by Agatha Frost
“Your father knows.” Janet reached out and pushed open the door, snapping for Claire to get in. “He’s just been on the phone asking about you visiting Pat in prison. I played dumb, but he knows.”
“What?” Claire jumped into the car. “No, no, no! I didn’t want it to happen like this. I was going to tell him now. That’s why I was going home.”
“Well, someone got there first.” Janet set off up the lane towards the cul-de-sac. “It was bound to happen, Claire. You must have told someone with a big mouth!”
“Only Em, Ryan, and Sally know,” she said. “And gran. And you.”
“Who didn’t you tell?”
“DI Ramsbottom,” she said, wincing. “He found out from Pat. When we had coffee just now, he’d just been to see Dad. He must have said something not realising it was a secret.”
“That’s your problem!” Janet cried. “What’s with all the secrets all of a sudden?”
“Can we just drive in silence.”
“Really, Claire?”
“Yes.”
“I’m only saying,” she muttered. “We never kept secrets from each other, that’s all.”
“We also didn’t have a murderer in the family.”
To Claire’s surprise, her bluntness was all it took to get the silence she wanted. Her head spun as she scrambled for the pathetic excuses she’d give for not being open with her father. Technically, he’d started it, and her only real crime was not telling him the truth. She wasn’t sure if that was the same as lying, but it made her feel just as bad.
As Janet reversed the car into the parking space in front of their cottage, Claire’s phone rang in her handbag. She leaned down to get it in the footwell, smiling and nodding at Graham as he pruned his rose bushes. He tipped his head to her and gave Janet a little wave. She waved right back, her brightest ‘everything is wonderful’ smile plastered widely from ear to ear.
“It’s Sally,” she explained as she pressed the green answer button. “Hello, mate. What’s up?”
“Must you talk like that?” her mother muttered. “It’s so informal.”
“Mate?” Sally called down the phone, the echo indicating she was on a loudspeaker. “I’ve just got to your uncle’s place. I thought you said you left it as it was?”
“We did,” she replied, turning away from her mother, who didn’t know she’d spent the previous night in her uncle’s cottage and not at Sally’s drinking wine. That was definitely a lie. “Put everything we touched back where it came from. Except for the beer, but we threw the cans in the recycling.”
Janet tutted.
“You can go inside, you know,” Claire said, resting the phone against her shoulder for a moment before putting it back to her ear. “Everything alright?”
Sally screamed, sounding like she was on the other side of the room.
“Mate?” Claire called. “Sally? You alright?”
But Sally only continued to scream.
“Drive!” Claire demanded, slapping the dashboard. “Christ Church Square. I think Sally’s in trouble.”
“Now I bet you’re glad I stayed in the car.”
Janet reversed out, her usually slow driving suddenly nippy. She swung the car around the cul-de-sac, mounting the kerb and almost knocking down Graham’s fence in the process. She waved an apology before speeding down the lane as fast as the automatic car could take them. They approached the bridge so quickly Claire felt the wheels take momentary flight.
“Now I know why you drive so slowly!”
“I won’t take driving advice from someone who failed her test so many times she was on first name terms with all the instructors at the test centre.”
After a few sharp turns, Janet screeched to a halt in the square, blocking off the rest of the vehicles in the small car park in the process. Claire jumped out and ran straight through the open door and into the middle cottage. Sally was in the kitchen, and she dove on Claire the second she saw her. While Sally hugged her, Claire looked around. The few items in the room were strewn on the floor, all smashed up.
“This is not how I left it,” Claire said shakily. “It looks like someone had a fight.”
Pickles waltzed in and wrapped himself around Claire’s feet a couple of times before sauntering to the now empty biscuit bowl.
“The door was open,” Sally said, her shaking finger pointing at the entrance to the casino. “I would never have seen him otherwise.”
“Seen who?”
Claire let go of Sally and stepped over Pickles. In the corner, she reached out to push the door all the way open but froze when she saw the smudged bloody fingerprints on the door. Matching ones around the same height on the shiny gloss doorframe. Stepping over the smashed remains of the prototype vanilla candle, she peered down the cellar steps. Two uniformed officers were already down there, and while they were blocking a lot, through the gap of their high-visibility yellow jackets, another bright shade of yellow jumped out.
Joey was up against the door in an awkward position as though he’d fallen down the stairs and landed with his back a little too high against the closed door at the bottom. His eyes were wide, his skin icily pale, and blood stained the left side of his yellow shirt and pink tie.
One of the officers noticed Claire and cleared his throat. The two of them set off up the dark stairway, blocking her view.
She didn’t mind.
She had seen enough bodies in this house lately to last her a lifetime.
CHAPTER TWELVE
F or the second time that evening, Janet reversed into the parking space in front of the cottage. This time, they had Sally in the back. Janet had offered to drive her home to her cottage above the park, but Sally hadn’t wanted to ‘put on a show’ for her husband and kids. She’d accepted Claire’s invitation back to the cottage with eagerness.
“You’re turning my home into a halfway house,” Janet muttered as she hurried to the front door while Sally extricated herself from the car. “Who are you going to invite in next? Mrs Beaton and her army of smelly cats?”
