Bad Girl (35 page)

Tommy had always wondered if and when this day would come. He’d tried to push the truth to the back of his mind, to deny its existence, although it had still come back to haunt him in the dark, silent hours of the middle of the night. He had lived with the secret for too long. Like a cancer, it had grown inside, becoming harder to bear as the years passed by. In jail, the burden of it had pressed down on his conscience: everything he’d done and said, all the lies, the deceit, the pain and the anguish.

He could see Mouse waiting, breathing in short, shallow gasps. She would never forgive him. How could she? He watched as Frank poured her a glass of brandy and placed it on the table. Moira fetched cotton wool and antiseptic for the cut on her hand. He frowned, remembering the blood on a different carpet, the horror of what he had done.

He stood up again and returned to the window, keeping his back to Mouse. He couldn’t bear to look at her, to see the expression in her eyes. There was still a grey light outside, although the day was almost done. He stood and stared down at the traffic, but all he saw was a young woman in a red coat. Now that the time had come, he felt fear and awe and an odd sense of relief.

‘Lynsey called me on the night it happened. It was late, after the pub had closed, and she was crying. I couldn’t make sense of it at first, what she was saying, what she was telling me. I hadn’t heard from her in years, and… Well, she was in trouble, big trouble. I told her to stay where she was and I’d come over. I gave Yvonne some bullshit story, took the takings from the till, got in the motor and drove to Kilburn.’

As Tommy spoke, he was transported back to that night all those years ago. He was driving again through the dark, a light spring rain spattering against the windscreen. He was trying not to speed in case he got stopped by the law. All the traffic lights seemed to be on red. While he waited, he drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, feeling the dread spreading through his guts.

When he finally arrived at the flat, Lynsey opened the door straight away. She was still crying, her face red and swollen, mascara smeared under her wide, frightened eyes. It had been over a decade since he’d last seen her. She dragged him quickly into the hallway and up the stairs.
You have to help me, Tommy. Please. I don’t know what to do.

There was a lamp on in the living room, and the curtains were closed. He had a few fleeting impressions – cream walls, a plush red sofa, a glass-topped coffee table – before his gaze came to rest on the body of the woman. She was lying face down on the floor, her long fair hair matted with blood. He bent down, touching the still warm skin of her neck, making sure there was no pulse. He turned to look up at his sister. ‘Who is she? What happened?’

Lynsey had her hand over her mouth, the tears flooding down her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what happened. I swear I don’t. I came home and she was there. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.’

Tommy believed her. In her present state, he didn’t think she was capable of lying to him. He felt some relief that she wasn’t responsible, rapidly followed by a wave of confusion. ‘Why ain’t you called the cops? If it’s nothing to do with you, then—’

‘I can’t,’ she wailed. ‘Oh God, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me too.’

‘Keep it down,’ he said, quickly standing up again. ‘You want to wake up the whole bloody house?’

Lynsey buried her head in his shoulder, clinging on to him. ‘What am I going to do? I can’t call the cops, I can’t. He’ll find out, and then…’ She dissolved into sobs, the rest of her fears muffled and incoherent.

Tommy could feel the sharp tips of her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his back. Gently he pushed her away from him. ‘Do you have anything to drink? Brandy? Do you have brandy?’

For a second, she seemed unable to comprehend what he was saying, but then abruptly she nodded, pointing towards a cabinet in the corner.

Tommy walked across the room, opened the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Courvoisier from inside. Then he took hold of Lynsey’s wrist and pulled her into the kitchen, closing the door behind them. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He found a couple of glasses and poured two stiff shots. ‘Drink it,’ he ordered. He knocked his back in one and poured another. Only then, with the brandy coursing through his veins, did he feel able to properly listen to what she had to say.

The story, as she told it, was garbled and disjointed. Tommy had to keep stopping her to get things straight. Gradually the facts began to slot together and the picture became clearer. The dead woman’s name was Anna Farrell. She was a mate of Lynsey’s who sometimes used the flat to entertain her friends. Tommy knew what she meant by ‘friends’ – clients, punters, men who preferred their sexual encounters to be in comfortable surroundings rather than on street corners. Lynsey hadn’t been expecting Anna that night – she usually phoned if she was coming round – but she’d been out herself and might have missed the call. Anna had a key and would have let herself in.

