The Waiting Game (19 page)

Bel had been gone three days. Adam was missing her. Funny that. He’d grown used to being on his own. Settled, he supposed. The thought of sharing his life again, all the messiness and
unpleasantness
of it. If anyone had asked him if he was ready for that, he’d have said no thank you very much. But that was before Bel.

She got to him in ways no one else had ever come close. Not that there’d been others. Annie and Bel. The full sum of his sexual and romantic experiences. He’d made a mistake with Annie. Fooled himself into thinking the beauty on the outside would be matched by what was inside. She changed though. Couldn’t cope. Tried to blame him for what happened, even though it was no one’s fault. In the end, she turned out to be no different from his mother. Dirty and mean and incapable of loving anyone apart
from herself.

He tried calling, but Bel’s phone went to voicemail without even ringing. She must have switched it off. She’d promised to call him and he wondered why she hadn’t done that. Wondered if he should worry about her. He thought about calling again, leaving a message this time, but she wouldn’t like that. She’d tell him he was being too possessive and maybe he was. It was difficult to know what to do.

Part of him knew this anxiety wasn’t normal. She’d only be gone for five or six days. However long it lasted. He wasn’t even sure. At least she was regular. Made it easier to predict when she’d be away and how long for.

He’d worried, at first, about asking her. Thought she mightn’t understand. Or might feel rejected or something stupid like that. Because this wasn’t about rejection. He missed her like crazy when she wasn’t here. And if he could have it any other way, he would.

He picked up his phone again, then put it down. Moved around the sitting room, plumping cushions and straightening the rug in front of the fireplace. Last night, he’d removed all the photos of Annie, stacked them neatly into a box which he carried into the spare bedroom. This morning, he could see little dust tracks along the mantelpiece and he hurried to wipe these away, wondering – again – where all the dust came from.

With the sitting room in order, he felt calmer. Started into the rest of the house, humming to himself, the tension gradually
easing as he moved from room to room, imposing cleanliness and order.

The washing machine finished its cycle and he emptied it, placed the clothes into the plastic basket and carried this outside into the sunshine. Nothing like the smell of freshly laundered clothes. The trick was not to leave them out for too long or they started to smell funny. Two hours thirty-five minutes was about right on a chilly day like today. Then, when they were still damp, he’d bring them back inside and iron them dry.

Midway through hanging them, he came across a pair of Bel’s panties. White cotton edged with white lace. He pictured her moving towards him, wearing these and nothing else. He lifted them up, about to press his face against the soft, clean cotton when he saw the faint trace of a brown line down the centre.

You dirty little pig.

He threw the pants down, wanting to stop the memory, but it was already too late.

Sister Theresa pulling him by the arm to the top of the class. He was trying really hard not to cry. She was shouting at him. His hands and face were dirty and she’d told him – Lord God above, hadn’t she told him every morning since he’d started? – that he had to be clean coming to school. He tried to tell her it wasn’t his fault. The water had been cut off and they weren’t able to wash. His clothes were dirty, too. And the toilet, he couldn’t tell her about the toilet, stuffed with poo and toilet paper and the thick white pads covered in blood.

But Sister Theresa wasn’t listening. She had the cane and was shouting at him to pull down his trousers. He couldn’t do that. His underpants were dirty. Streaked with three-day-old poo but he’d had to wear them because there were no clean clothes, no clean anything because they didn’t have any water.

Sister Theresa didn’t care about that. She pushed him towards the desk, pressed his face down on the rough wood and pulled his trousers down. He was screaming and kicking out but nothing was going to stop her and when she finally got them down there was this God awful, deadly silence that seemed to go on and on and he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear the waiting and he felt it, knew it was going to happen even though it was his body and he should be able to control it. But it was coming now. Warm, wet wee running down his legs, forming a little pool on the ground, soaking through the hole in the bottom of his shoe.

The smell of it, so strong in the clean, lovely classroom. When she’d started beating him, he’d cried and begged her to stop. Even though he knew he deserved it. She was right.

Dirty, disgusting little pig.

