Animal Instinct (19 page)

Suzanne stubbed out her cigarette. “The trouble is that life has a habit of wrecking your plans when you least expect it.”

“What went wrong?”

“Two weeks before I was due to give birth, my mum had a stroke, a bad one which paralysed one side of her body. She was confined to a wheelchair. I gave birth early…it was probably the shock. I had this vision of an existence dominated by a sick mother and an unwanted screaming child. My whole future was wiped out in an instant. I panicked and arranged to have the baby adopted.”

“It must have been dreadful for you to have suddenly found yourself in that situation,” said Steve, sympathetically. “Was your father not on hand to help out?”

“My dad had died several years previously. It was just mum and I…or rather, half a mum and I,” replied Suzanne, smiling. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I suppose that, to some degree, I was being selfish. I convinced myself that the baby would have a better chance without me. I talked it over with social workers and contacted a local adoption agency. They eventually agreed that, under the circumstances, it was the best course of action.”

She took a sip of wine and lit another cigarette. “Ironically, my mum died six months later. I was left all alone and vulnerable again. I met this guy, a squaddie from Aldershot, packed in my job and moved in with him. That's how I ended up living down here. It didn't work out. It was okay for a while but we drifted apart. He seemed to prefer drinking with his mates than spending time with me. I put up with the rows for a few years, but when he started whacking me …well, I felt that I was drowning in life's debris. I needed to surface, to breathe again.

I moved out. He was posted somewhere abroad and I've never seen him since. I packed my bags and moved in with a girl I'd met from Bicester until I could find a job and afford my own flat. Some life, eh? Hardly a success story.”

“An interesting one. You seem to have experienced a roller-coaster lifestyle. In comparison, my life's been fairly uneventful.”

“You're lucky. You said that you were an adopted child. Did that not cause you any grief?”

“Not really. My parents were always open about it…they explained it to me when I was quite young and I grew up in what I considered was a normal family. It was only quite recently that I began to wonder about my birth mother after reading an article about some imminent changes to the laws on adoption. Since 1975, it's always been possible to trace your roots but, because of welcome modernisation to the framework for adoption, in future it will be easier for adopted adults to contact their birth relatives and vice versa.”

“Is that what you intend to do?”

Steve smiled. “I've already done that. It was a rather long-winded process, but it was worth the effort.”

“How did your adoptive parents feel about it?”

“They were very supportive. We discussed the issue first and, because we have such a strong bond as a family, we agreed that, whatever the outcome, our relationship would remain steadfast. They perceived it as a logical step, an opportunity for me to unlock one of the mysteries of my life. In fact, I believe that they were as excited as I was by the research which had to be undertaken.”

“How did you go about it?”

“I applied to the Registrar General to obtain a copy of my original birth certificate, my parents gave me the name of the agency that handled my adoption…fortunately it was still in existence…and an intermediary agency was used to trace and make contact with my birth parents.”

“Wow! I bet that was scary! Were you disappointed or pleased when you finally made contact?”

“A little of both, I suppose. We spoke initially on the telephone and then exchanged a few e-mails, but nothing prepares you for that first face-to-face meeting. Deep down I probably resented the fact that I had been given away as a baby, but, at the end of the day, I had to make allowances for the reasons in making such a traumatic decision…in the way that you had faced a similar situation.”

“What was it like, meeting them?”

“I only met my mother. The meeting took place in a hotel near Basingstoke. She worked there as head of housekeeping; she was in charge of the hotel cleaners. She was nothing like I expected. She was plump and frightfully officious. I came away with the impression that she was a ‘bit of a dragon’ with the staff! However, she was courteous and welcoming towards me, though slightly cold. I imagine that she was wondering how I would react to her obvious underlying guilt.”

Suzanne blew a swirl of bluish smoke across the table. “Why did she have you adopted? Did she give you a credible reason?”

