My Mother, The Liar

The girl nodded and scurried off, briefly pausing to turn and ask, ‘Still or sparkling?’

Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Tap,’ he said impatiently.

The girl returned with the water and the proprietor of the café in her wake, a sensible-looking woman who offered to pull the screen across and give them some privacy. Charlie accepted gratefully and took the water, holding it to Rachel’s mouth and making her drink though she was still disorientated.

The café woman ushered the waitress away. ‘Can I do anything? Should I check her bag, call a relative or something?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘No thanks, it’s fine. I’ll look after her.’

The café woman frowned, looking unsure of him. ‘Not being funny, but do you actually know her?’ she asked, shifting her posture to demonstrate that she wasn’t to be trifled with if he turned out to be some random weirdo.

Charlie closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. He supposed it did look somewhat strange. ‘You could say that I do.’

The woman peered at him, suspicion rippling across her face. ‘Are you a relative?’

He looked down at the pale, thin woman who lay against his chest giving everyone the perfect impression of a limp rag. To this day he still didn’t understand how they’d come to this. All those years and here she was, still able to hurt him with a single look.

‘I’m her husband,’ he said.

Chapter 4

When the doorbell rang, Delia Jones peered through the net curtains and smiled with grim satisfaction at the predictability of the police. Since reading the morning paper she’d been waiting for them to call with as much patience as a woman like her could muster. Which wasn’t much at all.

On opening the door she smiled at them both, listened as they introduced themselves, and perused their warrant cards with unnecessary scrutiny. When she felt she’d annoyed them enough, she adopted an air of weary disinclination and said, ‘I suppose you had better come in.’

***

Ratcliffe followed Angie into Delia’s cluttered sitting room and formed his first impressions while Delia lowered herself into a very fat armchair and took her time settling in. The whole room was stuffed to the gills with cheap china and whimsical little ornaments. It was the kind of room that could send a grown man slowly and steadily crazy over time. He looked at her smirking from her fat chair. Delia Jones struck him as the kind of woman who probably knew that and coveted her collection even more for that reason.

‘I know why you’re here – I read the paper. But if you’re looking for my son, he doesn’t live here any more. Besides, whatever you lot think he’s no killer, and Roy Baxter was alive and well long after he was locked up, so you’ll be barking up the wrong tree anyway,’ Delia said, offering the statement with smug satisfaction.

So, she’d read the papers. Sometimes Ratcliffe hated reporters; they were way too quick off the mark with their speculation. He hadn’t even had confirmation that the body was Roy Baxter yet, but the paper had got hold of the name and run the story anyway. ‘There is nothing that we are aware of that would link your son to this case, Mrs Jones, but we will need to talk to him at some point. It’s you we’ve come to see,’ he said.

The team had run some checks back at the station and had been surprised to find that there had been another body found at The Limes thirty years before. That one had been fresh though, not preserved in sand. Her body was still seeping blood when she was found complete with her killer, knife in hand, standing over her body.

The victim was Patsy Jones, daughter-in-law of Delia. The case notes stated that Patsy had been having an affair with Roy Baxter, an error in judgement that had led to her death. The murder had been committed by Delia’s son, who had been found next to his dead wife holding the murder weapon. A kitchen knife, which he’d used to stab Patsy four times after he had bashed her over the head with a blunt object that had never been found or identified. It had been an open and shut case. Delia’s son had served ten years of a possible fifteen and hadn’t come to the attention of the police since.

Delia was correct in saying that her son couldn’t have had anything to do with at least one of the bodies found the day before because he had been on remand when Roy Baxter had gone missing. For Ratcliffe there was no obvious link between the two cases other than The Limes appearing to be a popular venue for untimely and horrific deaths, but they did need to talk to Delia Jones – she had been the Porters’ cleaning woman thirty years before and was likely to be one person who knew more about them than anyone else.

Uniform had completed some preliminary door-to-door enquiries, and from the little information they had gathered, Angie and Ratcliffe had concluded that the Porter family were not neighbourly types. Of those people interviewed who were aware of their existence, most described them as eccentric, standoffish and weird.

