by Gwyn GB
Claire clenches her jaw and chews her lip, but she nods. She wants to say lots of things, like it’s unfair, that she should be given the chance to redeem herself, but deep down she knows Bob is right.
Bob takes her silence to be acquiescence.
‘The agency deaths are going to be expensive and difficult to investigate. From what Mark Rodgers was saying, we may find it impossible to prove that any of them, apart from Todd Fuller, were suspicious deaths - let alone find a murderer. We don’t have crime scenes to investigate and it’s unlikely anything can be proven. This is specialist work.’
Claire appreciates that Bob isn’t dumping the case. His report will be thorough. She also knows that what he’s saying about proving murders, is also true. The same thoughts have been running through her mind ever since Mark showed them the results from Todd.
‘What do I say to Rachel?’ she queries.
‘Go and tell her that Neil’s killer has been charged. Her stalker needs to be looked at with fresh eyes. We were viewing him as being connected to Neil Parsons, but that is highly unlikely now. We need to look again at all areas of her life. Maybe it’s not even connected to the agency. She’ll benefit from it being looked at from a different angle. Also, now we know it’s not connected to Neil’s killer there’s less likely to be immediate danger to her. The stalker has never approached her or physically threatened her, we can downgrade the threat level.’
‘But Sir…’ Claire tries to reason with him.
Bob is already walking away and holds up his hand to hush her.
‘We’ve had a result DI Falle, don’t complicate issues. Leave the panic alarm with her if you’re concerned.’
She should be happy, they’ve solved their case, but instead she’s fuming. All the work she’d put into the SoulMates killer investigation and they might take the case off her. Even more upsetting is the fact Rachel Hill is going to end up being handed on to some other investigative team. How does she know Rachel won’t be treated like Jackie? She’d promised her she’d be safe.
She can see Bob’s point of view, they’d assumed Rachel might be in imminent danger from the same person who killed Neil. But what if the stalker is connected to the agency deaths and once word gets out that they’ve arrested Darren Morgan, whoever has been picking off the agency clients is going to think they’ve got away with it. What if they then go after Rachel?
Who could it be? Eddie and Gary have given each other alibis, but does that mean they’re both out the frame? If they’re lovers they could easily be lying to protect each other. Or what about Rosa McKenna? Is she bitter and angry enough to kill?
Claire gets into the car and sits for a few moments. She feels tired, her body heavy. It’s been a hell of a week with work, Jack, Rachel. Someone walks past her, headphones on, marching purposefully forward in their bright orange trainers. She wishes she could feel like that. She sighs, turns the key in the ignition and drives off.
Claire is halfway to Rachel’s when a call comes in from Bob.
‘We are on a roll today. Looks like we may have found Rachel’s stalker.’
‘Really?’ Claire is incredulous.
‘Lew has just called up. He’d gone round to Bethan Jones’s house, the sister of one of the agency deaths, Robert. She wasn’t in so he took the liberty of peering in through her windows. There’s an entire room filled with photographs of Rachel, surveillance-type images. Obviously, we’re getting a warrant right now to get in there, but I think it’s safe to let Rachel know the double good news.’
‘Her stalker is a woman? Have you got her?’
‘Nope not yet, but we will. Neighbour says she’s at work so Lew has gone to find her.’
‘That is good news, thanks Bob. Can you ask Lew to let me know what’s going on will you? I’ll feel a whole lot happier once he’s got her and it’s all confirmed.’
51
Rachel, 19th October 2016
Sometimes, when life is stressful, Rachel dreams about her mother. She always comes to her, soothing and reassuring. Ever present. Rachel may live on her own, but she is never alone. Each morning she wakes up to the sight of her mother’s photograph, now in a beautiful silver frame. It’s bookended by the little ceramic cow and the small bottle of Angel perfume - its contents long since evaporated.
