Chasing the Dark (8 page)

‘Murder?' Surprised, she looked up at me with those big slanty eyes. ‘Believe me, Joe, there are far more inhuman crimes than murder.'

I didn't have the nerve to ask what she meant but to stop her working herself into a state again I said, ‘My mum wrote this song once about regretting it when you mess up and how people should try to be understanding about it even if they can't totally forgive you.'

Norma mulled that over. ‘Did your mother have many regrets?'

‘A few.'

She shook her head and tears splashed down her face. ‘I've lost the only chance I ever had for forgiveness
or
understanding. Regrets are all I have. That's what happens when you do something truly terrible. The need for secrecy poisons your whole life. The lies, the pretence, the guilt, they eat away at you until there's nothing left. Half a lifetime ago I turned my back on this house because of Greville Clairmont and I hoped that by coming back I might have a chance of salvaging just a little of what might have been. Of picking up the pieces of my life.'

She'd lost me, totally.

‘Er . . . so why don't you go out, have some fun, look up some old mates?' It was the kind of thing I used to say to Mum when Eddy was giving her grief. I got the same reaction.

A single tear trickled down her cheek. ‘If only it were that simple.'

Her eyes fixed on mine. I shifted my feet and gave her a nervous smile. Her whole body stiffened and her face went stonier than one of her statues.

Now what had I done?

‘I'd like you to leave now,' she said. Then she got up and walked out without saying another word.

CHAPTER 10

I
ran into the hall in time to hear the last echoes of Norma's high heels clicking up the stairs. Raoul was waiting for me, holding the front door open and working his jaw like a boxer before a fight. I didn't hang around to say goodbye. Sprinting down the drive, I made a dash through the slowly opening gates and into the woods.

As far as wacky experiences go, that visit to Elysium had to be up there with the wackiest. But compared to tracking Yuri down and finding out if Ivo Lincoln's visit to the KGB archive was the key to Mum's death it was just a sideshow. So why did I feel like I was falling apart? Maybe crazy was catching, or maybe finding out about the emeralds was sending me places I didn't want to go.

I darted round the back of Laurel Cottage, ran straight to the shed and buried my face in Oz's warm, musty fur. I
wanted Mum. I wanted to her to tell me not to worry because Norma Craig was just a batty old woman who liked winding people up.

‘Joe? Are you in there?'

The shed door swung open. I looked up. It was Doreen. Oz padded forward and took a cautious sniff at her hand, jerking back again when she batted him away,

‘I expected you back ages ago. I've been waiting to hear how it went. What took you so long?'

‘Miss Craig, she er . . . wanted me to hang around while she ate.'

Her eyes flashed. ‘Did she enjoy the food? Come on what did she think about the terrine?'

‘She . . . she said it was great.'

‘Details, Joe, I want to know
exactly
what she said, what she was wearing, what the house looked like. My other clients are all
dying
to know.'

What about your reputation for discretion, Doreen?
And anyway I didn't get it. If she was that interested why hadn't she delivered the food herself?

‘Come on. In the house. I'm freezing to death out here.'

What do you think it's like for Oz, stuck in the shed, all night every night?

He pawed my leg and whined when I got up. ‘I'll be back in a bit,' I whispered. ‘This won't take long. Not if I can help it.'

I could have killed for a burger and a bit more quiet time with Oz. Instead I had to make do with a slice of goats' cheese quiche and the third degree from Doreen.
But I had to be careful. She'd have gone mad if she knew what had really happened at Elysium. So I had a go at filling her in on Norma's hairdo, outfit and choice of cushion covers, and pretended that she'd loved the duck and we'd chatted about the weather. I was glad I didn't have to describe the look Norma had given me just before she told me to leave. I'd never have found the words.

