by Emmy Ellis
Mystic continued. “How’s this for starters. She was going to take the estate off you, erase the years she’d brought you up as if they hadn’t happened, and go back to the point just before she got pregnant, where she was at her happiest. She wanted the Barrington for herself once Lenny died, and by manipulating you, she would have got it. I stopped that, for the good of everyone. You might be a hard-nosed bitch on the outside, Cassie Grafton, but you’re not evil. Not like her. Deep down, you want to do good on the patch, but her? She’d have destroyed it and many people living here.”
“How do I know you’re not just making this up?”
“You don’t.” Mystic opened her eyes and stared at Jimmy. “You’re a good man, Mr Lews. You’ll see Cassie right, even when tragedy strikes.”
Cassie’s stomach rolled over. Tragedy? How much more can I take? “What do you mean by that?”
Mystic hummed again. “Instead of knowing the answer to that, for now you’re better off finding this ‘B’ person—and whatever Shirl tells you, it isn’t the man she’ll mention.”
“Who is it then?”
“I don’t know.”
Cassie tutted. “As usual, that’s convenient.”
Mystic barked, “Be quiet. Let me listen to the chatter in the Unknown. Too many are talking all at once.”
Cassie sighed, irritated at having to sit and wait.
Mystic nodded as if acknowledging someone. “I get the sense he’s nowt to do with the man wearing the lion’s head ring. That issue will crop up later, and it’s nowt to do with Micky Jennings. Forget owt regarding Micky and Lee Scrubs. Lion’s Head has other irons in the fire, but they’re in their infancy. He won’t cause you hassle as such, but it’ll be because of him you discover it.”
“Right…”
Mystic jolted, glaring through Jimmy. “I see him, the one you’re after. A lad. He works hard. Smells of shit more often than not.”
Frustrated, Cassie snarled, “How the hell is that meant to help me?” She was so infuriated and wished she wasn’t.
“It goes way back, his anger. The lad wanted retribution for something that devastated his parents. Something Francis did without Lenny knowing. The lad’s only just found out it was her, and for years, she’d been waiting, praying his mam and dad didn’t twig then say something. But they did twig, so the lad, already bound up by grief, shot your mother.”
“Grief?”
“Yes. He’s mourning.”
“Mourning who?”
Mystic smiled slyly, still staring, probably seeing images in her head. “He’s not the full ticket. Grief and finding out the truth meant he couldn’t think straight. That’s debateable. He thought quite correctly and did the right thing in my opinion.”
“Jesus Christ, just spit it out, will you?”
“Not until you know what she did. Francis.”
More humming, and it stretched Cassie’s nerves so tight she had to hold the chair arms to stop herself from launching across and gripping Mystic by her wrinkled throat. From the corner of her eye, Cassie caught Jimmy taking a step towards her, so she looked at him, centred herself by locking gazes: I’m okay, Jim, I swear.
He took a step back.
Mystic leant her head on the chair. “Those whispers I told you about. The reason I cast the spell.”
“Go on.” Cassie still maintained eye contact with Jimmy.
“She killed a baby.”
Cassie’s attention swung straight to Mystic, goosebumps sprouting up all over. What? A baby? “I beg your fucking pardon?”
“You heard me well enough, Miss Grafton. She killed the lad’s sister.”
Oh my God, Mam was insane. “Who is it? And where did he get the bloody gun from? No one should have one except for me and my people.”
Mystic shook herself out of her trance and levelled her watery gaze on Cassie. “You’d have to ask him the details of that, wouldn’t you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ben.”
“Ben who?”
“Lou Wilson’s nephew.”
Cassie’s world seemed to explode, her moorings coming untethered. She shot out of the chair and headed for the door, but Jimmy stopped her exit.
“Calm down first.” He grabbed the tops of her arms. “Wait. Think. Then act.”
