The Waiting Game (33 page)

Raj was opening the car door when he heard it. The sound louder on a quiet Sunday afternoon than it would otherwise be. He almost ignored it. Probably would have ignored it another time. It was just today, when so much else had happened, he knew he had to check it out.

The crash of glass breaking. Could be something. Chances were he’d find some local in their back garden breaking up an old piece of furniture, getting it ready for the journey to the dump.

He ran back to Ellen’s. If there was no sign of a break-in, he’d do a quick recce of the neighbouring houses and leave it at that. Put his reaction down to an over-active imagination and get back to what was important: an afternoon with Aidan.

The front of her house was fine and he was starting to relax as he made his way around the side. Everything fine here, too. Back across the front and down the other side. A gate at the end led into her back garden. He walked towards that, thinking he’d climb over, take a quick look before heading off.

He hadn’t gone far when he felt something crunching under his feet. Chunks of thick glass, the sort you see in front-door panes and on bathroom windows. Looking up, he saw the small window had been broken. Didn’t take a genius to work out this had been done from the inside. Not a break-in, then. Someone trying to get out.

Phone in hand, Raj called the station. Told the duty sergeant to get two cars over here right away. While he sorted that, he ran to the front of the house. He’d nearly reached it when the screaming started.

Can’t control my hand. Get the lighter going, but my fingers won’t let it go. It’s the boy. Why’d he have to look at me like that? Like I was some sort of monster. Like my old man.

I’ve been trying not to think about it but now it’s there, inside my head, and no matter how hard I try, it’s like there’s nothing else there except the three of us. Me, my old man and the boy with the big, scared eyes.

I try to focus the way she told me to. Think of why I’m doing this. But she’s not here and it’s so difficult – so bloody, fucking difficult
– without her. The copper should have kept her mouth shut. Saying those things about Mon, trying to mess with me. I know she’s lying, but I can’t help thinking about it. There’s a riot going on inside my head, building up until I swear it’s like it’s going to explode. Burst off my neck and blow into a thousand pieces that splatter onto the walls and stairs and floor.

I’m spinning around, still holding the lighter, roaring over the noise, trying to block it all out.

And then I slip on the petrol. Feet go from under me and I’m falling. The lighter flies out of my hand, and somehow the flame doesn’t go out. And as it falls, all the noises in my head start to fade.

I roll onto my side, trying to miss it. But it seems to know what I’m doing and follows me. For a single moment, everything stops. Then a guitar starts playing. Chords I know. Someone singing about a heart of gold and lost pride. Dave Grohl. Starts off slow and gentle. A sad song of death and loss. The flame drops down and catches the back of my shirt, wet from the petrol.

And suddenly, I’m on fire.

Flames lick up the curtains in the sitting room. Thick trails of smoke sneak out under the front door. Inside the house, someone is screaming. A raw, inhuman sound like nothing Raj had ever heard before.

He threw himself at the front door, but it was solid wood. Impossible to break through. Emergency services on their way,
but the fire was moving too fast. By the time anyone got here, it would be too late.

He’d seen two wheelie bins at the side of the house. Ran and got the black one. Started dragging it to the front sitting-room window then changed his mind. Pulled it around the back of the house, put it in front of him and ran at the wooden gate, driving the bin right through it.

Around the back. Big French windows. Ellen was inside on her knees. He aimed the bin at the windows, pulled back to give himself enough of a run, and charged. An explosion of glass as the bin connected, smashed through the double-glazing.

Fire moving fast. Air thick with smoke, in his eyes, down his throat, choking him. He grabbed Ellen.

‘My mother!’ She was screaming, pulling at someone else. An older woman. Raj got the woman first, dragged her outside. Turned around for Ellen. Didn’t want to go back in there, but he had no choice. Couldn’t see her. Smoke even worse now. The noise of the fire all around him, deafening.

‘Ellen!’

He ran deeper into the inferno. Fire blinding him. Coughing, choking, hand over his mouth and nose but unable to block it out. Tripped over something and nearly fell. Ellen. Inches from the flames. He grabbed her ankles and dragged her back.

She was screaming at him, shouting Pat’s name, fighting him like she didn’t want him to save her. Nearly there. Fire still
moving but he was faster. Just. She was heavy, but he was strong.

Her foot lashed out, kicking him in the shin.

‘Pat!’

Jesus, no.

‘Where?’

‘He’s upstairs.’

Ellen was still fighting him. He slapped her across the face, stunned her enough to get her outside.

Sirens. Close but not close enough.

Ellen’s hands and feet were tied. She was screaming at him and hitting him, saying Pat’s name over and over. She couldn’t move. He was still holding her. If he let her go, she would fall.

He held her by the shoulders and shook her, hard.

‘Ellen!’

She stopped screaming.

‘They won’t be here in time,’ she whispered.

He nodded. ‘Stay here.’

Gently, he put her down on the ground beside her mother, turned and ran back inside.

Pain like I’ve never known it. I’m running, desperate to get away from it, but there’s nowhere to go. The pain is me. I am the pain. Dave Grohl still singing, loud and angry now, screaming his rage as I’m screaming my pain.

