Dead Secret (8 page)

She had quite simply fallen in love with what the estate agent had described, with uncharacteristic restraint, as simply, ‘a little gem.’

The property’s littleness was, Ava supposed, what had brought it down to her price bracket, one of the two bedrooms being scarcely big enough to accommodate a single bed, and the second, the so-called ‘master bedroom,’ not much roomier. By the time Ava had fitted in her double divan and a small wardrobe, there wasn’t much room left for anything else.

Downstairs was a bit more spacious, although there were only two rooms. The kitchen had been extended and was reached by an opening leading off her main living space, which was divided into a TV and comfort area on one side, and an office-come-dining area on the other. The strategic placing of her three-seater sofa effectively divided the room into a cosy and comfortable living space and a work/study area where Ava kept her computer, bookshelves and writing desk. Ikea and car boot sales had provided most of her furniture, and two colourful kilims ordered from a ‘Fair Trade’ catalogue added warmth to the grey flagstone floor. They had cost her practically a month’s salary, but Ava considered that fair exchange for the years of pleasure looking at them would provide.

Outside, there was a long garden, fenced off from the woods at the bottom with a sturdy, plain wooden fence. Ava’s nearest neighbour lived in another former tied cottage a quarter of a mile down the road. Her friends and colleagues had been surprised that she had chosen such an isolated home, but Ava, who had grown up in a big city, relished the peace and tranquillity of her rural retreat.

The cottage’s owner was considering placing it on the market, and Ava was saving every penny to buy it when the time came.

The temptation to sit down and prop up her throbbing foot was almost irresistible, but first she microwaved a chicken tikka ready-meal, and poured herself a glass of sauvignon before collecting a bag of peas from the freezer and heading for the sofa.

She ate slowly, thinking that for the first time in her recent history, she had taken no exercise other than the amount of walking she did in a normal day’s police work, and even that had, of necessity, been kept to a minimum.

’RICE,’ colleagues had been saying to her all day, observing her limp, and at last she was heeding their advice.

It was a long time since she had felt so incapacitated, and she didn’t like it. Ava wanted to be able to count on her body not to let her down in an emergency. That was one of the reasons why she so often pushed herself to the limit to stay in peak condition. She needed the reassurance of knowing that she could kick and fight her way out of danger, or failing that, make a decent run for it.

Ava found herself thinking of Christopher Taylor. In her head she went over the interview of the day before. She had not supposed that he had lied about his alibi, and he hadn’t. Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the conviction that he was involved with Amy’s case in some way. He had been uncomfortable when he talked about his relationship with Amy Hill. In police work, after a while you developed a kind of sixth sense that told you when people were hiding something, and Taylor had made Ava’s detective hackles rise. If he wasn’t guilty of killing Amy, there was something else he was hiding, she was certain.

In Ava’s experience, people with nothing to hide talked too much. Most people enjoyed being the focus of the police’s attention. They would elaborate without prompting, their words rolling out unguarded. They were unselfconscious, since they weren’t afraid that their words might betray them. Taylor had been none of these things. He had been charming and forthcoming enough with his answers to their questions, but he had also been guarded, deliberate in his replies. No chance of Taylor letting anything slip out by mistake.

Ava sighed. The bag of peas on her foot was already starting to defrost in the warmth of the room but she was reluctant to move. Her laptop sat on the coffee table in front of her; it was an effort to stretch forward to pull it towards her. She googled Taylor’s name and read his profile on the university’s English department staff list. A brief biography stated that he had obtained his BA at Sheffield University, and had stayed on to complete an MA and PhD in record time. He had published numerous papers on the Romantic poets and he was working on a book.

Ava stared at the accompanying photograph; it was flattering, even for him. It wasn’t at all difficult to imagine Amy Hill — or any other undergraduate — lusting after him. Her eyes lingered on the picture, taking in the blonde hair, ice-cool blue eyes and oh so charming smile; the bastard even had dimples. She thought of the way his eyes had lingered on her, his chivalrous concern for her injured foot, and found herself idly entertaining a few fantasies of her own about the handsome professor.

