‘We have an update for you on the child. It’s a boy aged about eight to ten. A nine-year-old boy went missing in 1969, a few weeks before Christmas. Do either of you remember?’
We say no together, but I remember the bloody school sock lying under the door of the cellar. It was from the same school uniform Perry wore. Perry places his hand on my shoulder. Philips looks to me. ‘You must have read about it in the papers.’
‘I didn’t read the papers. My mother certainly wouldn’t have scared me with the news.’
‘And what about you, Perry?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re both sure you do not remember anything about a missing boy at the time?’
We both say no again.
The policeman looks at Perry, ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember because the missing boy attended Chewton Manor, which was your school.’
‘As you can see, I live miles from the school. I did board, but in ’69 I was doing A levels in an area apart from the main school and had stopped boarding. If he was nine, and I was seventeen, I wouldn’t have known him. News like that was kept from children back then. The school wouldn’t advertise the fact.’
‘No, I suppose not. Though you were hardly a child.’
He looks back at me, and I want to correct him, as Perry was very child-like, his short, thin frame devoid of manly features.
The inspector pulls out his wallet. ‘Well, that’s all for now. Here’s my card. Get in touch if you remember anything.’
They both stand and adjust bags and notepads. I can’t breathe. ‘We’ll be back when we have more information.’
Philips follows Rose to the front door, stops and turns. He gives a short nod, and they leave. As soon as the door closes, I collapse onto the chair, too shocked to cry. We were expecting this, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. Perry sits on the arm and pulls me into his arms.
‘I can’t go, Perry. I can’t go to the station, and they’re bound to need statements at some stage.’
‘It will be hard, but you must. Shall I ring Doctor Hughes and get something to help you?’
‘I don’t think anything will work. Oh, what am I going to do?’
‘Stop worrying. They’re trying to scare us.’ He pats my hand and pushes a stray hair off my face. ‘They need to look at someone else. You know who.’
‘Who?’
‘Schmidt, of course. There’s a dead child, so who else.’
‘But … do you think he’s capable of killing ...’
‘Of course he is. We all are. You …’ He smiles apologetically. ‘You know what I mean: given the right circumstances, we’re all capable. It has to be Schmidt. I was hoping they were coming today to tell us they’d linked him to the case. Or better still, that they’d arrested him.’
I bury my head in my hands. ‘But what proof will they have after all these years? What proof of anything?’
‘There must be something.’
If there is something, I’m sure Perry will find it.
Chapter 56
Monday, 13 June 2016
I’m dreaming about a boy from school, his face a familiar landscape of skin and bone. My subconscious feels a deep intimacy. His eyes hover near me. I look down to the stubble on his chin, which is that of a man in his twenties, established and set deep into his pores. He seems to ebb and flows around me as his body metamorphoses on my skin. Sex transmits from his developed chest to my breasts. His legs are long and lean and rub against mine from hip to ankle in an impossible manner. He sits on an invisible chair. My dream-self closes in, and I slide and slip over him, daring to sit on his lap, daring to touch his throbbing body. The air is filled with static from our mutual attraction. Although unable to breathe, I stretch out my arms to take his face in my hands and exhale into his mouth.
At last, he’s here, my love, my man, my lost prince.
Pulling him near, I taste his sweet dry apple breath as I kiss his lips. My soul feels a great release, a lifting, and joy soars through me. A rhythmic beat emanates from him as I place my hand on his arm, but the pulsating is mine. It courses through my veins from my heart to fingertips, exuding a palpable heat. It spreads an unstoppable flowering into my brain. I sigh, moan and turn in my bed, restless from the restrictions of my dreamy imagination. My body, the captive of my nocturnal yearnings.
Now he drifts away; his spirit softened into dust and white light. Desperate to hold him to me, I draw in a deep breath, filling my lungs to breaking point. Then, like a kettle reaching the boil, the air escapes, hissing its way up through my throat. It bursts with a guttural, high-pitched scream, and I awake to find my nose bleeding.
