No Mercy (7 page)

Maddie filled two glasses with orange juice, poured out a bowl of cornflakes and placed the bread in the toaster. The kitchen was warm and she opened the door to let in the air. The sky was a uniform blue without a cloud in sight. It was going to be another hot day. The heatwave had been going for over a week and there was no sign of it abating.

She folded her arms across her chest and gazed out at the small back garden. It was a meagre space compared to what she’d have liked, but at least it was something. She was growing mainly vegetables – potatoes, runner beans, onions, lettuce and carrots – with a display of roses off to the right. The vegetables were a way of saving money on the shopping. The roses were her luxury. She was trying to learn as much about them as possible in the hope that she’d eventually get a permanent position as a member of the gardening staff at Marigolds. If she did that, then she would finally be freed from the drudgery of garden furniture.

Maddie, hearing the ping of the toaster, turned back towards the kitchen. She was lucky, she knew, to even have this house. It belonged to the Kellston Housing Association and had been rented by her mother when she’d first come to London with Greta. The two-up two-down was in Morton Grove. It had a couple of advantages, one being the relatively cheap rent and the other that it was close to Violet Road, where the Vales lived.

Maddie had only stayed on after her mother’s departure to Portugal because of the London dig. If it hadn’t been for that, the keys would have been handed back. As it was, she’d been able, as Zac’s main carer, to take over the tenancy and make it a permanent home. And although she wasn’t the most domesticated person in the world, she tried her best. Keeping things tidy, however, wasn’t always easy; living with Zac was like living with a human hurricane.

No sooner had she thought of him than he was sitting at the kitchen table, reaching for the milk and pouring it over his cornflakes. ‘Maddie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can we have a dog, please?’

She sat down opposite him, putting her elbows on the table. ‘I don’t think so, love. Not just at the moment.’ She felt bad about saying no, but she had to be practical. Money was tight and she couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, let alone any vet’s bills that might come along.

‘Kyle’s got a dog.’

‘I know.’ Kyle Powers was Zac’s best friend and his partner in crime. The two of them were virtually inseparable, attending the same school and spending most early evenings and weekends together. His mum, Shauna, lived at the end of the road, and although she was five years younger than Maddie, they’d become friendly too. It was a friendship of convenience more than anything else, but over the years they’d grown used to one another.

‘So why can’t we?’

Maddie didn’t like to bang on about money and so she tried a different tack. ‘Well, his mum’s at home all day. Dogs don’t like being on their own, sweetheart. They get lonely.’

Zac ate some of his cereal while he thought about this. ‘I could stay home,’ he said. ‘Keep him company.’

Maddie grinned at him. ‘Nice try, buster, but you have to go to school, and I have to go to work.’

‘I bet Gran would take care of him. Just in the day, you know, until we got back.’

‘I think Gran’s got enough to do. It wouldn’t really be fair.’ Maddie saw the disappointment on his face and felt the familiar stab of guilt that she couldn’t give him everything he wanted. Her only solution was to try and make him laugh. ‘And anyway, if we got a dog, there’d be all that poo to pick up.’

Zac giggled, spluttering out a couple of milky cornflakes. ‘You don’t pick up poo!’

‘Sure you do. If you didn’t, the pile would just grow higher and higher until you couldn’t see over the top.’

Zac’s eyes widened a little, half in disgust, half in fascination. ‘That big?’

‘Yep, as big as a house. But you don’t pick it up with your hands or anything – you have to use a plastic bag and put it in the bin.’

‘And then where does it go?’

‘It goes to the dump with all the other rubbish.’

Maddie knew that her mother would be horrified at the conversation – bodily functions, even of dogs, was hardly suitable for breakfast talk – but Kim Layne wasn’t around to protest. She was too busy saving donkeys in Portugal. As such, Maddie had to find her own way of dealing with awkward situations.

Zac finished his cereal and pushed the bowl to one side. ‘So what about the dinosaurs?’

Maddie, unsure as to what he meant, gazed patiently back at him. ‘What about them?’

‘Where did all their poo go?’