Lynsey lit a cigarette. She smoked rapidly, with a shaking hand, her eyes continuously darting towards the door and the horrors that lay beyond. She told him about Eddie Chapelle, Anna’s boyfriend, and how Anna had introduced them and she’d started working for him too. ‘Weekend parties. You know the sort of thing: rich guys, country houses out in Kent and Surrey.’

‘And now he’s in jail.’

‘It’s me he wants dead,’ she whispered. ‘Not Anna.’

Tommy frowned at her. ‘And how do you figure that one out? If she’s his girlfriend, she’s the one who’s got all the dirt.’

‘No, he trusts her. He knows she’d never grass on him.’ Lynsey shuddered. ‘I’m telling you, he sent someone… sent someone to kill me, and they got it wrong. They found Anna here, thought she was me and—’

‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Tommy said.

‘I am. Just before he was arrested, it all kicked off. The last party I went to, Eddie only gave me half of what he’d promised, and I was shooting my mouth off to him – you know what I’m like – saying I’d make him pay, let everyone know what he was up to. I didn’t mean it. But then after he was arrested, I started getting threats, notes sent through the post. And then last week there was a car. It was following me down the street. I swear, Tommy, it followed me all the way from Kilburn station.’ She jumped up. ‘I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to get away from here.’

‘And go where?’ Tommy asked.

‘Anywhere, for fuck’s sake! As soon as he finds out it wasn’t me…’

‘He’ll come after you – or get someone else to. Are you going to keep running for the rest of your life? And what about your kid? Are you just going to abandon her?’

Lynsey’s hands flew up to her face again, her features twisting with fear. ‘Oh God, what if he goes after Helen? I can’t let him… Christ, Tommy, what am I going to do?’ She slumped back down into the chair, defeated and helpless.

Tommy’s mind was racing, searching for a way out. If she reported all this to the cops, it would mean witness protection, relocation, a new identity. And that was only if they believed her story. What if they didn’t? They might even charge her with murder. Plus, it wouldn’t stop Chapelle from trying to get his revenge. From what he’d heard of the bastard, he was perfectly capable of going after the kid. He drank some more brandy, knowing that the decisions he made in the next few minutes could mean the difference between life and death. ‘Have you got a passport?’

Lynsey shook her head.

‘Ireland, then. You could go to Dublin.’

She stared at him, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘But he’ll still be looking for me. And it won’t stop him from hurting Helen. Maybe even worse. He’s violent, vicious. You’ve no idea what he’s capable of.’

‘So take her with you.’

‘And how am I supposed to do that? I can’t just turn up at the house in the middle of the night. You really think that old cow would let me take her?’

‘Tomorrow,’ he suggested. ‘We could go to Chingford, book into a B and B and pick her up from Farleigh Wood in the morning. You could pretend you were just taking her out for the day. The two of you could be on the ferry and on your way to Ireland before anyone even knows about…’ His gaze slid towards the living room before returning to his sister again. ‘It’s the only way, love. Unless…’

‘Unless?’

Tommy didn’t want to say it, but there was another option. ‘If Eddie thinks you’re dead, then he won’t be coming after you. Or Helen.’

Lynsey’s eyes widened. ‘What… how could…?’

‘Who’s to say that isn’t you, next door? If we arrange things right, we could make it look like you did die here tonight. Eddie won’t be surprised if Anna goes missing. He’ll just think she got spooked and did a runner.’ Even as he was explaining, Tommy was aware of the awful repercussions of what he was suggesting. A part of him wanted to stop, to say it was a stupid, mad idea, but he couldn’t see a better option.

‘Me?’ she said faintly.

‘You know what that would mean?’

Lynsey stared back at him, her brown eyes full of fear and sorrow. ‘I’ll never see Helen again.’

Tommy felt an ache in his heart. To separate a mother and her daughter was a dreadful thing, but the alternative was terrible too. ‘It needn’t be for ever,’ he said. ‘Maybe later, in a year or two, we could…’ Unable to find the words, he glanced away. ‘It’s up to you. I’ll go along with whatever you decide.’

‘She’d think I was dead.’

‘Yes.’

Lynsey’s face crumpled. ‘I couldn’t do that to her.’

