‘Why did you neglect to mention your existing boyfriend when we first met and slept together?’, ‘Why have you been so vague about your family history?’, ‘Have you told lies about your past?’, ‘Why did you conceal the fact that you were responsible for the death of Tony Miller when you were interviewed by the police?’, ‘Who is the father of the child that you’re carrying?’, ‘Has the child been born?’
I’d never asked those questions of Meg, but they were the questions that needed to be answered if we were ever going to pick up our relationship again. And there were a few questions which she would want to ask me if the positions were reversed. I’m not sure how I’d have fared when it came to rigorous questioning.
‘Did you know that your best friend Jem was a sexual predator?’, ‘Did you suspect that he might have been using the date rape drugs that you came into contact with as part of your radio investigation?’, ‘Why did you have an affair with TV reporter Ellie Turner on your fortieth birthday when we were trying for a child through IVF?’, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you had lived with TV celebrity Alex Kennedy for five years, a woman with whom you would have had a child if the pregnancy had not ended in miscarriage?’
I removed the elastic bands from around the photos and started to sift through them, trying to identify locations. There were some holiday shots in there, it was definitely a UK seaside resort. There it was, the Blackpool Tower! There was no missing that as a landmark. It featured twice: once in a picture with Mavis and Tom, in their courting days I assumed, and once on the beach with the whole family. If they even were a family.
Carefully, I ran through the other photographs, those taken at home and in the garden. The colour was washed out and the images nowhere near as sharp as we’ve become used to with digital cameras. But there it was, faint in the background of one of the pictures taken in the garden, the Blackpool Tower.
Whatever the make-up of this group of people, Blackpool featured in their lives heavily, either as a holiday destination or, if I’d got lucky, it was their home. That gave Meg a geographical location, a part of the country that she came from.
I opened up my laptop and began typing random guesses into the search engine. First the names: Mavis Irvine, Mavis Yates, Thomas Yates, Megan Yates. Every now and then I’d be rewarded with some results, but they’d be about other people, not the ones I was looking for.
I tried inserting Blackpool into my search to see if that might pull up something of more interest. It did. There was nothing about Megan, but I got a result on Thomas and Mavis in Blackpool. It was an article from a newspaper, the Blackpool Courier, dating back a couple of years.
It took some digging to find the article itself, it was buried deep. The trigger for my search had only been a couple of lines of text. Meg had been telling the truth when she’d told me that her parents had died, that had been no lie. Well, it confirmed that one of them was dead, at least. But she’d been deceitful about what had caused the death. I read the words twice through, keen to be certain that I’d got the right people. I’d made no mistake. There it was, right in front of me, one of many parish updates from 2015.
(Blackpool Central) 03/05/2015 Friends of the late Thomas Yates, husband of Mavis Yates, formerly of Great Marton, Blackpool, gathered for a memorial service at Scott Road Methodist Church, marking twenty years since the tragic death of Thomas in their home. Donations totalling £123.67 were raised from those attending. The contributions are to be sent to Happy Siblings in memory of the couple and their children.
Meg had deliberately deceived me about her family. Why would she do that? I could understand if she was too distressed to speak about it, but surely she’d have mentioned it at least once in the time that we’d been together? Or perhaps the lie had become too well worn. Once she’d begun the deception, it might have seemed impossible to reverse it.
These newly discovered photographs and the old newspaper article made one thing very clear to me. Meg had told even more lies than I’d first thought. She’d been completely dishonest about her family. And now it looked like she had a sister and a mother, both of whom may well be alive.
Chapter Five
She had to look around the house. She needed to get a sense of what had gone on and figure out if this was history repeating itself.
‘I’d like to arrange a viewing of 11 Ashbourne Drive,’ she’d asked, speaking to some intern or work experience teenager. His phone manner hadn’t been very impressive so far.
‘Oh, you mean the murder place?’ the young man had replied. ‘Yes, we can sort that out for you.’
She hoped that whoever was monitoring his progress at the company would give him some guidance on his telephone technique. Referring to a property as ‘the murder place’ was likely to put somebody’s commission in jeopardy. Most houses carry a history, much of it happy, but some of it sad. It’s best to focus on the nice views, the lovely garden, the airy rooms and the excellent local school. This young intern would need a pep talk if he was going to make it in estate agency.
‘What name is it, please?’ he asked.
Should she use her real name or go by a pseudonym? It might get tricky if she used her real name. She’d keep a low profile for a while, get a feel for the lie of the land. She’d only recently flown in from Spain; she’d never have known anything about the latest developments if she hadn’t read that article from the newspaper. And to think it was wrapped around her fish and chips.
She’d come out in a cold sweat the minute she saw the news story. Her Spanish was getting better, but she saw it was Meg. After all these years there was Meg again. It wasn’t the first time Meg had been involved in a ‘terrible business’. She’d looked through the article, digging deeper and deeper, uncovering all the press coverage that she’d missed. The local papers were best, they had more information about the people involved.
Meg Bailey. That’s what she called herself now. No wonder she’d been so hard to track down. Married. A good-looking husband too. She worked for the probation service. There she was, bang in the middle of a shit storm. Another shit storm. But she still looked good.
