He was quiet.,
“It’ll be okay,” I said, “There’s a lot of other stuff going on, Roland. The thing with your dad, it’s not going to be that important really.”
I finished the call and sat for a few moments, my heart leaden in my chest. I thought of Miriam getting into Eddie’s car, the drive to Cannon Street. Why there? Driving up the ramps to the top floor. Miriam beside him, quiet or crying or talking, perhaps trying to make sense of it all. Eddie opening the car door, her door, pulling her, lifting her, Miriam clutching her handbag, rendered senseless by her crippling fear of heights, twisting to get away but not enough strength, like a dream, running in sand ...
I rubbed at my face, shook my head in an effort to clear the images. I took a couple of slow breaths and then started the car and drove to my office. Harry had sent me an email and a pile of attachments. I opened these in turn and speed-read them. They were cuttings from newspapers, most of them. References to a Cliff Edwards, manager of a residential home in Exeter, and a Clive Edmonds, project worker at a new arts centre for people with learning difficulties in Shrewsbury, a picture showed ‘Clive’ and three clients holding pottery they had made. There were also several items on Eddie Cliff, who was a minor golfing celebrity in the eighties and bore no resemblance to the man I knew and lastly a feature on Clifford Eddy receiving a civic award for work in the community from Bristol City Council. The same man, variations on a name, a list of jobs each giving him access to vulnerable girls and women, putting him in a position of trust and of power.
If the police did nothing and social services were willing to begin an inquiry I could give them this lot to start with.
While Ray went shopping I got the Christmas decorations and the cast iron tree stand out from the cellar. The children helped me sort through what we had, we threw away some broken ornaments. The fairy lights still worked. I cleared a space for the tree in the corner of the lounge.
My mobile began to tweet.
“Sal Kilkenny.”
“This is Mrs Wood. You wished to talk to me.”
My pulse quickened. “Yes. In confidence.”
“Of course. You mentioned a complaint?” She didn’t sound happy about it.
“Yes.”
“Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin’s run away ...”
“Shush,” I hissed at the children and pointed to the play room.
“Sorry,” I went on, “I’m afraid it’s very serious and I don’t want to speak out of turn but it involves Eddie Cliff. I’ve actually been to the police about it this afternoon though it might also be an issue for social services. I wanted to get your details, as chair of the management, so that I can pass them on to the authorities. It’s out of my hands now.”
“Good grief,” she said. “What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath. “There may have been some incidents of sexual abuse.”
“Surely not,” she said sharply. “Eddie! Have you any proof?”
“It’s hearsay at the moment,” I admitted. “I’m convinced there’s substance behind it and I realise how important it is that it’s dealt with properly. There have been allegations in the past.”
“In the past?”
“There were similar incidents at Horizons in Hull where he worked.”
“But they gave us references.”
“He forged them.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I’ve spoken to his former employer. Yes.”
“This is awful,” she said.
“I know. And there’s more ... other ... suspicions that I’ve asked the police to look into.”
“What?”
“Eddie Cliff lied to the police when they were investigating Miriam Johnstone’s death.”
“The lady who committed suicide?”
“That’s right. The police may want to speak to him again. They haven’t decided yet.”
“Why would he lie? Exactly what are you suggesting?” she demanded.
“Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,” the kids began, their voices carrying and becoming louder; they were out of sight so I couldn’t gesture to them to shut up. I bent down trying to shield the phone with my body.
“He may have had some involvement. It’s possible.”
“What sort of involvement?”
I didn’t want to spell it out. Until there was solid evidence against him I sensed she would be protective of him. “I think he may know more about what happened than he is saying. He was the last person to see Miriam alive.”
“You think he was a witness?”
Worse. “Yes,” I said.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, “any of it. Of all the people I’ve worked with in my time ... there’s never been any concerns expressed. Quite the reverse and then this.”
“... had a very shiny nose, like a lamp post ...”
She exhaled then became businesslike. “Well, we obviously need to get to the bottom of it. If you’re making some terrible mistake I would want to quash any rumours before they take hold. Who else knows about all this? You say you’ve spoken to the police already?”
“Yes. I hope to talk to social services after the holiday. And the police have said they will be considering whether they intend to take any further action. I’ll give them your details so they can liaise with you as his employer. Social services will know the proper procedures and everything.”
“False allegations are not unheard of,” she said. “As his employers, the committee will have to make sure that he gets treated fairly at the same time as we ensure that there’s no risk to any of the people who use the centre. But if there is gross misconduct going on I can tell you now we will act swiftly and decisively. If this is just hearsay, though ...”
“ ... called him names, like tomato face ...”
“Yes,” I interrupted her. “As yet, no one has been prepared to speak openly about what he’s done, either here or in his previous place of work. If social services or the police can’t get anyone to testify, I don’t know what will happen. And, like I said, the police will have to decide whether he has further questions to answer about Miriam Johnstone.”
“Good grief,” she said again, the realisation of crisis rocking her formal efficiency. “I hope you’re wrong.”
I said nothing.
