Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Why now?” Liam Brady rounded angrily on his mother, “Why wait until now to tell me my father was murdered?”

      “You’ve never wanted to talk about your father. The doctors said I shouldn’t try and make you.”

“So why now?” Liam insisted.

Carol Brady took a deep breath and silently prayed that she was doing the right thing. “Because Monk’s Tallow is where your father’s killer died and I’d rather you heard that from me then anyone else.”

“What?” Liam swallowed hard then, “So who was he, the man who killed my father?”

Carol told him. He sat very still, pale, fists clenched. She did not tell him that he had witnessed the murder. They had warned her, years ago, to say nothing unless he chose to speak of it himself. He never had. Now, she felt she had to say something. How could she let him go there and say nothing?  Why did James Morrissey have to die in Monk’s Tallow of all places?  Most people had probably never heard of it, for heaven’s sake. Gritting her teeth and careful to keep a whiskey bottle within easy reach, she spoke about Sean’s friendship with Ralph Cotter and how Cotter had suddenly turned madman for no apparent reason. 

Even as she talked, Carol wasn’t clear about her motives for doing so. She told herself that it was better Liam should hear it from her, his mother, rather than by way of some chance remark dropped, casually enough, by a total stranger. Yet the chances of anyone in Monk’s Tallow giving Ralph Cotter a second thought after all these years had to be remote.  So why now? she found herself asking the same question. She hadn’t thought twice about it when he mentioned he’d be driving down to Brighton to collect some things belonging to a friend of Julie’s aunt who had been killed in some road accident. “A nice place, Brighton,” she had commented while ironing a favourite top.

“Well, not Brighton exactly,” he had pointed out without looking up from the newspaper he was reading, “It’s a village called Monk’s Tallow. Apparently there was a monastery there in the days of William the Conqueror or an abbey, something like that. Did you read this about...?”

She hadn’t heard another word. For the next hour, she had argued the case for and against saying anything in her head until it felt as though it would split in two at any second.  Even after convincing herself that she must speak out, she doubted the wisdom of it. Hadn’t it stretched like a chasm between them for more twenty years? Until now, she thought she’d learned to live with it. Hadn’t she told herself it didn’t bloody matter a thousand times? All that mattered was they should get on with their lives without the past dragging on their every word, their every move. Who am I kidding? Hadn’t it done just that anyway?  She must be careful, for both their sakes.  But it was high time something was done about that bloody chasm. Well, wasn’t it…?

“So how come you’ve never said anything before?” he repeated.

“You’ve never asked,” she retorted with a bitterness that surprised them both.

Liam lapsed into a brooding silence for a while then, “How did they find out it was Cotter?”

Carol bit her lip. “A neighbour saw him running away from the house,” she lied. “The next think we knew, Ralph’s car was found at the bottom of a cliff, or what was left of it.”

“So why Monk’s Tallow…?”

She shrugged. “He had friends in Brighton. The police think he must have been going there for help.”

“And who helped you?”

The question caught her off guard. “Nobody,” she snapped, “I just had to get on with it, didn’t I?  I had a toddler to look after, remember?  I couldn’t afford the luxury of falling apart.”

“I used to wonder...”

“Wonder what?”

“Why you never talked about him. I used to think maybe you didn’t give a toss.”

“Oh, I gave a toss alright, you bet I did. But you can’t bring the dead back to life. You just have to get on with your own as best you can.”

“Let ’em rest in peace, yeah?” Liam sneered.

“Murder is a very short straw, Liam. Peace doesn’t come into it, believe you me.”

They glared at each other like adversaries before he turned and left the room without another word. A few minutes later, she heard the front door slam. “What have I done?” she moaned and reached for the bottle. “Damn James Morrissey and damn Julie’s aunt and damn Julie!” She drained the glass, refilled, drank again and wondered - not for the first time - whether Liam and Julie Simpson were in a relationship or not. “Shit!” she told a screwed-up reflection at the bottom of her glass, idly swishing the few meagre drops before swamping them with more of the same.

Liam walked for miles. At first he was angry with his mother. Then he became even angrier with himself.  Why hadn’t he asked about his father?  He had wondered often enough so why hadn’t he simply asked?   He broke into a cold sweat, lost all sense of direction but kept on walking.  He tried to remember his father but all his mind would conjure up was a blank space. There was nothing, nothing.  He could not even picture the face of the man with an arm around his mother in the photograph that had always sat on the living room sideboard but might as well not have existed for all anyone took any notice.  No one had ever mentioned his father to him, not ever. Now he knew why. Murder was a dirty word.

He thought he could faintly recollect the man he had called Uncle Ralph but no clear image came to mind, only a pair of staring blue eyes that made his flesh crawl. Yet, he seemed to recall being fond of the man.  It was weird. Worse though, was that he couldn’t even begin to recall the colour of his own father’s eyes.  A sharp pain stabbed him in the heart as he dived into a nearby pub.

Later, his feet found their way to Julie’s flat and it was good to talk. He stayed over, sleeping on her sofa bed. The next morning he felt better able to face the world, if not yet his mother. He felt guilty about that but it couldn’t be helped. She should have told him. He felt let down, betrayed. His head told him it must have been incredibly hard for her while his heart loved her to bits. But his stomach told a very different story. He felt sick, confused, frightened even.

In spite of everything, it never entered his head not to go to Monk’s Tallow. He had promised Julie’s aunt, after all. Besides, he was curious. He could not have explained why. His father had been cremated. So there was no grave. Even in his shocked state, however, it struck Liam as absurd, if not a trifle obscene, that the prospect of visiting the site of his killer’s death should seem the next best thing.

After calling the office where he worked as a graphic designer to arrange a few days annual leave, Liam took the train from Victoria to Brighton then a bus to Monk’s Tallow. He hadn’t felt up to driving and enjoyed the journey. The plan was to spend a few hours in the village then be sure to catch the last train back to London. 

They were pleased to see him at the inn.

“To be honest, I expected someone to collect this long before now,” Simon Pearsall, landlord of The Fox and Hounds confided.  He was a tall, hawk-nosed man with a queer but genuine smile and seemed relieved to be handing Liam a black holdall across the bar. “I’m sorry about your friend though,” he added kindly. “You’ll have a drink on the house while you’re here?”

“Thanks,” Liam nodded and was soon enjoying a pint of the best Sussex bitter.

“My pleasure,” the older man assured him. “Well, you know what I mean,” he added hastily with an apologetic grin. “That bend’s a sure killer if you take it too fast. Always has been, always will be. Your friend’s not the first to be caught off guard and you can be sure he won’t be the last. It’s a long, smooth run, you see. Then suddenly...zap!”  He made a cutting motion with one hand that made the hairs on the back of Liam Brady’s neck stand on end. “They don’t call it the Devil’s Elbow for nothing...”

“So where is it exactly?” Liam asked.

Simon Pearsall gave him a long, old fashioned look but also precise directions. “You’ll want to see where your friend died, I dare say.”  Liam nodded. “That’s understandable. But be sure and take care, my friend. It’s not just a nasty black spot.  There’s something about that place that grabs you and turns you upside down and inside out. Some say the Devil himself has a hand in it. Not that I go along with such superstitions myself, no way! Even so...it makes you wonder, it does that.”

Liam laughed uneasily. “A man called Ralph Cotter was killed there about twenty years ago, I believe.”

“I wouldn’t know. That’s long before I came here. Got a special interest in this Cotter bloke, have you?”  Liam nodded. “Then try the library. Ask for Sarah Manners, the librarian. She’s a funny woman but knows her stuff.  I believe she keeps some local archives in a room at the back. A relative, was he, this Cotter bloke?” But a customer called out to be served while Liam wrestled with a temptation to test the landlord’s reaction to the truth.  Instead, he drank up and went in search of Sarah Manners.

Monk’s Tallow’s public library was a homely, prefabricated building that had seen a good half-century. Inside, it was pleasantly decorated and the fluorescent lighting not as harsh as in many modern buildings.  A young woman at the counter beamed and said “Good afternoon,” in a cheery way that helped lift his spirits and ease his nerves, although it struck him as quite ridiculous that he should be feeling nervous in the first place.

Liam swallowed and gave here his best smile. “I’m looking for Sarah Manners.” 