He sounded so much like Glen Maddock it took her aback. She stumbled to the chair and plonked down on it. Let her eyes glaze as she sought to make sense of everything. She recalled Ben watching them from the pig barn on Handel Farm on the day they’d torched the copper in his shed at the allotment. Mam had been with Cassie and Lou. They’d been in disguise. Had Ben known what Mam had done to his sister then? Was that why he’d stared? And what was it Mam had said: “Will he be a problem?”
What had she really meant? A problem regarding them all being seen together after the murder? Or a problem to her, because she’d killed his fucking baby sister?
How strange Cassie felt. A piece of the past she’d filed away as insignificant had come back to haunt her with a whole new meaning. Even then Mam had been lying, checking if Ben would be an issue. Lou had replied with something like: ‘God love him and everything, but he’s a bit dim, easily persuaded to believe whatever I tell him. My brother’s the same, his dad. Not the sharpest scissors at the salon.’
Whether Lou’s brother was a blunt pair of blades or not, Mam had created a rip in his life that had extended to Ben’s. Now, Ben had avenged his sister’s death—and quite rightly, too—but what should Cassie do about it? And why had Lou never mentioned the death of a niece? Had she known it was Mam and was too afraid to tell anyone?
“Lou didn’t know who did it,” Mystic said. “Her brother’s wife had been piecing it all together from the day their baby died, came to the right conclusion recently, then discussed it with her husband. Ben overheard.”
“So what was the mother going to do about it?”
Mystic shook her head. “Nowt. She was too scared of Francis, what you might do.”
“What about her husband?”
“He’s of the same mind. Their daughter might be gone, but they didn’t want the same to happen to Ben. It wasn’t beyond Francis to threaten their son’s life if they told anyone what she’d done, and they knew that. Much as they wanted justice, they weren’t prepared to lose another child.”
“Fucking hell… A baby. What was the matter with her?”
Mystic shook her head sadly. “I don’t know, but she had a terrible mean streak, and the baby was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The parents have forever chastised themselves for leaving her alone, for thinking no one would take her, but Francis got to her, and what a terrible burden to have to carry. Wait…” Mystic shuddered then let out an ear-piercing wail. “No. No! That is wicked.”
“What’s going on?” Cassie asked.
Mystic struggled for breath. “She…she was practising on the little girl to see…to see if she had the guts to do the same to you.”
“What?” Cassie couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Everything had gone blank, and she existed in a void, blind, deaf, and without feeling until emotions walloped her and brought her back to life. She gasped, a hand to her chest.
Mam wanted me dead? What? Why? Because I stopped her being with Dad on the estate, something as small as that? Oh my God…
“I said she didn’t want you, didn’t I,” Mystic said. “Now you know exactly how much.”
Jimmy came over and crouched. Held Cassie’s hand. “Breathe.”
She took in a long suck of air then blew it out again. Tears stung her eyes, and she willed them not to fall in front of Mystic. “She loved me, Jim. Didn’t she?”
“In her own way, as much as she was capable of in the end,” Mystic answered for him. “But not enough.” She coughed, all but hacking up a lung. “One other knew about the baby, what she did.”
Cassie’s emotions had to wait. Processing this shocking news had to wait. She had to concentrate on that poor family, not
herself. “Who?”
Jimmy returned to his place by the door, watching Cassie intently.
Mystic sniffed. “That I don’t know—and that’s the truth. But I can ask for clues.” She tugged at her ponytail then twirled the end around her gnarled finger. “It’s a man. He’s older than Francis. He worked out that it was her years ago, just after she’d done it, and spoke to her about it, said he had the means to tell everyone, but she warned him not to, using his wife to make her point.”
“What do you mean?” Cassie waited for the answer she already knew.
Mystic sighed. “She killed her, too, and ensured his silence.”
Chapter Twelve
Dawn Cottrill smiled to herself. She’d be two grand up in a few hours, and she needed that money to pay off that mad bint who’d come knocking about the car. God, some people were just so annoying—and they didn’t listen. Dawn had sold the Mini to her, expressly mentioning the dodgy clutch, that it’d need changing, and now the woman was saying Dawn had told her no such thing and she wanted her money back because that very clutch had given up the ghost.
