Читать книгу My Mother, The Liar - Ann Troup - Страница 13

Chapter 5

The first thing Rachel saw when she woke was Charlie sitting on a chair, feet up on the dressing table watching the TV with the sound off. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched him and tried to accommodate her shame and confusion. The aftermath of a fit was always the same: severe exhaustion and a strange sensation of derealisation. She couldn’t remember much of what had happened – other than she had been in a café and Charlie had walked in.

Slowly she realised that she was back in her hotel room, in bed, stripped down to just her bra, pants, and T-shirt. Charlie must have found her key, brought her back and undressed her. The thought made her wince with more shame, and the wincing made her hurt. Her mouth was sore as hell and she could taste the slight tang of blood where she had bitten her cheek during the fit.

‘Feeling better?’ Charlie asked.

Rachel hadn’t noticed that he was looking at her. ‘Thirsty,’ she croaked.

Charlie pointed to a glass of water standing ready on the bedside table and watched her as she took a long gulp. ‘How’s your mouth?’

It was raw, causing her to wince again. ‘Painful,’ she said flopping back against the pillows, unable to make her mind grasp the surreal situation. She felt like a damp sock. ‘Why are you here?’

Charlie didn’t say anything. Instead, he took the glass and walked into the bathroom to refill it.

By the time he came back into the bedroom, Rachel had gathered herself together and realised that she’d been pretty rude to the man who’d helped her. Though she could argue that he’d triggered the fit by turning up out of the blue and scaring her shitless. But then she’d turned up on him out of the blue too.

‘Thanks for helping me, but you didn’t need to stay,’ she said.

Charlie didn’t speak, just sat back in the chair regarding her with an inscrutable look on his face.

Rachel was at a loss; it was as if she’d been placed under a microscope and had been found to be vulnerable and stupid. She’d never been able to stand pointed silences and fought to fill the gap. ‘How are you?’ she asked, immediately feeling idiotic.

Charlie gave a wry laugh and glanced heavenward before turning his gaze back to her and stating coolly, ‘Old, tired, bitter. Some things don’t change, Rachel.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say, directing the apology towards the room. It would have been impossible to look him in the eye and say it.

Charlie was silent for a moment. ‘That was a bad fit.’

Rachel watched as he stood and turned towards the window to stare out onto the street below. Anything other than have to show his face to her, even though the ice had been shattered rather than broken. ‘They’re not usually that bad, not these days. But you know how it is, they’re stress-related. What with everything that happened yesterday and then seeing you, well …’ She trailed off.

He’d turned back to face her. His jaw was twitching, the way it did when he was angry, tense and upset. It had always unnerved her.

‘So Roy got killed and stuffed in a box in the shed. What about the other one, Rachel? Has your family found an even more effective way of disposing of their unwanted children? Rather than just abandon them without a word, kill them off and hide the bodies? Gruesome but efficient I must say,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

Rachel had been bracing herself for this from the minute she saw him walk through the café door. She had spent nearly half her life avoiding this moment because there was no way – no possible way – that she could tell him the truth of why she’d left him.

She was saved from making any kind of response by the sound of a single, loud rap on the door.

***

Ratcliffe had drawn a blank with Frances. The bang on the head had turned out to be worse than expected and she was still in hospital. She had been placed into a medically induced coma while the doctors waited for the haematoma that was pressing on her brain to subside. They had no clear idea of when she would regain consciousness so Ratcliffe had decided to question Rachel again during the wait.

His boss, DI Benton, had conveniently extracted herself from the case leaving him, Angie, and a few others to rake over the ashes of this bizarre and soulless case. No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren’t talking. His instinct told him there were hidden agendas, evidenced by the fact that no one cared about the two desiccated bodies that had given him some distinctly disturbing dreams the previous night. No matter how many years’ policing he had under his belt, there were some things it was impossible to un-see. The tiny, wizened body of the baby would haunt him for ever.

Despite Frances’s predicament, he had managed to speak to her husband, Peter Haines, a supercilious man in Ratcliffe’s opinion. He had been far more concerned with the fact that his good name would be brought into question by the case than he had been about either his injured wife or the fact that two bodies had turned up at her former home. Ratcliffe had instinctively disliked the man and looked forward to dragging him into the station to make his statement in due course. In the meantime, some gaps needed filling in.

He hadn’t bargained that Rachel would have company so he was completely wrong-footed when a man opened the door. So much so that it took him a moment or two to realise that Rachel’s visitor was none other than Charlie Jones.

‘Well well well,’ he said, pulling out his warrant card and pushing it under Charlie’s nose. As if Charlie didn’t know exactly who he was already. ‘It’s not often we get to kill two birds with one stone.’

The fact that Rachel Porter was sitting up in bed half-dressed and Jones was looking decidedly shifty told him that whatever had been happening in that room wasn’t something that they would want to share. For some strange reason, the sight of her like that, dishevelled, half-naked, irked him more than it should.

‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr Jones. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?’

Charlie patiently explained that he had bumped into Rachel that morning, that she had had another fit and that he’d helped her get back to the hotel. It was as simple as that.

Ratcliffe wasn’t buying it.

