by Emmy Ellis
“Have you digested that ear yet, my precious dumpling?”
She chuckled at his low woof and entered her office. Wiggled the mouse to bring her screen to life. Three emails had come in to her Foxymail account, the one for The Life. Excited people had actually responded, and with the old burn of journalism paving a path through her, she opened the first one, dejected. It detailed the sale of potted ferns at Gardener’s Paradise, a ten percent discount for anyone living on the Barrington. She replied, lying, saying she’d give the advert due consideration and, of course, Cassie had the final say. What she didn’t say was this wasn’t the type of article they wanted and they could shove the ferns up their hairy backside.
The second was right up Michelle’s alley. A proposed piece about life on the streets of the Barrington and how Lenny had helped the writer to start again by offering him one of the high-rise flats and a job at the factory. The man had met a woman, and now he was married with two kids.
That would prompt people to dig in their pockets and keep contributing to the homeless fund, plus there was a feel-good factor about it, helping to do good in the community. She responded by asking him to write his story and she’d edit it before sending it on to Sharon for the final proof. Cassie wouldn’t need to okay it, Michelle was sure she’d be delighted.
The next one was entitled THE SECRETS WE KEEP, and Michelle frowned, wondering what the hell that meant. Had someone written a bloody novel or something? It was the type of thriller Michelle would read, but honestly, some people just didn’t understand what articles were needed for a mini newspaper.
She squinted at the screen. The sender was A. N. ONYMOUS, which she felt was rather unoriginal and, quite frankly, immature. It’d be a kid messing about, she’d be bound. She’d dealt with many emails like this at The Times. People had found it funny to waste precious minutes of her day, and it never failed to boil her piddle.
She clicked it open to read, arms crossed, lips pursed, already forming a reply that went along the lines of: If you find it amusing to mess me around, then I suggest…
Dear Michelle,
We all have secrets, don’t we, ones we wouldn’t want anyone to know about. I suspect the one you have, where your ex-boss was bundled into your car outside The Donny, will be the type you’d like to remain hidden from everyone.
Did you buy the rope special?
I followed you.
I’ve been in your back garden.
You know what that means, don’t you? I’ve seen him through the little cellar window, the one hidden by the rose bush. Chained up. Bleeding on one side of his head. Damage to his ear? How silly of you to leave the light on in there.
I could tell the police. Or Cassie would be a better bet. I wonder how she’d feel about employing someone who’s taken matters into her own hands. You’re meant to go to her if you have a beef, then she sorts it out.
But not you. Oh no, you decided to do it yourself.
I don’t know how you did it, but people think he’s moved to Blackpool with the Prentiss woman. Very clever. You’ve taken a leaf out of the Grafton book, planting the seeds that he no longer lives on New Barrington, when in reality, he’s at your house. But the thing is, you’re not as clever as the boss, nor have you got the brass neck to go through with killing him.
I know you.
I’m watching you.
In order for me to keep my mouth shut, I want two thousand pounds. That’s not a lot in the grand scheme of things, considering the amount of your payout.
Meet me round the back of the laundrette, the one by The Donny.
Tonight. 7 p.m.
If you don’t do as I say, there will be consequences.
Unkind regards,
A. N. Onymous
Michelle shivered, her whole body going cold. Her legs felt as though they didn’t have bones, her muscles a jelly-like substance that wouldn’t hold her up if she stood. Who the fuck was this chancer? She was sure no one had been about on the night she’d forced him into her car; she’d checked with her own beady eyes. She’d told him in the pub she needed a word outside, and he’d come—granted, reluctantly—and it wasn’t until he’d kicked up a fuss about going for a drive to discuss what she knew about him that she’d had to get nasty.
Could it be someone from the row of houses opposite? Or, seeing as the laundrette had been mentioned, was it Helen Davis who ran it? Or what about Nicola Faraday from The Shoppe Pudding? She usually worked late crafting flowers made of icing for her cakes. Had she seen? Had she followed?
