The Bad Things (10 page)

‘Jessop?’

Malone gave a shrug. ‘I know it’s a while ago, but people who’ve been inside have long memories. It’s worth a go.’

Alex took his hand. ‘Thanks, Malone.’

‘Now,’ he got up, stiffly, rubbing the small of his back, ‘I’m too old for squatting down on my knees. I suggest you go and write up at least the first part of your article while it’s fresh in your mind.’

‘You’re right.’ She put her glass down, thankful she had a clear head. ‘By the way, did you see the girl who was with Gus?’

‘
With
Gus?’ He laughed. ‘From his expression I think he would love that. She was quite a looker, I must admit.’

She punched his arm playfully. ‘Too young for you, mate.’

‘I know, I know. She did seem to be in the centre of the group, though.’

‘Perhaps it’ll do Gus some good, something to keep his mind off his more unsuitable friends.’

Malone frowned. ‘You’re still worried about them? He seemed to be pretty well in with the lot who were just here.’

‘Hmm, I know. It’s just I can’t help—’ she shook her head.

‘You’re just being silly. Go.’

She laughed. ‘You’re right.’

‘Aren’t I always?’

‘No. But as you’re sending me away—’

‘Go and chain yourself to your desk, woman.’

She went.

10

The next day brought a change in the weather. The never-ending rain, easterly winds, and lowering grey skies were banished in favour of a crisp feel to the air, a watery blue sky, and a weak, clotted-cream yellow sun. On the radio the farmers were talking about how perhaps their winter crops would be saved if there was a bit of warmth and clear skies. Forecasters on the telly were talking optimistically of a low front having moved on. Alex was feeling pleased with herself; firstly, for not asking Gus about the girl and secondly, transcribing the first interview with Jackie Wood.

The walk to the caravan site was very different too. People nodded at her, one or two even commented on the change in the weather. It was all so British – a bit of sun and everybody’s friendly. She almost felt sorry for Wood: not being able to walk freely, breathe in the air, and, yes, have a cup of coffee and a doughnut in the bakery.

And because of the sun, more people were out and about on the site, mainly older couples; the families would come later, starting in the Easter holidays and building up to a crescendo in August. Then the whole of Sole Bay would be filled with people of all ages and sizes, swelling the population and the economy.

Alex was at the door of Jackie Wood’s caravan when a woman came out of another van. The same young woman she had seen yesterday, smoking another cigarette. This time she had headphones in her ears. She dragged them out and Alex thought she could hear the tinny beat of some music programme. Alex nodded to her.

‘I haven’t seen her today,’ the woman said. ‘Not a bloody sight.’

‘Really?’ said Alex, not wanting to stop and chat.

‘Really,’ the woman said, mimicking her voice. ‘Did you tell her I was good for a coffee?’

‘Yes I did,’ Alex lied. ‘I’m sure she’ll be round when she’s got a minute.’

The woman nodded. ‘Great. Only I’m off in a couple of days. Got myself a flat in town so I don’t need to live in this dump any longer. Who is she, by the way?’

‘What?’

‘Who is she?’ She nodded towards Jackie Wood’s caravan. ‘Don’t know her name.’

Alex opened her mouth, realizing she had no idea what name Wood was living under now. ‘A friend,’ she said eventually. ‘Just a friend.’

‘I went over there last night, just to have chat, maybe a glass of wine, and she didn’t answer the door.’

‘Perhaps she was out.’ Alex tried to keep the impatience out of her voice.

‘Nah. I could hear the radio and I’d seen her shadow against the curtains earlier. Thought you were there, too.’

Now Alex did look at her properly. ‘Me? No.’

‘Oh.’ The woman shrugged her shoulders and then ground the cigarette butt under her foot. ‘Well, don’t forget to tell her I’m here.’

‘I won’t,’ she said.

Alex watched the woman go inside her caravan and shut the door, before she knocked on the door of Jackie Wood’s caravan. No answer. She knocked again, then tried to peer through the window to the side of the door. The curtains were drawn tight. Damn. Where was she? Alex listened for a moment and could hear talking from inside. Was somebody in there with her?

She looked around quickly. The last thing she wanted to do was to attract attention. She knocked once more, then tried the door. It was unlocked. ‘Jackie?’ she said, pushing the door open and stepping into the caravan. ‘It’s me. Alex.’