He glanced at Rachel, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as if she was auditioning for the part of Bambi. ‘Really? As simple as that? I didn’t have you down as the Good Samaritan type, Mr Jones,’ he said, his gaze settling once again on the woman in the bed. The fact that Rachel’s mouth was swollen bothered him, but he wasn’t there to talk about that. ‘We’ve been to see your sister, Rachel. She’s not well, not at all.’

If he’d expected a torrent of concern to flow from Rachel’s mouth he would have been disappointed. Her reaction was to ask what was wrong, nod her head, and reassure him that Frances would no doubt survive the ordeal. ‘Frances is tough,’ Rachel said sagely.

What was it with these people?

Ratcliffe leaned on the edge of the dressing table opposite the bed, forcing Rachel to edge away from him and pull the covers up to her chin. ‘Rachel, I need to ask you some questions about Stella, but as you’re currently … indisposed, perhaps you’d like me to give you a few minutes to get dressed?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ she said with a blush and a look that encompassed Charlie too. Ratcliffe hadn’t forgotten him; he was just biding his time to see what would come out of this bizarre situation.

Both men stepped outside the room and Ratcliffe heard the lock on the door click into place in their wake. Rachel was taking no chances and he couldn’t blame her.

‘I should go,’ Charlie said, discomfort rolling off him in waves judging by the way his jaw was twitching and the fact that he was clenching and unclenching his hands. Ratcliffe was curious – it came across as a big reaction for a Good Samaritan.

‘Might as well stay. I’d like to talk to you too – so no reason we can’t kill two birds with one stone, for now …’

Charlie stared at him, tension locking his features into a mask of what looked like impatience. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

Ratcliffe put his hand up in a gesture of peace. ‘It’s just a chat, nothing formal. Not yet. I wouldn’t be here on my own if that was the case.’

His words didn’t do anything to alter the other man’s demeanour.

Ratcliffe heard the lock click back. Rachel was dressed and standing pensive, but with the door wide open.

***

‘Tell me about Stella – what’s she like?’

Rachel looked from Ratcliffe to Charlie, taking her time in constructing a suitable answer. ‘Stella is quiet, nondescript and timid really. She cared for my mother after her stroke, which wasn’t an easy task. The fact that she’s gone surprises me. She loved The Limes. I didn’t think she would ever leave. I don’t know what to tell you really. She might have changed. I’m not sure I would know her at all any more.’

‘You said “my mother” – that’s an odd thing to say. What do you mean?’ The distinction in her words had sprung out at him.

Rachel sighed. ‘Stella is my half-sister. She’s Valerie, my mother’s, stepchild. Stella’s mother died when she was young. Our father married Mother when Stella was twelve. She had Frances already and I came later. The Limes was her birth mother’s family home, so Stella always had more of a connection to it than the rest of us I suppose. I think she felt it was more hers than ours. Our father inherited it when his first wife died and Mother got it after he went.’

‘So Frances is a half-sister too?’ Ratcliffe asked. Rachel nodded, her face tense. He guessed that Frances might be a sore subject. ‘What happened to your father?’

‘I never knew him. He died when I was a baby. We didn’t talk about him. Mother wouldn’t and Stella wasn’t allowed to. The past was always the past with Mother.’

Ratcliffe turned to Charlie. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘Before my time – never knew him. My mum mentioned him from time to time. She didn’t think much of him.’

Having met Delia Jones, Ratcliffe wasn’t surprised at this. Other than her own son, Delia didn’t seem to have a high opinion of anyone. He turned back to Rachel. ‘Have you managed to remember anything about where Stella might have gone – friends or relatives she may have decided to visit?’ he asked.

Rachel shook her head. ‘There are no relatives, and no friends. Stella is a shy person so she never had friends. Our mother didn’t encourage friends. But I’ve not seen them for a long time – maybe that changed.’

Despite his questions Ratcliffe knew more about the family than he was choosing to let on. Angie had done some homework on them. ‘What about the shop? Didn’t Stella work in the family business? Might she have met people there?’ The Porters had owned a haberdashery, closed for years now, but Stella had worked there.

‘I really don’t know. I think the shop closed when our mother got ill. I haven’t seen them for so long, I don’t know. I’m sorry but I’m really not much help.’

He turned to Charlie. ‘What about you, Mr Jones? You knew her – where do you think she might have gone?’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I haven’t set eyes on her for thirty years. Neither did I want to. Sorry, Rach, but you know it’s true.’ Ratcliffe knew it was true too. The last time Charlie Jones had clapped eyes on Stella Baxter was the day she had given evidence against him in court.

He sighed. Why the hell did none of these people know anything? ‘Rachel, do you have a photograph of her?’

Rachel laughed as if surprised by the request. ‘No. We didn’t do photos, unless Frances has one. There are pictures of her wedding, I think.’

Ratcliffe nodded. Typical. ‘OK. Now can you tell us anything about the body that you found yesterday, the child?’

It was the first time that Rachel had shown any real emotion in front of him. Her eyes began to fill with tears as she shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. I didn’t even know that there was a cupboard there until yesterday. Oh my God, I can’t believe that someone would do that to a baby!’ she said, her voice trembling.