The only real contact any of the neighbours had with them was on the odd occasion when someone had plucked up enough courage to complain about the run-down state of the house and the untamed jungle that may have at one time been a garden. All had been given short shrift and had not tried again. Consequently, the only person who might have any useful information on the family regarding the time that Roy Baxter had been a part of it was Delia Jones. An ornery old bird who was busy giving both he and Angie some seriously dirty looks.

Scowling at him she said, ‘What do you want to talk to me for? I didn’t bloody kill him, though if I had Charlie wouldn’t have had to pay for something he didn’t do. If you ask me, Roy Baxter got everything he deserved.’

Angie stepped in, going for the ‘woman’s touch’, Ratcliffe guessed. It wouldn’t work – nothing did with Delia’s type.

‘How did you and your son know Mr Baxter?’ she asked.

‘I would have thought you already knew that. I was their cleaner and Charlie worked for Roy. He was a builder; he gave Charlie work, and only did it to piss Valerie off. She wasn’t keen on Charlie.’

‘Why not?’ Ratcliffe asked.

Delia laughed and shook her head. ‘Valerie Porter didn’t like anyone much.’

Ratcliffe didn’t buy it. He looked at Angie and by his guess, neither did she. ‘What do you mean?’

Delia shifted in her seat. ‘She was a bitter woman, a dried-up old stick who liked to make other people miserable when she could. She was always the same, even when she was a kid: a nasty, spiteful bitch who thought she was a cut above everyone else. Put it this way, it takes more than a posh house and a good name to shift a reputation like hers.’

‘She must have liked you – she gave you a job,’ Angie said.

‘Huh! She gave me the job because I was the only person stupid enough to do it for the lousy money she paid. Liking didn’t come in to it. Besides, she enjoyed the fact that someone she knew worked for her, made her feel important,’ Delia said bitterly, obviously still suffering the indignity of her lot.

‘Why stay if she was so unpleasant, paid so little?’ Angie wanted to know.

Delia looked her up and down, obviously taking in the smart suit and the air of self-assurance.

‘I don’t suppose a woman like you would know what it’s like to be left on your own to bring up a kid. I left school at fourteen, got married when I was seventeen, had Charlie when I was twenty, and was widowed at twenty-two. I had no money, and a roof to pay for. Wasn’t quite so easy to go to the social, cap in hand, then. I had to work and I had to go somewhere I could take Charlie with me. Needs must, Constable.’

She paused and pointed a fat finger at Angie. ‘You should be glad the world has changed. If it hadn’t you wouldn’t be sitting there in your nice suit calling the shots. You would have been chained to the sink with a load of snotty-nosed kids around your ankles too, just like all the other women I knew back then, so don’t judge me, lady. I wasn’t too proud to earn my own living even if it was cleaning up someone else’s muck. At least I wasn’t raking through it like you lot do!’

Angie was taken aback by the level of venom in Delia’s tone, but Ratcliffe was unfazed by the attack. He liked to think of himself as thick-skinned, like a suit-wearing rhino – give her time and Angie would be the same. She had potential. He wouldn’t have given her the time of day if she didn’t. He’d spent his career hearing bullshit from the likes of Delia Jones and he could take it. He had a decent brain on him. Wasn’t exactly a people person but got the job done through determination and stoic patience.

Ignoring Delia’s defensiveness, he ploughed in. ‘You may have read that there was a second body found, a baby. Can you tell us anything about that?’ he said, not looking at Delia but studying her crowded mantelpiece instead. A photograph had caught his attention. A pretty, dark-eyed girl smiled out at him from the confines of a cheap silver frame. She looked familiar.

Delia saw where his gaze fell. ‘Well, you’re not going to get an answer by looking up there, are you? Sit down for God’s sake. You take up too much space,’ she said irritably, watching with grim amusement as he perched his big frame on the edge of another fat chair. ‘I don’t know anything about a baby, but I wouldn’t put anything past that family. They liked their secrets,’ she added enigmatically.

‘What secrets?’ Angie wanted to know.

‘Well if I knew that, they wouldn’t be secrets would they?’ Delia countered with a satisfied smile. ‘Look, I walked out of there the day Patsy died, and I never looked back. I don’t know anything about what you found there and I’ve had no contact with any of them since. I can’t help you.’