“ ....in any reindeer games, like Monopoly ...”
“If I could have your number?”
She gave me her work and home phone numbers. Exchanged terse goodbyes.
I put my phone down and went into the playroom. “I was on the phone,” I said. “I couldn’t hear.”
They looked at me as though I was speaking Mandarin then went on with their game.
As I went through to the kitchen I heard strange sounds coming from the cellar; rustling noises. The door was ajar and I switched the light on at the top of the stairs and went down. The sounds were coming from the little room underneath the front of the house. We use it for storing stuff. I felt a stir of unease. Something was in there. Rats attack if they’re cornered. Oh, God. I went into Ray’s workshop and selected a long piece of doweling. I went slowly back and used it to pull aside the curtain we had tacked up there in place of a door.
Digger was crouched over gnawing away at part of a body. I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat and shock charge through me. “No, Digger!” I yelled.
He peered up at me and stole out of the room and past me. I heard the kids coming, alerted by my shout.
It was the turkey, just the sodding turkey. Relief made my legs shake. I let the curtain fall back.
“What is it,” Maddie said. Tom behind her eyes alight with interest.
“Nothing, it’s all right. Digger was after the turkey.”
“Where is it?”
“In there,” I pointed.
“Let’s see,” said Tom.
I obliged.
Digger had chewed away most of one thigh but the rest looked intact.
“Gross!” Maddie said.
“It’s all spotty,” said Tom.
“Like goose bumps,” I agreed, “but those are turkey bumps.”
“I’m not eating any of that,” Maggie announced.
Neither was I.
“It’ll be fine; we’ll give it a wipe and once it’s cooked you can decide.”
“But Digger’s licked it and everything.”
Tom chortled. “And he licks his bum.”
“Well, you can always have a veggie Christmas dinner with me.”
“That’s worse,” she said.
Reluctantly I picked the thing up and took it to wash off the grime from the kitchen floor. I put it back on a shelf in the same room but way out of Digger’s reach.
Ray arrived back not long after with several boxes of provisions and a big, bushy spruce. The children related with glee the story of Digger and the turkey. I reassured Ray that not much damage had been done. The four of us dressed the tree together, sharing out the baubles and tinsel equally between the children who kept squabbling.
I thought of the Reeves family. What sort of Christmas awaited them? And the family in York - when would the bombshell hit them? Would Ken be spending Christmas in either household? Or in a B&B somewhere getting drunk in his room and missing his children? How long would it take the police to move and begin proceedings against him? What a hopeless mess. It had been a peculiar case. From a professional point of view I’d done a good job. I’d been successful in getting to the root of what was behind Adam’s troubled behaviour but the outcome had been devastating rather than satisfying. The best that could come of it was that Adam would settle again, rediscover his direction in life and that Susan would be able to hold the family together, help them adjust to a new life.
And the Johnstones. The first Christmas without their mother. Still grieving and tomorrow I had to tell them that I thought Miriam had been killed. That she had not chosen to leave them, that she’d not been so distressed that death seemed the safest place but that she had been taken from them, forcibly, that it was murder. And almost worse than this I had no real, solid proof. So the chance of being able to pursue justice was by no means guaranteed. The police may or may not review the case. It would be in their hands and they had hardly given their all the first time round. I had to tell them the truth as I saw it. But it wasn’t some gleaming, bright clear thing but a weight; sordid and slippery and hard to bear.
I climbed on the chair to put the star on top and the tree was done. We turned off the light and plugged in the fairy lights. It was lovely, the tiny lights glowing and twinkling, the scent of pine filling the room.
“I can’t wait till Christmas,” Maddie said, “I just can’t wait. Are you excited, Mummy?”
“Mmm,” I said.
But all I felt, burdened by the dirty truth, was apprehension, drumming its fingers on my heart, clutching at my belly; a tense tattoo of dread to accompany me onward to what lurked ahead.
Chapter Forty Seven
Stuart took one look at my face and his expression shifted. The warmth replaced by uncertainty. Oh, Stuart. Did I really have to go through with this? But I couldn’t switch back to how I felt before, my emotions wouldn’t rewind. I didn’t feel excitement now just embarrassment and I realised I felt sorry for him. Not a healthy basis for anything.
“Come in,” he said. “I’ve opened some wine.”
“Thanks.” I took my coat off and sat on the sofa, took the glass he offered me. There was the evocative aroma of wood smoke from the stove. I wondered if he was burning something special - apple or cherry - in my honour. Fluttering in my stomach.
“About Natalie,” he said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d do something like that.”
“Stuart, I’ve been thinking. This - us - it isn’t what I want at the moment.”
“But you can’t hold me responsible for how she behaves. I’ll talk to her.”
“No. It’s not that, well not just that.” I sighed. I could feel my cheeks burning and it wasn’t the fire. “Maybe it’s the timing, I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready for a relationship, too long on my own. I don’t know.” I cupped the glass in my hands studied the ruby surface, the reflections from the stove and the candles.
A pause.
“You never said anything. I thought we were getting on really well.”