Ellen passed the e-mail across to Ger first thing in the morning. There was nothing else she could have done. Now, an hour before the press conference, she was sitting behind a glass wall, watching Ger and Alastair interrogate Jim O’Dwyer.

‘Where were you on Sunday night between the hours of seven pm and midnight?’ Ger asked.

She already knew the answer to that question because Ellen had told her.

‘I was working until about seven,’ Jim said. ‘A house in Lewisham. After that, I went over to friend’s house.’

‘Who?’

He hesitated. ‘Ellen Kelly.’

Alastair shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. Ellen
prayed he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it later. As Ger continued asking questions, Ellen took out her Blackberry and re-read Monica’s e-mail.

None of it was true. At least, not the important bits. Jim was with Ellen on Sunday night. He couldn’t have killed Chloe. The relief when she’d realised that still made Ellen uncomfortable. Because it meant that at one point, right after reading the e-mail, she’d believed maybe he had.

In the interview room, Ger was asking Jim if he’d ever done work for Happy Homes estate agency. He shook his head. Never even heard of them. He looked calm and had declined the offer of
a duty solicitor. At first, Ellen thought that was a mistake. Now, she realised the only mistake was believing anything Monica had ever told her.

Everything about the e-mail irritated Ellen. From the crawly tone to the faux-intimate way Monica implied she was sharing secrets with Ellen. The line that got her most, though, was the one describing Ellen as ‘the sensible sort’. Made Ellen want to storm over there and punch Monica Telford’s smug face.

Maybe she’d do just that.

At Brightfield Road the curtains were still drawn. Ellen jumped out of the car and banged on the front door until a sleepy-looking Monica opened it. She had a red towel wrapped around her body and looked like she’d just dragged herself out of bed.

She smiled. ‘Ellen. So early. What a service.’

‘Cut the crap.’ Ellen pushed passed her into the house. Caught the stink of stale wine and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘Coffee?’ Monica asked.

She closed the door. The hallway grew dark and Ellen tensed. She swung around, saw Monica looking at her, still smiling. How she wanted to slap that smile away.

‘What are you playing at, Monica?’

Monica held her hands up. The towel stayed in place, something Ellen could never master.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Monica said.

‘Like hell you don’t.’

‘Oh my,’ Monica said. ‘This is about the e-mail, isn’t it? Do you want me to come down the station and make a formal statement?’

‘No thanks,’ Ellen said. ‘Tell me about you and Jim. You know, don’t you? It’s why you sent that e-mail instead of calling me like any normal person would do. I don’t know what your game is but I want no part of it. Neither does Jim.’

Monica laughed. ‘Oh Ellen. You should hear yourself. So prim and proper.
I want no part of it. And neither does Jim
. What do you know about Jim and what he wants?’

‘He told me,’ Ellen said. ‘And I believe him.’

A lie, but so what? Lies were something Monica was obviously well used to.

Monica and Jim. She couldn’t get her head around it. Couldn’t, if she was honest, imagine him with anyone else.

‘I felt sorry for you,’ Ellen said. ‘That story you spun me about your father abusing you and some mad stalker out to get you. None of it’s true, is it? You invented it all as a way of getting to Jim through me.’

‘Of course I didn’t make it up,’ Monica said. ‘I contacted you because I was scared. After Chloe was killed, well, I realised it wasn’t my father. I tried to think who else it could be and Jim was the only person I could think of. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Bullshit.’

They were still standing in the hallway. Facing each other. Monica closest to the door.

‘Out of my way,’ Ellen said, pushing past Monica. She couldn’t stand to be here a moment longer.

‘You won’t win, you know.’

Ellen knew she shouldn’t rise to it. Knew she should ignore Monica and get the hell out of there.

‘He was here last night,’ Monica continued. ‘Begging me to take him back. He can’t stay away from me.’

Ellen ran through a list of possible things she could say. In the end, she chose none of them. Instead, she pulled open the front door and stepped outside.

Across the street, Monica’s toy boy – what was his name? – peered through an upstairs window. He appeared to be staring straight down at Ellen.

She was tempted to go over there and warn him. Give him a few friendly words of advice on the woman he’d got involved with. He wouldn’t listen, of course. Men rarely did.