My dream that night was full of emeralds, Oxo tins, and Norma and Mum giving me the same guilt probe stare while I told them over and over that I hadn't done anything. But the ending was just the same, the oncoming 4x4 and the screeching grind of metal. I woke up yelling for Mum, just like the time I lost her in Tesco's when I was about five. What I wanted more than anything was the rush of relief I'd got when she came flying down the biscuit aisle to find me. But no one was going to be coming for me now. Well, no one except Oz.

When I finally made it downstairs and into the garden, he came shooting out of the shed so fast he practically did a back flip off the end of his chain. It must have really hurt him. It was a good thing Doreen was out or I'd have wrapped that stupid chain right round her scrawny neck just so she knew how it felt. I unclipped him and headed down the main street towards the river, trying to think up interesting ways of making Doreen suffer. I'd just got her strung up over a boiling vat of fish tagine, screaming for mercy, when I realised I'd turned off by the pub and doubled back towards the graveyard. Who knows why? Maybe I was feeling guilty about all the lying and stealing
I'd been doing for Yuri and wanted to square it with Mum. Maybe I missed her so much I couldn't help it. Anyway, even from the road, I could see there was something not right about her grave.

I jumped over the fence and stared down at the massive wreath lying there. It was the size of a tractor tyre; all white rosebuds and bits of ivy, mixed in with that pink and yellow stuff that smells really sweet, what's it called . . . honeysuckle. It must have cost an arm and a leg. It had to be a mistake, meant for some other dead person. One with rich relations who cared. I snatched up the card: ‘
SADIE RIP'
.

The ground fell away, taking my stomach with it. This was either a sick joke, or some kind of warning – you know, like in the movies when the mob kills someone then sends a truckload of flowers round to the church to make sure everyone knows it was them. I hurled that wreath so hard it bounced off the gate, then I ran over and stamped on it till all that was left was a tangle of wire and a squashy mess of petals. Did it make me feel better? No. It didn't. And if I hadn't realised it before, I realised it now. The only thing that was ever going make me feel even the tiniest bit better was catching Mum's killer.

I got this tight, prickly feeling on the back of my head. I turned round and caught a bloke watching me from a silver Volvo parked on the grass verge. He was scratching his stubble and talking into his mobile. He must have seen me going crazy. I didn't care. He should mind his own business. I glared at him. The way he stared back unnerved me. After a bit he pocketed his phone, slipped the car into
gear and slid off down the road. I waited for the uneasiness to drain away, annoyed when it hung around like scum at the bottom of the bath.

I walked back to Mum's grave and smoothed away the mark left by the wreath. I had to find Yuri. Only he could tell me if the ‘bad people' trying to silence him were the same ones who'd silenced Mum and Lincoln. And only he could tell me why. But I wasn't going to find him by hanging around Saxted trashing over-the-top floral tributes. I had to go to London. That's where Yuri had been headed and that's where Mum had died. I'd start with the Trafalgar Arms. So what if the thought of walking through that door sent a thousand volts of pain through my guts? There was just a chance that one of the bar staff had overheard what Mum and Ivo Lincoln had been talking about.

I was dying to go straight up to my room and start packing but Doreen had other ideas. The minute I walked in she sprang out of the kitchen yelling.

‘I just got back from the farmer's market and what did I find? The house empty and the back door hanging wide open. I knew you couldn't be trusted.'

I spun round to check the door.

‘There's nothing wrong with the lock,' she snapped. ‘Plain thoughtless, that's what you are. Just like your mother. It's a wonder we weren't burgled. Anyone could have waltzed off with the television, all my jewellery, George's computer and heaven knows what else. And as if that wasn't enough you've been traipsing mud all over the house. Don't deny it. There were footprints in the hall, on
the stairs
and
in our bedroom, when I've expressly forbidden you to go in there. So what have you got to say for yourself?'

How about
It wasn't me, Doreen, I'm not that stupid?
But she'd never have believed me so I mumbled I was sorry and raced upstairs, praying that Ivo's laptop would still be there.

‘I haven't finished with you, young man!'

