The Waiting Game (20 page)

Ellen stood in the viewing area, watching Mark slice a straight line down the centre of Chloe’s body. He put his hand inside the girl and removed her organs, one by one, weighing them and making comments into a hand-held voice recorder.

Ellen hated post-mortems. It wasn’t the body bits that got to her. Nor the butchery. She was generally okay with the blood and guts and smells that some of her colleagues couldn’t stomach. No, what Ellen couldn’t stand was the sense of invasion. Standing here now, watching Mark cut open Chloe’s body, she felt like a voyeur watching something forbidden.

‘She hadn’t eaten in a while,’ Mark said. ‘Had her last meal almost twenty-four hours before she was killed. Any idea why?’

‘She was scared,’ Ellen said. ‘Too terrified to eat would be my
guess. Poor thing.’

She remembered seeing Chloe at the station once. She’d come in to report another suspected break-in at her house and Ellen had been looking for Raj, found him in an interview room taking yet another statement from Chloe. At the time, Ellen had warned Raj not to spend too much time on this. Showed just how wrong she could be.

The body in front of her bore no resemblance to the pretty woman she’d seen that day. The essence of Chloe – what she’d thought and felt and loved and hated – was gone. It would be lovely to imagine that Chloe’s soul was somewhere safe and happy, but Ellen didn’t believe that. When someone died, that was it. Nothing left except the memories others kept.

The thought depressed her and she willed Mark to hurry up, get the job over and done with so Chloe’s broken body could be closed up and left in peace.

‘I need some fresh air.’ Ellen turned to Abby. ‘Fancy a walk?’

Abby lifted her hands over her head, stretching.

‘Great idea,’ she said. ‘Twice round the heath then back?’

Outside, night was suffusing the sky, claiming the city. Ellen glanced around, checking there was no sign of Martine Reynolds. As predicted, the journalist had turned up at this morning’s press meeting, asking questions all aimed at making the police seem incompetent. Since then, she’d been spotted hanging around the
building, stopping officers at random, trying to get quotes from them. Ellen knew what she’d give Martine Reynolds if she saw her.

‘I saw her drive off earlier,’ Abby said, when Ellen asked about the journalist. ‘Obviously got what she needed, now she’s gone back to write it up and turn it into a pack of lies.’

The heath was a brisk ten-minute walk from Lewisham Station. As she turned into Mounts Park Road and saw the open space stretching out in front of her, the tension across Ellen’s chest eased up. Across the heath, the purple sky dipped down to embrace the jagged outline of the city.

They walked all the way to Greenwich Park and continued east, walking a loop around the heath and back towards Lewisham. Ellen’s house was nearby. Empty now. Both children were having tea at their grandparents. Ellen had another two hours work in front of her before she got to see them.

‘What’s wrong?’ Abby asked.

‘Why do you think there’s something wrong?’

Abby smiled. ‘You’ve been in foul form all day. Snapping at anyone who dares speak to you and hitting your keyboard so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t broken yet. Plus, you never, ever suggest going for a walk when we’re in the middle of something. So come on. Spit it out.’

‘It’s this investigation,’ Ellen said. ‘We’ve got all these different strands that should come together but nothing’s connecting. We’ve got Nathan Collier, Carl Jenkins, Ricky Lezard. All linked
with Chloe but sod-all else.’

‘What about the guy they brought in earlier?’ Abby said. ‘O’Dwyer. Where does he fit in?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Ellen said.

It felt good to talk about it. She hadn’t expected that. Especially Abby, of all people. They were hardly the best of buddies. And yet, here she was, pouring her heart out about Jim like they were intimate confidantes.

‘Wow,’ Abby said when Ellen finally stopped talking. ‘That’s a lot to take in.’

‘So what should I do?’ Ellen asked.

‘Okay,’ Abby said after a moment. ‘Here’s what we know. Carl Jenkins and Nathan Collier are still suspects. Jenkins’ only alibi for Sunday night is his mother. Collier doesn’t have any. Discounting Lezard for now, that leaves us with three suspects: Jim, Jenkins and Collier. We know Jim didn’t kill Chloe because he was with you. But it’s possible he’s connected to this somehow, right?’

‘So our priority is to find something connecting one of these men with both women,’ Ellen said.