“It was similar to your situation in some ways. She became pregnant in her teens, her boyfriend did a runner but poverty, a lack of money, was the main influence. Like you, she intended to keep the baby, but her dad had been made redundant and another mouth to feed was no longer an option…she had three younger brothers and a sister. Consequently, she let me go, hoping that I would have a better life.”

“Were you satisfied that it had been the correct decision?”

“Looking back, it was probably justified. I've had a good life. Eventually she found the right partner, moved away from the east end of London and settled in Hampshire. He's the boss of his own decorating business and she has spent most of her working life in the hotel industry.”

“Have you met up since that first meeting?”

“Oh, yes…several times. I discovered that I had brothers and sisters…a new family.”

“Are your adoptive parents okay with your involvement?”

“I'm independent with my own lifestyle. I live alone, spend a lot of time away from home, staying occasionally in hotels as a part of my occupation, so I can contact my extended family whenever it is convenient.” Steve smiled. “The year before I contacted the agency, my company held a conference at the same hotel where my mother worked. How weird is that?”

“I reckon that you're one of the lucky ones. It seems to have worked out well for you. I wonder how many people have a bad experience after having traced their natural parents.”

“You'll never know until you try. Shall we move on and sample the food at this restaurant in Deddington?”

His final comment about adoption resounded in Suzanne's head throughout the following day. Later that evening they met for a drink in the Perch at Binsey. This picturesque thatched inn stands close to the canal and Port Meadow, not too distant from the centre of Oxford. They took their drinks to a quiet table in the garden that overlooked the canal. She had made up her mind. She leaned across towards Steve.

“I need your help. I want to trace my daughter.

*****

Over the following weeks and months, the relationship between Suzanne and Steve developed from a series of casual nights out into a more meaningful bond. Deep down, she sensed that she had finally met a man whom she could trust and love. Whenever possible, more and more of her leisure time was spent in his company. Though he sometimes stayed away in hotels during weekdays because of his work, they remained in touch either by phone or by sending text messages. Occasionally, Suzanne rearranged weekend shifts at the supermarket to allow more time with the new man in her life, often staying over at his flat in Summertown.

Her quest to trace her adopted daughter became the catalyst that not only brought them closer together but also the common interest that cemented their friendship. They spent numerous hours delving into the complexities of the adoption process and seeking the support offered by the intermediary services. As the discussions, interviews and form-filling activities reached towards a possible favourable outcome, their excitement was akin to parents anticipating the birth of their first-born.

One Friday morning as Suzanne was about to dash to work, the telephone rang. It was the long-awaited climactic call to end the search that they conducted over a period of several weeks. She could barely contain herself. A short time later, she literally bounced into the supermarket staff room.

“This bloke of yours must be some kind of miracle worker,” said Amanda, her colleague. “The grin on your ‘boat race’ gets wider each day. What's he done now?”

“Guess who phoned me this morning,” cried Suzanne with tears in her eyes.

“By your expression, probably the organisers of the national lottery.”

“Better than that…a million times better.” She wiped her eyes and hugged her friend. “My daughter, my long-lost daughter,” she screamed. “Can you believe that?”

“I couldn't doubt it, the way you're behaving. So, you finally achieved the impossible. I'm really, really happy for you. What did she have to say?”

“She wants to meet up with me. She promised to contact me to make the necessary arrangements, probably during the Easter holidays. She's going to email me some pics of her…well to Steve's email address. I'm so excited!”

“What's her name, this new-found daughter of yours?”

“Lara…I would have chosen a name like that…Lara…I like it. There's a certain ring to it.”

*****

Easter weekend came and went. Suzanne and Steve waited patiently for the anticipated call. Their disappointment was as obvious as their initial excitement over the prospect of meeting her daughter. They communicated with the intermediary agency, who merely stated that, as the girl had not wished to pass on her details, they would have to wait until she made the initial contact. As each day passed by, Suzanne became even more depressed. Steve offered several possible excuses for the delay to alleviate her feelings of having been letdown.

“If she has had a change of heart, I would rather know,” said Suzanne during one such discussion. “At least, then I could get on with my life. It's the ‘not knowing why’ that is so upsetting.”