She was attracted to him, she admitted grudgingly, and she knew he had been attracted to her in the way most men were. Yet there was something about him that set her alarm bells ringing. Had she been wrong to speak of her gut feeling about Taylor to Jim Neal? She remembered his caveat about gut feelings arising from past experiences. For a moment she considered the possibility that Neal knew something about her that he couldn’t possibly know. Ava shuddered. Nobody knew, and that’s the way it had to stay.

Her thoughts were beginning to stray into dangerous territory and as a distraction, she lifted the now dripping bag of peas off her foot and returned it to the freezer and poured herself another glass of wine. Christopher Taylor’s alibi was watertight. Even so, she would root around in his life and see what she could dig up. Maybe nothing; maybe he was as unblemished morally as he was physically, but she didn’t think so.

Chapter 8

Feeling achy with the beginnings of a cold, Anna Foster made her way to the shop’s entrance to close up for the day, even though she’d been open for less than an hour. Her heart just wasn’t in it, and now it looked like she was going to be feeling physically below par as well.

On the mat inside the front door she noticed a folded sheet of paper and bent to pick it up. Probably a flyer of some sort. Before she could unfold it, she caught sight of Nancy’s Hill’s strained face at the window. Fearing a confrontation, she braced herself.

On the day of Amy’s funeral, Anna had been welcomed as one of the family. Nancy had wept on her shoulder and asked if Anna knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Having lost a husband, Anna considered she was in a good position to empathise, but in the pecking order of grief, Nancy clearly considered the loss of a child paramount, and who was Anna to argue?

Thinking about Nancy’s behaviour over the course of the day, Anna had been puzzled; in particular, some of her utterances had sounded odd. Though she had her own worries about Simon’s disappearance, Anna had lain awake on the night of the funeral wondering about Nancy’s words and what they might mean. Over and over Nancy had wailed that her sacrifice had been in vain, that it had all been for nothing, that she should have left Amy to her fate; that she was responsible for Amy’s death as surely as if she had killed her herself. Odd words, but a mother so recently bereaved of her only child was entitled to be irrational.

Richard Turner’s grief had also worried Anna. He had wept uncontrollably at Amy’s graveside, but afterwards he had been a pillar of strength for Nancy, perhaps understanding that his grief must necessarily take second place to hers. But anyone could see the man was distraught. And the boy, his son Bradley, had been upset, and Anna had been aware of a tension in the air whenever Bradley and Nancy came too close. She had wondered what was at the bottom of that.

Of them all, Richard Turner’s daughter Julia had been the calmest. It was plain that there was no special closeness between her and Nancy, no bond. There was no real reason why they should be close; they were not mother and daughter, after all. But it seemed to Anna that an opportunity had been lost somewhere in this ‘family’s’ history. For Julia was a lovely girl, attentive to the father she had probably not seen enough of in her teenage years, and respectful, if not overtly affectionate, towards Nancy.

Anna had found herself comparing Julia to Amy; Richard Turner’s daughter appeared to have none of Amy’s pretentiousness or self-centredness. They were physically very different. Julia was curvy and healthy, with a tangled mane of titian hair. Anna regretted that she had had so little time to talk to her. It would have been interesting to hear this girl’s impressions of Amy, of Nancy; to have learned something more about the family dynamics.

And now, here was Nancy, banging against the window, purple with rage and looking dangerous. The sight of her set Anna’s nerves on edge and she wished she’d locked up earlier.

“It’s open,” she mouthed, surprised that Nancy had not thought to check.

Perhaps the doorknob was refusing to budge. It was always a little awkward, and a sign on the door indicated which way to turn, but even so, sometimes people assumed that the shop was closed and walked away before they could be admitted.

There was no way Nancy was going away. She rattled the knob noisily and as Anna opened the door inwards, a startled Nancy was propelled over the threshold in a manner that lent her little dignity. On another occasion it might have been funny. Today it simply fuelled her anger.

“I thought you were my friend,” she seethed.

“Nancy, calm down.”

“You know where he is, don’t you?” She pushed past, giving Anna no time to answer.

“He’s here, isn’t he? These old buildings are riddled with secret hiding places. I bet you had him hidden away when the police came round.”

“Nancy that’s ludicrous. Simon isn’t here. I only wish he were. That way he could tell you he had nothing to do with Amy’s death.”