‘So take her with you.’ Tommy looked at his watch. It was twenty to one. ‘But make your mind up, sis, and quick. If we’re going to do this, we need to get a move on.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and sat for a while, her hands clasping and unclasping. ‘If I take her, Joan will go to the cops and report it. And then Eddie will find out about it too. He’ll know I’m still alive. He’ll come after us both. He won’t let it rest. I know he won’t.’ Her voice rose and broke. ‘We’ll always be waiting for… Christ, I can’t do that to her. If I leave her, then at least she’ll be safe.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tommy. ‘Eddie Chapelle will think you’re dead.’

Lynsey gave a quick, frightened nod. ‘I have to, don’t I?’

‘Go and pack a bag,’ he said. ‘Not too much, just the essentials. And make sure you leave some bathroom stuff, your toothbrush, that kind of thing. It’s got to look like…’ He cleared his throat before he continued. ‘Did Anna have a handbag with her?’

Lynsey nodded again.

‘Take it with you. I’ll get rid of it later.’ He took the car keys out of his pocket and pushed them across the table. ‘After you’ve packed, go and wait in the motor. It’s the white Cortina parked down the street.’ He paused and added, ‘Oh, and give me your wedding ring.’

‘What?’

‘Just do it, Lynsey. Don’t fuckin’ argue with me.’ He watched as she pulled off the gold band, held it for a moment and then passed it over. He wondered why she still wore it – it hadn’t been a happy marriage – but now wasn’t the time to start asking those kinds of questions.

He walked back into the living room with her. She hurried past the body, keeping her eyes averted. While she went to the bedroom, he crouched down and looked around. There was no sign of the weapon that had been used to kill Anna Farrell. He stared at the bloodied hole in her skull, thinking that it could have been Lynsey lying there.

He already knew what he was going to do – set fire to the place and destroy as much evidence as he could. Gritting his teeth, he took hold of Anna’s shoulders and carefully turned her over. His stomach lurched as he saw her face: empty and dead. Her eyes, thankfully, were closed. A smear of bright red lipstick had run from her mouth to her chin, giving her an odd, clownish quality. He had a moment of doubt – what the fuck was he doing? – but there was no going back now.

He tipped over the coffee table, making it look like she could have fallen and caught her head against the sharp edge of the glass. If the cops thought it was an accident, they’d be less inclined to delve too deeply. But even if they suspected murder, they probably wouldn’t put that much effort into an investigation. Lynsey Beck’s arrest sheet would tell them all they needed to know about the kind of life she’d lived.

He heard a movement behind him and turned to see Lynsey standing by the door. She had an overnight bag hanging loosely by her side. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Go and wait in the motor.’

She hesitated, her eyes glued to the body of Anna Farrell. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘The motor,’ he repeated. ‘Five minutes, yeah, and I’ll be with you. Just go, okay?’ He was struggling to keep it together, thinking that at any moment the bell might ring and the cops would be waiting downstairs. Logic told him that they couldn’t know about the killing yet, but that didn’t stop the dread. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the blood pumping manically.

Her voice was small and hoarse and scared. ‘Thanks, Tommy.’

He gave a nod, waited until she’d started the descent of the stairs and then picked up Anna Farrell’s left hand. He took off the two rings she was wearing and slipped them into his pocket. Her hand was still loose, still warm – she couldn’t have been dead for that long – and he was able to slide on the wedding band. It was a bit loose, but that didn’t matter. It would be a way of identifying the body later.

He jumped up and went back to the kitchen, where he quickly washed and dried the glasses and made sure they were free of prints. He placed one of them in the cupboard and held on to the other. He found a carrier bag and dropped the bottle of brandy into it. No point in wasting good booze, and Lynsey, he was sure, would need a drink later. Returning to the living room, he left the bag by the door to the hall.

With a tea towel wrapped around his hand, he took a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, and splashed half the contents over Anna and the surrounding area of carpet. He screwed the lid back on and left the bottle and the glass lying beside her. There were three candles on the window ledge, and he laid them on their sides by the body, making it look as though they had fallen from the coffee table. He scattered a few cushions, magazines and newspapers, then he took out his lighter, lit two of the candles and held the flame close to the open pages of the
Evening News
. For a second he hesitated – was there a different way, a better way than this? – but he knew there was no going back now. He waited until the pages had caught alight, until a small fire had started to burn, before muttering a brief prayer and heading for the stairs.