She laughed. ‘Ah, now, there’s a question. You’ll have to ask your uncle Sol about that. He’s the expert on dinosaurs.’ Mentioning Solomon’s name reminded her that he was going to try and find out about Cato and she wondered if he’d have any news for her tomorrow. It was probably too soon, but he may have discovered something. ‘Come on, eat your toast or we’ll be late picking up Kyle.’

Shauna Powers was still in her dressing gown when she answered the door. She was a small, skinny girl with an oval face, cropped peroxide hair and pale blue eyes. There were piercings in her upper lip and tongue, and large gold hoops in her ears. This morning, her eyes were rimmed with red, and the faint smell of alcohol drifted from her body.

‘Kyle!’ Shauna yelled, looking over her shoulder. ‘Are you ready? Shift your arse. Zac’s here.’

‘Late night?’ Maddie asked.

Shauna rubbed at her eyes. ‘Had some mates round. You know what it’s like. You have a few beers and before you can blink, it’s two in the morning.’

Maddie, although she didn’t exactly approve of being drunk in charge of an eight-year-old, wasn’t about to criticise anyone else’s parenting skills. Instead, she gave a sympathetic nod as if she knew exactly what she meant. The truth, however, was that Zac had a more lively social life than she did. It was time that she started changing that. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy the Fox tomorrow night? Sol’s taking Zac, so I’ve got the evening free.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Shauna frowned, her thin brows coming together as she searched through the fuzzy data in her brain. ‘Maybe. I dunno. I’ll see if my mum can babysit. I’ll give you a bell, yeah?’

‘Okay, let me know.’ Maddie didn’t fancy going to the Fox unaccompanied. She was still unclear as to Rick Mallory’s intentions and didn’t want to make a fool of herself. What if she got there and found he was with his mates or a girlfriend or, even worse, a wife? It would seem odd her showing up alone. And then, of course, he might not be there at all and she had no desire to sit in a pub on her own.

Kyle appeared at the door, and after saying their goodbyes, the three of them set off for summer school, which was being run this year from Kellston Comprehensive. The secondary school was only ten minutes’ walk to the south of the station and was, amazingly, still in possession of a playing field. This enabled the kids to play football, do athletics or just dash around and burn off some energy.

Maddie hadn’t asked her friend how she’d managed to pay for it. Shauna was a single mum on benefits, and while the fees weren’t exorbitant, they had still made a dent in Maddie’s small income. Shauna, however, never seemed short of a few bob. Kyle always had the latest trainers and all the gadgets he could want, including a PlayStation, an iPad and a mobile phone.

Some of the stuff, Maddie suspected, had fallen off the back of a lorry. A lot of Shauna’s mates lived on the Mansfield and could always get hold of dodgy gear. Cheap booze, fags, phones, laptops – you named it, they had it, or if they didn’t, they knew someone who had. But as for hard cash, she had no idea where Shauna got it from. She didn’t have a job, and Kyle’s dad had done a runner years ago without ever paying a penny of child support.

Maddie looked at the two boys who were walking just in front of her, their heads bent together as they passed football cards to each other and chattered away. She was glad Zac had a best friend, something she’d missed out on when she was growing up. Moving from place to place wasn’t conducive to building lasting friendships. She’d been close to Greta then, but that wasn’t the same as having a friend her own age.

It was when they stopped on the corner that Maddie suddenly felt a weird prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder – the street was busy with crowds of commuters going in and out of the station – but couldn’t spot anyone looking at her. And yet she knew, in that odd instinctive way, that someone was watching.

As the traffic lights changed, Maddie chivvied the boys along. ‘Come on, you two, or school’s going to be over before we get there.’

She looked back over her shoulder again. Was it just her imagination? She hadn’t slept well last night, waking over and over to the vivid, scary threads of nightmares, dreams about the cemetery, about being chased through the graves, about running in fear of her life as footsteps pounded behind her and malignant hands snatched at her hair.

Maddie gave a small shake of her head, trying to free her mind of the memories. What she needed to concentrate on was the here and now. As the three of them continued south along the High Street, she stayed close to the boys, alert to some imminent danger, although she couldn’t have said precisely what that danger was.