At that moment another, older woman came out of a door at the back of the counter. “I’m Sarah Manners. How can I help you?”

“I understand you keep some local archives here?”

“Some, yes.  But we only keep records directly related to Monk’s Tallow and Monk’s Porter, the rest are at the main library in Brighton. How far did you want to go back?”

“A good twenty years.” The woman seemed to stiffen, the friendly smile falter a fraction. “I’m particularly interested in an accident on the Devil’s Elbow. A man called Ralph Cotter was killed there in June 1985.”

Cotter froze.

“I’m sure we’ll have something, won’t we Sarah?” the bubbly young assistant assured him.

“Of course,” Sarah Manners confirmed briskly. “Would you like to come through and I’ll show you the files?” The woman opened a small gate at the counter and Liam entered, let her show him into a surprisingly spacious but dingy back room. “May I ask what your interest is in this Cotter person?  Not that it’s any of my business of course.” She gave an apologetic little laugh. “One can’t help being curious, Mr, err?”

“Brady. Liam Brady,” he told her and held out his hand. The woman seemed to hesitate before accepting it, smiling.

Cotter’s mind was racing. Liam Brady, here in Monk’s Tallow. Why? What does he want? More to the point, what does he know? Commonsense told him that the answer to the last question had to be nothing, nothing at all. Or the young man would not be so calm and matter-of-fact. Yet, commonsense had already taken a back seat to rising panic.

It had to be a horrible coincidence, nothing more than that, Cotter kept telling himself as he showed Brady the various newspaper cuttings and other items of local interest for the year 1985. “I’ll leave you to browse at your leisure. Feel free to come through and ask any questions you may have. In fact, I insist you join me in the staff room for a cup of tea later. Being custodian of the archives means I take a great personal interest in all things related to our little community.”

Sarah Manners checked herself. “Oh dear, I hope you don’t think I’m being nosy?” she tittered.

“Not at all,” Liam assured the woman who, true to her word, promptly left him to it.  He found more than he bargained for. The local newspaper had gone to town on Cotter. Several issues contained details about the shooting of Sean Brady. Several referred to the murder as witnessed by his young son.

Liam read and re-read every word.  How could this be? How, how, how? Noises boomed like cannon fire in his head. All at once he found himself fighting for breath and ran out of the room. He was only vaguely aware of Sarah Manners taking his arm and guiding him through another door marked ‘Staff’. It led to a small, clinical looking room where she sat him down in an armchair, plugged in an electric kettle and planted herself beside him, patted his knee and talked continuously in a slow, irritating manner that he knew was meant kindly enough but made him feel like a small boy who’d had a nasty fright. “Well, hadn’t he?” he conceded ruefully to the picture of a soap star on the cover of a glossy magazine left on one arm of the chair.

“Are you feeling better now?”  The woman’s words began to filter through to him more clearly. He nodded. She got up and made some tea. “Do you take sugar?”

“Two please,” he mumbled and made a supreme effort to pull himself together.

“You’re still shaking,” murmured the Manners woman, her voice edgy with concern. “Look, I’ll put the cup on the table until you can hold it. But Liam took the cup in both hands and sipped gratefully. The hot tea had an immediate calming effect and he began to feel better after just a few sips. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Cotter waited and tried to conceal his disappointment when Brady shook his head and merely continued drinking his tea.

“I didn’t know...” Liam stammered. The woman said nothing and he was grateful for that. “I didn’t know...” he began again, “that...I...saw it.” Another fit of shaking took hold of him and he was relieved when she extricated the mug from his trembling hands and replaced it on the table.  He felt an overwhelming desire, need to talk. But no words came, only uneven, rasping breaths.  Even after he had sufficiently calmed down to finish the mug of tea, words continued to stick in his throat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, “You’re very kind. I feel such a fool.”

“Nonsense, you’ve had a shock,” said the woman and patted his knee again. “As it happens, I remember the incident. It happened shortly after I first came to Monk’s Tallow. If you like, you can call round at my cottage later and we can have a chat about it?  Only if you want to and are feeling up to it of course,” she added hastily, her kindness endearing her to him even further. 

Liam thought he detected a certain forcedness in her voice but put it down to his own state of mind. Besides, she probably didn’t come across this kind of thing among the everyday run of library users. He apologized again.

“Think nothing of it. Now, I really must go and do some work. Take your time and help yourself to tea and biscuits. Come and see me before you go and I’ll give you my address and phone number just in case you want to talk about ...things ...sometime.”

“Later perhaps,” he gulped.

“Whenever,” she said and left the room, whereupon Cotter almost ran to the toilet and locked himself in.

An hour later, Liam Brady stood at the Devil’s Elbow peering down the cliff face at the swirling tide below.  He kept thinking he should feel something but nothing came; no surge of emotion, no image of a car plunging to the pebbles below; no memory of Uncle Ralph; no sign of his father - or mother - in the baggy clouds overhead…nothing. 

After a while, he walked back to the bus stop and waited for the yellow single-decker to make its return trip and take him back to the village. He glanced at his watch and retrieved the mobile phone from his coat pocket. There was plenty of time to call on Sarah Manners and still catch the last train from Brighton.

At the cottage, Cotter paced to and fro the sitting room clutching his third large brandy.

Daz Horton watched, no less anxious but content enough with a cup of strong coffee. “Now, calm down, flower. For crying out loud, calm down. He’s hardly going to recognize you now, is he?  Not that you had to invite him round in the first place. It was just the same with that Morrissey geezer. Beats me why you can’t let well alone. Mark my words, you’ll push us into a corner one of these days and there’ll be no getting out of it. Let’s just hope, for all our sakes, the Brady lad doesn’t have to go the same way as Morrissey. I can’t do with another ‘accident’ Ralph. I’m telling you straight, I can’t do with it.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Oh, says who?”

“It won’t come to that,” Cotter repeated. “But it’s like my old mum used to say. Better to know what someone’s up to than have to worry because you don’t.”

“It doesn’t sound like he’s up to much if you ask me.  You said it all seemed to come as a bit of a shock to him, right?”

Cotter nodded. “He was in a terrible state. Odd, don’t you think? I mean, he must have known. He was there. He saw everything, poor kid.”

“Not a kid any more,” Horton commented dryly and both men started violently at the sound of a doorbell. “Answer it then,” said Horton gruffly. “This was your damn fool idea. The least you can do is see it through. But don’t expect any help from me. I’m not in the mood.”

“You won’t leave me alone with him?” Cotter began to panic all over again.

Horton shrugged. “Just answer the bloody door!” he said quietly, allowing a smug, self-satisfied smile to cross the bulldog face as Cotter finally jumped to it.  By the time Liam Brady was being ushered into the room, he was already on his feet. Cotter introduced them. Brady seemed somewhat detached and ill at ease. “I’ll leave you in Sarah’s capable hands. There’s not much she can’t tell you about Monk’s Tallow’s little happenings over the years. A veritable mine of information, aren’t you, my turtle dove?”

“You’re not leaving?” Cotter kept his voice even, his eyes wide and pleading.

“You don’t need me,” said Horton, smiled pleasantly at Brady and left the room, shutting the door gently but firmly behind him.

“Do sit down. Can I offer you a drink? What will it be? We have everyone’s poison here,” Sarah Manners tittered.

To be continued

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

      WPC Leah Jackson drove Anne to the Royal Sussex County Hospital where Lynette and her father had been assigned a small private ward. Both, she assured Anne, were being kept in merely for observation, although the policewoman also intimated that it would be far easier to provide police protection this way than at the hotel. “I’m sure they’re in no danger, but better safe than sorry till Cartwright’s under lock and key?” she told the startled Anne.

      Since Charley was not in a private ward, Anne could only assume the police thought Lynette might still be targeted by Cartwright. It was a chilling, sobering thought.

      Charley was asleep when she looked in and Spence was snoring loudly in a chair beside the bed.  Anne closed the door gently. Leah Jackson then accompanied her to see the Taylors. A young PC posted outside the door greeted them with a smile. “You go in,” said Leah, “I’ll stay and keep Nick here company.” She waited until the door had closed behind Anne before asking her colleague, “Any news of Cartwright?” 

      PC Nick Farmer shook his head. “He won’t get far.”

