The Waiting Game (29 page)

Monica dried her hair. With the new cut, this took hardly any time at all. When she’d finished, she stood in front of the long mirror, adjusting to the new look. Her long hair was gone, chopped off and thrown onto the open fire, the last traces of it already burned away. She’d dyed the rest of it. Now her crowning glory was short, spiky and very blonde. The colour contrasted with her dark skin, accentuated her cheekbones and the size of her eyes. She looked good. Different, sure, but in a way she thought she’d get used to easily.

She had a TV in her bedroom and this was switched on, volume down low. She didn’t need to hear what they were saying on the 24-hour news channel. She already knew. More about the body in the house in Brighton. Police hadn’t identified who she
was yet. But they would. By the time that happened, Monica needed to be far away.

She’d be gone already if it wasn’t for that little diversion earlier. The delay had been worth it. Just to see the look on Kelly’s face when Monica mentioned the garden. The fact that Kelly would never be able to prove it made things even better. Monica smiled at her new image in the mirror. Kelly might think she was clever, but she was no match for Monica.

Her suitcase was on the bed, lying open while she packed away the few remaining things she wanted to take with her. She always travelled light and she’d packed quickly. Clothes folded neatly, wash bag and make-up bag both in. And on top of everything, the framed photo of Vincent Kelly. She lifted this out, examining his face, wondering what he’d been like. Good-looking enough, she supposed, in an offbeat, quirky sort of way. Red hair that suited his pale complexion. Strong features and dark eyes that seemed to look right into her.

Her dead husband. Poor Vincent. Killed six months after their wedding. Before they’d ever had a chance to have the children they’d dreamed of having. She’d been pregnant, of course, when the accident happened, but she’d lost the baby as well. Grief ruining everything.

The story felt so real, her eyes blurred as she looked at his photo, picturing herself at his funeral. The poor, pregnant wife. She’d use it to explain why she cut her hair, if anyone ever asked. She would tell them that she’d done it to mark a new beginning.
Putting the past behind her and moving on. Smiling bravely as she said it all, knowing the effect that sort of thing had on the right person.

She closed the suitcase, shutting out the smiling face that was already starting to irritate her. All that bloody self-righteous happiness. People like Ellen Kelly and her husband. Rich, privileged people with happy, loving families – they didn’t have a clue. What could someone like Ellen Kelly know about real loss? About how it felt for a little girl to lose her mother the way Monica had? To spend an entire life believing that your mother still loved you, only to find out it was all a lie. For the same mother to laugh in your face and tell you how stupid you were. That
you
were the real reason she’d left. Calling you a horrible, unlovable child who’d made everything impossible.

Her eyes blurred again, more tears. She couldn’t stop this time. The terrible injustice would never leave. She knew that. Knew she’d have to – somehow – find a way to live with it. If only it wasn’t so difficult.

She walked to the window and looked out, scanning the street. Apart from two drunks weaving their way along the road, it was empty. Lights out in Harry’s place, although she suspected he was there. Probably standing at the window looking over at her. Watching. Always bloody watching. After tonight, he’d have to find someone else to watch.

She watched the drunks until they became boring. Then she closed the curtains and picked up the suitcase. It was time to go.

Ellen sat behind the glass wall, watching Ger fire questions at Jim. He looked exhausted and vulnerable. He didn’t look like a killer. Abby sat beside Ger, making notes.

‘You say you never met Monica’s father,’ Ger said. ‘Maybe you can explain what this was doing by his dead body?’

Ger opened the file in front of her, took out a plastic envelope with something inside and slid it across the table. His father’s silver chain. Jim shook his head.

‘I don’t understand. I lost it the other day. How did it…?’

Until now, he’d seemed calm, but this time, Ellen could hear the strain in his voice.

‘I think you do know,’ Ger said. She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands behind her head. ‘Come on, Jim. Tell us the truth. You killed Adam Telford. There’s no point denying it now. The only thing missing at this point is why you did it. We can speculate, of course. Maybe Monica told you what he did to her. Years of abuse. The story kept you awake at night, you couldn’t stand thinking that a man like that had got away with what he’d done. Was that what happened? Or maybe she told you what he was worth, what she was set to inherit when the old man kicked the bucket and you got the bright idea to speed things up a bit? Or was there another reason? Something I don’t know about.’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ Jim said. ‘I never even met Monica’s father. I have no idea where he lived or what their relationship was like.
You’re saying he abused her? Well that’s news to me. Look, I’ve already told you. I was working on a job in Bromley yesterday afternoon. Spent the evening with my brother and was home in bed by eleven. This morning I went for a jog first thing – along the river, plenty of people would have seen me. After that, another job in Greenwich. I didn’t kill Adam Telford.’

Ellen had stopped breathing, every piece of her focussed on what he said. She thought she knew him. Thought he was telling the truth. Knew he was.

