by Roberta Kray
Jess took the envelope and looked down at her name scribbled on the front. She didn’t recognise the handwriting.
‘I told her I could ring up and get you to come down, but she said it didn’t matter.’
‘She?’
‘A pretty girl, long red hair. She said not to bother, that she was in a hurry.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ Jess said. It must have been Clare Towney. She couldn’t think of anyone else who fitted the description.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ Lorna said. ‘Take care.’
‘Bye, Lorna.’
Puzzled, Jess walked back across the room. Clare had already admitted her part in the threats that had been made against Sam Kendall, so what was so urgent about whatever was in the envelope that it had to be delivered by hand? Well, there was only one way to find out. She dragged the dust sheets off the sofa, dropped the envelope on to a cushion and went through to the kitchen to wash the paint off her hands.
When she came back, she wandered over to the window and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Clare. She sat down on the sofa and ripped the envelope open. It contained about fifteen sheets of paper, neatly typed and stapled together. She sat back and started to read.
On the surface there was nothing different about that dull August day in 1998, and yet it was to change all our lives for ever. Shall I tell you about it? There’s a part of me that wants to, that longs to, but another part that’s simply too afraid. I’ve kept it hidden for so long, and if I open the box all kinds of demons might fly out. I’m not sure if I can cope with that. There’s something else I’m worried about too, another fear that can’t be pushed aside: I’m terrified of being judged. Even as I write these words I’m aware of how cowardly they sound. But that’s who I am. I’m a coward and a liar, and because of me a ten-year-old girl died.
Jess paused for a moment, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Oh God, she had got it so wrong! It hadn’t just been a few threats that lay on Clare Towney’s conscience. What she held in her hands was a confession, an admission that Clare had been responsible for Minnie Bright’s death. She carried on reading until she got to the end of the first section.
That was the last time any of them saw Minnie Bright. It was forty-eight hours before her crack-addicted mother reported her missing, and a few hours more before the police entered the house and found her small twisted body hidden under a bed.
She stopped again and took another large gulp of wine. Her hands were shaking as she put the glass down on the coffee table. How did Clare know all this stuff, what the girls had said, what they’d done that day? Part of it could have come from the trial transcripts and the newspaper reports, but she had the feeling that Clare must have spoken to one of the girls. Or maybe someone else had.
That someone else was soon revealed as she hurried through the next few pages. They detailed exactly what had happened – and the events that had led up to it. By the time Jess had finished, her head was reeling. She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. The story was tragic and pathetic and terrible.
She laid the confession down, unsure about what to do next. Why had Clare chosen to give it to her? Why not hand it straight to the police? If Harry had been around, she could have talked to him, asked for his advice, but he was facing his own dreadful problems. Well, the only other thing she could do was to try and contact Clare. Except she didn’t have a number for her. Damn it! And then she was suddenly assailed by a colder, more disturbing thought. What state of mind must that girl be in now? She could be about to do something stupid.
Jess jumped to her feet, grabbed her jacket and car keys and headed for the door. She was almost there when she remembered the wine she’d had. She looked back over her shoulder at the half-empty bottle. Hell, was she over the limit? She didn’t feel drunk, but then Clare’s confession was enough to shock anyone into a feeling of sobriety. Perhaps she’d better get a cab instead. She was still trying to decide when the buzzer went. She snatched up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Jess? It’s DS Kieran Swann.’
‘Come in,’ she said, pressing the button. ‘I’m on the second floor.’ While she waited for him to climb the stairs, she wondered what he wanted. It must be news about Harry. It had to be. She knew that Swann had been helping out behind the scenes, making checks for Mac and feeding him information.
She stood by the open door, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. She needed to try to find Clare, but she was desperate to know Harry’s fate too. As he rounded the corner of the stairway, Swann smiled at her. She smiled back, recognising his face. She must have seen him when she’d been down at Cowan Road.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Come inside.’
‘Thanks,’ Swann said. ‘Mac said I’d find you here. This won’t take long. It’s about Harry Lind. I just need to go through a few things with you.’
Jess’s shoulders slumped in disappointment as she closed the door. ‘So they’re not letting him go?’
‘It’s early days yet.’
‘But what about Rafferty? I thought …’
‘The legal wheels turn slowly, I’m afraid. But every bit of evidence helps.’
‘Of course.’ She gestured towards the sofa. ‘Take a seat. I’m sorry about the mess. Would you like a tea or a coffee?’
‘Thanks, a coffee would be good. Black, no sugar, please.’
Jess went through to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. While she spooned some instant coffee into a couple of mugs, she tried to think of anything she could tell him that might help the cause. Nothing came to mind. Her heart sank as she realised that he wouldn’t even be here unless things were looking bleak for Harry.
She was halfway across the living room, a mug in each hand, when she suddenly stopped dead. Damn it! She had left Clare’s confession lying on the coffee table and Swann had picked it up. He was hunched forward, carefully reading through the pages.
‘What are you doing?’ she snapped, even though she knew it was too late.
He stared up at her, his smile not quite as friendly as before. ‘Is this what I think it is?’