Several more days passed before that plea was finally answered, but not in the way she had originally anticipated. It was the Monday following Easter weekend. Suzanne had almost resigned herself to hearing nothing further from her daughter. She grasped every opportunity to work extra shifts whenever possible, even at weekends when she would have normally spent time with Steve.In the space of a week, their previously solid relationship had suffered from the disappointing outcome of their endeavours. She immersed herself in her job at the supermarket. Steve spent more time away from home. Because she had worked on the Sunday, her Monday shift commenced after lunch and she spent the morning cleaning the flat and catching up on the washing.

When she answered the ring of the doorbell, she was surprised to find two strangers at her door. Her immediate thoughts were debt collectors, then salespeople, then Jehovah's Witnesses, until she saw the warrant cards. Her thoughts were of Steve…an accident! They asked if they could talk to her inside the flat. It was bad news; she could have never imagined such news. To be so close to meeting the daughter that she had given away all those years before, and to discover that she had been murdered was devastating…heart breaking. For some time she was inconsolable. D.S. Kingdom was so relieved to have the company of D.C. Jones, who calmed down a distraught Suzanne Ridley.

Jones made a pot of tea. Suzanne listened intently between sobs as the detectives attempted to relate the tragic events that had unravelled over the previous weeks. Kingdom was concerned that Lara's mother was beginning to make comments and show signs of guilt over her daughter's death. He realised that she could even transfer the blame onto Lara's adoptive mother when she had ceased to find answers about why she was murdered. He asked if she would welcome a visit from a local family liaison officer, whose professionalism would help her through her trauma. Rejecting all offers of support, she asked about the funeral arrangements. When told that it was due to take place on Thursday, in three days time, she stated that, before she gave any commitment to attend, she would talk it through with a friend whose advice she trusted.

After giving Suzanne some telephone contact numbers in Winsford, the detectives eventually left the flat, content that she had calmed down and had resigned herself to an acceptance of the facts. However, before heading for the M40, they stopped off at Bicester police station on Kings End to explain the situation. They expressed the opinion that a visit from a family liaison officer would not go amiss under the circumstances.

The purpose of their visit to Suzanne Ridley had been twofold…to check out any possible leads that she may have with regard to Lara's adoption and to inform the natural mother of her sad loss. The visit had yielded no useful information about Lara, but at least the detectives felt that they had done their duty in passing on the distressing news in person.

Suzanne and Steve spent the next two days coming to terms with the tragic loss. A visit from a family liaison officer was influential in the decision to attend the funeral, based on the premise that, seeing her daughter laid to rest would bring some closure to her grief. Suzanne stated that she had to make the visit by herself; it would be the final act in a tragedy, which she herself had created at a similar age. D.C. Jones had given her some contact numbers if she wished to make the journey. On Wednesday, she hired a car, drove to Cheshire and stayed at the Lodge Hotel close to Winsford town centre. She contacted Diana Crawford shortly after Massey had left the cottage in Moulton that same evening. They arranged to meet at the church the following morning.

Although she had talked at length with Steve, Suzanne still questioned if her attendance at Lara's funeral was right and proper. As her natural mother, she believed that she had a moral duty to be present. On the other hand, how would she forgive herself if by being there she upset her daughter's adoptive family? Mrs. Crawford had seemed okay over the telephone, so maybe she was worrying unduly. She found it difficult to sleep that night in the hotel and hoped that she would be able to return home without any repercussions.

She was unaware that she was about to become Massey's key piece in his jigsaw puzzle.

“Hello,” said the voice.

The stiff bristles continued to attack the surface of the slimy wet stone floor, creating a loud swishing sound.

“Hello,” resonated once again.

The distant sound of the now slightly raised voice finally penetrated the rhythmic scratching from the gloomy cavernous space below. The scraping sound became less vigorous as two inquisitive eyes turned towards the direction of the voice.