‘And to find out if Monica is telling the truth or not,’ Abby said. ‘What about Jim? How well do you know him?’

She’d known him almost her whole life. The memory of it came rushing back, pushing away Abby, the heath and everything else.

Her first day of primary school. She and Sean had joined the class
mid-term. The upheaval of the past year had thrown everything off course, including school. They were both nervous. She tried to hide her nerves by pretending she didn’t care. School was stupid and the kids in it even more so. She had resolved, beforehand, to have as little to do with them as possible.

Sean, on the other hand, was inconsolable. Clung to their new mother, begging her not to make him go in. And when the teacher came and gently prised him away, he started screaming. Ellen hated the teacher from that moment onward and continued to do so for the rest of her time in primary school.

Inside, the classroom was horrible; a million times worse than she could ever have imagined – full of cruel-looking children and stupid pictures on the walls and another woman who seemed to do nothing but order the children around. The teacher put Sean sitting on her knee and talked to him in a low voice, trying to calm him down.

The other woman – a teaching assistant, Ellen learned later – told Ellen to sit in the empty seat near the back, ‘beside Jim, that’s a good girl’. Ellen stood at the front of the class, looking along the sea of hostile faces, trying to find ‘Jim, that’s a good girl’.

She felt sick, like she might vomit. The only thing that stopped her was the thought of vomiting in front of all these kids and them laughing at her. She took a step forward, willing the boy called Jim to show himself. Another step. Still no sign of a chair she could sit on.

Then a face. A boy with plump, rosy cheeks and brown eyes was standing up. He smiled and a dimple appeared under his left eye. It made him look kind. Despite herself, Ellen found herself smiling
back. There was something about him.

‘Over here,’ he said.

And then she saw it. The empty seat. He beckoned her forward and she walked, confident now, knowing where she was going and why. She slipped into the seat beside him and he sat back down. He nudged her with his elbow. She turned to see what he wanted and he was grinning at her and pointing to the teacher.

‘That’s Mrs Flynn,’ he whispered. ‘She’s a right cow.’

Right then, Ellen knew school wasn’t going to be quite as bad as she’d expected it to be.

‘I thought I knew him,’ she said. ‘But how well can you really know someone?’

‘Not my place to say,’ Abby said. ‘But you’re no idiot, Ellen. If you like him enough to let him into your life, then I’m sure you’re right about him. Maybe you should do what you’re always telling us to. Trust your gut. I bet that’s telling you he’s not part of this. Am I right?’

The sky had changed colour, deep purple faded to black tinged with the orange glow from the lights coming on across the city. Around the park, windows twinkling in the grand Georgian townhouses, offering the false promise of security and comfort. In truth, Ellen knew that the lives of the people living in those houses were every bit as messy and complicated as her own. Money offered the illusion of difference. But that’s all it was. An illusion.

Nathan stayed in the shower until the water turned cold. When he got out, the mirror had steamed over. He dried himself quickly and ran along the corridor to his bedroom. In here, there was no escaping his reflection in the sliding mirrored doors of the built-in wardrobe.

He’d had the wardrobe fitted three months earlier. Part of a project to modernise the house he’d lived in his entire life. When his mother died two years ago, he didn’t have the heart to start the work, even though the estate agent part of him could see the place needed a serious overhaul.

When she was alive, he’d been desperate to do the work but she’d always resisted. Her home and she’d have it the way she liked it, and there’s the end of it. He’d resented her for it. Evening
after evening spent looking at the flock wallpaper and thick blue carpet, imagining how much better it would be if she’d only let him do it.

And then, suddenly, she was gone. There hadn’t been a single thing wrong with her. Hail and hearty at seventy, he’d thought she had a good twenty years left, at least.

A peaceful death. That’s how the paramedics described it. He’d been so angry at first. With the doctors who couldn’t save her, with God for taking her, with everyone. Two angry months of hating before he’d found his way back. There was a sort of peace after that. Acceptance of God’s will was part of the healing process. Even then, he wasn’t ready to make the changes he’d wanted to do for so long. To touch one part of the house felt like a betrayal. Until that day, six months and six days ago.

He came home that evening, saw the house as she would and knew it was time. He started with the upstairs. New bathroom and new bedroom. Left Mum’s room untouched, though. Thought he’d leave that until last. In his weaker moments, when the lust and pride were at their strongest, he imagined them deciding it together. Choosing new curtains and wallpaper. A new bed that they would share.

