Chapter 7
At five p.m. on Thursday, the day after Chloe was killed, we arrived at Lizzie Donegan-Moat’s bungalow. It was at the top of a short steep driveway in a quiet horseshoe off Gilnahirk Road. At the bottom of the drive was a baby blue gate and to the side a large front garden with foliage growing out of control.
Lizzie was in the back garden when we called. She brought us through the side gate, also painted the same shade of blue as the front one. In the back garden, there were patio views of Stormont and some farm land. Horses stood in the distance.
Lizzie had been sunning herself and now she sat back down on a fat, green lounge chair. We sat facing her on the bench.
‘Do you think this is our summer?’ she asked, holding her arms over her eyes to block out the sun.
‘Probably,’ I said.
She looked at her painted toenails, curled them over her flip flop. ‘You know,’ Lizzie said, ‘when you just love someone and then, they’re gone.’
‘It must be hard for you, you said you were close,’ said Higgins.
‘The closest,’ said Lizzie. ‘And Chloe was the closest thing I have to a wee sister. I’d call her my wee sister. Just loved the bones of her.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ I said.
‘Thanks. Really.’ She looked at me with apprehension. ‘Did you speak to Lewis?’
‘Yes, we did. Thanks for pointing us in his direction.’
‘Pleasure! What did he say?’
‘Lewis sends his condolences.’
‘And anything else?’
‘I can’t really say.’
‘What am I asking of you? Did he have an alibi, that’s what I mean?’
‘He was helpful.’
‘Oh, that’s a relief,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s better that it’s not him – if it isn’t. They had their problems, so … It’s usually the boyfriend in these cases.’
‘But he’s Chloe’s ex,’ said Higgins.
‘You’re right. It’s probably nothing to do with Lewis Skelly.’
‘Do you know of anybody Chloe was having problems with?’ Higgins asked her.
Lizzie bit her bottom lip. ‘I did have this vision pop into my head as soon as I heard. After the shock and the … upset and everything else. Not that I’m not shocked and upset now.’
‘What was the vision you had?’ I asked, trying to fine tune her attention.
‘There was this man I remember Chloe telling me about. A gardener. I have this vision he killed Chloe. Now I can’t get it out of my mind.’
‘Do you have any reason to suspect he actually hurt Chloe, this man?’
‘He was aggressive to her.’
‘’Allo ’allo,’ said a voice coming from indoors, a male voice, English accent. Liverpudlian. He stepped outside to join us; Lizzie’s babe. The man who had collected her in his Merc from the Taylor’s house the day before. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it when I saw the police car.’
Lizzie looked at him harshly. ‘Not funny, Justin.’
‘Not trying to be. I was just saying hello.’
‘This is Justin,’ she said, ‘my partner.’
Justin was in overalls, tanned and muscled. Very good looking. Very conventionally good looking. Meaning, not my type.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Chloe. She was such a beautiful girl.’
‘Yeah, I always said that,’ said Lizzie. ‘She was adorable, actually, if that’s a sin.’
Justin sat beside Lizzie on the sun lounger and almost toppled it. Justin stretched his feet out to rebalance it and laughed lightly. He took her hand in his as Lizzie shook her head at him then slowly, sadly smiled.
‘I was just telling the police about my vision,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Justin. ‘The gardener. The word vision makes you sound well away.’ He tilted his head and wrinkled his sunburnt nose.
‘A thought, is more like it,’ Lizzie corrected herself.
‘Can we hear more about that thought?’ Higgins prompted. ‘Lizzie, you were about to say …’
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt,’ said Justin.
‘No, not all,’ said Lizzie, then to Higgins, ‘There was one time this man was cutting the grass and Chloe went out to say something to him. And he was inappropriate, like, ‘‘Are you not pregnant yet? Do you want to be?” That kind of thing.’
‘The gardener really said this to Chloe?’ asked Higgins amazed.
‘Yes, he really did,’ said Lizzie with conviction, as if she felt Higgins was doubting her.
