Chloe, her sweet, kind, heartbroken daughter, who deserved a better role model than an embittered, hypocritical wannabe vigilante.
Chloe, the poor estranged daughter of the disgraced DCI turned murderer.
Jessop’s flesh turned cold, her gorge rose and the world before her spiralled. Panicked, she ran to the downstairs toilet. Made it just in time for her stomach to expel its contents.
Gasping and coughing she rinsed her face and blinked at the moist, blood shot eyes looking back at her in the mirror. Eyes that were to be the last thing Vincent Dodd would have seen if not for Ray’s intervention.
No. That wasn’t true. She wouldn’t have used the knife. Bringing it was a reflex action, an emotional response triggered by seven years of pent up frustration.
Human nature, like swiping a can of Red Bull from a table.
Like sharpening a pencil and dipping the tip in varnish the night before she’d planned to visit Hoyt in prison.
Seven years ago the news Dodd had gotten to Hoyt first had left her numb. She had only planned her life up until the moment she killed her family’s murderer. At that moment nothing seemed to matter, especially the job she had worked so hard at to allow her the vengeance she so desperately craved.
The job had always been a means to an ends to get to Hoyt, but now he was dead and she had no way to get to Dodd now he was in solitary, she had no reason to remain on the force.
DCI Bill Travis disagreed.
Being her superior and keen follower of her career path, he knew about her connection to Hoyt, and thought it his duty to inform her of his death. She hadn’t divulged she had known, just acted nonchalant as she reached into her bag for the resignation she’d written.
What her boss said next stopped her in the act.
To this day she didn’t know why she’d accepted the offer of promotion to DCI due to his step up to Detective Superintendent, only that her mother and father would be proud of her for doing so. And, of course, she had a grudging respect for Bill Travis, who had become such a father figure to her throughout her career, and, who in a certain light, even resembled the man she missed so much.
She could never say no to her dad.
Besides, what else was she going to do with herself? For the first time since she could remember her future was a blank canvass. And anyway, Hoyte was not the only murderer out there. And she was not the only one living with the loss of a family or family member due to those sick bastards. Just maybe catching enough of them would bring some closure on her family’s death and lessen the sting of missing her chance to off Hoyte.
It didn’t.
Only the love of her sullen daughter and a fifty-year-old novelist and ex-heavy metal guitarist could do that.
And she had been one text message away from losing it all.
Knees liquefying she slid to the floor and wept. She wept for her deceased parents. For the ghost of a little girl with auburn hair who would keep her awake each night with her screams. She wept for her daughter, whose life she had neglected to consider twice due to her selfish lust for vengeance. She wept for Ray, who was determined to make her laugh at least once during the day for the rest of their lives. But most of all, she wept for herself, for letting her hatred and bitterness curdle thelife her parents had given her.
A life her parents would insist she started to live instead of mourn.
She startled at the sound of the front door opening. Heard voices, laughter, the noise of bottles clinking together. A shout: ‘Mum?’
Chloe’s voice. A voice so welcome her heart accelerated.
‘You in?’
Yes, she was in. She was in and she looked like shit.
Sniffing back the tears, she hauled herself up, rinsed her hoarse throat under the tap, called out, ‘Be there in a sec!’
‘K!’ came the jovial response.
She worked fast, wiping her face, brushing her teeth, and fixing her clothes. She caught her reflection in the mirror again. The eyes looking back at her were still blood shot and red, but where a moment ago there lurked a hardness behind them, now there was a softness she barely recognised.
‘It goes on,’ she whispered.
Composing herself the best she could, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Glimpsed Vicky and Brooke unpacking bottles and food in the kitchen. Saw Chloe stepping back though the front door with another shopping bag.
‘Ready to get wasted?’ her daughter grinned.
Jessop couldn’t help but smile at the ironic turn of phrase. ‘Bring it on.’