Whoever it was would have driven a car, so that was Helen out of the picture. The woman didn’t own one, and if she did, she’d no doubt be pulled over for drunk-driving, lush that she was. Or could it be Li Jun from the Jade?
“No, don’t be daft, he isn’t that sort of person,” she muttered.
Besides, he earnt a packet from Cassie for selling drugs with the takeaways, and two grand was a small amount to the likes of him. No, it’d be someone skint.
I know you.
That was the scariest line of all. Not the fact they knew what she’d done, that they’d seen him in the cellar. That she was a kidnapper who let her dog chomp on his lugholes. The idea of someone she knew, writing an email like that, well, it had her imagining all sorts. Did she see whoever it was regularly? Were they a friend prepared to frighten her like this? Or did they just know of her?
That was more likely.
So, tonight, behind the laundrette. The meeting didn’t appeal, not to mention the trip she’d have to make into town to withdraw the money. Sometimes, banks got funny if you wanted large amounts, didn’t they. What if they said she’d have to come back tomorrow? Would the blackmailer believe her when she turned up empty-handed?
“This is the last thing I need.”
She stood, testing out her legs, and managed to walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water. What if she dumped her ex-boss before she went to the laundrette? She could accuse the emailer of lying then, and if Michelle cleaned up down there, no trace of visible blood would be found by the police or Cassie. There’d be no crime in evidence, and she wouldn’t have to pay out the money.
Annoyed her fun had been interrupted, she drank the water then put on her shoes and coat. Said to Fangs, “I’m nipping to the bank. Guard the house.”
Out in the cold, she got into her car, threw the carrier bag of clothes into the back, and drove off, uncomfortable scenarios floating through her mind: the emailer could have taken pictures of him chained up; they could have videoed her shoving him into her car and tying his wrists with rope—and they’d mentioned that bloody rope. Who would know how much her ex-boss had paid her? She didn’t recall telling anyone.
Shit, was it the bitch who’d nabbed her job?
She gunned it into town, parked, and rushed into the bank. Thankfully, the woman behind the screen didn’t give any excuses and handed the cash over, a forced smile in place as if she had to grin as part of her job.
Michelle stuffed the cash away and nipped into WHSmith to buy a manilla envelope—that was what they used on the telly on those programmes, except this time it didn’t seem she’d be putting it in a bin for whoever to collect later. If she had to meet them, it meant she’d pass it straight into their grubby little hands.
“Fucking wanker,” she said while presenting her card to the chip-and-pin machine.
“Excuse me?” The eyes of the man serving her magnified behind the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses.
“Not you.” She snatched the envelope and left Smiths in a hurry, her face burning from embarrassment. She’d have to watch herself if her thoughts had decided to pop out of her mouth uninvited.
She whizzed towards the River Idle, parking close to a field. She ran across it to the riverbank and tipped the trousers and pants out. They landed on the surface, sinking as the current took them away, the yellow of the underwear glaring out at her. They’d reach the Trent at Stockwith, then go God knew where. She hadn’t research
ed farther than that on the internet. So long as they were anywhere but Moorbury, she didn’t give much of a toss.
Back home, money tucked into the envelope, the envelope wedged into her backpack, she paced the living room, working out what she should do. The nights still drew in early, so she’d have darkness as her best friend if she opted to get him out of the house. But there’d be limited time between dumping him and going to the laundrette. Plus she’d have to kill him—she couldn’t risk him opening his mouth to all and sundry.
“Fucking hell, Fangs.” She stroked his head as he kept up with her manic strides. “What should Mammy do?”
For once, her faithful hound didn’t answer with his usual gruff woof.