‘Did they know each other?’ I asked.
‘No. This was out of the blue. He saw she was at home on her own. Chloe went out to pay him, and he said that and more, lots of smutty talk. And obviously Chloe told him to swing his hook. He said, something like, “When you pay me you can tell me to sling my hook, love.”
‘And she said, “It is my house,” and he was like, “It’s hardly your house, wee doll. But if you want to pay me in kind, I have something you can suck here”.’
‘What the fuck!’ said Justin, tensing angrily. ‘I didn’t know all of that, Lizzie. I’d like to have a chat to this guy now.’
The look of shock on Carl Higgins’ face was palpable. Sadly, I’m past all that.
‘I knew you would be protective if you knew the most of it, Just,’ Lizzie said. ‘But don’t you worry, Chloe unleashed all fury on him. Sexist pig.’
‘Is right!’ said Justin, his face serious. He stared off into the field.
‘The gardener stood firm, said he wasn’t leaving. Chloe told me later, see.’ Lizzie looked at me now as she explained that Chloe was intimidated by him. ‘Chloe said he started becoming physically aggressive toward her. And he was like, more than twice her age. Twice her size!’
‘Would you have a name for this gardener?’ I asked.
‘Might be wise to ask Chloe’s dad,’ said Justin.
‘No need. I have it,’ said Lizzie. ‘Because I took heed. He’s not someone I’d ever use if that’s how he speaks to customers. He goes under Bushwhacked. That’s his business.’
‘You’re thinking of the gardener we had in Coleraine,’ said Justin.
‘So I am! Clipped and Trimmed, that’s him.’
‘Thank you,’ Higgins said. ‘We’ll make a point to talk to him.’
‘Mister Clipped and Trimmed is lucky I didn’t know about this,’ said Justin, still acting the tough guy. ‘Sorry, folks, I’ve to get on to work now.’ He stood and Lizzie stood to kiss him goodbye, she in flip flops slightly taller than him. She sniffed his neck. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘you’ve got sunscreen on, though your nose has got a bit of sun.’
‘See, told you I listen.’
‘He works on the building site,’ she explained to Higgins and me.
‘Yeah, good to meet you both. Ta-ra, and good luck finding that gardener,’ he said.
*
By six p.m. I called Sylvia to say Paul would collect the boys, and to do the handover; expecting they would be too distracted in person.
‘They miss you, Harriet,’ Sylvia said. ‘I showed them your photo and they reached for it. Next thing they started crying for you. Jared was saying, ‘‘Mama, Mama,’’ over and over.’
‘Pets!’ I said. ‘But maybe don’t show them a photo of me in future. Just an idea …’
After she’d told me all about their day, mostly negative, Sylvia said, ‘Have you thought of going part-time? It’s just that it is a long shift for them to put in. They’ve had you all to themselves this last year.’
‘Do you not want to do this, Sylvia? Do you not want to help me?’ I asked her, because she had said often enough that she wanted to mind them. Since they were tiny.
Before the twins were born she’d been dropping hints. Now it looked like the sheen had worn off real fast. Reality had set in and they were too active for her, able to pull themselves up to stand, about to walk any day.
‘No, I’m not saying that … don�
�t put words in my mouth,’ said Sylvia.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘because a girl has been murdered here.’
‘I know, I’m sorry for her family. But family should be with family.’
I was sure she meant that I should be at home with my children and that I should screw the career I had lived for all those years before; the service no longer mattered in my life. Neither did I.
But there were two pulling horses in my life; motherhood and career. And my career was – more than ever – my remedy for restlessness. I had decided that you were not a mother until you started to avoid the act of mothering. I had earned my badge in that respect.
Sylvia and my brother could not have children. Not that they were open to discuss things like that, but I had always pictured them like The Waltons: with a big God-fearing brood of kids at the table. Low ponytails, dungarees and prayers.