‘You said your relationship with Monica Telford ended a year ago,’ Ger said.

‘That’s right.’

‘And since then, you’ve had no contact with her?’

‘No. Well, she’s tried to see me a few times. Called me and sent texts, but I’ve not returned any of her calls or replied to her texts. I don’t want anything to do with her.’

Ellen started to relax. Ger was going through the motions now. He’d given good explanations of his movements over the last twenty-four hours. They’d find plenty of witnesses to back up what he’d told them. The chain was a worry, but they’d find an explanation for that too.

In the interview room, it looked like Ger was starting to wind things up. She’d put the plastic envelope back into the manila file and was sitting straight in her chair again, like she was ready to finish.

‘Just one more question,’ she said. ‘You told us you’d had no
contact with Monica since you broke up.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So can you explain then,’ Ger said, ‘what you were doing at her house on Tuesday night?’

Ellen hadn’t seen it coming. From the look on his face, neither had Jim. She raced through everything that had happened over the last few days. Tuesday. She’d met him the following day. They’d gone for a walk and talked through everything. He’d never mentioned going to see Monica.

Outside, a wind was blowing. Monica tucked her scarf tighter into the top of her jacket. As she did this, a memory came to her. The scent of flowery perfume. Her mother’s smell. Sometimes, she imagined the scarf still carried the scent, even though she knew how ridiculous that was. At least she still had the scarf. She’d always loved that scarf.

She walked all the way to New Cross. When she was far enough away from home, she found a minicab office and got a taxi to King’s Cross. Inside the station, she looked at the departures board, undecided. Crowds of people milled around her, loud and boisterous as the final hours of their weekend drew closer. She felt separate from it all, isolated somehow, as if there was a protective bubble surrounding her, protecting her but also
preventing her from getting too close. She ran through the station names on the departures board, checking the destinations of every train leaving the station in the next hour.

If she left now, it would mean giving up on Jim. Although, if she was being honest with herself, hadn’t she already done that? She’d given him so many chances. Every time – every single time – he’d flung it back in her face. It had been that way ever since that bitch Louise came on the scene.

Monica had warned him, again and again, but he’d refused to listen. Insisted the bitch was a dyke and there was nothing going on between them. He was a liar. They were both liars and they deserved what happened. Thinking about it now, her only regret was that she hadn’t driven into him that night as well. It would have stopped him breaking her heart all over again.

She remembered coming back from Brighton. Not being able to sleep and going to the park the next morning. Felt like her very heart had been ripped out. Empty and lost, she moved through the park like a ghost.

And then she saw him.

It was warm already. Clear blue sky and a sun that would turn the city into a furnace by the afternoon. A large sycamore tree stood on its own, midway up the hill. As she approached, the air was thick with the citrusy-grassy smell of summer. She breathed it in, thinking of the juice she’d drink when she got to the Pavilion at the top of the park.

He was leaning against the tree, eyes half-closed. Just like the
first time she’d seen him, another summer’s afternoon, in the Union beer garden. Something woke inside her. To see him here, like this, so soon after what had happened in Brighton. She knew, deep down in her very core, that this was meant to be.

He opened his eyes, almost like he knew she was there. He smiled, and she knew he’d felt it too. When he started walking towards her, it felt as if there was an invisible rope connecting them.

Then, out of nowhere, a child ran past. Brushed against Monica and straight past her, throwing itself at Jim. He grabbed the child, laughing, and swung it high into the air. Another child was there, too. And with the children, a tall, dark, nothing-to-look-at bitch who he took into his arms and kissed as if she meant something. Even though Monica knew that was impossible. He linked arms with the woman and walked right past where Monica was standing. So caught up with what Ellen Kelly was telling him, he never even saw her.

‘Are you all right?’ A man’s voice, too close. Startled, she jumped away from him.

He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just, well, you looked a little lost to tell you the truth. It’s not very pleasant here at this time of night. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

He wore a dark suit that looked expensive. He had friendly, hazel eyes and well-looked-after skin. His hair was dark, greying at the temples, but that was okay. Gave him a distinguished air he probably didn’t deserve.

When she didn’t answer straightaway, he smiled encouragingly, reminding her of a parent trying to get a child to do something it would really rather not have to. One of those, then. The over-protective type that wants nothing better than a woman to save. Well, what the heck, she could do with a bit of saving right now.

She gave him the smile she saved for men like him. Warm but a bit vulnerable, like she wanted to trust him but was scared. Not scared of him, of course, more a general fear of the world itself.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. I was supposed to meet my sister-in-law here but she hasn’t showed up and she’s not answering her phone. I’m trying to work out what I should do. I only came to London to visit her, you see. I don’t know another soul in the city and I’ve missed my last train home.’ She thought of Jim and what she was walking away from and allowed herself a moment’s self-pity. Just enough to fill her eyes.