      Leah nodded but was not convinced. “Let’s not underestimate the bastard, eh?” was all she said., and it was the young PC’s turn to nod, his expression grim.

      On entering, Cathy put a finger to her lips, indicating a single bed where Lynette lay fast asleep. At the same time she ran to the door and flung both arms around her friend. “Oh, Anne, isn’t it wonderful?”

     “All’s well that ends well,” Anne trotted out the cliche without believing a word of it , but her relief was genuine as she returnied Steve Taylor’s broad smile over Cathy’s shoulder. Suddenly, he began coughing and reached for an oxygen mask.

      Cathy flew to the bedside. “Are you alright darling?” she clutched at Steve’s hand and Anne’s experienced a pleasant, tingling sensation throughout her body. Husband and wife were clearly reconciled. She was thrilled for them both and said so. “It’s like you said,” Cathy brushed away a tear, “All’s well that ends well.”

      Steve removed the mask long enough to ask after Charley.

      “She’s fine,” Anne told him and he visibly relaxed.

      “She’s quite something,” he murmured ruefully.

      “She certainly is,” Anne agreed.

      “So are you,” said Steve, much to her surprise, “I was wrong about you. I’m sorry. You’re welcome to come and visit any time.”

      “I just might hold you to that,” she told him.

      “Be sure you do,” said Cathy without letting go of Steve’s hand.

      “But I’ll love and leave you for now,” said Anne. “I’m just so happy that everything has turned out so well for you.  Lynette’s a strong willed child,” she added, “I’m sure she’ll get over this soon enough.”

      The smiling faces in front of her frowned. “I hope so,” said Cathy, “It’s all been such a shock for us all.”

      “Children are surprisingly resilient,” Anne told her in all seriousness, “Besides, she’ll be so taken up with seeing her mum and dad well and truly back together, she won't have time to fret about the likes of Bob Cartwright.”

      The name cast a shadow over them all.

      “I’m sorry about Owen,” Cathy said in a low voice. “I can’t imagine how he must be feeling. It must have been so awful, being accused of something so horrible and all the time…”

      “I guess the eye doesn’t always discriminate what the heart‘s crying out to grieve over,” commented Steve Taylor with greater insight than Anne would have credited him.

      “Things aren’t always as they seem,” she agreed tersely before bidding them a fond farewell. “Nor are some mistakes easily rectified,” she murmured under her breath upon rejoining Leah in the corridor. How am I going to face Owen? She could summon no interest in Cartwright, no flicker of curiosity even regarding the man’s fate. In her throbbing head, there was only room for Owen. And Patricia, of course. But on this occasion, Patrica must wait. Hasn't she waited long enough, after all? Owen had to be her prime concern. Leah seemed to think Owen would be released on bail, probably in the morning, pending further investigations.

      “We have yet to hear Cartwright’s story from his own lips,” the WPC pointed out, “and there is still the small matter of a body in his shrubbery to sort out...” She faltered, enbarrassed.

      “I suppose so,” Anne struggled to sound matter-of-fact as they headed for the hospital car park.             

      “I’m sure Owen has nothing to worry about,” Leah told her conversationally, “By all accounts, he's in the clear. Cartwright’s mother called the police, you know. Apparently, she’s pretty much put the finger on her precious son for the murder of the McAllister girl and…” she broke off, instantly contrite, “Oh, Anne, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

     “It’s alright, really,” Anne was quick to reassure the young police officer, “I’ve lived with the idea of murder long enough not to be afraid of the word. All I want now is to give my daughter a decent burial. That, and hopefully find a way to make amends to Owen for letting him down so badly.”

      “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

      “Are you? I’m not. He must have felt so horribly abandoned, not to mention humiliated and desperate. How do you put all that behind you? How can you ever forgive?”

      They climbed into the car.

      “You did,” Leah Jackson pointed out, “You put it all behind you and got on with your life.”

      Anne rounded on her angrily. “Is that what you think? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Oh, I’ve got on with my life, but only up to a point, and only because I’ve had precious little choice. A life in name only, that’s all it’s been. I’ve put nothing behind me. It’s with me from the time I wake up in the morning until I grab what sleep I can at night. As for forgiving…No, I’ll never do that. Never! People like Cartwright deserve to hang by the neck until dead, and then burn in hell. Even then, their agony won’t be a fraction of what people like me have had to learn to live with.”

      “I’m so sorry, I hadn’t realized,” murmured Leah Jackson.

      “How could you? You see the same quiet, nondescript little woman everyone else sees. You assume, just as everyone else assumes, that I’m coping admirably. Hats off to Anne Gates, she’s an example to us all. Huh, don’t you believe it!” She gave an uncharacteristic snort that both astonished the policewoman and made her blood run cold. “I dare say we all have our share of designer masks, a different one for every occasion. They protect us from prying eyes, you see, in case people get too close and rumble us for the frauds we really are. No, Leah, the only example I am to anyone is how to live a fiction.”

      “I don’t believe that,” Leah insisted lightly, “and don’t forget I’m a police officer. We’re trained to suss out frauds, amongst other scum.”

      “It’s not the scum you need to worry about, my dear. They stand out a mile. It’s what lies beneath the surface of your everyday person in the street, that’s what’s really scary.”

      “Truth will out, isn’t that what they say?”

      “If only it were that simple,” Anne retorted as the car pulled up outside The Orion.

      “Would you like me to come in with you? I can stay for a while if you like.”

      “You’re very kind. But I suddenly feel very tired. Besides, you look as though you could use some sleep yourself.  Go home and get some rest, my dear. Who knows what tomorrow has up its sleeve? At least, once rested, we have an even chance of surviving.” 

      Watching Anne climb the steps more than a trifle wearily and enter the hotel, Leah Jackson could not, for the life of her, decide what to make of the woman. She’s a queer fish, and no mistake.  Even so, resolving to take Anne’s advice, she called in to base, and then headed for home.

...........................................

      Anne awoke to discover she had slept on the bed fully dressed. Feeling stiff, sweaty and uncomfortable, she peeled off her clothes with less care than usual and enjoyed a long, hot shower.

      Was it really only Thursday?  It had certainly been an eventful ten days. She called the hospital. Spence was very reassuring, even buoyant, insisting that Charley was in good spirits but sleeping a lot. Cathy, though, sounded cross. “The police won’t let us go back to Hillcrest just yet. It’s plain daft if you ask me. I mean to say, Cartwright is hardly likely to come after Lynette again is he? He’s probably miles away by now.”

       “I dare say it’s for the best,” Anne told her, somewhat absently as her mind kept turning to Owen Shepherd and what she should say when, as she fully intended, she went to the flat later that morning.

      She took her time over breakfast, so much so that Mel Harvey felt bound to comment. “You’re looking very pale, Anne dear. Perhaps you should see a doctor? You’ve had such a shock, after all. Well, haven’t we all?  But it’s good news about Owen, isn’t it? I mean, it does look as if he’s in the clear doesn’t it?”

      Anne tried, without success, to shut out the incessant babbling in her ear.

      “Not that one ever knows for sure, does one?”  Mel Harvey continued, bit well and truly between her teeth. “No smoke without fire and all that. But Owen Shepherd is such a nice man. I was only saying to Joe before breakfast, Owen Shepherd is such a nice man…and so transparent. Let’s face it. You can practically see right through him. Oh, he may have been under his mother’s thumb far too long and more the pity, but…Well, it’s hardly a crime is it?  No, I said to Joe, Owen Shepherd isn’t the type to have a dark side. He’s simply too nice. Oh, a bit odd, perhaps. Let’s face it. Who else would dream of keeping hens in Brighton, bless him? I swear some of my guests return year after year just for the pleasure of enjoying Owen’s eggs for breakfast.  I’d even go as far as to say Owen Shepherd is one of life’s few remaining gentlemen…”

      Shut up, shut up! Don’t you think I feel guilty enough without you rubbing my nose in it?  Anne screamed inside, but said nothing. A faint stain on the white tablecloth caught her attention. What was it someone had spilt, when and who? Had it been an accident or deliberate, an act of rage or plain old fashioned spite perhaps?

       “Everyone has a dark side. Don’t you agree, Mrs Gates?” Anne looked up to find Fern McAllister smiling icily down at her. “May I sit down?”

