Somewhere to Hide (The Estate, Book 1) (2 page)

Becky left it a few seconds before she dared prod him in the chest. James didn’t move. She prodded him again.

‘Uncle James?’

Still no response.

‘Uncle JAMES!’

Oh shit! She must have killed him. Panic ripped through her as she struggled to catch her breath. When he didn’t move a minute later, and the pool of blood became larger, she picked up her pyjama top and wrapped it around the knife. Then she gathered together some clothes, dressed quickly and shoved a few things into a holdall. All the time James didn’t stir.

Oh, God. Oh, God. OH, GOD! Her plan to soak the blood into the mattress had worked but she hadn’t meant to kill him.

She had to get out of there, and fast. Trying not to hyperventilate, she reached for her jacket from the back of the door and ran. But something made her stop halfway down the stairs. The living room door was open. Her dad was still awake! He must have heard it all. She’d never be able to get out of the door without him seeing her. She’d have to get in first, explain her side of things.

‘Dad, I need to –’

Becky stopped mid-sentence as she walked into the room because her father
was
asleep. His eyes were closed, his head rested back on the chair. She frowned. She could have sworn he’d been awake.

‘Dad!’ She tried again but still he didn’t move.

Looking down at him, for a moment Becky’s life was suspended. She wished she could wake up and find out this was all a nightmare. She wished she had a father who she could talk to, spend time with, when he wasn’t down the pub. She wished her mother were still alive. If she had been, none of this would have happened. She wished she had an uncle who looked out for her, not did…

Becky gulped back tears. She closed the door quietly and went into the kitchen. She took biscuits, a few cans of coke and packets of crisps and shoved them into her holdall. She crept back across the hallway. Then, without a backward glance, she opened the front door of her childhood home, closed it quietly behind her and ran.

The White Lion public house stood forlorn in the middle of the Mitchell Estate. Before the recession, it had been a thriving business. Now all that was left was a boarded up building with a For Sale sign hanging haphazardly by one nail. Rubbish bags sat alongside two single mattresses, a few wooden pallets and a settee in the car park, the low wall around it missing many of its bricks.

Austin Forrester had been watching it for three days before making his move. During this time, he’d seen only one other loner like himself. The youth was in his early teens, scraggy and unkempt, wearing clothes that hadn’t seen water in months.

That afternoon, he watched him leave and disappear out of view before leap-frogging the wall and legging it to the back of the building. He felt around the edges of the windows until he found the metal sheeting that had been jemmied open. Within seconds, he pushed himself through the gap and jumped down to the floor inside.

Once his eyes adjusted to the shadows, Austin moved quickly. A door creaked as he pushed it open to find what used to be the kitchen. He walked on further and the building opened up into a lobby. Coming to a flight of stairs he chose to go up two steps at a time, his speedy heartbeat the only sound he could hear. He came across a room with a single mattress on the floor. A grubby sleeping bag lay on it, the zip opened and pushed wide. Empty beer cans and takeaway cartons were piled high on top of a beer crate serving as a coffee table. Austin breathed through his nose, the pile of clothes and trainers at the foot of the mattress adding to the stench inside the room.

Less than ten minutes later he was out again, leaving no signs of his presence. So when he went back at midnight, the youth didn’t stand a chance. The first he knew of anything was when Austin pinned him to the bed, his gloved hands squeezing tightly around his neck. Sensing he was fighting for his life, the youth struggled to pull his arms free of the sleeping bag and thrashed them about, clawing urgently at Austin’s gloves. His breath came out of his nostrils in fits and starts. Austin moved with him, holding him down and avoiding his knees pushing up, trying to flip him off balance. Finally, the youth’s arms and shoulders flopped.

 Afterwards, Austin lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Funny how things work out, he thought, glancing around the room again. This place couldn’t be a more perfect hideout for him to watch and wait. He’d be in the thick of things but inconspicuous when he needed to be.

He took another long drag and stared at the corpse beside him. For a moment, he wondered why the youth was here, what his story was, and his background. Had he been dragged up through the system too? 

Although he felt the anger brewing inside, he knew he had to bide his time for the next few months. Besides, it wouldn’t take long to put his plan into action. He already knew the date it would all come to a head. The fifteenth of August 2012.

Everyone on the Mitchell Estate would know his name by then.

CHAPTER TWO

Life on the Mitchell Estate was never dull. Cathy Mason lived in Christopher Avenue, on the bottom half of the estate. She’d answered the door to many a strange request since her husband had died three years ago. A knock on the door at nine am could mean a number of things. It could be a bailiff with an eviction warrant pending. It could be someone wanting to administer a slap or a punch to a person inside. It could mean an early morning raid by a drugs squad or even, on one occasion, armed police. Several times, it had been a husband returning from an all-night bender wanting to speak to his estranged wife – or a wayward teenager the worse for wear after a night on the tiles.

This morning she pulled back the bolts, keeping the chain in place before removing it when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.

‘Morning, Josie,’ she smiled. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Or is this a business call?’

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Cath. But I do have business to discuss as well. Is that the sound of the kettle boiling?’

Cathy closed the door behind them and followed Josie down a brightly lit hallway into the kitchen.

For a Mitchell Housing Association property, it was certainly a step up from the norm. For starters, the rubbish was in a bin: it hadn’t been chucked to the floor and left to rot for months. The top of the dining table wasn’t piled high with a metre of dirty washing. Worktops were clear: there wasn’t a single food product festering in a dish, no congealed greasy residue in the sink, no pyramid of used teabags that threatened to reach the ceiling. And it smelt of something lemony, with a slight hint of bleach, and…

Clean: it smelt clean.

‘Hey,’ Cathy flicked on the kettle, ‘do you know anything about that boy whose body they found in the canal last week?’

