Authors: Fiona McIntosh
‘Friends?’ Sarah offered, clearly keen to build some bridges. She held out her hand now.
Kate nodded. ‘Let’s start again.’ They shook on it. ‘I hope I can trust you, DS Jones.’
‘You can. Blogsy, smart, vulgar anorak and takes secrets to the grave, I promise.’
‘Good, because I need to work out the Dan thing without it being complicated by work gossip.’
‘I don’t do gossip — you should know that by now. I hope you sort it out soon. It wouldn’t be fair to break his heart at the altar.’
Kate sighed and glanced quickly at her face in the mirror before readjusting it to see the traffic. She indicated and merged into the lane. ‘Come on, Jones, enough melodrama. We’ve got a killer to catch.’
17
‘Mrs Truro? I’m DI Kate Carter, and this is DS Jones.’
‘Do come in,’ Eva Truro offered, stepping back from the door of her neat home with its tidy front garden of pruned rose bushes. ‘Can I get you ladies something?’
‘No, thanks,’ they said in chorus as they entered her sitting room. It smelled of potpourri and furniture polish.
Kate smiled. ‘We’ve got another appointment in Brighton and I think you’ve got a lunch to get to, haven’t you? We mustn’t hold you up.’
The former teacher nodded. ‘Please, sit down.’
The two detectives perched themselves side by side on a two-seater sofa with a busy pattern of cabbage roses. Eva Truro did not sit but stared down at them from on high through her bifocals. Kate opened the folder she’d brought and took out a photocopy of the photograph of the four smiling teenagers. She handed it to Mrs Truro, who suddenly looked every bit the formidable teacher she had once been.
‘I need to know who you recognise in this phograph, Mrs Truro.’
‘Ah, yes, let me see.’
Kate and Sarah held their breath while the older woman frowned thoughtfully at the piece of paper and held it up to the light.
‘I recognise only two,’ she began, ‘although this one looks a bit familiar for some reason, but then it was three decades ago . . .’ She trailed off.
Kate sat forward. ‘Which two can you identify?’
Eva Truro moved to stand alongside the sofa. ‘This one,’ she said, pointing. ‘That’s Clive Farrow. And this,’ her finger slid over to the third boy in the picture, ‘is Billy Fletcher. Good-looking, isn’t he?’
Kate stole a glance at Sarah. They’d got what they came for.
‘And you’re absolutely sure?’ she said to the teacher. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask you that.’
‘Of course I’m sure, DI Carter. I don’t forget faces, which is why this smaller, more baby-faced fellow troubles me. I could swear I’ve seen him — and if I’m honest, even this boy here,’ she pointed to Sheriff, ‘is vaguely familiar, but I’m sure he didn’t go to our school.’
‘We’re very pleased to have Billy identified, Mrs Truro, and grateful to you for your help and time,’ Kate reassured. ‘I’ll give you my card.’
She dug into her wallet and found one, annoyed that it looked a fraction dog-eared. She noticed how their prim host greeted it with a soft look of disapproval.
‘Call me any time,’ Kate continued, ‘and especially if you can remember anything about this third boy, the smallish one.’
‘Is he important?’ Mrs Truro smoothed out the edges of Kate’s card as she spoke.
Kate couldn’t lie. ‘Well, of these four, two are already dead. This is Michael Sheriff,’ she said, pointing to the boy next to Clive. ‘It’s very possible that Billy and this fourth person you think you recognise could be under some threat.’
‘I see.’ The older woman frowned. ‘In that case, why don’t you try and find out more about the reunion that the school is planning?’
‘Reunion?’
‘Yes, there’s a girl called Debra . . . oh, what was her surname now? Um, Debra Free, I think she called herself, although I don’t remember anyone of that name in the school.’ She shrugged. ‘But I’m not perfect. If I saw her face-to-face, I could soon tell you if she was a former pupil.’
Kate stared at her. ‘What about Debra, Mrs Truro?’
‘Oh, well, as far as I know she’s organising a reunion. Asked me for help in tracking down Billy Fletcher and —’ She stopped, startled, as both detectives’ faces lit up with keen interest.
