by Emmy Ellis
“Are you looking for something to attack me with?” Francis asked. “Christ, you really are thick. I have a gun aimed at your missus, and you’re in the mood to piss me about?” She paused for the drama of it. “You know I’m going to kill her, don’t you.”
“Oh God. Oh Jesus.” Noble came over and pawed at Francis’ jacket, his nose snotty where he was crying. “Please, don’t do this. I’ll do owt you say.”
“Such a shame you’ve come to your senses too late. Get your filthy hands off me, step the fuck back, and sit on that sofa. Now, this is how it’s going to be. I’m taking her away, and you will keep your mouth shut about it and the baby. You’ll never bother me or mine again, but if you do, I’ll come back for you. I could kill you, too, but I think letting you live, knowing exactly what you’ve done, will keep me smiling for years.”
“I swear to God, we’ll stay quiet. We won’t tell anyone.” He sobbed, his hands dropping from her lapels to fall at his sides.
“It’s too late. The day you decided to try to take control from Francis Grafton was the day you made your biggest mistake. No one, no one tells me how to behave, what to do, not anymore. They don’t have the right. Only I get to decide what happens to me now.” She ignored the fact that Lenny controlled her in some ways, especially to do with Cassie and having to stay at home. Anger spearing through her, she snatched at Beatrice’s arm, digging her nails into the soft skin. “Now get the fuck out there and in my car before I blow your brains out all over these nice walls.”
* * * *
Francis stood in front of Beatrice in the field beyond the one she and Lenny had lured Lee Scrubs to. It was good to be out here again, beneath the peppering of stars in a pitch-black sky that would witness her murdering this snivelling wreck of a councillor. Funny that her husband would be the one to either write or proofread the story about his wife going ‘missing’—The Moorbury Times was bound to cover it; it would be weird if it didn’t. Then they’d find her body, and he’d be writing her obituary. He’d already be wishing he hadn’t fucked with Francis, but that was his cross to bear, not hers.
What was he doing now? Pacing his swanky living room in his shitty slippers? Was he wondering what to do—call the police or keep quiet? She banked on the latter. He was the type to want to save his own life, probably glad his wife was copping it instead of him. Dolly Hair seemed the prissy sort who was cold in bed, so maybe Francis had done him a massive favour. He could find someone else more suited to him. She’d bet her last quid Beatrice was insured up to the eyeballs. He’d get a decent payout when all was said and done. That sort of money wasn’t to be sniffed at.
The gun was back in her handbag which was strapped across her body, pushed to the bottom beneath a nappy she kept there for emergencies. If there was one thing Francis hated lately, it was lugging the baby bag around.
She switched her mind away from her kid and back to the now. She couldn’t risk the echo of a gunshot alerting anyone to where she stood. While she’d chosen a spot well away from residents, it wouldn’t take long for someone on the outskirts to come running, maybe even Joe Wilson’s dad from Handel.
A passing motorist could spot her car parked by the same hedge that man had been, the one who’d grassed about seeing two people marching Lee over the field. Francis had killed him, too, removing his heart and leaving it on a wall outside the shop. Why had she done that? Because he had a heart and she didn’t. He had a conscience, otherwise he’d never have phoned the police. Pure jealousy had driven her to carve a square hole in his chest, and that had represented her, too, the square hole for her square peg to slot into; by killing him she’d done something where she’d actually fitted, felt as if she belonged. She was a strange little being chosen by Lionel, the things he’d done to her ensuring she never gelled with anyone until she’d met Lenny. As for leaving the heart on the wall, that meant nowt other than she wanted people to see what happened if you crossed her, not that anyone knew what she’d done, but she did, and that was what counted. Same as with Lionel’s death.
She held a plastic carrier bag and cocked her head at Beatrice, the moon showering them with enough light she made out the woman’s features. Fear lived there, a permanent resident, burrowing into the lines on her face and camping out for the duration. Francis smiled. Walked behind her. Stepped up close. Took a second or two to listen to the whimpers coming through the dishcloth in her gob. Then rammed the bag down over her victim’s head and pulled it tight around the neck. Beatrice cried out, fought good and proper, but Francis was strong and held on, lowering herself to the ground along with the woman who struggled to breathe, who gripped Francis’ gloved hands to try to loosen her hold, who gargled and growled, desperate to live, knowing she wouldn’t for much longer.
