by Alex Lake
‘I know. I know.’ He had tears in his eyes and Julia saw how hard this was going to be for him. Brian had his flaws, but he also had some qualities; sadly, resilience was not among them. He was going to be meeting with therapists for a long time to come. Even then, she wasn’t sure he would ever get over it.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you with this, I promise. But right now I can’t be your best friend. I’m in too much pain. But I’ll be there for you. Anna, too. We’ll get through this.’
The look he gave her said I hope so but I don’t believe it for a second.
‘Ok,’ he said. ‘Ok.’
‘Would you mind getting the doctor?’ Julia said. ‘I need some more pain relief.’
‘Sure,’ he said, and got to his feet. His movements were slow and cramped, Julia saw, like the movements of an old man. ‘I’ll go and find someone.’
When she had been given more morphine – the nurse informed her that she had a button she could press, but only a certain number of times a day – the doctor, a bearded man called Dr Scala, but who insisted she call him Rick – gave his report.
‘It’s quite a long list, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It looks like your back will heal quite well. The cut was not too deep, apart from in one or two places. We’ll see how it does, but you may get away with minimal scarring, and there’s always the possibility of some cosmetic surgery if it becomes a problem. As for the hip, there’s a chipped bone, which the surgeon removed, but other than that the damage was fairly limited. It should recover pretty well, especially with some physio. The real concern is your hand, which is going to require a lot of care.’
Ironic, she thought. That was the one I did to myself. What Edna did turns out to be pretty minor. But then that’s life, isn’t it? The worst injuries are always self-inflicted, even if you do them for the best of reasons.
‘There are a lot of bones in the hand,’ Dr Scala – Rick – said. ‘And they work together in quite a delicate balance. If one is broken then it will cause pain in the others, so we have to make sure that it heals before we allow the hand too much motion. In your case, there are multiple bones broken in multiple ways. It’s quite a mess in there.’
‘I had no choice,’ Julia explained. ‘It was the only thing—’
He put a hand on her bicep. ‘You have no need to apologize,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing. Frankly, I’m amazed you could do it. It must have been painful beyond belief.’
‘So what happens?’ Julia asked. ‘Will my hand be ok?’
Dr Scala stuck out his bottom lip and bobbed his head from side to side.
‘OK is probably the right description,’ he said. ‘If you had plans to try out as a concert pianist they might be over. But your hand will work, more or less. We’ll set the bones and do some physio and keep a close eye on how it develops, and hopefully, in time, you’ll be able to do most of the things that you would normally have done.’ He gave her a wry grin. ‘I’m guessing you’ll have really bad arthritis when you’re older, though.’
Before she could answer there was a knock on the door. It opened part way and DI Wynne stuck her head into the room.
‘Hello,’ she said. She was holding a box of chocolates. ‘Not the best quality, I’m afraid, but it’s all they had at the petrol station.’
‘Come in,’ Julia said. ‘We were nearly finished.’
Dr Scala told her about the medication and the schedule for physiotherapy and about how she had to take responsibility for her recovery and then he waved a little goodbye and left them. DI Wynne took his place next to the bed.
‘So,’ Wynne said. She raised one eyebrow, as though to say well, well, you lead quite the life. ‘There’s a lot we need to talk about.’
‘Did you talk to Brian?’
‘I did. And I don’t think he had anything to do with this.’
‘Neither do I. He looked terrible.’ Julia shook her head. ‘I feel bad for him.’
Wynne folded her arms. ‘I also interviewed Mrs Crowther. She shared some of what you had told her.’
‘Oh?’ Julia wasn’t exactly sure what she had told Gill – Mrs Crowther – as the time she spent waiting for the ambulance had passed in something of a blur.
‘She said you mentioned something about Edna Crowne being responsible for more deaths? Specifically, those of her mother and husband?’
‘That’s what Edna said,’ Julia replied. ‘But that was it. She didn’t give many details. She could have been lying. To scare me, maybe. I wouldn’t put anything beyond her.’
‘We’ll have to look into it, but given what she did to you it seems perfectly possible. We’ll have to try and find out more. Perhaps Mr Crowne remembers something from that time which could help.’
‘Brian doesn’t know yet,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t think now is a good time to tell him.’
Wynne nodded slowly. ‘He’s going to find out sooner or later,’ she said. ‘And we really will need to talk to him. But leave it in our hands. We have some experience of these situations, believe it or not. It’s not the first time a relative has had to deal with learning their son or daughter or parent is a murderer.’ For a second her gaze was unfocused, lost somewhere in the middle distance, and Julia wondered how she did what she did, how she coped with being brought face to face with the worst the world had to offer.
‘How about Edna?’ Julia said. ‘Can’t you ask her?’
‘We will,’ Wynne said. She hesitated and glanced at the ceiling. Julia recognized the gesture; it was what she did when she had bad news. ‘We haven’t found her yet. When we got to the house her car was gone. She’ll show up, though. She can’t have gone far.’
