The Waiting Game (12 page)

Monica knew, the moment she woke up, it was going to be a bad day. Too much wine the night before and not enough food. Turned her dreams into nightmares that were still with her. Her mother’s voice screaming at her, saying things a mother should never, ever say to her own child. This followed by something worse. The crying. Her mother bawling like a fucking baby and saying she was sorry, hadn’t meant a word of it. Liar. Repeating it over and over and over until Monica couldn’t bear it a single second longer.

In the kitchen, she washed down three Ibuprofen with two cups of strong black coffee. Her mother was still there but fading now, the voice getting quieter, replaced by other, normal noises, like the traffic on the road outside and the sound of the TV
blaring through the wall from the house next door where deaf Mrs Mallet lived. Mrs Mallet who had two daughters who visited every Sunday without fail and a son who came most Wednesday afternoons with bags of shopping for his dear old mum. Mrs Mallet who probably never had a single exciting thing happen in her entire boring, suburban life lived utterly without purpose or meaning. Monica hated Mrs fucking Mallet and her bland, sycophantic offspring.

Products of their mother’s loins. The thought of it made her want to throw up. She’d never met Mr Mallet, who had ‘passed over to the other side’ some years before Monica moved here, but she felt sorry for him, having to spend his life with an ugly cow like that. She hoped he’d at least had a mistress, someone to add a bit of spice to a life that must have otherwise been unbearable.

How very different deaf Mrs Mallet was from her own mother…

It was difficult to remember the details of that afternoon. Her memories were fuzzy, almost as if she’d dreamed the whole thing. Or maybe she felt like that because part of her wished that was true.

Fuck it. Nothing to be gained by standing here thinking about what might have been. She threw her cup in the sink and called Kelly. When she’d finished on the phone, she went upstairs to get ready.

She was applying the final touches to her make-up when the doorbell rang. She stopped what she was doing, waited for
whoever it was to go away. When the bell rang a second time, she went to the window and looked down, taking care to stay well hidden behind the curtain.

Part of her had hoped to see Ellen Kelly. When she recognised Harry’s dark, messy curls she bit her lip, disappointed. It was like Kelly had forgotten all about her already.

She checked her reflection in the mirror, taking her time. Added a touch more lipstick, opened another button on her shirt, making sure the curve of her breast and the black, lace bra could be easily seen. The bruises on her neck were still there but she’d covered them with make-up. If he asked about them, she’d think of something plausible. But she doubted it was her neck he’d be looking at. She shook out her hair, winked at herself and went downstairs.

Time to teach someone a lesson.

‘Got some really good skunk.’ Harry held out his hand, showing her the small plastic bag filled with dried-out leaves. ‘Want to get wasted with me?’

She leaned forward, pretending to examine the package, making sure she rubbed against him, just gently enough so he wouldn’t know it was deliberate.

‘I’m meant to be meeting a friend,’ she said. ‘Maybe another time.’

He looked so disappointed, her mood lifted instantly. It was difficult to stay angry with him.

‘Good time the other night?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I called over,’ she said. ‘Friday night, I was feeling a bit bored. But you weren’t there. I assumed you were out with your girlfriend.’

His face flushed red, making him look even younger than he was.

‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he mumbled. ‘You know that, Mon.’

Anyone else, she wouldn’t let them get away with calling her that. The way he said it, though, there was something sweet about it. She’d better watch it or she’d start getting soft on this boy.

‘What do you mean you don’t have a girlfriend?’ she asked. She ran a finger along his cheek, feeling the heat. ‘A good-looking bloke like you. Girls must be falling over themselves.’

‘Not interested,’ he said. ‘Girls my age, they’re just so boring, you know?’

Poor sap was too transparent for words. If he wasn’t such a honey, she’d be tempted to slap his face, tell him to man up a bit. Hadn’t he ever heard of playing hard to get?