They were going through the process of trying to adopt a child. Now the words family should be with family made me think I could have been rude back, said that my children were more family to her than the child they planned to adopt, and that they were willing to sacrifice every belief, and dole out every platitude, to suit their own agenda.
But I stopped myself, because we are all guilty of doing the same.
I gave Paul the evening off and I collected the boys to save any fuss. The whole time Sylvia stood on her doorstep in her too-short jeans, shaking her head, her teardrop earrings vibrating, annoying me even more.
We said nothing.
*
At home, I left the boys with Paul and swung by the Lisburn Road into Bawnmore Road, to Bethany Nursing Home to see Mother.
I had not been guilted by my sister-in-law, I had planned to go anyway. Our family had a rota. Not that I could always make my time, now I was working again. Tonight I could.
It was shortly after seven p.m., and although it was technically my time, Father was still there.
‘I didn’t think you’d come tonight,’ he said.
‘I have some time,’ I said. ‘Not much though. Paul has the boys so I’m good for a while.’
‘What do you mean you’re good? That’s how they talk on the TV. When did everyone become so Americanised? You’re not good, Harriet, you’re fine. Fine for time,’ he grumbled.
Father was doing a crossword, tapping his pen on the page. I had ruined his concentration. I looked over his shoulder; there was one space left.
‘What’s the clue?’ I asked.
‘To exercise one’s power of reason in order to make decisions, solutions or judgements.’
‘How many letters?’
‘Eleven,’ said Father.
‘Beginning with which letter?’
‘E.’
I stared at it for a while but he was sighing and scratching his head, so I went to the bedside.
‘Hi, Mummy,’ I said. ‘I’m only nipping in for a while. I’m back at work now. Paul has the babies,’ I told her too; I said it as if she knew who Paul was.
He had been in to see her a couple of times, and being medically minded he was very good with her, but he was also too clinical. She was a case study for him, and I was fed up of him asking about her medical history and talking to the staff at the home using all that jargon of his that pushed me out of my own existence.
Paul didn’t know the woman Mother once was, and she didn’t know him. Maybe I was mentioning Paul and the babies for my father’s ears, to see if he would say: That’s great. You’ve got a good one there! A fine one! Me, wanting his approval for the man I was now sharing my life with. It made me think Jackie had been kinder about Lewis.
But my ex-husband Jason, Father had liked immensely. All the Sloanes had been suckered in.
‘Harry,’ said Dad. ‘This is the last one. Eleven letters. Excuse is all I can think, but that’s too short … oh, I don’t know.’
I went to look at it again. ‘No, Daddy, it can’t start with an e. Look at this one, 4 across: a saline fluid secreted by the sweat glands, twelve letters.’
‘Perspiration,’ he said.
‘Yes. But you’ve misspelt it. You have prespiration. That’s not a word.’
‘Alright, Harriet,’ he snapped defensively.
‘Clue, eleven letters, starts with an r … not an e.’
‘Alright!’ He turned the paper over and slammed down his pen.
‘It’s going alright at work … now I’m back,’ I said. He was silent. ‘I’m working on the Taylor case.’ Still silent. ‘Chloe Taylor: young woman; she was murdered in the PACT offices on the Upper Newtownards Road. You probably heard.’
No doubt he had. He had a special interest in all things Belfast and all things crime, especially in my district. But Father said nothing. He was distracted, when usually he was all for hearing about my cases, being the ex-Chief Constable during the RUC days. Always helpful, usually overstepping by telling me how to do my job.
But that evening in the nursing home, nothing. He almost reminded me of when I married Jason and he said, ‘I’ve always been good to you’ – and he had – ‘but I can’t pay for this and that anymore. Time you and your man look after yourselves.’
Father was handing me over and then I felt like he was almost punishing me, and we’d always been so close. We had a bond he didn’t have with his other four children, and I was leaving that bond to have another one with another man.
Needless to say it didn’t last, after what happened with Jason and me. Father still doesn’t know the half of it and probably never will. But Paul really was a good guy, less charming, granted, and definitely less psychotic than Jason. But a good guy. And it felt as if having him in my life – and my sons – had pushed Father aside. He had little time for me, and I – really, and especially now I was working – had little time for him. Sad fact.
