by Roberta Kray
‘Actually,’ he’d said quickly, ‘we’ll be seeing you soon anyway. We can have a proper catch-up then.’
After he had put the phone down, Sadie had apologised. ‘Sorry, I just…’
‘It’s all right, I understand.’
Joel was the only person keeping her going at the moment. So long as he believed in her, what did it matter about anyone else? She had to stay positive, keep her head held high. The investigation was only beginning. Eventually the police in London would find out who the murderer really was. Wouldn’t they?
She walked to the front and stood on the promenade peering through the mist at the sea. The waves pummelled the shore, the surf grey and scummy. The cold air crept around her, slipping under the collar of her coat and sliding down her spine. She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets.
Last night, after Joel had rung his parents, she had bitten the bullet and called her mother too. The response had been pretty much what she’d expected, a concern more with what the neighbours would say than the horror of Eddie’s death or what Sadie might be going through. Jean Wilson was a narrow-minded woman who took pleasure in finding fault in others. She was most often to be found lurking behind the net curtains, watching the road and looking out for something to disapprove of.
‘I don’t see why you had to go to London in the first place. Couldn’t you have got a solicitor to sort it out?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the past five years.’
‘I still don’t see why the police want to talk to you.’
‘Because I was there, Mum. I was in his flat on the day he died.’
‘Yes, but it’s not as though you had anything to do with it.’
‘Well, they don’t know that, do they?’
‘And how’s Joel taking it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sadie asked, although she knew perfectly well what she meant. Her mother lived in a perpetual state of worry that having found a respectable man Sadie would find a way of screwing it up. She had never liked Eddie and had made her feelings clear from the beginning. Looking back, Sadie knew that this had just made him even more attractive to her.
‘It can’t be easy for him, having the police round and all.’
Sadie had sighed softly down the line. ‘It’s not easy for me either.’ And then, before they could start to bicker, she had promised to keep her up-to-date, said her goodbyes and rung off.
The sea made an angry swooshing sound as the waves tumbled in. Sadie thought about her mother. She found her exasperating but tried to be patient, knowing that her life hadn’t been a happy one. Sadie’s father had died before she was two, leaving her mum to bring up a child on her own. It hadn’t been easy for her. Bitterness had always tugged at the edges of her existence, a sense that she’d been hard done by, that she’d been dealt a bad hand of cards. Had she married again, it might have been different, but the opportunity had never come her way.
An elderly man walking his springer spaniel gave Sadie an odd glance as he went past. A few days ago, she’d have thought nothing of it, but now she found herself wondering if he recognised her, if he was thinking: That’s the girl who killed her husband. She inhaled a quick breath of air, the cold sharpness hurting her throat. No, she was getting paranoid. He was probably just musing on what the hell she was doing standing in the freezing cold staring out at the sea.
With that thought in her head, Sadie turned and headed for home. On the way back she went into a newsagent’s and bought a paper. As she turned the corner into Buckingham Road, she half expected to see a panda car parked outside the house. Finding the space occupied by nothing more than Joel’s blue van, she heaved out a sigh of relief.
She opened the front door and heard the sound of the radio playing. The song was ‘Dancing in the Street’ by David Bowie and Mick Jagger. For some reason it reminded her of Oaklands, of Velma, of Nathan Stone. It reminded her of the mistakes she had made and the lies she had told. But they had only been white lies about how she had found out where Eddie was living. They had nothing to do with his murder. She wished, though, that she’d had the courage to be more honest.
Instead of going straight upstairs she veered to the right to where the music was coming from. The ground floor had been converted so that Joel could use half the space to work in and the other half to exhibit his furniture. It was a slow process but he was gradually building up a client base. Some people still valued craftsmanship.
Sadie stood in the doorway, watching as he planed a piece of oak. He had his back to her and she studied the curve of his spine, his strong shoulders and slender artistic hands. She envied him his talent and his passion for what he did. He knew exactly who he was, what he was and where his place was in the world. While she walked vaguely through life, taking this path or that, his road was long and straight and direct. Although she enjoyed working in the bookshop, she didn’t see it as a job for ever. Perhaps one day she would find a niche of her own.
Joel was so absorbed in his work that he remained oblivious to her presence. Not wanting to distract him, she turned away and started to climb the stairs. She passed the door to his flat, wondering what they would do with it after they were married. The house was owned by his parents and at the moment she and Joel were paying rent on two separate apartments as well as the ground floor space. It would be a help, financially, if they could let out one of the flats. Maybe they should move into his and rent out the top floor so that the tenant wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise from the workroom.