She moved forward until the tips of her breasts were touching his chest. His face turned even redder, his breathing was fast and shallow, pupils dilated so big the blue iris was barely there. She dropped her hand, let her fingers trail along the front of his trousers, touching the outline of his erection through the soft denim.

‘We can’t get too close,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not ready for that yet. You do understand, don’t you?’

When he nodded, he reminded her of a dog. Mouth hanging
open, eyes looking at her with a mix of longing and adoration. There were worse ways to spend her Sunday. A couple of spliffs to take the edge off; add in a bit of playing around with young Harry and she might even be able to switch off some of the sounds and images in her head.

Besides, her plans for Harry extended well beyond this afternoon. It was worth sparing a few hours reminding him what he had to look forward to if he did what she needed him to. And if she managed to have a bit of fun along the way, well then, all the better.

Sunday morning, Ellen woke early. There was a pattern to Sundays: a late breakfast and the Sunday papers before picking her parents up, driving to Mass and, after that, back in the car and across the river for lunch at her brother’s. Not this Sunday morning. Monica’s phone call changed that. Ellen got the children up early and drove them across to her parents’ house.

‘Something’s come up at work,’ Ellen explained to her mother. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Mum. I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll be back in time for lunch?’ her mother asked.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask Sean to pick you up and I’ll go straight to his. I’ll be there by one thirty at the latest. I promise.’

Twenty minutes later, she was on the A2, driving east on her way to see Adam Telford, Monica’s father. Ger had told her not
to, but she wasn’t doing it during work time so Ellen couldn’t see the harm.

Inevitably, this route brought back unwelcome memories. The last time she’d been out this way was to find a young girl who’d been abducted. She’d found the child but, in the process, lost her old partner and mentor, Dai Davies.

The closer she got to Higham, the village where it happened, the faster the memories came until she had to pull in to the side of the road and wait for them to pass.

She’d planned on going straight to Whitstable. Instead, she turned early off the A2 and drove north towards Higham. At the end of the village, she followed a narrow road for a half mile or so. Somewhere near here, there was a laneway leading off to the left. Yes. There it was. She drove down the lane to the ramshackle house at the end, stopped the car and climbed out. A cold wind blew across the flat fields, making her shiver.

It was a desolate place. Even if Ellen hadn’t known all the terrible things that had happened here, she would feel the loneliness, the sense that out here, with the flat countryside stretching away on all sides, you were as close as you could get to the end of the world.

There was a series of books she’d loved as a child. She couldn’t remember much about them except they involved a group of children living in a house called World’s End. This house reminded her of those books.

The door was ajar. She pushed it open and peered into the
kitchen. Saw the filth, the decay and the trails of mouse droppings on the floor and table. Particles of dust hung in dazzling stripes across the room, trapped in rays of sunlight that poked through the filthy window.

The last time she’d been here, there was a pile of old-fashioned videos on the table beside a box of cupcakes. Or were they donuts? It hardly mattered now. No sign of either today. A tune played through her head as she turned and walked back outside. The theme tune from
The Rainbow Parade
, a children’s programme she used to watch with Sean when they were kids. The tinkle of the piano, light notes, like raindrops.

In the distance, a train rumbled past. Ellen looked across the fields, towards the railway. In her memories, the distance from the house to the track was vast. Today, it seemed much shorter. A short jog to the tattered barbed-wire fencing, under that and on to the end of the field where the ground dropped away to the track below.

She didn’t go down there. Couldn’t do it. Her body froze, refused to let her get any closer. A sharp wind rose from the east, swept across the open countryside, cut through her on its way towards the city. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body and thought of Dai.

‘Survivors, Ellen. That’s what we are, you and me. It’s not ideal but we’ve got no choice, see?’

He’d proved himself wrong, in the end. Turned out he was no more of a survivor than anyone else.

Grief slammed into her. So sudden and sharp, she doubled over, struggling to catch her breath. They were there now, in front of her, Dai Davies and Brian Fletcher. The train bearing down on them.