It’s what had prompted her to return to the UK for a few weeks. Not to see Meg, not yet at least, but to tread in her footsteps, to try to work out what had really gone on. Whenever Meg was involved, things were unlikely to be as they seemed.
‘Hannah Young,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Hannah Young.’
It would do for now. She’d tucked herself out of the way, miles from the UK. It suited her, nobody would recognise her there. She’d changed a lot since Meg had last seen her. Meg probably wouldn’t even recognise her now.
‘Contact address?’ the young guy had asked.
‘I’m staying in a hotel and looking at property in the area. I’m in the Pine Trees Guest Lodge at the moment. It’s probably best if you catch me on my mobile, is that okay?’
She’d managed to be specific enough to get the appointment, yet vague enough not to give anything away. The intern might have needed to finesse his phone manner, but he’d been trained well enough in screening out the loonies and voyeurs.
She arrived about five minutes before Glenn Elliot. It gave her time to walk around, look at the exterior and try to get a sense of Meg’s life in that place. Her husband was a local radio personality; she’d done well for herself, she probably enjoyed the prestige of that. The house was modest, but still required a couple of decent salaries to buy it. Meg was doing okay.
The house was in a state, neglected and sad. What you might expect from a property that had been left in a hurry and which was now haunted by so many ghosts. A BMW turned off the road and into the drive faster than it should have.
A middle-aged man with fast-greying hair and a stomach which pushed at the sides of his shirt stepped out. He wore a suit and tie. Most professions had ditched wearing ties. He looked old school.
‘Hello, Mrs Young. Glenn Elliot, pleased to meet you. Apologies for being late, I had something that I needed to at
tend to before our meeting. Are you ready to take a look around?’
Hannah shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries. His hand was sweaty, as was his forehead, although it wasn’t a hot day. He seemed flustered, as if he’d rushed from something to be there. He opened up the door and collected the post.
‘More post!’ he said, placing the letters to the side. ‘It never seems to stop coming.’
‘Didn’t they redirect it?’ Hannah asked.
‘No, we collect the post on their behalf. I think it suits the owners better.’
She glanced at the envelope on the top of the pile as she walked through the doorway. Mr P. and Mrs M. Bailey. Meg. There she was. Everything came back to her, she could feel Meg’s presence, even though she hadn’t lived in the place for over six months.
Her eyes scanned the hallway. She was quick to see where initials had been carved. The house was cool, damp and very much unlived in. She took her tour, observing everything, trying to get a sense of what had gone on there.
‘Has anybody placed an offer yet?’ she asked.
‘We have a couple very interested. They’re from out of town, like you. They’ve placed an offer, it’s in the right ballpark. I think that if you offered the asking price quickly, you’d stand a good chance. If you like it, that is ...’
She had no intention of making an offer. She wanted to soak up the place, listen to the echoes of the lives that had been lived out there. She could hear Meg’s voice, picture her moving through the rooms. She knew that it would all be founded on lies. Wherever Meg went, the trouble followed.
From what she had read in the papers, this Peter Bailey looked like a decent bloke, she could see why Meg had fallen for him.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she said. ‘I won’t be putting in an offer on the place. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I think this house is too unhappy, it’s going to struggle to shake off its demons.’
She was right too. There were many more demons still lurking within those walls.
I looked at the clock on the wall. No battery still, thank goodness for mobile phones. I needed to go to the supermarket and get some bits and pieces before I began my shift in the bar. Alex and I would be eating out most of the time, but it would be good to get some booze and snacks in. We used to play a lot of Scrabble together too, I hadn’t played in years. I’d buy a set if I could find one, it would be a good time-filler if we got stuck in the static caravan because of rain.
I wondered if Alex would be up for a trip to Blackpool. I looked up the train timetable. We’d be drinking over the weekend, and there was no way I was driving with all that alcohol floating around.
It would take an hour to an hour and a half, depending on when we went and which train we took. That wasn’t too bad. It would be a fun day out. Marton was walking distance from the tower. I wondered if Alex would be up for it. I wasn’t sure if I could wait until she left, I was desperate to dig deeper into Meg’s past. Alex had been caught up with all the terrible events that weekend, she’d want to know too. But I’d pick my timing, I’d let her get her feet under the table before I asked.
The thought of Alex’s imminent arrival, an evening working in the bar and a weekend away from work had put me into a good mood, and even my worries about JD had faded into the background. I picked up my keys and wallet, left the caravan and walked over to the car.
I was completely preoccupied on the drive to the supermarket. I arrived there and realised that I hadn’t registered any of the journey. Google gets so excited about driverless cars, but I invented them years ago. I’d been remembering the years I spent with Alex.
I think that my hopes of a reconciliation with Meg had begun to fade after the third month of her disappearance. The immediate horror of what had happened to us had begun to subside, the shock of what she’d revealed to me before she left had had time to sink in, and the money problems were beginning to bite. My concern and sense of loss had been replaced by questions, anger, frustration and resentment. I was desperate to find out about the baby.