I burst into my bedroom. The laptop had gone. It only took one look in the drawers to see they'd been searched by someone who'd been nowhere near as sneaky about it as Doreen. I was sweaty and shaking. Maybe it was kids. Maybe they'd slipped into the house on the off chance and only bothered with the room that had kids' stuff in it. Yeah, that would explain everything; the mud, the rummaging and the fact that none of Doreen and George's things had been nicked. There were just two small problems with that. One – I'd definitely locked the door when I went out, and two – there was no sign of a break-in. Whoever had got into Laurel Cottage had made a neat, professional job of picking the lock and gone straight for Lincoln's laptop. It had to be someone who'd been hanging round the village, waiting for me to go out. The prickle in my scalp flared up again and fluttered down my spine. Someone like that shifty bloke who'd been watching me in the graveyard.

‘I said, I haven't finished with you!'

I went back downstairs, trying to convince myself I was imagining things and that Doreen had faked the whole thing to give herself an excuse to turf me out.
Either way, my immediate future wasn't looking great – I'd either be spending it in care or dodging the gangsters who were trying to stop me discovering Lincoln's secrets.

Close up, Doreen's anger seemed pretty genuine. I mean, keeping her face the colour of cherryade and making a noise like a leaky piston every time she looked my way can't have been easy. She was working herself up to have another go at me when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. Her voice changed quicker than a flicked switch.

“Oh, Mr Pritchard. Hello. Joe tells me that everything went very well last night . . .'

‘What?' Her eyes locked on to mine like a couple of heat-seeking lasers. ‘There must be a misunderstanding . . .'

‘But I . . .'

‘Supposing I . . .'

‘I realise that, but . . .'

‘Yes . . . I'll send my invoice.'

She slammed down the phone, the cherryade flush took on a nasty tinge of Ribena and her breathing went so weird I was scared she was having a heart attack.

‘What's up?'

‘Don't you play innocent with me. That was Norma Craig's lawyer calling to terminate her contract.'

This was all I needed.

‘Do you have any idea of the trouble George's business is in or how much a contract like that meant to us?'

‘It's not my fault. I did everything you said but she's insane.'

‘Are you trying to blame my cooking? I've never had a
complaint, not in twenty years of catering. It must have been you. Turning up in jeans and talking like a lout. I knew it would end in disaster.'

‘So why d'you make me do it then?'

‘You think I wanted to? It was her idea. Some crazy notion about wanting a fresh young face around the place. But you had to mess it up, didn't you, because you're a selfish, inconsiderate taker just like your . . .'

‘Don't you
dare
say another word about my mum. Don't you
dare
! You think you're better than she was but you're not. You're just a dried-up snobby old cow who doesn't care about anyone but yourself. I don't know how George puts up with you.'

‘I won't be spoken to like that in my own house. Go to your room. Now!'

‘Don't worry. I'm off. And you know what? You can stick your stinking house
and
your stupid rules. I'm going back to London.'

‘Back to that sleazy boyfriend of your mother's? Last I heard, he didn't want anything to do with you. And I can see why.'

‘I'd rather sleep on the streets than stay here!'

‘That's just where you're headed, Joe Slattery, and don't come grovelling to me when you end up in trouble.'

I ran upstairs and started stuffing clothes into my rucksack and shoving everything else into a carrier. By the time I'd finished, both bags were bulging but I wasn't going to leave any of Mum's stuff behind for Doreen to chuck out. She was right about Eddy, though. If I turned up at our old flat he'd slam the door in my face. I'd stay
with Bailey and his brother Jackson – they'd see me all right for a bit. After that, who knew where I'd end up? I didn't care. Right now the only thing that mattered was catching Mum's killer.