There, she had said it. For the first time since her row with Simon on the night he’d disappeared, she believed it herself, and along with the realisation came a wash of guilt and enormous relief.

“Then why has he disappeared? If he’s got nothing to hide, why isn’t he here?”

“He’s angry with me, that’s all. We had a row; I said some hurtful things to him. He’s punishing me.” Anna felt herself choke, “He knows I can’t bear to have him out of my sight.” Nancy stared at her. For a second the two women connected on a level that they both understood, then Nancy’s anger kicked in again.

“What things did you say to him? That he’s a murderer? That he dragged Amy across the common that night and strangled her? No wonder your poor little boy’s feelings were hurt. He knew mummy was telling the truth.”

Something snapped inside Anna’s head. Now that she had accepted how absurd it had been of her to suspect Simon of that heinous crime, it appalled her to hear someone else accuse her son of such brutality.

“That’s not true! Get out! Get out of my shop!” she said as her own anger mounted.

Nancy stood, defiant, looking as though she wanted to spit. Or strike out. For several moments, both women glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Then, suddenly, Anna felt ashamed; she was afraid of losing what she loved most. Nancy already had. In a kinder tone, she said, “Please. Just leave. Simon isn’t here.” Her eyes met Nancy’s and registered only anger. Then Nancy turned her back and stumbled out the door.

Tears blurred Nancy’s departure. Anna locked the door behind her and bent to straighten the mat. At that moment she remembered the flyer that she had picked up earlier and pulled it, crumpled, from her pocket. It was not a flyer. It was from Simon.

* * *

Minutes after her row with Anna Foster, Nancy Hill was stricken with regret. She had stumbled angrily out of the shop and onto the pavement, turning instinctively in the direction of her own shop, a little way up the Long hill. Richard had left a sign on the door saying, ‘closed due to family bereavement,’ and Nancy stared at it numbly before remembering that she was the one bereaved.

The shop’s gloomy interior absorbed her misery. The heating had been off for days, and an aching cold seemed to seep out of the walls into Nancy’s bones. Without turning on the lights, or taking much note of the tidy little shop she had been so proud of, Nancy made straight for her ‘office’ at the back, where she sat down and howled, safe in the knowledge that no one could hear her.

Anna Foster was her friend. Her son was missing, a murder suspect. If the victim had been anyone else but Amy, Nancy would have been consoling her friend, taking her side, supporting her, refusing to believe that Simon could be guilty of such a terrible crime. But the victim had been Amy. Her child; and that was the reason Simon had vanished, or so it seemed. Nancy moaned aloud; she wanted so badly to have someone to blame.

* * *

The following morning, Nancy pretended to be asleep until she heard the garage door creak shut, followed by the sound of Richard’s car revving up and pulling out of her drive. Just before he left the house, he’d come upstairs and crept over to the bed to kiss her lightly on the forehead and whisper goodbye. Perhaps he really had believed she was still asleep, but she didn’t think so.

They had rowed again last night. Round and round in a circle of denial and disappointment, Richard asking her to open up to him, she insisting that she had nothing to conceal, until they were both too exhausted to care.

Perhaps later she would call at his workshop and watch him work. It was relaxing to watch him smooth a piece of timber lovingly with his hand plane. Richard had large, calloused, craftsman’s hands that were capable of creating objects of great beauty. For ethical reasons, he eschewed the use of tropical hardwoods, nowadays working mainly with sustainable, recycled or reclaimed materials. For her fortieth birthday, he’d presented Nancy with an exquisite, sweet-smelling rosewood jewellery box, which had taken her breath away. She hadn’t dared to ask whether he had compromised his ethical standards in obtaining the wood — it frightened her to think he could love her that much.

Thinking of Richard’s workshop, reminded her again of her own business; her shop which had been closed for a week now. Nancy felt no inclination to return to work, and wondered whether she would ever feel that there was any point to anything ever again. In the days since Amy’s death, she had felt inert and heavy, sluggish and unmotivated. The slightest movement required an effort that was beyond her.