Ratcliffe noticed Charlie’s body stiffen at Rachel’s words. ‘People are capable of some terrible things,’ he said, looking straight at Charlie.

Charlie looked away.

He asked a few more generic questions and got no further forward. Whatever these two were hiding, he wasn’t going to get it out of them in the casual confines of a hotel room. Sooner or later he’d have to call them both in for a formal interview, put them under a bit more pressure. For now they’d at least given him a few hints as to which direction those formal interviews would take. In Ratcliffe’s mind nothing was ever wasted.

As he drove back to the station he figured that there was no alternative but to get a picture of Stella and give it to the press as soon as possible. Someone would have seen her recently. All they had to do was pick her up when that someone came forward, and they would – they always did. Whatever had gone on in that house over the years, Stella was the one who would know; Ratcliffe was convinced of it.

Strangely, it still bugged him that Charlie had been in Rachel’s room. The air between them had been crackling with tension when he had walked in and whatever their agenda was, it was surely loaded with something more than curiousity.

It hadn’t taken him long to work out that there was more between Charlie Jones and Rachel Porter than met the eye – Charlie’s links to the Porter house went further than his past criminal record. The fact that his mother owned a photograph of a girl who was the spit of Rachel had sparked Ratcliffe’s instincts and he’d been more than a little smug when the team had turned up a marriage certificate and a birth certificate.

Maybe Rachel and Charlie assumed that he already knew that they were married, but neither of them had volunteered it and there had been no mention of their child. Though Jones had balked when Rachel got upset about the dead baby. If Rachel was telling the truth about having left years before and having no contact, she had left her kid too.

She came across as a nice woman – shy, worried, but nice. Could a woman who’d left her own child be called nice? It depended on the circumstances he supposed, but Charlie Jones had been convicted of murder and quite frankly Ratcliffe wouldn’t have left Delia Jones in charge of his dog. To leave a baby with those two would be a determinedly odd thing to choose. Rachel Porter needled him. She wasn’t what she appeared to be and there was far more to that situation than met the eye. And he was going to find out what it was.

***

Back in the incident room, he picked up a message to call Ferris. News was in on the bodies. All he wanted at that point was a decent cuppa and time to think, not a visit to the morgue.

Why couldn’t these forensic people just send a report? He never had understood the necessity of having to be shown the gruesome evidence in all its glory laid out on a slab. What was he supposed to do with the mental images? Chat about them to his wife over dinner? Although it might make an interesting change to Maria Ratcliffe’s usual moaning. Not that he could blame her for getting hacked off. She was a good woman who’d had to put up with a lot from him over the years.

Ferris had completed a basic exam on both victims. Her initial conclusions were that Baxter, whose identity she had confirmed by discovering his wallet still intact inside his rotting clothes, had still been alive when he was placed in the trunk. She showed the detective the feeble scratch marks that scarred the underside of the lid.

‘I don’t think he was alive for long, and I don’t think he had much strength left when he made these marks. There is some considerable damage to the skull; I suspect that he was hit repeatedly with something heavy and hard. He would have died from a combination of those injuries and suffocation. There was a substantial amount of sand in his throat. Now that he is out of the sand, and out of an airtight box, he’s going to deteriorate rapidly so I needed to find out as much as I could as soon as I could. I also found something clutched in his hand.’ She held up a bag containing a small gold earring, shaped like a teardrop. ‘My guess is that it belongs to whoever killed him.’

Ratcliffe took the bag and examined the earring. It wasn’t an uncommon design, nothing special at all. Still, if someone could identify it as belonging to Stella, it might strengthen his thoughts on the case. ‘What about the baby? Anything there?’

Ferris sighed. Hardened as they both were to the nature of their jobs, kids were always a tough call on everyone. ‘I think he was dead before he was put in the box. It looks like he was stillborn. To be honest it’s difficult to tell. From the skeleton, the size of the skull, and the length of the long bones, it looks like he had congenital problems. We did manage to salvage this though.’ She passed him another bag containing several thin strips of material. ‘It was what he was dressed in.’

Through the clear plastic Ratcliffe could see a name embroidered on the fabric. ‘Daniel,’ he said aloud. ‘At least the poor little thing had a name.’

‘Anyway, I still have tests to do, and should be getting more results in soon. I’ll let you know as soon as anything comes in,’ Ferris said, bristling. As if she was far too busy to indulge in such mawkish sentiments.

***

Ratcliffe was relieved to be outside and breathing air that didn’t have the rancid aftertaste of decay. No matter how scrupulously clean Ferris’s staff tried to be in there, the whole place still stank of death as far as he was concerned.

He was puzzled by the assertion that Baxter had been alive when he had been stashed in the trunk. From what they did know about Stella, she was a tiny little thing. Baxter had been six foot tall so how had such a small woman managed to manhandle someone that size into a great big trunk? His only conclusion was that she must have had help, which meant that someone else had known that the body was there. His money was on the mother, the dead and therefore perpetually silent Valerie.

They had to find Stella, which meant he had a very good excuse to pay Frances’s husband, Peter Haines, another visit.