The Waiting Game (18 page)

The envelopes lay spread out on the bed. Monica arranged them until they were in date order, earliest on the left, moving across to the most recent – from a few months ago – on the right. The same handwriting on each envelope, the same person’s name on each one. Different addresses. Seven envelopes. Seven addresses. A small number of all letters she’d written over the years.

As a child, she’d written letters that never got sent. Those ones, she’d binned long ago. They were an unpleasant reminder of her own weakness. The letters on the bed were from the last ten years. They were the ones that had been sent back to her, RETURN TO SENDER scrawled on them. There were more, but she didn’t know what had happened to them.

Until Brighton, she’d let herself believe her mother had
received the other letters. She used to picture her mother’s joy opening each one and knowing Monica hadn’t forgotten her. Proud, maybe, that her little girl was all grown up and had made such a success of her life.

Stupid.

She grabbed one at random, ripped it in two, ripped the two halves again. She carried on ripping until there were no letters or envelopes left. Just white flakes of paper, scattered across the white cotton sheets. Like the flowers in the old couple’s back garden.

Through the wall, she could hear the TV in Mrs Mallet’s
bedroom
. One of her daughters had popped round but the stupid cow had forgotten to turn down the volume on the TV. Monica pictured the old crone and her ugly daughter, sitting on
matching
armchairs in the sitting room, talking about things that didn’t matter and pretending their relationship meant something.

She needed to go to Whitstable again. She had things she wanted from the house. Valuable things. On her last visit, she’d taken a front door key from a rack of keys in the hall. She would use this the next time. Pick a moment when he’d be out of the house so she could sneak in and take what she needed. He had so much crap, like the ugly Aynsley ornaments he collected. They were worth money. She didn’t see why he should get to keep them all.

Downstairs, she picked up the photo that had caught Kelly’s attention. The original photo used to sit on the mantelpiece in
the sitting room. This was a copy she’d badgered her father to get for her room. The only photo she had of her with her mother. Poor cow looked properly miserable in it. And who could blame her? Married to that useless heap of shit.

A pulse was throbbing at the front of her neck. She put her finger against it. The steady
thu-dum, thu-dum
was background to the white noise in her head. Her father. Hunched up in that fucking armchair, head in his hands, body shaking as he cried. Little Monica, trying to pull his hands away from his face, not understanding.

And all he could do was cry.

Thu-dum, thu-dum.

Monica was crying too, pulling at him and begging him to tell her where Mummy was and why was he crying. And then the stupid bastard pushed her away, walked out of the room and up the stairs. She ran after him, every bit as pathetic as he was.

He locked himself in the bathroom. She stood outside,
banging
on the door, screaming at him to let her in.

Thu-dum, thu-dum.

Useless heap of shit.

Her mother’s miserable face, looking up at her.

Stupid, lying bitch.

It was all his fault. Why couldn’t her mother have admitted that? Why’d she have to say all that other stuff? When she started that, Monica had shouted at her. Like she was shouting at her now. She’d lifted the bottle, lying on its side on the dirty table.
Lifted it like she was lifting the photo now. Over her head and smashed it down. The photo hit the ground, glass shattering. Just like the bottle when she smashed it into that stupid, lying face.

Two months, a week and two days. Her mother.

Two months, a week and one day. Ellen Kelly.

Two different women. Two different days. Two different betrayals. First her mother, then – a day later – Ellen Kelly.

Thu-dum, thu-dum, thu-dum.

Two stupid, lying bitches.

Ellen found Raj in the second pub she tried. Sitting in the small beer garden at the side of The Duke, wrapped in a black wool coat and chain-smoking his way through a packet of Marlboro Lights.

‘Didn’t think this was your sort of pub,’ Ellen said, sitting across from him. She’d left her coat in the car and regretted that now. She hoped this wouldn’t take too long.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I thought you’d go for somewhere a bit more classy,’ she said. Or with a rainbow flag hanging outside, she thought, but didn’t say. Raj’s sexuality was none of her business. Although she hoped he had someone to go home to later.