Dave asking, did you ever think of me? And it’s like he’s screaming
the words at her. And I’m doing the same. Scream it one final, drawn-out time. And then silence.

Smoke disoriented him. Two seconds inside the house and he couldn’t find the door. Ellen said Pat was upstairs. He had his sweater off. Tied around his head, trying to save his lungs from the worst of it.

He banged into something. Tried to move sideways, get past it, but it was too big. The island in the centre of Ellen’s kitchen. He swung around, searching for the way he’d come in. Nothing. Smoke too black and thick for him to see anything.

Fear and panic consumed him. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t save Pat or himself. He was going to die. And if he did, Aidan would never know how he really felt.

That single regret was all he needed. He wrapped the sweater tighter across his nose and mouth, felt his way along the side of the island and shuffled forward, hands out in front of him.

The screaming was worse here. The sound of an animal in agony. Inhuman and unbearable.

Every cell in his body resisted what he was doing. It took every reserve of strength he had to force himself to keep going, deeper into the fire and the smoke and the darkness, getting nearer and nearer to the screaming. The heat was intense, unbearable, boiling his blood, drying all the moisture from his eyes and mouth, burning the back of his throat.

His foot caught on something and he fell. Hit the floor. Tried to get up, but it was no good. He couldn’t see or hear or breathe. There was nothing he could do.

Monica sat up, panting, snippets of the dream lingering in her head.

Beside her, Leonard muttered in his sleep and rolled onto his back. He threw his arm out so that it lay across her legs: hot, heavy, uncomfortable. She lifted the arm and let it drop by his side.

In sleep, he looked older. Saggy skin around his jaw, which hung open. He was snoring. The sound disgusted her. She thought of Harry, couldn’t help comparing Leonard and him. The comparison did Leonard no favours and made her sad. Harry had adored her, would have done anything for her. Did do anything.

She hadn’t even spelled it out. He’d just got it. Knew what she
wanted and ran with it. Breaking into Kelly’s house, stealing the photo of the husband, taking that classic shot of Kelly sprawled in her bed… Monica read in the papers that he’d even admitted killing her old man. Truth be told, she was a bit annoyed at him over that. She’d set it up so carefully, determined Jim would pay for what he’d done to her. It would have worked too, if it wasn’t for love-sick Harry. Stupid boy taking the blame for something he didn’t do. Anything for love. That’s what he’d said, but she hadn’t expected him to go that far. The chain fell off Jim’s neck the night he called to her house. He’d said some horrible things and she’d lost her temper, threw her wine over him. He’d ripped his top off and managed to break the chain. She’d seen it fall but didn’t tell him, knowing it would come in useful some day.

Four deaths. Her mother. The German. Her father. Chloe. Monica rolled her shoulders, flexed the muscles in her upper arms. Such upper body strength. Poor, stupid Chloe. The only one who didn’t actually deserve to die. It had worked, though. The moment the poor cow was dead, everyone started taking Monica a bit more seriously.

The chance meeting that morning at the police station was a gift. Monica had read Chloe’s story in the newspaper and knew straightaway that was how she’d get to Kelly. What she could never have hoped for was finding Chloe in the reception, waiting to speak to someone too. Monica recognised her immediately. Becoming her friend couldn’t have been easier. Chloe was desperate for a female friend and kind, friendly Anne was just perfect.

She’d used the wire on purpose. She’d watched enough crappy police dramas to know that they loved banging on about a killer’s MO. Only someone with a total lack of imagination would do it the same way over and over again. Where was the fun in that?

They’d been in the rental house for a week now. It still didn’t feel like home and Ellen suspected it never would. Until last week, they’d been living with Ellen’s parents. Her mother had wanted that situation to continue, but Ellen badly needed her own space. This big old house on King William Walk certainly provided that. The rent was exorbitant but, as her mother never tired of telling her, Vinny had left Ellen very comfortably off. And the children seemed happy here, which was all that really mattered. If happy was a word you could use.

The nights were the worst. During the day, he generally seemed okay. To someone who didn’t know the boy, there was no obvious sign of recent trauma. The nightmares gave lie to that. He was still sharing Ellen’s bed, refusing to sleep on his own. Not that she minded. It was all she could do not to insist that Eilish slept in the bed too, all the better for keeping her safe during the long nights.

Ellen’s counsellor, Briony, had recommended someone who specialised in child trauma. On the basis of the sessions they’d had so far, Ellen was cautiously optimistic they would help. Only time would tell, though.

She wasn’t sure how she was coping, either. Certainly not as well as her mother, who seemed to be able to carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Time and again, Ellen had tried talking to her about it. Each time, her mother stalled her, refusing to discuss it. ‘What’s done is done,’ was all Ellen ever got from her.

‘What’s done is done’ seemed to be Ger Cox’s view of things too. As far as she was concerned, the case was closed. Harry Shields had confessed before he died, neatly solving Adam Telford’s murder for Canterbury police. In Brighton, the investigation into Annie Telford’s death was ongoing, but Ellen didn’t see that being solved any time soon. Single woman, known alcoholic, living alone with no family to care about her, she wouldn’t be high up the priority list for a busy force like Brighton.