I thought back. We had been and then we hadn’t. Or I hadn’t. When had it changed? When did I start to notice those little flaws, like how he was better at talking than listening, how he took his time to return my calls? And, once noticed, they seemed to grow until they were all I could see. If there had been more of a pull, more than a general sexual attraction, it might have been worth talking to him about all that, investing in trying to make it work but there wasn’t.
I drank some wine.
“It was good,” I told him. “But it’s changed for me. I’m sorry. I can’t really explain it very well but I don’t want to carry on. I’m sorry.”
“Can we talk about it?” He stared at the fire.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
He exhaled. Filled his glass and drank some.
I felt awkward and desperate to leave.
“If you need some time ...”
Oh, don’t!
“No. Thanks but ... I think I’ll go.”
I’d been there all of five minutes.
“That’s it?” He asked. “No chance to talk about it, nothing?” Emotion edged his voice. “You’ve decided so that’s it? It was good, you said so yourself, maybe it could be like that again? If we don’t talk about it ...”
“Stuart ...”
“Please, Sal, listen.”
It was the last thing I wanted to do. Was I being unfair? I gave a small nod.
“I like you, I like you a lot. You’re the first person I’ve met since Nat and I broke up that comes anywhere near the sort of relationship I’m looking for.”
I gazed into the stove, watching the tongues of fire lick about the wood.
“I’m not saying it would last forever, it’s too soon to tell but I don’t want to lose you, not just end it,” he sighed. “There must be things that would help, we could give it another few weeks, talk about what might work for us at the moment ...”
“Stuart,” I couldn’t let him go on; it hurt to realise how much he wanted me. His honesty was salt in the wounds. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t change how I feel now.”
“You like me.”
“It’s not enough. I don’t want to pretend.”
“God,” he sighed, put his head in his hands.
“Anything else would just be messing you about. That wouldn’t be fair.”
“And this is?”
“I’m sorry. I’m going to go now.”
We stood up, both leaning forward for my coat. A ripple of embarrassment. I took it from him, slipped it on. He saw me to the door. I imagined us shaking hands. It made me want to laugh. Nerves. I didn’t want him to kiss me. He didn’t try. We hugged. I could smell his cologne, a light, grassy scent. He had thought I might stay. He would have made up the bed, perhaps bought treats for breakfast. Don’t do this, Sal. The sex had always been good. But sex wasn’t enough, there was everything else.
I pulled away. We said goodbye.
Was I mad? He was a nice man and there weren’t many available. Would that be it for the next few years? The sum total of my relationships? Would I always be so picky? Yes, Stuart had flaws but the good things far outweighed them. And he really liked me. He’d been gutted. Was a single life really preferable to compromising? I was turning my back on sex and affection and someone to stroke my head and laugh with. Why wouldn’t I settle for anything less than perfect?
I wanted to ring Diane and go out to a club and get rat-arsed with her and dance myself stupid but Diane was in Iceland. Everyone else I knew well enough to tell about it was snugly settled in happy coupledom and well out of the clubbing habit. Not that I’d even know which clubs were playing what these days. And
I shouldn’t get drunk anyway. Laura and I were taking the kids for their promised walk in the morning while Ray cracked on with his furniture and I was seeing the Johnstones at two. A hangover wouldn’t help. I shouldn’t get drunk. But shouldn’t and wouldn’t are two different things. So I did.
I sat by the tree with a lamp on and a bottle of Merlot by my side and wrote more hopelessly late Christmas cards. I stayed up to watch the film until the wine ran out and my eyes began to dehydrate.
I drank two pints of water, knowing it wouldn’t come close, and got to bed. I don’t remember getting into bed but that’s where I woke up on Sunday morning. With my head lanced with pain, a churning stomach and a large pebble where my tongue should have been.
“Where are we going?”
“To the caves.”
The children bounced around like ping-pong balls in the hall while Laura and I gathered outdoor clothes together.
“Why isn’t Daddy coming?” Tom asked.
“He’s got to finish his chairs,” Laura told him.
Digger yelped as Tom trod on his paw which made Maddie scream. A thin needle of agony stitched through my temple. I was hoping the Nurofen would kick in soon. It had been half-an-hour.
“Don’t scream,” I said carefully. No one heard.
My phone rang and I shooed them out to the car with Laura while I took the call.
“It’s Bryony Walker. I’m sorry to ring you over the weekend but I thought you’d like to know, I’ve got some good news.”
My pulse increased and my head throbbed more.
“What is it?”
“I was with an old friend in Brum last night. She’s been working on an inquiry down in Devon and Cornwall with the police. Guess whose name came up.”
“Eddie Cliff.”
“Bingo. Except he was going by the name of Cliff Edwards, working there way back in the mid-seventies. Anyway, to cut a long story short, there are two women who have come forward and are prepared to talk about what happened.”
Oh, yes! “Brilliant. And they’ll be able to prosecute?”
“Fingers crossed. I’ll give you the name of the officer in charge of the inquiry and you can pass it on to the authorities at your end.”
Towers of Silence Page 20