And then they were gone.

She didn’t want to stay here a moment longer. She ran through the wind to the car. When she put the key in the ignition, her hand was shaking so bad she had to try several times before the key finally slotted into place. She switched the engine on and drove off, knowing this was the last time she would visit this desolate place.

Adam turned up the water pressure and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat into him, washing away all traces of Bel and what they’d done. It was like this every time. The moment it was over, he could barely wait to get in here and make himself clean again.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness
.

Sister Theresa. Mean little face and strong arms.

Pull your pants down and bend over.

He washed, soaping down every inch of skin, making sure he missed nothing. When he’d finished, and all the soap had rinsed away, he switched off the hot tap but remained under the water.

THIS is what happens to boys who come to school looking like that.

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he got out, grabbed his towel and started drying. As he lifted his arms to dry underneath, he caught the slightest smell of something that wasn’t soap. The lingering traces of stale sweat. He threw the towel down, angry with himself for being so careless. How had he missed that?

Back in the shower, he took the nailbrush and used it to scrub both armpits. He scrubbed until the skin broke and the water turned pale pink, tainted with his blood.

DON’T EVER let me see you sticking that finger up your nose again.

This time, when he thought he was clean enough, he left on the hot tap but turned off the cold. He lifted both his arms, pushing each armpit under the scalding water, biting down on his lip to stop himself crying out with the pain of it.

Dirty, disgusting child.

Water pooled around his feet as it ran down the plughole, changing from pale to dark pink and then to red. Sister Theresa’s words in his head, the cane in her hand, striking down on his bare buttocks, again and again and again.

Ellen and her kids were regular visitors to Whitstable. She liked the town and the seafront was lovely, especially in summertime. They liked to come early on Saturday mornings, have a wander around the market and spend the rest of the day down on the beach.

Adam Telford lived on the east side of town, by the sea. The house was a modern, mock-Tudor affair in a row of identical modern, mock-Tudor homes. The sort of houses bought by people with lots of money and no taste.

Ellen rang the doorbell. As she waited, she looked around. The neighbourhood was affluent with upwardly mobile pretensions and no sense of aesthetic. Each house had a big car parked in the driveway: a line-up of Saabs, Mercs, Volvos and Beemers.
Adam Telford’s house was the exception with a yellow VW Beetle parked out front.

She was about to ring the doorbell again when the door was opened by a petite woman with long dark hair, an unfortunately large nose and an even more unfortunate lack of charm.

‘What do you want?’

Ellen gave her name and showed her warrant card.

‘I’m looking for Adam Telford,’ she said. ‘Is he in?’

‘He won’t want to speak to you,’ the woman said.

‘He doesn’t have a choice,’ Ellen said. ‘I can come in and speak to him here or I can take him in for questioning. What’s it to be?’

‘Is this to do with his ex-wife?’ the woman asked.

‘That’s none of your business,’ Ellen said. If the unfriendly cow thought Ellen might tell her the real reason for the visit, she could think again. ‘Can I come in? Or do you want to go and get him and I’ll question him here on the doorstep. I’ll speak to his neighbours, too. I’m sure they’d be interested to know that Telford is part of an ongoing criminal investigation.’

That worked. The woman stepped back and motioned for Ellen to follow. Inside, she took Ellen through a large, airy hall and into a spotlessly tidy sitting room. Ellen wondered if the pastel colours and floral patterns reflected Adam Telford’s lack of taste or the woman’s. The whole place smelled of disinfectant and air freshener; a chemical, unpleasant stink that made Ellen feel sick.

A tall, thin man was sitting on a high-backed wooden chair
reading a copy of the
Sunday Telegraph
. He put the paper down when he saw the two women. It was only then Ellen noticed he was wearing thin, plastic gloves. A skin infection, OCD or extreme eccentricity? she wondered. From the stink of chemical cleaners and the sterile tidiness, she’d have put her money on OCD.

‘Police to see you,’ the woman said.