Chloe.

The pain was physical. A tightness across his chest and heart that was worst at moments like this. Alone and exhausted, the need for pretence gone because there was no one else here.

Mum wouldn’t have liked it. Always said he was too good for
most women. A nice, kind, decent boy, what did he need with women, anyway? Didn’t he have her and wasn’t she enough for him? And for a while she was. But then she’d left him and what did she expect? For him to be alone forever?

Lust and pride.

Two of the seven deadly sins.

He prayed and prayed not to feel the way he did and sometimes he was able to keep a lid on it. But then she’d do something, a little thing like a smile. Or she’d smooth her skirt along her thighs after crossing her legs, and all the resolve, all the praying and will power was useless in the face of it.

Silly boy.

If Mum was here, she’d tell him straight.

It’s what’s inside that matters. Not what’s on the outside.

She used to say that after a bad day at school. Boys – and girls – pulling and poking and punching. Mocking the fat boy all part of their daily entertainment. Not caring how it made him feel.

He’d had a good chat with Martine earlier. She’d called for a quote and he’d filled her in on a few things. Told her who the real culprit was. He hoped Martine would do Chloe justice.

He’d wrapped a towel around himself after the shower. A navy-blue towel around his middle. In the mirror, he looked like a big blue football with a small head on top and two fat arms sticking out either side of it.

Beauty is as beauty does.

He unwrapped the towel, let it drop to the floor. Rolls of fat
bulged out at his sides, hung down low so you could barely see his man bits. Eyes like little raisins buried into the fat of his face.

He grabbed a piece of stomach fat, jiggled it. Watched how the flesh wobbled, little waves of wobbling fat.

Man boobs. Moobs.

In school, they’d called them tits. Titty Collier. Boys used to grab hold of them and twist them, laughing when he cried out with the pain of it.

Here comes Titty Collier. Chanting at him, in the corridor, the playground, on the way home from school. And then he’d get inside and Mum would be waiting with his tea, ready to sit and listen and tell him not to pay any attention to silly boys and girls who couldn’t see beyond his appearance to the lovely, lovely boy he really was.

And have another helping of pasta, Nate, and there’s treacle pudding for afters. Your favourite.

He thought of Carl, flat stomach, muscled shoulders and clear, clean skin. Felt a surge of loathing so strong it made him light-headed, like he might fall over if he wasn’t careful.

Beauty is as beauty does.

Any time they’d gone to a restaurant he’d been really careful, making sure not to eat too much so she wouldn’t think he was a greedy pig. There was always food at home for later. He preferred eating alone, anyway.

Carl ate a bacon butty at his desk most mornings. Stuffed it down his throat with no consideration for the other people in
the office. Not realising how galling it was to watch him eat that rubbish and not put on a single ounce.

Said he worked out so he didn’t have to be careful about what he ate. Easy to work out if you looked like that. Wasn’t like Nathan hadn’t thought about it. But every time he did, he saw himself, Titty Collier, turning up at a gym full of people like Carl and he knew it would never happen.

He’d only wanted to be friends. Made that clear from the start. Told himself it would be enough. And when it wasn’t enough, when he knew he wanted more than that, well, he tried. No one could say he didn’t try.

Monica wanted to scream until the sound of her voice blew the whole place apart, leaving her with enough space to breathe properly. She’d been in the city too long. It got to her after a while. She needed to get away from all this bloody congestion. Today, the feeling of oppression was worse than ever.

She’d expected Jim to call. There was nothing to stop him now Kelly knew the truth. At least, as much of the truth as Monica chose to share with her. She had deliberately held some of it back, resorting to that childhood habit of saving the best for last. It was better to let the mind linger over it, that delicious build-up of anticipation. If she revealed it all in one go, she’d have nothing left to look forward to.

She remembered the first time she’d seen them together. The
day after Brighton. Still recovering from all of that, she’d gone to the park hoping to clear her head. When she saw Jim, she thought it was a sign. Until she saw who was with him.

The shock, her second in twenty-four hours, shook her very core. She stood, frozen, unable to move, waiting for him to see her as they passed. But his head was turned away from her, listening to what that bitch was saying. He walked right past and didn’t even see her. Playing happy fucking families with someone else’s wife and kids.

