The Wrong Mother (43 page)

Large floor cushions, upholstered in bright, flowery materials that ought to have clashed but in fact looked all right, were strewn everywhere. They looked more expensive than Gibbs’ three-piece suite. Amid the cushions were pottery cups that also looked pricey and were probably hand-made, some with cigarette butts in them and ash streaks down the sides. A few screwed-up Rizlas and some empty takeaway cartons lay under the green glass table that stood in one corner. It was as if a group of homeless people had broken in and had a party in the home of an interior designer.

Cordy O’Hara had her hands on Oonagh’s shoulders as they came into the room, and a baby in a sling round her neck.
Like a broken arm.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Ianthe needed changing. And sorry about the mess. Since having baby number two, I’ve been forced to embrace squalor, I’m afraid—too knackered to clean the flat. Oonagh, this is Chris. He’s a policeman. Do you remember the other policeman, Sam? Chris works with Sam.’

Gibbs didn’t like the first-names thing—he hadn’t said Cordy O’Hara could call him Chris—but he said nothing. He did what Sellers would have done if he were here, and started by assuring Oonagh that there was nothing to worry about. She was only six, so he avoided referring to her having lied when Kombothekra interviewed her, and simply said, ‘Oonagh, you and Amy have been exchanging e-mails ever since she went to Spain, haven’t you?’ He shot Cordy O’Hara a warning look. She knew Amy was dead; Oonagh didn’t, and he didn’t want her to find out now. The girl tried to shrink into her mother’s skirt. Her round, wide-open eyes stared at the carpet. She was the image of her mother: thin, freckled face, carrot-coloured hair.

‘Her dad helped her type the messages,’ said Cordy. ‘When Oonagh said she hadn’t been in touch with Amy since Amy left school, I had no idea she was fibbing. Not until I spoke to Dermot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gibbs. He hated situations that required him to be sensitive. ‘Oonagh, nobody’s angry with you. But I do need to ask you some questions. Do you remember, in one of your messages, asking if everything was all right between Amy and her mum?’

Oonagh nodded.

‘Did you have any reason to think things might not be okay between them?’

‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.

‘Did you think it was strange that Amy never answered your questions about her mother?’

‘No.’

‘Oonagh, sweetie, you must tell Chris the truth.’

Gibbs was instantly suspicious. Cordy O’Hara shrugged an apology at him. ‘I’ve been trying to get it out of her. Amy used to ask her to keep lots of secrets. Didn’t she, sweetie?’ Oonagh wriggled, hopping from one foot to the other.

‘Oonagh, you’ll be helping Amy if you tell us,’ said Gibbs. ‘Whatever it is.’

‘Please may can I go to the toilet?’ the girl asked her mother.

Cordy nodded and Oonagh fled. ‘Come straight back, please, sweetie,’ Cordy called after her. ‘They taught her at school to say, “Please may . . .”, but I can’t seem to drum it into her that you don’t need to say “can” as well.’

‘If she won’t talk to me, see what you can do once I’ve gone,’ said Gibbs.

‘I’ve tried endlessly.’ Cordy tucked her hair behind her multiply pierced ears. ‘She thinks something dreadful happens to people who tell secrets; it’s infuriating. If I force the issue, she’ll make something up. Once, ages ago, I found her crying in bed in the middle of the night. She was distraught. Lucy Bretherick—she could be a bit of a madam, Lucy—she’d browbeaten Oonagh into telling her one of Amy’s secrets. Poor Oonagh was terrified Amy would find out, that she’d send a monster to attack her in the night.’

‘What was the secret?’ Gibbs asked.

‘I never got it out of her. Having told Lucy and felt awful about it, she was hardly going to compound her crime by telling me, poor little love.’

On the spot, Gibbs decided that if he and Debbie ever succeeded in having a child, rule number one would be no secrets from Mum and Dad. Ever.

‘I feel terrible,’ said Cordy. ‘I was relieved when Amy moved away. Once she was gone, Lucy and Oonagh became . . . well, normal little girls. But while it was the three of them . . .’ She shuddered. ‘I was a horrible coward. I’m totally ashamed of myself now. I should never have exposed Oonagh to scenes like that. No wonder she was traumatised, when Lucy hounded her until she couldn’t take it any more and told Amy’s secret.’

‘Scenes?’ Gibbs asked.

