Don't Tell Meg Trilogy Box Set

by Paul J. Teague

  We’d spent five years living together, almost had a child together, but never even merged our finances. Did we sense it at the time? Did we know that Alex would move on? Perhaps it was inevitable, bearing in mind the transitory nature of our careers.

  I was so busy moving forward with my life, especially after I’d met Meg, that I never thought about how Alex was feeling. I’d assumed that she was carried away by the excitement of her career. But already she’d said a couple of things that hinted at some unhappiness in her life. Loneliness, even. I’d always thought she would be immersed in a constant whirlwind of celebrity fun. Maybe that wasn’t the case.

  We answered more questions from the police. I gave details of my comings and goings and Alex was able to confirm all of it. Who’d question a TV celebrity? After all, it was impossible for the presenter of Crime Beaters to tell a lie.

  Not for the first time, I found myself withholding the full truth from the police. I missed out on what had happened with Becky when giving details of my movements. My account to the police ended with me finishing my shift in the bar and going back to my caravan. To sleep. I missed out the bit about Becky, the baby oil, the masks and the hot lovemaking. They didn’t need to know about that. Just as I’d concealed the details of my night with Ellie before my nightmare began the last time. It was none of their business. I wasn’t a suspect, I was truthful about where I’d been, it wouldn’t mess up the investigation.

  This death felt different. I’d met Glenn Elliot when I put the house on the market, and I spoke to him occasionally to get an update about why it hadn’t sold. But he wasn’t connected to me in any way. If he’d been killed in my house, it was a gruesome coincidence. It would be connected to what had happened in the house, but it was probably a case of wrong place, wrong time for Glenn. I was a bystander this time around.

  No need to mention the sexy night with Becky to the police. If Vicky had been mistaken, and Becky was genuinely a single female staying on the campsite, I’d be coming back for a rerun after Alex had left. I’d felt like I was in a porno with Becky, even the thought of it was exciting me. Best not to leave the crime scene with an erection. Not with the TV cameras outside the house.

  At last we were able to leave. DCI Summers promised to keep in touch. I’d be assigned a police liaison officer. Again. I thought about the vacancy that Ellie had mentioned. I resolved right then that I was going for that new job. If there had been any doubt in my mind at all, it was gone. I had to shake the shit off my shoes.

  This house had to go too, at whatever loss, and it was time to move on. I ran the numbers in my head, wondering what the price drop would have to be to shift the place. I reckoned that I could walk away a few thousand pounds down after all the costs. I’d make that up soon enough if I lived in a shitty flat for a year.

  ‘You know, you could have a room in my house if you take that job in London. I’d love to have you there. I know what you’re like already. Only, don’t leave a stink in the bathroom like you used to, eh?’

  Alex could read my mind. Was she Steven Terry’s love child? How had she managed that?

  ‘I was thinking about that job in London, mulling over the practicalities. But I need to shift this house. You see that, don’t you?’

  Yes, Pete. This house is an albatross. Especially now Glenn Elliot has died here. It’s got to go. You have to move on. I can see how it’s wearing you down. You make light of it, but I know you, Pete. You haven’t changed. You make the jokes, but I can see it’s bothering you.’

  She was right. Meg and I had always been more of a physical connection; with Alex it was more ... spiritual. Somebody shoot me, I can’t believe I’d even use the S-word. I’d be lighting joss sticks next and getting my aura read. But it was true, Alex and I were in tune with each other. And it was still the case, more than a decade after we’d gone our separate ways.

  ‘What did you do after we split-- after we parted? Was there anyone else for you? Did you meet someone?’

  I was sounding like Martin Travis, my former gay counsellor. The one I thought wanted to shag my wife.

  Alex shifted uneasily and put her sunglasses on. We had to make our way through the press pack again, they’d know who we were by now. I suspected that sunglasses wouldn’t be much use this time around.