Five minutes later, she dropped them off at the gates, said goodbye and waited until they passed safely through the main door. Shauna would pick the boys up this afternoon and drop Zac off at his grandparents’. Turning, Maddie gazed up and down the street. All she could see was women and children. Although there was no reason on earth why anyone should be following her, she still felt under scrutiny.

Maddie rubbed at her eyes. She was overtired, that was all. There was nothing to worry about. But still she was anxious, fear niggling at the edges of her thoughts. Briefly, she raised her face to the wide blue sky. It was a warm morning, but the heat didn’t penetrate her bones. All she felt was a peculiar coldness. The hairs on her arms stood on end and a shiver ran through her.

Delia Shields had perfected the art of keeping busy, but no amount of paperwork, of typing, copying and filing could completely erase the worry from her mind. As her fingers flew across the keyboard, she thought of Lena and wondered what she would do next. She would act quickly, that was for sure. Her old friend wasn’t the sort to let the grass grow under her feet. If he was out there, she would track him down.

Delia hissed out the name in her head.
Cato.
She had prayed that he was gone for ever. She had even hoped, and the knowledge of this brought a red flush of shame to her cheeks, that he would die in prison. It had not been a Christian thought. Delia believed in goodness, in God and the Church, in forgiveness and redemption, but she had no mercy in her soul when it came to Jay Cato.

She stopped typing for a moment to wipe her hand across her brow. A thin sheen of perspiration had gathered on her skin. It was only ten o’clock, but already the August heat was seeping into the office. The fan was on, but the only effect of its whirring blades was to shift warm, muggy air around the office.

Across the room, Bob Cannon was on the phone. He was the seventh manager she’d worked for since becoming office secretary over thirty years ago. She could have applied for the manager’s post herself – she was more than capable – but had no desire for the responsibility. In truth, she lacked ambition, but then she didn’t see ambition as an altogether good thing. To be always wanting more, always striving for more, seemed an empty and futile way to live. Why couldn’t people be content with what they’d got? Her salary was perfectly adequate for her needs, with enough left over to save for her retirement.

Bob put the receiver down, shuffled the papers on his desk and then picked the phone up again. As a manager, she thought, he was no better or worse than the ones who had preceded him. They came and they went, some more rapidly than others. Archie Moult had clung on for a good ten years, David Sanders for four, but Owen Vickery had cleared his desk after a mere ten months. No, the job wasn’t for everyone.

Bob Cannon was in his early fifties, married with a couple of teenage kids. Although pleasant enough, he possessed – like most men of her acquaintance – a somewhat inflated sense of his own importance. Earlier, he had taken off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair. Her nose wrinkled at the sight of two small circles of sweat staining the underarms of his white shirt.

As a whole, she was not a fan of the male species. They were lumbering and graceless, blind to their own imperfections and, more often than not, fuelled by testosterone. Even the clever men, the ones with wit and intellect had an unfortunate habit of storing their brains in their pants.

Delia had never slept with a man and had no desire to do so. She was repelled by their very maleness, by their lingering musky smell and their misplaced belief in their own superiority. She despised their superficiality, the way they judged women purely on appearance, and she loathed their habit of spreading their legs on the Tube or bus, making it impossible to sit comfortably beside them. Yes, all in all they were tiresome creatures and she would be quite happy to live in a world without them.

Although Delia much preferred the company of women, she did not in any way, shape or form consider herself to be a lesbian. Indeed, the idea of having sex with a female was as repugnant to her as the thought of having sex with a man. Her love for Lena Bell – she still could not think of her as Gissing – was purely platonic, although not without passion. She had worshipped Lena since they were children, and the years had not dimmed that adoration. Knowing that Lena didn’t feel the same way – that in fact she bored and disappointed her – was the heavy cross that Delia had to bear.

Bob Cannon finished his call, gave a sigh and looked across the office. ‘Do you know if Eli’s dealing with that damage?’

‘I’ve told him about it.’ Delia could not understand the mentality of people who desecrated graves. Sometimes it was graffiti; other times whole headstones were pushed over or smashed. It was not a regular occurrence, but whenever it happened, she felt the same sense of shock. It was the booze, she supposed, that cheap, nasty lager that the local yobs bought in the supermarkets. Once they had a few drinks inside them, they were capable of anything.

