by Pam Weaver
‘I know, Mother.’
‘Can’t she come here, with us?’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t work, Mother,’ said John laying his hand over hers. ‘You are in no fit state …’
‘Worse come to the worse,’ said Sylvie determinedly. ‘Robin and I will have her.’
John smiled at her. ‘You’re a good friend, Sylvie.’
They carried on eating and then John said, ‘What if I take Reg to the Jolly Farmer and ply him with a few drinks while you do what you have to at Dottie’s place?’
‘Super!’ cried Sylvie. ‘Let’s do it.’
Alone in her hospital room, Dottie sighed. All the details were slowly coming back to her. The woman in the kiosk and the man next door. The car ride and Patsy’s roller skates. She’d left them on the back seat and during the picnic she’d decided she wanted them in the bungalow.
‘You can’t wear them in the house,’ Dottie had said.
‘But I need them, Aunt Dottie,’ Patsy protested. Somehow or other, they were more than just roller skates to her. They were a connection with someone she loved.
‘No,’ said Reg.
‘But I …’
‘Leave them, I said!’
It was a frightening reversion back to the old Reg after a day of niceness and Patsy had hidden behind her, trembling.
‘Come on, love,’ Reg coaxed. ‘Sit here and have a packet of crisps.’
The child did as she was told, but it had rather spoiled their picnic. Afterwards, Patsy had wanted to sleep so Dottie had suggested Reg take them back to the hotel.
‘Can’t,’ said Reg, shaking his head. ‘I’ve arranged to meet the bloke selling the bungalow. He’s coming here in about half and hour.’
Remembering all this now made Dottie feel uncomfortable. She climbed out of bed and stood by the window. It was dark on the street below. No one was about. A lone car went down the road. She watched it stop at the junction and turn left.
Dottie laid her hand on her stomach and for a brief moment mourned the loss of her child. Perhaps it was just as well, she thought. What sort of life would he have come to? She might even be in prison before long.
The thought of prison focused her mind again. Back in the bungalow, Reg had been very considerate. ‘Why don’t you have a bit of a lie down?’ he had said. Something told her not to do it, but already it was irresistible. She didn’t like being there. The bed wasn’t very savoury and the room smelled but Reg said he’d keep the door open. ‘It’ll only be for a minute or two,’ he’d assured her. ‘Just until this bloke comes.’
She knew that Reg was counting on using her trust money, of course. Thank God Aunt Bessie had insisted that the trustees had to agree to whatever she wanted to spend. She was confident that they’d never agree to buy that dump. Reg would go mad when he found out of course, but she’d worry about that when the time came. She’d closed her eyes. Her head was spinning.
She’d heard the front door open and someone came in. Reg was talking to whoever it was in low tones and at the time something struck her as odd. It was only now that she recalled what was wrong. Reg had talked about a bloke coming to talk to him about the bungalow. The person outside the bedroom door was a woman.
She must have come into the bedroom at some point. Dottie could remember her heady perfume. Then there was a hissing sound – was that when the gas went out? And then she was aware of several sharp bangs … that must have been when he broke the tap. Someone shut the door. Come to think of it, she remembered hearing the key turn in the lock. He had definitely locked them both inside!
Dottie felt herself sway and she put her head against the cold glass. How long had she been trying to make her marriage work? What a fool she had been. He’d never wanted her. He’d only wanted her money. A distant memory crept back into her brain. ‘She’s worth more to you dead than alive …’
She didn’t want to even think it, let alone say it, but Reg had planned to kill her, hadn’t he? Her and Patsy. He hated them both. She clenched her fists. Now that the baby was gone, he had no hold over her, none whatsoever. It was time to get a grip and get herself out of this mess.
Dottie shivered and climbed back into the bed. She may have worked it all out but she was still in trouble. He’d been trying to stitch her up and so far he’d done a pretty good job. She hugged her knees and rocked herself.
