The killer inside them, p.8
The Killer Inside Them, page 8
‘Is it something serious?’
‘No. Abbey’s going to Francine’s house for band practice. And she’ll eat there.’
‘So you’re all alone again?’
‘We’re always alone, Jack, even when surrounded by people.’
I don’t know why those words slipped out of me, but they did.
‘That sounds grim, Jen. Do you want to meet Tiff and me for a meal after we’ve seen her parents?’
I couldn’t think of anything worse. And then I did.
‘That’s okay, but thanks for the offer.’ I removed my phone and checked for what I wanted. ‘There are late visiting times at the nursing home, so I’ll see my mother.’
I’d need a drink after that, so it was best Abbey wouldn’t be around to watch me down a whole bottle of wine in less than an hour. If I added some ice, it could take longer; perhaps I’d make it last for at least two episodes of The Crown.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, partner. You meet your future in-laws, and you can tell me all about it tomorrow.’ We smiled together. ‘And we might have a break in the case by then.’
We laughed as we left the building and went our separate ways. I thought about what Tiffany’s parents would make of him, the man dating their daughter half his age, and tried not to think of the similar situation I was in so long ago.
No, it was wrong to compare those things. I was groomed for two years while my parents stood by and did nothing; Jack’s situation was much different. He was the vulnerable one, considering I didn’t believe he’d got over his wife kicking him out. But, on the other hand, perhaps he was right, and it was fun for both of them, and it would all blow over soon enough. At least he’d have a better idea after meeting her parents.
I continued to think like that as I drove to see my mother.
When I arrived at the care home, she was in a big room with other residents. There was no live music, but plenty of games were on offer. She was sitting with three others playing cards. The staff member from the last time – her name was Claire – stood next to me.
‘What are they playing?’ I said.
‘Bridge. Do you know the game?’
I did. ‘My parents used to play it with a couple from my father’s church.’ I watched my mother scrutinising her cards, aware she was always very competitive. I moved closer to Claire so no one would hear my words. ‘You need a lot of memory retention for Bridge, so won’t it be difficult for those with dementia?’
‘Yes, it is a challenge for most, but others, like your mother… well, sometimes it can spark their brain into life, especially if they have lots of experience with the game as she has.’
I stood there and observed the group, analysing the changes on her face, recognising the woman from my teenage years. It was as if the last two decades had never happened; unless she had a secret bottle of booze stashed away under the table. The thought of it made my mouth water.
They continued to play as I spoke to Claire.
‘The message you left mentioned my mother wanting to tell me something.’
‘Yes, yes, she was very excited after your previous visit. I think she wanted to follow you from here until I explained we didn’t have your home address.’
‘Does she know I’m her daughter?’
‘Absolutely. She never stopped mentioning it.’ Concern filled her eyes. ‘Was it one of the things she was confused about last time?’
‘Yes. That and a few others.’
I watched my mother clap her hands as she and her partner won the latest Bridge rubber.
‘What’s happening with her fractured ribs?’
‘They’re healing and she’s on strong pain killers. So it’s nothing a bit of time won’t fix.’
With those words, she went to speak to another resident, and I took a chair opposite the card players. It gave me time to consider what I’d say to my mother; after she told me what was on her mind.
Yes, my mother’s mind. She’d never been one to let others know what she was thinking, even, as far as I could tell, her husband. He was a committed Christian, and she showed no interest in religion of any kind. I’d always wondered what they’d seen in each other to end up as a couple, but had never discovered an adequate answer. Perhaps he thought God would grant him a miracle and my mother would convert to his faith.
But not even God could tempt her away from the drink.
Yet, wasn’t it the same with my relationships? On reflection, I never understood what I’d seen in those I’d shared my life with – especially the two most important ones: Robert and Ray. I’d tried not to think about either of them over the years, but, as I sat surrounded by people who could barely remember their lives, it seemed appropriate.
Robert was a decision beyond my control. He wormed his way into my life and heart when I was still a child; when I was too young to make rational decisions. Of course, I wasn’t the first or the last it would happen to, but I always told myself it had played no significant part in my future.
But how was that possible? Had what happened in those years between fourteen and sixteen created far-reaching consequences I was still unaware of?
One of those was Ray. I’d married him for stability so Abbey could have a father, so it was no wonder it didn’t last long. But, if he’d returned and got in touch, what would I do?
And he must be back if Abbey had seen him at the football match. Was it a coincidence he was there? It seemed unlikely. Which meant he was up to something.
A resident in the far corner took a cigarette from their pocket and lit it. Before the staff could take it from them, the smoke drifted over to me and sent my mind back to the fire-damaged house and the remains of Betty Green.
Was it possible she’d signed off on a report that had removed a child from a family, and then years later, one, or perhaps more, of the parents had returned to take terrible revenge?