‘One scene, really. Though it was repeated over and over again. Lucy would take any opportunity to say to Amy, “My mummy loves me best in the whole wide world, and Oonagh’s mummy loves
her
best in the whole wide world, but your mummy doesn’t love you, Amy.” Oh, it was heart-breaking! ’ Cordy pressed her hand against her chest. ‘Completely untrue, too. Encarna loved Amy passionately. She just hated being a mother, which isn’t the same thing at all. She was honest about how difficult she found it—that’s one of the things I liked about her. She said the things no one else would say.’

‘How did Amy react, when Lucy said her mum didn’t love her?’

‘She’d start shaking—literally shaking—with misery, and wail, “Yes, she does!” and then Lucy would try to prove her wrong. Like a barrister, taking apart a witness’s case in court. “No, she doesn’t,” she’d say smugly, and then recite her long list of evidence: “Your mummy’s always cross with you, she doesn’t smile at you, she says she hates Saturdays and Sundays because you’re at home . . .” On and on it went.’

‘In front of you?’

‘No. In the privacy of Oonagh’s bedroom, but I overheard it plenty of times. I know Geraldine did too, because once I tried to raise it with her and she immediately looked guilty and clammed up; it was literally as if I hadn’t spoken. The one thing Geraldine couldn’t allow herself to admit was that she’d messed up. Oh . . .’ Cordy waved her hand at Gibbs, as if to delete her last comment. ‘
I
didn’t think it was her fault, obviously—children have their personalities from the moment they’re born—but Geraldine and Mark had very set roles in their marriage, in the family. Mark’s job was being brilliant and successful, bringing in the money, and Geraldine’s was Lucy; if she admitted Lucy was capable of being mean—of actually enjoying being mean—then she’d have to admit to herself that she’d failed in her part of the bargain: raising the perfect child. And everything about Geraldine’s family had to be perfect: she was so relentlessly upbeat about everything, totally unwilling to admit her daughter had faults.

‘I don’t know if anyone’s told you this yet, and I wasn’t planning to, but . . .’ Cordy took a deep breath. ‘Lucy Bretherick wasn’t a nice girl. She wasn’t kind. Clever, hardworking, high-achieving, yes. Nice? Definitely not. You know I said I was relieved when Amy moved away?’

Gibbs nodded. ‘It sounds awful, and I’m sorry of course that she’s dead, but . . . knowing Oonagh won’t be spending time with Lucy any more is a weight off my mind.’

‘After Amy left, Lucy didn’t start to victimise Oonagh?’

Cordy shook her head. ‘Everything was fine, like I said. But they were only six, and every bully needs a sidekick. I reckon that’s the position Lucy had in mind for Oonagh—she was grooming her, subtly.’

This sounded absurd to Gibbs, but he didn’t query it. ‘Oonagh asked after Patrick in a couple of her messages,’ he said.

Cordy nodded. ‘All the girls loved Patrick. He used to play with them. They thought he was the pinnacle of cute.’

This last word made Gibbs uneasy. So Oonagh O’Hara had met Patrick. Where? At Amy Oliva’s house? Had Encarna flaunted her lover under her husband’s nose? ‘Do you know Patrick’s surname?’ Gibbs asked.

Oonagh had returned. She was standing in the doorway, staring at him with something approaching scorn. She said, ‘He hasn’t got one, silly.’

‘Sweetie! Don’t dare to call people silly! Chris is a policeman!’

‘I get called worse than that,’ said Gibbs. ‘Patrick’s surname?’

Cordy frowned. ‘I suppose he might have needed one to be officially registered or whatever, or for medical appointments. Good question: it could have been either, I suppose. My guess would be Oliva, though, like Amy.’

Now Gibbs was certain something strange was going on. ‘Officially registered?’ he said.

Realisation dawned, and Cordy O’Hara looked embarrassed. Guilty, almost. ‘Oh, right, you don’t know. Patrick is Amy’s cat,’ she said. ‘A big fat ginger tom. All the girls adored him.’

 

 

Once I’ve knocked out all the glass with the leg of the massage table, I hoist myself up on to the window sill and scramble out into the yard. I run back and forth blindly, whimpering like a wounded animal, hitting the hedge and then the wall. My body feels ice cold in spite of the sun. I stop, wrap the flimsy stained dressing gown around me and tie the belt tight.

