Conflicted Innocence (14 page)

James agreed with Monica.

“Although your real dad was a ladies man—he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“So you think Damien was having an affair?” I asked.

“Gawd no—not that time. He was following me!”

“You! Were you having an affair?”

Her eyes clouded. “Do I know you?” She suddenly snatched her hand away from James and leaned into her chair, putting as much distance between us all as possible.

“It’s me. Your Jimmy.” James tried once more.

“I don’t know you. Help me! Help me!” she screamed.

Charlie and two nurses suddenly appeared.

James and I got to our feet to allow them room to get close to the now hysterical woman.

Moments later, Charlie left the nurses trying to calm Monica and turned to us. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s best if you leave.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” James said, shaking the other man’s hand.

“All in a day’s work, unfortunately. I hope you managed to have some moments of clarity, though. It’s hard on the family when this happens.”

“Yes. Yes, we did thanks. Would it be okay to call in again next time we’re passing?”

“Of course, if this little episode hasn’t put you off. Your friend looks petrified,” he said, nodding towards me.

I laughed, and shook my head. “Do I? No, I’m fine.”

We said our goodbyes and hurried back to the safety of the car.

“I feel sick!” I said, as soon as I slammed the door.

“Why?” James chuckled. “It was a buzz.”

“I felt bad for pretending you were her son—it was cruel.”

James shrugged. “I know, but she won’t remember.”

“It just felt ikky though. I would hate for something like that to happen to my nan.”

“When you put it like that, maybe it was a little cruel. We needed to do it, though, so she would tell us all she knew.”

“I know
why
you did it. I just didn’t like it, that’s all. What do you think about what she said?”

“Well. She’s clearly not in her right mind, but, some of the things she said, I actually believed. I wonder what really happened all those years ago?”

“Exactly. So what now? Home?”

“No way. Did you say Lydia offered to collect Grace if we’re not back in time?”

“Yes. I already put her name on the enrolment form. I need to call them, that’s all.”

“Call Lydia first, and, if she doesn’t mind, we’ll go to Manchester to see if there are any cab drivers who were around back then.”

“This is so exciting.” I grabbed the phone and dialled Lydia’s number.

Chapter 25

Lee pushed his chair back and lifted both feet to the desk, wearily. He felt exhausted and needed to close his eyes, just for a few seconds.

They didn’t get back until well after midnight. If not for his solicitor he doubted he would’ve got back at all. He almost caved in and confessed everything when the detective mentioned the hair. But quick-thinking Phillip played a blinder, and they backtracked before too long.

He didn’t know how long he could keep this facade up. The lies and deceit were taking their toll, causing him to be snappy and off his food. He barely slept a wink without jumping awake in terror. He knew it was just a matter of time before it all came crashing down around him.

He wished, more than anything, that he could tell Lydia the truth. But how could he? She’d been through so much already. And now, when they should be able to try to piece their lives back together, here he was about to be hauled off for murder. Would this nightmare ever end?

Lydia was barely coping as it was. Only that morning she seemed distracted and, after several minutes of persuasion, she finally told him she thought Candice had been in her room all evening, drinking.

He was livid.

With everything that had gone on recently, he would give anything to be able to seek solace in the bottom of a whisky bottle but he resisted, for Lydia.

Candice had been told from the outset that their home was an alcohol-free zone, and he’d be damned if he would allow her to disrespect him or his wife in that way. She still hadn’t surfaced by the time he left for work, but he intended to give her what for later.

***

The taxi company occupied a small corner area of a building in the backstreets of Manchester.

A hefty woman, with bleached-blonde hair and ginger roots, sat behind a grubby desk. Her lips smacked noisily on the biggest wad of chewing gum I’d ever seen.

“You’ll have to wait,” she barked. Her strong accent made it sound more like ‘Yer’ll ‘av ta wayt’.

“Sorry?” James asked, closing the door behind us.

“No cabs for at least half-hour.”

“I don’t want a cab. I’m after a chat.”

The woman visibly bristled. “Are you the filth?” She used her knee to shove the drawer shut beside her.