This morning the alarm jolts her awake and she’s grateful to be ripped from the dark swirling pits of her nightmare. Hands were grabbing at her from the earth, arms rising from makeshift graves trying to drag her down. She’s been sweating and her head is throbbing. This intrusion in her life is taking its toll. The constant fear of somebody trying to invade her space, watching her, toying with her. The feeling that eyes are everywhere. Trapped in a jam jar. Nowhere to hide.
She has taken to constantly checking the curtains are fully closed, adjusting the corners, smoothing down the edges, ensuring there’s no possibility that any part of the window opening can be left uncovered. She dresses in the near dark, fearing the shadows that might be created, and the thought of her actions being silhouetted for all to see on the curtains.
With no job to go to Rachel has become a prisoner in her own home, her days only broken by the odd phone call from the estate agent. Allowing strangers in her home has been so hard. The fear that her stalker could arrange a viewing has meant she’s kept the sale private, no For Sale boards and no advertising.
When the first clients came round with the agent, Rachel sat in her car across the road, watching who went in and ensuring they all came out. She took photographs of the young couple and checked every inch of the house after they had left to ensure nothing was disturbed.
When they made an offer, cash buyers, she accepted immediately, grateful she wouldn’t have to suffer any more visits and on the proviso the sale is quick. She knows it’s time to move on. It doesn’t matter that she has nowhere to go yet, she just has to get away from here.
Her relief that Reg is inside the house and she doesn’t have to venture out into the back garden is tempered only by his malaise. Separated from his mate he too has taken up the hunched in a corner pose of Amber that alerted Rachel to her condition. Reg isn’t ill, he’s broken hearted and while Rachel is glad she’s able to focus her time on him and not on her own predicament, she’s struggling to draw him out of his depression. It breaks her heart to see him like this.
When DI Falle arrives she is cradling Reg, stroking him and talking to him, hoping that company will ease his loss. She peers around the curtain to see the auburn haired police detective standing on her doorstep. She looks apprehensive, Rachel wonders what she’s come to tell her this time.
‘Rachel,’ she greets her, ‘I have some news. Could I possibly come in?’
‘Yes of course,’ Rachel smiles. She does like the woman, reminds her of herself in many ways. Completely comfortable in her own skin.
‘How is he?’ DI Falle nods at Reg.
‘Not good,’ Rachel answers, ‘He’s missing Amber terribly and is off his food. I can’t seem to cheer him up.’
They go through to the sitting room and Claire positions herself in the armchair to the left of the fireplace, opposite Rachel.
‘OK so we have some good news,’ Claire begins, ‘Firstly we have made an arrest in connection with the murder of Neil Parsons.’
‘Great that is really good news. Is it anyone I know?’ Rachel asks.
‘There doesn’t appear to be any connection between the suspect and the dating agency and neither does there appear to be any connection between him and your stalker.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve got him.’
‘There’s more. It’s not definite, but I had a phone call on the way here to say that an officer has been to the house of a…’ Claire consults her notes, ‘Bethan Jones, and found a room covered with surveillance photographs of you. I’d say that’s a pretty big clue to suggest she, or someone that lives with her, is your stalker.’
Rachel’s face doesn’t show any emotion, but inside her h
eart has lurched.
‘Have you arrested her?’ she asks.
‘Not yet, but we will, they’re going round to her workplace now. Do you know her?’ Claire questions.
Rachel thinks carefully. How should she answer this? They haven’t spoken to Bethan yet, but it’s just a matter of time. That could change things. The police detective takes her silent thinking to mean she is wracking her brains to remember.
‘We will bring her in for questioning, get to the bottom of it so don’t worry now. The great news is that your ordeal should hopefully soon be over. That’s not to say that you shouldn’t still take precautions until everything is confirmed, but I’m really hopeful that this is it.’ DI Falle is continuing. ‘I can wait with you until we get some further confirmation if that helps put your mind at rest? Do you have any questions?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Rachel replies. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Of course, take your time.’