“It’s pointless, you stupid cow,” Francis muttered, enjoying the sound of Beatrice’s sawing breaths, the rawness of them, the way the bag slapped to her face with a crinkle noise on each inhale, plastering itself to her skin, gluing itself to her features. “You may as well give in, because you won’t…fucking…win.”
Beatrice didn’t give in for at least a full minute, she ploughed on, quite the valiant effort (give Dolly a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen!), then the bag moved no more, made not a crackle. Francis knelt behind her for ages, the plastic still in place, the handles digging into her palms, then she checked for a pulse.
There wasn’t one. Still, she remained there, just to be sure; she couldn’t afford to fuck up at the last hurdle, leaving Beatrice to breathe again, to tell the police who’d done this to her. When her legs and arms ached, she released the bag. Fingers cramped into uncomfortable claws, Francis took a tin bottle of lighter fluid out of her handbag. She walked around the body on the ground, sprinkling it while humming, the smell of it exciting.
But not as exciting as that of burning flesh.
Sadly, Francis couldn’t hang around for that.
She popped the bottle in her bag and took out a book of matches. Ripped one off. Lit it, then touched the flame to a few of the others. They whooshed to life, a mini fire, and she dropped the book, mesmerised at how the lighter fluid caught, the flames creeping over Beatrice’s clothes, a devouring mass of orange and yellow tongues that would eat her skin before the body fat put them out.
Then Francis ran, laughing her guts up, across the field, into the next, then to her car. She drove sedately, not wishing to draw attention to herself, and arrived home around the time Beatrice’s top layer of skin had undoubtedly been crisped up. She sat there at the kerb, imagining the fabric stuck to the body, the plastic of the bag fused to her face, melted into the skin, and the biggest smile she’d had in ages hurt her jaw.
She couldn’t sit there any longer, had to get indoors and lie to Mam. Inside, she called out that she needed the loo and rushed upstairs, hid her weapons, the bottle, and used the bathroom, washing her hands in case she’d splashed any fluid on her. She returned to the living room, delirious with the fun she’d had, in time to see Mam feeding the baby.
Thank God. It meant Francis wouldn’t have to do it until the morning, because Lenny did the night-time feeds. Could this day get any better?
“I forgot to ask,” Mam said. “Where did you go? Did you have a nice time? Not that you were gone long, mind.”
“Just for a drive. A bit of peace, you know.”
“I know, love. It’s difficult with a small baby. You lose so much of yourself.”
I lost all of me until tonight.
Francis hid a smile. Paul and Lisa wouldn’t know owt about how difficult it was with a brat now, and she was glad.
One less girl in the world who had the potential to become pervert bait.
Chapter Nineteen
Cassie and Jimmy had gone back to the squat to burn the plastic sheets and clothes, then she’d driven home, where Jimmy had got into his Audi and peeled away as though he didn’t want to leave her—slowly. Or maybe he didn’t want to face the emotions that were sure to bombard him on
ce he closed his eyes in bed. She’d experienced the same at first, back in the days of training, and maybe she’d join him in not hitting the sack until she was too wiped out to keep her eyes open. She’d allowed three people to be killed when they shouldn’t have been.
And she’d gone against Lenny, taking the coward’s way out and getting Jimmy to do it. Yes, he needed the practise, but fucking hell, she should have pulled the trigger. It wasn’t lost on her that she was saying something to her dead father, though: I don’t have to do what you want anymore. I’m who I want to be, not who you wanted me to be.
It had been a long day, with several revelations that Cassie needed to sit and digest over a cup of tea and a few chocolate Hobnobs. She didn’t fancy making dinner, too much faff, and couldn’t be arsed to phone for a takeaway. Shoes kicked off, she decided to have a shower first—she thought the best there, and what better place to try to work out who’d threatened to tell all about Mam suffocating Janey, the water washing away the scent of death and guilt as well as cleansing her soul.