“If you mean the police then no, I’m an author. I’m currently working on a book about historic crimes in the area, and I would appreciate it if you could point me in the right direction of anybody who may remember Damien Faber.”

“Who?”

“He was a driver here in the sixties.”

“I wasn’t even bloody born then,” she guffawed.

“No, I can tell that,” James flirted. “But, I was hoping there may be somebody still here that was.”

“You could ask Chris. His dad owns the place, although he doesn’t work here anymore—he’s living in sheltered accommodation somewhere towards Didsbury.”

“Where could I find this Chris?”

“Doin’ an airport run. You’d usually find him in the back office playing
Candy Crush
on his lappy, but we’re short staffed today and so he’s had to get his lazy arse out of the chair and do a bit of work for once. Do you wanna cuppa while you wait?”

I glanced around at the grubby kitchenette, taking in the grimy kettle and chipped, mismatched cups, and I shook my head. “Not for me, thanks.”

James also declined and perched on the edge of the windowsill, offering me the only chair.

“So, is business booming, then?” James asked, making small talk.

I almost heaved as she stretched a line of gum from her mouth until it snapped, and then she snaffled it up again slurping on her fingers.

“Nah, not really. It’s just that we had an airport booking, and one of our drivers called in sick.”

“Ah, I see. Don’t let us keep you from your work.” He nodded at the pile of papers on the desk.

“Got nowt to do. Just wait for the phone to ring. I won’t do anything that’s not in me contract. I work me bloody arse off usually, but what thanks do I get—nothing. So what kind of books do you write?”

“True crime.”

“What’s your name?”

“I write as Aaron Clark.”

“Oh, I know you. My old fella used to read your stuff all the time.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Can I get your autograph?”

James nodded and pulled out a pen.

She reopened the drawer and produced an envelope. I craned my neck to see what she’d tried to hide earlier, but she quickly kneed the drawer closed once again.

“Here, this’ll do.” She thrust the envelope towards James.

“What’s the name of the person you want it for?”

“Me! Jeannie Meadows.”

James scribbled on the envelope and slid it back towards Jeannie on the desk.

“Will this be worth anything?”

“I seriously doubt it.” He laughed.

“What’s the point of that then?” She snatched up the envelope and shoved it back in the drawer.

“I’ve got no idea.” James shot a glance at me and rolled his eyes.

Soon after, a tall, stocky, grey-haired man arrived. Dressed in beige slacks and a navy jumper over a grey shirt, he looked out of place in the grubby surroundings.

“Chris—just the man. These people are waiting to speak to you. Don’t worry. They’re not the filth,” Jeannie said.

“Hi Chris. I’m James—James Dunn and this is Geri, my partner.”

We all shook hands.

“You said you were called—”

“Shut up, Jeannie,” Chris said, in the same broad accent. He shook his head impatiently, pushing wire-framed glasses higher up on his nose. “Do you want to follow me?”

He led us through to a room a little bigger than the first, and much cleaner. “Take a seat,” he said.

Once again, James explained what we were doing there.

“Yeah, I remember him. Well, not personally, but I heard a lot about his murder.”

“Jeannie mentioned your dad might have been around back then?”

“Yes. He bought this place off Mufty not long after, I think.”

“Do you suppose your dad would be up to a visit?”

“Don’t see why not. He gets very few visitors these days—he’ll probably talk your socks off, mind.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Hang on,” he said, as he punched in a few numbers.

*

Half an hour later, we pulled into a gated community and soon located number eight.

Alan Hutchins, Chris’s elderly father, greeted us at the door enthusiastically. He was practically bald, with liver spots covering every inch of exposed skin. His face lit up when he smiled, showing a full set of pristine dentures. He led us through to a tiny, cluttered lounge.

“Take a seat. Chris told me to expect you. I must admit, I am surprised to hear you’re investigating Damien’s death after all these years.”

James and I sat next to each other on the floral beige sofa.

“I’m writing a book on little known murders. Damien’s case intrigued me.”