She slammed the door shut and walked away. Fast.

A hot shower, a couple of painkillers and too many cups of coffee to count. Nothing made Raj feel better. Not that he deserved to feel good. He’d been a complete twat last night. Lucky a hangover was all he had to deal with. Falling asleep in the alleyway, anything could have happened to him.

He lived alone in a flat on the top floor of a converted police station in Lee. He’d laughed when the estate agent suggested it. Then he’d seen the apartment, fallen in love and put an offer in on the spot. And now it was home.

His real home was the three-bed suburban house in Hounslow where he’d grown up. Mother and two younger sisters still living there. Father dead almost five years now, although Raj still felt his presence every time he went back there. Which probably explained why he didn’t visit as often as he should.

He lay on the sofa, waiting for the worst of the hangover to pass, wallowing in self-hatred. Missed calls and two messages from Aidan. The first angry, the second worried. A vague feeling he’d done something he shouldn’t. Couldn’t remember anyone from the club, but that didn’t mean nothing had happened. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d forgotten. There’d been a bloke with blue eyes but he didn’t think that was it. Then he remembered. He went back over every detail, his feelings of self-loathing intensifying by the second.

He checked his phone, hoping maybe Ellen had sent a text. Apart from the messages from Aidan, nothing. He sat up, unable to bear the inertia, needing to do something. Anything.

His laptop was on a desk by the window, overlooking the courtyard at the centre of the building. He powered up the laptop and opened the browser. Typed in Chloe Dunbar’s name and got to work.

He might be off the case, but that didn’t stop him from looking
into things himself. It mightn’t make him feel any better but he was pretty sure it couldn’t make him feel any worse, either.

Kelly’s visit left Monica feeling exhilarated. She got dressed, taking extra special care over her appearance, replaying the interaction over and over. Kelly’s face when Monica told her he’d been here last night… Hilarious! Righteous anger rapidly replaced by uncertainty. Kelly didn’t know what the hell to think. Served her right.

As she applied her make-up, Monica noted the grey tinge to her skin. Too much drinking these last few weeks. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She was a weak fool to have let things get this far. She pinched her cheeks, trying to put some colour into them. Time to knock the drinking on the head. Her looks were a commodity. She needed to take better care of herself.

She flexed her arms, watched the hard lift of her muscles. Not
bad, but a trip to the gym was overdue. Another thing to add to her ‘to do’ list.

When the doorbell rang, she knew who it was. Harry. Velcro man. She went downstairs to see what he wanted this time.

‘Sorry,’ he said when she opened the door. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Couldn’t help noticing you had a visitor.’

Of course you could help it, she felt like saying. Little creep. Nothing better to do than sit inside that horrible house, staring at her while he played with himself.

‘I was just about to go out,’ she said.

‘Oh.’

She smiled. ‘But actually I’m glad you called. I could do with a friend right now.’

She stepped back to let him into the house. As he passed, she reached out and touched his arm. He jumped.

‘Hold me?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

Jim was released. For now. The owners of the Lewisham house confirmed he’d come out to deal with a boiler emergency Sunday afternoon. They were unable to confirm what time he’d left, but Ellen was certain he’d arrived at hers by half-eight. Which meant, in theory, he might have had time to kill Chloe before driving across to Ellen’s. But the lack of any motive or anything that connected him with Chloe meant he was free to leave. For now.

In the early afternoon, Ellen drove over to his house. He lived in a modern townhouse on the Peninsula, the last in a row of white, terraced houses on the waterfront. He didn’t seem pleased to see her.

‘I was just heading out,’ he said. ‘Got a load of jobs on and I’m running late. What is it?’

He was wearing work clothes. Faded jeans and an old sweater that had seen better days. He looked great.

‘Can we go inside?’ she asked.

He frowned, anger or annoyance she couldn’t tell, then turned and went into the house, holding the door open for her. She walked past him, along the narrow corridor into the kitchen.

‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

She watched him move around the kitchen, turning the kettle on, spooning coffee into the cafetière, taking white mugs from a cupboard and placing them on the table in front of her. He didn’t speak while he did this and she was grateful for that.