Kate was on her feet. ‘Asked for your help? When was this?’
‘Why only today. She rang wanting to find out whether I knew where Billy Fletcher had gone after his schooldays. She’s pulling together a class —’
Kate couldn’t wait for the older woman to finish. This was too important. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Truro, but did you get a return number or any other information about this Debra Free?’
Now the woman looked defensive. ‘No, why would I? I had very little information to give her anyway.’
Sarah noted Kate’s rapidly increasing impatience with the older woman and spoke up. ‘It’s just that
this Debra could possibly help us with finding Billy,’ she explained, skirting the truth. ‘She may even have already found him,’ she added grimly.
‘I see. Well, I know nothing about her as I’ve just told you.’
‘But what did you tell her?’ Kate asked, her tone hardening with barely controlled exasperation.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious that she didn’t appreciate DI Carter’s persistence or her manner.
Sarah leapt in again. ‘Mrs Truro, this information could save someone’s life.’
‘Do you mean to tell me the stranger who called this morning could be the killer you’re hunting?’ she demanded, aghast.
‘No!’ Kate cut in. ‘No, we’re not, but this woman is the first real lead we’ve had. She might be well advanced in her search for Billy Fletcher and if she can help us to find him, then yes, DS Jones is right, it could possibly save another life.’
‘So Billy is next?’
‘We don’t know, but we have to make sure that he’s protected,’ Sarah soothed. ‘As we said, two of the boys in the photo are already dead. It’s logical for us to believe the other pair could be in danger and we’re just pleased you may have something that could help.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mrs Truro replied, appeased. She adjusted the collar of her neat, freshly starched blouse and primped her soft silver curls. ‘I’d like to help the police but all I can tell you is what I told the Free woman earlier today and that’s that I believe Billy applied for Canterbury University. Whether he succeeded, I cannot say. Billy was a determined young
man — you have to be to overcome the setbacks that a stammer can create — and I’d suggest he probably did succeed in his desire to go to university and make a go of life.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Truro,’ Sarah said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Kate nodded. ‘Thank you for the identification. Please call at any hour if you think of anything connected with these boys, no matter how unimportant it may seem. Sometimes the clues are in the trivialities.’ She forced a smile, shook the woman’s bony hand and headed towards the door.
Sarah followed suit, smiling warmly. ‘We are most grateful for your time today. And DI Carter’s right: anything small that you can remember about Clive and Billy is helpful, particularly where any bullying might have occurred.’
At this Mrs Truro scoffed. ‘Oh, they were often accused of it, I’m afraid, but I’ll think on what you say.’
‘Thank you. We can see ourselves out, Mrs Truro.’
Inside the car, Kate was seething. ‘Can you imagine what a witch she must have been as a teacher.’
‘I think you’re too touchy. She’s just meticulous, that’s all, and that can be annoying for someone who’s always in a hurry.’
Her words were carefully chosen but Kate could hear what was really being said.
‘Okay, so I’m impatient, I admit it.’ She paused, before adding, ‘Thanks. You were good back there.’
‘Well, someone needed to go gently.’ Sarah saw Kate frown, no doubt recalling DCI Hawksworth’s ‘tread softly’ advice, and added, ‘But there are times when
firmness is required and I don’t think we’d have got this info about Debra Free if you hadn’t pushed.’
Kate smirked. ‘I think you’re being generous, but I’ll take the compliment. You should apply to work for the commissioner’s PR team — you’re very good at diplomacy.’
‘No, thanks. I like working with HOLMES and its lovely, hard facts.’
Kate turned on to the A23, slipping the car into fourth. ‘So, tell me about this cold case you’re so excited about. We’ve got half an hour’s drive to Brighton. But first, let’s ring the DCI and tell him we’ve got a firm ID on our stammerer.’
18
Anne had caught an express train to Brighton and was now queueing for one of the big black taxis that swung around the concourse at the station.
While she was waiting, she made a call on her mobile.