“Well, thank goodness for that! He was a good friend of mine, and I never got over the fact that nobody seemed to really
do
anything about his death.”

“Did you hear any rumours back then?” James asked.

“I did, but they were all hearsay to be honest.”

James shrugged. “But, as a friend, I’d say you would have a good idea what went on in his life. His wife suggested he was a ladies’ man.”

Alan snorted. “Sorry!” he said, his hand covering his mouth. “I heard that too, back then, but it was bullshit—excuse my language.” He glanced at me and smiled an apology before continuing. “He’d appreciate a pretty girl—who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t make him a ladies’ man. Monica on the other hand...”

“Go on.”

“Well, Damien was no sooner six-foot under, when she was shacked up with her new fella.”

“Really? I asked, imagining the little old lady we’d met, and not the young woman she would have been in the sixties.

“Oh, aye. She didn’t hang around, lass, I can tell you.”

“She must have been pretty devastated, though. I mean, what a shock to lose her husband like that. Maybe she was on the rebound?”

Alan raised his eyebrows in a show of amusement.

“What? You don’t think so?”

“According to gossip at the time, she was already knocking about with Mufty, mine and Damien’s boss, long before Damien was taken out of the picture. Made it pretty convenient for them, if you ask me.”

“Your boss? From the taxi firm?” James asked.

“The very same. They moved away soon after, which is when I bought the company. I got it cheap if I’m being honest, but Monica had received a big insurance payout and they couldn’t be bothered hanging around for a better price.”

Prickles started at the nape of my neck. “This Mufty,” I said. “What was his real name?”

Chapter 26

Hurrying back to the car, my phone rang. My stomach dropped when I saw it was Lydia.

“Geri, they’ve refused to allow me to pick up Grace.”

“What?”

“That bloody bitch, Wendy, said...”

My phone began vibrating—alerting me of another call.

“Hang on, Lydia. I’ll call you back. She’s on the other line.”

I accepted the call from the nursery.

“I know all about it. Lydia just called me,” I barked.

Wendy sounded upset. “I’m sorry, Geraldine, but I will not allow that child murderer to take Grace. I want to make sure you actually know what type of woman you’re entrusting to care for your precious child.”

“Excuse me! Grace is
my
daughter and I have already signed the form stating Lydia is allowed to collect her—have I not?”

“Yes, but...”

“But nothing. I’m perfectly aware of what happened in the past. Lydia has served her sentence for what was no more than a tragic mistake in my opinion and I insist you release my daughter to her, this minute.”

“I’m not happy about this. I’ll have to contact my manager and see what she says because...”

“You do that.” I hung up.

***

Deciding to go home early, Lee backed up his computer before switching it off. As he locked the main door, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Lydia.

“Hey, baby. I’m just on my way home. What’s up?”

“Lee, I need your help. I’m supposed to be collecting Grace from the nursery but that bitch, Wendy, won’t let me take her.”

“I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the carpark. The journey had fuelled a rage in him, and he was ropeable.

Lydia jumped up from her position on the doorstep. “Thank God you’re here. She’s such a bitch—I wanted to slap her silly.”

“There’ll be no need for that, love. Come on, let’s get Grace.”

He led the way through to the baby area.

There was no doubt which one was Wendy. She stood glaring at them with her hands on her hips.

“We’ve come to collect Grace.”

“I’ve already told her—over my dead body would I allow her to take this baby from the premises.”

“And that is your call to make, is it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe not legally—but morally, yes. It is.”

“Did you contact Geraldine?”

She nodded, pursing her lips.

“And? I take it she told you to allow it?”

“Listen. She is a convicted baby killer,” she said, pointing at Lydia. “And I don’t care if I lose my job over this, she’s not taking her.”

Lee took out his phone and dialled 999. “Police please.”

Wendy gasped and began to backtrack once she realised he meant business.

“Hang on a second—there’s no need for that so long as you promise to supervise them at all times.”

Lee hesitated before explaining to the person on the phone there had been a misunderstanding. He hung up and walked over to where Grace sat on the mat chewing on a plastic bear.