It was the smell that hit her first. Thick, cloying, metallic. The caravan was dark, just a crack of light showing through the ill-fitting curtains.

Alex covered her nose and tried to breathe just through her mouth as she went over to the windows and drew back the curtains, letting the sunlight filter through the nets. It was hot as well. She unzipped her coat, then looked around. A mug was on its side, the tea – she guessed it was tea – had spread across the table and dripped onto the floor. There was a plate of food upended too; congealed chips, white fish matter ground into the thin carpet, and blobs of what she guessed was tomato ketchup spread across the floor. Somebody was talking and then she heard the familiar jingle of
5Live
coming out of a radio on the side by the sink. She went over and turned it off.

But the smell, where was that coming from?

A pair of legs was poking out from a door in the tiny corridor that led, she guessed, to the bathroom and bedroom. They could almost have been legs from a mannequin.

Without thinking about it, Alex walked towards the legs. Looked inside what she then discovered to be the bathroom: a chemical toilet squatting under the window, and a corner shower with its curtain speckled with black mould.

At first she wondered what on earth had made someone want to lie in such a tiny, uncomfortable, smelly space. Alex wanted to tell her to get up, otherwise she would get too stiff. Then her head cleared, and the smell and the full horror of what, of
who
, hit her. Jackie Wood was lying at an angle, her head propped on the side of the shower tray. Her eyes were wide open, but empty and glazed looking. Her lips were drawn back over her teeth, and the scar on the side of her face was raised, twisted, looking like a white worm lying on her cheek. She was wearing what Alex thought was a red shirt, until she realized the red was blood and the shirt was white. There was blood on the walls, all over the floor. Who knew there could be so much blood? Blood that had come from wounds in her chest and stomach. That was the cloying, iron smell, and it was intermingled with the stink of piss and shit. Alex was light-headed, floating; the whole scenario was unreal. It was as if she was watching from a distance, needing to get the facts straight so she could write a balanced, thoughtful story. This was not her life that was becoming more complicated than she knew how to cope with; this was an interesting piece that needed to be written down for other people to read with a degree of Schadenfreude.

This was not normal.

Alex looked at her again.

Instead of the old black jeans she had seen her in the day before, Jackie Wood was wearing a skirt. Denim blue with crimson splodges. She tried to think of her going into a shop in Lowestoft or Yarmouth – she couldn’t imagine her venturing to the swanky shops in Sole Bay. She would have had to take the bus. Or maybe gone to – what was she doing? Here was a woman lying dead on the floor of a caravan and she was speculating about her clothes. But her legs were splayed and the skirt was all twisted up over her hips, showing a glimpse of grey underwear. Alex didn’t want to leave her like that, so she went down on one knee and tried to straighten it, trying to keep the tails of her coat out of the mess on the floor.

She had little room to move and she couldn’t lift the body, so she pulled the skirt down as best she could, just to give Jackie Wood some semblance of modesty. As she did so, she knocked against something. She looked down. A bloodstained knife. Alex almost laughed. It was exactly as you saw in those detective programmes on television. The murder weapon lying by the body. And if she’d been following the script, that was when she should have picked it up. But she didn’t.

Alex touched Jackie Wood’s cheek. Her skin was cold, waxy.

Then she stood up, backed away, the confined space making her movements crablike, the stink of death all around her. She was aware of acrid-tasting bile at the back of her throat and she thought she might be sick. She wasn’t, but she could feel beads of sweat on her forehead and her hands were shaking. Think.

Police. Ambulance. Somebody. She had to phone somebody. She took her phone out of her coat and went back into the main part of the caravan. She was just about to punch the buttons when she snapped out of her dream-like state.
Think.

Who wanted Jackie Wood dead?

She did. Alex Devlin, aunt of the murdered twins; she wanted her dead. But after she’d found out where they had buried Millie. Sasha? Without a doubt, though Alex couldn’t see it happening in her fragile state. Then there was Jez. What would he do? She felt in her bones that he would follow the letter of the law – well, he would – wouldn’t he? Though he could surprise them all as he had in the past. Who else? Who else?

A knock on the door made her jump.

‘Hello?’ Another knock. ‘Hello? It’s me, Nikki, from across the way. Wondered if you two would like a coffee in town with me?’