“Oh, you love it, Mother,” Claire retorted, overtaking her to get to the front door first. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you rattling around the bathroom at six this morning. I could smell the bleach from all the way down the hall.”
“I just like things to be their best, dear.”
“And this is your chance to finally show it off.”
Claire headed straight to the wine rack in the kitchen. Though she rarely drank wine at home, red wine was always the beverage of choice for girls’ nights at Sally’s. At some point over the years, Sally had developed expensive tastes, but Claire barely registered the differences between the labels.
“Not that!” Janet hissed over her shoulder. “That’s the good stuff. She can have the cheap plonk on the bottom rack.”
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, already looking for the corkscrew in the cutlery drawer. “I’m gainfully employed now.”
“It’s two hundred pounds a bottle.”
“Cheap plonk it is.” She eased the expensive bottle back into the rack, suddenly terrified of dropping it. “What are you buying two hundred quid wine for?”
“It was an anniversary present for your father. He hasn’t been in the mood to drink it.”
Claire uncorked a bottle and put it down in front of Sally with a glass. If Sally noticed it was ‘cheap plonk,’ she didn’t say. The first glass went down in no time, and she topped it up again.
“He was just lying there.” Sally gestured with the glass, sloshing wine over the top. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking. “Neck all bent and bleeding like that. He must have fallen hard.”
“He was bleeding before he fell,” Claire mused aloud, leaning against the island and lifting her gaze thoughtfully towards the ceiling. “I noticed blood on the door and its frame.”
Claire crossed to the kitchen door and dragged herself backwards out of the room, clutching the door and frame as she went. “He touched where he was bl
eeding, so there was blood on his hands. Then someone pushed him, and he fell backwards, grasping for anything to stop the inevitable.” She glanced at her fingers and rubbed them together. “The blood will have made them slippery.”
“Oh, here she goes,” Janet said, pulling two of her giant ‘emergency lasagnes’ from the freezer. “Always been so melodramatic, dear. You should have done so much better in your drama GCSE. You know she got a D, Sally?” Janet rolled her eyes over the counter as Sally sipped her wine. “What did you get?”
“I took history instead,” she replied. “I got an A.”
“Of course you did.” Janet pursed her lips at Claire, but her expression softened almost at once. “You got there in the end, I suppose.”
“A man has just died, and here we are talking about my D in drama from twenty years ago,” Claire said, walking back into the kitchen. “Not the first time that’s come up recently, actually.”
“If there are twelve slices in a baguette,” Janet said, pulling out two plastic-wrapped breadsticks, “and there are” – she counted up in her head – “five adults and two children, how many baguettes would I need for everyone to have three slices?” She planted her wrists on her hips with the baguettes pointing out and stared into the freezer. “You know, I’ll just cook all six, and if there’s leftover, it’ll do for pâté later.”
Leaving her mother to dither over the cooking, Claire joined Sally at the table. Sally offered a wobbly wine-stained smile before relaxing further into the chair at the dining table.
It was clear Sally wanted to speak, so Claire remained silent, waiting.
Finally, Sally took a deep breath and said, “What was he doing there?”
“The casino in the cellar,” Claire said. “He was part of it. I’m guessing he went to meet someone there. Maybe they thought it would be secret? It had to be someone in that club. Who else had keys?”
“We never found Nick’s set,” Sally confessed after another hearty mouthful of wine. “It’s almost funny that the locksmith is booked in to change them tomorrow. One more day and a man might not have died. Who else was in the club?”
“Who wasn’t, by the sounds of it. Lately, it’s whittled down to Gwyneth, Joey, Agnes, and Nick. And now two of them are dead.” Claire shook her head. “Could it be a coincidence that I was led to Nick?”
Sally shrugged, clutching her glass like a lifeline. Leaving her with her drink, Claire followed the sound of her father’s voice down the hall and into the living room. To her surprise, he was playing Scrabble with Amelia and Hugo. Both still wore their school uniforms. Claire leaned against the doorframe and watched, reflecting their smiles. Her father looked up, and his laughter curdled into dread when he saw her. Claire’s smile vanished immediately; her father’s expression was almost too much to bear.
“Are you two okay to continue on your own for a little while?”
“Yep.” Amelia placed her tiles on the board. “I’m winning anyway, Pops.”
Alan ruffled her hair before grabbing his cane and strolling into the hallway. He gave Claire’s cheek a little pat as he passed and gestured for her to follow.
“C’mon on, little one. We’ve lots to discuss, and there’s only one place for it.”
They headed through the back door and down the path to his gardening shed. He’d always spent time in there over the years, but never more than since his retirement. Claire’s mother often joked that if she put a bed and a toilet in there, they’d only ever see him again for feeding or watering.
Alan took his usual seat in the muddy old office chair at the potting desk. Claire perched on the upturned terracotta plant pot that had lived in the corner for her since she was a little girl. She’d never really fit on it, but it was her place; she couldn’t imagine ever sitting anywhere else.