“Hey, sweetie. Let’s go home.” He lifted her into his arms and was instantly overcome by the enormous feeling of loss. He’d not held another baby since his own gorgeous child, yet the chubby warmth of Grace filled a deeply buried, yet cavernous hole in the centre of his being, tearing shreds from his heart. He couldn’t let the nursery staff see his reaction, so he smiled and handed the child to Lydia before taking the nappy bag from another young woman.

Once outside, he led them to his car.

“I haven’t got a car seat for her. I’ll meet you at home,” Lydia said, fastening the child into a pushchair, which he hadn’t even noticed, beside the gate.

“Okay, see you there.” He got into the car and drove the two minute journey home.

Candice lay sprawled on the sofa, as he entered, watching daytime telly which irritated the shit out of him.

“Do you intend to waste your life away either cooped up in your bedroom or watching that crap? How long do you intend staying?”

She shrugged, her lips turned down at the corners.

“Well, what were you doing before you came here? Didn’t you have a job?”

“I had two, but I gave them up to come and spend time with my sister.”

“Why didn’t you do what normal people do and take holiday leave?”

She shrugged again. “Maybe you could give me a job?”

“There’s no chance. And besides—I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Here we go,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes. Here we most certainly do go, young lady. I made it quite clear when you arrived that alcohol is not allowed through that front door, didn’t I?”

She scowled.

“Didn’t I?” He raised his voice this time.

“Yes!”

“And what did you do?”

Lydia appeared in the doorway, her fingers against her lips. “Shhhh! Grace is asleep.”

“I asked you a question.” Lee continued a little quieter.

“I took it to my room. Lydia didn’t even see it.”

“That is not the point, and you know it. I’ll tell you once more, shall I? No alcohol in this place—full stop! And if you don’t abide by these rules then I suggest you move out—capiche?”

Like a spoiled teenager she flounced off up the stairs.

“You didn’t need to be so hard on her,” Lydia said.

“Oh, I did. Kids of today need a lesson in respect.”

“Is this about the two that died in the cottage? Because, sweetheart, you’re lashing out, which just isn’t like you.”

“Well, it’s kind of why I’m annoyed, I guess. Those two rotten little bastards set out to rob me and end up dead, yet it’s me who’s charged with murder and faces years in prison.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Won’t it? Know that for sure, do you?”

“Pretty much. No court in the land would convict you for your part in their deaths. You’re the victim—it’s clear as day.”

She pulled him down beside her on the recently vacated, still warm, sofa and hugged him tightly.

“I hope you’re right, Lyddie. I really do.”

***

“She what?”

“Refused to let her take Grace.”

“Poor Lydia. The first time she forces herself out the door and she is confronted with that!”

“I know! I’m livid.”

“So what now? Do we have to get back?”

“Not a chance. We need to speak to Mufty—he has some explaining to do.”

“I was hoping you were gonna say that.”

The phone rang as we pulled onto the motorway.

“Hi Lydia, is it sorted?”

“Yes. She soon changed her tune when Lee called the police. Said she’d only allow it if Lee promised to stay with me.”

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry this has happened. Do you want us to come back now?”

“No. Don’t be stupid. We’re fine. Grace is shattered and asleep already. You take your time, and if you’re not back after she’s had her tea, then I’ll take her into yours and put her to bed.”

*

What should have been an hour long trip back to Stoke-on-Trent took close on two hours with the schools getting out. When, eventually, we turned onto the estate, I was almost jumping in my seat with anticipation.

The door opened before we knocked.

“I am popular today!” Harold said.

“Hello again, Mr Turpin—or should I say Mufty?” James said, raising his eyebrows.

“You’d better come in.” Harold Turpin, not quite as jovial as earlier, held the door wide open, and ushered us through to the spick and span kitchen where he proceeded to fill the kettle. “Tea or coffee?”

My stomach growled, and I realised we hadn’t had a thing to eat and drink since breakfast. “Tea, please,” I said.