She tapped the packet of cigarettes. ‘Spare me one of these?’

‘If you’re here to counsel me,’ he said, as she took a cigarette and lit it, ‘you can go now. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she said. ‘You messed up. Big deal. We all mess up from time to time. Besides, the way I heard it, he went for you first. You were only defending yourself.’

‘Fuck off, Ellen.’

She wanted to slap him. Or hug him. Carl Jenkins was in custody. Charged with assaulting an officer. Raj, meanwhile, had been suspended pending an investigation into exactly what had happened at the apartment in Blackheath. The story going around the station was that Jenkins got what he deserved.
Jenkins’
attack on Raj, combined with the fact that he had no alibi for Sunday night, also moved him to number one place on their list of suspects. A fact which added to the general – unspoken – consensus that Raj had done the right thing.

‘Just listen to yourself,’ Raj said. ‘Defending myself? I broke the poor fucker’s nose, for Christ’s sake. I thought the Met was trying to clean up its act. I mean, I know
back in the day
when people like you first started out that this sort of thing was par for the course. Copper whacks some poor sod and the force all get behind him and cover it up. I don’t want this covered up, Ellen. I lost control, couldn’t stop myself. My bad. No one else’s.’

Definitely a slap.

‘Don’t be so naive,’ she said. ‘Nothing we do is that black or white and you know it. You lost control. So what? The way you’re beating yourself up about it now tells me it won’t happen again.
It’s not like you’re some thug who laid into someone just for the hell of it. You’re right, we did have coppers who did that sort of stuff. All the time. But things
have
changed, Raj. The Met’s a very different place today. Different, and better for it. That’s because we have people like you. Good, decent people who care about what they do and go about their jobs the way they’re meant to. No back-handers, no false convictions or jumped-up charges. Just honest to God coppers working their arses off to make the world a better place. You can’t let this one thing ruin everything. I won’t let you.’

‘Is that what you did?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

Billy Dunston.

Ellen pulled on the cigarette but it made no difference. It was all there, inside her head. Always there. The heat from the gun, the smell, his face – what was left of it. And that split-second decision when she lifted the gun and pulled the trigger a second time.

She threw the cigarette to the ground, stubbed the burning tip out with her foot and stood up.

‘I’m still here,’ she said. ‘And that’s better than not being here. Especially now you’ve been suspended. Maybe one day, when I’ve caught the person who killed Chloe and they’re behind bars, maybe then you’ll realise what I’m talking about. In the
meantime
, you stay here, drinking and feeling sorry for yourself while
I go and do your job for you.’

She walked away without looking back. Later, as she drove past the pub with Abby on their way to collect Chloe’s mother from the airport, she glanced over and saw he was still sitting there. A full pint of lager in front of him, smoking another cigarette.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two months since my last confession.’

He’d skipped a month. Told himself he was too busy, but that wasn’t true.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve done something wrong and I don’t know what to do about it.’

‘Start by talking about it,’ Father John said. ‘Let the Lord help.’

Father John’s words were a balm. He shouldn’t have left it so long. This was what he needed. Confession followed by absolution.

‘There was this woman, Father.’ And so it began. Words
pouring
forth out of his mouth. A torrent. Couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. The relief, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. That his holy Father was here beside him.

He’d felt so lonely. These past few days, particularly. So busy focussed on Chloe, he’d almost forgotten. She was nothing. A distraction, that was all. Turning his head, making him forget what really mattered.

When he’d finished speaking, there was silence. He could hear
Father, breath heavy through the wooden grille that separated them. He waited, suddenly scared. What if…? But he needn’t have worried. Should never for a second have doubted his Lord.

‘God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of your son, you have reconciled the world to yourself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

His soul soared. Father John’s words filled the small space, giving the comfort he craved. Like a heavy weight being lifted, everything was good again.

He was forgiven.