‘I must get back,’ I said. I kissed Mother twice. Once on the border of her brow, once on the crest of her nose.
Father was embarrassed and tetchy, but he was still as sharp as a pin. Although he’d always had his quirks: corrupted barbed wire with bob wire, and misspelt things all the time: excited was exited, and especially, expecially. He never appreciated correction. Though who would? He was a man whose pride could be easily hurt, and that hurt me, because he was old and suddenly a bit silly, and certainly not invincible or powerful anymore. Just another one of those fading men you see everywhere you look.
He seemed like a little boy and I felt towards him how I did for Jared and Rowan. Protective, but also terrified of my potential to damage him.
Father grumbled as I left and just sat staring out of the window. I don’t think he actually looked me in the eye the whole time I was there.
Driving home I went past my old house with the apple tree in the garden and I thought of Jason some more. That poison in my mind was waning now, thankfully.
When I was early on in my pregnancy with the twins, I got an email from him reminding me that we were still married and he would try to get custody. Who had given that bastard my email and who had told him I was pregnant? My stomach turned to lava all night.
But now, as I passed the old house where he kept me prisoner in fear for my life, I was thankful for how he had become less significant with the growing of this new life I found myself living, so far removed from everything I ever wanted, but suddenly all I wanted.
There was a new clearness and I could rationalise.
‘Rationalise,’ I said aloud. Then I counted the letters. Eleven letters.
To exercise one’s power of reason in order to make decisions, solutions or judgements.
I knew it would bug Father all day, and although I was tempted to let it, I could not do that to him. So I pulled over and texted him the last answer but I never received a reply, even though his mobile phone was right beside him.
Chapter 8
You only really have bad moments when you remember them. The good moments are just the ones you have forgotten.
I quickly remembered that when I was sta
nding in the kitchen of my house and he came from behind, wrapping his arms over my shoulder, asking me if I was tense and in need of a massage – I think – but I elbowed him in the stomach before he got to finish the offer. Good thing he wasn’t holding one of the babies.
‘Paul! Sorry, it’s just instinct,’ I said as I turned. ‘It’s the job.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, just about, getting his breath back.
‘It’s the job, Paul,’ I repeated.
‘I don’t think it is,’ he said. ‘You’re just highly strung like no one I know.’
Then you haven’t met someone who has been held hostage for days … and the rest, I thought. But why ruin a perfectly good relationship with sad facts? Paul was right, it was not the job. The facts were that Jason would have murdered me, only he didn’t want to go down for it. I was not worth his life, because one thing I know is that he is a bully, but even more than that I know he is a coward. I couldn’t have cared if it was a stranger on a job who attacked me, but this man was supposed to love me, supposed to protect me, in sickness … and the rest.
‘I’m so sorry, Paul. It’s my mother,’ I lied.
He looked sad, a fake sad. ‘How was your mum?’
‘Is she ever anything but what she is?’ I paused but he did not speak. ‘When she was a judge,’ I said, ‘and, Paul, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. It’s this case I’m working, I suppose … and the Belfast Rape Trial last month.’
I said all of this as a distraction for my reflexive attack on him and as a distraction for myself, and to get my ex-husband out my mind. I could not go back to fearing him or fearing life like that again. And I suppose I had been triggered, as Americans say.
‘What is on your mind?’ asked Paul.
‘Mother would always have let the man walk in cases of domestic abuse.’
‘She was working at a certain time, Harry.’
‘I can’t get my head around it,’ I said. ‘My mother didn’t really like or believe women. She didn’t …’ I thought aloud, forgetting myself. I was worried I was like her. I’d had my eyes opened by life, mine and those I saw intimately. Mother worked in a courtroom, and in an office, she did not go into people’s homes and see the devastation.
Problems with Girls (DI Sloane Book 2) Page 5
