Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side

by Shirley Wells

  Josie jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself. She paced the kitchen, lips clamped tightly shut.

  ‘You must tell us,’ Jill insisted. ‘We’re on your side, Josie, you know that. Everyone wants Martin where he belongs. Back with his family, with his mother.’

  Josie gazed out of that window for a few moments before turning round to face Jill.

  ‘Yes, something happened,’ she whispered. ‘Martin – he isn’t –’ She broke off and tugged at her sleeve again. ‘George, my husband, he isn’t Martin’s father.’

  Whatever Jill had been expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. She’d known that something was wrong in this family, but she hadn’t considered that. Yet it made sense, and she could have kicked herself for being so dim. Martin was the odd one out, the exotic bird of paradise among the drab sparrows.

  ‘And Martin hadn’t been told until now?’ she guessed.

  ‘He hasn’t been told at all,’ Josie confessed.

  ‘You’re grateful to George,’ Jill said, ‘but you don’t love him, do you?’

  Josie shook her head. ‘I’ve tried,’ she said helplessly, ‘but no, I don’t love him. He married me out of a sense of duty. I was pregnant with Andy, you see, and I married him because . . .’

  ‘It was the done thing?’ Jill guessed.

  ‘If you like,’ Josie murmured, and Jill knew there was more.

  Josie had put a plate of home-made flapjacks on the table and Jill helped herself to a piece. She remained silent, hoping Josie would tell all. Eventually, her patience was rewarded.

  ‘Seventeen years ago,’ Josie explained, returning to her seat at the table, ‘I met someone. His car broke down and he walked up the lane to borrow our phone. There weren’t mobile phones in those days. Or if there were, not many people had them.’

  Jill didn’t comment. She wanted Josie to do all the talking.

  ‘He used the phone, we chatted while he waited for the AA, and then he went on his way.’ There was pain etched on her face at the memories. ‘A week later, he came back to thank me. He brought me flowers red roses and lacy white gypsophila. No one had given me flowers before.’

  Jill could believe that. George certainly didn’t look like the hearts and flowers type.

  ‘And you fell in love with him?’ Jill asked.

  Of course she did. He’d brought sunshine well, red roses and gypsophila into her sad life.

  ‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘He was a salesman, so I suppose he had to have the gift of the gab. He wouldn’t have kept his job otherwise, would he?’ Her eyes clouded. ‘When he was in the area, we’d meet up at the Harrington Hotel. He’d book a room.’

  It was difficult to imagine Josie having an illicit affair in the luxurious Harrington Hotel. She looked too weary. Jill wondered what she had been like seventeen years earlier.

  ‘We’d been seeing each other for almost six months when I found myself pregnant.’

  Again, she fell silent, her gaze on some distant spot as she relived the memories.

  ‘With Martin?’ Jill asked, and Josie nodded.

  ‘I thought Brian loved me.’ She gave an embarrassed, self-conscious shrug and Jill could only guess at the pain of her humiliation.

  ‘He refused to believe the child was his,’ she explained, ‘and he stormed out of the hotel. Fortunately, George assumed it was his, and I was grateful for that.’

  ‘And you didn’t see Brian again?’

  ‘Not until Martin was a year old,’ she confided. ‘Martin was in his pushchair. We bumped into him in the street, outside Mothercare of all places. Brian looked at Martin and he knew immediately. Martin’s the image of him, you see. He said, “He’s mine,” and he sounded surprised. I said, “No, Brian, he’s mine,” and I left him standing in the street.’

  Was that Josie’s one act of defiance?

  ‘But then, a month ago, a letter arrived from Brian completely out of the blue. After seventeen years, can you believe that?’

  Jill was finding it difficult. She was finding all of this difficult to believe.

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked.

  ‘He was wanting demanding to see his son.’

  ‘And? Did he?’

  ‘No. It’s rare that a letter comes for me and so I didn’t think. I just opened it when me and George were sitting at the table. George saw it.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’ But Jill could guess.

