Читать книгу Home Truths - Susan Lewis - Страница 12

‘It’ll be about DNA,’ Emma said decisively, as they drove along the seafront heading back to the house. ‘I can’t think why else they’d want something of his.’

Knowing that had to be true, Angie tried desperately not to connect with what it could mean. ‘But they already have it from when … From when he was arrested. Don’t they automatically take it these days?’

‘But he wasn’t charged, so I think by law they have to delete it.’

Angie’s nails were digging into her palms as she gazed out at the heaving grey mass of waves in the bay. They were doing what they always did, swelling and dipping, hurling on to rocks and drowning the beach. Why did they seem so ominous?

Was Steve watching? Did he know what was going on?

When they got home she waited in the kitchen while Emma went up to Liam’s room. It wasn’t that Angie never went in there, if anything she spent far too much time sitting amongst his things trying to work out what more she could do to find him, even trying telepathically to reach him. It was simply that Emma had decided she ought to be the one to go up there today.

She came back with a light-blue Donald Duck toothbrush that made Angie want to cry. All his life he’d had the same one, changing it every few months for a newer model of the same. Right up until he died Steve had also owned a Donald Duck toothbrush to match Liam’s, in spite of using an electric one for the actual job.

Angie took it, doing her best not to engage with the role it was about to play, and after insisting she was all right to drive, she left Emma in the house trying to find someone to be there for the kids when they got back so she could follow Angie to the police station.

By the time Angie was left to wait in a room that was soulless and smelled of sweat and cheap polish she was somehow managing to breathe normally, though only just. So many terrible and terrifying scenarios had been racing through her mind this past hour that she’d lost sight of any good that might be about to unfold. Did anything good ever unfold in this awful space with no windows, just a roof vent that seemed clogged by leaves and a small, thick glass panel in the door?

‘Mrs Watts?’

She looked up from the table where her hands were clasped tightly together and her eyes, until then, had been on the ring stains that formed random patterns over the chipped surface.

‘Leo Johnson.’ A young, red-haired man with boyish freckles and a skewed sky-blue tie introduced himself with a friendly smile.

Angie started to get up, but Johnson insisted she stay seated. ‘Has someone offered you tea or coffee?’ he asked, taking a chair opposite her at the table.

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she told him hoarsely. ‘I’d just like to know what this is about.’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch and seemed relieved when the door opened again and a middle-aged woman with a pale complexion and deep frown lines between her close-set eyes came in. ‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she said to Angie, seeming to mean it. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Anthea Ellis. Please call me Anthea, and may I call you Angela?’

‘Angie. Everyone calls me Angie.’ Why were they being so friendly? The only reason she could think of was that they were about to break bad news.

Anthea Ellis smiled, her plain features softening into a less stressed expression that did little to put Angie at ease. ‘Thanks very much for coming,’ the detective said. ‘I’m sorry to drag you in here on a Sunday, but we’ve been contacted by our Avon and Somerset colleagues who are investigating a murder that took place in Bristol the day before yesterday.’

Angie’s heart stopped beating. She could feel her breath shortening, her mind racing with the horror of what this could mean. They think it’s him. It’s why they want his DNA. He’s dead and they’re trying to identify him. Oh God, oh God, oh God, how was she going to handle this?

Anthea Ellis was saying, ‘… the girl’s body was found beside a canal. She’s been identified as …’

‘What?’ Angie interrupted, not understanding. ‘A girl … Who …? Why are you …?’

Leo Johnson said, ‘We’re told that the main suspects in the case are individuals who might be known to your son. Have you heard from him at all lately?’

Still trying to get a handle on things, Angie said, ‘No. Not since his father …’ She stopped; they’d know what she meant.

With an understanding expression Anthea Ellis said, ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve tried to find him, but I’ve never got anywhere. Who are these people, the ones they think killed the girl?’

‘I guess we can assume,’ Ellis replied, ‘that they’re members of the gang Liam was – or still is – involved with. As you know, only five members are behind bars.’

Angie searched around for what she wanted to say, or needed to know. It was like trying to catch something invisible and turn it into something real. ‘Where – where did they find the girl?’ she finally managed. ‘You said a canal …’

‘It’s in the Lawrence Hill area of Bristol,’ Johnson told her. ‘Is that anywhere you know? Somewhere your son might have visited?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve never been there, but I’m not sure about Liam. Please tell me you don’t think he did this. You know he’s not like other boys his age; he has difficulties … If he did do it they’ll have put him up to it.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Ellis said kindly.

‘But why else would they want his DNA?’

Johnson said, ‘They’re checking on everyone known to have had some involvement with this particular gang, either directly or indirectly.’

Wild-eyed now, Angie’s voice shook as she said, ‘You know what those thugs do to people who turn them in, don’t you? I’ve seen a programme about it, they call them snitches and if they’re found they’re stabbed to death. So you have to stop looking for Liam. Please. Because even if he doesn’t tell you anything, if someone’s arrested they’ll think he talked and blame him.’

Quietly, almost regretfully, Ellis said, ‘Did you bring something of his with you?’