Even as she mused on these plans, Sadie’s stomach did a flip. It felt dangerous to plan too far ahead as if she might be tempting providence. What if… But she quickly shut down the thought. She wouldn’t get through the day if she gave in to her fears. She wished she had a solid faith, a belief like Joel’s, but for her God seemed a capricious creature, rarely there when you needed him and decidedly picky as to who he would help and who he wouldn’t.
She unlocked the door to her flat, went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. While she was waiting for it to boil, she took off her coat and hung it over the back of the chair. The wool was damp from the mist and had a slightly salty smell. Sitting down at the table, she opened the paper and flipped through the pages. She checked all the stories but there was nothing about Eddie. His death, at least for the moment, didn’t warrant as much as a column inch.
She made a coffee and sat down again. Her fingers turned over the pages of the paper but she barely registered the words she was reading: Margaret Thatcher being urged to call a General Election, unemployment figures, the assassination of Gérard Hoarau, an exiled political leader from the Seychelles killed by a gunman on the doorstep of his London home. Another murder, and one that got more publicity than Eddie’s.
It was only when she came to a piece about Bob Geldof and Live Aid that her head shifted back into gear. The concert had taken place that summer and she had watched it on TV with Joel. A roll call of the most memorable artists slid through her head: Queen, The Boomtown Rats, U2, The Who and Elvis Costello. She could remember searching the faces at Wembley Stadium, looking for the familiar features of her runaway husband, convinced that Eddie must be in the crowd somewhere. She had forgotten to ask when they’d met on Sunday. And now the time for asking was over.
Half an hour later Joel came upstairs. ‘Hey, I didn’t realise you were back. How did it go?’
‘Not bad, thanks,’ she said. ‘It didn’t take long.’ He had offered to go with her to the police station but she had turned him down. There were some things, she thought, that you had to face on your own.
‘This came for you,’ he said, brandishing a small package. ‘The postman just dropped it off.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Sadie took the Jiffy bag from him and examined the front. She didn’t recognise the handwriting on the label, a round, almost childlike scrawl. Who was it from? What was it? She wasn’t expecting anything. Turning the packet over, she saw that there was no return address. She
ripped open the flap and pulled out the contents.
Inside was a slim paperback and as she caught sight of the title the blood drained from her face and her hands began to shake. Strangers on a Train. As if the book was red hot, she quickly dropped it on the table.
‘What is it?’ Joel asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
But all Sadie could think about was Mona Farrell and a mad conversation on a train. You could kill my father and I could kill Eddie. And now… this was a message, wasn’t it? The crazy girl had sent the book because she’d actually gone through with it. Suddenly, she felt nauseous.
‘Sadie?’
She looked up at him, her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her chest. Sweat prickled her forehead. Now was the time to come clean, to tell him everything. But as she gazed into his trusting brown eyes, she still couldn’t bring herself to do it. What was stopping her? She knew what it was: a fear that he might not believe her side of the story. The tale was so incredible, so bizarre. What if a tiny seed of doubt started growing in his mind? What if he thought that she’d agreed to the arrangement?
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, snatching up the paperback again and flicking through the pages to see if there was a note inside. There wasn’t. But Mona must have sent it. Who else could it have been? Glancing up again, she saw the puzzled, concerned expression on Joel’s face. ‘I was… I was just thinking about Eddie.’ The lie was out of her mouth before she could stop it. ‘He bought me a copy of this book once. It gave me a shock, you know, seeing it again.’
Joel placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’ll get easier. It’s hard now but…’
‘I know,’ she said, forcing a smile and trying to affect a calmness she didn’t feel. She put the book down and pushed it away. ‘I leant it to a friend ages ago. I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.’
Joel leaned over and picked it up. ‘It looks brand new,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s even been read.’
‘Maybe she lost it and bought me a new one.’
‘That was nice of her.’
Sadie gave a vague nod while her thoughts continued to race. How could it be Mona? The girl didn’t even know where she lived. Except… God, yes, she might have mentioned Haverlea when they were talking. And then there was the private investigator’s report with Eddie’s photo clipped to it. Her address had been written at the top. Had Mona memorised it? It was possible; she had spent a long time staring at the picture.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Joel asked, putting the book down and walking across the kitchen to turn on the kettle.
‘No thanks. I’ve just had one.’ Suddenly, Sadie felt like the walls were closing in on her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. She had to get out. Quickly, she rose to her feet and put on her coat. ‘I promised Mum I’d pop in and see her. I’ll catch you later, yeah?’
‘Okay. Say hello from me.’
‘I will.’
