Conflicted Innocence (13 page)

“It must have been a shock for you,” I said. “Finding him like that.”

“I couldn’t believe it—seeing him floating just underneath the water—his head to the side, his eyes open wide staring at nothing. I saw that image every night for years. Still do sometimes.”

I glanced down at Grace who was out for the count, her little lips pouting, and my heart contracted. “Look at her. I guess the swings are out of the question after all,” I said, turning towards home. “I can’t begin to imagine what you went through. Lydia must also replay it over and over in her mind.”

“That was the last time I saw her until this week—sat on the tiles, trying to kiss the life back into her baby.”

“How come you didn’t see her again? Was she locked up right away?”

“I was too traumatised. Mum insisted I stay away and she kept the trial from me, too. Once Lydia was sent down, we moved to Leeds to stay with my Auntie Carol because Mum’s illness took a turn for the worse.”

“Yeah, Lydia told me about your mum. I’m sorry about that. My mum died last year too.” We stopped outside the gate. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Have you got anything stronger? I’m not allowed to drink next door.” Candice nodded towards Lydia’s house.

“I’m sure we will find something. I can’t have too many, though. I need to look after Missie-moo.”

Once inside, I left Grace and the pushchair in the hallway, and led Candice through to the kitchen. “Here we go,” I said, finding a bottle of white wine in the fridge.

“Woohoo!” Candice clapped her hands in glee.

I laughed. “It’s not been that long. You’ve only been here a few days.”

“It wouldn’t normally bother me but it’s just the fact that I can’t have one even if I wanted to. It’s doing my head in.”

I poured two glasses and sat down across from Candice at the dining table.

“So how are things between you and Lydia now?”

“A little strained at first after the initial excitement, but I think in her mind I was still a snotty-nosed prepubescent kid.”

“Funny how that happens, eh?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all.”

“The day Joey died, where
was
Lydia?”

“In bed.”

“So she just put him in the bath and forgot about him? I’m sorry but I’ve been dying to ask, and I can’t imagine doing something like that myself.”

Candice shrugged. “I guess so. All I remember is coming around for her to walk me to school. I let myself in the back door, not wanting to knock in case Joey was asleep and when I couldn’t find anyone, I went upstairs thinking Lydia must be bathing the baby and...” She shrugged.

“How shocking.”

“Lydia came out of the bedroom when she heard my cries. When she saw him, she almost screamed the place down.”

I shuddered, relieved when my phone began to vibrate. “It’s James,” I said to Candice, as I hit the call button. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe. Just checking in on you. How was Grace when you picked her up?”

“Shattered. She zonked out straight away and is still out for the count. How’s Lee?”

“Coping. Just. Phillip’s here with him but they are trying to say Lee knew the dead girl.”

“Why? That’s rubbish.”

“I know, but apparently she had one of his pubic hairs on her person.”

I gasped. Candice leaned forward, trying to make eye contact with me, so I would tell her what’s going on.

“But she had also been sleeping in his bed so Phillip is arguing she probably got it from the mattress.”

“Phew! I panicked then.”

“So did Lee at first. Imagine getting stitched up for something you didn’t do, like that.”

“It’s bad enough to be charged for killing the scumbag who broke into his house. Why can’t they leave the poor bugger alone?”

“I’ll call you back when I know more. Will you let Lydia know?”

“Of course I will.”

“What’s happened?” Candice asked as soon as I hung up.

“They’re trying to say Lee knew the dead girl because she had one of his public hairs on her body.”

“For fuck’s—”

“Hang on, let me finish. She had been sleeping in his bed so it’s all just circumstantial. They’ll no doubt give up once they realise they can’t pin it on him.”

“Let’s bloody hope so. This is the last thing Lydia needs right now.”

“Shall we go and tell her?”

“Hang on.” Candice necked the last of her wine and quickly poured another. “What? I’ve got a long, boring night ahead of me watching crap TV.”

I laughed, shaking my head.

Grace began gurgling, and I unfastened her from the pushchair on my way to the front door. “Come on Missie-moo. Let’s go and see Auntie Lyddie.”

Chapter 23

A pain suddenly gripped Lydia, in the pit of her stomach, as she watched Candice and Geraldine head off up the street to collect Grace.

She wanted to be able to waltz off chatting away without a care in the world, to be able to do something normal for a change, but she just couldn’t. Not around there where everybody knew what she’d done.