Angie stiffened and would have denied it if she could. She reached into her bag and handed over the ludicrous toothbrush.

As Johnson took it he regarded it with something that seemed like sadness.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Anthea Ellis said again. As she got up to leave, Angie suddenly cried, ‘Is that it? Aren’t you at least going to say that you’ll let me know when you find out that this has nothing to do with my son?’

‘Of course,’ Ellis assured her. ‘We have your number. As soon as there’s any news, one way or the other, DC Johnson will be in touch.’

Getting to her feet, Angie said angrily, ‘So now he’s a suspect in a murder case you’ll go out of your way to find him. You didn’t want to know when I came in here almost two years ago. Maybe if you’d listened to me then that girl would still be …’ She stopped abruptly, horrified by what she’d been about to say.

‘I made it sound as though I think he’s as guilty as they do,’ she ranted to Emma when she got back. ‘How could I have said that? What the hell is the matter with me? I know he didn’t do it …’ She choked on a sob. ‘He’d never kill anyone. He just wouldn’t – unless someone put him up to it. They might have forced him to do it.’

‘They don’t know yet if it was him,’ Emma reminded her softly.

Angie nodded, seizing the doubt to try and still herself. ‘So does this mean he’s in Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I know there are connections between the gangs here and there.’

Once again Emma said, ‘They don’t know yet if it’s him.’

Angie turned to look out of the kitchen window, seeing shadowy figures over a girl next to a canal, knives, fists, blood … She couldn’t make out any faces, but surely none belonged to Liam.

Her hand tightened around a mug of tea as she focused on Zac in the garden with Emma’s boys, Harry aged almost seven and Jack aged nine. They were crawling over the climbing ropes Steve had hung between the shed and an end post for the washing line. Once they reached the top they tumbled over on to the trampoline below, roaring like warriors, fearless and mighty. Liam had loved to play on those ropes when he was small, shouting out for his dad to watch as he threw himself on to the deadly enemy below.

‘How many have you slain so far?’ Steve would cry out, waving his plastic sword with a madman’s intent.

‘Millions,’ Liam would reply. ‘Look out! There’s one behind you.’

Steve whipped round, saw off an invisible attacker and shouted, ‘Thanks Liam, you saved me there.’

‘That’s all right Dad. You’re safe now.’

Grace came into the kitchen, her laptop held open in both hands. ‘Nightmare,’ she declared. ‘I’ve found some stories about the murdered girl and they’re not good.’

There had been no point trying to hide anything from her daughter when she’d come back from the station; Grace had been there and had known right away that something was wrong. Lying, or trying to skirt the issue was never the way to go with Grace. She’d somehow get to the truth in the end, and would be hurt and disappointed in her mother for not trusting her.

As she put the computer down in front of Emma, Angie saw how pale she was, and wondered whether she already believed her brother was a killer, or if she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. What was it going to mean to her future if it turned out he’d killed that girl? She’d always be the sister of a murderer, the daughter of a man who’d been beaten to death in a frenzy of gang violence; someone whose family wasn’t like other families, whose bad luck might be contagious. That was how the world viewed people who’d had dealings with the very worst elements of society, even through no fault of their own; the stigma, the shame, rubbed off on the innocent.

‘She’s called Khrystyna Kolisnyk,’ Grace was saying. ‘She was twenty-four and came from Ukraine, but she’d been in the St Paul’s area of Bristol flat-sharing with other girls for the past couple of years. No one reported her missing. The police only knew about her when a jogger nearly fell over her body while he was out for a morning run. Apparently the police want to speak to her boyfriend, Darren Milligan, and others.’ She looked up. ‘The main thing is there’s no mention of Liam.’

Hating the fact that Grace even knew about anything like this, Angie went to close the laptop down. ‘That’s enough for now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll put the chicken in the oven and start peeling the potatoes before we get a bunch of hangry boys on our hands.’

Later, after they’d eaten every last mouthful of the roast, followed by a golden crust apple pie and vanilla ice cream, they settled down to play their usual game of Monopoly. It was a Sunday evening tradition, dating back to happier times when Steve and Liam had played too – always loudly, and Angie was sure they’d both cheated for they never seemed to spend any time in jail. These past few months it had returned to being a noisy and highly competitive couple of hours at the close of the weekend and this evening’s were no exception, with whoops of triumph over big property purchases, followed by groans of outrage at extortionate rents, and shouts of protest when someone was declared bankrupt. Angie was aware of Grace’s eyes flicking to her from time to time, wanting to be sure that her mother was genuinely enjoying herself and not secretly worrying herself into a state of panic.

Angie wasn’t, at least not tonight. She was doing her best to think only of how blessed she was to be sitting here with her family, warmth coming from the fire, a solid roof to keep them dry, food to eat and no illnesses to scare them. There would be time enough later to think about Liam, when she knew for certain whether or not he was a person of real interest to the police. And as for everything else … There was no point thinking about that tonight either, so she winked at Grace to make her smile, the way Steve always used to, and was relieved when Grace winked back.