Jess put the two mugs down and sighed. ‘I was going to bring it along to Cowan Road, I swear I was. I only got it half an hour ago. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just … I just wanted to talk to Clare first. I’m worried about her, about what she might do.’
Swann glanced down at the confession, then looked up at her again and shook his head. His eyes had grown cold. ‘And have you?’
‘What?’
‘Have you talked to Clare Towney?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was on my way out to try and find her when you arrived.’
‘Good,’ he said.
Jess frowned. ‘I don’t know what’s good about it. She must be in a right state.’
‘Good for me, I meant,’ he said softly.
Jess didn’t understand. At least not for a few seconds. It took that long for her brain to slot the pieces together. ‘Jesus,’ she murmured, her blood running cold as she realised who she was really speaking to. ‘You’re not Swann, are you?’ She glanced down towards the confession, to where Clare had named her partner in crime. ‘You’re Wetherby. You’re Simon Wetherby.’
He brought his palms together in a slow handclap. ‘Oh, well done, Jessica. It took a while, but you got there in the end.’
Jess felt her throat go dry. An icy stream of fear ran down her spine. She realised where she’d seen him now: not at the police station, but outside the Fox with Valerie Middleton. And now he was here, the man who’d strangled Becky Hibbert, the man who’d tried to kill her too. She looked towards the door, but she was way too slow. Wetherby was already on his feet, blocking her path.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
As he loomed over her, Jess had an instinctive desire to scream, but she clenched her jaw. She knew it would be pointless. The windows were closed and the office downstairs was all loc
ked up for the night. Nobody would hear her cries, and Wetherby would be tempted to silence her for ever. No, her only chance was to play for time. ‘So it was you,’ she said, attempting to keep her voice steady.
‘Sit down,’ he ordered.
She did as she was told, dropping into an armchair still covered by a dust sheet. ‘It’s too late, you know. I’ve already sent a text to Mac, telling him about the confession.’
Wetherby sat down on the sofa and grinned back at her. ‘You disappoint me, Jessica. If you’re going to lie, then at least make it sound convincing.’
She gave a shrug, her shoulders so tight that the movement was barely perceptible.
‘Believe what you like.’
‘You haven’t told anyone. And you won’t.’
Jess glanced towards the sheets of paper lying on the coffee table. ‘It’s a sordid little story.’
‘But sadly not one that you’ll be revealing to the world.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she said, ‘but what about Clare? She could be down at Cowan Road even as we speak.’ If she’d been hoping to rattle him, she was sorely disappointed. The slight shift of his brows suggested only mockery.
‘The only person she’s told is you.’
‘How do you know that?’
He sat back, his expression calm and collected. ‘Because she called me. She told me what she’d done. How else do you think I knew about the confession? That’s the thing about Clare: she’s very loyal. Even after all these years, she still can’t let go of the feelings she once had. I guess she wanted to give me the chance to get away, to make a run for it.’
‘But you decided to come here instead.’
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d do anything straight away. People like you don’t make rash decisions. You like to weigh up all the options first.’
‘People like me?’
‘Hacks,’ he said with contempt. ‘Grubby little journalists who spend their lives poking into things that are none of their business.’
Jess’s brain, edging on hysteria, was grasping for clarity. If he was here, if he’d come to collect the evidence against him, then that could only mean that Clare was no longer able to repeat it. Had he killed her? Would he have had the time? It was only half an hour or so since Lorna had delivered the envelope.
‘You’re looking worried,’ he said.
He was sitting there watching her closely. She knew what he was planning, what he intended to do. Her stomach lurched with fear. Panic seeped into her veins. He couldn’t allow her to live – not after what she’d read – but he didn’t seem in any hurry to finish the job. ‘So, what now?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking we might wait,’ he said. ‘Just until it gets dark.’
Jess understood what he meant. He wasn’t going to kill her here. He was going to take her somewhere else, perhaps the same place he’d taken Dan Livesey. Maybe somewhere out in the sticks, like Epping Forest. She could imagine walking through the trees with a gun aimed at her back. If she just disappeared, it would be a while before it turned into a murder inquiry. Time he could use to cover his tracks.
She glanced towards the windows. The day was fading, the sky turning a smoky shade of grey. How long before sunset? She looked at her watch. Less than an hour before darkness fell. Less than sixty minutes before they set off on the final journey. Nausea rose up from her stomach, carrying a fear like she had never known before. There was still time to save herself, but only if she could keep him talking.
‘You were lucky,’ she said. ‘Keeping the truth hidden all these years.’
‘Lucky?’ His pretty mouth crawled into a cynical smile. ‘None of it’s been down to luck, babe.’
‘Clever, then,’ she said, pandering to his vanity.
Wetherby seemed happier with this assessment. He glanced down towards the confession and then back up at Jess. His eyes glittered with a curious mix of triumph and scorn. ‘You’ve read it,’ he said. ‘It was an accident. We didn’t mean to kill her.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But you were happy for someone else to take the blame.’
‘Donald Peck was a pervert. He deserved to rot in jail.’