Bright sunlight cascaded downwards. The slender outline of a young woman stood silhouetted against the early light of a glorious April morning. In that split second, all movement ceased and time stood still.

*****

Sean had gone to the bank to pay in his takings and acquire change for the tills. Mary Cole had finished her shift later than normal as she had been performing her monthly ‘bottoming-out’ session, as she called it. Curtains, brasses, pictures and other bric-a-brac were thoroughly cleaned on a monthly cycle. Though it was time-consuming, she looked forward to the additional hours as it meant more money in her pay packet that week.

The cleaner was about to leave, but as Sean had only just left the building and he was normally away at least for half an hour, she took the opportunity to snoop upstairs whilst he and all the residents were out. For the first and only time, her heart was pounding as she climbed the well-worn staircase. She had a set of keys to the rooms, as their cleanliness was normally her responsibility. She wanted to know why she had been ordered not to perform those duties for these particular guests. What was Sean hiding? Even more intriguing was the possibility that the guests themselves were concealing something.

Mary inserted the key into room number one and opened the door. It was obviously being shared by two people. The beds were un-made as though the occupants had left in a hurry. On the floor, there were two patterned mats which she had never seen before. Several printed leaflets were scattered about the room; they contained what appeared to be lists of instructions and diagrams. They reminded her of the leaflets enclosed with D.I.Y. furniture; they too were incomprehensible. On a bedside table, there was a dark blue tastefully bound book. It caught her eye by the cubism-style grey and silver motifs, which decorated its front cover. Central in the design was a gothic-shaped arch containing one strange word in a foreign script. She likened it to an ‘upmarket’ version of the simple bibles that one can sometimes find in hotel bedrooms.

She quietly closed the door and entered the next room, room number two. There were letters addressed to J. Moran at an address in Liverpool. So, that's where he lives, she thought…and this must be his room. Only one bed had been slept in. She opened the wardrobe and stepped back in fright and disbelief. Partly wrapped in a heavy linen cloth was a large gun, an automatic rifle, the muzzle of which was protruding from the top of the material. She quickly closed the door.

Hearing a noise behind her, she half-turned. Briefly, she glimpsed the blurred twisted features of Jimmy Moran's face. Out of the corner of one eye, something flashed brightly. As the razor-sharp knife slit her throat, an eternal blackness descended.

Twenty minutes later, following his return from the bank, Sean entered Jimmy Moran's bedroom to find the crumpled body of Mary Cole engulfed by a crimson pool of her own body fluids. He recoiled in total disbelief. Moran had merely summoned him to his room to discuss a problem. The licensee was certainly unprepared for the sight which confronted him.

“Holy Mother of Jesus? What the fuck have you done?”

“I had no other option,” replied Moran, stepping towards the window to avoid the bloodshed. “I returned to collect some papers and found her snooping in my wardrobe. She had seen stuff not meant to be seen.” He lit a cigarette. “I told you to keep her out.”

“Don't blame me,” said Sean. “It's your mess. What do you intend to do about it? You can't leave her there.”

“I was hoping that you might have a solution. You're the man on the ground. Where do you suggest we dump her?”

Typical, thought Sean. He said ‘we’…I'm now in this up to my neck. He reflected on a recent excursion he had undertaken into an area of heath land not too far distant from Winsford. “As a matter of fact, I do know somewhere suitable, a remote spot out of town. It would have to be a night job, after closing time.”

“Tonight, then?”

Sean nodded. “I'll fetch some bin liners. She'll have to be bagged up. There's also the floor to scrub clean. I'd have asked the cleaner, but you've put paid to that fuckin' notion.” He sighed and turned towards the door. “What a bloody mess,” he muttered under his breath.

*****

It was shortly after midnight when Sean was able to bolt and lock the double doors that led from the bar to the rear car park. Outside, drops of rain spattered against the windows and resounded from some broken plastic chairs. He turned to cross towards the bar.

Jimmy Moran appeared. “Everyone gone?”