She saw concern in his face. And underlying that, the hint of something else.

‘You poor thing,’ he said. ‘Please, let me buy you a drink. I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with a way to help you. What do you say? I’m Leonard, by the way.’

She shook his outstretched hand, noting the soft skin and the clean, manicured nails. She could do worse, she supposed. She wondered if he was married. Not that it mattered.

‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you, Leonard.’

He took her by the elbow, leading her gently, but firmly,
towards the exit.

‘This way, Ellen. There’s a little bar across the road that stays open late. I’m a bit of a regular. They serve decent food as well if you’re hungry?’

And that’s how life was, she realised. One day you’re one person, the next, you’re forced to reinvent yourself. Just because Monica was gone for now, didn’t mean she’d be gone forever.

Her suitcase was getting heavy so when Leonard offered to take it, she let him. As she handed it over, she thought of the photo inside. Her ex-husband’s face. Ellen Kelly had accused her of breaking into her house. Stupid Kelly. Monica almost felt sorry for her. The detective really had no idea. Monica would never take a risk like that. She was far too clever.

Ellen bought a pack of cigarettes from the machine in the canteen and took them out front. She planned to smoke her way through the pack until she felt calm enough to drive home. She’d deliberately avoided the car park, where her colleagues gathered to inhale nicotine and catch up on the latest gossip. She had a feeling she would be the main topic of conversation in the smoking area tonight.

At the back end of the weekend, Lewisham station felt like the gathering point for every thug, drunk and petty criminal in South-East London. Outside wasn’t much better. Ellen chain-smoked and watched the gangs of drunks marauding the
south London streets, squeezing out every final moment of the weekend.

She was trying not to think about Jim. He’d been released – for now – but he remained a suspect. He’d finally admitted being at Monica’s house on Tuesday night. Said he’d only gone there to ask Monica to leave Ellen alone. It was obvious Ger didn’t believe him. Ellen told herself she didn’t care one way or the other.

But there was one certainty and she clung onto this, focussing on it, knowing it was the only way forward. Monica Telford was a killer. Proving that was the only thing that mattered now.

At the bus stop nearby, a group of young people had gathered. They all looked too young to be out at this time of night and certainly too young to be that drunk. The girls were all underdressed for October. Short skirts revealed skinny white legs that made Ellen cold just looking at them.

One of the girls swung away from the rest of the group, staggered to the kerb and vomited. The sound of puke hitting concrete mingled with the girl’s retching and the raucous laughter of her friends, cheering her on. When she finished, the girl straightened up and used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. Her friends applauded and she gave a wobbly bow before tottering back to join them.

Ellen threw her cigarette to the ground, stubbed it out with the toe of her boot and moved away. The smell of vomit followed her as she made her way around the back of the station to the car park.

They’d been doing just fine, the three of them. It hadn’t been easy, but they were coping. And the longer they did it, the longer they got through each day and week without Vinny, the easier it got. Didn’t it? The last thing they needed in their lives was anyone else disrupting the delicate balance they’d found for themselves. Ellen, Pat and Eilish. A self-contained unit. The children were her life. She was so lucky to have them. To even begin to want anything else was just plain greedy.

Before she could stop it, a memory she didn’t want. A night with Jim. One of their first dates. He’d asked her about Vinny. Not about how he died, but how he’d lived. What had he been like, Jim wanted to know. What was it about him that was so special?

It wasn’t something she’d been asked before. While Vinny was alive, no one questioned why they were together. You were a couple and people accepted you as that. Afterwards, all she ever got asked was the stuff she didn’t like talking about – how do you cope? How do the kids cope? Does it get any easier? Different questions, each one offering up the same answer: I don’t know.

Surprised by the question, Ellen answered without filtering her response the way she normally would. The words tumbled out as she tried to capture the essence of her husband in words. She described how he loved to dance, even though he was the least co-ordinated person she’d ever met. She spoke about his taste in music – a Nick Cave and Johnny Cash obsessive. Dark music for a man full of light. A man who laughed more than anyone else
she’d ever met. A man who understood her neurotic need to give her children the security her own early life had lacked.

It was only with Vinny, she explained, that the world made sense. Ever since her sister’s death, Ellen had felt disconnected from the world, as if nothing that happened around her could touch her or get through to her. Then Vinny came along and that changed. They married, had the children and, for the first time, her life made sense.

At some point, as she was talking, Ellen started crying. She should have felt embarrassed. Should have apologised and walked away until she could pull herself together. But Jim put his arms around her and held her, telling her it was okay to cry. The way he said it, the way he held her so gently as he whispered to her, Ellen was able to believe him.

She should have known then that Jim O’Dwyer was full of shit.