The day she’d been in Brighton, Ellen had asked Alastair to look up Annie’s medical records. Turned out her suspicions were right. Monica wasn’t Annie’s first child. She’d had another baby before Monica. A little boy who’d died at eighteen months. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Ellen hadn’t known what to do with the information so she’d kept it to herself. She thought it might go some way to explaining Annie Telford’s inability to love any other child, including her own. But maybe she was wrong about that. Plenty of women lost a child and were still able to love. She’d never know the real reason for what Annie did.

As for Chloe Dunbar, Ger had closed off that investigation as well. They had enough evidence against Collier to conclude he was Chloe’s killer. In Ger’s opinion, the fact that Chloe and
Monica knew each other strengthened the case against Collier. Ger said it explained why Monica had been stalked in the same way. Even went so far as to say Monica had a lucky escape. Ellen knew a closed case reflected well on her boss and it depressed her that Ger seemed to think that was more important than getting to the truth.

Ellen picked up her phone and scrolled through her texts, looking for the one she’d received right before finding Adam Telford’s body. She’d tried to trace the number. It was – surprise, surprise – a pay-as-you-go phone. No registered owner.

Ellen didn’t need to know the owner of the phone. She knew who’d sent it. Didn’t have a single doubt in her mind about that. She also knew, with a certainty that grew each time she looked at the image, that one day Monica Telford would pay for everything she’d done.

Monica got out of bed, needing to put some distance between them. She went to the wardrobe, opened her bag and pulled out the phone she’d bought a while back. Switching it on, she went and sat by the window.

The apartment was in Cambridge. A new development in a quiet area south of the city. She’d been here four months. It felt like four lifetimes. She’d expected him to be married. He had that look about him. In fact, the stupid sod didn’t seem to have anyone in the world. Except for Monica. Or Ellen as she
was now. Ellen O’Dwyer. Coming back with him that night had been the easiest thing in the world. Staying was proving to be a little more difficult. But for now, at least, she had little choice.

Outside the street was quiet. She was tempted to pull her clothes on and go out. At this time on a Friday night she’d find a bar open somewhere. And someone to keep her company. Instead, she flicked open the phone and scrolled through to the image gallery. Opened the photo of Kelly lying naked on her bed. Dear Harry, he’d done so well. She did miss the boy.

At the weekend, Leonard had promised to take her to the Norfolk Broads, where he kept a boat. Later in the month, they were planning a trip to his rural retreat in the Yorkshire Dales. A week in the middle of nowhere. She could think of nothing worse.

‘Ellen?’

She forced her face into a smile and turned around.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘It’s late. Go back asleep.’

Leonard patted the space beside him in the bed. ‘Not without you. Come on, darling. I’m waiting.’

Still smiling, even though it hurt, she walked back and climbed into the bed beside him. When he turned and put his hands on her body, she didn’t resist. Leonard was her ticket. A chance to reinvent herself. She’d already decided to ditch him as soon as they got back from Yorkshire. Until then, she would carry on being shy, compliant Ellen. It really was the least she could do.

Upstairs, Ellen checked Eilish and went into her own room. She put her phone on the table by the bed and lay down beside Pat, too tired to even undress. She tried to relax, tried to breathe with the same easy rhythm of her son’s. Tried to empty her mind of everything.

Except each time she felt the first tendrils of sleep wrap delicately around her, a sudden, sharp panic assaulted her. She sat up, hand over her mouth to block the scream. Slowly, the pounding of her heart subsided, her breathing slowed and the world stopped spinning. Pat was still there.

Sweat soaked her body, making her cold now the panic had passed. She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs. On the table, the green light was flashing on her phone, telling her she had an unread text message.

The text was from Raj. Just checking in, he said. She smiled and replied, telling him to get back to whatever he was doing with Aidan and leave her in peace. He’d only returned to work two weeks ago following a long recovery from the smoke that had nearly killed him. Saved by a fireman at the last moment.

Pat had been luckier. If you could call it luck. Harry had locked the boy in a wardrobe. Being upstairs, he’d escaped the worst of the fire and smoke. Something to be grateful for, Ellen supposed.

Pat and her mother. Both still here. In the days immediately following the fire, Ellen counted her blessings every single moment and vowed she’d never take anything – or anyone – for granted ever again.

Her bedside table was one of the few pieces of furniture Ellen had been able to salvage from the ruins of her house. She opened the drawer now, ready to put her phone away. A folded piece of white paper caught her eye. She’d almost forgotten. Pulling it out, she switched on the bedside light and unfolded the paper, smoothing it out, amazed it had survived.

Noreen McGrath, Hope House, Middle Road, Shilbottle, Alnwick, Northumberland, NE66 2TH.

She knew what she had to do. Knew seeing it now was a sign that she couldn’t ignore. It was what she wanted, what she’d always wanted, and there was no reason in the world she could think of to put if off a moment longer.

Underneath Noreen’s name was a phone number. Eleven digits separating Ellen from her real mother. It was now or never.

She picked up the phone and dialled the number on the piece of paper. There was a silence, followed by a click as the connection was made. Down the line, the other phone started to ring. Ellen closed her eyes, and waited.