Ellen introduced herself and he stood up, frowning as he limped across the room and held out his hand.

‘Adam Telford,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

She shook his hand, repressing a shiver when she felt the plastic.

He wasn’t a handsome man. Thin white hair brushed across a bald head, a high forehead and deep brown eyes. Immaculately dressed in navy-blue corduroys, a pale pink shirt and a silk cravat.

‘It’s about your daughter,’ Ellen said.

He looked quickly at the woman, then back at Ellen.

‘Monica?’ he asked. ‘What about her?’

‘Maybe we should sit down first,’ Ellen said.

‘Of course. Please, take a seat. Bel, love. Give us a moment, would you?’

The woman nodded and left the room, glaring at Ellen as she went. Ellen wondered if the woman might be some sort of nurse. Surely a girlfriend would want to stay and find out what the hell the police wanted?

‘What’s this about?’ Adam asked. He looked scared and Ellen found that interesting. She watched him as he sat down, adjusted
his trousers carefully before crossing his legs.

‘When was the last time you saw your daughter?’ Ellen asked.

‘Monica left home many years ago,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen her or heard from her since.’

‘That’s not what she told me,’ Ellen said.

He licked his lips. ‘What did she say?’

Ellen thought back to the phone call earlier. ‘She said she came to visit you a few days ago. But you kicked her out. Told her you wanted nothing more to do with her.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot. She did call to the house recently. And yes, I asked her to leave. She said some terrible things, you know. Not just about me. About my wife, too.’

‘You forgot?’

He shook his head, eyes sliding away to the side, refusing to look at her.

‘I didn’t forget,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, that’s all. The visit was unpleasant. I rather wish I could forget about it. She was… she’s not well, is she? In the head, I mean.’

‘Monica says you threatened her,’ Ellen said. ‘She says she came out here and told you she was going to report you. When you heard that, you warned her off. Your exact words, I think, were:
“I’ve sorted your mother and I’ll sort you as well if you’re not careful.”’

‘She’s disturbed,’ Telford said. ‘I’d never hurt Monica. Or my ex-wife. You shouldn’t listen to her, you know. She says all sorts. Always has done. Can’t believe a word she says.’

He stopped abruptly. Like he realised – too late – he’d said too much.

Ellen’s hands clenched into fists, fingers dug into the palms of her hands, hurting.

‘You’re calling her a liar?’ Ellen said.

‘I’m saying she makes stuff up,’ Telford said. ‘Like her mother that way.’

‘What happened to Monica’s mother?’ Ellen asked.

‘She walked out on us,’ Telford said. ‘Never gave her daughter a second thought. I was the one who took care of Monica. Fed her and clothed her and gave her a roof over her head. Wouldn’t have killed her to show a bit of gratitude occasionally.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Ellen asked. ‘She was only a child. Your job was to protect her. Not to molest her.’

‘Please.’ He put his hands over his ears, and when he looked at Ellen, his eyes were wet with tears.

‘No more,’ he said. ‘I would never do anything like that. Why do you find that so difficult to believe?’

‘Your wife walked out, then your daughter did the same thing as soon as she was old enough. Want to tell me what they were running away from, Mr Telford?’ Ellen said.

‘I think I bored them,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Detective, I’m sure you wanted a more exciting answer, but that’s the truth of it. Monica and her mother, well, they like excitement, adventure. That doesn’t appeal to me. I prefer a quiet, ordered life. Just like my Bel. Peace and quiet, that’s what we like.’

My Bel. His girlfriend, then. Young enough to be his daughter.

I was fourteen the first time that bastard tried to show me some love.

‘I heard you were in an accident the night Monica left,’ Ellen said.

Telford dropped his eyes and patted his leg. ‘Left me with a limp.’

‘Is that all?’ Ellen asked.