  ‘I had a few relationships you know, tried them out for size. My biggest mistake was dating a footballer. I won’t tell you who, I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I think he was more used to being with his mates. It felt like he preferred male company every time we went out together. Too much time spent in the communal bath!’

  I laughed, but even I could see that she was evading the question. Even me, with my carefully calibrated antennae, finely tuned to detect every nuance of female emotion.

  ‘We’d better make a run for it, see if we can get through this lot without being noticed. Can we head for the cemetery next? Is that okay?’

  We’d pick up on Alex’s love life later. She hadn’t told me everything. We needed to get pissed again. Blackpool would do the job. We’d go on Monday, maybe stay overnight and hit the town. Try and find out more about Meg’s former life there.

  The radio and TV guys were all over us the minute we started to approach the police tape. We kept walking, heads down.

  ‘What’s going on in there, Pete?’

  ‘What can you tell us about the police investigation, Mr Bailey?’

  ‘How do you feel about there being another murder in your house? Are you a suspect?’

  ‘Would you ever consider doing a topless photo shoot in Ballz! magazine, Alex?’

  The tabloids had turned up. Good to hear that they’d saved their best and most probing journalistic question for Alex.

  We rushed by, but it was only the small team from my own radio station that I felt guilty about spurning.

  ‘Come on, guys, you know it’s not appropriate for me to be talking about this stuff. Go through the police, talk to DCI Kate Summers, tell her I sent you. She’s the best person to talk to, she’ll share what she can with you.’

  Finally Alex and I got into the car and drove off. I checked the rear-view mirror to make sure they weren’t doing a Princess Diana on us. It seemed fine.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck!’

  ‘What have you done, have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No, I saw someone in the crowd while we were rushing by, I didn’t recognise him at first. Bollocks, I’m sorry Pete!’

  ‘What is it, Alex? Who was it?’

  ‘He was wearing a cap to hide his face, but it was JD, Pete. I recognised the jacket. He was there, he was watching us. We could have got him!’

  DCI Summers had given me her business card. I was straight on the phone to her.

  ‘That bastard JD was outside in the crowd. Move your arse out there now, he’s standing out there, metres away from your own fucking police officers.’

  I’m not proud to admit it, but I’d sworn at her in my fear and frustration. There are some people you never swear at or hassle. Never give a waiter a hard time while you’re eating your dinner. Be an arsehole and you might find a secret ingredient in your salad.

  The same applies to DCIs who are trying to catch crazy people on your behalf. To keep you safe. It’s best not to yell down the phone at them telling them to do their job properly.

  I was ashamed of myself. I liked Kate Summers, I could tell she was good at her job. I did not want to get on her bad side and I immediately regretted it. Unusually for me, I made amends immediately.

  ‘DCI Summers, Kate, I apologise for that comment unreservedly. I’m so sorry, I should know better. I’m sorry.’

  There was a brief silence on the line. DCI Summers must have been called every name under the sun in her line of work. Still, she seemed to appreciate the apology. It was the equivalent of catching the waiter moments before he spat in my Caesar salad and added his own unique dressing.

  ‘That’s alright, Mr Bailey. I appreciate how stressful this is for you. We’ll ch
eck the crowds outside your house and see if he’s there. If he is, you have my word, we want to talk to him, we’ll bring him in for questioning.’

  I calmed down and pulled out of the bus lane where I’d stopped to make the call.

  ‘Everything okay, Pete? Are they going to look for him?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, they’re onto it. Was I a real wanker there?’

  ‘You did right to apologise. She’ll understand, the cops know what’s what. Kate Summers knows the score; she’ll get worse every day from the guys in her office. But you were right to apologise, she’ll appreciate that. She won’t hear it very often.’

  ‘Do you want to go to the cemetery? Go and see Jason’s grave? We can get some decent flowers from the supermarket on the way round.’

  I didn’t particularly want to go to the cemetery, I still didn’t know how I felt about things. The last time I’d been there was the funeral. It was where I saw Meg before she did a runner.