Sinatra and a hefty glass of Merlot. Self-medicating her way through the evening, knowing sleep wouldn’t come easy. After leaving Raj, she’d driven with Abby to London City airport where they’d met Patricia Dunbar, Chloe’s mother. The meeting had been as gruelling as Ellen had expected. By the time she’d taken Mrs Dunbar to the morgue and comforted her afterwards, Ellen was fit for nothing.

Chloe’s mother was an older version of her daughter. The same wispy blonde hair and elfin features, the same lispy, little girl voice. Ravaged with grief, Patricia focussed obsessively on one thing: the arrangements for Chloe’s funeral. Ellen had seen this before. Families and loved ones of murder victims often became overly concerned with the details of the funeral. It was a way of
imposing control over an incomprehensible situation.
Unfortunately
, this – along with everything else – was something that was also taken away from them until the long and arduous process of the murder investigation reached some sort of conclusion.

Losing a child is the worst thing, isn’t it?

Ellen remembered Vinny’s parents, Brendan and Aisling, the day of the funeral. Even in the depth of her own pain she’d seen how badly they were affected. And chose to ignore it because she didn’t have the strength to deal with their grief as well as her own. She regretted that now. Whatever else happened, she must make sure Pat and Eilish never lost touch with Vinny’s side of the family.

She finished her wine and poured herself another glass. In the sitting room,
Songs for Swinging Lovers
was on the music system. Ellen sat down with her Blackberry, flicking between e-mails and the internet, reading the latest new reports on Chloe’s murder. Nothing from Martine Reynolds yet, but that was only a matter of time. Ellen expected she’d see the journalist’s orange face amongst the crowd of hacks at tomorrow morning’s press conference.

She’d invited Jim for dinner tonight, had to cancel when she realised she’d be working late. Now, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to be alone. She called him but it went to voicemail and she hung up without leaving a message. Tried Raj, but got his voicemail too. This time, she left a message, asking him to call and let her know he was okay. Then she put down her
Blackberry, closed her eyes and let Frank take her to a better place.

The doorbell rang, making Monica jump. Red wine spilled down her hand, onto her wrist, soaking the cuff of her white shirt. Made it look like she’d slashed her wrists. She smiled. Suicide was for losers. She drank the wine, burped some of it back up. It stank, but there was no one here to care about that.

He was banging on the door now, calling her name. Stupid bastard couldn’t take a hint. Sober, she might have let him in. But she’d had too much wine for that. Couldn’t stick the thought of putting up with all that gooey-eyed mooning.

Kelly’s fault she was drunk. Wouldn’t have hit the
vino
if Kelly hadn’t dragged all those memories to the surface. She went across to the window, looked outside. Just in time to see Harry’s back retreating across the road. Getting the message. Finally.

She flicked the curtain closed and went back to the wine bottle. Empty. She pulled a fresh bottle from the wine rack, found the corkscrew and tried to insert it into the top of the bottle. It wouldn’t go in. Screw-top. Stupid. She should have noticed. She threw down the corkscrew, opened the bottle and sloshed more wine into her glass.

The day had started out well enough. Good to see them finally treating her with a bit of respect. Went downhill fast after Kelly’s visit. Dark memories dragging her down, taking her places she
didn’t want to go.

Regrets, she had a few.

She was in the sitting room now. Music playing. She looked around, confused. Didn’t remember coming in here. Must have drunk more than she realised. Frank Sinatra. Why Frank?

Ellen Kelly liked Frank. She’d said so the first time Monica met her. Maybe Kelly was the reason she’d put Frank on. Trying to get inside Kelly’s head. Frank’s voice drifted over her, singing of a love deep in the heart of him. Under his skin. She remembered what that felt like. Knew what Frank meant when he promised to never give in. Singing the words aloud strengthened her resolve. She wanted to call him. Hear his voice. Except she was drunk and he’d probably hang up on her. Again.

