So I’m reluctant to open the door. Ignoring it would be easy – there’s no one I want to see – but I’ve never been able to let a phone ring without answering it, and now I can’t let whoever’s out there walk away and have me wonder all day who it was. Best just to get it done with.
When I swing the door open, the man behind it takes a step back.
‘Mrs Webster?’
It’s the second time in two days that I’ve been reminded of that name, and I wonder for a second if I’ve heard him right or if I’m imagining that everyone everywhere knows who I am.
‘Pardon? What did you call me?’
‘Mrs Webster, I’m sorry, my name is—’
‘My name is not Mrs Webster.’ I spit the words through gritted teeth at the tall, dark-haired man on the doorstep. ‘What are you doing here? Are you a journalist? You are, aren’t you? Did you send me that photo? You people aren’t supposed to be here, you know, can’t you just let me get on with my life?’ The words tumble from my mouth desperately, none of them fending off this stranger.
‘I’m sorry, look, I shouldn’t have called you that.’ He’s gone red and looks flustered; maybe it’s his first day and he was sent here as a baptism of fire. First day or not, I’m not letting a frigging journalist anywhere near my home. ‘I’m not—’
‘I’ll call the police!’
‘No, please!’ The man puts his hand up. ‘I’ll go, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’
As he begins to do a quick run-walk down the path, a thought occurs to me. If I let him go, I’ll have more questions than answers. Why is he here? Did he send the photograph? What does he want?
‘Wait!’ I shout the word before he can disappear into his car. ‘Wait there.’
I’m not letting him back up the path so I hurry down to him, not thinking about how vulnerable that makes me, away from a door to slam. He looked so distraught at the idea of the police, I don’t think he’s going to attack me in full view on the street.
He gets in the car, and I’ve got more time to take a proper look at him. He’s quite good-looking now that his face has gone back to a nice tan colour rather than postbox red. His eyes are a lovely blue and he looks around the same age as my husband. Ex-husband. I’ve got to stop doing that.
Before he can drive away, I bang on the window, hoping I don’t look as crazy as this feels. He winds down the window a little bit – obviously not enough for me to attack him, though.
‘Why did you come here? Did you post something through my door yesterday?’
He didn’t; I can tell the confusion on his face is real.
‘No, why would you think I did?’
‘Because you called me Mrs Webster. You know who I am.’
‘Someone sent you something?’ Too late I realise I’ve revealed too much to a reporter. He doesn’t – didn’t – know anything about the photo and now he’s got a whiff of a story.
‘No. Forget it, it’s none of your business. I’m not interested in interviews. Have I seen you before?’
‘I was at your, erm, the trial.’ So he’s not new, he wrote about me when I was on trial. I wonder which side of the fence he fell on: the monster mother or the poor unfortunate soul camp.
‘What paper do you work for?’ Now I’m interested? Now I’m engaging in conversation with this man?
‘I just want to talk to you. I knew—’
‘What’s your name?’
He hesitates, and I wonder if it’s because I’m a criminal. It’s fine for him to know every detail of my life just as long as I don’t find out who he is. ‘Nick,’ he answers eventually.
He looks harmless enough, all spiky black hair and very, very blue eyes, and for a second I have to remind myself how much I dislike reporters. How a simple ‘just want to talk, that’s all’ can turn into a front-page scoop with an
I HATE ALL BABIES
headline the next morning.
‘I’m sorry, I’m still not interested. Just leave me to get on with my life, please.’
He nods and for a few seconds looks like he feels sorry for me. Well, pity is better than hatred, by a hair’s breadth.
‘If you change your mind . . .’ He pulls out a notebook and scribbles down a number. ‘Here.’
‘I won’t,’ I tell him, but I take the piece of paper anyway. When he winds up the window and drives away, a sharp, manly smell remains.
9
When Cassie arrives I’m still shaken, from both my encounter with the journalist and the memory of Netty Vickers. The noise of her key in the door makes my heart speed up a little until I hear her voice.
‘Aloha, anyone home?’ She pads through to the kitchen, where I’m sitting at the table. ‘Hey, you OK? What is it, another photo?’