  Josie was on her feet again, those thin arms wrapped around herself.

  ‘He was furious,’ she whispered. ‘He burned the letter and has barely spoken to me since.’

  ‘And Martin?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. Unless George said something but no, I’m sure he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Oh, Josie, why haven’t you told the police this?’

  ‘George wouldn’t let me,’ she said simply. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told you.’ Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘But I’m past caring,’ she burst out. ‘I’d rather be dead than live like this.’

  ‘Tell me about Brian,’ Jill suggested gently. ‘Where does he live and work? What’s his surname?’

  ‘Taylor,’ she answered shakily. ‘Brian Taylor. He’s living in Harrington now. Chase Gardens. I only know that because I saw it on his letter. I don’t know the number.’

  There was a grandfather clock in the hall that Jill remembered from her first visit to the farm and its loud tick echoed through the house. It was driving Jill mad so God only knew what effect it was having on Josie’s nerves. Perhaps the years had made her immune.

  ‘Do you still love him?’ Jill asked quietly.

  Josie was a long time answering.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’

  Jill supposed it didn’t.

  ‘Where do you think Martin is, Josie?’

  Her answer, when it finally came, was chilling.

  ‘I think he’s dead. I think I’m being punished. God’s punishing me!’

  Chapter Nine

  The last thing Jill needed was a dinner party. She hated the things. She hated having to dress up, she hated having to make polite conversation with strangers, and she hated having to remember to compliment the hostess on the food when she’d rather be in her cottage eating beans on toast.

  She tried Max’s number again, but he wasn’t answering. After this morning’s comments on her love-life, she was still furious, but she did need to talk to him about Josie. Brian Taylor had become chief suspect.

  There was no point leaving another message for Max so she went upstairs, showered and put on her black dress. She needed more clothes. Perhaps at the weekend, she’d go on a shopping spree and sort out her wardrobe. And instead of pulling her usual trick of coming home laden with new jeans and shirts, she must buy some clothes suitable for a social life.

  Scott’s silver BMW pulled up outside the cottage on the dot of seven o’clock.

  ‘You look gorgeous!’ he declared, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  So did he. Absolutely gorgeous. His blond hair was due for a cut, but she liked it long. He was tall, although not as tall as –

  Why, she thought irritably, did she have to compare everyone to Max?

  Unlike Max, Scott wouldn’t lie to her. He wouldn’t spend the night with someone else when he was supposed to be with her. At least, she didn’t think he would. He certainly wouldn’t presume to tell her who she should spend her time with.

  The three cats wound themselves around her legs as she gathered up her bag, phone and keys. They totally ignored Scott, and he ignored them right back.

  He was looking at his watch, a chunky Rolex that she suspected he wore because it was the best watch money could buy, but because it was an attractive piece of jewellery. Fortunately, she didn’t have to keep him waiting. Scott, she guessed, was one of those people who had never been late for anything in his life.

  The evening had turned chilly and she was pleased his car was warm.

  ‘So what’s
going on?’ he asked, as he drove them down her lane. ‘Are you playing at being author or helping the police?’

  She wasn’t playing at anything and his choice of phrase irritated her.

  Jill didn’t know Scott well. In the course of her police work, they’d come into contact a few times, and they’d had lunch twice in the last six months. Why he’d asked her to accompany him this evening, she had no idea. More to the point, she didn’t know why she’d accepted. Perhaps it was because she needed a social life. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t Max. Perhaps she was finally over Max and could begin to think about the future with another man in her life. Or perhaps it was merely an eye-candy thing.

  ‘I’m busy writing,’ she answered carefully, ‘but I’ve also been to Harrington High and Martin Hayden’s home. It’s all unofficial, but the case intrigues me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The people involved are interesting.’

  He shrugged, and she gained the impression that strangers held no interest for him.