Ratcliffe glanced back up at the photo. ‘What about Rachel? Did you have contact with her?’

Delia shrugged. ‘For a while. Couldn’t help her family could she? Anyway, I haven’t seen her for getting on for twenty years. She moved away, cut herself off. Didn’t even go to the funeral.’

‘Did you go to the funeral?’ Angie asked.

Delia pursed her lips. ‘I did. Wanted to make sure the old cow really was dead.’

Ignoring this comment, Ratcliffe pressed on, ‘Why didn’t Rachel go? It was her mother after all.’

Delia looked away from him. Her eyes flicked rapidly from side to side before she answered, ‘They fell out. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but I think it was over money. Valerie’s sister-in-law died; left the lot to Rachel, which was when she buggered off to London. Rachel lives in Lila’s old flat now as far as I know. Look, they were a weird lot. Stella wouldn’t say boo to a goose, Frances was so far up her own backside she thought her shit didn’t stink, and Valerie wasn’t much better. She made Maggie Thatcher look like a pussycat. I just worked there. A long time ago.’

Ratcliffe sighed. This was going nowhere. ‘Is there anyone else you can think of who might have known the family?’

Delia shrugged again. ‘Not likely – they weren’t exactly the kind that had friends. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where Stella is.’

***

Ratcliffe had called it quits. They were getting nowhere fast with Delia Jones but they both knew that she was holding back. He could see her now, staring at them through her net curtains as they climbed into the car. Angie rammed the key into the ignition and said, ‘Well, she was like a breath of rotten air eh? What now, boss?’

He gazed out of the windscreen, looking at nothing in particular, while she waited for him to answer. She had fast-tracked through the force on a degree programme that meant quick promotion and instant status, but if he was honest, she was a bit out of her depth sometimes, especially around blokes like him. Older male coppers intimidated her. The only way she had learnt to deal with it was to refine a cool, detached persona that she hoped others saw as enigmatic and intelligent and pepper it with the odd bit of edgy humour.

The truth was, she was confused and often struggled to find a way forward, especially in cases like these. Everything she had learned in college flew out of the window when she was faced with someone like Delia Jones. The theory was there, she knew what she was supposed to achieve, but she just hadn’t developed the knack of engaging reluctant witnesses.

Ratcliffe just plugged away at them like an unstoppable force – he just didn’t go away until they gave in. ‘We’ll talk to Charlie Jones, then go back and see his mummy – until one of them gives us what they know. But first we go to the hospital and visit Frances.’

Chapter 5

The first thing Rachel saw when she woke was Charlie sitting on a chair, feet up on the dressing table watching the TV with the sound off. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched him and tried to accommodate her shame and confusion. The aftermath of a fit was always the same: severe exhaustion and a strange sensation of derealisation. She couldn’t remember much of what had happened – other than she had been in a café and Charlie had walked in.

Slowly she realised that she was back in her hotel room, in bed, stripped down to just her bra, pants, and T-shirt. Charlie must have found her key, brought her back and undressed her. The thought made her wince with more shame, and the wincing made her hurt. Her mouth was sore as hell and she could taste the slight tang of blood where she had bitten her cheek during the fit.

‘Feeling better?’ Charlie asked.

Rachel hadn’t noticed that he was looking at her. ‘Thirsty,’ she croaked.

Charlie pointed to a glass of water standing ready on the bedside table and watched her as she took a long gulp. ‘How’s your mouth?’

It was raw, causing her to wince again. ‘Painful,’ she said flopping back against the pillows, unable to make her mind grasp the surreal situation. She felt like a damp sock. ‘Why are you here?’

Charlie didn’t say anything. Instead, he took the glass and walked into the bathroom to refill it.

By the time he came back into the bedroom, Rachel had gathered herself together and realised that she’d been pretty rude to the man who’d helped her. Though she could argue that he’d triggered the fit by turning up out of the blue and scaring her shitless. But then she’d turned up on him out of the blue too.

‘Thanks for helping me, but you didn’t need to stay,’ she said.

