Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  Charis processed the thought. ‘Maybe she wasn’t fully buried at all? If part of her was exposed, flies could still . . .’ She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat at the thought of flies crawling in Bryony’s ears, nostrils.

  Her eyes.

  ‘There’s another crime scene, probably close to where she was killed. This killer is starting to play with us now. We discovered his gravesite and now he’s improvising,’ Madeleine said.

  Her thoughts turned once again to the woman who had found the body.

  ‘Charlotte Monroe,’ she said. ‘She found the body?’

  Charis nodded. ‘She found it all right. Landed face down in the middle of it all,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘She’s had her clothing seized for evidence. She’s pretty traumatised, as you’d expect.’

  ‘She’s the one who organised the charity fete for the families of the victims, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. Alex and I saw her earlier, before this.’

  The pathologist, Dennis Roach, emerged from the tent and walked towards them.

  ‘She’s got a lot of flora in her hair and under her nails,’ he said, pulling his face mask down under his chin. ‘We’ll do tests but I’m pretty sure that’s the same wildflower found on the others.’

  ‘Red campion is fast becoming my least favourite flower,’ Madeleine said.

  CHAPTER 27

  Madeleine opened the door to the small, stuffy meeting room carrying a mug of tea. Charis was already sitting with Charlotte Monroe and her husband, Iain, on a low sofa that had seen better days.

  Charlotte had a blue blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and was picking at the edges of it, which were already frayed. She was wearing dark-blue jogging bottoms and a matching jumper and some grey trainers.

  ‘Here,’ Madeleine said, handing the mug to Charlotte. ‘Sweet tea, no milk.’ Charlotte stopped short of taking the mug from her. ‘For the shock,’ Madeleine clarified.

  She watched Charlotte take the mug with hands that still shook. It was subtle but it was there all the same. She’d been through quite an ordeal.

  Charlotte took a sip and placed the mug on the coffee table in front of her and began to massage her wrists.

  Madeleine saw the thin red marks that were now barely visible around her wrists. These had been caused by the special bags that’d been placed around her hands when she’d come from the scene to preserve any transfer evidence.

  ‘Drink some more,’ Iain said to his wife and handed her the mug. ‘You said you had a bad headache, you must be dehydrated.’ He looked to Madeleine. ‘It’s been a while since she drank anything.’

  She understood the dig.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this, but you must understand it’s procedure. It does take time.’

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it would’ve been nice for her not to have been treated purely as a piece of evidence.’

  ‘I can smell her . . .’

  All three turned to look at Charlotte.

  ‘Charlotte,’ Iain said. ‘Come here.’ He tried to pull her close for a hug but she made no effort to lean into him.

  Her eyes were trained on the floor, unblinking.

  ‘I landed right on top of her,’ she said. Tears began to brim in her eyes. ‘I stood in that shower, I scrubbed my skin raw, I washed my hair about five times, under scalding water.’ She raised her head, her gaze finding Madeleine’s. ‘How is it that I can I still smell her?’

  Madeleine had anticipated this. It wasn’t easy to explain that it could last for weeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It will fade, I promise.’

  Iain pulled a face. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘We have people you can talk to,’ Madeleine said to Charlotte. ‘Trained officers who can help you deal with what you’ve seen.’

  Charlotte looked up, shivered involuntary and shook her head. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘I understand that, but we would really like you to give an official statement. We’ll go at your pace but it would be beneficial to do this while it’s still fresh in your mind. It might also help you come to terms with what you’ve seen, and help you move forward.’

  ‘She needs some rest,’ Iain said, putting his arm around Charlotte.

  ‘Of course, but I think we should see how Charlotte feels about it? Charlotte?’ Madeleine said, ignoring the look Iain was now giving her. ‘Do you think you can go ahead with the statement now?’

  Charlotte shrugged Iain’s arm from her. ‘I’ll try. I want to try.’

  CHAPTER 28

  It was two hours later when Charlotte and Iain were finally ready to leave the police station. Charlotte was still shivering, even with the thick blanket around her shoulders.

  From the gloom at the far corner of the car park, Ruby Tate watched as Iain tried to take Charlotte’s hand, only to have it unceremoniously pushed away.

  Ruby smirked. Even after a traumatic ordeal she couldn’t let her husband comfort her. It was no wonder he’d been spending more time with that blonde woman from the hospital, she thought.

  Ruby had been keeping a close eye on Iain. He’d been to the hospital a few times between jobs and she’d followed him to a house in Bronze Mead where, Ruby had just discovered, Charlotte’s friend Savannah Burr lived.

  Ruby watched as Charlotte slowly lowered herself into the car, Iain, like the gentleman he appeared to be, holding the door open for her.

  Charlotte didn’t even acknowledge him. She just wiped her eyes with a tissue and stared at the floor.

  Ruby wondered what he ever saw in her.

  She dropped lower in the driver’s seat when the headlights from the Monroes’ car lit up and Iain drove them out of their space, towards the car park exit.

  Ruby caught one last glimpse of Charlotte’s face. It looked a stark white, not even human, just like a grotesque waxwork with that scar of hers.