Chapter Forty
Slumped on the sofa, her head light and her legs unsteady, Jessop felt better. A hot shower, change of clothes, and good company could do wonders for a ravaged soul. Of course, a bottle of wine and several tequila shots didn’t hurt either, with the booze’s medicinal qualities already blurring the day’s hellish events. She knew this was but a temporary fix, but for now any fix was better than having to relive her visit to Dodd.
She sipped some wine and listened with amusement as Chloe, Brooke, and Vicky tore their catty claws into today’s pop culture.
Vicky, Ray’s nineteen-year-old daughter from his previous marriage, was the image of her mother Samantha. This had always mystified Jessop in that Samantha was a stunning 5’10” thirty-nine-year-old redheaded clothing boutique owner with the figure of a tennis pro. She was a 5’7”, forty-three-year-old copper with thick, curly black hair, and a figure of a tennis line judge. Other than their gender, she and Samantha had absolutely nothing in common. And no, she had never asked Ray what the attraction had been between two such diverse women. Tastes were as unique as fingerprints and could rarely be defined, especially concerning attractions of the opposite sex.
After all, Chloe’s father was as far removed from Ray as could be. A motorway cop, he had a hard time accepting her new position with The Clubs and Vice squad posing as a prostitute to entrap potential clients, or “johns”, as they were nicknamed. One too many jokes from his colleagues about how much the Misses charged, and did she bring the cuffs to the bedroom, and he was off. She had no intention of quitting to pacify his ego, and after he left, no intention of telling him about her pregnancy.
Six months and a quick divorce later, he transferred to a different city, and that was that. As far he knew, Chloe didn’t exist. Chloe knew the truth, and as far she was concerned, a man like that had no room in her life.
Jessop couldn’t have been prouder of her girl.
With the subjects of crap chart music and TV reality/talent shows and their surgically-enhanced female stars finally exhausted, the hen’s conversation now turned to the opposite sex. The subject matter was inevitable, and she only hoped after yesterday’s break-up Chloe would be strong enough to partake.
With the exception of the usual suspects of Pitt, Clooney, and Depp, Jessop hadn’t heard of any of names on the girls’ lists. Who knew Ryan Reynolds was so hot, and Justin Beiber was sickeningly cute?
When asked to list the men she’d most like to “bump uglies” with, Jessop had eventually ticked off her top three as Mickey Rourke, before he had all the surgery, Richard Gere, and Don Johnson back in the day.
‘Don who?’ Chloe asked.
‘But they’re all so…old,’ Vicky said.
Jessop thought she could actually feel another worry line appearing.
‘What about Scott Mason?’ Chloe offered. ‘He’s got that broody thing down good. Looks a bit like Matt Dillon.’
Brooke glanced at Jessop, shrugged her shoulders and winked. ‘Never noticed. Have you, boss?’
‘You know tonight’s rule,’ she smiled, her cheeks tingling with a sudden warmth. ‘No work talk.’
‘Are you blushing?’ Vicky giggled.
‘Must be a hot flush. You know, us older women are prone to them.’
‘Reckon you need cooling down, then.’ Vicky poured four more shots of tequila. ‘Ready hens? On three…’
‘Three!’ Chloe called.
Jes
sop knocked back the shot and stuffed a lime slice between their lips.
‘More,’ Chloe urged with a happy slur Jessop found reassuring.
‘Uh-uh,’ she groaned, heaving up from the sofa and listing from a sudden head rush. ‘I need a proper drink.’
‘You’re not putting the kettle on are you?’ Vicky sniggered. ‘Is it Horlix time already?’
Chloe nudged her future sister in-law. ‘Mother, you’re not…drunk, are you? And in front of your own daughter. Isn’t there a law against that, Brooke?’
‘I have a friend in social services we could call.’
‘Think I’ll call them myself if it means a bit of peace and quiet for the rest of the evening.’ Jessop shot the hens a caustic grin, made her way to the kitchen and opened a beer to wash down the tequila’s god-awful taste. Heard the phone ring and answered with a ‘Yep?’