She huffed out a laugh. Her soul would never be cleansed, her parents had seen to that. She was a product of their wrecked genes and distorted reasoning, but she didn’t have to follow in their mad footsteps. Yes, she’d need to employ violence from time to time, but it wasn’t how she’d thought it had to be back when she’d had Jason at her side. Not everything had to end in bloodshed.
With one foot on the bottom step, she paused, remembering she’d moved back to her flat above the garage and didn’t have any clean pyjamas at Mam’s. She wanted to scream in frustration but plodded to the front door, ready to nip across the drive and collect some things. The sound of a car then the sweep of headlights stopped her, and she rushed to the office to collect her gun, then crept to the living room window where she peered outside from behind the edge of the curtain.
Branding had turned up—with Brenda. What did they want? She opened the door and never said owt, just let them in, but she supposed the rumours had been right. Branding and Brenda were seeing one another but pretending it wasn’t true. It was obvious by the way they looked at each other yet kept poles apart. Far be it for Cassie to throw any public stones. What they did behind Trish’s back was on their consciences, not hers, but she thought it pretty rank that the poor woman was stuck at home, ill, while her husband trotted about with another woman.
Maybe Trish knows about it.
In the kitchen, coffees set out on the island, Branding said, “I’ve been asking questions on the quiet, and Brenda here has something to tell you.”
Cassie looked at her. “We’re past the stage of you coming here with someone holding your hand—or at least I thought we were. Why not just roll up by yourself, Bren?”
“Because Gary—um, DI Branding—said he’d give me a lift.” Brenda, in a loud outfit tonight—snakeskin-patterned fuchsia leggings; a sheer, floaty sun-yellow blouse tied at the waist (her black bra showing through it); neon-pink high heels, such a clash to the visual senses—plonked down on a stool as though glad to take the weight off. Her shoes were probably pinching.
“Right…” Cassie hid a smile, then thought fuck it… “It’s clear you two are shagging, so cut the crap. How come you’re not with Rudyard Bell tonight? Don’t tell me he’s snuffed it already.”
Brenda laughed. “He was alive when I last saw him. He went to bed early.”
Cassie nodded at the woman’s clothes. “Thought you were going to his in a nurse’s uniform.”
“I did but changed once the nice policeman here said he was coming round.”
Cassie leant beside the dishwasher. “What have you got to tell me?”
Brenda blushed, and Branding strode to the window and made a show of looking out.
“Just so we’re straight, it’s for light relief, me and Gary, nowt serious,” Brenda said. “Anyroad, we were talking last night, and it must have stirred the old brain cells. While I was putting Rudyard to bed this evening, I remembered some gossip about Francis.”
Cassie clamped her jaw then forced herself to relax it. She didn’t want anyone other than Jimmy (and maybe Mystic) to know how she felt about Mam now. And what was that? Confusion? Hate? Love? Sadness? Anger at being duped, not wanted, a burden to a mad woman who should have received psychiatric help? “What gossip?”
“About the ice cream man, one from yonks ago. Now then, I was only young, as Francis was, but I was listening to my mam and gran talking about him, how he touched girls when he handed lollies or whatever over. Nan said I wasn’t to go to him anymore, because if the grapevine was to be believed, he’d already ‘got to’ Francis. Via her dad, of all people. Of course, I had no clue what they were on about at the time, but I do know it fair scared me off Mr Whippy with raspberry sauce and them little nuts for a while.”
Cassie couldn’t remember her grandad. He’d died before he’d had a chance to cement himself in her memories. “So are you saying my gramps let this bloke fiddle with his own kid?”