‘Even for a crime he hadn’t committed?’
Wetherby barked out a laugh. ‘It was only a matter of time. He made Clare’s life a misery. Can you imagine what it’s like to be the niece of the local flasher? Being an outcast in your own community because your uncle isn’t capable of keeping his dick in his pants? We did society a favour by having him banged up.’
Jess stared at him, her guts turning over. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Or was it just to hide the fact that you were sleeping with a fourteen-year-old?’ Everything in the confession was revolving in her mind: how Clare had met Wetherby in Connolly’s all those years ago, how they’d started an affair, an affair that could only be conducted behind closed doors – and those closed doors had been in Donald Peck’s house. ‘She stole the spare key off her mother, didn’t she? So the two of you could meet in private when Donald went off on his regular visits to see Ralph Masterson. Except it all went wrong when the girls decided it would be a laugh to make Minnie Bright break into the house.’
Wetherby sat back, his expression amused, his lips sliding into a leering smile. ‘We were in bed when she came in. We didn’t even hear her at first. It was only when she came upstairs that we realised someone else was in the house.’
‘It must have been a shock.’
He tilted his head back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Yes, it was unfortunate.’ Slowly, he lowered his head and focused his gaze back on Jess. ‘But you know it wasn’t deliberate. We never meant to hurt her. We heard a noise, opened the bedroom door and there she was, staring straight at us. The stupid kid started screaming. Clare just wanted to shut her up. She grabbed her, but Minnie struggled and …’
‘And?’
‘She fell down the stairs. She was dead by the time she hit the bottom. There was nothing we could do about it.’
Jess closed her eyes. Nothing except admit to the truth. She blinked her eyes open again and stared at Wetherby. ‘So you decided to lay the blame on someone else, to hide her under the bed in the spare room, to take some hairs from Donald Peck’s hairbrush and place them on her body, to wipe all the prints from the doors and windows, to make it look like no one else could have been responsible.’
Wetherby shifted forward, placing his hands on his thighs. ‘What choice did we have? And there wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d just left it alone. But you couldn’t, could you, Jessica? You had to keep on digging.’
While he was talking, Jess was trying to figure out whether she could make it to the door. But even if she did, even if she managed to get it open and made a dash for it, he would probably catch up with her on the stairs. And she could imagine what would happen next. One hard push and she would roll down those steps as fatefully as Minnie Bright had rolled. She would be another ‘accident’.
‘You see, it was your fault that Becky Hibbert had to die,’ he continued. ‘She had a loose mouth and it was only a matter of time before she started talking about the light.’
Jess gave a nod. ‘The light Lynda saw when she went back that day.’
‘It was Clare who turned it on when we were hiding the body. It had got dark, you see. It was raining. She pulled on the cord as we went into the room. It wouldn’t have mattered if Lynda Choi hadn’t seen, but …’
‘No,’ Jess said, although she didn’t really understand. She knew that Donald Peck couldn’t have turned it on – he was still on his way back from Masterson’s – but she didn’t see why Minnie couldn’t have done it.
‘Becky didn’t understand the relevance,’ he said. ‘But it was only a matter of time before you did.’
Jess was still trying to work out how to respond when her mobile started ringing. The sound sliced through the tension like a knife. Wetherby jumped up, walked across the room and grabbed it off the table by the window. He held it up for
a second. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Mr Mackenzie. He must have some news for you.’ He jabbed at a button, disconnecting the call. ‘It’s a shame you’ll never get to hear it.’
That was when Jess tipped over into panic. Launching herself out of the chair, she made a dash for the door. But Wetherby was too fast for her. He had his arms around her body before she’d even covered a few feet.
‘You’re going nowhere, bitch,’ he hissed in her ear.
Jess twisted her right elbow, digging it hard into his ribs. He pulled in a breath. She kicked out wildly, aiming at his shins, his ankles, his feet, and eventually managed to wriggle loose. But she only got as far as the table before he was on her again. This time he brought her down to the floor, his weight hard on her back, the impact emptying her lungs. Before she knew what was happening, he’d flipped her over. She saw his eyes, full of hate, blazing into hers. She felt his fists slam into her, battering her ribs. Her arms flailed as she twisted to the side, smashing against the open paint can. It tipped over, the white paint spilling over their arms, their shoulders, their chests.
‘Bitch!’ he raged again before bringing his fist down against her face.
The pain shot through her jaw and almost knocked her out. Her head was reeling, her brains like cotton wool. His fist came down again, this time glancing off her cheek. She heard the crack of a tooth, could feel the blood in her mouth. It was only instinct that made her carry on, a primitive urge for survival. In a last desperate bid to escape she jerked her knee upwards and caught him squarely in the balls.
Squealing like a pig, he rocked back, cradling his groin in his hands. She could hear his breath coming in short, fast pants, his mouth uttering obscenities. She had one final chance. Lunging towards the coffee table, she grabbed the wine bottle, drew back her arm and smashed it hard against his skull. Red wine spilled down his face, mingling with the blood. He made a low moaning noise before his eyes rolled back in his head and he lay still.