When she went out with Lee the other day, she felt so free. Nobody to give her snide glances or point the finger—she could be herself. But the thought of going out onto their own street made her physically sick.

She was blessed with the people in her life. She didn’t deserve them, she knew that.

Geri seemed to understand, and couldn’t be more accepting of her if she tried. But her sister was the opposite and couldn’t see why Lydia wasn’t ready to face the world yet.

She loved having Candy back in her life even though it seemed strange. In her mind, Candy was still a little girl, not this larger than life, opinionated young woman.

And that left Lee. They’d waited so long to finally be a couple again, only to be struck down on the very day of her release from prison with a situation that threatened to jeopardise their future. She must be jinxed—had to be. What other explanation was there?

Most women would jump in the car and race to the police station to be at their husband’s side, but no way on this earth could she force herself to do that. The thought of setting foot inside a police station ever again put her teeth on edge.

Pulling up the sleeve of her long sleeved Tee, she scraped her fingernail along the almost-healed wound that ran along the underside of her lower arm from elbow to wrist.

She winced as she dug a little deep and then sighed as the pain turned to relief.

Lydia waited at the window, only moving from view once she spotted the girls on their way back. She let out a loud sigh when, instead of coming in, Candy accompanied Geri next door.

Feeling a hot stickiness drip onto her bare foot, Lydia looked down, she was startled to see the gash bleeding—a lot.

She hurriedly pulled the sleeve down and wrapped her arm tightly in the fabric as she rushed to the bathroom, where she applied a dressing to stop the flow of blood. Then, screwing the shirt into a ball, she threw it into the laundry basket, and headed to the bedroom to change.

Back downstairs, she paused on her way to the kettle, placing her hand on the cupboard door that used to house umpteen bottles of spirits. She knew it was empty nowadays yet still something compelled her to check. She’d gone six years without a single drop. It hadn’t even bothered her. Of course, there were moments she could have drunk herself silly in order to forget, but she managed without.

Darting a glance inside the still empty cupboard, she sighed, slammed the door and grabbed the kettle. Lee wouldn’t stock the cupboard up, and short of a bunch of kind-hearted elves breaking in and replenishing the stocks, nobody else would either. But even so, she knew she would look again tomorrow. For some unknown reason, alcohol was all she could think about as soon as she was alone.

A short time later, Candice returned with Geri and Grace in tow, chattering as though they were the best of friends.

Lydia felt another twinge of jealousy when she saw them together. Geraldine was supposed to be her friend, yet seemed to get on better with her little sister.

“Hey guys, I’ve just put the jug on, do you fancy a cuppa?” Lydia asked, trying to make her voice sound as upbeat as theirs.

“There’s nothing stronger, Geri. You’ll have to make do with a strong coffee if you want something with a kick,” Candice said, bitchily.

“Coffee’s perfect,” Geri said, winking at Lydia.

“I’m not stopping you from drinking, Candice, if that’s what you’re insinuating!” Lydia snapped.

“There’s nothing in, and Lee warned me not to mention alcohol around you. I know you had a problem with it before you... you know.”

“I may or may not have a problem with alcohol, as you so kindly put it but, to be honest, that shouldn’t affect you.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind if I get a couple of bottles of wine, then?”

“Hold on, Candy,” Geraldine piped up. “I think you’d better wait until you mention it to Lee before bringing anything into his house, especially if he’s already asked you not to.” She bounced her irritable daughter on her hip.

Lydia felt a sudden pang of annoyance mixed with gratitude for Geraldine’s interference, which confirmed to her she must indeed still have a problem. If Candice brought alcohol into the house, Lydia would steal it the first chance she got.

Geraldine plonked Grace on the white woollen rug in front of the fireplace and handed the baby her keys.

“James called, Lydia,” she said as she settled on her knees beside the baby.

Lydia gasped when she saw the expression on Geraldine’s face. “Oh, no! What now? Did they charge him?”

“Not yet. He’s still being questioned. Apparently they are trying to say he knew the dead girl as one of his hairs was on her body.”

“What?” Lydia shook her head in confusion.

“One of his
pubic
hairs,” Candice couldn’t wait to add.

Geraldine scowled at Candice before continuing. “But his lawyer said they’re just grasping at straws as the girl had slept in Lee’s bed, so of course she would have traces of his DNA on her person.

