She’d had so many plans at fifteen — to leave Hove, go to London and make something of herself. But the Jesters had changed everything, and their evil smiles had stretched across the decades to torment her again, triggering all the rage and despair she had buried all those years ago. And now she wanted vengeance.
She bumped the keyboard accidentally and the screen came back to life, dragging her out of her dark thoughts and back to the present.
What had she been thinking about? Ah, that’s right, sad old Clive, who had remained in a time warp; not leaving Hangleton for many years, getting nowhere fast as a tradesman, working for a glazing business on contract work that paid reasonably well, but so infrequently that he had never been able to lift himself beyond the council estate where he’d been born. When his father had died he’d moved with his mother to a small two-bedroomed flat in Harmsworth Crescent. The old girl was still there, almost blind, desperately needing professional care. It had been a simple case of looking up all the Farrows in the phone book who lived up Hangleton way. There had been only three, and Anne’s brilliant recall from as far back as junior school told her that Clive’s mother’s name was Nancy and there was only one P & N Farrow living in Hangleton. Right enough, a phone call from a fake marketing company had told her there was now only Nancy in this dwelling. Two days later Anne had made her second call, this time as an old schoolfriend, with a made-up name, trying to put together a reunion of Goldstone Junior School. Nancy had been very helpful, not only giving her Clive’s address in London but also where he worked.
‘When did Clive move to London, Mrs Farrow?’ she had asked innocently.
‘When he met Lisa,’ Nancy had said, as though Anne should know who Lisa was. ‘A nice girl who suits our Clive — you probably know what I mean.’ Which had sounded to Anne as though Lisa was a few pennies short. ‘But her people are in London and she’s got a steady job at a department store. Didn’t want to move down south so he’s gone there, you see?’
‘Must be hard without him.’
‘I do miss him. Clive’s a good boy.’
Not quite as good as you think, Nancy, Anne thought but said instead: ‘And this place where Clive works, er, Pony Express, is he enjoying it?’ Not that she had cared.
‘I wouldn’t know, dear. I don’t see him and he doesn’t even ring much anymore. If you speak to him though, ask him to call me would you love, because there might be a place for me at that nursing home.’ She didn’t say which one. ‘He’s best outdoors and not working too closely with others — if you knew him at school I think you know what I mean. He’s one of those people who delivers things for companies.’
‘A courier?’
‘That might be what it’s called, dear. He doesn’t earn very much. I think they’re living in a council flat.’
And so, despite his slowness of mind, the once small flame of ambition that had once flickered in his youth had guttered and spat and finally died. Clive did indeed sound like he’d remained the loser he was in his youth and Anne had convinced herself that she had done them both favours by ending his ordinary life and its dark secret. He had died sobbing like a baby and she had felt nothing for him. Clive had been cruel to her and, in her opinion, deserved to know how it felt to be alone and frightened and fearing that your life was about to be stolen by someone else.
He had swallowed the water gladly, begging her not to hurt Lisa.
‘I didn’t rape you. None of us did. Only he did and only he attacked you that second time,’ Clive had blubbered to her in the back of the van.
‘I don’t care that you didn’t! You should have stopped him, Clive . . . both times. You helped him to abduct me! You should have helped me against him. You let my baby die, you bastard. Now you’re going to pay for your cowardice.’
‘Lisa and I were hoping to have a baby together next year,’ he had slurred through his sobs. ‘I’m sorry, Anne. I’m sorry about your baby.’
‘Me too, Clive,’ she recalled saying, ‘Now hurry up and go to sleep.’
‘He looked like him,’ he said suddenly.
‘Who did,’ she had murmured, disinterested in his waffling.
‘The baby. More like him than you.’ The lids of his eyes lowered. ‘You look amazing now though . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Anne stared at him. ‘You saw the baby?’ She shook Clive. ‘The baby, Clive, What do you know?’