Chapter Nine
Two days after the murder, Francis sat beside Mam on the sofa. A police officer stood in front of the window, his back to it, a pen and notebook in hand. He’d said someone had given him her name and they’d seen her going into the woods. She’d expected it; how could she not? The school was full of tattletales, especially the girls who liked nowt more than to stir the shit. Someone out there was bound to want to get her into trouble. Probably one of the bitches who looked at her as if she were beneath them. Francis didn’t fit into any of their moulds; therefore, she was an outcast, someone to be stared at with disdain and spoken about behind curved hands.
“So you walk home through the woods three times a week, is that right?” the officer said, his cheeks ruddy, his face so thin it was a wonder he ever ate.
Nan, in her usual blunt way, would call him a reed or that he had ‘legs like drainpipes’.
So someone had noticed enough to know she went there three times. Who was keeping an eye on her? Why bother? Francis didn’t give them any trouble. Maybe she just had a face that didn’t fit. One day, she’d have a face people were afraid of, and every time her name was mentioned, it’d inspire fear.
Francis nodded, going for the bored look. If she acted scared or even a little bit worried, he’d latch on to that. “Yes. Makes a change from going home through the estate all the time.”
His uniform seemed to fill the room, the only thing she could see, its prominence screaming at her that if she said one wrong word, it would be game over. The shiny silver buttons shone bright beneath the overhead light. He’d placed his hat on the windowsill beside Mam’s ornamental shire horse with its cart attached, the hoofs hidden by porcelain white socks.
“And you walked through on the day Mr Smart was murdered,” he stated. “Tuesday.”
“Yes.” To keep her mind from bringing up something to fret over, she wondered what he’d be having for his tea. Lettuce? He was young enough to still live at home with his mother, but at a pinch he could have a wife and baby, or perhaps he lived alone and that was why he was so thin; he was crap at cooking.
Mam nudged Francis in the side. “Are you listening? He asked you a question. Was your friend with you?”
“No.” Thank God Francis had arrived home early enough so Mam hadn’t asked at the time. She’d put her clothes in the wash before Mam got back then said she’d got soaked. And yes, Mam had a wobbly about the shoes being in the machine.
“Which friend is that?” Drainpipe asked. PC Dart, that was it.
Francis stared at his glossy boots. One end of a lace had the plastic tip missing, and the fabric had frayed. “It’s just a lad.”
Mam sucked in a breath.
“What’s his name?” Dart dipped his head, pen poised over the page, his eyes up, expectant gaze on Francis.
She grasped the first person who came to mind. “Mark.”
“Mark what?”
“I don’t know.” She did. “But he wasn’t in there anyroad, so what does it matter?” A Mark had been close to the woods, she’d seen him as she’d turned onto the track, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t followed her. She’d checked when she’d given Lionel the signal to come out of the clearing.
“Who is this Mark?” Mam held Francis’ hand. Did she think that would make Francis answer? “Is he the one you always walk with? Why didn’t you say it was a boy?”
Francis shrugged. “Didn’t think it mattered. He just walks home with me, that’s all.”
Dart cleared his throat. “What time did you go through the woods?”
“Straight after school, so about quarter past three. Didn’t the nosy parker tell you that?”
“Francis!” Mam sighed. “No need to be rude now, is there.”
“Hmm.” Dart flipped a page of his notebook. “What time did you get to the other end?”
“Don’t know. I stood for ages in the rain, then went home.”
“Why did you do that?” Dart shifted from foot to foot, the frayed lace lounging on the carpet.
“Felt like it.”
“Where exactly did you stand in the rain?”
Francis explained. She reckoned he’d consulted his notes about the time of death. It was too early to pin it on her straight after school, and if she was at the other end afterwards, she was nowhere near the crime scene, so as far as he was concerned, she was well away from the oak when the murder had taken place. Did he know what time the rain had started? Would that be what tripped her up? “It wasn’t raining at first, though. I sat on the grass and watched the sky for a bit, the thunderclouds coming in, then it rained.”
“Right, that ties in with what I have here with regards to the storm. So no one came past you at all? No one with a dog? Another child from school?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Did you hear owt?”