‘No, worse, a reporter.’ I quickly run through the last twenty minutes, and the more I speak the angrier her face gets. Cassie’s such a pretty woman, but when her temper flares up it reminds me of the things she’s been through, the physical and emotional scars she carries and how hardened she’s had to become. The only time she ever let me catch a glimpse of her scars – an oversight when she thought I was asleep – I was reduced to silent tears and she was furious. She’d worked for years at becoming the hard-faced killer people thought she was, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only person who’s seen the real Cassie, scars and all, for quite some time.
‘If he comes back here he’ll get more than he bargained for,’ she warns, and I smile.
‘I don’t think he’ll come back. He was pretty scared when I threatened him with the police. Do you think it’s a coincidence? The letter yesterday, him today?’
She mulls it over, her nails, coral today, running their familiar pattern over the table. ‘Yeah, probably. You said he looked confused when you mentioned the photo. Face it, you weren’t given protection when you were released, you changed your own name. Finding you probably isn’t that difficult, you’re not Osama Bin Laden.’
‘Great, cheers.’
‘Shall we get a guard dog?’ She’s wanted me to have a dog since I got out. No hassle for her, instant pet when she comes to mine.
‘Joss would be pissed off.’
She screws up her nose. ‘Another good reason. What’s that?’ she asks as I throw the articles I found at the library on to the counter next to her.
‘It’s the stuff about Dr Riley and some bits on the trial,’ I say. ‘I was hoping you’d cast a fresh pair of eyes over them and see something I’ve missed.’
‘Like Jonathan Creek,’ she murmurs, her eyes skimming the pages. ‘Except that I can’t see anything at all. Family man . . . two beautiful daughters . . . I’d put money on it that his wife was about to leave him for the family accountant or something. I hate to say it, Suze, but it’s probably a coincidence.’
I’m disappointed but I know she’s right. I’ve just read too many crime novels.
‘Another one? This weekend’s full of ’em.’
She bites her bottom lip. ‘I think I’ve found another. Here.’ She passes back the article about Matthew Riley and points at the byline. Nick Whitely.
‘Ah crap. Do you think it’s him? Hell of a coincidence.’
‘Do you think he knows something about Riley’s disappearance? Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Should I have spoken to him? He said he just wanted to talk but I kicked him out so fast he didn’t have a chance.’
‘And what are the three least trustworthy things on this earth?’
‘Men, police and journalists.’ I chant the mantra. ‘But he didn’t seem very scary. What if I just find out what he wanted, and don’t say a word to him?’
She’s pretending to consider it. ‘OK, we’ll call him. But if he can’t help us, we’re burying him under the patio.’
I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but sometimes you can’t tell.
‘Shall I?’ She picks up the scrawled mobile number from the counter and takes out her phone. ‘It’s ringing,’ she whispers.
‘Give it here.’ I grab at the phone and she dances away.
‘Hello, is that Mr Whitely?’ Her phone voice is barely recognisable; she almost sounds professional. ‘My name is Julie Williams, I’m calling on behalf of Susan Webster. She’s got some questions for you and would like to know if you’re available for a meeting.’
She frowns, then makes a face at the phone and holds it out to me. ‘He wants to talk to you.’ She covers the receiver. ‘Just stick to the plan,’ she hisses. I wasn’t aware we had one.
‘Mrs Webster, is that you?’
‘Yes. Do we have a meeting, Mr Whitely?’
‘That depends. What do you want from me?’
What’s the plan for this bit? ‘I want to know why you were at my house.’
‘I can tell you that over the phone. I just wanted to talk to you, ask you some questions, how life is for you now, how you felt when your husband didn’t stick by you. Call it human interest. Do you want to tell your side of the story?’
I close my eyes. ‘Not in a million years.’
‘Then what do you want from me?’
At least he’s been honest. Maybe I should try it.
‘I want information. I want your help.’
‘I’m halfway to Doncaster, Mrs Webster. You’re not asking me to come all the way back to Ludlow as a favour?’
‘Of course not, we’ll come to you, tomorrow if that’s OK? Can you suggest somewhere?’
We arrange a restaurant half an hour from where he lives – a two-hour trip for us. When I get off the phone, Cassie is looking at me quizzically. I fill her in.
‘You’d better get your best frock out, ’cause we’ve got to convince this guy that we’re not the nutters the rest of the world thinks we are.’