      “Breakfast is for guests only,” said a flustered Mel Harvey.

      “It’s alright Mel,” said Anne, “Mrs McAllister is a friend of mine. I don’t suppose you could find us another cup? Oh, and perhaps another pot of tea…?”

      “Well, I…”

      Anne put a hand to her forehead. “Oh dear, I do believe everything is starting to catch up with me.”

      “I’ll find another cup.” Mel Harvey scuttled away.

      “I understand your inquisitive fat friend is in hospital. Nothing serious, I trust?” Fern McAllister spread immaculately manicured hands on the tablecloth.

      Anne ignored the question. “You’ve been talking to Jessie Cartwright.”

      “She’s distraught.”

      “I’m sorry, I really am. No mother wants to believe her son is a child killer.”

      “Alice Shepherd did.”

      “Clearly, she was mistaken.”

      “Really…?”  Fern McAllister appeared to brace herself as a waitress came and laid a cup and saucer in front of her and another teapot within arm’s reach. The waitress left. She poured herself a cup of strong black tea. “More tea…?”

      Anne nodded “Milk, no sugar.” Fern McAllister leaned across, milk jug in one hand, teapot in the other. “Why have you come, Mrs McAllister? Somehow, I don’t think it’s for tea and sympathy.”  Fern proceeded to pour without speaking. “If you want someone to blame for the fact that your mischief making has badly misfired, I’m afraid that has very little to do with me.”

      “Whatever do you mean?”

      “You meant for someone to find that letter. How satisfying the chain of events it set in motion must have been for you. You can’t have had the faintest idea. It must have come as a dreadful shock how things have turned out, Owen vindicated and your ex-lover on the run for kidnapping a child…among other things.”

      “Believe me, Owen isn’t off the hook yet, not by a long chalk,” the woman sitting opposite her hissed. “If Bob is guilty of anything, it’s of being taken in by that monster. He was always easily led. Owen found a weak spot and used it to his own advantage. That’s what bullies do, isn’t it? Not that you’d expect much else from a man dominated by his mother. I tried to tell Alice she was being over-protective, but she wouldn’t listen. I warned Bob his friendship with Owen was… unhealthy, to say the least. When Carrie disappeared, I knew it had to be down to Owen. I also suspected Bob knew more than he was letting on. So did the police. They interviewed him for hours on end. But where was the evidence?” She shrugged. “No body, no proof.” She leaned across the table again, her face close to Anne’s. “But I knew. Oh, yes, I knew. Don’t ask me how. I just…knew.  If Bob Cartwright is a monster, it’s because Owen Shepherd made him one.”

      “You hate Owen that much?”

      “And so should you.”

      Anne shook her head. “It isn’t Owen you hate, Mrs McAllister, it’s yourself. You slept with a man who abused your daughter and you can’t forgive yourself for that. But you should, you know. We all make mistakes. We’re only human, after all. Hate ourselves for that and we might just as well have strangled ourselves on the umbilical cord. Oh, I dare say some people can live with hate, even guilt. But what kind of a life is that, Mrs McAllister? No life at all, wouldn’t you agree?”

      “How can you be so…calm?”

      “Oh, I’m far from calm Mrs McAllister. I’m angry that I’ve let my feelings get the better of me, and as a result, possibly lost a good friend.”

      “You can’t mean Owen?” Fern McAllister sneered. “Do you honestly believe he’s innocent?”

      “Recent events speak for themselves, wouldn’t you say?”

      “Damn recent events.” Fern McAllister stood up. “It’s the past that concerns me, and it should concern you too. If you ask me, it’s high time you did let your feelings get the better of you, Mrs Gates, high time for both of us. The pity is you can’t see it. You’re a nice person. The trouble is Nice always gets to carry the can. Nice never quite gets to the bottom of things.”

      “And you, Mrs McAllister, are you a nice person?”

      “I fear so, Mrs Gates. Shitty, isn’t it?” She turned on her high heels and walked away, a model of poise and posture.

      Anne stared at the untouched cup of tea. Part of her felt sorry for Fern McAllister while another part identified only too well with some of the feelings the other woman had voiced with such bitterness. She permitted herself a wry smile. “If love is blind then heaven help those of us who hate,” she murmured, and gave a guilty start. Hadn’t she hated Owen, for a while at least? It was time to face up to that mistake. I must, I must. But what on earth do I say? Should I beg his forgiveness? Do I expect it? Some things don’t deserve forgiveness. Betrayal is one of them.

      She rose and left the lobby, choosing to walk to the Shepherds’ house rather than catch a bus. She always found walking a very effective therapy. It wasn’t until she was standing on Owens’s doorstep that Fern McAllister loomed ominously in her mind’s eye. Why had the woman come? What had she wanted? It struck Anne only then that she hadn’t received a satisfactory answer to either question.

      The flat was in darkness, heavy curtains closed.

      Pressing an ear to the door, Anne listened for the tell-tale sounds of a presence within. She sighed. Owen was there, she was certain of it. In the circumstances, though, she could hardly blame the man if he chose not to see her.

      Owen took his time coming to the door and then only opened it a fraction.

      “Please Owen, let me in. We need to talk.”

      “Go away, Anne. We have nothing to more say to each other.”

      “I’m so sorry Owen. Can you ever forgive me?  I was upset, distraught. Believe me, I value our friendship. I can’t blame you for thinking I betrayed it. But…”

      “You did betray it and you betrayed me, just when I needed you most.”

      “I know and I’m sorry, Owen, I really am. I’m so, so, sorry. Please let me in. Let’s at least try and put things right between us. I should never have thought the worst of you.”

      “But you did, just like mother. She thought the worst of me too.”

      “I’m sure that’s not true. She loved you very much and you loved her. I dare say that’s why you took it upon yourself to end her suffering. I judged you too harshly for that too. I realize it now. Come on, Owen, please. Open the door.”

      “Go away, Anne, just…go away. I can’t trust you any more. Whatever you say, how can I be sure it’s not a lie?”

      “No Owen, I won’t go away. We need to hear each other out or both of us will live to regret it. Then, if you still want me to leave, I’ll go. Owen, please. We can’t leave things like this, not after all we’ve been through together.” She hesitated before adding, “…and all we’ve come to mean to each other over the years. Or has that been a lie too?”

      In the gloom Owen had the grace to blush.

      “Owen Shepherd, you can be so stupid sometimes. Now, open this door or do I have to force my way in?”

      “It’s too late, Anne. It’s all…too late,” he groaned. Even so, he opened the door. 

      “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, it’s never too late till the fat lady sings?” Anne pushed past him and made her way into the sitting room. She knew the way well enough. The gloom did not bother her although she was thankful when one hand groped for and found a light switch on the wall. “I won’t suggest putting the kettle on, Owen. On this occasion I think we deserve something stronger, don’t you?” She crossed to the wine cabinet, poured two large brandies and took a deep breath before turning round. “Now, I think we need to…” she began gently but authoritatively then stopped short.

      “Funny, I was just thinking that myself,” said a voice in the doorway, “...and mine’s brandy too while you’re at it.”

      The cry on her lips froze as she looked disbelievingly from Owen Shepherd’s tearful face to Bob Cartwright’s smug expression. It took several more seconds before her eyes finally rested on the handgun in Cartwright’s perfectly still hand, pointing directly at her.

      “He made me, Anne, he made me...” Shepherd began to moan as if in pain.

      “Made you, did I?” said Cartwright without taking his eyes off Anne, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Not unless it wants to, that is. Isn’t that so, Mrs G?” He did not wait for an answer. “And you did so want to, didn’t you, Owen? Me, I just wanted to look, but you always had to have it all. Never could resist it for long, could you Owen, that feeling abusing little girls gives you of being in control for once in your miserable life?”

      “No!” Anne screamed, covering her ears with both hands only seconds before the room swam before her eyes and went pitch black.

To be concluded on Friday.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As the car sped through the Brighton streets, Cathy was already panicking. “We should have done as Leah said and left it to the police!” she wailed.

“Wait for what, Christmas?” Steve Taylor demanded as she slammed his foot on the accelerator and ignored a red light. “By the time they get their act together, it could be too late.”