‘You’ve been very clever, Reg,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’ve convinced just about everyone that I’m to blame. You think little mousey me will never stand up to you, don’t you? I bet you’re thinking, poor little Dottie, she’s so weak, she’ll be a right pushover. Well, I may have been a fool once, Reg, but not any more.’ Dottie could feel the strength flowing back into her veins.
She sat up straight and, pulling a notepad out of the locker drawer, she began to list the pros and cons of her present position. She divided the page into two columns.
Reg had told the police he wasn’t at the bungalow at all. That went in the problems column. Talk to the man walking his dog, went in the solution column. She’d chatted to him over the wall while Patsy was in the lavvy. Only a brief minute, but surely he’d remember the woman who’d given him a friendly wave. ‘My husband’s fetching us a picnic from the car,’ she’d said.
‘Funny place for a picnic, missus!’ And they’d laughed. He was a nice man. With nobody else about, he’d remember her.
Find the roller skates. Patsy had left them in the back seat of the car. Reg must have hired the car from somewhere. There couldn’t be that many places in Eastbourne where you could hire a car.
Then there was the woman at the kiosk. She and Patsy had stopped there for some sweets. They’d chatted. The woman’s son had just been posted to Suez.
‘I don’t even know what we’re doing in a place like that,’ the woman said. ‘They don’t want us there.’
‘We always seem to be fighting someone else’s battles,’ Dottie had said as she sympathised with her. They’d grumbled about the general election and wondered if Churchill wasn’t a bit too old to be prime minister again and then she’d asked her if she’d seen Reg. ‘Tall, with dark hair,’ she’d told the woman. ‘Very slim.’
The woman shook her head, so Dottie and Patsy had decided to retrace their steps back to the hotel, fearing that they’d missed Reg and he was still waiting back in the foyer. But a few minutes later, Reg had picked them up and as they’d driven back past the kiosk, the woman had waved.
Dottie smiled grimly. ‘I’m going to nail you, Reg Cox. You’re not going to get away with this. You may have won the battle but I’m going to win the war.’
Forty-Four
‘It’s all gone!’
As Sylvie walked back through Mary’s door, she threw her hands in the air in abject despair.
Mary carried on wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve just been over to Dottie’s to get her things and I went right through the house,’ cried Sylvie. ‘There’s not one thing that belonged to Dottie in the place. He’s got rid of it all.’
‘But why?’ said Mary.
The two women were standing in Mary’s kitchen. Mary was doing the ironing. The kitchen table was covered with an old blanket and then a piece of sheet. The iron was plugged into the light socket overhead.
‘Whatever am I going to tell her?’
‘I’d lend her something of mine,’ said Mary, ‘but she’s only a slip of the thing.’
‘I can give her something of mine,’ said Sylvie, ‘but that’s not the point. He has no right to get rid of her things.’ She reached for a cigarette and lit it with a trembling hand. ‘I’ll tell you what though …’ Sylvie leaned forward and Mary was all ears, ‘he’s had another woman back there.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m not,’ said Sylvie. ‘There was a rubber johnny in the bathroom and a bottle of perfume on the dressing table. Pretty powerful stuff, and very expensive. Dottie would never use that.’
John Landers pushed the treble Scotch in front of Reg.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Reg with a familiarity which immediately annoyed John. He took a gulp and set down the glass. ‘Ah, that’s good. Goes down a treat.’
It was as much as John could do not to let his lip curl with disdain. For a man whose wife was about to be charged with attempted murder, he was far too relaxed.
John began with small talk. ‘Are you going somewhere for Christmas?’
Reg shook his head. ‘I’m not bothered about Christmas.’
John had spent the afternoon with PC Kipling, hoping that he might have found out something which might help Dottie. The only new development had come from the Eastbourne police. They had discovered that Patsy had been drugged before she was gassed.
‘Auntie Dottie gave me some tea and it tasted funny,’ Patsy had told them.
‘Sleeping pills,’ Kipper had explained to John. ‘The bottle was still in the room.’
‘How does that help Dottie?’ John had asked.
‘It doesn’t,’ Kipper had said as they left the police house together. ‘The bottle belonged to Elizabeth Thornton – Aunt Bessie – which means that Dottie could have drugged Patsy herself.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Wiped clean.’