‘Kids,’ said Bob, shaking his head. ‘That lot from the Mansfield, no doubt.’

Delia’s gaze flicked over to the window, to the long rows of graves and the wide blue sky. She was hot and uncomfortable and had a sudden desire to be outside. ‘Perhaps I should walk over and check. The Ransome burial’s at twelve. It needs to be tidied up by then.’

‘Would you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ Delia stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘I won’t be long.’ But Bob Cannon was no longer listening; he’d picked up the phone and was busy dialling again.

As she stepped out of the office, Delia glanced towards the black wrought-iron gates. She almost expected to see Jay Cato walking in. In her head, he was still a young man, his shoulders straight, his dark hair slicked back from a lean, sculpted face. Of course, he would not look like that now. She didn’t want to think what he would look like. She didn’t want to think about him at all.

Delia set off along the main thoroughfare, heading towards the far side where the damaged graves lay. She tried to concentrate, to focus on the job in hand, but Cato refused to leave her alone. Like a snake, he coiled himself round her innermost thoughts, slowly squeezing out everything and everyone else. The breath caught in the back of her throat. But he couldn’t have been released from prison. Not yet. The police would have told Lena, surely they would. She’d be entitled to know such a thing.

Delia wished that the past could be wiped clean, erased like the words on a whiteboard. She wished that she could turn back time. Would she have done things differently? ‘Yes,’ the rational part of her said, but in her heart she was not so certain. An ache passed through her jaw as she briefly clamped her teeth together. ‘Leave us alone,’ she muttered. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’

The cemetery was a large one, spread over twenty acres and it was another five minutes before she came across Eli and Rick Mallory. They both turned to look at her, their faces faintly hostile, as if suspecting that she might be checking up on them. Or perhaps it was just her imagination. Nothing was as it should be today.

‘So how are we doing?’ she asked, forcing a smile.

Eli gave a grunt, which was about as much as she ever got out of him. Rick, however, was more forthcoming.

‘We’ve cleared the worst of it,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘But you’ll need to get the mason in.’

Delia walked behind them and gazed solemnly down at the broken stones. They were old, nineteenth-century graves, but that didn’t diminish her sense of outrage. Just because they were no longer tended didn’t mean they were any less important. She felt anger and frustration well up in her chest. Evil, that’s what it was. Wanton damage, just for the hell of it! No one gave a damn about anything these days.

‘What is wrong with these people?’

‘Kids,’ said Rick in an echo of Bob Cannon.

‘Then you need to keep a closer eye on them.’ The sharpness in her voice reflected the rage she was feeling. ‘It’s not acceptable. It has to be stopped.’

Rick’s eyebrows shifted up a fraction. ‘We try, but we can’t be everywhere at once. And anyway, the little sods sneak in at night. There’s not a whole lot we can do about that.’

Delia didn’t care for his tone – it had a somewhat disrespectful edge to it – but she knew that he was right. Although the gates at either end of the cemetery were locked every evening, the graveyard was surrounded by houses and any number of back gardens. For those who desired access, it wasn’t too hard to find a wall to climb over.

Her mouth set into a tight, grim line as her eyes surveyed the damage. Three of the headstones had been smashed. The torso of a grey stone angel, her head decapitated, lay supine on the grass. There was something eerily disturbing about her, like a murder victim left out in the open for everyone to view.

‘At least move that out of the way. The Ransome cortège will be passing by at twelve and that’s the last thing they’ll want to see.’

‘Sure,’ said Rick. ‘No worries. We’ll shift her over to the back.’

Delia felt Eli’s gaze on her, but when she looked at him, his pale blue eyes slid away. Not, however, before she had seen the expression in them. Dislike? Contempt? She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and she wondered, not for the first time, just how much Eli knew. He was an odd, disconcerting man who rarely spoke, and then only with the bare minimum of words. How old was he now? In his early sixties, she thought. And he had been around back then, back when it had all happened.