I locked the car, grabbed a trolley, put my mind back into neutral and started my walk along the aisles of the supermarket. I remembered that Alex liked grapefruit for breakfast and headed for the fruit and veg area.
‘Peter? Peter Bailey?’
I heard a voice behind me. I recognised it but couldn’t place it. It was deep and self-assured. I’d once been stuck in the same room as that voice for a couple of hours. My mind whizzed through its memory files. There it was, I’d worked it out before I even turned around. It wasn’t a listener or a friend, it was Steven Terry, clairvoyant to the stars.
He’d warned me of the trouble that was about to come my way and all I’d done was to scoff at him. Yet everything he’d said had come true. At the time, Steven Terry didn’t know me from Adam, and it was uncanny how accurate he’d been. I hadn’t seen him in ages. Since the release of his book, he’d got a gig on a TV station. I hadn’t taken much notice, I was used to people moving onward and upwards in their careers and his rise to relative fame was no big deal. It was some daytime show, I think, tucked away where it could be safely tested. He hadn’t quite hit the big time yet.
‘Steven Terry, good to see you!’ I lied. ‘Congratulations on your TV show.’
‘Hello, Peter, nice to see you too.’ He shook my hand, then placed his other hand on top. Is this how he sensed my vibes or read my mind or whatever it was he did? His posh title was precognisant, he could see things in the future. He’d been spot on with Meg and me. I wondered for a moment if I should pick his brains. I scolded myself. It’s all a load of bollocks, he got lucky last time.
He looked at me as if he’d seen something. I’d seen that look before. I didn’t want to know, I was looking forward to my weekend. All Steven Terry was likely to do was scare the wits out of me.
‘It was a terrible business last year, Peter. Are you alright now? I read about it in the papers, and I couldn’t help but remember our conversation at the radio station. I wanted to reach out to you, but I didn’t know how it would be received. Are you any less cynical now about what I do?’
‘I’ve got to admit it, Steven, you got it dead right last time. But you know me, I’m a journalist. I’m always sceptical about these things.’
I smiled at him, hoping to be able to laugh it off.
‘You know, we start to film the second series next month, Peter. I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking you beforehand, but how would you feel about us filming at the house? Has it sold yet? I drive by from time to time, and last time I looked, it was still unsold.’
‘I can’t shift it,’ I replied. ‘It attracts all sorts of weirdos. I’m not sure I want to fan the flames anymore. Besides, I had an offer in from a couple this week, they seem keen. They beat me down on the price, but I’m thinking of taking it. I want rid of the place.’
‘I understand that, Peter. You must have very mixed feelings about that house. Of course, it might help to sell the property if it’s featured on TV? I’ll leave the offer open to you, may I give you my card?’
I thought about the job that Ellie had mentioned and of the fresh start that was long overdue. If this couple went flaky on me and didn’t follow through on the offer, I would be back where I started. I took Steven’s card and decided to hang onto it this time around.
He was looking at me, staring intently into my face. He’d done something similar last time I met him, it was very disconcerting.
‘Peter, I hope you don’t mind. Last time we met I told you that I can’t help what I see. It can be a huge burden, a big responsibility. I’m seeing more things coming in your future. I’m sorry Peter, I’m so sorry, but I need to share these with you. I have to tell you what I can see. You must trust me, after what I told you last time?’
The truth is, I did trust him. I’d thought he was a charlatan before, a trumped-up showbiz mind-reader who had his eye on a book deal and a TV follow-up. Well, he’d got that now. He had no vested interest in le
ading me up the garden path.
‘Please tell me it’s happier this time, Steven. You’re not exactly a good-news kind of guy. I only came here to buy bog roll and grapefruit, I didn’t expect to get a vision of my future thrown in for free.’
Steven looked deadly serious. Did the guy ever smile?
‘Peter, your house is not yet finished with the killing. There is more evil waiting there. Take care, the danger isn’t over.’
‘Can you see who it is or what it is?’
‘I don’t see things that clearly, Peter, I’m sorry. But there is evil in that house. Be careful if you go there.’
‘Fortunately I keep well away these days. Do you see anything else?’
I had to ask. I didn’t really want to know, but I needed to understand what it was that he saw.
‘The lies have to stop, Peter. This is all happening because of the lies. Only the truth will break the hold of this evil. Somebody is not telling the truth.’
He could say that again. We were all a bunch of liars. I’d already decided that the lies had to stop, but it would be easier said than done.
‘There’s one more thing, Peter ...’
Did he always see things in threes? He gave me three warnings last time. It was this sort of thing that made me sceptical. Still, I wanted to hear it.
‘The women you choose to be with are what determines your path, Peter. There are some poisonous people coming into your life. You will need to decide who to trust. Your choices will determine the outcome, Peter.’
His face was dead straight. He was totally serious.
‘I don’t suppose you can give me any clues?’
‘I’m sorry. That’s what I see. I don’t know who these people are unless I meet them and can see the intersections in between your lives. It’s as much a curse as it is a gift. Take care, Peter, there are still more hazards ahead.’
Don't Tell Meg Trilogy Box Set Page 30
