Chain Reaction (34 page)

He is almost expecting it when he hears the next knock. It’s probably more of the local carrion circling Joyvern for gossip, and he’s half-relieved that it’s all coming now so he can get it over and done with. He’d rather be talking to someone, rather be acting than sitting here musing alone and allowing his terrible thoughts to come through. How will he live the next thirty years without Joy, without a home he can call his own, without a career? His children have their own lives to get on with, they won’t want to be bothered with him. Will he end up as one of those sad men on a bar stool, there waiting for the pub to open and still there when they shout Time? Walking the streets alone at night, unable to sleep and with no one to talk to? Living his life in a mean bedsit lit by the blue light of perpetual television.

Oh Joy oh Joy, let this be a dream. Come back,
come back and forgive me!

It is a stranger. A lad with a bike parked at the gate beside the colourful mail box, painted a flamboyant purple by Joy last summer, before they knew they would have to move.

‘Can I help you?’ Vernon stutters, impatient to close the door on anything or anyone so unimportant in the vast scheme of his life today.

‘I think you might be able to,’ says the good-looking lad, who is tired round the eyes, weary, with messy fair hair, his arms burnt bright red by the sun. The boy’s expression is embarrassed, strangely verging on fear. ‘I came to look at the house which my family have just bought—we’re the Middletons, from Preston—but I saw you talking to a woman a few moments ago and recognised you from somewhere else. So then I decided I’d better call in to see what else you and I have in common.’

What’s this? Vernon can hardly be bothered to concentrate, but he doesn’t like the youth’s accusing tone of voice or the vague implications. ‘In common?’

‘If you let me come in I can put you in the picture and then we can decide between us exactly what you are going to do.’

T
HE SHOCK OF IT
nearly finished him. Jody Middleton, once so spoilt and cherished, a child brought up on uncritical tenderness, the apple of his parents’ eyes, could not believe his own. There he was, in all innocence, loitering to pass the time, spurred on by a harmless interest to see his new house, when lo and behold the monster appeared before him, the same sinister guy he had watched from the cottage bedroom only this morning dropping the body down the well. An ordinary, worried-looking, overweight, half-bald monster in shirtsleeves and glasses standing chatting, relaxed as you like at his own front door. And this is the house his family have bought.
This cannot be true.

‘You’d better come in,’ says the fat guy, sweating profusely and that can’t all be due to the heat.

‘After you,’ says Jody nervously, slipping his rucksack off his shoulders and onto the floor in one easy move. He takes a connoisseur’s interest in all that he sees. Poor Mum. She’ll hate living in this house with its rigid symmetry, its pokey kitchen, its prettified appearance on this estate of aspirations, quite different from their house in the Close which is old and rambling with high ceilings and lots of cupboards. A homely house, thinks Jody wistfully, full of mess and muddle and colour. What made them decide on this one? Weary, he understands just how desperate they must have been.

When they reach the kitchen the man swivels round and there are glints of fright behind his glasses. Jody steps back, equally terrified. He’s dangerous, maybe a ruthless serial killer on the loose and prepared to do it again. The murderer’s hands are shaking. ‘Now I think it’s time you explained to me exactly what you are doing here.’

He is quite safe. No one is looking for him here so Jody decides to jump straight in. ‘I was there, and I saw what you did.’

‘Marsh is my name,’ says Vernon awkwardly. ‘Vernon Marsh. And what do you mean, you were there?’

‘At the cottage when you dumped the body. It was your wife, I suppose. Most murders stay in the family.’ His voice is breaking, he must be firmer, put some authority behind his words. ‘I was hiding in the bedroom.’

Vernon Marsh turns an ashen grey. He is struck almost speechless for a moment before he stutters, ‘Please—sit down.’

Jody knows he must take immediate control of this situation and he wonders if he’ll be up to it. Taking command of an adult is not so easy, nor is being in such close vicinity to someone who could be a vicious killer. Vernon must be made to believe that Jody knows what he’s doing. ‘I wouldn’t mind a glass of milk if you’ve got one in the fridge, Vernon.’ He’s happy to hear that his voice sounds not flippant at all, but threatening.

Vernon, like a great big kid who’s lost his mother, looks up at his visitor in horror.

‘Milk, or a Coke will do. Or lemonade. I don’t really mind which, it’s just that I’m terribly thirsty.’