Lying back, I consider allowing the blood to choke me. Let it fill my throat and put an end to my miserable life. But I stretch over and grab some tissues and wad them up my nostril. I am not in Frankie's bed, but I have the life and death of him inside me. Deep in my belly where sometimes he stays calm, and other times he stirs until I try to vomit him out. But I could vomit until my stomach burst, and he would remain. He torments the girl inside, prodding her with his charm and reminding her of his duplicity.
My dream had been about another youth. Boys from my past were nobodies. Why would such a male invade my dream, an imposter steal my desire? It must be a case of simple crossed wires. But this dream-lover was not some boy-child I’d dismissed as being of no consequence. Turning, I groan and hide my head under my pillow. It was Matthew. I had forgotten those images. Him running wild with my brothers. The man next door who possessed the looks of my best friend but none of the self-doubt. A version of Sarah I could truly love.
***
We are eating lamb chops, broccoli and mash when Perry tells me he’s been talking to Arthur Smith, owner of the estate agency. Arthur had mentioned that a guy called Matthew Burcher had phoned to ask him to look for a house in the village. He’d recognised the name, and did Perry know him? It turns out Arthur knew Matthew’s father from when he worked at Cleave Farm. Matthew had specified that he wanted to live in Oaktree Cleave, rent or buy.
So Matthew is coming home. He’ll be here and not just in my dreams. The coincidence with last night’s dream is uncanny. Has Ruby Silver worked her magic? But Matthew returning now is useless. If only I hadn’t panicked into marriage. Has Matthew been thinking about me since our meeting? Has he come to rescue me and make up for lost time? There is time for us to be together now they’ve taken Frankie from me. Having an affair holds a certain allure.
Chapter 57
Thursday, 16 June 2016
They have identified Frankie. The boy is the one who went missing from Perry’s school in December 1969. Fear tastes like metal-coated pears in the back of my throat. A sense of not quite waking up, as though the dawn is reluctant to drag itself into the morning.
Yesterday we went to the police station. DC Harptree and his colleague took my statement while Perry was with DS Rose. They told me there was a glove in Frankie’s pocket, part of a school uniform. They were fishing for information, so I stopped listening. Then they told me Frankie had been decapitated. Smiles crossed their lips, and they noted my shock. They asked how it made me feel knowing that had been done to him. I told them I had nothing to say about it and breathed a sigh of relief. They don’t have a clue about what happened. Frankie’s skeleton must have broken up under the weight of the earth – how inept they are. They wouldn’t catch me out. My darling went into his grave intact. Imagine picking up a severed head! Even Perry would have baulked at that, and he certainly would have complained. A seven-months pregnant woman couldn’t do that: wield an axe and commit such a heinous crime. It was hard not to enlighten them about what exactly happened.
Perry said, ‘Fine; I didn’t tell them that you killed him,’ when I enquired how it went. We didn’t talk about the decapitation or the glove. It’s best not to know how it got into Frankie’s pocket. Perry may have accidentally buried his glove, so he’ll have to do the explaining if they find his DNA on
it. But it’s the type sold by general school uniform outfitters and worn by thousands of boys. Schmidt must have left it somewhere, and it somehow got into the cellar.
We told them about Schmidt to connect him to the boy. They were very interested in my account of his ‘private’ tuition of me. They’re going to interview Christine Allbright to see what happened to her. It’s not easy remembering that I didn’t help her – but then she had an older brother with a nasty temper. My threat to tell others could have put Schmidt off his predatory ways. It’s doubtful, though. Urges always have to be satisfied, as he continued to demonstrate, and spent years in prison as punishment.
Perry told them about Schmidt’s many visits to Oaktree House. We did a good job of informing them that he was a regular visitor to Thora and Frankie. Implicating that Frankie had any relationship with Schmidt makes me nauseous, though.