  The Millingtons’ house was on the outskirts of Harrington and they arrived at seven thirty, along with two other couples.

  Henry, their host, was taking coats and getting them drinks when Jill’s phone rang.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I need to take this call. It’s work.’

  She spotted a brief flash of irritation cross Scott’s face, but Henry was obliging.

  ‘Take it in my study, Jill,’ he offered, pointing to a door on her left. ‘It’s quieter in there and you’ll have more privacy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said coolly, closing the study door behind her.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ Max said.

  ‘No.’

  It was strange, listening to them now, to remember they’d once been so close, so deeply in love.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier,’ he said, ‘but we’ve had a development. Martin Hayden’s briefcase has been found.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ But it didn’t necessarily mean anything. If he’d been planning to take the first train to the bright lights, he wouldn’t have taken school books with him. ‘Where?’

  ‘In a skip in Burnley Terrace.’

  Jill knew the street. She often left her car there instead of queuing up for the car parks.

  ‘This isn’t looking good, is it? I’ve spoken to Josie and it seems that George Hayden has just found out that Martin isn’t his son.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. When you say “just”, how recent are we talking?’

  She told him about Josie’s affair with Brian Taylor and about the letter he’d written, breaking seventeen years of silence.

  ‘George is barely speaking to her,’ Jill said, ‘which explains a lot. She said he’d kill her if he knew she’d told us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put that past him,’ Max said grimly. ‘And you say Brian Taylor lives at Chase Gardens?’‘

  Yes.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Oh, and this briefcase,’ he added. ‘The contents were much as you’d expect books, a couple of CDs, an apple, that sort of thing. But there was also a bottle of home-made wine and cocaine.’

  ‘Coke?’

  ‘Enough to put him away with the fairies for a good long time.’

  The door opened behind Jill and she turned to see Scott.

  ‘We’re waiting for you,’ he told her.

  She had a sudden longing for that pub meal with Max. She would much rather be bouncing ideas around with him than wasting time making small-talk with strangers.

  ‘Right, we can’t have our favourite defence lawyer kept waiting,’ Max said abruptly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He cut the connection, annoying Jill far more than Scott’s impatience had.

  ‘All ready,’ she told Scott, giving him the best smile she could manage, which wasn’t up to much.

  Jill could eat a four-course meal in fifteen minutes if she took her time. This one lasted three hours. Forty-five minutes per course. Forty-five minutes to eat a few melon balls. She could feel life passing her by.

  To be fair, her hosts and fellow guests were friendly, interesting people, but Jill’s mind was elsewhere. Apart from wondering if Reluctant Guest had reached the winning post first in the 2.45 at Wolverhampton netting her a hundred and thirty quid if he had she was trying to put herself inside Martin Hayden’s head.

  Had he seen his natural father and been persuaded to take off for the promise of a better life? If Brian Taylor had promised him the moon, Martin would have left without a backward glance, she felt sure of that.

  Cocaine and home-made wine? So much for the lad destined to be head boy of Harrington High School.

  She dragged her attention to the man at her side whose name she had already forgotten.

  ‘I was born in Kelton Bridge,’ he was telling her. ‘I used to spend hours on the hills with my dog. My best friend, Wilf Hayden, and I used to take old bottles up there for shooting practice. Wilf used to borrow his father’s shotgun.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s a wonder we didn’t shoot the dog. Or ourselves.’

  ‘Wilf Hayden?’ Jill was instantly alert. ‘Is he any relation to the Haydens at Lower Crags Farm?’

  ‘He was. Sadly, he’s dead now. When Wilf died, his younger brother, George, took over the farm.’

  The way he spoke, Wilf Hayden had died some time ago. ‘How old was he when he died?’

  ‘Twenty-one,’ he told her grimly. ‘A tragic accident. He and George had a couple of old motorbikes and they used to ride them around the quarry at Stacksteads. There was a sheer drop and, one day, Wilf lost control of the bike and went over the edge. He didn’t stand a chance.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Tragic, it was.’