She had been awake long before Richard this morning, but was unable to move. Richard, stirring beside her when the alarm went off, throwing his arm about her and pulling her close, had shocked her with his effortless movements and easy affection. Nothing in Nancy’s own heart moved in response, and, more shockingly, even when she thought of Amy, nothing stirred. The absence of emotion was alarming but it was also liberating, freeing her from the need to feel pain. Music blared suddenly from the clock radio as if mocking her — ‘Everybody Hurts,’ by REM.

Richard must have reset the alarm when he came in to kiss her goodbye. Last night, he’d suggested that going into work might take her mind off things. She glanced at the clock; there was still time to open the shop at ten, only half an hour later than normal, but her mood weighted her to the bed and any hope for the day ahead was buried deep under the duvet.

“
Hold on
. . .” droned Michael Stipe, but Nancy was adrift. Motherhood had anchored her to her life and now that it was gone, nothing made sense any more, nothing mattered. The next song was one that had been everywhere the summer she first moved to London. Nancy struck out with her arm and hit the off button on the radio, but, stirred by the familiar music, the malevolent worm of her past began burrowing under the covers to torment her.

* * *

Life had dealt her some cruel blows. Nancy’s childhood had been overshadowed by the loss of her parents. As a teenager, she had endured four years of living with foster parents who did their duty by her without love; more often than not, she had been bullied — or worse — by the other children in their care. When Amy came into her life, Nancy swore her daughter would always be loved. What if she had gone a little over the top, if in her eagerness to be a loving parent, she had spoiled Amy in other ways too?

At little more than Amy’s age, Nancy had arrived in London with a backpack containing everything she owned in the world; it didn’t amount to much. Her final foster home had been crowded and chaotic and there had been no money for extras. At sixteen, leaving care with an unfinished education and no prospects, she had moved into a flat-share with three other young people and started work in a Costcutter. In the evenings, she attended a local further education college and took some GCSEs and A Levels and, on reaching twenty-one, she had at last gained access to her parents’ estate and planned to use the money to move to London and apply for a place on an art and design course.

Her home in London was a basement flat in a converted Victorian house on a street lined with tall London plane trees leading up to the gates of Victoria Park. It had been sublet to her by a girl she’d befriended whilst working part-time in a bar on Fleet Street, who had gone off travelling for a year. A stroke of luck at last.

One day, walking in the park, she had met Debbie Clarke. A small boy had run out in front of her, near the lake, chasing the Canada geese at the water’s edge, and Nancy had looked around for his mother, concerned that he might end up in the water. A thin young woman was sitting on a bench staring in the other direction, one hand on the handle of a buggy, pushing it backwards and forwards. Nancy was aware of two things; the little boy’s potential danger and the distressed cries of a very young baby coming from the buggy.

The boy’s danger was the more immediate. She caught the hood of his jacket as he shooed an indignant duck into the lake, pulling him gently out of harm’s way. It was a risk, touching someone else’s child. Nancy looked around nervously, half expecting the young mother to scream that her son was being kidnapped or molested, but the woman was still looking the other way, rocking the pram, more for her own comfort, it seemed than for the infant’s, whose wailing she continued to ignore.

The boy looked up at Nancy in alarm, tugging at his sleeve to loosen her grip.

“Hey, little man. What’s your name?”

“Peter,” he’d answered, squirming to free himself.

“It’s not safe to play so near to the water, Peter. What if you fell in?” He stared at her as if she were mad. “Let’s go get your mum.” Together, they walked to the park bench.

“Are you Peter’s mum?” Nancy asked the young woman, who seemed oblivious to their presence. Peter leaned into the pram, making shushing noises and the baby’s wailing calmed to a fretful whining.

“Yeah. What’s it to you? Been doing something naughty, has he?”

“Oh no. He just seemed to be getting a bit near to the water, got carried away chasing the ducks, probably.”

“Yeah, probably. He likes ducks,” the woman said, unconcerned. She looked younger than Nancy, too young to be the mother of two children. Was she too young also to appreciate that her son might have been in danger?

One of Nancy’s foster mothers had suffered from post-natal depression; she had been out of it a lot of the time, distant, let the kids in her care do pretty much as they liked, which had often amounted to bullying Nancy. Something about this young woman’s behaviour and attitude reminded Nancy of her foster mother’s disinterested detachment.