“Don’t say that!” Cathy sobbed, and then pointed out more coherently, “We don’t even know the bloody way!”

“I do,” Steve told her. “A mate of mine used to live out Portslade way. I think I can find the place fairly easily.”

“You think?” Cathy’s was not impressed.

“Okay, I know I can. Stop whining, woman, and pull yourself together. You’ll be no use to me or Lynette in that state.”

His words had a sobering effect on Cathy. “Do you think this Cartwright man is dangerous?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course the bastard’s dangerous. He’s a fucking paedophile, for crying out loud!” veering sharply right then left then right again as he spoke. “We’re not going on a fucking picnic here, woman!”

“There’s no need to swear. You know I hate that word,” Cathy scolded him.

“Give me strength!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry,” she repeated, “It’s just that…I’m so scared, Steve. Suppose he isn’t there or we’re too late and Lynette is already…” But she could not bring herself to say the word she feared most.

“Don’t worry,” said Steve Taylor brusquely, “Lynette will be fine, you’ll see. As for Cartwright…I’ll kill him. So help me I’ll kill the bastard!”

“No!” Cathy said quietly but with uncompromising vehemence. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll leave him to the police. Promise me, Steve. If you don’t, it could be you who ends up in prison, and I couldn’t bear it. Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid. We don’t even know for sure if Lynette will be there or that Cartwright has taken her. For all we know, we could be on a wild goose chase.”

“At least we’re doing something,” he growled, “If I’d had to spend another minute doing nothing I’d have gone round the fucking bend!”

“Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid,” she repeated

“Okay I promise,” said Steve between clenched teeth, “although, if it comes to a fight, I may have to rough him up a bit.” A screech of brakes announced their arrival.  “You see, I told you I knew the way, ye of little faith,” he told her with a smile of grim satisfaction. If my memory serves me right, Hammond Court is that block over there.” He pointed to a block of flats just ahead. “It looks like we have a clear field too. No cops to fuck things up. Mind you, if I’m not back in ten minutes you had better call 999 and tell them to hurry up. Now, stay here and don’t move. If the cops turn up sooner rather than later, stall them. I’ll deal with this my way. They will only scare him off. ”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You’ll do as you’re bloody told, woman,” he snapped then, in a more placatory tone, “I need you to watch my back, love, okay?”  He was climbing out of the car. On impulse, he turned and leaned back inside.

The passionate kiss on her lips took Cathy by surprise. Before she had quite collected herself, Steve had vanished into what struck her as a scary, almost surreal surround of spreading, deepening shadows…Like something out of a gothic novel.

Taylor reached his goal in minutes. Glancing at the piece of paper in his hand, he hastily confirmed that he had the correct address and rang the doorbell. He was not prepared for the frail, elderly man who opened the door and found himself briefly at a loss for words.

“Can I help you?” the old man asked while taking care to keep the door on a chain.

“I’m looking for Bob Cartwright,” Taylor stammered nonplussed.

“There’s no one here by that name.” The old man started to close the door.

“It’s really urgent,” Taylor cried and thrust the piece of paper through the gap, “I was given this address.”The old man peered at the untidy scrawl, finally snatched the piece of paper and held it up to the light. “This is Hammond Court,” he said, handing it back, “You want Harmood Court, just across the way. You can’t miss it,” he added helpfully, “It’s the one with the phone mast on the top. Damn phone companies. Bloody cheek if you ask me,” he muttered angrily before shutting the door.

Taylor ran all the way except for pausing beside a parked car to listen out after thinking he heard a faint cry. But it did not come again. He shrugged and savagely tore into himself. He must stay calm. This was no time to start hearing imaginary voices.

He ran on.

The lift was out of order. Taylor took the stone stairway two steps at a time. His eyes were still riveted to the number twenty-four on the door when his nose alerted him to an unmistakeable, acrid smell. Intuitively, he looked down. “Oh, bloody hell!”  Smoke was creeping insidiously over his shoes. “Fire!” he yelled at the top of his voice, “Someone, call the bloody fire brigade!”

Panic-stricken, he put his shoulder to the door and attempted to break it down.

.................................................

Having cleaned Spencer’s head wound and made a makeshift bandage with her top, Charley concentrated on trying to calm Lynette while Spence staggered to a long, narrow window that looked out on a concrete playground at the rear of the block. He tried and failed to open it. The security lock would not budge. Where was the bloody key? Then he spotted a courting couple strolling hand in hand across the playground. They paused to engage in prolonged kisses immediately below. He hammered with both fists on the double-glazing to attract their attention but realized he was wasting his time even before they had moved on.

Dispiritedly, but mustering an encouraging smile, he returned to Charley and Lynette. “We’ll be out of here before you know it, you’ll see. The cab driver will be getting anxious about his fare, for a start. Gun or no gun, I’d like to see Cartwright put one over a cabbie when his blood’s up,” he joked.

Charley confessed her gaff.

Spencer’s face fell and then lit up again. He looked the type to smell a rat if you ask me. Even if he doesn’t wait for us, someone at the hotel will notice we’re missing soon enough. Besides, the police are out looking for Lynette already,” he reminded a sceptical looking Charley, “It’s only a matter of time before they turn up here. Let’s face it, my sweet, if you can work it out so can they.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Charley, unconvinced, but she summoned a reassuring smile for Lynette’s sake “We’ll have you back with your mum and dad before you know it,” she promised the terrified child. “Do you want to tell us what happened?” she asked gently, thinking it might help ease the little girl’s fears if she were encouraged to talk about her experience.

“He called out my name at the hotel just as I was going into the lift,” said Lynette hesitantly and added, “It could only have been a few minutes after Grandpa Owen left.

“He knew your name?” Charley expressed surprise.

“Yes. I didn’t recognize him at first then I remembered.  We met him the other day, Grandpa Owen, Grandma Anne and me, when we were in Lewes. They obviously knew him and the lady he was with, so I though it would be okay. I wasn’t to know he’s a nasty man, was I? I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong,” she added tearfully.

“Of course not,” Charley empathised and gave the child a reassuring hug, “and you’ve done nothing wrong, my dear, absolutely nothing. None of this is your fault.”

Meanwhile, Spence explored the room, quietly but thoroughly rummaging in drawers and even looking under the bed for something to use as a weapon against their captor. His search yielded nothing, although the glimmer of a plan began to take shape in his head.

“He said he was on his way to see Grandma Anne,” Lynette continued and I didn’t really want to go straight back to Mummy and Daddy. They keep arguing all the time, you see. It’s horrible. I thought Grandma Anne might tell them to stop since Grandpa Owen wouldn’t. He just kept saying it was none of his business. The man said his name was Bob and he had a car and we could be at The Orion in no time. I thought it would be okay. I mean, wouldn’t you? He even knew where Grandma Anne was staying.  How was I to know he’s such a horrible creepy crawly?” She began to cry.

 Charley took Lynette in her arms and comforted her. “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

“I know I’m not supposed to talk to strange men but…He wasn’t a stranger, was he?  Not really. Mummy will be so angry and Dad will hit the roof. I’ll be in such trouble.”

“No you won’t, I promise.” Charley spoke with fierce reassurance, as much to calm her own frayed nerves as the distressed child.

Suddenly Lynette’s eyes opened wide. “Look!” she squealed, pointing over Charley’s shoulder.

Charley turned. Her eyes flew to the door where smoke was starting to filter through a tiny gap at the bottom.

“Shit!” Spencer had seen it too. “Get off the bed, you two. Charley, shove the duvet against the door,” he told them and returned to the window. Where was the key to open the bloody window, he kept asking himself? “It has to be somewhere!” he muttered but a frantic search yielded nothing.Smoke was now already penetrating the duvet, now piled against the door. 

“Mummy, Daddy…!” Lynette screamed, broke away from Charley and ran to the window.Spence and Charley exchanged anxious glances. 

“What are you waiting for? Open the bloody window!” Charley shouted.

“I need the bloody key, don’t I? Think, woman, where would you put it?” 

“How would I know?”

“You’re always telling me you’re shit scared of being burgled. You must have burglar-proof locks at home, surely?”

“Well, yes…”

“So where do you keep the keys?”

“In a little pot on my dressing table, but...”

