Wrong Place

by Michelle Davies

  ‘Whose friend?’

  ‘Your nan’s,’ said Bea, guessing the woman must be Sadie’s granddaughter because there was a clear resemblance to herself. The woman was skinny like her and her hair exactly the same colour, although the woman’s looked way more natural. ‘Well, kind of. My nan’s sister lives next door. That’s how I know her.’

  There was a long pause as the woman stared at Bea, who tried to keep her gaze level like she had nothing to hide.

  ‘You’re related to Audrey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you here so early?’

  A simple question, but one that still made Bea falter.

  ‘Well . . . I . . . my nan is very upset and I said I’d come and see how your nan was, so I could tell her. I’m going round hers now.’ Bea grabbed her backpack from the floor. ‘I’ll go now. I didn’t mean to get in the way.’

  Suddenly the woman’s face softened and she fluttered her hands in front of her as though she was nervous.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s lovely you came to visit. My name is Della.’ Her eyes locked on Sadie and immediately they filled with tears. ‘I thought she’d be awake by now.’

  As Della wept for her grandmother, Bea was filled with self-loathing. It didn’t matter that she and Sean weren’t the ones who’d put Sadie in hospital: they were still responsible because someone had copied what they’d done to the other victims. Then, in a flash, it came to her – the solution to sorting out this horrible mess. There was, she realized, another way that the police could find out who hurt Sadie without her waking up to tell them.

  ‘I should go,’ she said, choking on her words as the enormity of what she was about to do hit home.

  ‘Thanks for coming. It was really nice of you.’

  Bea shot out of the ward. By the time she reached the exit on the ground floor she was shaking with fear, knowing that going through with her plan meant having to live with the consequences however bad they might be. Yet she knew it was the right thing to do, what her parents would want her to do.

  With a heavy heart but a determined pace, Bea set off in the direction of the police station.

  34

  A few minutes passed before Della noticed the girl had left behind her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. She retrieved it from the floor and as she leafed through the pages she was seized by nostalgia. It was a book she remembered studying at school and had adored for the character of Scout, the fearless little girl she wished she could’ve been more like as a child. Scout had lost her mother too, but she hadn’t let it define her like Della had.

  There was a stamp on the inside cover: Property of Mansell High School for Girls. For a brief moment she wondered whether she should return it, then put it on the bedside table next to the card she’d written to Sadie yesterday. If the girl didn’t visit again she could give it to Audrey to pass on to her.

  Della heard voices at the door and turned to see the consultant entering the ward with a young man and woman in tow. The consultant looked just as dishevelled today as he had done when Della met him in the relatives’ room two days ago, his hair seemingly not brushed since.

  ‘Ah, hello there, Miss Cardle,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if these two tag along? They’re my students.’

  She said it was fine, then sat quietly as he gently lifted Sadie’s eyelids and shone a small light at her pupils before checking her pulse. Then he pulled out the chart at the end of the bed and spoke in an undertone to the students, who listened intently. Then he came over to Della’s side of the bed.

  ‘Your nan’s making good progress I’m pleased to say. The CT scan we ran yesterday showed the swelling on her brain is reducing and her vital signs are strong. I’d like to keep her sedated for another twenty-four hours or even a little longer to give the brain a bit more time to recover but if she continues on this trajectory I’d say the prognosis is good.’

  ‘So she’s not going to wake up yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but only because we don’t want her to, not because she can’t,’ said the consultant, giving Della a reassuring smile that was mirrored by his two students. ‘If I were you, I’d go back home and get some rest while you can.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  As the trio trooped out of the room, Della felt her mood lift for the first time since finding Sadie on Tuesday morning. It was a welcome change to how awful she’d felt yesterday, a day that had ended as it had begun with her sitting on her nan’s dining-room floor, crying over the empty photo album. She’d gone back to the house alone after spending the day at Sadie’s bedside because Alex had had to work late. It was gone midnight before she’d dragged herself upstairs to fall asleep on the single bed in her old bedroom.

  When she woke that morning she’d been feeling more pragmatic – Maggie was right, of course, when she said the police couldn’t investigate the missing photographs and it was silly of her to have suggested it. There was bound to be a perfectly good explanation for why the pictures had disappeared, that Sadie would tell her when she woke. As for what she’d said about Helen coming back, well, that was her emotions getting the better of her. The stark reality made much more sense: Helen had missed so many milestones in Della’s life that she was hardly going to come back to Mansell after a seventeen-year absence for the sake of a few snapshots.

  Della decided to take the consultant’s advice. She would go back to Sadie’s house to tidy up the dining room. Visiting hours resumed in the afternoon and she would come back then.

  Hundreds of loose photographs were still scattered across the carpet along with reams of documents and old newspapers that Della had pulled from the bureau when she was searching for the missing pictures. With a heavy sigh she slipped off her coat, hung it on the doorknob, then dropped to her knees and began scooping the photographs into neat piles. It was going to take her hours to put them all back in their rightful places.