“No. Maybe Mr Smart and whoever else came in from the school end, after me.”
“That’s highly likely as his ice cream van was parked down the way. We’re aware Mr Smart was a friend of your father’s—we’ve spoken to your dad at work today. Did you have owt to do with him? Mr Smart?”
“He babysat me.”
Mam gasped.
Francis added quickly, “Once, but I was only little and don’t really remember him. He didn’t come round again, and we didn’t get our ice creams off him either. That other man does our road, the one with the grey hair.” Why had she waffled? God.
“Well, thank you for your time, and for telling me about Mark—that was a great help. I’ll be off now.”
Mam saw him out, chatting to him at the front door, and Francis flopped back against the sofa. Had she done enough to cover her tracks? She had an uneasy feeling in her belly, a pile of worms wriggling, and a mean voice in her head said she’d get caught, they’d find out it was her eventually.
Mam came back and retook her seat. “He’s just said it was a paring knife.”
“One of those got nicked from school a while ago.”
“Oh my goodness.” Mam’s eyes narrowed, as though her mind had nipped back into the past, to the day she’d caught Lionel in her home.
Was she asking herself if a girl had killed him? As revenge for what he’d done to her? Well, Mam would be right, but Francis wasn’t about to admit to it. She’d disassociate herself now, act as though she hadn’t done a thing, convince herself of it so it became true.
Who had grassed and said she’d gone into the woods? She’d probably never know, and if she found out, what could she do anyroad? Nowt. It would only draw attention to her.
“I wonder if it’ll turn out that’s the same knife,” Mam said.
“Loads of people have one, don’t they? We do.” Theirs was what had given Francis the idea of using one. Small enough to fit in a pocket, the blade long enough to do some damage.
“I suppose.” Mam sighed and stood. “I’d better get the dinner on.”
She left Francis to mull things over. What if they found out which Mark she’d plucked out of the air and questioned him about walking home with her all those times she’d lied to Mam about it? Would Dart come back and say Mark didn’t know what she was talking about? She’d have to say it was another boy with the same name, someone who didn’t go to her school.
Shi
t.
The aftermath was nowt like she’d imagined. It was more exciting, if riddled with anxiety at times, but she thrived on it, the fear. It gave her the sense of being truly alive. Everyone at school was talking about it, what she’d done, their voices a babble of speculation:
“It must be the same knife, surely.”
“Who would have nicked it, though?”
“Did they steal it for someone else to use?”
“Who will we get our ice creams from now?”
“I don’t care—he was a creep. They’ll send someone else out, a man who doesn’t touch you through the window.”
“Imagine this—someone killing at the same time Francis walked through. She didn’t have a clue. How scary is that?”
“They could have murdered her if they’d seen her.”
“What if they did spot her and they’re waiting to bump her off next?”
“Oh God, don’t.”
Francis had wanted to tell them not to worry, she was hardly going to waylay herself and stick a knife in her own neck, but of course, she’d kept her lips sealed.
The smell of chips frying wafted into the room, and Francis’ tummy rumbled. She’d had more of an appetite since…since then, and Mam had noticed. Francis would have to watch for other changes like that. She didn’t need Mam keeping notes.
Francis switched on the telly and waited for the local news to come on. Drainpipe Dart turning up meant dinner was running late. It was always on the table for when Dad got home, six o’clock.
The news music came on. Dad arrived and shouted he was going up for a shower, “to get this God-awful muck off me” (he worked as a builder), and Francis concentrated on the TV. A woman sat behind the desk, blonde hair all nice, and Francis wished she had the same colour, or maybe brunette. Owt but this ginger. Maybe Mam would let her buy a home dye so she could get rid of it.
“There has been no further development on the murder of Mr Smart in Barrington woods in Moorbury,” Blondie said. “He was stabbed once in the neck. Police are urging those in the vicinity to come forward if they saw Mr Smart or anyone else entering the woods at around three-fifteen on Tuesday, then leaving later on.”