‘Hello, it’s me, Mrs Shannon, Sally. How are you?’ She listened patiently to the old lady’s response. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be using the van in the next couple of days, alright? . . . Yes, catering again. . . . No, I’m not sure when at this stage, but I’ve got my key to the garage so I have no reason to disturb you. I just don’t want you wondering what the noise is or who might be moving around in there. Did you get the forty pounds I sent last month?’
Mrs Shannon took her time explaining about the money. ‘I’m glad it’s arrived and I’ll post another forty today if that suits? . . . No, I won’t be telling anyone, Mrs Shannon, your pension is safe, I promise you. This is our little secret okay? . . . Alright then. Thank you, and look out for the money. Don’t spend it all at once.’ The old girl was chuckling as Anne ended the call.
Her turn came and she climbed into the back of a cab, called out the address to the driver.
‘That’s a nursing home, right, luv?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, putting on a pair of sunglasses. She was glad she was wearing the sleek Cleopatra-style wig today, as the driver’s eyes kept flicking to his rearvision mirror. She knew taxi drivers were notoriously observant.
‘Got a relative there, have you?’ he asked.
‘Er, yes, an old uncle.’
‘Down from London?’
It wouldn’t pay to lie; he probably knew the train timetable off by heart. ‘Yep, a quick hurtle down to check on him.’
‘Want me to wait?’
‘No, that’s alright, but thank you,’ she said, settling back and hoping he’d take the fact that she was staring out of the window as a sign that she didn’t care to chat. Sadly, she’d scored a busybody.
‘What do you do then?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For a crust?’
‘I’m an interior designer,’ she answered crisply.
‘One of those paint and furniture type people?’
‘Yes,’ she replied wearily, ‘you could describe it that way.’
‘I like to change the colour of our lounge each year, actually. This year I’ve gone red.’
Must play havoc with your hideous brown velveteen sofas, Anne thought unkindly but said, ‘That’s very brave.’
‘Oh, it’s a big joke in our house. Everyone holds their breath to see what colour I’ll choose.’
A riot
. ‘How far is the nursing home?’
‘About four or five minutes away.’
‘Good. You don’t mind if I make a call?’ she said, waving her mobile.
‘No, luv, go ahead.’
Anne thanked whomever was listening for small mercies as she dialled her home answering machine and had a conversation with herself that got her to the gates of the nursing home.
Inside, she asked to see Mr Fletcher.
‘Roy Fletcher?’ asked the wide-hipped woman behind the reception desk.
Anne glanced at the woman’s badge. ‘Yes, Ruth, that’s right.’
‘Well, old Roy’s busy today. Hope you don’t mind queuing,’ she said brightly. ‘You’ll find him —’
‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
The woman grinned. ‘Nothing, luv, only that he’s already got someone with him.’
Anne froze. ‘Er, do you know who?’ she asked.
‘No idea, sorry.’
‘It’s just that he may not want to be disturbed. I could come back.’
‘Hang on, Eileen may know. Eileen?’ she called out to another woman squeaking across the lino floor in her flat white nurse’s shoes. ‘You’ve just finished the afternoon tea out there, haven’t you? Who’s with Roy Fletcher?’
‘His son, William,’ came the reply.
Anne felt her stomach do a flip. ‘Billy?’ she choked out.
Eileen looked at her, frowning. ‘I only know him as William.’
‘We went to school together,’ Anne said, dragging her spiralling thoughts under control. ‘He was Billy back then.’
‘Small world,’ Eileen said, grabbing her coat. ‘I’m off, Ruth. Can you point this lady to where Roy is?’
‘I was just about to,’ Ruth said, then turned back to Anne. ‘Alright, sorry about that. What’s your name?’
‘Look, I’ve just realised I’ve left something important in the taxi I came in,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll be right back, just got to make a call.’ She waved her mobile and moved quickly towards the main door.
Outside, she took a deep breath. She needed to find a secure place to think. Fortunately, there was a small green area opposite the nursing home and there, on a bench, her eyes riveted on the doorway she had just escaped through, Anne planned her next move.
Stay calm. This shouldn’t frighten you. This is lucky,
she told herself,
you don’t even have to find him. He’s given himself to you. It’s meant to happen.