“I just need to put tonight's cash in the safe. Is she bagged up?”

“Exactly as you requested…wrapped and taped in bin liners. You'll have to help me down with her. She's a dead weight.”

Sean smiled. He understood. “What have you done with her clothes?”

“Stuffed them in a separate bin liner.”

“There's an incinerator in the yard. I'll burn them in the morning.”

Moran lit a cigarette. “I've sorted the mess on the floor. You'll be needing a new carpet. I've ripped up the old floor covering…it was rotten anyway. You may as well burn it at the same time. There's still a slight stain on the floorboards, but bleach should shift that.”

“Thanks,” said Sean, begrudgingly. “I'll reverse my car into the yard. We can dump her body in the boot…we'll be out of sight there.”

Ten minutes later, Sean slammed down the boot lid over the bundled corpse of Mary Cole. He drove a little way out of the yard, stopped and returned on foot to close the yard gates. Suddenly the car park was flooded with light as a vehicle splashed through the rain-soaked potholes towards them.

“Shit!” exclaimed Sean as he glimpsed the reflective flash from the side of the speeding car. It stopped in front of his Mondeo and a uniformed police officer emerged, leaving his colleague in the driving seat.

“Evenin’ to you, Sean. Off on a late night trip?”

“Just giving my friend a lift home,” he replied, thinking quickly.

The officer leaned forwards towards the open door of the estate car and looked across at Jimmy Moran. “And where might that be?”

“Tarporley,” replied Sean before his companion could speak. “He's over from Ireland to visit his son. The lad's an apprentice at the racing stables there.”

“Ah, a connoisseur of the turf.” The officer addressed Moran. “Got any good tips?”

Moran shook his head. “My boy's the expert. I'm not a gambling man.”

“Don't blame you. There are too many rich bookies around for my liking.” He turned back to Sean. “Well, mind how you go. The roads are greasy with this downpour. We'll keep an eye on the pub while you're away.”

He returned to the police car and they left the car park. Sean climbed into the driving seat and closed the door. His hands trembled as he attempted to grip the steering wheel.

“Smart thinking there, Sean,” said Moran, smiling.

“It's left us with a slight problem. If I'm supposed to be taking you back to Tarporley, I'll have to be seen to be returning alone. Those coppers who work the night shift get lonely…they'll stop anyone, even it it's only for a chat. You'll have to hide in the boot on the way back, just in case they stop me. At least it'll be empty after we've dumped her.”

Moran's grin turned to a grimace. “How far is this bloody ideal spot of yours?”

“About fifteen minutes away. It's a vast heath land area, quite dense in places, near Oulton Park racing circuit. I did a recce a short while ago. I know the perfect place.”

“What was that all about?”

“You don't want to know.”

The car turned onto the by-pass and headed out into open countryside towards Little Budworth where the weather had worsened. Finding the track that he had previously identified was no easy task in the darkness and the incessant rain. The invasive landscape emerged through the downpour like grotesque shadows of perdition. Inside the car, the rain caused a further hindrance; visibility was poor and the demisters barely cleared the condensation from the windscreen. After several runs along the Coach Road, Sean eventually thought that he recognised an opening in the trees. He turned the car into the dripping cavernous undergrowth of scrubland.

When the track became too narrow to progress further, he was forced to slither to a halt. There was little space on each side to open the doors of the vehicle, but somehow, they extricated themselves into the wet foliage engulfing them. Opening the boot in the openness of the track was far easier.

The rain splashed down onto the exposed bin liners. Consequently, the slippery bulk was difficult to grip. By grasping a protruding limb through the plastic, they were finally able to haul the bagged-up body over the metal rim. It thudded down onto the wet, sandy earth where the red taillights of the car cast an eerie glow over their handiwork.

“What now?” asked Moran.

“We'll have to drag her as far as possible into the shrubbery and collect whatever bracken, leaves and branches we can lay our hands on to hide it from view.”

“We should have brought a torch and a bloody spade,” said Moran, not relishing crawling into the gloomy undergrowth.