Later, Grace was in her room that her dad had made look like an actor’s dressing room, with famous theatre and movie posters in an artful montage all over the walls, a mirror with big globe lights around it, a little seating area of bean bags and coffee table for when she had visitors, and there was even an old-fashioned modesty screen that he’d bought at an antiques fair and restored for her. It was draped with various movie props and costumes that they’d tracked down on eBay; she even had a pair of dancing shoes that had been worn by one of the stars of a Broadway show. He’d made her fancy bed frame with a canopy overhead smothered in muslins and lace that cascaded all the way down to the floor.

She no longer had the computer desk he’d refashioned from an old escritoire for her to work at; after she’d uploaded photos of it to Depop it had sold right away for fifty pounds. The small collection of perfume bottles that her mum had started her off with when she was six had sold for eighty-five pounds, and the vintage-style doll’s pram Granny Watts had given her when she was four had sold for thirty-two pounds. It was amazing what people would buy, for most of her jewellery had gone – not the silver christening bangle, or her nine-carat-gold watch or the tiny diamond chip set in a signet ring that was supposed to be a family heirloom, her mum would have had a meltdown if she tried to sell any of that. It was the ordinary stuff from Zara and Next and Topshop that had gone, along with at least half of her old dolls and teddies, most of her books, her play shop, her Micro Sprite scooter and the bike she’d long since outgrown but had been planning to keep along with the vintage pram, in case she had a little girl one day who might like them.

Now, as she uploaded yet more photos of clothes that had hardly been worn and even still fitted, along with a well-thumbed set of Winnie the Pooh books Auntie Em had bought her one Christmas, she was thinking about the way her mum had winked at her earlier, and how much it had reminded her of her dad. She loved it when her mum did that, but at the same time it seemed to dig right down in her chest to remind her of how much she missed him. Sometimes, to get herself past the worst parts of it, she’d talk to him, inside her head, as if he was still there and able to answer. She asked him to tell her what to do to help Mum, or if he was upset that she’d sold the desk, or what she should upload next; she even asked if he knew where Liam was.

Do you blame Liam, Dad? Can you see him now? What is he doing? Do you want us to find him?

She didn’t always hear him as well as she’d like to, and even when she did she thought she might be making it up, but occasionally she found herself slipping back in time to one of the chats they’d had when she was small, some that she actually remembered, others that she didn’t, but they’d made him laugh so much when he’d told her about them later that she’d wanted to hear about them again and again, just because he seemed to love them – and her – so much.

‘Daddy?’ she said.

‘Mmm?’ he replied.

She gave a small sigh to let him know that she required his full attention.

Getting the message, he put down the screwdriver he was using to assemble her new wardrobe and turned to sit cross-legged on the floor facing her.

‘You know I’m five tomorrow?’ she said earnestly.

‘I do,’ he replied, matching her tone.

‘Well, when I have my party on Saturday, I hope you’re going to behave yourself. Only you don’t always, do you?’

He crumpled in shame. ‘I promise I’ll do my best,’ he said.

She frowned, not certain that was good enough. ‘I know,’ she declared, hitting on the answer. ‘I’ll ask Mummy to keep an eye on you.’

His mouth twitched like he was going to laugh, but he sounded serious as he said, ‘I think that’s a very good idea.’

She continued to sit where she was, hands folded together in her lap as she worked herself up to what else she needed to say. To her surprise he started to turn back to what he was doing. ‘I haven’t finished, Daddy,’ she told him bossily.

‘Oh, sorry. What else is it?’

‘Will Liam be coming to the party?’ she asked worriedly.

The light in his eyes seemed to dull as he sighed and pushed a hand through his dusty hair. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart,’ he replied. ‘Do you want him to?’

She didn’t want to say no, but she didn’t want to say yes either. ‘He might not be here,’ she said hopefully. ‘He goes out with his friends all the time.’

Grimly, Steve said, ‘I wouldn’t call them friends, exactly, but you’re right, he does go out a lot.’

‘Where does he go?’

With another sigh he gathered her on to his lap and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Things are a bit difficult for Liam at the moment,’ he said softly, ‘so we have to try and be patient and find ways to help him.’

‘Will it help him to come to my party?’

Squeezing her, he said, ‘I’m not sure, honey. It’s hard to know what to do, but we’ll find a way to make everything all right, don’t you worry.’

He wasn’t here to make things right any more, and it was horrible, so bad sometimes that she felt she was drowning in the need for him to pick her up in his strong arms and tell her it was all a bad dream. But he wasn’t going to do that, so she must try her best to help her mum the way she knew he’d want her to. The trouble was she would soon run out of things to sell online, so she needed to find another way to earn some money.

Any ideas yet? she messaged to her best friend Lois, who was helping her to find out what kind of jobs were possible for girls of thirteen. She was already doing some of her fellow students’ homework for two pounds a time, but apart from the fact that she was helping them to cheat, it wasn’t nearly enough to make a difference for her mum.

Lois’s reply came quickly. Still working on it, but will have info to share by tomorrow. #SAVINGGRACE.