Anne couldn’t fail to see the irony of her present situation. Here she was, all but trembling from fear that she’d nearly walked straight into Billy Fletcher, when her intention was to hunt him down anyway. Her mouth pulled itself into a tight, mirthless smile. At what point, she asked herself, had she separated from the person who wanted a quiet, anonymous life to the Anne capable of such rage that she could take a man’s life? And not just one. But these people had raped her, taken away her innocence forever, and then followed it almost nine months later with the ultimate cruelty. Despite the years she’d spent ignoring the past, that terrible night was never far from her; always waiting to engulf her and take her back to West Pier.
* * *
It was a hot July day and scorching in the bakery. Anne was working until four-thirty and thanked her lucky stars the bus home stopped right outside the shop. She touched her belly, as she did a thousand times a day it seemed. She’d been on her feet since eight and the baby was restless, kicking furiously and making her feel queasy. But as another satisfied customer left, mentioning to the manager that the young pregnant woman behind the counter was ‘very friendly and served customers well’, Anne had never felt happier. Perhaps the Jesters had done her a favour in a strange, painful way. Their night of torment had changed her life, and although she regretted that she would likely now never have the chance to use the sharp intelligence she possessed, work in London, have her own lovely place, she had at least found a new sense of direction.
She’d put that night behind her, buried it in the deepest part of her, promising herself she would never think on it again. But it was all so vivid now. After years of shutting it away, she could remember it in bright, horrific detail.
She had woken up slumped in the toilet block, feeling groggy and sore. Beano was beside her, dead. He’d been stabbed. Dear little Beano. She knew who would have done the stabbing, but as far as she was concerned, all of them were to blame for his death. She had scooped up his stiff body and sobbed into his fur.
Somehow she’d got herself home and stood in the shower, waiting numbly beneath the icy needles of the water while the immersion heater rebooted itself and the hot water returned. She stood through three
separate clicks of that cycle, trying to come to terms with what she now understood had occurred. She flinched at the spike of pain between her legs. It felt as though she’d been ripped open. Her tears had joined the water of the shower, along with the helpless stream of urine that burned as it passed out of her and down her legs to stain the water at her feet.
She couldn’t see those boys again. She couldn’t go back to school. She was old enough at fifteen to leave and work. She would get a job in Brighton, far away from Russell Secondary Modern. And she would work shifts that avoided school arrival and departure hours. She would make herself invisible and her tormentors would forget about fat Anne who they’d raped. A scrawled note had been left in her pocket.
Thanks for a good time. Happy Birthday! Sorry about the dog.
it said and it had been signed with the name of clowns —
Pierrot
,
Coco
,
Bozo
,
Cooky
and
Blinko
— and underlined beneath —
The Jester’s Club
. Had they all had their fun whilst she was unconscious? Which one hadn’t worn a condom? Perhaps it was for the best that she had been so out of it; she couldn’t imagine how she would have survived if she’d been a witness to her own attack.
And she’d done just that. She’d left school and got a job at Forfars the Bakers in Western Road. She didn’t notice that her period didn’t arrive in November or December because menstruation was still new for her. But by January she’d realised the same bag of pads were still in the bathroom cupboard and so she’d found the courage to talk to her mother, who had taken her to the doctor for a blood test. Anne was pregnant.
The revelation had sparked an intense love within Anne. She knew her son or her daughter was now her purpose in life. She was going to be a great mum, and she was going to give her child everything she possibly could, but mostly she was going to lavish it with affection. She had daydreamed of pushing a pram in the park, playing with her infant in the sandpit, taking him or her onto Palace Pier — pity West Pier was closed, she thought sadly. They would go on regular daytrips into London and see the sights, and perhaps she could learn to drive and save enough to buy a little car and they could go off on picnics.
The baby stretched and a new pain, like a cramp, accompanied it. She sucked in her breath and waited for it to pass.
Her manager, Angela, glanced over. ‘Alright, Anne?’
‘Ooh, I think it’s a boy.’ Anne grimaced, straightening from bending slightly at the discomfort. ‘He’s going to play for Brighton and Hove Albion, I’d say.’