‘Bit odd,’ John remarked. ‘I mean, if she planned to die herself, why bother?’
Kipper nodded in agreement. ‘Personally I think someone else could have drugged them both but what we need is real, undisputed proof if we’re going to convince anyone of her innocence.’
Now, sitting in front of Reg, John wished he could throttle the truth out of him, but he had to keep calm. ‘How are you coping, Reg?’ said John, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
‘Bearing up,’ said Reg. ‘When it’s all over, the trial and all, I’m leaving this bloody village. Too many bad memories.’
John nodded. ‘Have you heard from Dottie?’
‘Don’t talk to me about that woman,’ Reg spat. ‘She tried to kill my Patsy.’
‘How is Patsy?’
‘Fine,’ said Reg.
John was only too well aware that Patsy hadn’t had any visitors apart from himself.
‘When are you seeing her again?’
‘To tell the truth,’ said Reg quickly. ‘I was planning to go tomorrow.’
You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the bum, thought John.
‘Very nice, you giving me a drink and all, Doc,’ smiled Reg. ‘But was there something you wanted?’
‘This is a bit awkward, Reg,’ said John. Reg downed the rest of his drink and stared at his glass. John waved an arm at Terry.
‘Fire away, Doc.’
‘I think it might be a good idea to put Patsy up for adoption,’ said John. ‘What she needs right now is a mum and dad and a good home. I could handle all the arrangements for you, if you like. You needn’t be involved at all. All you’d have to do was sign on the dotted line, so to speak.’
Reg stared ahead, unblinking. Terry placed another whisky in front of him. Reg looked up at him and then at John.
‘What’s the alternative?’ asked Reg.
‘I can’t really see one, Reg,’ said John. ‘With a full-time job and no wife at home how would you look after Patsy? No, under the circumstances, if she wasn’t adopted, Patsy would have to spend the rest of her life in a children’s home.’
John saw something in the man’s eye; just a flicker, but it chilled him to the bone. It was a look of triumph.
Reg picked up his glass. ‘Nobody’s adopting my Patsy,’ he said maliciously. ‘Not no-how.’
Dottie sat perfectly still, her cup of tea in her hand. She and Sylvie waited until the nurse left the ward with the tea trolley then Sylvie handed her a small bundle and Dottie climbed out of bed and padded to the toilet. She changed very quickly. As soon as the staff nurse rang the visitors’ bell, Dottie emerged, looking every bit as smart as Sylvie always did.
The two women hurried down the corridor with the rest of the visitors and a while later they were both in Sylvie’s car and on their way back to Worthing.
‘He’s probably put all my things in Aunt Bessie’s room,’ said Dottie when Sylvie told her all her own things were gone. ‘He doesn’t like going in there and he doesn’t like me at the moment, so I reckon that’s what he’s done.’
By the time they arrived at Myrtle Cottage, it was very late in the evening.
‘Do you want me to go in?’ asked Sylvie drawing up outside.
Dottie shook her head. She froze as she thought she saw Reg coming towards her, pushing his bike, but it was just a piece of red cloth flapping on the post guarding the old well.
Dottie ran up the garden path and round the back of the house. She fumbled for the spare key she always kept under the mangle. It was still there but when she tried the door, it was already unlocked.
Dottie crept inside. All she had to do was grab a few things and Auntie Bessie’s picture and then she’d go – but when she put on the light, she gasped in horror. Sylvie was right. The place had been stripped bare. Nothing of hers remained. All her jams and jellies, her lovely cushions and her pretty chairbacks, even they were all gone. There was a coat hanging on the nail behind the door but it wasn’t hers; a coat with a pretty filigree brooch on the lapel. Dottie’s blood ran cold. That was the brooch she’d found all that long time ago in the drawer in Reg’s shed.
She crept into the sitting room, Aunt Bessie’s picture wasn’t there either. In fact, none of her photographs were here.