‘CATHYYYYY!’ came a familiar male voice. Nick, Ray’s ex-band mate and soon to be best-man. She’d always liked the chubby ex-drummer turned florist. Behind his “Born to be Wild” facade he was a big softie with a heart as large as his belly and a beard as tangled and elaborate as his table arrangements.
‘Just wanted to say Ray’s a lucky man,’ Nick slurred. ‘Because if he hadn’t gotten to you first…’
‘Then me and you would have made an even greater couple,’ she interjected.
‘Damn right we would’ve.’
‘You looking after him for me?’ she asked.
‘I’ve spent my whole life looking after the son of a bitch.’
‘Is he there?’
A crackled pause. In the background she recognisedLynyrdSkynyrd’s Freebird playing on the pub’s jukebox. The song was one of Ray’s top five, the old time juke box it was playing on, one of the reason’s he and Nick loved to drink at The Maidens.
‘Hey sexy, how’s it going?’
Never before had the sound of Ray’s voice felt so welcome. ‘I feel old,’ she sighed.
‘The other girls picking on you?’
‘They’re talking about boys and making me drink tequila shots.’
‘That’s it. They’re not coming to the wedding.’
She smiled to herself. ‘I don’t think even I have the power to stop them.’ Remembering Ray’s temperature this morning, she asked, ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Drunk.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I feel good.’
Of course he did. Ray never felt less than good. ‘Pulled any younger models yet?’
‘Couple of times, but then they out found I was marrying a copper. Turns out that’s a bit of a turn-off.’
Jessop sniggered. ‘Women.’
‘Tell me about it?’
She watched Chloe enter the kitchen to fetch more limes. With her usual minimal makeup, straw blonde hair hanging loose, and wearing a baggy t-shirt, jeans, with no shoes or socks, her barefooted daughter had never looked so stunning. Jessop felt her chest swell with love for the girl. ‘How’re you holding up, sweetie?’
‘Better than you by the looks of it. That Ray on the phone?’
‘Huh-huh.’
‘Tell him he owes me a tenner.’
‘What for?’
Chloe placed a handful of sliced limes on a saucer, went to leave, but not before glancing up at the clock on the wall. ‘He’ll know.’
To Ray, Jessop said, ‘Chloe says you owe her a tenner.’
‘Shit. What time is it?’
‘Just gone ten-thirty. Wanna explain?’
‘Only if you promise you won’t be mad?’
‘Nope.’
‘I bet Chloe you’d be calling it a night at ten-thirty.’
‘You think I’m a lightweight?’
‘Course not, my precious. I think you have a demanding job, which you work hard at, and - ’
‘Save it for when you get home, old man. There’s still plenty of tequila left. Me and you - shots. We’ll see who’s the lightweight in this house.’
Half an hour later she was spread out fully clothed on her duvet and wishing the damn room would stop spinning.
Chapter Forty-one
Wednesday, November 1st
Her first lucid thought: the urgent need to pee.
Her second: why was her mouth so dry and her head so muzzy?
Reluctantly Jessop opened one heavy eye. Although her flesh felt warm and clammy the bedroom was cool and dark but for a crack of dawn through the curtains. Only then did she recall the evening’s drinking.
A groan escaped her parched lips as the waistband on the jeans she’d neglected to take off before bed compressed her aching bladder. With every ounce of her strength, she hoisted herself off the bed and stumbled half blind out of the bedroom onto the dark landing. Head thick and pounding, she took a moment to orientate herself with the three closed doors before her. The nearest was Chloe’s room. Adjacent, the guest room, where Vicky and Brooke were sharing a bed. Satisfied she was heading in the right direction she padded to the closed bathroom door and pushed it open.
The light from inside speared the ache behind her half-closed eyes and had her blinking against the pain to grasp some clarity.
She hadn’t considered why the light would be on in the dead of night until she saw Ray stood over the toilet urinating.
‘Oops. Sorry…’
One hand rested against the wall, Ray turned his head toward her. Beneath his lank silver hair his face was screwed into a mask of pain, its stubbly cheeks damp with tears.