Eli turned away from her and started picking up fragments of stone. He was small and wiry with a thin, gaunt face and a shock of white hair. The sharp bones in his cheeks seemed too close to the surface of his brown leathery skin. Like a starved man – or a dying one. She was wary of him, afraid of the knowledge he might possess. What if he said something? A sliver of ice slid down her spine. But it didn’t matter, she quickly told herself. No one would take any notice of what Eli said. He wasn’t right in the head, not all there. Anyone who could claim to hear the dead couldn’t possibly count as a reliable witness.

Although she had no immediate desire to return to the office, Delia was even more reluctant to stay. She didn’t want to spend any more time than she had to in the company of Eli Glass. Accordingly, she addressed her final orders to Rick. ‘So you’ll make sure it’s cleared before twelve?’

‘By twelve,’ he repeated.

‘Thank you.’ Delia started to walk away, but then turned round again. There was something that she had to ask Rick before she left. Checking that Eli was out of earshot, she hesitated and then said, ‘And that other business, over on the west side – no more problems there?’

‘What?’

Delia frowned. ‘The girl, yesterday? You know, the business about the man lurking in the bushes.’

‘Oh, that. No, there’s been no more trouble. I’ve been going over to check, but whoever it was hasn’t come back.’

Delia tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. ‘I don’t suppose you know who she’s working for?’

Rick Mallory gave a shrug. ‘No idea. Sorry. Does it matter?’

‘No, no, of course not. I was just curious.’

‘I’ll be getting on, then,’ he said.

As he walked away to join Eli, Delia set off back along the path towards the office. She wished she hadn’t asked now, but she couldn’t bear the uncertainty. She
had
to know if Cato was responsible for the flowers on the grave. For some reason, she couldn’t disconnect the decapitated stone angel from the long-dead Lucy Rivers. It was strange, she thought, how all the angels in the Bible were male and yet in graveyards they were often depicted as female. What was all that about? Some kind of pagan influence, perhaps. Maybe she’d ask the vicar about it when she went to church on Sunday.

Squinting into the sun, she wondered why she was even entertaining the thought. There were far more pressing, far more serious matters to be discussed with the Reverend Colin Jacobs. Not that she ever would discuss them. How could she admit to what she’d done? She was too afraid and too ashamed.

‘What could I say?’ she murmured. ‘How could I say it?’

Her lips felt dry and she ran her tongue along them. She wondered what it would be like to be Catholic, to be able to step inside the confessional and admit to all one’s wrongdoings. But was it that easy to slough off the burden of sin? She had lived it with it for so long that it now felt like a part of her. It was wrapped around her soul, attached to her heart like some dreadful cancer.

When she reached the weeping willows, she stopped and gazed along the narrow path that led off to the older part of the cemetery. She’d had no intention of going there and yet she felt a sudden urge to do so. She had to look. She had to see for herself.

Delia set off again at a brisk pace, frequently glancing over her shoulder like a furtive burglar afraid of being seen. And yet there was no reason why she
shouldn’t
be going there. Maddie Layne claimed to have seen a man hanging around the graves yesterday. It was her duty, her responsibility, to make sure there were no dodgy characters skulking in the shrubbery. Not that she actually believed the girl. No, she was sure that she’d been lying.

As the path wound round and grew narrower, the long, dry grass brushed against Delia’s legs. There were wild flowers, shrubs and red admiral butterflies dancing on the buddleia. She was aware of the prettiness of the scene, but took no joy in it. For years she had deliberately stayed away from this place, not wanting to be reminded of the past. But now the past was flooding over her, a great torrent of memories that couldn’t be dammed.

Delia wrapped her arms around her chest as she tentatively approached the grave. There was no denying that Maddie Layne had done a good job. The weeds had all been cleared away, and the marble headstone was gleaming. It was, however, the deep red roses that affected her most profoundly. They were not like the ones you bought in the shops with the small tight buds that never opened properly; these were the old-fashioned type – big and blowsy and smelling of summer.

Men sent red roses as a symbol of love. Delia’s hands clenched into two tight fists.
Cato.
The red against the white reminded her of blood. She stared long and hard at the grave. Deep down she had always known that one day the Lucy Rivers affair would come back to haunt her. How could it not? What went around came around, and the dead were unforgiving.