Back in the kitchen, Dottie heard a footfall upstairs. Someone else was here! Grabbing the bread knife from the table, she went to the foot of the stairs and looked up. A tarty blonde woman dressed only in a silk petticoat stood at the top.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Who are you?’ said Dottie. ‘You don’t sound very surprised to see me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I remember that perfume,’ said Dottie slowly. ‘You were staying in the B&B, and …’ she frowned, ‘you were in the bungalow.’
‘I’ll be more careful next time,’ said the woman.
‘You tried to kill me,’ said Dottie bitterly.
The woman smiled and leaned back against the doorframe. ‘You mean you tried to kill yourself and the kid.’
‘You and Reg tried to make it look like that, but I have witnesses … proof.’
The woman stood up straight. ‘Rubbish! No one will believe you. You’re only playing the innocent to get hold of Reg’s money.’
‘Reg has no money,’ said Dottie coldly. She stared at the woman again. ‘I know you from somewhere. I’ve seen you before.’
‘I’ve never seen you before,’ said the woman tossing her head defiantly. ‘Except in a photo.’
‘That’s it,’ cried Dottie. ‘You’re the woman in the photograph. Reg has a picture of you in his shed.’
The woman smiled. ‘The dirty dog,’ she said. ‘He told me he’d got rid of those.’
A picture of the woman, some years younger, it was true, and apart from a little more weight, looking much the same, floated before Dottie’s eyes. It was the one she’d seen the night she found the hammer in Reg’s shed. The woman in the photo had fewer clothes on than she did now and she was posing provocatively, but it was her all right. Dottie shuddered.
She turned away in disgust. ‘Where are my things?’
‘He got rid of them, chucked them away,’ said the woman. ‘This is his place now. There’s nothing here for you, Dot Cox.’
Dottie’s head swam. Chucked them away? What, all her clothes? What gave Reg the right to do that? It was all falling into place now. Being nice to her, taking her and Patsy on the trip to Eastbourne … second honeymoon, my eye. They’d planned it all together, hadn’t they? Get her and Patsy to some isolated spot and make it look as if Dottie had planned to commit suicide and ended up killing Patsy. Two birds with one stone. Neat. And it had worked.
They’d almost done it. And right now she was left with nothing, not even the clothes she stood up in.
‘What the hell are you doing here anyway?’ the woman said.
Dottie had never felt so angry in her whole life. She put one foot on the bottom stair and the bread knife glistened in her hand. The woman went white and Dottie could see her trembling through her transparent petticoat.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Dottie coldly. ‘Poor mad killer that I am, I’ve escaped.’
The woman snatched at her own throat.
‘Oh yes,’ Dottie went on. ‘They’ve found enough evidence to prove it wasn’t me who killed Patsy. They know Reg did it. And what’s more, they know he wasn’t alone.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I have never lied to anyone,’ said Dottie.
For a second or two, the woman stared at her, then turning away she said, ‘I’m getting out of here,’ and the bedroom door slammed.
Putting the bread knife back on the table, Dottie hurried back down the path. It wouldn’t be long before Reg came back and the last thing she wanted was to be arrested in her own home.
She paused halfway to the gate, sensing something menacing behind her. Her feet were rooted to the spot. She turned slowly. He was standing by the shed door and took a step towards her.
‘Don’t even think about it, Reg,’ she said in a voice so full of strength it surprised even herself.
He hesitated. ‘Yeah, you’re right. You’re on your way to a long prison sentence. Maybe they’ll even hang you.’
He laughed softly. Dottie heard Sylvie open the car door.
‘As soon as you’re safely locked up,’ Reg carried on, ‘me and my Patsy are going to be together.’
‘Over my dead body,’ Dottie spat.
‘My Joyce knows some people who would pay good money for a nice little totty like her. They won’t worry that she’s a darkie.’
Anger blazed up in Dottie’s chest. Behind her, Sylvie called out her name sharply. Shaking with pain and frustration, Dottie turned on her heel and headed for the car.
By the time Tom came downstairs after Mary had called him, Dottie was sitting at the table, with her head in her hands.
