask the evil. But I’m no fool. I know him well.
Then there are the newspaper reports. It’s back in the headlines as if it were yesterday.
Garden Shed Murder – Case to be reopened after 25 Years
I remember my mother’s horror at the headlines of the time.
Paedophile Monster slain with Half-moon Garden Scythe.
The Grim Reaper takes Revenge
She didn’t tell me what a paedophile was but she did tell me about the Grim Reaper.
There was whispered gossip over garden fences, my mother escaping her own misery for short periods while contemplating something far worse. I would put my hands over my ears until it quietened down. It took time, but Chuck Curry soon became a distant memory; a mythical evil monster. Life moved on as if it had all been a bad dream.
But now he’s back, ready to wreak more havoc.
53
Friday 13th
Left down Burton Avenue, right into Salisbury Road and third left into Park Lane. I’ve done the route three times this morning. It feels good to be reliving the past; therapeutic. The well-worn pavement slabs lining the route are eerily familiar.
I count twenty-six concrete squares until the cracked one appears outside the post office which sits tucked neatly into the corner where Salisbury Road meets Park Lane. I jump over the zigzag line. I used to be superstitious. If I didn’t step on it things would improve, a tale which offered false comfort.
Twenty-five years ago to the day, I gave up and jumped up and down on the crack. I was done with superstition, drawn instead to wobbly ladders and the number thirteen. Destiny was in my own hands, not some mystical power that had thrown me to the wolves.
I stop outside Uncle Chuck’s old house. It’s up for sale again. His ghost must linger. Twenty-five years has flown by but time hasn’t dimmed the memories.
When I got back home from the shed late that afternoon my mother had the tea on.
‘Fish and chips. Mushy peas. Your favourite.’
She was wearing a red scarf knotted round her frizzy bleached hair, a strange thing to remember on such a momentous occasion. She didn’t take her eyes off the deep fat fryer which sizzled viciously in her hands. Each handful of diced potatoes sent scalding sprays of molten liquid up towards her face.
But she was good at minding herself, always managing to sidestep the spits in time. The drips of blood on my hair, wet but rapidly congealing, didn’t warrant a second thought. A cursory glance and I was instructed to tidy up my appearance.
‘You cut yourself? Go and clean up before tea.’ It was a casual command and she didn’t ask why I was home earlier than usual.
Later, when questioned by the police, she seemed to recall that Uncle Chuck hadn’t been well. That was why I’d got home so promptly. My babysitter hadn’t been up to entertaining so I must have wandered back from school alone. She suddenly remembered this fact and proceeded to tell the police what a terrible daydreamer I was, quick to deflect suspicion of neglectful parenting away from herself. I often wonder if she’d have cared if I hadn’t come home at all.
I remember feeling a strong temptation to pick up the chip pan and empty the contents over her head. I didn’t though. Childish logic told me that one murder a day was enough, two more difficult to get away with.
My mother was shrewd under questioning. I’ll give her that.
‘No. We haven’t seen Uncle Chuck for a few days. He was off colour so he didn’t babysit this week at all. The teachers will confirm that. He usually picks Snippet up from school on a Friday but yesterday you came straight home. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Mum kept her eyes averted when she addressed me. She seemed to be covering for me, just in case.
The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye Page 21