Lydia exhaled in a long, controlled blow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. He said he’ll call back as soon as he has any more news.”

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Lydia asked. “I took three steaks out of the freezer, and it looks as though Lee won’t be joining us.”

“That would be lovely. I’m not as organised as you, I’m afraid, but I do have Grace’s dinner all sorted. I’ll go and grab her bag and my phone, if you don’t mind?” She nodded at Grace who was still gnawing at the keys. The front of her pretty pink top was sodden.

“No, of course I don’t mind. She’ll be fine with me, won’t you, Gracie?” Lydia swapped places with Geraldine on her knees.

*

Halfway through preparing the meal, Candice made an excuse about rushing to the shop for something or other.

“I bet she’s gone for booze,” Lydia said.

“It’s your house, Lydia. Put your foot down!”

“I’m just being selfish, though.”

“You are not! She’s the selfish one.”

“She’s always been self-centred. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.”

“She’s young—she’ll grow out of it. But in the meantime, if you don’t want her drinking under your roof, then put your foot down.”

“I will,” Lydia said, suddenly choked up and grateful for Geri’s support once again.

Candice arrived home and headed straight to her room, a defiant expression on her face. She came down briefly to eat her meal and then left again.

As Geraldine got up to leave, her phone rang.

“It’s James,” she said, before answering.

Lydia could hardly control herself as she watched the other woman receiving the news of Lee’s fate before her.

“Okay, I’ll tell her. I’m here now.” Moments later she hung up.

Lydia wrung her sweaty hands together as she waited.

“They’ve charged him with the man’s murder. Not the woman. James said he’s certain the sentence will be reduced to manslaughter. He said to tell you not to worry—this is the best outcome we could have hoped for.”

Lydia nodded. The niggling voice returned in her head telling her it was all her fault, because of what she did to her son. The powers that be were determined to make her suffer. But she couldn’t blurt out her thoughts—she may be mad, but not
that
mad.

Chapter 24

“How is he? I asked, as James slid in bed beside me.

“Relieved they’ve finally charged him. I think.”

I snuggled into his chest. “Poor Lee. It’s so unfair.”

James sighed.

“What? What’s on your mind?” I glanced up at his troubled face.

“He’s hiding something. I know it and so does the detective.”

“You’re not still on about that, are you?”

“I can’t help it. I want to support him, but he just shuts me down whenever I mention it.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“We grabbed a burger on the way home. Anyway, I told Lee we wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Fancy a trip to Stoke-on-Trent?”

“That soon?”

“No time like the present, unless you rather I go alone?”

“Not on your Nelly, Mister. I’m coming too.”

*

“So what do you intend to do?” I asked James, as we turned into the private estate in Stoke-on-Trent. “Just knock on the door and ask about her murdered husband?”

“Pretty much. People are usually more than happy to talk, especially if the crime is still unsolved. They can’t wait to tell you what a bad job the police did and how much they failed them.”

“I never thought of it like that. But, yeah—if someone murdered you, I would chew anybody’s ear off in order to get a result.”

“Exactly. What number did you say it was, again?” he asked, as he slowed the Jeep to a crawl.

“Fifty-four. It’s that one there with the green gate.”

“You ready?” He put the vehicle in park, pulled the handbrake and then placed his hand on the door handle, looking at me questioningly.

The butterflies in my stomach felt as though they were wearing hobnail boots. I nodded and took a deep bracing breath before stepping from the car.

Number fifty-four was extremely tidy compared to a lot of other identical houses on the street. The occupants were clearly house-proud. A neatly trimmed box-privet hedge grew behind low brick walls on either side of the gate. The top floor of the house had been rendered and painted white and the brick downstairs had a pretty arched lace curtain in the bay window. I admired the beautiful flowers bordering the immaculate garden that put our feeble attempts at gardening to shame.

I gripped James’ arm and followed close behind him as he sauntered up the path.

The door swung inwards within seconds of James’ knock. An elderly man with thinning, fine and neatly trimmed grey hair seemed surprised to see us. He tucked in his blue shirt, and pulled up his high-waisted tweed trousers, in an attempt to make himself presentable.

“Oh, hello. Sorry, I was expecting the nurse,” he said, his face cracking into a cheeky smile. His broad Mancunian accent had a grandad quality to it, making me warm to him instantly.