CHAPTER 11

I
was edgy all the way to London, trying to shake off the feeling I was being watched. Trouble is, once you start worrying about something like that everyone you see looks dodgy. By the time I got to London I only had three quid left of the twenty George had given me. I knew I should have saved the fare and walked from the tube to the Trafalgar Arms but I took the bus, reckoning it was the best way to avoid the crash site. Wrong. When the driver pulled up at the stop before the pub, my gaze had already clamped on to the manky bunches of flowers hanging off the lamp post in crinkly cellophane wrappers. Even when I wrenched my eyes away they flew straight up the narrow concrete column to the CCTV camera that had videoed the accident. The old couple standing beside me stepped back as if I'd made a weird noise or something so I
grabbed Oz, got off and ran the rest of the way.

I'd sat on the steps of that pub enough times as a kid with a Coke and a bag of crisps waiting for Mum and Eddy, but I'd never been inside. I hadn't missed much: red vinyl seats, a sad-looking stage, a few old codgers sitting round the telly watching darts and a fat landlord with dark wiry hair and small suspicious eyes who looked like a bear that'd just been woken up from hibernation and wasn't too pleased about it.

‘No kids or dogs in the bar,' he grunted, without taking his eyes off the TV.

I was shaking and it was making me stammer. ‘S . . . sorry . . . I . . . my mum . . . I'm S . . . Sadie Slattery's son.'

His little eyes slid round to look at me. ‘I've already paid Eddy what she was owed.'

No danger of the old
sorry-for-your-loss
arm-squeezing routine then.

I couldn't let him get to me. ‘I . . . I'm not here about money. I . . . I want to talk to whoever was behind the bar the night of the crash.'

His eyes swivelled back to the TV. He opened his mouth and bellowed, ‘Shauna!'

A voice yelled back that she was busy. He shouted again, crosser this time, and kept it up until a fair-haired woman, younger than him but not by much, wearing a red dress, a lot of make-up and yellow rubber gloves stuck her head through the door behind the bar.

‘Someone to see you,' the landlord said, working a cocktail stick between his front teeth. ‘Sadie's kid.'

It was the woman's turn to look at me. Her face softened.

‘Can I have a word?' I sounded like a detective off one of the cheesy cop shows Mum used to watch.

She nodded towards the back. I whistled to Oz and squeezed past the landlord, who barely shifted his baggy backside to make room.

‘Don't mind Don,' she said, leading the way upstairs. ‘He's always in a mood in the mornings. Cuppa?'

‘Thanks.'

The kitchen in their flat was bright and cheerful after the gloom of the bar, and loads cleaner. Oz was squinting up at her with his tongue hanging out. As she filled the kettle she poured him a bowl of water.

‘What's this about, Joe?'

‘How do you know my name?'

‘Sadie's been singing here for years. Course I know your name, she talked about you often enough. I'd have come to the funeral only Eddy left it to the last minute to tell me when it was and Don couldn't spare me from the bar.' She took a couple of tea bags out of a jar. ‘She was a good woman, your mum. A good friend and a good singer.'

I could see she was about to get teary so I said quickly, ‘I want to know about that bloke Lincoln who was driving the car. What happened? Did he just go up to her after the gig or had they been chatting before?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

I gave her the line I'd prepared. ‘It's weird she was in his car when she never got lifts from strangers. I just wondered if there was anything . . . going on.'

She closed the door. ‘How do you get on with Eddy?'

‘I don't.'

She curled her lip. ‘He's big mates with my Don. Personally, I never worked out what Sadie saw in him.'

I nodded, though from what I'd seen of Don, Shauna and Mum were running neck and neck in the dud bloke stakes.

She dropped her voice. ‘It makes me sick the way he comes in here accusing your mum of everything under the sun when I know for a fact that the only time she ever clapped eyes on Ivo Lincoln was the night of the crash.'

‘How do you know that?'

She eyed the door and leant across the table. ‘Because he rang the pub that morning and it was me who took the call.'

I tipped forward on my seat, heart beating fast.

‘What did he want?'

She frowned and looked down.