  Once she’d piled the photographs together, she reached for the newspapers, most of which were old and yellowed. Della wondered why Sadie had hung on to them. The first one she picked up was a copy of the Daily Express, a newspaper she’d never known either of her grandparents to read. The story on the cover was about the official French report into the death of Diana, the Princess of Wales: Della checked the date and was shocked to see it was Saturday 4 September 1999 – exactly two weeks after Helen left Mansell. The actual date of her mum’s departure – Saturday 21 August 1999 – was as unforgettable to Della as her own birthday.

  She reached forward for the next paper, another Daily Express. That one was from 30 August 1999. The next one, the Mirror, was from 2 September 1999. The penultimate paper in the pile, a copy of the Sun, was dated the 29th of that month. Della flicked through them but nothing jumped out as a reason for why Sadie had kept hold of them.

  At the bottom of the pile was a copy of the Mansell Echo from 27 August 1999 – the Friday after Helen went. Della found the answer to why Sadie had kept that particular issue on page five. The entire page, bar an advert for a cleaning firm in the bottom right-hand corner, was devoted to coverage of the Mansell Show, a glorified fete that used to be staged every year in the town’s main park until attendance tailed off and its organizers stopped bothering.

  In the centre of the page was a photograph of Helen sitting on the grass with a group of people who looked to be the same age as her. Just behind them families milled about food stalls and a games stand where goldfish were being handed out as prizes. Behind those was a stage with a banner running above it, flapping in a breeze that had been frozen in time. The banner was too far away to make out what was printed on it.

  Della’s throat tightened as she stared at the photo. She didn’t recognize the others posing with her mother, who was wearing a knee-length black dress with spaghetti-thin straps, covered in daisy motifs. Squatting next to Helen, an arm wrapped round her shoulder, was a redhead dressed in a low-cut black vest top, cut-off denim shorts and purple platform sandals. Both women
were smiling widely and Helen wore a garland of real daisies in her hair like a crown.

  Three men flanked them. The tallest was heavy-set and had a Panama hat perched on his head at a stupid angle; the fair-haired man standing next to him was trying to tip it off. The only one of the group not smiling was the dark-haired man in jeans and a white T-shirt crouched down next to Helen. The cigarette hanging from his lips made him look even more sullen and his hand was clamped on Helen’s thigh.

  Della lifted the newspaper up so she could read the small caption beneath the photograph.

  The gang’s all here: (from left) Niall Hargreaves, 24, Helen Cardle, 22, Fleur Tatton, 21, Ross Keeble, 24, and Kelvin Cruickshank, 23.

  Were these her mum’s friends? Were they the ones Helen had preferred to go out with rather than stay at home and look after her? Della’s skin felt hot and prickly as she studied their faces. She was certain she’d never heard any of their names mentioned by her grandparents. Helen’s best friend back then had been a girl called Gillian Smith, who lived a couple of streets away and had gone to the same school – and Gillian wasn’t in the photo.

  As Della pored over the image, the enormity of what she was looking at hit her. She sat back on her haunches and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her mounting shock.

  For as long as it ran, the Mansell Show had always been staged on a Saturday afternoon, every year without fail. The Mansell Echo, meanwhile, went on sale every Friday morning. The newspaper Della was looking at was datelined Friday August 27 1999, which meant – if the Echo had published its coverage of that year’s fair in its next available edition, which she assumed it would have – the Mansell Show that year must’ve been held on Saturday 21 August.

  In other words, the exact same day Helen left Mansell for good.

  The pages of the newspaper crumpled as Della gripped them tighter. This photograph was most likely the last one taken of Helen in Mansell . . . and the four other people in the frame quite possibly the last to see her.

  35

  It was only supposed to be a flying visit to the hospital so Maggie could check that the belongings Eleanor Bramwell had requested had arrived from Trenton. There had been no follow-up questions after she sent Eleanor’s statement to Umpire yesterday afternoon and with Simon Bramwell still unconscious there was nothing to update Eleanor with from the police’s point of view either. But when Maggie arrived to sign in at HDU, the ward clerk delivered some surprising news that instantly ruled out her speedy return to the station.

  ‘The consultant wants to discharge Mrs Bramwell today,’ the ward clerk told Maggie.

  ‘Already? Is that wise?’

  ‘It was him who said it, not me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Can I speak to him?’

  ‘He’s not on the ward right now but I can page him if you want?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  It felt far too soon for Eleanor to be released. Even if her knife wounds were healing well, the trauma of her experience surely warranted a longer stay. If they needed to free up her bed, why not move her to a general ward?

  The issue, it quickly became apparent, wouldn’t be getting the consultant to change his mind but persuading Eleanor to stay put. She was already dressed, ready for the off, when Maggie found her in her room. Wearing grey jeans that looked new and an off-white wool sweater – her belongings had arrived then – she was perched on the edge of the bed trying to comb her hair. She was having difficulty lifting her right arm and as the comb snagged in her hair, she swore.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ said Maggie.

  As she untangled the comb, Maggie took in the full face of make-up Eleanor had managed to apply. Clearly she was determined to leave.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready to be discharged? It looks like you’re still in pain,’ she said, releasing the comb and handing it back.