I smiled.

“I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time, sir?” James said.

“Not at all. She comes every few days to dress my leg ulcer. Getting old is not for the faint-hearted, lad. What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for Mrs Monica Turpin.”

“Our Monn? What would you want with our Monn?”

“I’m a writer—you may have heard of me. I write as Aaron Clark.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, Mr Clark. But I still don’t get what that has to do with our Monica.” His once friendly eyes had narrowed and taken on a wary expression.

“My current book is dedicated to little known, unsolved murders, and Monica’s first husband, Damien Faber, is one of the subjects.”

“I don’t know what you expect to find out from Monica. She was kept in the dark. The bloody police were nigh on useless.” He began a full-on tirade about the police and crime in the area, and the way the younger generation have little or no respect.

James let the man vent his anger, nodding in agreement every so often.

“I understand that, sir. And I’m sorry to have brought up some obviously distressing memories for you. But there was very little recorded back then, and we can only find a limited amount of information. I thought Mrs Fabe—I mean, Mrs Turpin, or anybody else who happened to be around at the time, may be able to fill in a couple of blanks.”

“She’s not here. She’s in a nursing home and can’t remember what happened five minutes ago never mind fifty-odd years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Are you her husband, Mr Turpin?”

“Aye, lad. That’s right.” He held his hand out for James to shake.

“I’m James, James Dunn, and this is my partner, Geraldine.”

The man took my hand and smiled, his kind eyes twinkling once again. “Nice to meet you, lass.”

A small bright green car pulled up behind the Jeep. A middle-aged woman dressed in blue, and carrying a black bag, got out and approached the three of us.

“Here she is,” Mr Turpin said. “And how are you today, Lisa?”

“Good morning, Harold. I’m parched. I hope you’ve got that kettle on.” She grinned.

“Don’t I always—and a pack of your favourite bickies at the ready.” He turned back to us. “I’m sorry. I’d invite you in, but you won’t want to see what she has in store for me, I promise you. Sorry I couldn’t be of any help.”

“That’s fine. Thanks anyway,” James said.

“This man’s an author, Lisa. Writes real books and all. Have you heard of him? James Dunn.”

“Actually, I write under a pen name—Aaron Clark.”

“How exciting,” Lisa gushed. “I’ve never met a real life author before.”

James laughed and backed up, his arm around my shoulder. “We’ll leave you to it. Thanks again, Mr Turpin.”

Once we were back in the car, I turned to James. “I knew we should have called—all this way for nothing.”

“Don’t be such a defeatist.” James grinned. Taking out his phone he began trawling the internet. “Bingo!” he said.

“What?”

“There’s a nursing home with a dementia unit not far from here. What’s the betting that’s where we’ll find our Mrs Turpin?”

“You can’t just...”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Dunno really. It just seems rude.”

“Doing this kind of job makes you develop a thicker skin. Nobody will offer an interview if they’re getting nothing out of it, so you learn to be cunning and one step ahead of people. Oh, and never take any one person’s account of anything as gospel. In my experience every single person will embellish a story in some way or other to suit themselves.”

Ten minutes later we pulled up outside Nimping Nursing Home, a lavish brick building in Little Nimping, a quaint village on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent.

The building was surrounded by an iron fence, and the gates swung open as the Jeep approached. Once we’d parked up, we headed through another pedestrian security gate and strolled along the path to the main entrance.

A man with crinkly, kind eyes who appeared to be in his late thirties, with sandy-coloured close-cropped hair and a beard, sat behind the reception desk.

“Good morning. Welcome to Nimping. How may I help you?”

James cleared his throat. “Hi, we’re not expected—we were just passing, but I think my aunt is a resident here. Monica Turpin?”

“Ah, yes. I bumped into her in the lounge a few minutes ago. If you’ll just sign in then I’ll take you through. I’m Charlie—Charlie Fenton.” He shook James’ hand before indicating the day book.

Once James had filled in our details, Charlie led us down a plush carpeted hallway with soft lighting and ornately framed artwork.

The nursing home in Cumbria, where my nan lived, looked tired in comparison.

As we neared the highly painted, white French doors, Charlie turned to us. “Now, when did you last see your aunt?” he asked.

“Oh, gosh. Years ago,” James lied.