‘What baby?’ he had slurred. He had reacted swiftly to the Rohypnol; time had been so short and she’d certainly given him a huge dose.
‘My baby! I was pregnant. Is that too poetic, Clive? The child you forced on me when you raped me. The child you let him kill.’ Her voice had broken on the final word.
But there was no more time. Perhaps she’d miscalculated for Clive had suddenly slumped; headed into the safe, dark escape of oblivion.
Anne had let go of his jacket, thrown open the back door of her van and retched. Hot, acid vomit gushed past her throat and splattered the bushes on the fringe of the park. She had planned to drag Clive’s body into the wheelie bin she had in the van with them and then push his corpse to the toilet block where she had planned to dump it . . . just as they had left her thirty years ago.
She had sucked in the cold February night air, wiped her lips with a tissue and let the breeze dry her eyes momentarily. It was too late now. She couldn’t wait for him to wake up and then re-start her interrogation. She decided that either she killed him and moved onto her third victim or she would give up on this trail of revenge altogether.
She had to keep going. She had to find Billy now and learn what he knew about Peter. What had they done with his body? Clive was no use to her any more. And Clive had never cared. It made no difference to her now that he was sorry. Anyone can apologise when their life is in the balance. Anne had coldly reached for the knife and, choosing the spot she knew from her research would ensure death, she had pressed it slowly, calmly into her prey’s quivering flesh, burying it to the hilt.
* * *
Anne shook herself out of her trancelike state and back to the present. She had to find Billy and Phil and through them, her main tormentor, Pierrot. She’d savour his death last. She hoped with all her heart that he was alive, well, and watching the news with increasing fear.
Billy wasn’t to be found on the ‘Schooldays’ website that had led her so easily to Mikey, and she’d already worked through the Fletchers in the Brighton and Hove phone book. None were connected with Billy. Where else to look? The school could be an option. She knew it had changed its name to Blatchington Mill at some point, but surely they’d still have records of past students stored somewhere. Or perhaps she could track down some of the teachers. She and Billy had both had Mrs Truro for English — one of the few classes Billy had actually worked in. Anne reached for the phone books again.
‘Oh, what a coincidence,’ Mrs Truro said when Anne had explained the reason for her call, and given the old lady a false name. ‘You’re the second person to ask me about that lad in as many days.’
‘Really?’ She felt her stomach clench.
‘A reunion, how lovely. Have you found many of the others from the class of ‘76?’
‘I’m getting there, Mrs Truro.’
‘Funny that I don’t remember you, Debra. I never forget a name and I don’t recall you in my English class.’
‘Well, I remember you, Mrs Truro,’ Anne said. ‘I used to sit at the back; I was very quiet, rather forgettable I’m sure.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Um, so is someone else organising a reunion then?’
‘Oh, not at all,’ came the reply. ‘I’m helping the police with some inquiries.’
‘Police?’ The first tentacles of fear wrapped around her body. They were moving faster than she’d anticipated.
‘You probably recall that Billy was friends with Clive Farrow?’ Mrs Truro went on. ‘And with Clive being murdered in that terrible way, the police are looking for people who might have some connection with him from the past.�
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‘Clive Farrow always frightened me a bit,’ Anne said, her voice apologetic. She could hear in the pause that her old teacher believed her memory must be failing. Mrs Truro knew that Debra had known Clive just by that comment.
‘Did those boys pick on you?’
‘No, Mrs Truro. I escaped their notice for the same reason I did yours, but most of the people in our year were scared of them — not Billy so much, but Clive was unpredictable.’
‘You’re right, and that’s what I told that DI Carter who rang last night. At least Billy Fletcher seemed to pull himself together. He actually did quite well in his English exams.’
‘Of course. So you have no idea where I might hunt him down to send an invitation to the reunion?’
‘No, Debra, I don’t. Although after the police called last night it got me thinking about Billy again and I do seem to remember something about him applying to Canterbury. What about you, dear?’
