The Bad Things
Authors: Mary-Jane Riley
THE BAD THINGS
MARY-JANE RILEY
an imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Killer Reads
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollins
Publishers 2015
Copyright © Mary-Jane Riley 2015
Mary-Jane Riley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollins
Publishers
2015
Cover photography by Cherie Chapman (sand dune)
All other imagery © Shutterstock.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780008153779
Version 2015-07-29
For Kim, Edward, Peter and Esme
Contents
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
NOW
THEN
Acknowledgements
The stench was overpowering. Katie squatted on her haunches and pulled at the zip. The material tore; the metal teeth nicked her finger. Thoughts flashed through her mind:
should she wait? Could this be evidence?
She lifted the lid. The sightless, decaying eyes of a child stared up at her. The little boy, for it must have been a boy, was dressed in blue Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. His legs had been folded beneath his body so that he fitted neatly into the space. It rather looked, thought Katie, as if he’d been packed up, ready for death.
The day Alex Devlin’s life imploded for the second time was one of those bleak February days in Suffolk when the light never got above murky and spring seemed months away. Outside, whey-faced men and women were hunched inside their coats, trying to get their business done and move on. Shopping, working, maybe just passing the time in a warm coffee shop on the High Street. The streets of Sole Bay could be unforgiving.
Standing in the kitchen of her little terraced house with her third cup of coffee of the day, Alex rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them. She turned on the radio, hoping some background noise would help her relax.
‘And now the news with Susan Rae.’
She hoped the couple of hours’ work she’d put in polishing her news feature about an undercover policeman who’d infiltrated the murky world of Eastern European organized crime had been worth the early start. She’d been awake since four – Christ, always four; that time of night when everything seems to be at its worst – doing her usual bout of worrying about her sixteen-year-old and how she could make ends meet. Two hours of tossing and turning had been enough, and that was when she’d decided to get up and get on with some work.
‘Five people have died in a multiple-vehicle accident on the M25. It happened during the rush hour in thick fog…’
Now she wanted a few minutes to herself before Gus blew in moaning and groaning.
Too late.
‘So?’ He glared at her, mouth a sulky pout and arms crossed, his slightly aggressive ‘whatever’ stance perfected.
It was as if the night, the dark, the four a.m. worrying hadn’t happened; her son was carrying on the argument that had begun the evening before. Alex hoped he’d forgotten about it. Some hope.
She rubbed her temples, fighting against the headache that was slowly but inevitably building, pulsing behind one eye. ‘Choose your battles’ had been her mantra for the past two years, since her adorable boy with his blonde curls and loving cuddles had turned into a sullen teenager – all grunts and hormones.
‘The Ukrainian opposition in Kiev say they have pulled out of the City Hall they have been occupying for the…’
‘So no you can’t go skiing with the school. I’m sorry. Nothing’s changed overnight.’ Alex said it as gently as she could. She would have loved him to go; of course she would if she had the money. Cash was tight, work not exactly coming in thick and fast. But it wasn’t just the money. She had real difficulty letting her son go and allowing him to spread his wings. He knew it and resented her for it.
‘Why not?’
Alex turned away and opened the fridge, taking out a bottle of milk and a tub of butter. ‘Cereal or toast?’ she asked, hoping an appeal to his stomach might defuse the situation.
‘Mum. This is like, really important to me. Everyone’s going. All my mates. And they need to fill up the places. If I don’t go I’ll really, really miss out. Like, I’ll be the odd one out and you don’t want that, do you?’
She took the bread out of the bread bin and put a slice in the toaster. ‘You know why not, Gus.’
‘It’s just crap.’ His sudden shout made her jump. ‘I never get to do anything with my friends. Never get to go anywhere. It’s like you don’t want me to enjoy myself. Have mates or anything.’
She filled the kettle, opened the cupboard, and took out a teabag and a cup. She waited for the kettle to boil and for her irritation to subside. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she realized it needed a good cut and another home dye job. ‘You know that’s not true, Gus. I only ever want the best for—’
‘Give it a rest, Mum.’