Spence looked. No little pot. “It has to be somewhere to hand,” he told his jaded reflection in the widow, “so where, dammit, where?”

“Try the wardrobe?” Charley suggested.

Spence went to a double wardrobe and flung open the door. 

“Not inside, you idiot, on top,” Charley yelled, rushing to stop a near hysterical Lynnette smashing her little fists against the glass. 

Spence felt along the top of the wardrobe, His fingers connected with something that felt like a key.  “Eureka!” He ran to the window and opened it.

All three were now coughing as the smoke took hold. Spence leaned outside. There was a sheer drop below. A drainpipe ran past the window, just beyond arm’s length. He turned to Lynette. “If I help you, can you shin down a drainpipe?” The child shook her head.

“Yes you can,” Charley told her, “Why, I used to shin down a drainpipe outside my bedroom window all the time when I was your age. My mum thought I was doing my homework, but I was really meeting up with the gang. We used to get up to all sorts,” she chuckled and Lynette rewarded her with a weak grin. “There’s nothing to it. You just have to remember to hold on tight.”

“I’ll pass you through the window and you grab it. Okay?” Spencer was already lifting Lynette.

“I can’t, I can’t!” the terrified little girl shrieked.

“Yes you can,” said Charley, “Mummy and Daddy will be so proud of you.” “Do you really think so?” The tearful face lit up.

"I really know so.” Charley summoned a reassuring smile.

“I’ve got you,” Spence told the little girl who reached, tentatively, for the drainpipe. 

Some people below had stopped to watch and were pointing and crying out in alarm. “Call the Fire Brigade! Spencer yelled to the little group then to Lynette, “Try harder.” He leaned further out of the window and tried to swing the child towards the drainpipe. Lynette caught on fast. At the third attempt, she managed to grasp the pipe with both hands. 

Spence let go. 

Lynette screamed, but kept her balance and managed to wrap her legs around the pipe. “Now ease yourself down slowly.” Spence told the distraught child. “Come on now. You can do it.”

Slowly but surely, Lynette eased herself to the ground.

.Spence turned to Charley. “Now it’s your turn.” 

“You’ve got to be joking! I’ll never get through the window let alone climb down a drainpipe! You go, and I’ll take my chances with the Fire Brigade.” 

Spence jumped down “I’m not leaving you. You can do it.” 

“It’s sweet of you to say so, darling, but I’ll get stuck and then we’ll both be done for. You know I’m right. You go. I’ll be fine, you’ll see. The cavalry will arrive in the nick of time like it always does."

  “I’m not leaving you!” Spence declared and embraced her. For several seconds they clung to each other and kissed fiercely in spite of spluttering as smoke continued to fill the room. 

“Now, go!” Charley pushed him away. 

“No!” Spence remained defiant. “Now just you listen to me, Kirk Spencer. If the worst comes to the worst, there’s no point in both of us snuffing it. No point at all. I may not be religious, but I do believe that human life is sacred. It is not something you throw away lightly, and I will not let you throw yours away. So stop fussing and get yourself out of here fast.”       

 "But…I love you.” 

“I love you too, which is why I will not let you play the martyr on my behalf. Don’t think I don’t appreciate the thought, my darling Spence, I do. But you’re far too young and good-looking to start chatting up angels. What are you trying to do, make me jealous?” She laughed and coughed in turn through a radiant smile and a daunting expression that brooked no argument. “Now, go before I toss you through the damn window myself…and don’t think for one moment I can’t or won’t!”

“I'm not leaving you!” Tears of frustration did nothing to ease the sting of a coil of smoke attacking his eyes. 

“Damn you, Kirk Spencer. You’ll do as you’re told!” She began to forcibly propel him towards the open window.  

“Okay, okay, you win!” Spencer sobbed, and was soon reaching for the drainpipe.

Charley watched him descend before retreating inside the room, debating whether or not rush the door and chance that her not inconsiderable weight against it would allow her to making a dash for safety. By now, she could barely make out the door for smoke. It has to be worth taking a chance, surely? 

In the distance, she heard the shrill sound of emergency sirens. Police, Fire Brigade or both, she wondered?  Whatever, a violent coughing fit told her it didn’t matter. There was no way either would arrive in time to save her. 

Come on, Charley Briggs, you can do it! she told herself and staggered towards the door, a handkerchief over  nose and mouth. She kicked the duvet aside. In spite of everything she couldn’t suppress a giggle. Suddenly, all she could think about was that she was half naked and wasn’t wearing a bra. Come on, girl, let’s give ’em an eyeful and be damned. She tugged at the handle, momentarily forgetting the door was locked. Who says big girls can’t do the business? Like hell they can’t! She stepped back a few paces before rushing the door. It opened to reveal a fog of smoke. She could just make out flames everywhere she looked. . 

Charley stepped back, resolve fading fast, terror taking its place. 

Barely had the sound of water that might have been a running tap reached her ears when a shadowy figure loomed out of nowhere. “Throw this over yourself!” a man’s voice she vaguely recognized yelled above the roar of the flames. A soaking wet bath towel was thrust into her hands. She did as she was told.  Although cumbersomely heavy, it was large enough to cover much of her exposed flesh. Gratefully, she let the firm hand that seized hers guide her, zigzagging madly, through a maze of billowing smoke and scorching flames even as a searing pain attacked both her legs. 

The smoke followed them out of the door and down the stairs. 

Once outside, the fact that she was safe and still alive hit Charley at the same tome as a fresh, summer breeze.“Thank God!” She sank to her knees and instantly lost consciousness. 

When Charley came to, a distinct but not unpleasant smell unique to hospitals told her where she was long before she opened her eyes and began to take stock of her curtained surroundings.

Spence was snoozing in a chair by the bed. 

Her legs hurt but, apart from that, she appeared to have got off very lightly, given the attempt on her life. A shudder ran through her entire body as she recalled how she had fled the burning flat. Who had rescued her? It can’t have been Spence since he was down below at the time. Her gaze rested fondly on his face. Dear, darling Spence. He hadn’t wanted to leave her nor would have done had she not made him. 

Charley’s eyes filled with tears. 

Spence opened his eyes and a lazy grin spread across the haggard features. “You’re awake then?” 

“As observant as ever, I see.” She opened her arms, but he hung back. “What’s the matter? I can still handle cuddle, just be gentle.” 

“I thought I’d lost you.” 

“Huh, fat chance! You don’t just ‘lose’ someone my size. But Spence was in no mood for humour. 

“I should never have left you.” “You might have died if you hadn’t.”  

“You don’t know that. Look at you, you survived.”

Charley attempted a nonchalant shrug, and failed miserably.“Who saved me, by the way?” 

“Steve Taylor.” 

“As in Steve Taylor, Lynette’s father? Goodness, did he really?” Charley sighed. “So I was wrong about him too. It seems like I’ve been wrong about a whole lot of things. When I think about what I’ve put poor Owen Shepherd through, I could crawl away and die.” 

“You’ll do no such thing, not when I’ve only just got you back.” He leaned across and took her hand in his. “I should have stayed with you,” he repeated, “I don’t know what I was thinking of, leaving you like that. As soon as I reached the ground, I tried to climb back up but they held me back.” “Thank goodness someone showed some common sense,” Charley retorted. “If you had, I’d have rattled the bloody drainpipe till you fell off. I warned you at the time I’d toss you through the window if you didn’t go of your own accord and I meant it. So you see, if you hadn’t burned to death you’d probably have broken your neck. Either way, you wouldn’t be sitting here now looking like a beleaguered vampire.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing and give me a kiss before I rip off this damn drip and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

They embraced.

“What happened to Cartwright?” she demanded as they parted to draw breath.

“He got away.”

 “What!” she would have yelled but the effort brought on a prolonged bout of coughing. 

“Are you okay? Shall I call someone?” Spence was immediately beside himself. 

“Don’t fuss.” Charley reached for a plastic beaker of water beside the bed and drank the lot. “I’m fine,” she managed to say at last. “Sorry about that, but just thinking about that monster getting away with what he’s done makes my blood boil.”

“The police will catch him soon enough. They may even have him in custody already.”