‘I did a business diploma at Brighton Tech and then ended up working in Manchester,’ Anne lied. She didn’t want to prolong the call any further than necessary. ‘Well, I’m sorry for disturbing you but thank you for your time. It’s been nice talking.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. And would you mind not mentioning my call to anyone?’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well, I’d like to keep it as a bit of a surprise when I call — a blast from the past sort of thing.’ Anne knew she was clutching at a very thin straw.
‘Debra, until last night I’ve had nothing to do with anyone from Russell Secondary in almost twenty years. I’m hardly likely to suddenly be talking to your peers, am I?’
It was said frostily, but not unkindly. Anne remembered Mrs Truro’s wintry gaze all too well and would have liked to tell her how much those English Literature lessons had meant to her. They were a life raft on an ocean of misery during her school years. But that would really set the old girl’s mind working. Better that she believed she simply couldn’t remember this girl called Debra.
Instead she simply said, ‘No, you’re right. Thanks again.’
‘My pleasure.’
Anne put the phone down and bit her lip. No time to think — it was already ten-twenty. She probably only had hours to hunt Billy down before the police got to him. She reached for the phone again and, after checking with directory enquiries, connected to Canterbury University. More lies later she had established that a William Fletcher, ex-Russell Secondary, had studied English and psychology there. With a bit of arm-twisting, she had managed to ease from the man in records Fletcher’s parents’ address in the 1980s. He wouldn’t give her the full details, but said it was a home on the Hangleton Council Estate.
Anne pulled out the Brighton phone book and rang the Brighton and Hove Council, using her earlier story of tracking down Billy Fletcher for a school reunion.
‘Let me put you through to someone who might be able to help,’ the receptionist said.
There was a click and a ringing tone, then a new voice answered. ‘Jenny Newton.’
‘Hello, Jenny, it’s Catherine here, I’m hoping you might be able to help me with an unusual request.’ Anne worked hard to load a big smile into her tone. ‘I’m really sorry to lump this on to you but the receptionist said if anyone can help me with this, you can. Apologies — you drew the short straw.’ She laughed.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Jenny offered cautiously but Anne sensed the woman was flattered.
‘Well, I’m originally from Brighton . . . Hove actually. I lived in Hangleton but I’ve spent a large chunk of my recent life overseas.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I think my mid-life crisis is wanting to reunite the class I graduated with after A levels.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Jenny said, her tone warm. ‘My midlife crisis was far more selfish. I wanted to have a totally indulgent holiday in Paris at the George V Hotel.’
Anne leapt in enthusiastically. ‘I lived in Paris,’ she lied. ‘And I dined once or twice at Le Cinq.’ This part wasn’t a lie. Kim had treated her to a few days in Paris and an exquisite dinner at the celebrated dining room to mark one of their wedding anniversaries.
‘Oh, you lucky thing. I adore the place,’ Jenny said wistfully. ‘So, how can I actually help?’
‘Thanks, Jenny, you see I’ve got one more person on the list to tick off but do you think I can find him? The thing is, Billy was the class clown who kept us all laughing. Everyone loved him. I really want him to be there. I’ve tried his old address — he used to live on the Hangleton Council Estate — but I just can’t seem to track him down.’
‘Right, well, he would have been a minor then. It’s unlikely he’s still in a council house in Hangleton himself. I’m not sure how I can assist you.’
‘I just thought if I could find the family — hopefully his parents are still around — then they might be able to help me get in touch with Billy.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She paused and Anne could hear her reluctance. ‘Um, well, that is a bit unusual. We don’t give out personal details.’
Anne moved back to safer territory. ‘How long did you have in Paris, by the way?’
‘Oh, it was two magnificent weeks in the end. It rained for a few days of it but it didn’t really matter.’
‘I know, Paris is very beautiful in any season. I particularly liked it in winter when all the crowds had gone. So, are you able to just see if you’ve got any Fletchers?’ Anne held her breath.
‘Alright, give me a moment.’