The parental bond could be substantial. I knew that because of Abbey, but sometimes I’d let her down or hadn’t protected her as I should have. My mother’s neglect of me wasn’t down to alcohol or dementia; it was in her before those things possessed her. Was it because what she’d told me was right: that I wasn’t hers and they’d adopted me after their natural child, their Jenny, was stolen from the hospital? Those things would be easy to discover. A baby abducted from a hospital would have been all over the news, and there were ways for children of adoption to find their birth parents.
But I didn’t want to know if her claims were true. It wouldn’t excuse her behaviour and would only give me more problems to deal with. Still, it would ease my worries regarding if her dementia was hereditary. Her ailments wouldn’t affect Abbey or me if I weren’t her blood.
Yet, I was there to answer that question: to see if me imagining my father leaving a message on the answering machine was something I had to worry about. Perhaps I should forget about the whole thing. It hadn’t happened again, and maybe Jack was right – it was only a consequence of work-related stress.
So there was no reason for me to sit there, watching someone who had never been a mother to me, regardless of genetics. I observed the glee in her eyes as she continued to win at cards, seeing how much enjoyment she got as she glanced at the others. It was another thing I’d got wrong all these years: her pleasure didn’t come from winning, but from others losing.
Whether the baby-snatching story was true or not, she believed it and perhaps had always done so, even before her illness. That was why I was never a daughter to her, why she didn’t care about my pregnancy at sixteen to a man more than twice my age.
I left the chair and walked away, not looking at her. My brief family reunion was over and wouldn’t happen again. The only problem now was how to explain all of this to Abbey.
Perhaps it was time to tell my daughter the whole truth.
15 PANDORA: THE PARTY
The festivities lasted an hour. I didn’t get a pay rise, but I got the tall fake copper’s phone number scribbled on the back of a business card. The drinking continued after work, a little gathering in the local pub. And who was I to argue? After all, it was a party for me, and I hadn’t experienced one of those for a long time.
Or ever.
I couldn’t remember any birthday parties in my past, and every annual celebration – like Christmas or New Year – had always turned into a disaster.
So, even with everything on my mind regarding Betty and what I’d do next, I put it all to the side to enjoy myself.
One of the younger blokes went to the bar and ordered me a drink. It was only just gone six o’clock and I wasn’t sure how long the festivities would last. Wary of starting on the double gins too early, I settled on a pint of cider.
We gathered around two tables, eight of us, but more people joined during the night, family and friends of my co-workers. I had none of those to join me, of course. Still, it allowed me to linger on the periphery, keeping my thoughts to myself and focusing on the next person I had to visit. The temptation to go was strong, but I had to fight against it. There was no need to provide the police with two crime scenes to scour in quick succession. The journalist could wait; I knew where he was and I guessed he wouldn’t be leaving the city soon. However, I wondered if he’d seen what had happened to the social worker and recognised her name. Perhaps not, since it was so long ago. If he did and he remembered her, would he be worried? I hoped so.
Ten years ago was another world, before new technology revolutionised how we all lived and transformed communication into a mass activity that left many people alone. Then, a sudden image flashed through my head, of the social worker peering at me as the flames rushed up her legs, of seeing the look in her eyes, which wasn’t of fear, but more a resigned acceptance of her fate. Maybe she was happy her solitude was ending. Or perhaps it was the realisation her guilt would soon be over.
My mind drifted as people enjoyed themselves around me, my gaze scrutinising the décor of tatty seats, faded wooden tables, and the walls covered with badly drawn caricatures of famous Londoners. A tortured sketch of Queen Victoria stared at me from the opposite wall, with her Majesty surrounded by terrible drawings of David Beckham, Michael Caine, and Helen Mirren. If any of those poor souls were unfortunate enough to stumble into the venue, I’d expect them to sue for defamation of character. Or perhaps it would be deformation.
As I considered how terrible everything was, it got worse with a wall of sound that Phil Spector must have created during a murder spree. A group of poorly designed people jumped from their seats and into the middle of the room, which soon became a makeshift dance floor for those who should have known better, gyrating their hips to a song about refusing to go to rehab. It forced me to down my drink in one and head for another. I ordered more cider as madness disguised as entertainment went on around me.
I didn’t return to the table, observing the festivities in full flow from the bar. A DJ in the corner was pretending to spin records while playing a group of digital tracks. He was dressed like The Cat in the Hat with a stripy jumper and large titfer. But my appreciation of his talents increased when he played Fine Time by New Order, and then followed it with Pacific State by 808 State. I finished the cider and ordered my first gin of the night – it wouldn’t be my last – a strawberry and pepper double. By the time the Bee Gees appeared, I was well gone, giddy enough to talk to anyone. The loneliness would return later, I knew that, but I went with the flow.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying the gift of living, yet all I could do was pursue a celebration of death. I knew no other way to live, could think of no alternative to the course I was on. But wasn’t life, for most of us, just fleeting glimpses of happiness in between long phases of indifference, depression, and pain? I spent most of my spare time reading, trawling through things I never had access to in school. For several reasons, I struggled through many melancholy periods and tried to find answers to my predicament in religion and philosophy. I quickly discarded the religion, having no patience for that which didn’t exist, and became obsessed with philosophical texts.