‘I think you probably know about my other injuries,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

Framed photos stood in a neat line along the mantelpiece. Each one showed different images of the same person – a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman so strikingly beautiful it was difficult not to stare at her. Annie Telford. Monica’s mother and Adam’s wife. The resemblance with her daughter was obvious, although Monica – despite her own striking looks – was nowhere near as perfectly pretty as her mother.

One photo caught Ellen’s attention. Annie again. Holding a small child. The woman was gazing directly at the camera, her arms holding the child loosely, as if she was about to drop it. A red scarf, wrapped around her dark curls, was the only bright thing in the photo. The expression on her face was one of utter misery.

Ellen nodded at the photo. ‘Your wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘It can’t have been easy for you,’ Ellen said. ‘When she left, I mean.’

‘Wasn’t easy for either of us,’ Telford said. ‘But I did my best.’

The door opened and the little dark-haired woman came back in.

‘Are you nearly finished?’ she asked. ‘Only we’re going out to lunch later and we need to head off soon.’

Ellen had a list of dates from the nights Chloe and Monica claimed there’d been someone in their house. She went through these quickly, knowing it was pointless. As predicted, Bel claimed she’d been with Adam on each occasion. Not that it mattered much. Ellen was already pretty sure it wasn’t Adam Telford who’d broken into Chloe’s house, chased her down the stairs and whacked her over the head. The man could barely walk.

Bel had moved across the room and was sitting on Adam’s lap, smiling at Ellen like she’d got one over on her. Ellen knew she’d got as much out of Telford as she was likely to. She pulled a card from her wallet and handed it to him.

‘Call me if you’d like to chat,’ she said. ‘Or if you think you’d like to get in touch with your daughter. I’ll see what I can do.’

It was a lie, of course. She had no intention of letting him anywhere near Monica. But she hoped the promise of a reunion might tempt him to pick up the phone sometime.

They both insisted on walking her out, obviously wanting to make sure she left. At the door, she paused and turned around.

‘One last question. Do either of you know a woman called Chloe Dunbar?’

The blank looks on their faces was all she needed.

‘Ricky Lezard?’

Another blank look before they both shook their heads.

Pointless. She left them to get on with their Sunday and walked back to her car.

She was about to drive off when the girlfriend came running out.

‘Please,’ she said, panting as she skidded to a stop by Ellen’s car. ‘What was all that about? He won’t tell me anything and I’m worried about him. He looks scared, like something really bad has happened. What did you say to him?’

Ellen looked at this fierce little woman. How old was she? Thirty, at most. She figured Adam Telford to be somewhere north of sixty.

‘Why are you with him?’ she said.

‘I like him,’ the woman said. ‘You got a problem with that?’

Several problems, but none of them Ellen wanted to discuss right at this moment.

‘He must be – what – thirty years older than you?’ Ellen asked. ‘Twenty-five, at least. I don’t get it.’

‘Nothing to get,’ Bel said. ‘Adam takes care of me. I like that.’

Ellen took this to mean Bel liked Adam’s money, but maybe she was wrong about that. Although why else would a young woman stay with an impotent man old enough to be her father?

‘You can call me too,’ Ellen said. She took out another card but the woman refused to take it.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Bel said. ‘You don’t need to worry
about me, copper. Not for a second.’

On the drive back to London, Ellen remembered the photos in the sitting room, particularly the one with Annie Telford looking so miserable. She recalled her own early days of motherhood. The numbing nothingness she’d felt after Pat was born. Followed rapidly by euphoria and infinite love. With Eilish, the euphoria and love had been instant. Never once did she remember feeling miserable. But she’d been lucky. Baby blues had never really affected her. Was that what she saw in this photo? Or did the problem go deeper than that?

In the days and weeks that followed, the image would stay with Ellen. She would think about it, and wonder if Annie’s misery following the birth of her daughter might go some way to explaining what Monica did. Or if, on the other hand, the sort of twisted person Monica was had nothing at all to do with her mother and everything to do with the fact that some people were just born that way and there was nothing Ellen – or anyone else – could do but accept that.