  She’s being punished, Ruby thought. Punished for ruining her life, and Paul’s.

  Ruby bit at her lower lip as she thought of Paul. He’d been so ill, the impending trial taking its toll on his body. He hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly. He’d almost given up. The morning she’d woken up to find his side of the bed empty, the sheets long gone cold, had scared her.

  She’d found him unconscious in the bathroom. He’d been sick down himself and she’d immediately seen the empty blister pack of pills and a bottle of alcohol beside him.

  She’d caught him just in time. Any longer and he would’ve been at the point of no return. That’s what the doctors had said once he was in a stable condition in hospital.

  Ruby had seen the idea for the pig’s blood online. It hadn’t had the effect she’d desired and that’s what had led her to go to extreme lengths to get something on Charlotte and Iain.

  John Hague, too, but he had been more elusive, hard to follow. Sneaky. Yes, he was sneaky and slippery like a snake.

  But snakes got caught out too, she thought.

  As the Monroes’ car disappeared out of the car park, Ruby decided to give it a few minutes before following them. She knew where they lived, after all.

  She also knew Elle Monroe was there.

  Elle was the key to breaking Charlotte.

  Ruby knew that.

  ‘You’re playing with fire.’ That’s what Paul had said when he’d found out about her attacking Charlotte with the pig’s blood. He couldn’t see what it would accomplish. She’d promised him she’d keep her distance from then on, but the pig’s-blood stunt hadn’t shamed Charlotte.

  The opposite, in fact. She’d become more of a victim.

  Ruby was finding it impossible to keep her promise to Paul.

  Paul had been at home recuperating for some weeks now, where she could keep a close eye on him. When he’d collected her from the station after the blood incident he’d been very frail, not long discharged from hospital. He was a sorry figure of the man he used to be and it had crushed her to see him that way.

  Ru
by knew the depths to which she’d gladly sink to protect Paul, and a part of her was scared of the hell she could unleash.

  CHAPTER 29

  After two hours spent with Charlotte and Iain, going over Charlotte’s statement, Madeleine headed back to the incident room.

  There was a sombre feel about the place, among the team, now that Bryony had been found. Although they had all known, realistically, that she was probably dead, there had still been that small glimmer of hope.

  Now that hope was gone, everyone was throwing themselves into finding this killer.

  Charis was at her desk and waved Madeleine over. ‘Did you recognise her?

  ‘Charlotte Monroe?’ Madeleine perched on the edge of Charis’s desk. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Do you remember that nasty smash on the Linkway six months ago?’

  ‘That’s her?’

  Charis nodded. ‘Poor thing’s been through enough already and now this.’

  ‘She has all the luck, eh?’ Madeleine gave a wry smile as she went to the front of the room to stand by the overflowing board, pinned with photographs and a map.

  She gathered everyone around the meeting table.

  ‘Bryony’s family have been informed and a statement issued to the media but right now I want to focus on getting any eyewitnesses to come forward and get hold of any CCTV. Roxham Canal has various roads leading in and out of the area and there are places with CCTV in the immediate vicinity, so I’m confident we’ll get something. The killer must’ve used a vehicle to transport Bryony’s body.’

  ‘Are we assuming she was killed elsewhere?’ Alex said.

  ‘Yes, all signs point to that. She can’t have been at the canal for more than a week, two at most.’

  ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

  Madeleine shook her head. ‘No sexual assault as far as we can tell at this stage. Bryony had a deep wound to her neck. I’m passing crime-scene photographs around now,’ she said, handing Alex a few to circulate.

  ‘Given what we already know about the previous victims, Bryony has had her throat cut in the same way, left to right. She was left intact. Going back to vehicles, I want to look at all the cars and vans used by people who attended this charity event the Monroes organised. I want a full list of names of those who attended, and we need to dig deeper, because I think our killer could’ve put in an appearance.’

  ‘Why risk that?’ Hicks said, and Alex and Charis exchanged a look, having had the same conversation just hours ago.

  ‘I don’t think our killer would’ve been able to miss a chance to revel in what they’ve caused,’ Madeleine said. She looked to Alex and Charis. ‘Did anyone strike you as suspicious?’

  ‘They all did,’ Alex laughed.

  Madeleine raised her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Village life ain’t really for me, Guv,’ he added.

  ‘Harry and Dale Evans,’ Charis said. ‘They were acting a little strange. They run the newsagent’s in Kennington. They have a white van, but that’s already been looked at. Are we really pinning this on a van that may or may not have been used in transporting these girls?’

  Madeleine looked serious. ‘We have the fibres from the victims from upholstery that’s commonly used in a Mercedes Vito. We need to be looking at local dealerships and private ads where these vans have been sold recently. Find the van, we find our killer.’

  CHAPTER 30

  CHARLOTTE

  When we got back home I went straight upstairs and left Iain to sort anything else that needed doing with Savannah. She’d stayed to help get everything tidied up after the fete was cut short, and to make sure Elle was OK.

  I’d gone straight to the bathroom and stripped off the clothes I’d been given at the police station. Then I’d run the shower until the water was just hotter than I can usually bear, and stood under the jet of water, scrubbing and scrubbing myself, for a second time. I washed my hair repeatedly, convinced I could still smell her.