Charlie didn’t speak, just sat back in the chair regarding her with an inscrutable look on his face.

Rachel was at a loss; it was as if she’d been placed under a microscope and had been found to be vulnerable and stupid. She’d never been able to stand pointed silences and fought to fill the gap. ‘How are you?’ she asked, immediately feeling idiotic.

Charlie gave a wry laugh and glanced heavenward before turning his gaze back to her and stating coolly, ‘Old, tired, bitter. Some things don’t change, Rachel.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say, directing the apology towards the room. It would have been impossible to look him in the eye and say it.

Charlie was silent for a moment. ‘That was a bad fit.’

Rachel watched as he stood and turned towards the window to stare out onto the street below. Anything other than have to show his face to her, even though the ice had been shattered rather than broken. ‘They’re not usually that bad, not these days. But you know how it is, they’re stress-related. What with everything that happened yesterday and then seeing you, well …’ She trailed off.

He’d turned back to face her. His jaw was twitching, the way it did when he was angry, tense and upset. It had always unnerved her.

‘So Roy got killed and stuffed in a box in the shed. What about the other one, Rachel? Has your family found an even more effective way of disposing of their unwanted children? Rather than just abandon them without a word, kill them off and hide the bodies? Gruesome but efficient I must say,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

Rachel had been bracing herself for this from the minute she saw him walk through the café door. She had spent nearly half her life avoiding this moment because there was no way – no possible way – that she could tell him the truth of why she’d left him.

She was saved from making any kind of response by the sound of a single, loud rap on the door.

***

Ratcliffe had drawn a blank with Frances. The bang on the head had turned out to be worse than expected and she was still in hospital. She had been placed into a medically induced coma while the doctors waited for the haematoma that was pressing on her brain to subside. They had no clear idea of when she would regain consciousness so Ratcliffe had decided to question Rachel again during the wait.

His boss, DI Benton, had conveniently extracted herself from the case leaving him, Angie, and a few others to rake over the ashes of this bizarre and soulless case. No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren’t talking. His instinct told him there were hidden agendas, evidenced by the fact that no one cared about the two desiccated bodies that had given him some distinctly disturbing dreams the previous night. No matter how many years’ policing he had under his belt, there were some things it was impossible to un-see. The tiny, wizened body of the baby would haunt him for ever.

Despite Frances’s predicament, he had managed to speak to her husband, Peter Haines, a supercilious man in Ratcliffe’s opinion. He had been far more concerned with the fact that his good name would be brought into question by the case than he had been about either his injured wife or the fact that two bodies had turned up at her former home. Ratcliffe had instinctively disliked the man and looked forward to dragging him into the station to make his statement in due course. In the meantime, some gaps needed filling in.

He hadn’t bargained that Rachel would have company so he was completely wrong-footed when a man opened the door. So much so that it took him a moment or two to realise that Rachel’s visitor was none other than Charlie Jones.

‘Well well well,’ he said, pulling out his warrant card and pushing it under Charlie’s nose. As if Charlie didn’t know exactly who he was already. ‘It’s not often we get to kill two birds with one stone.’

The fact that Rachel Porter was sitting up in bed half-dressed and Jones was looking decidedly shifty told him that whatever had been happening in that room wasn’t something that they would want to share. For some strange reason, the sight of her like that, dishevelled, half-naked, irked him more than it should.

‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr Jones. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?’

Charlie patiently explained that he had bumped into Rachel that morning, that she had had another fit and that he’d helped her get back to the hotel. It was as simple as that.

Ratcliffe wasn’t buying it.

He glanced at Rachel, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as if she was auditioning for the part of Bambi. ‘Really? As simple as that? I didn’t have you down as the Good Samaritan type, Mr Jones,’ he said, his gaze settling once again on the woman in the bed. The fact that Rachel’s mouth was swollen bothered him, but he wasn’t there to talk about that. ‘We’ve been to see your sister, Rachel. She’s not well, not at all.’

If he’d expected a torrent of concern to flow from Rachel’s mouth he would have been disappointed. Her reaction was to ask what was wrong, nod her head, and reassure him that Frances would no doubt survive the ordeal. ‘Frances is tough,’ Rachel said sagely.