‘I hope so,’ Julia said. ‘I damn well hope so. I don’t like the thought of her out there.’
‘No,’ Wynne agreed. ‘Neither do I.’ She stood up. ‘Anyway. You get some rest. It’s going to be a busy few days. I suspect the press will be interested in you again.’ She smiled. ‘Although the coverage may be a little more favourable this time.’
‘You know what?’ Julia said. ‘I can’t bring myself to care.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll be in touch. Take care, Mrs Crowne.’
18
A Month Later
Julia closed the front door and followed Anna into the living room.
Anna had spent the day with Brian. It was the first time since Edna’s disappearance – now a full month ago and still no sign of her – that Anna had been alone with her father. He had seen her with Julia present most weekends, but up to that point he had not felt able to take care of her on his own. As a result, Julia had full custody; Brian had willingly agreed.
Julia was not surprised.
He had taken the news about Edna’s murderous past badly. He had lost weight – she wasn’t sure how much, but enough that his clothes now hung on him like drapes – his hair had thinned and was greying, and his eyes were flat and lifeless. It was as though he had done a decade’s ageing in a few weeks. She knew he was seeing at least one therapist, and suspected there were others, but it wasn’t something she discussed with him. Simon did: his brother had been over twice and they spoke on Skype daily. At least some good had come of this, which was small comfort when Julia tallied up the problems it had caused.
Like sleep. She could fall asleep; she managed that quite easily, lying next to Anna in what had once been her and Brian’s marital bed, but she could not stay asleep. At some point during the night she would awaken and lie there, her heart racing, listening to the creaks and groans of the house and wondering whether there was someone there, someone in the house coming for them, Edna maybe, a vengeful, monstrous Edna, her eyes blazing fire, her hands hooked around a hammer.
She tried to keep calm, but when she could no longer bear it, she would grab the tyre lever she kept by the bed, switch on the lights and search the house, but there was never anyone there.
Until there is someone, she would think, until Edna
comes back.
And then she would lie there until dawn, nearly falling asleep ten, twenty times, but being woken every time by a squall of rain on the window or the sound of a car in the street outside.
Then there were the panic attacks. Suddenly, without warning, maybe when driving or shopping or watching television with Anna, she would feel her senses become more alert and her heart would speed up and her head would start to whirl with thoughts she had no control over; thoughts which were not specific concerns or worries but just the awful, terrible knowledge that everything was wrong and there was no way she could cope with it, with life, with anything.
It was all-encompassing; a sense of total mental breakdown and it was accompanied by a feeling of dizziness so intense that she would come close to blacking out. She would have to stop whatever she was doing and find something to hold onto; if she was driving she would have to pull over and wait for it to pass.
The doctor told her it was the body’s flight or fight response malfunctioning, a massive and inappropriately timed release of adrenaline, which, given her recent history was understandable. It would pass, he reassured her.
She hoped so.
Physically, she was doing ok. Her hip and back were still painful, but healing well. Her hand was a problem. She’d had three operations to repair it and, from what she could tell, it was now more metal than bone. It throbbed at night, but she could live with the pain, and it wasn’t as though it kept her awake.
She was awake anyway.
‘How was Dad?’ Julia asked Anna. ‘Did you have a good time?’
Anna slumped onto the couch. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘We watched Balamory.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No. We had biscuits.’
‘Right. Biscuits.’
Of all of them, Anna was the only one who seemed unaffected. She’d asked a few times where Grandma was, but seemed happy enough with the explanation that she was on a long holiday and wouldn’t be back for a while. She was interested in Julia’s injuries, but not in how they had occurred. She would have to deal with all this at some point, when she was older and Julia told her what had happened, but that was a long way off.
‘Ok,’ Julia said. ‘I’m going to make some tea. I’ll be back in a tick.’
In the kitchen she switched on the kettle. There was a Sunday paper on the counter, folded open. She’d been about to read it when Brian brought Anna home.
EDNA CROWNE STILL AT LARGE
In what is fast becoming a Lord Lucan-like story for our age, missing killer and abductress Edna Crowne remains at large. In the month since her disappearance the police have found no useful leads.
It is unclear how, with the resources at their disposal, the police have been unable to find any trace of Dr Crowne, who abducted her own granddaughter before holding her daughter-in-law, Julia Crowne, in captivity. It is almost inconceivable that someone could simply vanish, given modern border controls and the free exchange of information between international police agencies.
There has been speculation that after her daughter-in-law’s escape, Dr Crowne, unwilling to face the consequences of her actions, took her own life. Increasingly, this looks like the most likely option.
Julia put down the paper. She wished Edna had been found, wished she could say for certain that she was not out there, watching Julia and Anna. Then she would sleep at night. But until then … well, it was going to be hard.
It was the one thing she wanted: Edna to be found, dead or alive.
She looked at Anna, cross-legged on the sofa, flicking through a book about gnomes.
Preferably dead, she thought. Preferably dead. And then all this would be over.