Well, Dawn didn’t have the cash, she’d kitted her lounge out with the latest bling, nice crushed-velvet curtains to match the new little corner sofa and a lovely chandelier hanging dead centre. It was right posh now, especially with all the accessories she’d picked up in The Range.
She loved that shop. That and B&Q were her second homes.
The only way she could think of to get the money quickly was to scam Michelle. While it was a somewhat dangerous thing to do—the email could be traced if Michelle wanted to go down that road—Dawn was still going to go through with it. She’d sent the email from the internet café in town. All right, she’d worried at the thought someone would know, and a woman had stared her way as if she could read minds and knew exactly what Dawn was up to, but still she’d written that email and pressed ‘send’.
It was as though fate had put Dawn in the right place at the right time, giving her an out with the money, a way to solve her problem. She’d come out of the Jade the other night and got in her company car ready to take her Chinese home when she’d spotted Michelle arguing with that fella who ran the newspaper, old What’s His Name. Next thing she’d known, Michelle was shoving him into the back seat, punching him in the face—Oh my God, his nose is bleeding!—and tying his wrists with rope. Dawn had fair crapped herself, wondering what to do, her heart beating erratically, one question on her mind: should she get hold of that Cassie Grafton tart or phone the police?
That was a dilemma and a half. Those on the Barrington were told to contact a Grafton if owt went tits up, especially if a resident was doing something to another. Dawn had pondered it for a few seconds then made a decision. She didn’t phone Cassie or the pigs. Instead, she’d followed Michelle home and parked opposite, watching the woman urge the old fella up the path then push him into the house. He’d stumbled and fell into the hallway, and Michelle had kicked him up the arse.
Once the door had closed, a dog barking like mad (a big bugger going by the sound of it), Dawn had got out of her warm car and crossed the road, looking this way and that for anyone who might be watching. What she’d planned to do if she was spotted she didn’t know. Curiosity had spurred her on. She’d crept down the side path, past two wheelie bins, to a gate that had creaked upon opening. In the back garden, light had shone through a rose bush in a border against the house, so she’d got on her hands and knees, the grass cold on her leggings, and peered inside through a ground-level window, the rectangular kind.
Blimey, Michelle was chaining the bloke to the wall, her mouth working where she was shouting, although Dawn couldn’t pick up any words. He cried, blood still streaming from his busted nose. Then Michelle had stuffed something in his mouth and thumped him in the stomach, stepping away to throw her head back.
The mad cow had laughed.
Dawn had got up, shaking, wondering what the chuff to do. She’d belted it to her car in a panic and drove home, worrying what Michelle might do to the bloke. Why did she have the old man at her place? What had he done to warrant those punches?
While Dawn had eaten her chicken curry and fried rice, spring rolls and some sesame toast on the side, she’d had the idea regarding the money, which had obliterated any idea of telling the police what she’d seen.
A memory had surfaced with the last bite of spring roll. A few weeks ago, Michelle had spoken to Geoff Davis, the landlord of The Donny, about a redundancy payout she’d got from the paper—something to do with being put out to pasture because a younger journalist had barged in on the scene and turned the editor’s head.
“All tits and no brains,” Michelle had said.
She’d been pissed as a fart and probably wouldn’t remember telling him how much it was, but the hefty sum had sailed into Dawn’s ears well enough, and she’d filled the rest of the evening spending it for her in her head, wishing she had that much. God, she could just do with a week or two in Bali, all that sand and sun, and maybe a dishy bloke to keep her occupied. A holiday romance would suit her nicely, as would a tan.
Two grand out of all that dosh wouldn’t make much of a dent, and Dawn was at the point of desperation with the car bint. She’d fobbed her off, saying she’d have the money in a week or so, not knowing where she’d get it from. Maybe a loan from the bank, or one of those payday efforts. Then Michelle had kidnapped that man, and everything had fallen into place. Dawn had never been a big believer in luck playing a part, but she bloody was now.