Brenda shook her head. “Not at all. They were mates—your gramps wouldn’t have it that Lionel, that’s the ice cream man, was a perv. So my nan, she says something like, ‘Fancy him leaving the little one with him while he swanned off to shag that tart in Worksop.’ Well, I didn’t think owt of it, like I said, I was little, but now? Sounds to me like your gramps was playing away. Anyroad, the next thing they said was your nan coming home from church and catching this Lionel fella with your mam. Not like that, just that he was in the house. Alone with her. Your nan sends him off with a flea in his ear, then has a word with your gramps when he got home from where he was supposed to be—at the market, not in some tart’s bed.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, they had a big blazing row, didn’t they. Your mam told someone, who then told someone, who then told my mam, you know how it goes. He denied being with a bird, but he couldn’t deny leaving Francis with the paedo. Apparently, old gramps says he won’t leave Francis again, and everything goes back to normal. Except a woman at the school, she sees Lionel waiting for Francis after the last bell. Now then, at that age, I still had to walk with my mam, but your mam? She goes off with him three times a week.”
That didn’t make sense, weren’t the actions of the nan she’d known. “Who lets their little kiddie go home alone?”
“It was different times then, remember. Kids as young as five did it. Nowt like it is today, where there’s all those aeroplane parents.”
“Helicopter.”
“Yes, that.”
“Why didn’t anyone say owt about Lionel collecting her? There must have been other mothers around.”
Brenda shrugged. “No idea, love. Maybe they thought he was allowed to on account of being friends with your gramps. Either way, no one thought to let your nan in on it, they just chatted shit behind her back, so for all we know, Francis could have been…well, you can imagine.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Exactly. So then there was Lionel’s murder years later, and some kid called Mark Benson went down for it. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Francis mentioned a ‘B’ name after she got shot, so even though I went all around the houses, that’s what I’ve come to tell you.”
“It wasn’t him.” Cassie looked at Branding, willing him to turn around from the window. The sod’s not going to. She knew what would force him to do what she wanted: “I’ve dealt with who killed Mam.”
As predicted, the detective whizzed to face her, his eyes wide. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or get shitty. The latter won: Good old Lenny. “Fuck me, I’d only just got home when you two turned up. Literally got my shoes off and the bell rang. Give me a fucking chance, pal.”
“Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Who was it?”
She eyed Brenda. “You know this stays between us, but I’m reiterating it anyroad.”
Brenda bristled. “Of course. Fuck me, Cassie, what do you take me for?”
“You can never be too sure.” She rubbed her chin. “It was Ben, Lou’s nephew.”
“What?” Brenda shrieked. “That streak of drippy piss? What did he do that for?”
“He didn’t say, just that he shot her.” Cassie wasn’t about to tell these two the reason. It was too shameful, even though she’d been a baby when it had happened. She couldn’t shake the idea that this reflected badly on her, yet she knew it wasn’t her fault. “His mam and dad copped it an’ all, just so you know.”
Branding sighed, stared at the floor, and massaged his forehead. “Jesus.” He lifted his head to make eye contact with Cassie. “How the hell do I play this?”
“My crew have been to their place—I got a bit of blood in the living room, plus I want to see if the gun’s there. I had to use the barb. Lisa fucked me about, wouldn’t listen to my warnings. Got herself all coiled up. But you don’t need to play owt, because I had a think while I waited for Jimmy to help get rid of the bodies. They rent one of Mam’s houses. Like with others who’ve pissed me off, the story goes that they happened to hand in their notice and move away. I’ll let Joe know he’ll need another farmhand. Haven’t decided if I’ll tell him why yet. Crew Two are round the house now, emptying the place. I’ve got one of the homeless fellas waiting to take on the tenancy after it’s been done up, not that he’s aware of that yet. The place needs a good lick of paint and some new carpets before he can have it.”
Branding let out a breath of relief. “Right. So it’ll go in The Life?”
“It will once I get hold of Michelle Forster and tell her what to write.”
“The Barrington lot will know what ‘moving’ means,” Brenda said.
Cassie shrugged. “What do I give a fuck? I caught the person who killed Mam, ended his parents because they knew about it, and now we can move along.”
Branding paced, one of his suit jacket fronts flapping over to reveal the silk lining. “I’ll have to pass your mam off as a random shooting somehow, like we agreed. It’ll be fine unless the bullet matches another gun on file.”