‘Downing Street has welcomed a further fall in unemployment and the Prime Minister said…’
His slumped shoulders and look of defeat made her feel worse. Something shifted inside her, a realization that she had to loosen the ties just a little, had to put the trials and tribulations of the last few months behind her. Just be thankful he hadn’t been expelled: joyriding and smoking cannabis not being on the school curriculum.
‘Look,’ she said, knowing she was going to regret it, ‘when do you have to have the money by?’
‘You can still pay in instalments. About five now, I think.’ His sulky, cross expression had miraculously transformed into one of hope and she had to damp down the normal sinking feeling in her stomach that went with any mention of money. ‘So it’s not as if you’ve got to pay it all upfront. Mum?’
The kettle whistled and the toast popped up. Too dark. Alex poured the water onto the teabag and started scraping the toast. She breathed out, trying not to think of the electric and the gas and the phone that all needed paying. ‘Get me the letter about it and I’ll see what I can do.’ She squished the teabag on the side of the mug with a spoon before fishing it out and plopping it into the sink.
His face lit up with a smile, the now habitual petulant look banished, at least, for the moment. ‘Mum, you’re the best.’
A woman jailed in connection with the murders of two children fifteen years ago has had her conviction quashed by the High Court in London. Jackie Wood had been …’
Alex froze. Oh God, Sasha, she thought. Oh God, oh God.
Detective Inspector Kate Todd was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room idly flicking through a glossy magazine. She’d stabbed at the blasted machine on the wall that asked her personal questions in big letters, and confirmed it really was her for the appointment, before sitting down to wait; no doubt, in danger of catching some vile disease while she did so. The television murmured in the corner. She tried to focus on the magazine in her hands. Babies. Food for babies. Getting your baby to sleep. Bloody babies everywhere. She flung it down on the wooden table in front, eliciting a frown from the woman next to her.
‘Sorry,’ said Kate.
The woman gave her a small smile then shrugged. ‘They’re usually dead boring, those magazines. Years out of date, some of them. I’m reading about summer holidays three years ago.’
‘Hmm. Yes.’ Kate was being polite. Didn’t want to get into conversation. Just wanted to get this over and done with and back to the station. Not that there was much excitement there, either. No major incidents to speak of, unless you counted the work that was going into planning raids in some godforsaken town in the Fens to try and combat the trade in poor sods being brought over to work and live in filthy conditions. Cannabis factories upstairs, three or four families downstairs. Trouble was, planning involved more than one force: the National Crime Agency and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Had the potential to be a right cock-up.
Kate looked around the waiting room. No one she recognized. No one who looked as though they recognized her. That was the beauty of working in Ipswich but living in a small town some miles away – she was far less likely to come across any of her colleagues here.
‘This little one…’ The woman was talking again and Kate dragged herself back to the present. She noticed the woman was holding a bundle in her arms. A baby. How could she not have noticed? The woman carried on talking. ‘She was born with a hole in her heart. Had to have an operation when she was so tiny. Didn’t know if she would survive.’
Kate felt a sudden but familiar twist of fear in her chest.
‘So we have to come for check-ups quite often, don’t we sweetheart?’ The woman cooed at the baby and smiled that smile that cut the pair of them off from the world.
The fear was now coiling around her heart. Whoever said the heart was just an organ didn’t know anything. She took a deep breath and managed to put a pleasant look on her face.
‘You got any?’ asked the woman, who was now stroking her baby’s cheek with the side of her finger.
‘No,’ she said. She must have sounded abrupt because the woman blushed.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Kate picked up another magazine. This time it was
Designing Interiors.
Safer, she hoped.
She tried to concentrate on how to organize her living space better, what colour palette to use for a south-facing conservatory, and the ‘beautiful home’ created by some D-list celebrity. She tried not to think of the row she’d had with Chris last night. It was the same row they’d been having off and on with varying degrees of severity for the past ten years. This time, she had been about to turn the light off when Chris said, ‘I wish you’d see someone.’