“Even so, a man like that on the loose…It doesn’t bear thinking about.” She hesitated. “What about Owen Shepherd, have they released him? They must have by now, surely? He’ll never forgive me, neither will Anne. How could I have been so stupid?” 

“You mustn’t blame yourself. Everything pointed to his being guilty, after all.” 

“If it did, it was only because I wanted it to. From the moment I recognized him as the man I saw on the hotel stairs that night, even though I knew Patricia hadn’t even disappeared by then, I made up my mind he was as guilty as hell. I wanted him to be guilty. Oh, Spence, what have I done?”

Spence ignored the question and put one of his own instead. “Never mind about all that now. Have you decided? Will you marry me, Charley Briggs?”

To be continued on Friday 

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The weather had turned again. It was gusty on the promenade, but Anne found the wind and a drizzly rain curiously comforting. As soon as it started to rain more heavily, she ducked into the nearest shelter without realizing at first that it was the same one where she had so often sat and talked with Owen Shepherd. Immediately, she experienced a sense of grave disquiet. Feeling compelled to reject its sanctuary, from the elements at least, she got drenched hurrying towards another shelter. One section was free, its seat vacant. Shaking her umbrella, she sat down.

The beach was deserted, but for a few stragglers and a yapping dog running for cover. The sea looked grey and morose through a sheet of teeming rain.

Suddenly, it stopped raining altogether. A watery sun found a chink in the clouds and seemed to gather strength with each passing second. Tiny patches of blue sky appeared and spread indiscriminately. Heavy black clouds slowly but surely moved on, doubtless intent on causing havoc elsewhere, or so it occurred to Anne as she watched the dog, still yapping, take its cue from the heavens and dash back towards the sea’s edge.

 Inevitably, her thoughts returned to the subject of Owen Shepherd’s appalling confession. Reluctant though she was, it had to be faced. Moreover, it provided a distraction of sorts from speculating as to the identity of the body, thought to be that of a child, which Kirk Spencer and Charley Briggs had discovered in the Shepherds’ shrubbery. Had Alice known about it or even suspected, she wondered? Could that be why she’s felt the need to keep tabs on her son all the time, because she suspected he was a child molester…or worse?

Anne shook her head, desperate to clear it of terrifying images depicting Patricia’ last moments as she had imagined them, hauntingly, for years. Body wracked with pain, she fought to regain self-control before the grisly pictures took hold, as they had done years earlier and almost destroyed her. She dare not let them defeat her again. Isn’t that tantamount to letting him win, the monster that stole my beautiful, innocent, Patricia and did God knows what to her?

She blinked back tears. On the long road back to what her GP and just about everyone else had called a ‘remarkable recovery’ all those years ago, she had vowed not to let what had happened leave her a nervous wreck. So her marriage was in ruins and her life a terrible parody of what it should have been, she had to find a way to carry on. It was that or…She had contemplated suicide often enough.

Had Alice Shepherd ever thought of taking her own life, Anne wondered? No, she decided. Alice would never willingly have left Owen to battle with his demons alone, if such a battle there had ever been…

Owen Shepherd, a child molester and killer? No, no, surely, not? She debated with her better instincts over and over. Yet, Owen was a self-confessed killer. Whatever his motives, he had taken his mother’s life.  Presumably, he thought he was doing her a kindness. In that case, she should sympathise with, even admire him as she suspected Kirk Spencer did.  She had heard and read about the case for euthanasia often enough and even leaned towards supporting it if the circumstances were right. But that was in the abstract. This was real-life. She had known Alice Shepherd. Owen was a friend, or so she had believed. Besides, who is anyone to judge circumstances right or wrong but the person suffering?  Yet, Alice Shepherd had not been given the luxury of a choice. Nor is there any dignity in suffocation. It sprung to mind that even a pet in pain was usually afforded the dignity of being put down humanely.

Owen, my Owen, a monster…? Her head kept telling her one thing, her heart another. I can’t have been so wrong about someone all these years, can I? But it was starting to look as though she had been wrong about the mother, so why not about the son? “Poor Alice,” she murmured, “Her life must have been hell, whether she knew for certain about Owen or could only wonder…”

The rain had cleared altogether. A brilliant sunshine flooded the promenade, restoring beach, sea and surrounds to the delights of a typical English summer.

She was, Anne suspected, being too harsh on Owen Shepherd. But how else was she supposed to feel? “So many ifs and buts, whys and wherefores,” she complained bitterly to a longhaired moggie that had wandered into the shelter, “It isn’t fair. How am I supposed to think straight?” The cat proceeded to jump up on the seat beside her and rub its head, purring loudly, against her arm. “Mercy killing isn’t the same as murder, is it? Yet it means the capacity for it has to be there, doesn’t it?”  She took the cat in both arms and it put up no resistance. But your deepest feelings for someone must count for something, surely, no matter what?

Unintentionally, her grasp on the cat tightened. It uttered a ferocious mewing noise, lashed out with its claws, leapt to the ground and ran off.

For want of anything better to do, Anne made her way back to the hotel. Perhaps there would be news of Lynette. Several times she had thought of calling Cathy on the mobile. Each time, she had decided against it. Good news or bad, she felt as though she could not cope with either just now. She prayed the child was safe, of course she did. But news of that other child, found buried in Owen Shepherd’s shrubbery, kept intruding upon every thought, using her every emotion as a punch ball, leaving her with little or nothing to say. She did not even look up as a seagull dipped and dived immediately above her head and then rose in a graceful arc to head out to sea, shrieking like a banshee.

Within seconds of entering the hotel lobby, she was hailed by Mel Harvey who instantly gestured to another member of staff to take over at Reception and hastened towards her. “Anne, my dear, how are you?”

“A little tired,” Anne admitted, “I think I’ll go and have a cup of tea and then lie down for a while.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea. I only wish your friend Mrs Briggs was as sensible.”

“Oh?” Anne was only mildly curious and continued to make her way towards the lift, the hotelier keeping pace.

“She seems determined to make two and two make four…” Mel was saying. “As if Bob Cartwright could possible have anything to do with that poor child’s disappearance. He’s such a nice man, and I’ve known his mother for years. Jessie may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but she’s a straight as a die and that goes for the whole family…”

Anne stopped in her tracks. “Bob Cartwright?”

“That’s right. He helped us out yesterday when the plumber I called didn’t turn up. I remembered he was in town so I called his mother and he came immediately. Mind you, we had a similar problem today, as you know. I guess Bob didn’t fully appreciate the scale of the problem. He was only popping in to do us a favour, after all. Thankfully, our regular plumber was available this time…”

“What has any of this to do with Lynette’s disappearance?” Anne interrupted sharply.

“What? Oh, yes. Well, Mrs Briggs reminded me, or rather she claims I reminded her though I don’t recall doing any such thing, that Bob helped us out in much the same way the last time she was here. You must remember all that bother with the showers and how Colonel Gibson made such a fuss? Well, perhaps not, in the circumstances. It was such a dreadful weekend….”

“Bob Cartwright was working here at the same time Patricia went missing?”

“Well, yes. But coincidences do happen, don’t they?  Why that Briggs woman should make so much of it is quite beyond me. I know the type of course. You get to read people like a book in this business. She’s a stirrer, that one, if ever there was. But what else can you expect from a woman sleeping with a man half her age?”

“Spence is alright,” Anne told her firmly, “and I dare say neither you nor anyone else would be rushing to judgement if it was the other way around and he was the older of the two. If you ask me, I think they make a lovely couple.  I hope they make a go of it. As for Bob Cartwright…”

“You will have a quiet word with her won’t you? I mean to say, we can’t have her making any more trouble for us than we have already can we? It’s bad enough that Owen Shepherd should turn out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, for heaven’s sake…”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Anne was quick to point out yet again. 

“Well, maybe and maybe not. But we have to face facts, Anne. Things aren’t looking good for Owen. When I think how I liked and trusted that man while all the time…It makes my blood boil.  As for Bob Cartwright, the very idea that he might be involved in anything so terrible…It’s outrageous, Anne, outrageous. You must tell that dreadful woman to put a lid on it and stop spreading malicious gossip.  I have my other guests to consider. They come here for a holiday, to relax. I won’t have them upset, Anne. I won’t have it.”

“I’ll speak to her immediately,” Anne promised, her mind struggling to grasp with this latest revelation.