‘Milk,’ says Vernon, shaking his head, too bewildered to function on anything but the most basic level. ‘We have two pints delivered a day. When Joy left I didn’t cancel it. It’s built up now, I don’t know which are the fresh ones. Joy used to—’

‘Joy was your wife?’

‘Joy used to sometimes make milk puddi—’

‘But she doesn’t make them any more, Vernon, does she?’ Jody sees Vernon’s face drop. He is not a happy man in spite of the fact that, so far, he has got away with his heinous crime. ‘I expect you miss her milk puddings, don’t you?’ Jody himself misses his mother’s. His remark is not meant to be sarcastic but that’s how it sounds. ‘I even liked semolina, if it had lots of jam on.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ quavers Vernon, seemingly unable to move from his chair, a heavy lump of guilty flesh gone to jelly. Something about his cravenness, that defeated look in his dry, aching eyes, reminds Jody of himself. They’re victims, both victims, but this one has brought his fate on himself—unlike Jody, who is innocent. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her.’

‘But you did kill her. Is that what you’re saying?’

Vernon gives a silent dry sob. He sounds so hopeless, so empty as he implores beseechingly, ‘What are you going to do?’

Jody, lean and tense, his hair a dry tangle, a most unlikely judge, strolls nervously round the kitchen, picking up odd bits and pieces, homely items that you miss in jail, inspecting them before putting them down. The curtains are drawn against the sun, it feels better than being exposed to the light. He stares at the row of photographs on the window-sill, the kids, he supposes, and they stare back at him like a cardboard audience in a toy circus he once had. There’s a
Take a Break
magazine on the table. Someone is taking blood-pressure pills; by the look of him it’s probably Vernon. ‘I’m not going to do anything, not because I don’t want to but because, at the moment, my needs are as great as yours. I must have somewhere to stay where I’ll be safe for a while, as well as food and warmth and privacy.’ He looks at Vernon to see how he’s taking it. ‘You’ll have to let me stay here. You don’t have much option when you think about it.’

Vernon rubs a limp hand over his crinkled forehead. ‘There’s no money,’ he says tonelessly, meeting Jody’s direct gaze, ‘if that’s what you’re after. That’s what caused it. Money.
Always money!’

How crushed he looks.

Jody says nothing but opens the fridge door and pours himself a glass of milk. He downs it and pours another. ‘It won’t be for long.’ He’s surprised at his own reaction. He almost pities Vernon, he looks so lonely and pathetic and guilty. ‘You’re moving house soon, aren’t you? You’re probably moving anyway once they discover what you’ve gone and done.’ He stares at Vernon as if he’s a puzzle, trying to understand the man, to fit the complicated pieces together. He doesn’t look like a murderer, doesn’t sound like one either. ‘To kill your own wife, that must really take some doing. You must have hated her for a very long time.’

But Vernon merely wipes his eyes and sighs in desolation.

It’s fate. This refuge will suit Jody very well, just until Mum and Dad move in and then they’ll have to play it by ear although he knows the police won’t think of looking for him here. Mum’s idea to come down south was inspired, but then she could never have dreamed something like this would happen. He’s got Vernon just where he wants him and as long as he keeps his head down Jody’s going to be safe and pretty comfortable for a good long while. Jody’s interest is genuine, though fear and fascination play a large part. Is the man a psychopath, or just somebody driven right to the edge? He needs to know for his own protection, and in spite of Mum’s ministrations his self-inflicted injury is hurting. ‘When did you do it, Vernon? How long ago? And how did you kill your wife?’

‘Please stop,’ begs Vernon with dismay. ‘Please, please leave me alone and go away and stop tormenting me like this.
I loved my wife.
Nothing was further from my mind than killing her. I’ve never touched her before in my life and I’d give anything to bring her back.’

‘So how did it happen? We might as well talk to each other, Vernon, we can’t just sit for hours in silence.’ Does Vernon know what’s in store for him, and does he care? All the vicious publicity, the loss of dignity, the descent into hell. A life sentence. Twenty years. But he looks like the sort who’d be let out for good behaviour, that’s if he didn’t lose his mind first. Jody, uneasy, still wanders round the kitchen looking restless.