Finally, the coffee was poured and he sat opposite her, waiting.

‘You want to know why you were brought in for questioning?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘And why you couldn’t tell me if I was a suspect in a bloody murder investigation.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘I got an e-mail with information about you and the victim. I had to pass that on to my boss.’

‘Me and Chloe Dunbar? I’m sorry, Ellen. You’ve lost me.
You’re saying you received an e-mail saying that I knew her? That’s bullshit. Who sent it?’

She couldn’t tell him. Even if she knew, in her heart of hearts, that Monica was making it all up, she couldn’t risk it. Which meant she couldn’t ask him about his relationship with Monica, either.

She stood up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. Sorry.’

‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘I get dragged in and questioned about a murder and you can’t even tell me why?’

‘There are things you haven’t told me,’ she said. ‘Makes me wonder what else there is that I don’t know about.’

Jim frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I need to go.’

‘Where does that leave us?’ he asked.

‘I can’t see you,’ Ellen said. ‘Not until this case is over. After that, I can explain everything.’

‘And what?’ he asked. ‘In the meantime I just hang around not knowing what’s going on or why I’m suddenly number one suspect in a case you’re working on? That’s bullshit, Ellen.’

He reached across the table and took her hand.

‘Don’t do this,’ he said. ‘Please.’

She pulled her hand away and stood up.

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘Wait.’ He came after her and grabbed her arm, pulling her around so she was facing him. ‘Don’t leave. Not like this.’

She looked down at his hand, kept looking until he removed it.

‘I need time out,’ she said. ‘We both do. Let’s get this case behind us and then we can talk properly. I’ll call you.’

‘Ellen!’

When she didn’t answer, he swung around and punched the wall. Hard. A dent appeared in the smooth surface. The moment of rage was brief, but enough to tell her she was right. She barely knew this man. Until she did, she wasn’t letting him get any closer.

Ellen pulled open the front door and stepped outside. Jim made no effort to stop her. As she drove away, she glanced back once in the rear-view mirror. Saw him standing in the doorway looking towards her, cradling his damaged right hand in the palm of his left hand.

When she turned onto the main road, he disappeared from the mirror but the image of him, framed in the doorway, lodged in her brain, refusing to budge, no matter how hard she tried to get rid of it.

By the time she’d finished with him, Harry was in a loved-up daze of satisfaction.

They hadn’t even made it as far as the bedroom, tumbling onto the floor in the hall, ripping the clothes off each other. A nuisance because it meant her earlier work, getting herself ready, had all been wasted. She went upstairs and started over again, left him lying on the hall floor, smoking a roll-up.

He was still there when she came back down, twenty minutes later. It took all her will power not to kick him and tell him to get the hell out. Instead, she knelt beside him and kissed him gently.

‘I need to be somewhere,’ she said. ‘Meeting a potential customer. I can’t afford to be late.’

She stepped back, giving him space to pull his boxers and trousers up. It irritated her he didn’t do that while she was upstairs. What did he think – that it was attractive to see him like that? Withered little penis drooping against a thigh that was too hairy and too skinny. The memory of what they’d done made her shudder.

At the door, he took her in his arms and started to kiss her. She pushed him away, forcing a laugh.

‘Don’t make me have to go upstairs again,’ she said. ‘I don’t have time!’

He let her go, patches of red appearing on each cheek.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still a little tense, to be honest. It’s all been too much, Harry.’

‘We’ll sort it,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort it. You don’t need to worry anymore.’

‘You promise?’

He smiled.

‘I promise.’

She watched him leave, waited until he was back inside his own house before stepping outside.

An autumn sun made the day seem warm. Monica lifted her
face up to the sky and smiled. A good day so far, no doubt about it. Harry was like a puppy, so young and so very eager to please. Like any good little puppy, he was a quick learner. She didn’t even have to spell it out for him, just a hint of what she wanted and he was on it in a flash.

The revulsion she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by something else. A sort of fondness for the boy. Strange. All that devotion was rubbing off on her. She wondered what it would take to twist him, turn the devotion around and make him hate her instead.

It was something to consider when he started to bore her. Not yet, though. Not while he was still useful.