The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (11 page)

A few minutes later, the cop was gone and she was sitting in her car. The tears began yet again. This time she gave in to them and allowed herself a good, long howl.

What kind of life is this?

If it weren’t for the kids, it would be no life at all.

And it wouldn’t be worth pursuing.

BEFORE JESSICA COULD EVEN contemplate the latest in the long series of misfortunes that had befallen the family, yet another disaster came a-calling.

Christ. The police.

‘And?’

‘They took a photograph, put out some sort of report or warning or something. Said that he’d probably turn up soon. They didn’t seem to care.’

Poor woman sounded so despondent. ‘I’m sure they care. But what can they do?’

Jessica tried to recall the last time she’d seen her dad. He hadn’t seem that bad. Just forgetful. Was it possible he’d deteriorated so quickly as to become the nightmare her mother made out?

‘Do you want me to come and help you look?’ Jessica asked, mentally ticking off a list of items to be actioned before that could actually happen. Ronald needed to be instructed to look after the kids, for one.

‘Would you?’ The desperation was clearly evident. ‘I’ve driven around, and nothing. What if he’s somehow worked out how to get off the island?’

Jessica tried to sound reassuring, but had to admit the situation her mother was painting wasn’t good. ‘I’m on my way, Mum. Try to relax, and stay home. You don’t want to be out if he returns, do you?’

‘No, of course not. You’re right. See you soon.’ The call ended abruptly, and before Jessica had time to react, her mobile rang.

Chelsea Jordan.

It was as if she knew the perfect time to put the boot in.

‘Where’s the Apple gear, then?’

Thinking of the deal with the detective, Jessica tried to keep her voice evenly modulated. No point Chelsea getting suspicious right off the bat, was there? ‘I only got the bags today, but I don’t think I can do it. Might be beyond my skills.’

Truth was always a good option. ‘My dad has dementia and he’s gone missing. I have to go to the Isle of Wight and help Mum, so I’m not really concerned about the, um, Club, now.’

‘Oh.’ Chelsea was silent for a moment. ‘Drop them around before eight tonight, then. The husband gets home after that. I don’t want him seeing them.’

‘Right,’ Jessica said, trying to calculate times. ‘I’ll try but . . .’

Chelsea hung up without further comment.

Charming.

Despite the fact that they were now partners in crime, Chelsea Jordan was, and would, in all probability, remain a bitch in Burberry, or Prada or Gucci.

Ronald couldn’t have been less helpful. ‘I can’t look after the kids for days on end. I have work, remember?’

‘Elise is taking them after school. All you have to do is pick them up, give them breakfast and drop them off. I should be home in a day or so.’

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, tearing pieces off a baguette that was supposed to go with the pasta for dinner, Ronald had never looked more unattractive to her. That police detective was more sympathetic, and he’d caught her stealing!

‘It’s ridiculous, you rushing off like this. We had an agreement, Jess, remember?’

The agreement, as it transpired, was that Jessica would look after the kids for eternity, because she was the one who wanted them. Stupidly, Jessica had assumed that Ronald would grow to love them, and with love, responsibility would blossom. There might,
might
be some love, but as for the responsibility . . . there was no sign so far.

Sick of his selfish attitude, Jessica snapped. ‘Look, Ronald, grow up. They’re your kids too. My father is ill. We need you as much as your clients, you know. More. Those kids are your flesh and blood.’

Hoping that he might relent, just a little, Jessica was disappointed when Ronald merely threw aside the bread and stormed out of the house. She heard a car start.
How could he?
The bastard! Running after him would do no good – there was no conscience to plead with.

Holding back the urge to bawl for about the tenth time that day, Jessica tiredly dialled Elise again. Thankfully, her friend understood the need for her to get to her parents’ – and didn’t even vocalise her disgust at Ronald’s behaviour.

Although it was perfectly understandable, and she quickly agreed to the suggestion, Jessica felt that her life was becoming a set of deals.
Quid pro quo
. No one seemed to do anything for nothing, nowadays.

There was always payback.

Two hours later, the kids were happily racing about Elise’s house whilse Jessica unloaded the various bits and pieces that they’d need for a two night stay. Sports gear, special teddies, lunch boxes already packed.

As she did so, she saw the bags from the AD store.

Great. Something else to be done. She’d forgotten all about Chelsea.

Her mother had already called five times, asking how far she’d got; Ronald hadn’t resurfaced and Rachel had become inconsolable at the idea of Jessica going away, even for a short time. Perhaps it was prudent to call Chelsea to explain that she wasn’t going to make it tonight?

But without those bags, Rita couldn’t do the job.
It’d just cause more problems not to deliver them.

Jessica took Elise’s advice and snuck away without a prolonged goodbye. She’d call the kids later, when she was on the ferry to the island.

Elise lived on the opposite side of Clawson to Chelsea, so Jessica uncharacteristically put her foot down and arrived a little after 9:00 p.m. There were two cars in the driveway, both Range Rovers. The husband must be home, Jessica decided.

Remembering the request to arrive earlier, she decided to leave the bags in the boot until Chelsea had given her the okay to remove them, and reluctantly dragged herself from the Fiat.