  ‘How awful. George must have been devastated.’

  ‘Yes. He was two years younger than Wilf so he’d have been nineteen at the time.’ He brightened. ‘But every cloud and all that. The farm always meant everything to George and at least he inherited that. Oh, I’m not saying it could take the place of his brother,’ he added hastily, ‘but, well, I’m sure it helped.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Jill assured him.

  Exactly how much had the farm meant to George Hayden though? Enough to cause an ‘accident’ out at the quarry?

  They chatted about the area in general and then Jill enthused over Kelton Bridge, her cottage and her neighbours until it was time to leave . . .

  It was a few minutes after midnight when Scott stopped the car outside Lilac Cottage.

  ‘Thanks, Scott,’ she said, stifling a yawn. ‘I enjoyed it. They’re lovely people.’

  ‘You were miles away,’ he scolded gently.

  ‘Sorry. Was it so obvious?’‘

  Not to the others, no. Is something bothering you, Jill?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only work. A good night’s sleep will soon have me back to normal.’

  ‘Ah. I take it I’m not being invited in for coffee then.’

  The thought of inviting him inside hadn’t even entered her head. It was so long since she’d had a boyfriend that she’d forgotten the basics.

  ‘Next time,’ she promised, not bothering to hide this yawn. ‘I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he promised.

  ‘Thanks. And thanks for this evening. I enjoyed it. Really.’

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a hopeless liar,’ he whispered.

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Dad, can we go to Blackpool today?’

  ‘Yeah, you said we could.’

  ‘Blackpool?’ Max groaned. ‘I couldn’t possibly have said such a thing. What do you want to go there for? It’s a horrid place.’

  ‘It’s brill!’ Ben argued.

  ‘You said we could, Dad,’ Harry reminded him again.

  In a moment of madness, when he was bribing his sons, Max supposed he probably had.

  He made himself another coffee and le
aned against the sink to watch Ben and Harry eating toast as if they hadn’t been fed for months. The dogs, Fly and Holly, were watching every mouthful, too.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Max said, ‘we’ll get some ice-creams out of the freezer and, instead of throwing money in those machines, you can throw it in my pockets. You’ll never know you haven’t been to Blackpool.’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Harry scoffed.

  It looked like a trip to Blackpool then. Max could think of a hundred things he’d rather do, but at least he’d be spending time with his kids and that’s what weekends were for. He’d planned to do a few jobs around the house. Rehanging cupboard doors and tidying out the shed couldn’t be termed quality time, though.

  ‘I need to make a couple of phone calls first,’ he told them, resigned, ‘and then we’ll go.’

  His mobile rang and, while he would have welcomed an excuse to avoid Blackpool, he didn’t want work to tear him from the boys again.

  It was Jill.

  ‘Hi. Good night last night?’ There was no need to sound downright unfriendly, but he couldn’t help himself. If she’d been seeing anyone other than Scott Williams . . . It wouldn’t have made a jot of difference, an inner voice scoffed.

  ‘Interesting,’ she replied. ‘George Hayden had an older brother, apparently. Years ago, when George was nineteen, his brother was killed in an accident. They were both riding motorbikes near an old quarry there was a sheer drop and his older brother was killed. George inherited the farm, of course. He could easily have been responsible.’

  ‘Hmm, that is interesting.’

  ‘I thought so. And Martin Hayden ’

  He’d known it wouldn’t be a social call, but he was pleased she had the case on her mind. Scott Williams couldn’t be too exciting a date.

  ‘The cocaine in his briefcase won’t have been for his personal use,’ she was saying. ‘He’ll have been selling it or something.’

  ‘What makes you so sure? He wouldn’t be the first seventeen-year-old on coke. Not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Martin Hayden is ambitious and in control. He plans everything, even the way he poses for a family snap. Coke would take away that control. It will have been in his briefcase for his advantage, not his disadvantage.’