  I didn’t feel the same guilt as Alex did about the death of Jason Davies. He was an ex-Special Forces guy that we’d known through our radio days. Alex had asked him to watch the house, but he was supposed to monitor it from afar, not stick his hand into the hornet’s nest.

  Well he did and he screwed up and got himself killed. He knew the risks, he was Special Forces. It would be like Bear Grylls taking a dump on an anthill, he should have known better. Maybe it was right that I was going with Alex, laying flowers was the least I could do. He did get bludgeoned to death and his throat slit in my house, after all.

  I hate cemeteries. A kid died once, when I was still at primary school, and I can remember going to the cemetery to see his grave. They’re such depressing places, there’s so much sadness there. Every headstone marks some miserable story. The death of a child. The loss of a parent. A car crash. Cancer. Even murder.

  I hadn’t got a clue where Jason’s ashes were located. Alex and I worked out between us, investigative journalists that we are, that there would be some dedicated area for the people who’d been cremated. It was easy to find, as it turned out. There was a sign. Imagine us not thinking of that.

  Jason had a plaque marking his name. He was forty-four when he died, not that much older than me. Of all the deadly tasks he would have faced in Special Forces and it was Jem’s wife who whacked him over the head with a baseball bat which I’d found on a beach while on holiday. Then she slit his throat to make sure he was dead.

  Alex peeled off the price tickets from the supermarket flowers that we’d bought. We’d gone sober on the colours, nothing fancy. Alex laid them as close as she could get to his plaque and we stood there for a few minutes, in silence.

  ‘I wanted to come here,’ she began. ‘I feel so guilty about Jason. He was only doing me a favour, and look what happened to him.’

  ‘It was a paid job, Alex. You offered him a couple of hundred quid to do it. I know it all turned sour, but it wasn’t as if you asked your granny to watch the house. He was the right person for the job, you were paying him well. You told him not to interfere, he was a grown man, it was his decision to go inside the house.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I can’t help feeling responsible for it.’

  ‘I’ve gone through this a million times in my head. We all made mistakes that night, but neither you nor I slit anybody’s throat or hit somebody with a baseball bat. Even my counsellor, Blake, agrees with that one. “We can only change our own decisions. We can’t alter those of others.” That’s what Blake told me. It’s true. We didn’t kill anyone, Alex.’

  It wasn’t entirely true. I could have released Jem from his precarious position tied to the cathedral bells, or at least allowed him to move his neck from the wheel mechanism. He’d lost his head as a result. What a way to go, I still couldn’t think about it without flinching. It had crushed his neck, torn through his spine, ripped off his head.

  The police had got to the bell tower in time to save him, but they couldn’t untie him because of health and safety regulations. They had to risk assess the rescue first. It was too late. While they were still working through a checklist, it turned seven o’ clock and the bells rang anyway. Too late.

  Was I to blame? It was both my fault and the fault of the police. I could have helped Jem. The police could have helped Jem. He died anyway. In truth, it was the fault of the person who tied him there in the first place. His own wife. With a bit of help from Meg, though she was looking down the barrel of a gun at the time.

  ‘Do you mind if I go to see Sally and Jem’s graves? I know it’s a bit morbid, but I want to see them and understand. It was horrible for me being so far away when it was happening.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, it’s time I went and paid my respects, to Sally if nobody else. And out of respect for their children, poor things, what must their life be like now? I should have thought ... we should have got flowers for Sally.’

  We walked slowly through the graveyard, in silence. I knew exactly where to go, I remembered it clearly from the day of the funeral. At least it wasn’t chucking it down with rain this time. There were fresh flowers by the graves, on Jem’s too. It’s hard when you knew someone and liked them, but then found that they weren’t who you thought they were. Jem was a predator and rapist. He was also a father. How must the parents of a murderer feel? Do they still love their child? As humans, we have to try and reconcile this stuff. And it’s complicated.