  ‘It’s not up to you,’ Eleanor retorted. ‘I want to get out of here and the doctor says I can go.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll have to check with DCI Umpire that you can return home. It might be better for you to stay with family or friends for the time being.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Eleanor.

  Maggie had found it strange that Eleanor’s family hadn’t visited after the attack but she had insisted they be kept away, saying her parents were elderly and she didn’t want them any more upset than they already were. She’d also refused to allow any friends to visit either because they were mostly people Simon knew from before they married and she feared their loyalty would be to him.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to Trenton anyway. I want to stay here until all this is over.’

  Maggie imagined that by ‘over’ Eleanor meant when her husband was either dead or had been formally arrested.

  ‘I suppose I could ask if one of our safe houses is available,’ she said. ‘We have a few properties across the county that we use to house victims and witnesses in cases where their safety has been compromised. I can’t say for sure that you meet the criteria as your husband is unconscious and under police guard, so not posing a threat right now, but I could ask.’

  ‘No, I want to stay in a hotel.’

  Maggie frowned. There was no way the force would fund that.

  ‘I don’t think a hotel stay is something we could cover if that’s your preference,’ she said carefully, ‘and it could end up being expensive for you. Let me find out about a safe house.’

  ‘No, I want to stay in a hotel and I don’t expect the police to pay for it. I have some money put aside that I can use.’ She paused. ‘It’s what I call my running-away fund.’

  Maggie knew what a running-away fund was, but was perplexed by the unexpected admission that Eleanor had one. It was essentially money that women in abusive relationships were advised to set aside for an emergency departure, but why was Eleanor secretly making provision to leave her husband at the same time she was undergoing IVF to have a baby with him?

  ‘How long have you been saving up?’ she asked.

  Eleanor wouldn’t meet her eye.

  ‘A while . . . two years.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask what prompted you to start?’

  ‘Well, my marriage . . . things haven’t been good for a while. Not good at all. I feared the day would come when I needed to leave and I wanted to make sure I had enough money to do it.’

  If there was a history of abuse, Eleanor needed to give them chapter and verse. It would strengthen their case should Simon regain consciousness.

  ‘I take it your husband has no idea you’ve been setting money aside?’ said Maggie gently.

  ‘No. I didn’t put it in a bank account in case I was sent letters and he saw them. I’ve been hiding sums of cash.’

  ‘Where?’

  Eleanor brushed off the question.

  ‘One of the nurses told me about a hotel called the Langston. I’d like to stay there please.’

  It was the second time in two days the Langston had been mentioned to Maggie: it was also the hotel where Della Cardle worked. It had a three-star rating and wasn’t the best establishment Mansell had to offer, as Maggie pointed out.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Eleanor stubbornly. ‘That’s where I want to go. The nurse said it’s tucked away on a hillside a distance from the town centre and it should be nice and quiet. It sounds perfect.’

  ‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’

  As she watched Eleanor stand up to pack away the last of her things, Maggie chewed over her query about the Bramwells trying for a baby, wondering the best way to frame it. Of a highly personal nature, she could guess what Eleanor’s reaction would be but she felt it was a wrath worth provoking. The reservations she had about Eleanor’s account of her husband stabbing her were playing on her mind – namely, if he burst into the bedroom and began stabbing her immediately, how come she found time to switch on her bedside lamp and check the time to the minute? And why did he give up trying to get into the bathroom if he was that determined to
kill her?

  ‘Mrs Bramwell—’ she began.

  ‘Call me Eleanor, please.’

  ‘Okay, Eleanor, can I ask you something about your IVF treatment?’

  The woman eyed her warily. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m wondering why you were putting yourself through all that to have a baby, if at the same time you were saving up to leave your husband?’

  Eleanor inhaled sharply, her shock evident. Maggie readied herself for the rebuke but instead Eleanor sank back down onto the bed.

  ‘I want a baby so badly and I thought that if I got pregnant, Simon would change.’ She choked on her words. ‘I thought he wouldn’t hurt me again if I had his child.’

  ‘Is Simon violent towards you?’

  Eleanor couldn’t answer and buried her face in her hands. Maggie sat down next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but the more we know about the true state of your marriage, the easier it will be for us to build a case against your husband if he survives.’

  Eleanor’s head snapped up and her eyes bored into Maggie’s. ‘You think he’s going to live?’

  ‘To be honest, I have no idea.’

  ‘But your colleagues, the ones with him in Trenton, they must have said something.’

  ‘I spoke to them this morning and there’s been no change in his condition. But even if he does recover he won’t be allowed anywhere near you.’

  ‘It’s not that. I know Simon and I know that if he does wake up he’ll try to put the blame on me. That’s what he does. He tells people I’m clumsy and that’s why I walked into the door or fell down and broke my arm.’

  ‘He broke your arm?’

  ‘He slammed the car door on it and fractured my forearm. He said I’d tripped over and people believed him. Everyone believes Simon,’ said Eleanor as tears began to roll down her cheeks, taking her newly applied mascara with them. ‘Our friends, people at work, even my parents. He’s so charming and such a good liar. I bet you’ll end up believing him too.’

  ‘People will believe you this time. I mean, how is he going to explain away your wounds?’