19
Two Months Later
You stand on the beach, your bare feet on the warm sand. The sun sets in front of you, and you stare out across the ocean.
You got away. You had a plan – of course, you did – for just such an eventuality. A bag, with cash – dollars, used notes – and two passports in two different names, one American, one Canadian.
The American is a certain Dr Beth Powers. The Canadian a venerable lady who goes by the name of Dr Nancy Ouelette. Both passports have been used over the years. Beth is a fan of Patagonia, where some of the locals in a small town know her as a doctor who occasionally comes to visit. Nancy is a fan of Southern Thailand, where she has helped out at a local clinic in the past.
And which is where she has been for the past three months. She keeps herself to herself. She has short hair and is totally grey. Green eyes behind her thick glasses. She looks nothing like Edna Crowne. It is amazing what changing a few details can do for your ability to hide.
They are delighted. She is a good doctor, and she works for minimal pay; just enough Thai baht that she is not patronizing the people of this small town.
Although you are glad you invented and documented Beth and Nancy when you did, well before 9/11, when such things were easier. Now it would be much more difficult to get passports and birth certificates and medical qualifications. You would have done it, though. There is always a way.
You see, what most people don’t understand is that hard work and intelligence and ability are never enough. What is needed to make those things bear fruit is persistence. Doggedness. You are simply prepared to do more for what you want than other people, and in the end that makes you the winner. Eventually your adversaries will simply give up, and even if they don’t they will certainly make a mistake, and when they do you will be there, ready to take advantage of it.
And you will do whatever it takes. That is the other thing most people don’t understand. They think they are safe because they assume that other people share some of their values. They don’t – can’t – understand that some people – very few, but some – will kill them or steal from them or hurt them and cast them aside in order to get what they want. An executive wants a promotion to CEO, and in order to get it he or she has to cut a thousand jobs, destroy the livelihoods of a thousand families, push a city like Detroit into ruins.
Is it justified? Is it fair that, on the back of that misery, one person gets a bigger pay packet? Gets even richer than they already are? Is it fair that bankers who produce nothing of value, who leech wealth from the rest of society, get to pay themselves tens of millions of pounds for doing so? Of course, it isn’t. But does anyone think they care about what is fair? You cannot deposit fairness in the bank. What they want is money, and they will do whatever they can, at whatever cost to other people, to get what they want.
Nancy faces just such a situation. She likes it here. She feels at home. She finds the people pleasant and welcoming and, most importantly, respectful. But there is one exception. One of the nurses is sullen and bossy. She annoys Nancy. She talks too much. Asks too many questions.
She will have to go.
There is a double benefit to killing her. Nancy will remove her from her life, and you will have the opportunity to keep your skills up. Murder is not easy. It is a skill like anything else, and it rewards constant practice.
And you need to keep your hand in, because you have unfinished business.
You have to deal with that bitch Julia.
You – in Nancy’s name – have booked a flight to Munich in a fortnight’s time. Train to Paris, ferry to Dover.
You plan to do it on a Friday night. Kill her in her home. Julia will not be found for a day or two, at least. Who will be surprised if they don’t see her or Anna until Monday?
By which time you’ll have found your way back to Munich. You have a return ticket booked for the Saturday evening.
Two tickets, to be precise. One adult, one child.
Because you don’t plan to return alone. When you get back you’ll have company. You picture the introductions.
Hello. This is my granddaughter, Rose. She’s come to live with me. Her mother recently passed away.
And at least that last sentence will be true.
You look out at the setting sun
and smile. It feels good to have a plan again. Good to know what will happen.
Rose. Your mother’s name. It’s a good name. You suggested it when Anna was born. Brian was in favour, you knew that, but his wife didn’t like it. She preferred Anna. Not for any reason; not because there was an Anna in the family. Just because she liked it. And to spite you.
Well, in the end Rose it would be. Rose would come after Anna.
You smile and walk along the beach, your feet sinking in the warm sand. You turn onto the path that leads to the small hut you have made your home, your refuge.
There is someone standing on your porch.
It is that damn nurse. You smile again. The smile is genuine. This is an opportunity. You will find out if anyone knows she is here. If not, she will be erased.
‘Hello there,’ you say. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
She bows in that way the Thai people have. She raises her hand and waves to her left. There is the noise of an engine, then a car pulls up behind you.
It is a police car.
Three Thai policemen climb out. Two are holding guns. They look nervous, which is not a good sign. The other is the boss. He approaches you and says something in Thai.
You do not understand. He repeats it.
Then he pauses.
Edna Crowne, he snaps. Edna Crowne.
You nod.
He scowls and motions for you to put out your hands.
You do so. He produces a pair of handcuffs and snaps them shut.
You smile. They have you, for now. You will be taken home and tried. The papers will rejoice in your capture.
But they are wrong to do so. This is not over yet.
It is not over yet.
20
An Hour Later
An hour later Julia Crowne’s phone rang. It was DI Wynne.
She had good news.