If the two grand was delivered and nowt went wrong, Dawn planned to wait a fortnight then ask for more. Five grand. She could revamp her kitchen, get some new cupboard fronts in B&Q, maybe even glam up her bedroom an’ all. She’d seen a lush quilt cover in The Range last weekend and some fluffy cushions to match. The thought of them would keep her going.
She had her outfit ready, picked out after she’d washed the plate and cutlery from her Chinese—all-black clothing, a balaclava left behind by some bloke she’d had a fling with (he’d liked to wear it in bed, the weirdo), and some gloves (she was paranoid about getting her prints on the bag or whatever Michelle put the cash in). Dawn had watched enough telly to know she could get right in the shit if evidence was found after she’d dumped it, but then again, who’d be looking anyroad?
Then she’d fretted about Michelle telling the police she was being blackmailed, despite her having that man in her cellar. The mind liked to play tricks, didn’t it. So Dawn had gone back round to her house the next night to check if the bloke was still there. God, the side of his face had a nasty gash on it, and it looked like his ear was missing. Had Michelle cut it off? The idea of that had her retching beneath the rose bush, and then she’d fretted yet again in case she was sick and the police knew who she was by extracting DNA from it, although that was silly, as hers wasn’t in the database.
She needed to stop watching crime programmes, they messed with her head.
Dawn had managed to get a picture of him, although it was a bit grainy and poor quality, what with the window being dusty on the inside, but it would do if Michelle got rid of him then told the police about the email Dawn planned to send. Dawn would have proof she wasn’t lying, she could send the photo to her with a creepy one-liner, and the ex-journalist would have to cough up regarding the cash whether she’d told the coppers or not. Retract her statement, tell them it was a prank.
It wouldn’t come to that, though. Michelle would be scared out of her mind knowing someone else knew what she was doing. Dawn would be in her situation. She’d be so worried about going to prison.
Why had Michelle kidnapped him, though? What had he done that had earnt him losing an ear? Dawn intended to find out later when they met behind the laundrette. She’d disguise her voice, then get an explanation for the poor man being chained up like that.
She went upstairs and checked her blackmail outfit again, all laid out on the bed. She’d even pulled out her old boots, the ones she’d worn
to work at the fish factory before she’d got her new job in an office, which paid a damn sight more. It would be well odd putting a balaclava on, but at the same time exciting. She’d feel all sorts of gangster.
Dawn smiled. It would be okay. She had a great get-rich-quick scheme on the go, and if she played her cards right, by the time she’d finished, her whole house would be a palace.
Chapter Thirteen
The Moorbury Times
MAN IN CUSTODY
An eighteen-year-old man has been arrested for the murder of Lionel Smart, 55, in the Barrington estate woods. Mark Benson, of Highfield Avenue, attended Barrington Secondary School. A police source has said, “Evidence has come to light. Fingerprints on the weapon. Said weapon had previously been stolen from the school.”
Mr Smart, a local ice cream man, was found by the great oak. He had been stabbed in the neck. Mr Benson, a sixth-form student, denies any involvement. He has been remanded and awaits trial as he has put forth a plea of not guilty.
If anyone has information regarding the murder, please contact Moorbury police.
Francis smiled. This had worked out better than she’d hoped. Mark must have touched that knife at some point—thank God she’d had the sense to steal it with gloves on. Now he’d got the blame, she could relax.
A part of her worried about him knowing she’d gone into the woods, that he might know damn well it was her who’d stabbed old fatso, but her story to the police seemed to be holding water so far, and besides, with his fingerprints on the knife, she was safe as houses.
Did it bother her he’d be serving time for a crime he hadn’t committed?
No.
She didn’t give a fucking shit.
Chapter Fourteen
Cassie was reeling from what Shirl had said. The woman had found out so much in a short space of time. It was just a shame none of it was relevant, even the possibility that Mam had been abused by a man who’d peddled his ice creams as well as his creepy touches. There was no proof of that, just them speculating—Mam had been a sullen kid; rumours had gone round about Lionel; Nan had been upset to find him in her home, alone with her daughter; Mam had walked home through the woods on the day of Lionel’s murder.