Going to court and standing in the witness box terrifies me. How will I be strong enough? They don’t know that Perry went to France on Frankie’s passport, and they’ll be unable to trace how Frankie came back into the country. The inquest had concluded that Frankie death was an accident: Perry had placed a set of Frankie’s clothes, his watch, and wallet, at the edge of the fast-flowing Loire. The place was not far from Ben’s family château. Finding him buried at Oaktree will tell them that he didn’t die in France. They asked questions about how his things got there as though we knew about it. We said nothing, other than ask his friends who went to France with him. We’re keeping our fingers crossed that they don’t check the records for Perry visiting France, or that those records won’t exist anymore.
They will speak to everyone who stayed with us that August, except Celia, of course, because that witch is dead. I do not want to meet these people but will have to if there is a court case. What will they tell the police about me? That I was the best hostess, or that I was a low-class pretender who tried to stifle her lover’s artistic talent?
We will keep saying that we don’t know anything. They have nothing to go on and won’t know what questions to ask. We pray the forensic evidence is weak and insufficient. Perry destroyed the axe, hosed down Frankie’s blood, and washed it into the soil. The garden is now unrecognisable, changed to separate areas, my secret gardens within gardens. The glove in Frankie’s pocket was soaking wet with washing liquid.
It will be impossible for them to pin down an exact time or place. They have nothing to support any supposition they might make. When Frankie returned from France will elude them, as there is no return journey. We hope the whole thing will be too complex, a nightmare to investigate. Schmidt is the easy option for them; the child compounds his guilt. He’s evil and should be in prison. The fact that he did not kill Frankie is irrelevant. I must stop thinking about it now, or I’ll go completely insane.
Chapter 58
Sunday, 19 June 2016
Izzy Dewberry-Newberry is making waves in the news about how maligned her father was. She’s given an interview outlining the many police procedural failures in the investigation of Frankie’s disappearance. She is seeking redress, not for any compensation, but so ‘no one has to go through her pain’. She has stopped falling out of nightclubs in various states of inebriation and has separated from her latest squeeze – such is her distress about the father she never knew. The fuss has incited reporters to phone or arrive at the farm shouting their wish for his ‘second wife’s input’. This has not improved Perry’s humour towards me. We’ll be happy when she has his body and the high-profile funeral she craves. If I had the strength, I would meet with her and tell her exactly who her father was. Instead, I have written a letter she can have when I’m dead. The outside world is a terrifying place, and I don’t want to go there.
Perry arrives home as our meal is ready. He looks tired as he goes to the sink and washes his hands. Why can’t he wash off the mess before returning? There are plenty of washing areas on the farm.
As he slumps into his chair, I say, ‘Hope you’re hungry. There’s enough for four.’
He sighs. ‘Not really. I want this business finished.’
‘I’m praying that they’ve enough on Schmidt. Everyone knows he’s a paedophile. There must be plenty of evidence to get him for that lad. And he was hanging around here all the time.’
‘Yes, he was …’ Perry picks up his knife and taps the table.
As I put his food in front of him, something in his manner jars a memory. The recollection crushes me. ‘Oh Perry … I’ve just remembered … oh, how could I forget …’ I hurry to the door.
‘Calm down. What are you talking about?’ Perry follows me.
‘The letter, the letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘The one Thora wrote when she was on one of her cruises. Asking me to abort Francine and keep away from Frankie, or something. Oh, I can’t remember. She said Frankie had some information on Schmidt from her files and was going to blackmail him, or her. I don’t know why she would say such an awful thing about Frankie.’
Perry raises an eyebrow, ‘Tell me you still have this letter.’
‘I do. It’s in my box of poetry. Files on Schmidt and others are locked in the filing cabinet in the storage unit. Not the actual hospital files, Thora didn’t have those. She did studies on types of deviancy. She told me to destroy them, but I didn’t. They were confidential and to touch them would have somehow contaminated me. I didn’t read them … well, I glanced at them, years ago. The keys are here.’