Easier said than done
. We sound pretty nutty right now. Cassie sticks to her end of the deal and after dialling 141 calls the number I’ve given her for Mark’s house. He picks up, putting paid to my theory that he’s skulking around Shropshire posting photographs through my door. I’m glad I didn’t have to hear my ex-husband’s voice. I’m excited about my meeting with Nick Whitely, but mostly I’m petrified that I’ve made the unconscious decision not to let this go and move on. I’m going to dig up the past and hope my spade doesn’t hit too many skeletons.
10
Jack: 18 October 1987
‘Look, this’ll be the third time Ballbreaker’s called my house for cutting class in the last month. It’s not like I’ve got Lucy at mine to pretend to be my mum.’
‘Jesus, Billy, lighten up. What’s the worst that could happen? Tell them Adam’s been pushing you around and if you didn’t cut school he’d kick the shit out of you.’
‘Hey!’ Adam objected. ‘Why me?’
Jack grinned. ‘’Cos his mum loves me too much to believe I’d do anything like that, and Mike . . .’ he lowered his voice, ‘is too much of a wimp to pull it off.’
Adam smiled back, willing to accept he was less charming than Jack but at least scarier than Mike. ‘Well just make sure she doesn’t call the school. My dad’ll beat my ass if I’m accused of bullying again.’
‘Right, fine,’ Billy sighed. ‘What’s the plan, then?’
Jack rolled off the bed and pulled out a huge sheet of paper from underneath it.
‘This is a plan of the shop. Here’s where they keep the beers.’ He drew a circle around a stand to the left of the counter. ‘Walters, that’s the guy who works the days ’cos he’s too old to do nights, he
always
stands by the counter. He can’t see great but he’s close enough to catch you if you’re not quick. We go in in twos. Me and you first, Adam: we read the magazines, mess around with the pick and mix, generally piss off Walters so he barely even notices when you two go in and take the booze. Get vodka, as much as you can carry.’
‘Remind me again why I’ve got to steal the booze?’ Billy asked. ‘I’ve never stolen anything in my life.’
‘Yeah, you can tell.’ Mike grinned, casting an eye over Billy’s too long, slightly greasy mop and three-year-old shoes. ‘We look the most innocent, mate. He won’t even notice us when those two are twatting around in there. Plus it’s usually Riley’s job but he’s not turned up. Don’t worry; I do it all the time. You just hold the bag.’
Jack folded up the shop plan and slid it back under the bed. He pulled open the sliding doors of a double wardrobe, took out a large black jacket and threw it at Billy. ‘Wear this. It’s got extra big inside pockets, so you can fit some in there if you get a chance. We’ll wait five minutes after you’ve left and follow on. Go home, get changed and meet back here at eight.’ He looked at Mike and Adam. ‘You two get a head start, we’ll catch up.’
As soon as they were alone, he turned to Billy, who was studying his fingernails. ‘Get this right for us and you can come back here and take your pick of my stuff to go to my cousin’s party in.’
‘Why would I want—’ Billy started, but Jack cut him off with a shake of the head.
‘Look, you don’t have to pretend with us, we’re your mates, OK? I know your family don’t have money and I don’t care. Do this and you can go to the party looking like the rest of us, and no one else there will know you’re any different. There’s gonna be girls there, Billy-boy, tons of girls. You ever got off with a girl before?’
The look on his friend’s face told him the answer. ‘Tonight’s your night then, man. All you have to do is get the booze. You up for it?’ He grinned as the other boy nodded. ‘Yeeessss, nice one, mate. Come on, let’s go.’
The take had gone as well as he could have expected really. Their new friend hadn’t dropped any bottles or run up to the shopkeeper to confess, although he had shat himself when he’d walked in with Mike and seen that it wasn’t Walters on the counter but some girl with perfectly good eyesight. It’d turned out to be for the best, though. Jack was ten times better with women than with old men. He looked years older than fifteen, and with his floppy brown hair and clear blue eyes there was even less chance that the girl, Tina, would notice what was going on elsewhere in the shop. It had been Mike who had surprised him the most: when Tina had glanced his way, he’d simply dropped his bag and walked out. Lucky for Billy that Matt Riley had arrived at that exact moment, realised what Jack and Adam were up to and seen Billy standing there like a deer in the headlights. He’d walked over to Billy, shoved the bottles into his bag and practically dragged him from the store. Peterson had been waiting as they came round the corner with three bottles of vodka clinking in Billy’s bag, and greeted them as though fuck all had gone wrong.