So I fought with monsters and stared into the abyss, yet still, I found no solutions. But I had a reason to live and could bear most any pain now.
All apart from one.
No matter how much I drank, how much I covered myself with other people’s joy, that pain would never leave me. And I knew it wouldn’t, even when I completed my mission. There was no escaping from it, just like there was no escaping for those who gave me this pain. The social worker was the first, but not the last.
The DJ reached into the 1960s and played Light My Fire by The Doors. I nearly spat my gin over the tattooed bloke standing next to me at the bar. What a waste that would have been. I listened to the music and perceived it as a sign from above; me, a dedicated atheist. For that moment, through the haze of sweat, alcohol, and belief that all dreams could come true, I believed a Greater Power was guiding me to complete my quest. Not that I needed an extra push.
I clutched my glass and dodged the swaying drunks on the dance floor, or perhaps they avoided me, and went to the DJ. I shot him my best enigmatic smile and he moved forward.
‘Have you got a request, love?’
I certainly had. I told him what I wanted and he nodded in acquiescence. By the time I returned to the bar for my next drink, the first bars of the greatest ever song were floating towards me.
Don’t fear the reaper, they sang.
Don’t fear the reaper.
When I arrived home, I ordered a pizza and opened a bottle of wine. The fake copper’s phone number lay on the kitchen table.
When was the last time I’d gone on a date? Darren didn’t count, of course.
This was the third part of my life, and I was sure the last proper date must have been towards the tail end of the first part. What was his name? My memory of it was hazy, just fading images of a man who looked like Elvis and smelt of fish. I could have forgiven that if he’d resembled the early Elvis, with the slicked-back quiff and orgasm-inducing hips, and not the bloke who died on the toilet with a burger in his hands.
I pushed the image from my head and picked up the paper, going over the phone number several times until it cemented itself at the front of my brain. Perhaps he didn’t want a date and was only after sex – a one-night stand. I wasn’t opposed to that. It might bring a slither of joy into my life, no matter how fleeting.
I finished the drink and poured another, remembering how he moved in the office, picturing his impressive half-naked torso and a smile that glittered like gold. The image played on a loop as I drank half the bottle of wine, thankful the pizza turned up before I got too merry. I chewed on ham and cheese while planning what to say to him on the phone.
But it would wait until tomorrow.
I grabbed the last of the booze and the food to retire to the other room. Then I switched on the laptop and bit on a chunk of ice. The rest of the night was spent searching for information on the social worker’s death. I didn’t like to call it murder. Justice wasn’t murder.
Most of what I found were reports stating how the police had no clues to the crime and that their investigation was ongoing. There were a few posts on websites in memoriam for the social worker, but I felt nothing for those. Green had kept a terrible secret and had paid the price for that. I had no guilt, no remorse.
By the time I finished the second bottle of wine, I felt little of anything.
16 JEN: THE PSYCHOLOGIST
I slept through the alarm on Tuesday morning. It had been a restless night, with my mind full of burnt bodies and my mother’s face. I wasn’t sure which was worse. By the time I was dressed and downstairs, Abbey had left. There was a note on the table from her.
I’ve got football practice after school. Can you pick me up at six?
The thump in my head increased as I poured myself a cup of coffee and texted her a confirmation. Then I retreated to the living room and stared at the time – nine o’clock. I should have been at work an hour ago. Before I could ready an excuse, the phone rang. I considered ignoring it, but understood my partner would be persistent.
‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’ll be there soon.’ My voice sounded as if broken glass covered my tongue.
‘You should take the day off, Jen. I know you had a bad night.’
‘Are you a mind reader?’
‘Abbey texted me this morning. Said you had nightmares.’
‘Did I?’
The memories weren’t great, but I wouldn’t have called them nightmares. Yet, why did I feel terrible now, as if my head was underwater in a microwave?
‘I’m okay. I can’t let you do all the work on this case.’
‘There’s nothing much to do, Jen. The only leads we have are Darren Green’s mysterious date and social services. And both are flimsy.’
He wasn’t wrong.
‘That’s why we need to talk to people who worked with Betty Green.’
‘If any of them are still there after ten years. And I can take Constable Sutton with me. Grealish is speaking to the neighbours, so we have everything covered.’
‘Thanks. You know how to make a girl feel wanted.’
‘It’s not that, Jen. You haven’t had a break in a while, and we don’t want you…’
He didn’t finish the sentence, so I did it for him.
‘You don’t want me hallucinating again.’
‘We don’t know that’s what happened with your father’s message. Did you see your mother yesterday?’
‘I saw her, but we didn’t talk. So I won’t be going back. I’m leaving my past alone.’
‘And Abbey?’
‘I’ll tell her everything.’
That was a lie. There would be no mention of what happened to me at sixteen.
‘Maybe you should talk to someone, Jen.’
‘I’m talking to you, Jack.’