‘I’m going to make a drink, would you like a tea or coffee, or how about a hot chocolate?’ Rachel asks.
‘Hot chocolate sounds a nice change, that would be good, thank you.’ Rachel places Reg down in front of Claire and leaves them both.
It’s such a shame that it’s going to end like this.
She did like her.
52
Claire, 19th October 2016
They’ve had a really successful day, by any standards, but Claire is annoyed and something doesn’t feel right. Neil’s murder is straightforward, poor sod, mistaken identity. No wonder Michael Stratton is AWOL and making sure nobody can find him. But who is this Bethan Jones and why is she stalking Rachel? That doesn’t make sense. They’re missing a big piece of the jigsaw somewhere and she’s worried that it’s going to implode on them. The euphoria of closing the Neil Parsons case and the pressure to save budget might leave stones unturned and Rachel is still a potential victim.
When she gets to Rachel’s house, she opens her front door like a woman under siege, peering out first to see who is invading her territory. There is clear relief on Rachel’s face when she sees it’s her.
She welcomes news of Neil Parsons’ murder arrest, but there doesn’t seem to be quite so much enthusiasm for the identification of a suspect as her stalker. Maybe she’s not going to feel safe until they’re under arrest, or perhaps she’s trying to work out how she knows her.
She lets Rachel go off to make hot chocolate, allowing both pieces of news to sink in. Reg the rabbit is placed down near her feet and she focuses her attention on him, stroking his soft fur. The rabbit barely responds, sitting there, nose wiggling and ears forward. She can see why Rachel thinks he’s depressed.
‘Did you ever have any pets when you were little?’ Rachel comes back into the room with their hot chocolates.
‘No. My dad wasn’t really into animals in the house - or garden. I always wanted a guinea-pig.’
Rachel bends down and picks up the rabbit which is still sitting grumpily at Claire’s feet.
‘Oh Reg, what are we going to do with you. Poor broken hearted Reg.’
‘I can see what you mean about him,’ Claire nods and takes a sip of her hot chocolate.
‘He’s missing her so much. I got them both from a rescue centre, they’d always been together. Rabbits need other rabbits you know, just like most people need somebody. Some people just can’t exist without someone special. My dad was like that after my mother died.’
‘I don’t think my dad’s like that,’ Claire humphs back. ‘If my poor mum died he’d just buy in a home help and carry on. Lovely hot chocolate by the way, thank you.’
‘Pleasure,’ Rachel smiles back at her.
‘So have you thought about Bethan Jones? Any ideas why she could be stalking you?’
‘I remember Robert,’ Rachel begins, ‘He was one of those who couldn’t live without someone. He was always so sad and lost. He and his sister hadn’t seen each other for years. She was his only family, he had nobody. I genuinely loved my job with the agency, trying to help people find someone special. I know it’s not the sort of thing you’d do - join a dating agency - but for some people, it’s a life line. Robert was miserable and he just couldn’t find anyone. We honestly did our best to help him. Such a shame. He was a sweet man.’
‘So do you think it was suicide then? His death?’ Claire asks as she finishes her hot chocolate. Its warm sweetness has trickled down her throat and relaxed her. It’s a nice feeling being able to relax after all the hard work so she settles back in the armchair.
‘Oh I wasn’t saying that,’ Rachel replies, ‘I just said he was very lonely. There are lots of people who aren’t able to take their own lives, not brave enough - even if they wanted to.’
‘Hhmm,’ Claire replies. Her eyelids are feeling heavy and she’s yawning. Surely she can’t be so exhausted that a hot chocolate can make her sleepy? She tries to rouse herself, shifting in her chair, but her limbs feel heavy and her head starts to nod.
‘It’s OK Claire,’ she hears Rachel say, ‘You don’t need my help. You’re not like them, you’re strong. It’s just you don’t know it. Always trying to achieve. You’ve got nothing to prove to your dad you know. He’s the one with issues, not you.’