This was Alex’s chance to say ‘call the police’ or, ‘something terrible has happened here, please help’. But she didn’t. Instead she went to the door and opened it just a crack, putting her fingers to her lips as she did so.

‘Sshh,’ she said. ‘Jackie’s asleep. Got a migraine. That’s why the curtains were closed. I’ve opened them, but the light’s too bright. Hurts her eyes. Makes her feel sick.’ She was babbling. She gripped the side of the door to stop herself until her fingers went numb. She tried not to think of Jackie Wood’s sightless eyes and the way she lay on the tiny bathroom floor like a broken doll.

The woman – Nikki – shifted from foot to foot. ‘Jackie,’ she said, trying the name out for size. Alex kicked herself for giving it away. ‘Oh. Okay. I thought she might like to come out, have a bit of fresh air.’ Nikki tried to look round her, into the caravan. ‘Maybe go to a caff or something?’

Then Alex realized she was looking at another lonely woman; somebody who wanted a bit of company to break up the monotony of her life. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave a note for her for when she wakes up. Say you called. I’m sure she’d love to see you sometime.’

‘Tell her not to leave it too long because I’m off soon.’

‘I will.’ She managed a smile then shut the door, leaning forward until her forehead was touching its cold metal. She could feel Nikki still on the other side of the door. Eventually she heard her clumping down the steps. A few seconds silence as she walked across the grass and the path. Then the sound of her clumping up her own steps, the door shutting.

Alex sank down on her haunches and put her head on her knees. What the fuck was she doing? Going out of her mind, that’s what. Then she realized what it was that had made her not call the police straightaway, not ask Nikki for help. She saw it again in her mind’s eye. The knife. It was just an ordinary kitchen knife, and it was exactly like one of a set that was in Sasha’s kitchen. Not that she used them much, if at all. Sasha wasn’t a great one for cooking these days. Now maybe she was jumping to conclusions, adding up two and two and making ten, all that sort of stuff, but something nagged at her. She tried to think back to when she was last in Sasha’s house. They’d sat and watched a film together – she couldn’t now think what it was except that it was some romantic comedy that made them laugh. Sasha had been in a good mood, there had been no more self-harming incidents and they had managed to talk about Jackie Wood without Sasha dissolving into tears. She thought they’d even looked at a photo album of the kids.

Had she gone into the kitchen? Probably to get another glass of wine, some crisps, more dips. Did she look at the knife block? Why should she have done? When Sasha self-harmed she used razor blades, a penknife; anything that was easy to buy, easy to hide, easy to dispose of. So she wouldn’t have noticed if a knife was missing.

Groaning, she pushed the hair back off her forehead and then stood up slowly. She caught sight of herself in a flyblown mirror on the wall. God, what must that Nikki have thought? Her hair was all over the place and she looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Which she supposed she had, in a way. There was even a fleck of red on her jumper. Blood? Probably.

Had to think.

She heard a door slam shut and she peeped through the net curtains. Nikki was walking away from her caravan, off to have her lonely cup of coffee somewhere in town. She had, what, an hour?

Looking at herself in the mirror once more, she pulled her fingers through her hair, trying to make it look half decent. She looked down at her clothes and saw that the knees of her jeans were dark and sticky from where she had knelt down beside the body. The body. Bile rose in her throat again. No. Stop it. She did up her coat and looked around the tiny sitting area. There. On the shelf; a key. She picked it up and went to the door, opening it carefully. She looked out. No one. She stepped outside the caravan and locked the door behind her, then tucked the key into her pocket. She went down the steps and hurried along the path, her head down.

She was lucky. The skies had clouded over and the rain was beginning to fall again. No one was about and she left the campsite without seeing anybody and without, she hoped, anyone seeing her.

Alex kept her composure walking down the road. Then she crossed over, went up some wooden steps and into the sand dunes. Following the path, she went down to the beach and sank down onto the damp sand and marram grass in the lee of one of the dunes. The rain had stopped again and the sun was coming out. There was a magnificent rainbow, all the colours clearly delineated.
Richard of York Gave Battle In Vain
. The old school mnemonic was going through her head. Where was the end of the rainbow? Where was the pot of gold? Round and round in her head. Anything to stop thinking of Jackie Wood lying crunched up on the floor, her body punctured with stab wounds. She breathed deeply, trying to get rid of the stink of the caravan in her nostrils, then she took her phone out of her pocket.