“They’re out,” the hotelier informed her, “I saw them get into a cab about an hour ago, her and the toy boy.”

“They didn’t take the car?” Anne expressed surprise.

“Probably just as well. To be honest, the pair of them looked the worse for wear. It wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t both alcoholics on the quiet. It would explain a lot…Like attracted to like and all that. Oh, Mrs Kolinsky!” she called out to a woman passing who did not pause or even glance in their direction. “You’ll have to excuse me Anne. I must have another word with Mrs Kolinsky. You will do something about Mrs Briggs won’t you?”

Anne nodded absently and was grateful to escape into the lift. Once in her room, she made a cup of tea and was sitting on the bed mulling things over when a sharp rap on the door made her jump and spill tea into the saucer. “Oh, no!” she groaned and went to the door, expecting to find Mel Harvey.  To her astonishment, it was Jessie Cartwright who stood there, managing to look sheepish, determined and defensive all at the same time.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Jessie Cartwright began then, to Anne’s consternation, burst into tears.

“Come in and have a cup of tea,” murmured Anne kindly, ushered the distraught woman inside and sat her down in the wicker chair.

“I’m sorry,” Jessie Cartwright apologized brusquely, wiped her eyes with a tissue and stood up. “I must go. I should never have come, it was stupid of me.”

“Sit down and wait while I make you a nice cup of tea,” Anne told her in a tone with which even the likes of Jessie Cartwright dared not brook any argument. “Look at the state of you. You’ll feel heaps better for a cup of tea, and then go if you must. In the meantime, since you’re here anyway, you might as well tell me what’s on your mind. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your Robert, by any chance, would it?” she added almost as an afterthought.

Jessie Cartwright’s expression made Anne cringe.

“Your friend Mrs Briggs and that young man of hers came to see me,” she said after a long, awkward pause. “They were looking for my Robert. I can’t think why,” she protested. “Robert is a good man. He’d never…” her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “He’s not like his brothers. He was always the odd one out, even when they were children. The dad and me, we did our best but…Your best isn’t always enough, though, is it?  The dad used to say he’d be a disappointment to us all. Even after…Not that I ever told the dad why Robert didn’t go into politics as he’d always said he would. He’d have done well too. He’s got the gift of the gab, my Robert. I can’t believe he’d hurt a fly, let alone a child!” she groaned, and flung Anne an anguished look.

“But you think he might,” said Anne flatly. It was not a question.

Jessie felt inside a jacket pocket, produced a piece of paper and held it out with a trembling hand.  “That’s the address I gave them. If Robert is anywhere, that’s where he’ll be. I’m worried sick that Briggs woman will go off at half cock and...Well, anything might happen. I could hardly go to the police, could I? So I thought, well, as they’re friends of yours...”

“And you think your son may have taken Lynette there?” Anne barely glanced at the piece of paper even as leaned forward to take it, but continued to stare at the other woman, appalled.

Jessie Cartwright stood up and carefully placed the cup and saucer on the bedside table. “I don’t know. I’m just saying that’s where you’ll most likely find him. As for the rest…I can’t, won’t believe it!”

“But…?”

“If there’s the slightest chance of finding that child, I can’t just sit back and say nothing, can I?  Not…” She walked towards the door but Anne grabbed her arm

“Not this time, is that what you were going to say? There have been other times then?”

“Let go, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurting you, am I? Count yourself lucky, Jessie Cartwright, because right now I could kill you as soon as look at you.”

The two women regarded each other with mixed emotions; Anne in a cold fury, Jessie Cartwright tearful and frightened, yet determined to preserve what precious little dignity was left to her.

“I’m sorry,” said Jessie Cartwright.  Anne let go of her arm. She left the room, shutting the door quietly and firmly behind her.

Anne’s knees began to give way. She only just made it to the bed before collapsing on the duvet. Her first thought was for Owen Shepherd. Had she, too, rushed to judgement?  Was it possible her basic instincts had not deceived her after all? Lynette! She must call Cathy. She reached for the mobile and then changed her mind. The police, I must call the police? Still clutching the mobile, she changed her mind a second time. She would go to the police station. Yes, but she must go immediately. There was no time to lose. Pulse racing, she ran towards the door, and then froze. No, no, they would keep her hanging around for ages.

“What shall I do?” she cried aloud. But there was no one to advise her. She hadn’t felt so alone and helpless since that awful moment she had looked in on her only child  and discovered Patricia missing. “Pull yourself together, woman!” she admonished herself aloud with such force that her whole body shook.

Returning to sit on the bed, Anne took several deep breaths. It helped clear her mind. Moreover, she could feel the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her start to subside. She remembered the police liaison officer assigned to Cathy and Steve. What was her name…Mia, Leah? Yes, Leah, that was it. Leah would know what to do.

Within twenty minutes, Anne was being ushered into the Taylor’s room at Hillcrest. Cathy was sitting on the bed, a concerned, haggard Steve hugging her protectively. It crossed her mind, fleetingly, that they seemed reconciled, and she was glad.

“Sit down. You look exhausted,” the policewoman told her, “I’ll make us all a cup of tea.”

“No, no.” Anne shook her head. “We haven’t time for that,” she gasped, “We must go here immediately.” She handed Leah the same piece of paper Jessie Cartwright had given her. “There’s a chance, just a chance, Lynette might be there with a man called Robert Cartwright. He used to be a friend and neighbour of Owen Shepherd’s although I believe he was known as Owen King in those days.  Cartwright was living with Fern McAllister when her little girl went missing some twenty odd years ago.”

“What?” Steve Taylor jumped up.

“It may mean nothing, nothing at all,” Anne told them, “but Cartwright’s mother seems to think…” She paused, suddenly aware of the confused expressions on their faces, and that she was talking too fast. They must not think she was hysterical. 

After taking several deep breaths, she continued more slowly. “Jessie Cartwright, Robert’s mother, came to see me. We’d met once before, but never mind about that now. The important thing is she believes there might be a chance Lynette is with her son. Well, she must think so, mustn’t she, or why come to see me?  Apparently, Charley and Spence went to see her and she gave them this address. I suspect they’ve gone looking for Cartwright and…” Panic began to grip her again. “Oh, I’m so afraid for them and I’m not even sure why.” What am I saying? Of course I know why? We all know why. 

“Come and sit down,” Leah steered Anne gently but firmly towards a chair by the window.

“Give me that!! Without warning, Steve Taylor snatched the Portslade address from the policewoman’s hand.

Leah instantly let go of Anne’s arm. “Hand it over, Steve, and don’t go getting any stupid ideas. This is police business. I’ll call my colleagues and get someone over there immediately.”

“Stuff your police business. This is my daughter we’re talking about!” He ran to the door.

 “Wait for me, I’m coming with you!” Cathy shouted.

“This is madness. Leave it to the police!” Leah yelled and placed herself between Taylor and the door.

“Get out of my way!” Taylor told her in an ominously steely voice.

“This is not the way to get your daughter back,” the policewoman protested, “On the contrary, if you go barging in like a bull in a china shop, you could be placing her in danger. You don’t want that, do you?” she demanded.

“She might not even be there,” Anne wailed. “It could all turn out to be a terrible mistake.”

Her attention distracted, Leah only glanced in Anne’s direction but it was long enough for Taylor to seize his chance. He heaved the slim figure of the policewoman to one side and rushed out of the door, Cathy in hot pursuit.

Leah Jackson went flying.

“Are you alright?” Anne went to the prostrate officer and knelt anxiously by her side.

“I’m okay,” the WPC told her, scrambled up and ran to the door. “Shit!” she swore, and promptly called police headquarters.

Anne barely heard Leah Jackson read out the address. “What do we do now?” she asked as soon as she realised the younger woman had finished.

“We wait,” Leah Jackson told her grimly, “and pray for a good result.”

“Shouldn’t you go after them?”

“No point. They’ve got a head start. With luck, my colleagues will get there first.  Besides, someone needs to be here in case the child turns up of her own accord.”

“Oh dear, I’ve gone and made matters worse haven’t I?”

“It’s like I said, we can but wait and hope for the best. Now, let’s have that cup of tea, shall we? You look as though you need one, and I certainly do.”

To be continued. on Friday