Читать книгу My Mother, The Liar: A chilling crime thriller to read with the lights on - Ann Troup, Ann Troup - Страница 16

Chapter 8

Delia tried Charlie’s mobile number and listened to the dull uninspiring voice on the message service for the umpteenth time. There was no point in leaving yet another message; he hadn’t bothered to pick up the last three. Why the bloody hell did people bother having mobile phones if they were always going to leave the bloody things switched off?!

In frustration, she slammed her own phone hard on the table, dislodging the battery cover in the process and sending it skipping over the tabletop and onto the floor. ‘Sod it!’ she hissed, bending to retrieve it and groaning at the stiffness in her back. She couldn’t be bothered to fiddle with it to reattach it to the body of the phone, damned thing.

A horrible sensation was unfurling in her gut, an instinct that something was about to go horribly wrong. Charlie was incommunicado and Rachel bloody Porter was back on the scene. Adding two and two together she was coming up with nothing other than four, no matter how hard she tried to make it five. If she was right and he was with Rachel, they might well have another dead body on their hands by the time she caught up with him and throttled him for his foolishness. She was too old for all this, and so was Charlie. He was a bloody idiot where that girl was concerned, always had been, always would be.

Delia just had to hope that Rachel wasn’t as big an idiot. If she was, then God help them all.

***

By the time Ratcliffe and Angie reached the hospital that evening, having been told that Frances had been woken, she had lost consciousness again.

According to her doctor she hadn’t said anything of note during the short time that she had been lucid. Ratcliffe’s only conversation had been with Peter Haines, Frances’s rather urbane yet supercilious husband, whose main concern remained the worry that his good name was being linked with something as tawdry as murder. Haines was adamant that he didn’t know where Stella had gone, but had reluctantly agreed to supply a photo of her, though he couldn’t guarantee a recent one.

He had only conceded to their request because Ratcliffe told him that his wife’s purge of The Limes had been so meticulous that they had failed to turn up even the remotest clue as to Stella’s whereabouts – or her intentions. Even with a photograph and the help of the press they would be clutching at straws. If a person as nondescript as Stella wanted to disappear, it wasn’t particularly difficult to make a thorough job of it.

Thwarted by Frances’s insentient state, Ratcliffe called it a day and sent Angie home. God knows they all needed a decent night’s sleep – this case was getting harder by the minute and he wanted to face it head on and fresh in the morning. He’d switched his phone to silent earlier as per hospital policy and hadn’t thought to check it until he got into his car.

He assumed that the message he’d received when it had vibrated in his pocket was from his wife, nagging to know when he would be home. It wasn’t. It was from Charlie Jones, informing him that he’d had to take Rachel back to London to see her doctor. As a man Ratcliffe saw that as a very good idea – the woman was apt to flake out all over the place in his experience, so some medical attention would be a fine thing. As a copper he saw it as yet more buggeration. He hadn’t quite finished with Ms Porter. Having her back in London was going to be an almighty pain in his arse. As if he didn’t have enough of those already.

***

Surprisingly there was a parking space right outside the flat. Instinctively Charlie reversed in and switched off the engine, only afterwards thinking that he should just drop her and drive away. Just the same as all those times long ago when he had stood on this very pavement, looking up at her windows with his courage failing and forcing him to leave things well alone. He had always driven away.

‘Are you going to come in?’ she asked, the tremor in her voice informing him that she was fervently hoping that he wouldn’t.

Out of stubbornness he didn’t even bother to reply, just got out of the van and followed her up the steps into the building.

Inside the flat he remained silent as the wraith of Lila Porter wrapped itself around him like a stale smell. The past felt almost tangible and he had the sensation that he was being ripped backwards through time. That nothing had materially changed in the place was weird; that Rachel had never bothered to change it was stranger still.

In resistance to his reaction he tried to put a positive spin on it and thought of Amy. How she would love this place. She would see it as a giant dressing-up box where she could pretend she was someone else entirely. She had always told him that her ultimate fantasy would be to travel back in time.

It seemed that her mother had achieved it.

Rachel hovered in the kitchen doorway, showing her reluctance to allow him further into her domain. ‘I can do coffee if you don’t mind it black.’

Charlie glanced around again, glimpsing her existence, finding it wanting and dusty and faded. ‘OK.’

He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table under the window, keeping her in his line of sight, but maintaining a safe distance while he watched her fumble with the kettle. ‘So, what do you do with yourself then? Are you working?’ he asked, as if they were old acquaintances who had just bumped into each other. He felt as banal as the question had sounded.

She poured water in the cups and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘What do you do with yourself then?’ he pressed as she put the cups onto saucers and placed the whole paraphernalia on a tray just to bring it the few yards to the table. Just like her mother would have done – anything to keep up appearances.

She put the tray down, immediately silencing the rattling china that had been so effectively serenading her anxiety. ‘I read a lot, walk, watch the world go by. Time passes – I don’t notice it much.’

He picked up his cup, its dainty fragility looking incongruous in his calloused hand. It almost made him smile. ‘I half expected to find Stella here.’

Rachel hovered, seemingly reluctant to pick up her own cup. He noticed that her hands were still trembling. She gave a wry smile and shook her head. ‘She would never come here. Lila scared her. She had too much life for Stella.’

That a woman long dead yet still so tangibly present had the ability to dismay the living in such an assiduous way scared him a little too. ‘You know I said that Amy thinks you’re dead? She thinks that our relationship is sad and romantic and that I’m tortured by unrequited love and grief.’ He laughed, the sound of it full of scorn. ‘I’ve never had the heart to put her straight. And neither should you – whatever happens she needs to be kept out of this.’

‘I suppose it’s better for her to think that she was left by someone who didn’t choose to go,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s going to be hard to stop her reading papers or watching the news. I can’t be responsible for that, but she’ll never find out from me.’

Charlie couldn’t help it. The bitterness of what Rachel had done had been burning a hole in his gut for years. That she could talk to him so calmly about it just felt like insult heaped upon injury. ‘Better than knowing that your own mother dumped you without a word? Yeah, I’d say so. Anything would be better than that,’ he said with potent bitterness because the truth of her words illustrated a threat that neither of them could control.

Lila’s kitchen clock ticked loudly, marking the moments that the ugliness of it all hung in the air between them. ‘Better than knowing why,’ she said finally.

He gripped the cup, almost crushing it in an effort not to hurl it at the wall and watch the jagged shards flail her as they fell. ‘What about me? I’m not a little girl who needs to be protected from life’s shit, Rachel,’ he hissed, watching her wince at the suppressed violence of his contained rage and not caring. ‘Don’t you think I deserve to know why?’

‘I didn’t love you; I didn’t want her. I made a mistake.’ Even though she closed her eyes when she said it, unable to look him in the eyes, her words sliced at him like a razor – sharp and sure. The extent of the damage would be delayed by the swiftness of the cut, but he would feel it and it would hit bone.

He stood, moved towards her slowly, every step an exercise in measured control. He felt drunk, surreal, and incapable of coherent thought.