A vision of the cellar room below the kitchen spins in and out of my mind. That room had the sock stuck beneath the door. When I cleared it out, there were two locked filing cabinets and an empty desk. Perry’s men moved the lot into the storage unit. Sickness fills my stomach. I swallow it back as I head to my room to find Thora's letter.
As he reads, a smile spreads across his face. ‘Good girl. This letter may mean our troubles are over.’
‘What will you do with it?’
‘You’re going to give me the keys to the storage unit and the keys to the cabinets, and I’m going to take them and this letter to the police. The police will be able to put two and two together to make four. Frankie ended up in a grave next to a child probably killed by Schmidt. There’s evidence that Frankie blackmailed Schmidt. What would your conclusion be?
‘Schmidt will tell them we murdered Frankie.’
‘Yes, he will. But who are they going to believe?’
‘Is it enough to make them believe that Schmidt killed Frankie?’ I sit and put my head down to my knees.
‘Well, my precious Carol, it’s a damning insight into the sick minds of two people. I’ll take a copy first, then be off.’ He kisses the top of my head and leaves.
Sliding down the wall, I pray that this will work, while admonishing myself for making public Frankie’s frailties. Attributing evil acts to those who are evil, though, is easy. What does the injustice of that matter? We must punish all evil in whatever way we can.
Chapter 59
Wednesday, 22 June 2016
Quaking in the early morning light, I am neither awake nor asleep as my dream surrounds me. My eldest brother, Gerry, turns the key in the ignition of the Ford Popular. The engine sparks into life and hums throatily. He looks at us and says, ‘That’s what you want to hear,’ and we all grin and clap. Sammy says, ‘Well done, mate,’ and Denny says, ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’
We open the doors. Denny wants to sit in the front, but I get there first, so he tweaks my hair and says, ‘Okay, just cos you're a girl.’ He pokes my ribs before getting in the back. Gerry guns the engine and pulls out of Cleave Farm, turning onto the top lane. We’re flying along at forty, too fast for the narrow, winding road. I check my watch and see it’s milking time. Mr Cutler will be herding the cows around the next bend. The car speeds onward and they come into view: Friesians fill the lane. We plough into them, tumbling into a whirlpool of black, white, and the deep red of blood. Tilly, the Collie, flies towards me and hits the windscreen. Ther
e’s a loud crack-wallop, and burst veins shoot blood in fountains.
Waking, but reluctant to lose the dream, I let it play on. Tilly lies still, blood staining the white fur around her leg. It oozes in a halo around her neck as the gunshot penetrates. Mr Cutler breaks open the twelve-bore and removes the orange BB cartridge. He pats my shoulder, ‘It’s for the best, Carol. It’s for the best.’ He lifts her and throws her onto the trailer as though she were a bale of hay. Perry will have to bury her next to Spike and Juno.
Shuddering, I reach for my glass of water. Those long-forgotten memories jag at tears in the back of my eyes. I swallow, trying to hold on to the vision of my brothers and Tilly, that feeling of life and vitality mixed with death and reality. Memories of my youth and my family are a strong presence today.
Meanwhile, dreams of Frankie have ceased since they found the bodies. Frankie has gone.
There’s a Frankie-shaped void inside me. Perry should fill that void, but he doesn’t have the temperament of a true lover. He hovers around love unable to commit to the all-consuming passion he fears may destroy him. A state which, by its nature, will leave him in a compliant position. He is not strong enough to be my equal. I feel it in his fists, his voice, and his inability to control himself. He wavers between despising me and tolerating me. I’m a punishment he takes to entitle him to a maid and a whore. I irritate him with my anxiety attacks because I can’t control them; he doesn’t understand that they have their own life. They flourish amid his aggression.
The girl inside favours Matthew. Foisting upon him the same ability that Frankie had to consume me diverts my frustration. That I should be independent and not yearn for another union crosses my mind; but I dismiss this: loneliness and failure will not be my epitaph. The longing to be a soulmate is powerful. If I wish for it, it will come true. There must be some point to our existence before we pass from this world of suffering into oblivion.
Killing The Girl Page 21