Taking the front steps two by two, she held up a hand to bang on the front door, ignoring the bell in case Sienna was asleep. Suddenly, there was a loud scream – female – and the crashing of glass.

What was that?
Jessica jumped at the sound, and felt for her mobile in case Chelsea was being held by some madman.

‘Stop, darling please. I told you, it wasn’t my–‘

A loud slap halted further words. ‘You’re my wife, and you embarrass me by dressing like a washer woman?’

Wife? No!

‘I said I was–‘ Another slap echoed out into the night.

The altercation could only mean one thing.

Chelsea was a battered wife.

Seething with anger – Ronald may be emotionally abusive but he’d never hit her – Jessica made to bang on the door again, but then thought the better of it. What if it just made things worse for Chelsea? The woman was so full of herself that knowing Jessica was in on the torrid ‘secret’ of her abuse might be too much for her to handle. And after experiencing Rachel’s many breakdowns, Jessica did not want to be party to Chelsea’s. Especially not now.

It did explain all that thick makeup, at least. Probably covering up bruises.

Quietly backing down the stairs, Jessica wondered if she should call the police anonymously? Perhaps the shock of getting caught would stop Chelsea’s husband from doing it again? Then again, Chelsea would have to press charges, and she didn’t seem the type to give up a luxurious lifestyle, no matter what the cause.

Turning the key in the ignition, and wishing the little old Fiat was a lot quieter, Jessica headed down the paved drive, out onto the A-road and into the traffic crawling towards the South Coast. She prayed she’d done the right thing by not calling the police, and that the morning news would not be reporting the death of a slim woman wearing too much makeup, blood splattered all over the tight Burberry trousers.

Perhaps she
would
ask Chelsea about it at some point – if fate did not step in and deal with Chelsea on its own. Check to see if the woman needed some help.

As she drove, ignoring the petrol warning light – it occasionally played up – and thinking about Rachel, Ronald and Chelsea, Jessica didn’t give a thought to the one person she should have.

She’d forgotten all about DCI Courtauld and their appointment early the next day. And she didn’t remember until it was too late.

‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? It’s almost two in the morning,’ were the first words her mother spoke, or more correctly shouted, as Jessica trundled up the short drive and parked behind her parents’ old BMW coupe.

‘I ran out of petrol. Had to wait for the AA. No sign of Dad, then?’

‘No. The police have finally admitted it is worrying. Nice to know. Of course it’s worrying. That’s what I told them in the beginning.’

Her mother had been crying heavily, which was uncharacteristic. The stalwart of the family, Suzanne Drummond was known for her even temper and strength in a crisis.

‘Mum, he’ll come home. Probably convinced some hotel to take him in. They’ll call when they discover he’s without funds.’

‘But he needs his heart medication. And the stuff for the Alzheimer’s.’

Grabbing her mother’s arm – when had she become so thin? – Jessica squeezed it affectionately. ‘Come on. What was it you used to say when I was little? It’s just a moment in time.’

‘It’s what you say to children, Jessica. I’m not a child. And it has been over 24 hours. Every
moment
away is bad for your father.’

In spite of the upset, Jessica couldn’t help but think that it must be nice to want and need someone the way her parents did each other. She couldn’t imagine Ronald and her becoming like Mum and Dad – not even if they were together for ten lifetimes.

She’d tried not to think about Ronald during the journey – largely because she wanted to resist the urge to drive into a wall – but there was a point at which they’d have to acknowledge the marriage was a sham and that they both deserved better. Was she at that point yet? Seeing her mother’s reaction to her missing father, Jessica suspected that point had long come and gone – they were just too bogged down in obligation to see it.

‘Right, shall I go out now, see if I can find him?’ Jessica asked, although she was so exhausted she could barely stand.

‘Would you? I’ve looked everywhere he might have gone, so if you try the unusual places . . .’ The voice trailed off, and her mother stared off into the distance. The poor women was almost in an altered state from worry.

‘Mum, you get some sleep, I’ll look for Dad, okay?’ Gently directing her mother towards the spare bedroom, where she slept because Dad was up and down at night, Jessica grabbed her bag and headed for the car.

An hour later and Jessica stopped at a lay-by to stretch her legs and try to stay awake. No sign of Dad anywhere – which alarming as the Isle of Wight wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis. An elderly man in his pyjamas with dementia should be easy to spot. Sure, he could be inside a hall, or locked in a restaurant toilet or huddled somewhere out of sight, but it had been long enough now for someone to have ferreted him out.

So far she’d tried all the major roads within walking distance – the bus shelters and shopping strips in case there was something open. She’d even checked the ladies’
and
men’s toilets in every park within a ten mile radius of home.

What if he’d found a way off the island?

No. It wasn’t easy to stow away in a car or on the ferry, especially if you didn’t pay. Unless he had somehow gotten a hold of his wallet, which, she knew from old, contained his passport (‘. . . because, Jessie, you never know when you might need it’). The thought filled her with dread, because Dad’s dementia came and went, particularly when he wasn’t taking his medication regularly. He could easily deceive someone into believing he was fully functioning and get himself on a bus or even a plane without a problem.

Easing back into the old Fiat, she began driving back towards the coast, keeping the headlights on high beam just in case an elderly man in nightwear was walking along the side of the road, lost and alone.