‘What?’ Claire tries to stay awake. The room keeps disappearing into darkness as she battles to keep her eyes open. She’s vaguely aware of a buzzing in her pocket - her mobile phone - but she can’t seem to lift her arm to answer it.
The last thing she sees before her eyes close fully, is Rachel’s rabbit Reg. He’s still lying on Rachel’s lap in front of her, and she’s still stroking him, but his eyes are staring open. Glassy. His head hangs loose. Neck broken. Dead.
53
Rachel, July 1994
In one sense Rachel is glad it’s the school summer holidays. She now has weeks without having to go into school, without needing to avoid Stella Wainwright and the rest of her gang. The downside is she has weeks in which to rattle around their farmhouse watching her father slowly kill himself with alcohol.
The farm has become a wasteland, frozen in time from that day when the cows mounted the wooden ramps and were driven away. Her father has touched nothing. Reg and George never returned. To walk around the farm is like visiting the scene of some strange apocalyptic event. The cow barns remain un-cleaned, rats shuffling in the hay and scratching in the feed troughs. The tyre tracks are gone. No vehicles enter their yard unless it’s from a utility company come to chase up a bill. In their farmhouse garden the pots her mother used to lovingly tend to, are full of dried and withered plants - ghostly skeletons of the beautiful flowers they once were.
Rachel asks if Aunt Alice will be coming to visit them again, but her dad just scowls at her, muttering under his breath. She’s not sure if her aunt has abandoned them or her father ostracised her.
Rachel has taken to long walks or to lying in the fields with a book, keen to seek the sunlight. She joined the Holt library and when she has enough money, catches the bus in, filling her bag with novels that promise a life of colour and excitement beyond their pages. Today she has lain in one of the fields, surrounded by ripening wheat, reading The Bridges of Madison County and her mind is in Iowa with Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid.
Sometimes she will stay on the bus and not get off at her stop. There will always be somebody who will come and sit next to her and ask her what she’s reading, or chat about the weather and their latest ailment. The topic of conversation doesn’t matter to Rachel. Sometimes she just feels the need to talk to another human being who isn’t inebriated.
Today as she walks home past the barns she’s pulled back from Madison County to Norfolk by the waft from the slurry tanks. The rotten egg smell of the hydrogen sulphide burns her nostrils and makes her feel slightly heady. Her father always forbade her from going into the barn where they store and mix the slurry, but today she feels emboldened with boredom and slows down, peering inside.
It’s been months since anyone
attended to the slurry pit, and with the summer heat its noxious gases are slowly leaching out. She can see a couple of dead rats around the doors to the main tank - even they have become overcome by its fumes. Rachel knows not to venture in further. She understands the danger of opening the doors and breathing in the gas.
In the kitchen her father has clearly been attempting to make something to eat because a small pan has been discarded in the sink, something burnt and dried in its bottom. It’s not the first time he’s put something on to cook and forgotten about it.
She finds him in the sitting room searching through a cupboard: books, photographs and paperwork, strewn behind him as he’s burrowed in hunting.
‘Dad, what are you looking for?’ Rachel asks.
He’s startled but only in a drunk way, sitting up and trying to focus on her face, swaying slightly as he does so.
‘Hello love. You seen my binoculars?’
‘Dad, they got sold ages ago. They were never in that cupboard anyway.’
‘Sold?’
‘Yes. Not long after the cows went.’
Rachel sits down on the sofa, choosing the seat on the right so she can play with the threads on the arm where the piping has come un-stitched.
‘Really?’ he slurs.
Her father collapses back onto his haunches and puts his face in his hands. It’s only 3pm, he hasn’t been this drunk this early for a while.
‘I’ve got nothing, nothing. What’s the point?’
‘You’ve got me, dad,’ Rachel replies.
‘I miss your mum so much,’ he starts to sob now, shoulders shaking, ‘There’s no point without her. Why did she have to leave me? There’s no purpose left in my life.’