‘Sea-gulls!’ the manager chanted and they both grinned. ‘Anne, you look ready to burst,’ Angela went on. ‘Go home, take an early mark.’
Anne stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I can manage with Lesley and Sharon for the next couple of hours. Go on, you’ve worked hard today.’
The pain grumbled again. She was feeling a bit nauseated suddenly and the thought of getting home earlier was a gift from the heavens. ‘Okay, if you’re sure then.’
‘Hurry up and leave before I change my mind,’ the older woman called over her shoulder.
As if she was further blessed, a bus came along almost straightaway and Anne clambered on board. The bus lurched away before she’d sat down and she was thrown into a seat, apologising to the man next to her for all but falling onto him.
She bought her ticket from the conductor, then sat back and allowed her mind to wander. If it was a boy she was going to call him Peter, after her dad. She had no idea for a girl yet — perhaps Lucy. She smiled. Her choices were from the Narnia books, which she’d loved since she was ten.
And look at me now
, she thought,
still a kid myself but about to have my own child
. She hugged her belly with pleasure and it seemed to answer her with a fresh wave of the odd sensation that wasn’t really pain but wasn’t altogether comfortable either.
When she got home, her mother was slumped on the sofa in her usual stupor. Anne realised it’d be up to her to organise their evening meal. She should be used to it by now, but her mother had rallied a little at the news of an impending grandchild and so it hurt more than ever to see her ongoing dependence on the gin bottle. Anne had been feeling like fish and chips all day — the walk would do her good.
On the way back from the shop, she called into Hove Park, where plenty of people were walking their dogs and enjoying the balmy evening. Anne found a bench and savoured her dinner, feeling a tad guilty that her mother’s meal would be soggy by the time she returned with it. Then again, there was every likelihood her mother wouldn’t bother to eat anyway.
She noticed a pale green car cruise by slowly, then her glance slid away to where a couple were teaching
their puppy some obedience commands. She smiled, remembering Beano. It was only the news of the baby that had blunted the pain she’d felt at losing him.
Everyone I love dies on me
, she thought.
Mum’s next
. And then she thought of her child.
If I love him too much, will he die on me as well?
The fish felt like a wad of cardboard as she swallowed it.
No
, she reassured herself.
No harm will come to Peter
.
The park was emptying and Anne roused herself to make tracks for home. She sighed, stretched and glanced again at the main road. The traffic had thinned dramatically since she had last looked and she noticed the pale green car again, driving close to the kerb. It had to be the same car, surely. It was old, a bit battered in places, and she thought she could see several people inside. She knew she was probably being jumpy, but she was relieved to see it cruise past the park and out of sight.
A lone seagull shrieked overhead.
Hoping I might toss a chip your way, eh
? Anne thought, and as she did so, a fresh contraction announced itself. This time it hurt, intensifying to the point where she was holding her breath and had to lean against a nearby fence. Eventually, she recovered herself, holding her mum’s warm fish and chips and her purse close, wondering how long before the next one or whether it was a one-off. She couldn’t be going into labour. Peter wasn’t due for weeks.
Now she felt frightened. She needed to get home quickly. She decided to cut through one of the side streets that led off the park. There was a twitten at the top that would take her through to the main road where she could get a bus or, better still, a taxi. This
was definitely an emergency and she’d kept a couple of pounds in the back of her purse just in case.
She tried to hurry her heavy body along the short road that led to the twitten. She could see its opening now, could hear the cars speeding by on the main road at its end. Yes, she’d be fine. There was a phone box there too, so she could call a taxi if the pain got too bad.
She crossed the road to enter the small flint-roofed lane, then heard the sound of a car rolling to a stop behind her. She turned to see the pale green car she’d noticed before, a Cortina. Spilling from it were Billy Fletcher and Clive Farrow. It was a nightmare, but one Anne knew there would be no waking from. Letting out a cry, she hurtled as fast as her swollen body would allow down the tiny laneway, the slap of her shoes echoing noisily off the tall flint walls.