“There's light from the car's headlights if we can drag her in that direction. Damn this fuckin' weather!”

When it was impossible to lug the body any further, the bin liners were so shredded that various parts of the cleaner's naked torso were exposed and scarred from the prickly plants and bushes along the way. They piled rotted branches, ferns and other foliage over the bundle until it was completely concealed. Stumbling and cursing they returned to the car. Their shoes were muddied and their clothes sodden. Overhanging branches and trailing brambles had scratched their exposed faces and hands. They sat on the rim of the empty car boot and attempted to brush off the debris that had attached itself to their clothing.

“What a bloody way to go,” remarked Sean, looking towards the dense undergrowth.

“She brought it on herself,” replied Moran. “She was spying and, in my book, disloyalty and treachery deserve nothing less. Let's get out of here. I feel trapped.”

The two men returned to Winsford. Sean drove and his accomplice slipped into the car boot on the outskirts of the town. The incinerator worked overtime for several hours the following morning until they considered that they had obliterated all traces of Mary Cole's tragic demise. Nothing more was said about their activity. Sean prepared himself for the inevitable enquiries that would ensue from her disappearance.

*****

Sean hauled himself wearily up the steps from the beer cellar. It was early Thursday morning…his regular beer-line cleaning day. After the gruesome events with Moran during the previous weekend, it had been a difficult week handling the annoying visits by the local C.I.D. As he closed the door at the top of the steps, the shadowy figure of Moran appeared.

“You still haven't replaced that carpet in my room,” he snapped, lighting a cigarette.

“I've been busy covering your fuckin’ back all week. I'll sort it tomorrow.” The licensee was never at his best in the morning. He also hated cleaning beer-lines…it was one of those necessary but time-consuming chores. In addition, his guest's contempt for all things normal was beginning to wear thin.

“We'll be gone from here by tomorrow,” replied Moran. “It's a bit bloody late in the day.”

“Look, if the mess on the floorboards is bothering you that much, I'll bring you a rug from my flat. It's okay for you…you're out every day. All week the bloody police have pestered me. They know about the racing stables. That copper last weekend must have blabbed it to C.I.D.”

“So, what did you tell them?”

“I played along with the original story…told them that your name was Callaghan, an old friend who was in the area and had decided to pay me a visit.”

“They accepted that?”

Sean nodded. “They were more concerned with my register and the lack of names and addresses of that lot up there, including you. I'm supposed to be dropping it off, up-to-date, at the police station this morning before they attend that girl's funeral.”

“I suggest that you fill it in yourself with some bogus names and addresses.”

“Oh, great idea! They'll ‘twig’ that straightaway. Can't your so-called students complete it before you take them off for the day?”

“Most of them can hardly read or write, let alone speak the language. They're here to learn practical skills, not bloody academic subjects. Ask some of your regular punters to help you out. If they realise that it's an opportunity to put one over the pigs, they'll be only too willing to oblige. Let's face it, most of the villains in here would take out a copper for the right money. If C.I.D. are at a funeral, take it in at the end of the day. By the time they run any checks, we'll be long gone.”

“It's so bloody easy for you. You cause the problems, I take all the flak and you just walk away.”

“You won't be complaining when the courier arrives next week with a big fat wad for you. Book yourself a holiday and chill.” Moran stubbed his cigarette on the door casing and dropped it on the floor. “Come with me…I've something to show you.”

Sean followed him to his room where he opened the wardrobe door and lifted out a large package. He unwrapped it, spreading it on the bed to reveal a large glistening automatic rifle.

“They gave me this as a gift when they arrived. Look at it…isn't it a beauty? It's a spanking new, top of the range AK-47 assault rifle, courtesy of Mikhail Kalashnikov. It fires six hundred rounds per minute. Did you know that the Soviets produced a coin stamped with its image. Hezbollah and Mozambique have it on their flag and in some countries baby boys are named Kalash after it? They can purchase these by the truckload. They're not short of funds.”