What was it with these people?

Ratcliffe leaned on the edge of the dressing table opposite the bed, forcing Rachel to edge away from him and pull the covers up to her chin. ‘Rachel, I need to ask you some questions about Stella, but as you’re currently … indisposed, perhaps you’d like me to give you a few minutes to get dressed?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ she said with a blush and a look that encompassed Charlie too. Ratcliffe hadn’t forgotten him; he was just biding his time to see what would come out of this bizarre situation.

Both men stepped outside the room and Ratcliffe heard the lock on the door click into place in their wake. Rachel was taking no chances and he couldn’t blame her.

‘I should go,’ Charlie said, discomfort rolling off him in waves judging by the way his jaw was twitching and the fact that he was clenching and unclenching his hands. Ratcliffe was curious – it came across as a big reaction for a Good Samaritan.

‘Might as well stay. I’d like to talk to you too – so no reason we can’t kill two birds with one stone, for now …’

Charlie stared at him, tension locking his features into a mask of what looked like impatience. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

Ratcliffe put his hand up in a gesture of peace. ‘It’s just a chat, nothing formal. Not yet. I wouldn’t be here on my own if that was the case.’

His words didn’t do anything to alter the other man’s demeanour.

Ratcliffe heard the lock click back. Rachel was dressed and standing pensive, but with the door wide open.

***

‘Tell me about Stella – what’s she like?’

Rachel looked from Ratcliffe to Charlie, taking her time in constructing a suitable answer. ‘Stella is quiet, nondescript and timid really. She cared for my mother after her stroke, which wasn’t an easy task. The fact that she’s gone surprises me. She loved The Limes. I didn’t think she would ever leave. I don’t know what to tell you really. She might have changed. I’m not sure I would know her at all any more.’

‘You said “my mother” – that’s an odd thing to say. What do you mean?’ The distinction in her words had sprung out at him.

Rachel sighed. ‘Stella is my half-sister. She’s Valerie, my mother’s, stepchild. Stella’s mother died when she was young. Our father married Mother when Stella was twelve. She had Frances already and I came later. The Limes was her birth mother’s family home, so Stella always had more of a connection to it than the rest of us I suppose. I think she felt it was more hers than ours. Our father inherited it when his first wife died and Mother got it after he went.’

‘So Frances is a half-sister too?’ Ratcliffe asked. Rachel nodded, her face tense. He guessed that Frances might be a sore subject. ‘What happened to your father?’

‘I never knew him. He died when I was a baby. We didn’t talk about him. Mother wouldn’t and Stella wasn’t allowed to. The past was always the past with Mother.’

Ratcliffe turned to Charlie. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘Before my time – never knew him. My mum mentioned him from time to time. She didn’t think much of him.’

Having met Delia Jones, Ratcliffe wasn’t surprised at this. Other than her own son, Delia didn’t seem to have a high opinion of anyone. He turned back to Rachel. ‘Have you managed to remember anything about where Stella might have gone – friends or relatives she may have decided to visit?’ he asked.

Rachel shook her head. ‘There are no relatives, and no friends. Stella is a shy person so she never had friends. Our mother didn’t encourage friends. But I’ve not seen them for a long time – maybe that changed.’

Despite his questions Ratcliffe knew more about the family than he was choosing to let on. Angie had done some homework on them. ‘What about the shop? Didn’t Stella work in the family business? Might she have met people there?’ The Porters had owned a haberdashery, closed for years now, but Stella had worked there.

‘I really don’t know. I think the shop closed when our mother got ill. I haven’t seen them for so long, I don’t know. I’m sorry but I’m really not much help.’

He turned to Charlie. ‘What about you, Mr Jones? You knew her – where do you think she might have gone?’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I haven’t set eyes on her for thirty years. Neither did I want to. Sorry, Rach, but you know it’s true.’ Ratcliffe knew it was true too. The last time Charlie Jones had clapped eyes on Stella Baxter was the day she had given evidence against him in court.

He sighed. Why the hell did none of these people know anything? ‘Rachel, do you have a photograph of her?’