Time seemed to freeze as her booze-soaked rationale struggled to make sense of the surreal scene before her.
Was she dreaming?
‘I’m sorry,’ Ray groaned before turning back to look into the bowl.
‘About what?’ she heard herself say. But then she followed Ray’s gaze into the toilet and saw the blood trickling into the bowl.
Her bladder let go, and she knew she was awake.
Chapter Forty-two
The Faulkners had just returned from a scorching and exhausting fortnight at Disney World Florida. The holiday had been a dream for the eight-year-old twins, Daniel and Megan. They were still buzzing from the new Harry Potter ride and all the sugar and carbs they had consumed during the holiday of holidays. Their parents, Lee and Jane, were knackered and had made a promise to one another at the airport to forego the unpacking until the evening in favour of a decent cup of tea followed by a long sleep in the comfort and familiarity of their own bed.
The twins, having slept on the plane, suffered no such lethargy, and no sooner had they dumped their bags then they were out in the back garden recreating the thrills and spills of Orlando beneath the dawn’s growing light.
No sooner had Jane flicked the kettle on and poured the milk from the carton purchased at the airport then both she and Lee had heard the screams from the garden.
They had spent the last two weeks listening to their children screaming, but these screams were different. These screams were not born from excitement and adrenaline, from the thrill of being flung at speed around a magical castle or dropping over the edge of a forty-foot water drop. No. These screams came from somewhere both parents never ever wanted to acknowledge existed within their precious children.
Lee was out of the kitchen first, sprinting down the length of the expansive lawn towards the dense crop of bamboo at the foot of the garden which hid the twin’s secret garden.
Here there was the rope swing Lee had constructed four years ago, along with the ladder which led up to the secluded tree house he had built for the twins. On arriving through the trees he had run into his children, who were crying and yelling and pointing up at the tree house. Unable to understand what they were saying, Lee ascended the wooden ladder to see what all the fuss was about.
The smell hit him first: spoiled meat. Spoiled, putrid meat and shit and something so foul he could not convert to words.
And of course there were the flies. He would never forget the flies.
Chapt
er Forty-three
Seated in the kitchen neither of them had touched the coffee Ray had made. And neither of them had spoken since Ray had given Jessop the hospital report.
Despite her banging head and blurry eyes she’d read the lengthy report twice, whilst Ray looked on from across the kitchen table in silence. After learning the cancer had spread from Ray’s prostate to his pelvis and Lymph nodes, and that the only course of treatment available to him now was Chemotherapy, she had only one question for the solemn man opposite her:
‘So when do you start?’
With his muddy eyes heavy with sincerity, Ray answered, ‘Next week. I’m sorry.’
‘About what?’
‘The honeymoon.’
The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She placed the report on the table next to the cancer support leaflets Ray had been given at the hospital. She’d read them too, but did not subscribe to what they were selling. She was a realist not an optimist, and by being so refused to believe anything written for the purpose of tinting the future rosy. Because the cold, hard fact was, Ray’s prostate cancer was as aggressive as it got. The Chemotherapy, if it worked, may prolong his life but it would not save it. Eventually − could be weeks, could be months, or it could be years − Ray would die from the disease or some related illness.
‘Are you in pain?’
‘Sometimes. Pissing aint been much fun recently, as you’ve seen. I thought it was a bladder or kidney infection, which was why I went to the doc’s.’
‘When did you have the tests?’
Ray fingered one of the leaflets absently. ‘Couple of weeks ago.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There was nothing to tell until I knew for certain.’ Ray reached a hand across the table and placed it gently on hers.
Jessop pulled her arm away. ‘Nothing to tell? You were ill enough to go to the doctor, weren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you? I mean, are you really?’ She could barely see him through her tears. This was good because at that moment she couldn’t stand the sight of him. This was not because of his withholding the truth about his illness, but because she was crawling with guilt for berating him now when she should be supporting him. ‘I’m resigning.’
Hurt (The Hurt Series) Page 13