  Almost an hour later, I now sit on the bed, dressing gown pulled tight around me, towel wrapped around my head, skin wrinkly and prune-like from standing under the water for so long. Despite the heat from the shower, I shiver. I’ve turned the radiator on in here, turned it up as high as it will go, but I still feel like ice.

  I still don’t feel clean, despite brushing my teeth until the gums bled.

  When Iain came up to check on me, he just watched me staring at myself in the misty bathroom mirror. He didn’t speak to me. He knew I was done talking about it.

  I hear some movement out on the street and pull back the curtain a fraction. It’s late but the police are still out there. There are some door-to-doors going on, and then there’s the odd TV van.

  I let the curtain drop back.

  I feel my stomach tighten and growl.

  I can’t remember when I last ate anything. I feel hungry now but doubt I’ll be able to keep anything down.

  I hear the gentle hum of voices below: Iain and Savannah. No doubt they’re talking about me and how to handle me now.

  I’ve kept some things from Iain – meeting with and speaking to John – but I never said I’d been with Savannah at the time. I don’t know why she’s lying or what she has to gain by it.

  I can’t hear anything from Elle’s room so I guess she’s asleep.

  Savannah had volunteered to stay here with Elle while we were at the station.

  I feel a strong urge to see my daughter. I hate the fact that the last person she would’ve seen before she closed her eyes tonight is Savannah. Someone I don’t think I can trust any longer.

  I walk across the landing to Elle’s room. Her light is off but I can see her face as light from the landing shines a slice of dull yellow across her sleeping face.

  Her headphones are half-hanging off her head, squished against the pillow. I can hear the gentle hum of whatever band she’s listening to.

  I find her mobile in her hand just under the covers. I take it from her and stop the music. I disconnect the headphones and gently pull them from her head.

  She rolls towards me and, although she doesn’t open her eyes, she smiles.

  ‘Thanks, Savannah . . .’ she sighs.

  I stare at her and I feel numb.

  I go to leave but it’s then that I see a black, square-shaped box, the type that usually contains jewellery. I don’t remember seeing this in her room before. I see a gift tag discarded beside it. I see simple letters written in neat writing.

  ELLE.

  That’s all it says.

  I don’t want to look in the box. I know it must either be from Savannah or John, and the thought of them both right now makes me feel sick, trying to insert themselves into Elle’s life, being in my house, around my family.

  I head back to my own room even though I don’t really want to be alone right now.

  Iain had called his mum to let her know what was happening but I’d held off on calling mine, despite Iain saying I should. I remember how I’d promised myself I’d visit my brother’s grave just before I found Bryony.

  The thought makes me feel sick, and I realise there’s no point dragging up the past. I won’t be contacting Mum about what’s happened, despite feeling the need to talk to someone who doesn’t really know me any more. Sometimes it’s easier, less frightening, to offload on a stranger than it is to confide in close family.

  I go to the wardrobe, reach to the back of it and retrieve the box.

  I feel sad that I am not closer to my mother, to any of my family. It hurts like a raw wound that time has failed to heal.

  I sit on the floor by the wardrobe and, after a time, I remove the lid.

  I lift away the news clippings on the murdered girls. I want what’s underneath.

  I spend a little while sifting through some old photographs and soon the tears fall. I think of my little brother.

  Bryony Keats . . . hers isn’t the first dead body I’ve seen.

  Seeing what was left of her has reminded me of Miles. My little brother
was five when he drowned in the swimming pool at my aunt’s house all those years ago. It changed us, ripped a hole in my mother’s heart that would never be healed. It was a tragic accident but she never forgave herself.

  In all the years since his death, I’ve visited his grave once with my mother. It was painful and I never went back.

  I hold the newspaper article written when he died.

  It’s brittle, yellow but not well thumbed from repeated reading by me. I feel guilty about that. My memory of that day has faded so much that I should be looking in this box more. I read the first few sentences and then that familiar line.

  Beautiful Boy Blue.

  That’s what the local media had dubbed him.

  A laugh shakes me from my thoughts.

  Savannah.

  Wonderful, well-put-together Savannah. Everything I’m obviously not. I shouldn’t feel this way towards her. She’s done the best she can for me, I suppose.

  In her own way.

  I do regret how things now have to be between us.

  I hear them move from the kitchen to the living room.

  I expect to hear the television switched on but after several seconds there’s nothing.

  Maybe it’s my guilty conscience overthinking, because I’ve kept my own meetings with John a secret. Am I projecting my own guilt onto Savannah and Iain?

  I’ve seen how they are together, though, Iain and my so-called best friend, and it’s too close for comfort.

  I put the box back in the wardrobe and head for the stairs as quietly as I can, mindful not to let the floorboards creak.

  I take care to distribute my weight on each stair as I make my way downstairs. I can see a chink of light coming from under the living room door and hear hushed voices.

  What are they keeping from me? What do they not want me to hear?

  ‘Give her one of your pills . . .’

  I freeze.

  I’m sure I heard that right. Did Savannah just tell my husband to give me one of his anxiety pills?