It took every inch of her will power to walk calmly out of the room but once she was free of the flat she sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time before launching herself through the front door and out into the street. She gulped in the cold air as she half walked, half jogged to the corner. Where was she going? She had no idea. She just needed to be alone, to try and figure things out.
Sadie’s breath flew from her mouth in small misty clouds. Maybe she was getting it all wrong. It was possible that Mona had read about Eddie’s death in one of the London papers and sent the book as a joke. But what kind of joke was that? You’d have to be sick in the head to do something so bizarre. But then Mona wasn’t exactly normal. She’d gathered that much even from the short amount of time they’d spent together.
Sadie’s legs felt unsteady as if her knees might give way, but she pushed on, tramping through the thin layer of snow. ‘She couldn’t,’ she muttered, ‘she wouldn’t.’ And Mona hadn’t even known where to find Eddie. But then she recalled looking out of the window at Oaklands and seeing the dark-haired girl going into the station, only the back of her head but familiar enough to give her a jolt. Not to mention that sensation she’d had in Kellston market, the feeling that someone’s eyes were on her. Was it possible that Mona had followed her there?
Sadie could feel a sense of panic rising in her chest. If it was true, if Mona really had done it, then she had to go to the police. No matter how crazy it sounded, she had to tell them. With her stomach churning she set off for the station, determined not to bottle it this time. She would ask for Inspector Frayne and tell him everything.
With her clenched hands deep in her pockets, Sadie walked with her shoulders hunched and her head down. She could imagine Frayne’s face when she told him what had happened – incredulity and disbelief. And the inevitable question: Why hadn’t she mentioned it before? She tried to figure out what she’d say: that she hadn’t thought anything of it, that she’d thought Mona was just sounding off. But then she’d received the book through the post and… and what? That she now thought Mona Farrell must be the killer?
The longer Sadie walked, the less convinced she became that Mona could have done it. The girl was half the weight of Eddie and why would he even let her into the flat? And to kill someone in cold blood like that, to take a knife and plunge it into a stranger’s chest – it beggared belief. And what if she was wrong? The police would turn up in Hampstead and there would be all sorts of trouble.
When she reached Queen Elizabeth Road, Sadie slowed her pace. It would be the second time today she’d been to the police station. She stared at the low, grey brick building, wondering if Frayne was inside. Already she could feel his eyes boring into her. As she grew closer, her nerve began to fail and she wondered if she was doing the right thing. What if it turned out that someone else had killed Eddie? Maybe it had been Kelly or a dubious business associate. It could even have been a robbery that went wrong. If she hung on for a day or two, she might know more.
What to do? She couldn’t decide. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up being accused of wasting police time. Mona’s words, It’s a done deal, came back to haunt her, but she pushed them away, not wanting to hear. ‘I’ll wait,’ she muttered. ‘Shall I wait?’ She wasn’t sure if her indecision was based on rational thought or pure cowardice, although she suspected the latter.
Sadie stopped as she drew level with the police station. She gazed across the road at the building, its edges made blurry by the mist. She stamped her feet on the ground, trying to keep warm. Yes or no? Once she walked through those doors and asked for Inspector Frayne there would be no turning back. She would start a ball rolling over which she’d have no control.
Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to wait a while. Only fools rush in. The arrival of the book had thrown her into panic. She hadn’t thought things through properly. She should give it forty-eight hours and see if there were any developments. Maybe by then Eddie’s killer would have been caught. Or maybe not.
Sadie worried on her lower lip. Whatever decision she made she could come to regret it. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She knew what Joel would say: Tell the truth, be honest, get it all out in the open. But she wasn’t Joel. She never saw things in the same black and white way that he did. Her life was filled with tones of grey.
The door to the police station opened and a couple of uniformed officers strolled out. Their appearance gave her a start as if they might be about to arrest her. She turned and quickly walked away. ‘You’re innocent,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear.’
But she was afraid. The fear seeped through her, infecting her bones, her nerves, her reason. She was terrified of speaking the words out loud – Mona Farrell might have killed Eddie – in case they turned out to be true.
17
Gerald Frayne sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the papers in front of him. He had woken full of cold with a runny nose, aching sinuses and a throbbing head. There was even a dull ache running the length of his spine. He’d been tempted to stay
in bed, to call in sick, but he was curious about the Eddie Wise case and wanted to know if there were any developments.
A number of faxed sheets had come through from Ian McCloud at Cowan Road, including the autopsy report on the victim. No big surprises there. Killed instantly by a single stab wound to the heart. Rigor mortis had already set in by the time the body was found and the estimated time of death was between ten and twelve on Sunday morning.