‘Please, Shauna. Mum used to tell me everything; she'd have wanted me to know.'

She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘All right. He gave me his number, said he was a journalist and he wanted Sadie to call him urgently. I got straight on to her and told her she must have come into money. To tell you the truth we had a good laugh about it. Anyway, when she rang him back he said it was too important to be discussed over the phone. She was a bit suspicious and arranged to meet him here after the gig where she knew there'd be lots of people around, and we looked his photo up online so we'd know if it really was him. There was a big crowd in that night but I spotted him just as the band started playing.
He was nice-looking, very polite, took his pint over to that table in the corner and waited till Sadie had finished her set. Then he bought her a drink, they talked for a while and he showed her something . . .'

‘What was it?'

‘I couldn't really see from the bar but she had her head down for a long time like she was looking at it. Then I'm pretty sure she put it in her bag. Whatever he was telling her it must have been interesting because she barely said a word, just sat there listening.'

That didn't fit with my idea of a journalist. ‘Are you sure he wasn't asking her questions?'

‘Didn't look like it.'

‘And you've no idea what he said?'

‘I caught her up as they were leaving and asked if she'd inherited a million. She was white as a sheet and said no and made me swear not to tell anyone about Lincoln, 'specially not Eddy. Said she needed time to think things through. Then they left and . . . well, you know the rest.'

‘Think what things through?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘And she only had one drink?'

‘A glass of wine. I don't know who told the papers she was tipsy but it wasn't true. Still, I kept my promise to Sadie and till now I haven't told anybody what really happened.'

‘I'd give anything to know what Lincoln told her.'

‘Whatever it was, pet, it can't make any difference now. If you ask me, we should let Sadie and her secrets rest in peace.' She got up from the table. ‘I'm going to grab a
quick sandwich, do you want one?'

‘Yeah, thanks.'

‘Ham and cheese, all right?'

‘Great.'

Shauna might have blown my Mum-giving-Ivo-information theory but she'd confirmed that Lincoln had tracked her down to talk about something important. Shauna passed me a sandwich and topped up our teas.

‘It's a shame Eddy hasn't managed to get in touch with Lizzie. Who is she, an old friend?'

I bit into the sandwich. ‘Who?'

She looked flustered. ‘Didn't Eddy tell you?'

I shook my head.

‘The fireman, the one who . . . cut your mum out of the car. He went round your flat the day after the crash. I thought you were there.'

‘Me and Oz went down the canal. I couldn't stick Eddy shouting and carrying on. What did this fireman want?'

‘To say that . . . that . . . when he got there Sadie was still conscious. He said she grabbed his hand and said something over and over . . . like it was really important.'

I got this spasm in my throat that made it hard to speak. ‘What was it?'

‘“Tell Joe and Lizzie.”'

‘Tell us what?'

‘That's it. Just, “Tell Joe and Lizzie.”'

‘The fireman . . . he must've heard her wrong. Mum didn't even know anyone called Lizzie.'

‘You sure? He got
your
name right.'

Suddenly I was seeing Mum trapped in the wreckage,
reaching out to a stranger, struggling to send me a last, gasped-out message and running out of life before she could finish it.
What was it, Mum? What were you trying to tell me
? I dropped my head on the table, feeling the burning taser pain give way to a dizzying drop into endless nothing.

‘I'm sorry, Joe. I could wring Eddy's neck for not telling you.'

I felt her hand on my head and pulled away. ‘If he finds her, can you give me a call?'

I grabbed her phone pad and scribbled down Bailey's number.

‘All right pet,' she said, frowning. ‘But as for the rest of it, as I said, maybe it's best to let things lie.'

Don started yelling at her to come down and bottle up.

I said goodbye, slipped out into the street and started walking to Farm Street.
Lizzie, Liz, Elizabeth
. I felt a stab of jealousy, like ice on a tooth.
Who is she, Mum? And why was her name the last word you ever spoke
?