Different song in the room now.
Strangers in the Night
. She liked that one. That’s what he’d been at first. Dark, hot nights. Pretending to love him was easy. His passion had excited her. His passion for her. Possessive passion. Hot words whispered in her ear. Hands all over her all the time. Like he couldn’t get enough of her. No man ever could.

Pretending she felt the same way. By the time she realised she wasn’t just pretending, it was too late.

The great pretender. Was that Frank, too? Maybe not. She needed more wine. Freddie Mercury. Stupid. Should have known that.

Her glass was empty. She looked for the bottle. Couldn’t see it. Found it in the fridge in the kitchen. Chilled red wine. On the
sleeves of her white shirt. Like blood.

She drank the cool wine. Disgusting. Better than nothing, though. Her mobile was on the kitchen table. She picked it up. Never drink and text. She scrolled through the address book, trying to find someone she could call. At Kelly’s name, she paused. Then changed her mind. Thought of something better.

She made some coffee, sat at the laptop and opened her e-mails. Kelly had given her a business card and one of the first things Monica had done was memorise the e-mail address and phone number.

She took her time over the e-mail, making sure she got the tone quite right: a little bit timid, a touch uncertain whether she was doing the right thing. It took twenty-five minutes. When she was finished, she read it twice, making sure the wine hadn’t affected the writing. Satisfied it was as good as it could be, she pressed Send.

That done, she shut down the laptop, cranked up the volume, drank some more wine and started dancing.

The thudding drum of techno-punk vibrated through the
dance-floor
, making Raj seasick. Bodies heaved all around him, dancing to the beat. The air smelled of sweat and poppers. He needed a drink. Looked around, couldn’t see the bar. Tripped, nearly fell, but someone caught him. Blue eyes and shoulders. Nice smile. He was a sucker for blue eyes.

‘You okay?’ Face up close, shouting at him through the music.

‘More than okay.’

Words lost in the
thud-thud
of the music. Stomach moved, vomit rose up his throat. He pulled away, pushed his way through the throng, aiming for the exit. Didn’t make it. Puke burst from his mouth, splattering some bloke’s shiny brogues and the bottoms of his tight, white jeans.

Two bouncers grabbed him and dragged him outside. One of them punched him in the face and he fell down, groaning. Tried to get back up but got kicked in the stomach and rolled over, arms up, protecting his head.

Nothing else happened, though. The bouncers moved back inside, laughing. He heard the door slam shut and everything went silent. He was in an alleyway at the back of the club. From far away, he could still hear the music, a steady heartbeat through the concrete walls.

The ground was wet, soaking his trousers and shirt, making him cold. In his pocket, his phone started ringing. Aidan again. He’d been calling all evening. They were meant to be going out tonight. A new bistro on Frith Street. Drinks afterwards with some of Aidan’s mates.

By the time he’d got the phone out of his pocket the ringing had stopped. Probably just as well. He rolled onto his back. A black sky scattered with a sprinkling of stars. A silver slice of a crescent moon. A half-remembered line from somewhere.
Something
about lying in the gutter, looking at the stars.

He was tired. Eyes closing, the stars and the moon disappearing. He should get up. Go home. But he couldn’t find the energy to drag himself off the ground. His phone slipped from his hand, landed on the wet ground. He barely noticed.

Stars gone, moon gone. Only darkness now. Finally.

Ellen was in bed, drifting towards sleep, when her Blackberry beeped, notifying her of an incoming e-mail. She nearly ignored it; too sleepy, at first, to care what it was about. But the memories of the day were too strong. The e-mail could be important. She rolled over and pulled the Blackberry from her bag.

One new message. From Monica Telford. Ellen checked the time. After midnight. Instantly, the sleepiness was gone. She opened the e-mail and started reading.

It was a strange e-mail, with a tentative tone that didn’t sound like Monica. Almost, Ellen thought, as if someone else had written it. She read it once, not understanding at first what Monica was telling her. It was only when she read it again that it hit her. And when that happened, the careful, cautious happiness Ellen had let herself feel these past few weeks shattered.