Suddenly Vernon is struck by a thought. ‘Listen, you’re hiding from someone, too, I can tell. Well, let me warn you that someone might call here at any time. A neighbour. A friend. They are quite likely to pop in.’

‘Well, don’t show them into the sitting room, it’s all perfectly simple. We keep the sitting-room door closed and you go and meet them in the hall.’

Vernon groans. ‘They’ll think that’s odd.’

‘Never mind. I’m sure you can think of a way to stop them going any further. Just keep in mind that it’s in your interests as well as mine to keep me safe and out of sight because if I’m found I’m bound to tell the police what I know. I
will
tell them, Vernon, and I don’t care what ideas you might have about why I’m hiding or what I’ve done but it’s nothing like murder, Vernon, and I hope you understand that. You must realise that I mean exactly what I say.’

‘I do,’ cries Vernon breathlessly. ‘I won’t let anyone in. Just leave me alone. Please.’

Jody takes off his jacket and tries to relax. The courage of the young. The initial terror and distaste he had of Vernon fades by the minute and he is amazed to find himself feeling more pity than anything else. He almost wants to console the man, to offer him hope, some comfort, and maybe he would if his heart had not been replaced by a cold, empty space. Even in jail Jody rarely saw a man so defeated, so tortured as Vernon.

It’s as if Vernon feels the sympathy; his wits are slowly returning. He looks at Jody properly for the very first time since he arrived. ‘You said you were related to the people who are buying our house?’

‘Yep. Jody Middleton, that’s me.’

‘Why were you camping on the moor?’

‘Because I enjoy the moors.’

‘How come you chose that particular house?’

‘It was the first suitable place I came to. It was ideal, shelter if it rained and a ruined garden, off the beaten track which is what I wanted.’

‘And then you decided you’d come to take a look at this house?’

‘Because one day I am going to be living in it.’

Vernon shudders. ‘And then you recognised me.’

‘It was a shock, I can tell you. It took me some time to believe it.’

‘But why aren’t you contacting the police? Why do you need to do any of this? Why move in here? I don’t understand.’ Such searching questions. And Vernon’s bemused eyes are still fixed on him.

Killer’s eyes?

‘You don’t need to understand. I can’t tell you, I can’t talk about it. I’m just as vulnerable as you in a different kind of way and that’s all you need to know for now.’

But Vernon is still perplexed. ‘My wife never mentioned a son, only two daughters, when the family came round to look and they only came the once. Made up their minds immediately, the agent said. No need to view a second time, that was a relief for Joy.’ This frightened man is rambling now. ‘They didn’t think much of the extension, I think that’s what Joy said. And they wouldn’t use the bar because they never drank. But I’m sure she never mentioned a son.’

‘No,’ says Jody sadly. ‘They wouldn’t mention me.’ How he wishes Mum was here now. He’s fed up of fighting the world on his own. All he wants to do is sleep, quietly and safely in his own bed, with her stroking his forehead and waking him up with a cup of tea. Will that ever happen again after this? Such innocent images yet Jody is forced to check them before he breaks out in tears.

If only they’d talk to Janice Plunket. If only she would tell them the truth. It’s sod’s law, isn’t it? Here he is, on the run from the law, innocent of the charges, and here’s Vernon in his own house getting away with murder.

Vernon scratches his aching head, incapable of clear thought, wrenching himself out of memories. He picks up a cigarette and lights it. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’

Jody nearly laughs out loud. ‘You don’t know. But what does it matter? You can hardly ask for references.’ Is Vernon a psycho? You’re always astonished when the police finally produce their murderer; you can never believe they look so ordinary when they reach the dock. Is his wife his only victim, or has Vernon secretly been at it for years, stashing cadavers down the well? Perhaps his wife was a nag who drove him to it; or two-timing him, or an alcoholic. Vernon looks perfectly harmless. He’s out of condition, not only overweight but breathless and abnormally red in the face. If it came to it, Jody could take him on with ease, but not if he’s got the strength of a madman. Jody wishes he dare ring home and tell them where he is, but he fears the phone in the Close is bugged. No, what Jody needs to do now is thank God for this lucky break, take one day at a time and not think ahead at all. But how is he going to sleep tonight, knowing there’s a murderer on the prowl in the next bedroom? He must remember to lock Vernon’s door as well as his own.