Jenny returned after several long minutes. ‘Sorry to have kept you.’
‘That’s fine. I really appreciate anything you can do.’
‘There were some Fletchers on that estate, but they left some time ago. I don’t know what happened to Mrs Fletcher, but it says that Mr Fletcher is now in a council nursing home.
‘Okay, so I’m still no closer,’ Anne said, deliberately sounding crestfallen. ‘Look, thanks, Jenny —’
‘Wait,’ Jenny said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I can give you the name of the nursing home if you think that might help? I can’t see how it can do any harm, really. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it, okay? Hopefully Mr Fletcher can direct you to his son.’
‘Oh, that’s brilliant, thanks. Billy was everyone’s favourite and I would hate for him not to share in the fun after all this trouble I’ve gone to to set up a reunion.’
‘I understand.’ Jenny read out an address in Hove and a phone number. ‘Well, good luck with hunting down your old school chum and I hope the party is a great success.’
‘Thanks, Jenny, you’ve been so kind. I won’t tell a soul, and I hope you get back to Paris soon. Why don’t you take a romantic weekend every year?’
The woman laughed. ‘I’ll tell my husband that idea.’
‘You do that. Take care.’
‘Bye.’
Anne put the phone down and grinned. Should she go and see old Mr Fletcher? Yes. But first she needed to do some training. She needed to stay strong and fit. Lugging the near-dead weight of Mike and Clive had almost killed her — the irony of that thought amused her. She drained the cooling cup of brewed coffee. But the van made all the difference and she’d taken a lot of care in planning the two drops of the corpses. The wheelie bin and council worker clothes had been an inspired disguise and although getting Clive’s body into and out of the bin had left her perspiring, the council bin did most of the work.
Michael Sheriff had been easier. She had simply rolled the body out of her van on that freezing Thursday morning in one of Lincoln’s loneliest places, the covered laneway she had observed for a week. This twitten held special significance for her, but it was hardly noticed by the residents on the fringe of Lincoln’s old quarter except for occasional use as a shortcut. A few stones had taken care of the streetlights the previous night and so Anne’s ugly deed was over in moments and the van had gone.
As for the London dr
op, she knew the pattern of use for the public toilet facilities in Hackney, including the preferred days for the regulars who went trolling for action. The very early hours of a wintry Monday morning was always best and so Clive was laid out in his fetid morgue without interruption.
She’d need to do the same level of intense planning for Billy, once she knew where he lived and worked these days. Anne got up from her computer screen and stretched, heard her bones grumble and click. It was fortunate she was still so fit — that’s what nearly thirty years of regular training did for a body. She could do fifty one-armed press-ups without blinking but all the same, she had worked even harder on maintaining a sleek look to those muscles or people could notice all that bristling upper strength.
It had taken a lot of pain and determination to create the body she had now and she had no intention of ever returning to the overweight, unhealthy girl she’d been in her teenage years. Whenever she felt like skipping a training session, Anne remembered her old school photograhs, saw herself fat, scowling and plain. Cosmetic surgery had helped — as did the strict eating regime she kept to — but the hardest yards were on the bike, treadmill, rowing machine, cross-trainer and other pieces of equipment that kept her strong, lean and sculpted.
She stood up and stretched, felt her shoulders click and promised herself a massage sometime soon. She put on her running clothes and trainers, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and went to the door.
16
Kate, still stinging from Hawksworth’s rebuke, had grabbed the pool car keys and was already waiting in the unmarked Ford for Sarah, who arrived two minutes later, juggling anorak, files, and the sensible backpack that passed for a handbag.
‘You don’t mind me driving?’ Kate said, as she turned the ignition. She had no intention of relinquishing the driver’s seat anyway — it was simply something to say to prevent an awkward silence.
‘No, I can look over my notes.’
Kate reversed. ‘Hope you like U2?’ She pushed a disc into the CD slot.
Bye Bye Baby Page 17