James scowled at me, and I wrinkled my nose at him, then he nodded. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Sit yourselves down. I won’t be a sec.” He motioned towards the round pine dining table.

Once we were seated, he turned back towards us and threw a tea-towel over his shoulder. “So, I take it you’ve been to see my wife?”

“Yes, that’s right,” James replied.

“You know that anything she says can’t be trusted, don’t you?”

“What do you think she might have said?”

“How the hell do I know? She talks a load of old claptrap.” He returned to the kettle and filled a huge teapot with boiling water then placed the pot in the centre of the table.

“What I don’t get, though, is why she’d tell you my nickname is Mufty? She never called me that.” He unhooked three cups from the mug tree.

“She didn’t,” James said. “We paid a visit to Alan Hutchins who told us you were Damien’s boss at the time of his death.”

“Alan Hutchins. Now there’s a blast from the past. I’d have thought that old coot would be dead by now.”

“Far from it. He’s got years ahead of him I’d say. But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t mention you knew Damien earlier.”

“You didn’t ask.” He plonked a milk jug on the table and sat down heavily.

James laughed. “Well, I’m asking now. Could you tell me what you knew about Damien?”

“He was a conniving ladies’ man who deserved all he got. Is that what you want to hear?” He shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk into a cup, and topped it up with tea.

I realised he wasn’t going to play ‘mum’, so I poured myself and James a cup.

“How well did you know him?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Not much, really. I knew he had an eye for the ladies and that he knocked about with some seriously dodgy drug dealers.”

“So he was on drugs?” James asked.

“Either that or he was working for them. Cab drivers are often approached about making deliveries. I warned him if I found out he was delivery drugs, he’d be out of a job in a flash.”

“Did you tell all this to the police at the time?” James sipped at his tea.

“Of course I did. But I knew they wouldn’t do anything. The police were corrupt in those days, and the local drug lords owned them. As soon as I mentioned who he’d been hanging around with, the cops backed off straight away. I knew they’d never look into it.”

“So, you think the drug dealers killed Damien?” I asked, still trying to get my head around it.

He shrugged again. “Most murders have sex, drugs or money as the motive, don’t they?”

I nodded. “I guess.”

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, when did you meet Monica?” James asked.

“I’d met her in passing a few times when she called into the cab office to see Damien. But we weren’t properly introduced until Damien’s funeral.”

“You hooked up with his widow at his funeral?” James shook his head in disbelief.

“No, of course not,” he snapped, his face contorted with contempt.

“Then when?”

“A few months later. I felt sorry for her, and I offered my services—helped her with a few odd jobs on my days off, would take little Jimmy to the football on the weekend that kind of thing. You know, just the stuff Damien would have done if he’d still been around.”

James nodded. “Very noble of you.”

“Anybody would do the same. But then we fell in love—an added bonus for me.”

“You paint a nice picture—except Alan suggested you and Monica were having an affair long before Damien’s death.” James raised his eyebrows.

“Preposterous! Some people have nothing better to do than to make up disgusting stories like that.”

“So, it’s not true?” James asked.

“I told you when it started. Now, if you don’t mind...” He slid his chair away from the table, making a loud noise on the polished wooden floor. “And, for future reference, stay away from Monica—she’s a sick woman.”

He hurried us through the front door and slammed it before we’d even begun to walk away.

“Charming!” James said, linking his arm through mine.

“So now what?” We walked back to the vehicle.

He glanced at his watch. “Home, I guess. It’s too late to visit Monica again now.”

“But he said we couldn’t see her again,” I said, shocked he’d even consider it.

“It’s not up to him.”

On the journey home we were both deep in thought. I was going over and over the day’s events.

“James?”

“Hmmm.”

“I was thinking about the things Monica said about her husband—Harold, not Damien. You know, about him being horrible.”

“A lot of what she says can’t be trusted.”

“I know that. But, combined with Alan’s remarks, what if they killed him?”

“Who? Monica and Harold?” He gave me a sidelong glance.

I nodded, searching his face for any sign of what he was thinking.