  We stood for a moment looking at the flowers. They were fresh too. Reading the cards written by Jem’s kids made me want to cry. I remembered Gracie being born, she was always a lovely little thing. She’d left a beautiful card for her mum.

  There was one bunch of flowers which particularly drew my attention. They didn’t look as if they’d been bought from a supermarket or a petrol station, these had been assembled by a florist. I hunted around for a card. It had come unstuck and fallen onto the ground.

  I picked it up and read it out aloud, so that Alex could hear.

  ‘This is interesting,’ I said. ‘I’ve never heard of this person before: To Sally & Jeremy, a love torn apart by hate, I’m so sorry for your beautiful children. You have your peace now. With so much sadness, Hannah Young.’

  Something had been scribbled out, it was hard to work out what it said. The morning dew had loosened the tape on the card and begun to blur the ink.

  ‘Can you work out what that says?’ I handed the card to Alex. She scrutinised it for a moment.

  ‘Yates,’ she said. ‘It says Yates. She wrote it as her surname, then scribbled it out and changed it to Young. Maybe she’s a recent divorcee, something like that?’

  That wasn’t the issue that was occupying my mind. Yates was the name of the people in the photographs. It was what I suspected Meg’s last name had been originally. It was too much of a coincidence. This had to be connected with Meg.

  Chapter Ten

  After reading the card on the flowers, I was desperate to get to Blackpool. Alex’s visit had long since stopped being a leisure break, we were both in deep now. We’d have to wait until Monday morning and catch an early train. Alex wasn’t due back in London until Wednesday, so we could stay overnight in Blackpool, try to make it more than a day-trip.

  We ate out before returning to the caravan, then got back in the early evening. I explained to Alex what I’d pieced together from the photographs that I’d discovered in the storage unit. We’d been chatting about the possibilities, trying not to let our minds soar with ridiculous ideas. This woman – Hannah Young, or Yates – could be anybody. Yates is not an uncommon name. For all we knew, we were grabbing entirely the wrong end of the stick.

  But it felt like too much of a coincidence, there had to be a connection. The flowers stood out. They’d been placed there by someone with a different agenda. They weren’t from Sally or Jem’s family, I knew that much.

  As I drove past the main campsite complex, I could see Vicky hard at work at her desk. She was preoccupied and didn’t look up and see us drive in. As we pu
lled up to the static caravan, I could see that the door was open.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I exploded. ‘I asked Vicky to get Len down here to fix that thing. I might as well hang up a banner saying “Steal My Stuff!” Sorry, Alex, but I’m driving back up there now, I’m going to have a word with Vicky while she’s in the office.’

  I put the car into reverse and drove through the campsite slightly faster than the permitted 10 mph. I was annoyed, it wasn’t much to ask to get my door looked at. I tried to calm myself down before I went to the office; Vicky had been good to me, she’d given me a place to stay and a second source of income. I needed both.

  ‘My caravan door is open again, Vicky. Did Len get to it?’

  ‘Oh, hi luv, I was getting on top of my paperwork. He said the police were around again earlier today, and you chased him off. I asked him to make sure he went back and had a look. We need to talk about the police, Pete. I’ve had a couple of the punters asking me what was up. Did Len not get to you?’

  ‘My door is wide open, Vicky. We’ve been out all day. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice, I hoped it would be fixed by now.’

  ‘That’s unusual, Pete. Len stayed on late to sort it out. He was about to clock off, then remembered that he had to check out your unit. He’ll have gone straight home again afterwards. He’s a reliable guy, I’m sure he must have got to you. That was some time ago now. Did you go inside? Was he still there?’

  ‘No, we didn’t go in. I came straight here. Will you drive over with me now and take a look? Maybe you can work out why it keeps coming open. I got Alex to check that I’d closed it properly, so it’s not just me going crazy.’