Monica recognised Kelly straight away. She’d met her at an exhibition. Kelly had spent ages mooning over the Kent paintings. Keen for a sale, Monica asked what it was about the paintings Kelly was so taken with.

‘It’s the landscape,’ Kelly replied. ‘So bleak it should be ugly but it’s not. Do you know what I mean?’

Monica said of course she did, added a few meaningless insights of her own and clocked Kelly as a bit of a fruitcake. Eventually, after a decision that took way too long, Kelly went with one of Monica’s favourites. The flat, North Kent landscape stretching across the canvas in muted shades. In the middle, a child. A boy, Kelly said. Monica didn’t disagree although when she’d painted it, she had a girl in mind.

What the hell was he doing with someone like that?

She had to get out. Now.

Outside, the street was quiet. Like always. Such a stupid, dead-end place she’d chosen to live. She couldn’t remember now,
what on earth had drawn her to this middle-of-nowhere corner of London. Apart from the proximity to Greenwich, it really had nothing going for it. A street full of smug, smiley parents with irritating children who all had stupid names like Molly or Theo.

No sign of Harry, which was a relief. The house across the road stood silent and empty. She thought about their conversation this morning, wondered if he was doing anything useful about it. Decided he was most likely out with his mates, getting off his head on ‘gear’ and listening to that awful music he was so into.

She walked along Lee Road, up to Blackheath. Today, even the heath wasn’t enough. That was the problem growing up by the sea. It spoiled you. Even if you hated every inch of the place and hoped you never saw it again as long as you lived, it left you with a need for uncluttered landscapes and open spaces. Probably explained why she painted it so obsessively. Almost like she was reconnecting with something inside her that might die otherwise.

She jumped on a bus to Greenwich. The latest Hollywood rom-com was due to start in just under an hour at the Picturehouse. It would do. She bought her ticket and sat in the bar upstairs where she tried to numb the tension inside her with a large glass of Rioja.

The film was crap and she didn’t even bother trying to follow the predictable plot. The other members of the audience were couples or groups of women. She seemed to be the only person who’d come to see the film alone. The observation did nothing to improve her mood.

Afterwards, she considered trawling a few local bars, looking for a bit of fun. She got as far as Xanadu, a trendy new place across from the Picturehouse, but inside it was too bright, too packed, too noisy and she couldn’t face it. Pulling her jacket tight around her body, she turned away from the prospect of pleasure and waited for a bus back to Lee.

The wine made her woozy and when she jumped off the bus at the end of her road, she walked slowly. There was a strange car parked outside her house. A battered old crock that had clearly seen better days. A loser’s car. Some bloke trying to prove he was cool enough to drive a piece of shit and not be bothered about what it said about him.

At the front door, she rooted around in her bag, found the keys and pulled them out. She was putting them in the lock when she heard something behind her. She turned and saw someone climbing out of the car and coming towards her.

The moment of recognition was a celebration. Her heart galloped as her breathing grew ragged. She could do nothing to stop the smile that spread across her face, so wide it hurt.

‘Hey stranger.’

Exhilarated, she stepped forward, body swaying in anticipation, remembering how it had been between them. How it had always been better with him than anyone else.

‘Glad you could make it. It’s been a while.’

Ellen found the CD she wanted. The Righteous Brothers,
One for the Road
. She scrolled through to her favourite track, sat back and closed her eyes as the brothers, Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield, sang about lost love to a background of joyful, soaring instrumentals. They sang as if their hearts were breaking. Voices so sweet and soft, it felt like her heart might break too.

When that ended, she poured the rest of the wine into her glass and switched to Nick Cave,
The Boatman’s Call
. Music to match her mood. The first track on the album reminded her – painfully – of her wedding day. She skipped that and went straight to
Lime-Tree Arbour
. Haunting piano melodies filled the room.

She walked across to the window and looked out. In the house directly opposite, a single light shone from a room upstairs. Nick’s voice wrapped around her, singing of suffering and a hand that protects. Across the street, a shadow appeared at the window and closed the curtains. As Nick sang the last line of the song, the light behind the curtains was switched off. The final piano chords faded away, replaced by nothing but darkness and silence.