I am trapped. Again. This yard is an outdoor cell that goes round the house on two sides. There’s a second wooden gate, one I couldn’t see from the window, also with a padlock on it.

Three wheelie-bins stand against the wall—green, black and blue. I grab the green one and drag it over to the hedge. If I could get up on to it . . . I try, but it’s too thin, the sides too smooth. There’s nothing to help me get a foot-hold. Once, twice, I yank myself up, but lose my balance.
Think. Think.
Beating in my head like a pulse is the idea that the man will be back at any moment, back to kill me. I scream, ‘Help! Somebody help me!’ as loudly as I can, but I hear nothing. No response. The air all around me is still; not even a rumble of traffic in the distance.

I put my full weight behind one of the large, terracotta plant-pots and shunt it towards the bin. It scrapes along the concrete slabs, making a horrible noise. Panting with the effort, I finally manage to up-end the pot. Its base is wide and flat. I stand on it and climb up on to the bin lid, landing on my knees. For a few seconds I am rocking in mid-air, arms flailing, certain I’m going to lose my balance. I lunge towards the hedge, grab hold of it and manage to stand, leaning my upper body against the thick slab of twigs and leaves.

Looking over the top, I see an empty road, three street lights—the twee, mock-antique lantern kind—and the loop-end of a small cul-de-sac, around which stand several identical houses with identical back gardens. I turn and look at the house I’ve escaped from. Its flat beige stone-cladding façade tells me nothing. I have no idea where I am.

I’m not high enough to climb from the bin on to the top of the hedge. If the bin were two or three inches higher, or the hedge more uneven so that I could use part of it as a ledge . . . I try to stick my bare foot in, but it’s too solid. I stare at its flat top, unable to believe I’m this close and still can’t get up there.

The milk bottles. I could take some paper and a pen from my bag, write a note and push it into an empty bottle. Could I throw a bottle far enough so that it lands in one of those back gardens? How long would I have to wait for help, even if I could?

I jump down from the bin and run round the house, back to the smashed window. Directly beneath it, a small, square alcove has been built into the wall. There are two full bottles and one with no milk in it, only a rolled up sheet of white lined paper sticking out of the neck.

I pull the note out and read it. It says, ‘Hope you got my message saying not to come. If not, no more milk until further notice please. Away for at least a month. Thanks!’

Away for at least a month . . .
I would have died, if I hadn’t got out. He planned to leave me to die in the room. But . . . if both gates to the yard are padlocked from the inside, how can the milkman . . . ?
Oh, my God. You idiot, Sally.
I haven’t even tried them. I saw two padlocks and assumed . . .

The one on the back gate that I could see from the window is locked, but the second one isn’t, the one round the side of the house. The padlock has been pushed closed, which is what I saw, what misled me. But it hangs only from the gate itself; it hasn’t been looped through the part that’s attached to the wall. I pull it, and the gate swings open towards me. I see another quiet, empty road.

My heart pounding, I push the gate shut as violently as I pulled it open.
He’s not coming back. Not for at least a month.
If I can get into the rest of the house somehow, I can clean myself up; I won’t have to run through the streets with nothing on apart from a dressing gown that’s covered in my own blood. If the police see me like this, they will know William Markes made me take my clothes off. They will ask questions. Nick will find out . . . I can’t face it. I have to go back inside the house.

A heavy plant-pot would break a double-glazed window. I try and fail to lift the one that looks heaviest. Three smaller pots stand against the wall, lined up side by side on a long, rectangular concrete plinth. I move the plants and strain to pick up the base. I can lift it, just about. Holding it under my right arm like a battering ram, supporting it with both my hands, I run as fast as I can towards the kitchen window, panting. The glass cracks the second time I hit it. The third time it breaks.

I climb into the house, cutting my hands and legs, but I don’t care. The recipe book has been put back on the counter. Beside it is the gun.
He hasn’t taken his gun. He’s given up. Given up and left me to die.
I back away, bile rising in my throat when I see the syringe lying neatly by the sink.

I can’t stay in the room once I’ve seen it. Gagging, I run upstairs. Clothes. I need clothes. The wardrobes in the blue and pink rooms are empty. There are a few clothes on wooden hangers in the one in the master bedroom, men’s clothes. His. A suit, a padded coat with paint stains on the arms and lots of keys in one of the pockets, two shirts, a pair of khaki corduroy trousers.