‘I’m sure decent people discuss the weather when they sit down to make small talk,’ replied Josie. ‘Whereas we talk dead bodies.’

‘Yes, but that’s because you know everything that goes on around here.’

‘More is the pity.’ Josie sighed. ‘He was only in his late teens, poor kid.’

‘Anyone we know?’

‘Too early to tell. There was no ID found on him. Mind you, it is a strange one. Apparently, he had cigarette burns all over his cheeks. It looks like whoever killed him strangled him first, used his face as an ashtray and then dumped him in the water.’

‘First?’ Cathy frowned. ‘Don’t people usually go doo-lally
before
they kill someone?’

Josie shrugged. ‘You know the Mitchell Estate. It’s had its fair share of weirdoes over the years.’

‘Yeah, and you’ve visited most of them, Ms Housing Officer Extraordinaire.’

‘It gives me a chance to send the worst of them to you though, doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Cathy tutted. ‘My hair is turning grey far earlier than it should. You’ll have me old before my time.’

Josie doubted that. Cathy Mason was one of the few women on the estate who took pride in their appearance. Looking far younger than her thirty-nine years, with long dark hair and enticing brown eyes framed by the longest of lashes, she was slim with clear, almost radiant skin. Hardly a wrinkle underneath her natural-look make-up and wearing immaculate yet simple clothing, Cathy wouldn’t have it said but she put a lot of women on the Mitchell Estate to shame.

And she never missed a thing.

‘Heavy caseload?’ Cathy asked, noticing Josie’s drooping shoulders. She handed her a mug of tea and sat down at the table.

Josie nodded, following suit. ‘Not enough hours in the day, as ever. How’s Jess?’

‘Jess is Jess.’ Cathy huffed. ‘That girl will always think of herself and no one else. Did you hear what she did last week? She whacked one of the Bradley twins.’

‘Oh dear.’ Josie grimaced. Gina Bradley was another of her tenants. She had three out of control children but the twins, fifteen-year-old girls, were by far the worst.

‘I had their mother on the doorstep after my blood. That Gina thinks those girls are blameless, the silly cow. They’re always in the thick of things but she won’t have it.’ Cathy pointed at Josie. ‘You should do something about it.’

‘You’re right. I wish I could get rid of the whole Bradley clan. I can’t understand how we allowed them to take on so many properties in the same street. We should have been savvier and split them all over the estate. Now I can’t go down Stanley Avenue without getting accosted by mother, father, sister or grandmother.’

Josie Mellor was thirty-six and had been at Mitchell Housing Association for seventeen years. She’d started out working on the main reception at their head office in Stockleigh before moving over to work on the estate. Even though she was small in stature and didn’t look like she was capable of standing up for herself in any type of sticky situation, she’d been a housing officer for the past seven years. More recently, she’d been splitting her hours between ongoing cases and working in the community house set up by one of the residents’ associations. 

 ‘Then she came home drunk again last week,’ Cathy continued, ‘making all kinds of noise. Archie Meredith was over like a shot the next morning. Honestly, I have more visitors than Crewe Station. It’s pathetic. And they never see the good in anyone. They should try looking in a mirror once in a while.’

Josie smiled her gratitude. ‘What would this estate do without you, Cathy Mason? You are one special lady.’

‘Stop trying to get on my good side. I know you’re buttering me up for something. What brings you to my humble abode so early in the morning, anyway? I haven’t seen much of you lately.’

Josie tucked shoulder-length mousey hair behind her ears. ‘I need a favour,’ she replied.

Cathy raised her eyebrows.

‘Okay, okay. I need
another
favour. Remember when I asked you, oh, some time last year, if you’d be able to take on a woman with a young child, when she was ready to admit defeat?’

‘Bloody hell, that was some months ago.’

‘Liz McIntyre came to see me yesterday. She was in a right mess and had the remnants of some pretty nasty bruises. I’ve put her and her daughter up in a hostel overnight but I was wondering…’

Liz McIntyre was one of Josie’s tenants that she suspected was being abused by her husband. Several times, Liz’s neighbour had rung showing concern over the goings-on next door. Several times, Josie had visited Liz only to be told to mind her own business. But over the past couple of months, Josie’s visits had become more frequent.

‘And she’s after somewhere to stay?’ Cathy questioned.

Josie took a sip of her drink before nodding. ‘It’s only until I can fix her up with a place of her own. But it’s better than her returning to him, which I know she will do if she has to stay in the hostel.’ She paused before continuing. ‘I’d feel so much better knowing that she has somewhere safe to stay. I’ve already asked her to move away, maybe to another area, but she won’t leave the estate. I know I can trust you to look out for her and her daughter, Chloe. She’s only eight. And you have room at the moment, don’t you?’

When her husband, Rich, died three years ago, Cathy’s life had changed dramatically. Dragged up through her childhood, her marriage had been unstable, sometimes to the brink of nasty and back, but Rich had grounded her with his love.

She’d been thirty-six when it happened. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was made redundant the month after and again six months later with the next job. Around that time, her friend’s daughter, Nicola, came to stay. She wasn’t getting on with her parents at home so it was a good idea all round. They had peace, quiet and assurance; Cathy had someone to look after, company in a quiet house. It hadn’t all been fun: some of it was hard work. Nicola’s mood swings were volatile but when she was happy, Cathy had enjoyed her company. Once Nicola felt able to return home and try again, Cathy decided to see if there was any kind of fostering she could do involving younger, perhaps vulnerable, women. It hadn’t been easy but Josie managed to persuade the right people and she hadn’t looked back. It had given her something to work at; something she was good at; something to ease the pain. Her eyes welled up with tears.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Josie, noticing her distress. ‘Let me do the rounds with the hostels again.’