“Dad, I’m really—”
“If you’re about to apologise, don’t.” He held up a hand, his expression soft. “It’s this silly old man who needs to apologise. I’ve been a fool. I’ve been hiding your mail because I was . . . I was . . . ”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Dad,” Claire said, reaching out to grab his hand tightly in hers. “I understood why you were doing it.”
“You do?”
“I found out a while ago,” she said, scrunching up her face. “I was letting it happen. In some ways, you were doing me a favour. I wasn’t ready to read them until I thought I had to. Even though it turns out I was probably barking up the wrong tree, reading those letters was like pulling out a thorn that had been bothering me for ages.” She offered a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I know you know, but I did go to see him, and I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“Harry mentioned it,” he said with a tight smile, confirming Claire’s suspicions. “Like I said, little one, you have nothing to apologise for. It’s me who must apologise. I’m sorry for making things so unbearable regarding even the mere mention of my brother. I see it on all your faces when I throw my – and let’s call them what they are – tantrums. And yet, I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s an instinct. He betrayed us. He betrayed this family. He—”
“Dad, he betrayed himself,” she said, clasping his hand hard. “It’s not our job to carry his burden. We have to live with it, but he made those choices. Not us.” She shrugged one shoulder. “We’ve turned him into the bogeyman, but it’s still him. He’s still Pat.”
For the first time, her father didn’t wince. He merely nodded and squeezed her hand back.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said solemnly. “Now I feel even more foolish for not talking to you sooner. Little one, I always knew you could handle it. I wasn’t sure I could. I did what I thought was best.”
“And I love you for that.”
“But I also buried my head in the sand. I’m old enough and ugly enough to know where that gets me. Nowhere.” He lifted his free hand to the large scar on his head. “If I hadn’t ignored the headaches for so long, my foot might still be in good working order.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I failed you, Claire, and I’m sorry for that. I should have respected you.”
“It’s done.” Claire wiped away a tear. “Look at us harping on. You know, I know, everyone knows.”
“Did you think I’d be mad at you for reading your letters?” he asked, frowning. “Mad at you for visiting your uncle?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“Then I really have let all of this carry on for too long.” He opened the top drawer – her letters were gone, but there was a new one, addressed to Alan. “This landed on the doormat this morning. Part of me thought I was just going to start a new pile, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he ripped it open. “Like you said, pulling out a thorn.”
Alan read over the letter, his lips tracing the words carefully and slowly. When he flipped it, a visiting order fell from his fingers. Claire picked it up. This time, the order was addressed to Alan.
“I thought he was looking for revenge when I saw that graffiti,” Alan said after he finished the letter, his eyes bright with tears. “Before that, I assumed he was looking for redemption because of how insistent he was on trying to contact you. Now, I know my brother is just lonely and ashamed.”
“Will you go and see him?”
“I think I have to,” he said after a forceful exhale. “Will you come with me, Claire? I’m not sure I fancy the drive to Manchester on my own.”
Claire nodded with a teary smile of her own, clutching both of her father’s hands in hers. Em had done it for her, and she’d got her through to the other side. Pulling out that thorn taught Claire the pain was temporary. She wasn’t sure when the wound would heal, but at least it could.
“Now that it’s out in the open,” she said, leaning back on the plant pot. “I want to pick your brains about something.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in the squeaky chair, wagging a finger at her as though the recent tension between them had never existed. “The Nick Bates case. Yes, Harry called and fille
d me in on your little conversation in the café. Wanted to know if I’d put you up to it. But, no, that was all you.” He grinned proudly. “I must say, it’s quite the riddle.”
“It’s just got more complicated,” she said quietly. “Joseph Smith was murdered. By the looks of it, he was stabbed and pushed down the stairs.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“That I have no clue what’s going on.” She laughed, if a touch sombrely. “Joey did something, and now he’s dead. Agnes and Jeanie know what that something is. Gwyneth might. I feel like the pieces are all on the table, but I can’t quite figure out the picture on the puzzle.”
“Well, it sounds like your list of suspects might have just narrowed.”
“To Agnes and Gwyneth?”
“And perhaps the brother, since he owed him a considerable sum.” He paused before adding, “Perhaps even DI Ramsbottom, too. His dislike of Nick bordered on a vendetta. Although – and despite our family’s abysmal track-record here – I can’t imagine Harry going that far.”
“Besides, what reason would he have to kill Joey?”
“And the two ladies have reasons?”
“Maybe?” She leaned her elbows onto her knees and rubbed at her temples. “Agnes is part of the club, so she could have been crossed by both men. Gwyneth had an on and off again thing where she basically traded one for the other for years – and now they’re both dead.”
“Black widow?”
“I don’t think so.” Claire shook her head. “What did she have to gain from killing Nick?” Her eyes lit up, and she sat bolt upright and clapped her hands together. “But what if ‘what Joey did’ was killing Nick? Then Gwyneth stabbed him and pushed him down the stairs in revenge for killing her true love?”
“It’s certainly a nice theory, little one, but you’ll have a hard time proving it,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “Let’s go back in. I can smell your mother’s emergency lasagnes. I know she’s always embarrassed to pull them out, but secretly? It’s my favourite of all the things she makes.”