“You are aware she has dementia, aren’t you?”

“I was told, yes. She might not remember me, is that what you’re getting at?”

Charlie nodded. “I’m afraid so. She often has lucid moments but, on the whole, she’s confused. Don’t be alarmed.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Charlie pushed open the swing door, leading us through to a large, bright and airy lounge. Several clusters of armchairs sat about the room. In the few occupied chairs, the residents all had the same, zoned-out expression on their faces.

We approached a woman wearing a lemon-coloured top and pale blue cotton trousers. Her hair was brushed back off her face and hung limp and uncared for. I imagined, considering the quality of her clothing, that she would have had weekly visits to the hairdresser for a shampoo and set not many moons ago. She sat beside a large picture window which overlooked the pond and water feature in the centre of manicured gardens.

“We have a surprise for you today, Monica,” Charlie said in a raised voice.

Is she deaf? I wondered.

The woman didn’t acknowledge us.

“It’s your nephew. He’s come a long way to see you, so don’t be shy,” he said, again his words seeming to fall on deaf ears. He turned back to us. “Can I get you a cuppa?”

“That would be lovely, thanks,” James said, sitting in a chair beside Monica. With a flick of his head, he gestured I do the same. I took the chair on the other side of Monica.

“Hi, Auntie Monica,” James said as Charlie walked away.

“The bees are dying off,” Monica said in a flat tone.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“The bees. They are dying and then we will all die.” She nodded out of the window.

“Oh yeah. I heard something about that,” I said.

Monica suddenly turned to face me with a wary expression on her face, then she smiled. “Do you like gardening?” she asked.

“I do, but I’m not very good at it—not like you. I’ve just been to see your beautiful garden. You are very talented.” I had no clue if she was the talented gardener, but I didn’t think it would hurt to say.

“Petunias.”

“Sorry?” I said, glancing at James, unsure if she had just sworn at me.

“Petunias are my favourite flower. Do you know there are lots of different species of petunias?”

“No. I didn’t know that. Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?”

She quickly scrutinized me again. “Do I know you?”

I shook my head. “No. We wanted to talk to you about Damien.”

“Who?”

“Damien Faber—your first husband.”

“Oh, him.”

I flashed a look at James who nodded for me to continue.”

“Yes. We wondered if you could tell us what happened all those years ago. If you have any theory or clue as to what happened to him.”

“I know what happened to him.” She held her hand up, making her fingers resemble a gun. “Pow!” she said.

“Sorry. Yes, I know he was shot. I mean...” I glanced at James for assistance. “I’m not doing very well here.”

James nodded at me once again.

I cleared my throat. “It must have been a shock for you—to be left alone like that, with two little kiddies.”

She shrugged. “Better off without him—lazy good-for-nothing.”

“Really?”

“Do I know you?”

Charlie suddenly appeared with a tray. “Here you go, peoples. A nice pot of rosy-lee.”

James got up and took the tea tray off him, then placed it on the coffee table between us. “Do you want tea, Auntie Mon?” he asked for Charlie’s benefit.

“Do I know you?” she asked, a worried expression on her face.

Charlie smiled and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Give me a shout if you need anything,” he said, and then he was gone.

My heart was in my mouth. I felt bad for using her illness against her. James motioned for me to continue.

“So. Where were we?” I asked, aware of a slight quiver to my voice.

James placed a cup and saucer in front of Monica.

“Thanks Jimmy. You’re a good lad.”

Shocked, I glanced at James who shrugged.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart.” She laughed. “You always were a flirt—just like your dad. I’m just so pleased you didn’t turn out like him in other ways.”

“Who was his dad?” I asked, confused.

“You know. Damien,” she said.

It suddenly clicked. She thought James was her son. I could tell he understood too, from the expression on his face.

“Can you tell me what happened to Dad?” he asked.

She frowned, her lips suddenly tight. “Do I know you?”

“It’s me—Jimmy.”

“My Jimmy?” She leaned forward and reached her hand out to him.

James nodded and took her frail hand in his.

“Don’t let him know you’re here. You know what he’s like,” she hissed, glancing around as though suddenly terrified.

“Who?”

“Worst thing I ever did was marry him. He was far worse than your real dad—all sweetness and light on the surface. But I don’t need to tell you, do I, son?”

My stomach twirled. Could she possibly be talking about the kind old man we’d just met?