Bloody Mary (36 page)

I hastened as fast as my fitter, leaner legs could carry me, down the stairs, my breathing better than it had been in years, and ran across the pavement to the waiting Vectra. I climbed into the back seat, chucking my two bags onto the others that already lay there, and slammed the door. The two men in the front seats of the car both peered at me over their shoulders, and I uttered nervously. “Are you ready lads?”

They exchanged apprehensive glances. “As ready as we’ll ever be.” No more words were necessary, and the driver chugged the engine into life, and pulled into the light traffic stream.

What I didn’t realise, and the timing couldn’t have been worse, was that Harold had become used to me being around the house, he thought of my company as warm, motherly, and loving, and he wasn’t taking to my absence particularly well. He knew that Sophie needed her support, and realised his own neediness was selfish, but the bottom line was that he missed me. Desperately.

As he nonchalantly waited for the microwave meal for one to heat through, he gazed sightlessly through the kitchen window, the few late summer leaves that twirled from the trees passing the window unnoticed. I’d been gone four days, and he’d only phoned once to check that his daughter, granddaughter, and I, had settled into the new environment nicely. Surely, he thought, he’d given them enough space, not disturbing them with his own loneliness?

As the microwave buzzed to announce his tasteless meal was ready, he mindlessly opened the door and took it to the large table, set for one. Mulling as he chewed the lasagne, which he always joked reminded him of soggy cardboard, he resolved a visit was in order that night, that he’d buy us both some flowers from the nearest service station, maybe bring some chocolates or something, small gifts as an excuse for his presence for the evening. And now the meal became more appetising having made the disastrous decision, and he tucked in, eager to have a bath before he drove across the city on the tail end of the rush hour.

He knocked on the door, the flat quiet, with a gentle orange hue flooding through the living room window. Sophie opened the door wide, and her jaw dropped. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

With his sweet, crinkled smile, as gentle and caring as ever, he strolled past Sophie, handing her an elaborate bouquet, a beautiful and fragrant collection of cerise roses and pink striped lilies, sparsely littered within the numerous gypsophila and coral carnations, some fern foliage added for contrast. “I just thought I’d pop over for a couple of hours to see how you and Mary are getting along.”

She followed him into the living room, setting the flowers on the table, puzzled, and glanced at the time on the DVD player. “But Mary left here two hours ago, she said you were picking her up any minute.” Now Harold was confused too, and Sophie filled in the curious silence. “She was going to spend the night with you to see how I coped on my own. Have you forgotten?”

Harold laid the other bouquet of contrasting yellow flowers, his gift for me, alongside the pinks. “Well, I don’t remember anything being said, but I must admit I’m getting forgetful as I get older! I really can’t recall anything, but if that’s the case, maybe she got bored of waiting for me and took the bus.” They both sat, each secure that they’d solved the mystery, and he mused, more to himself than Sophie. “We must have crossed each other travelling, her bus must have been delayed or something.”

“Must have. Well, seeing as you’re here, do you want a cup of tea, maybe coffee? You can try phoning her so you know when she’s arrived.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

By the time they had bloated themselves with three mugs of tea each, and the autumn sun had settled into blackness, Harold placed the telephone handset back in the cradle, his brow furrowed. “There’s still no answer.”

Sophie shared her father’s concern. “That’s four hours she’s been gone now, that’s way too long to get across town even if the buses were delayed, or she missed a couple. Dad, I’m getting worried.”

He stood, pacing, his thought processes complex as he scientifically considered the journey and what could possibly have happened, if anything had. Eventually he stilled, a light smile smoothing the lines from his forehead. “I’ll tell you what’s happened, she’s just not answering the phone. Sometimes she doesn’t if she’s engrossed in something else. I’ll drive back, I’m sure that’s all that’s going on. If she’s reading a book or doing her embroidery, she probably won’t even have noticed that I’m not there! You know what she’s like!”

Sophie returned his relief, and waved him out onto the darkening corridor, ready to face the night alone as a single parent again.

Over the summer months Darren had discovered to his delight that his deep tan and roguish looks had attracted a constant stream of female holiday makers, out in Mallorca to either visit relatives or stay in the numerous hotels and guesthouses, and he hadn’t had so many conquests since his youthful teens and early twenties. Tonight was no different: he’d had his pick from three attractive women, eager to have an easy fling. He checked his pocket for condoms, it had become his ploy to shag the women in the dark alleys and deserted copses if they didn’t have a hotel room, having had an uncomfortable experience with a stalker who wanted more than a night of fun once she knew his address. All he had to do was choose from the trio, and the simplest way was to deduce how likely they were to give him a good time rather than an unproductive goodnight kiss.

He sat at the bar, his eighth pint warming in the heat, condensation copiously dribbling down the glass, and set to work on his personality assessment:

The choice boiled down to Annabel, and he ambled up beside her, squeezing in closely, making eye contact, a sultry expression and some flattering words. She was instantly hooked, and he was satisfied he’d selected well. He had mastered the seduction process over the months: buy her a couple of drinks, get her drunker than she already was, and go in for the kill. Easy as pie, another lay. Life in Mallorca was great!

It had passed ten o’clock, five hours since Sophie had last seen me, and all the lights blazed through the windows of Harold’s house in Littleover. He’d shouted my name as he’d entered, confident of a reply, but the initial darkness had begun to concern him, and he’d traipsed from room to room, searching, becoming increasingly agitated when each room was vacant.

Now he was pacing the hallway, unsure whether to worry Sophie with my absence or not. Eventually surmising that it would only be fair, he sat on the telephone seat and dialled her number.

She was stunned. “Not there! Then what’s happened to her? Do you think we should contact the police?”

Harold sighed. “I thought of that. I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I called Alan, both his landline and mobile, but he’s not answering either. After a few attempts at both, I called the station, but the desk sergeant said that, because of her age, sound mental health, and without any extenuating circumstances to suspect she was in danger, they wouldn’t be too concerned unless she’d been missing more than three days.”

“What! That’s ludicrous!”

“Hold on, sweetheart, hear me out. They’ve taken her description, some basic details, and said they’ll keep an eye out, but we should call all her friends and family to see if she’s staying with any of them. I’m sure she’s safe and sound, Mary’s a feisty lady, I can’t imagine a mugger or whatever would be brave enough to tackle her, so don’t you worry yourself.”

The gang had it all planned out, and it went like a dream. Stalk the victim to a suitable area, grab from behind, throw to the ground, disable, a few hefty kicks to the head, and a few stabs with the knife, that should cover all options. Quick, easy, and leaving no time for reaction. Go through the pockets, take the valuables, and get the hell away before anyone sees the body. Perfect. It only took a few moments, the body lifeless on the ground, and they raced into the darkness with some decent gains.

Harold, exhausted from his inability to sleep the previous night, had given up his vigil in the empty house, endlessly hoping to see the face of the woman he loved as she came through the door. Having discarded the uneaten sandwiches he’d prepared for lunch into the waste bin, his appetite waned from worry, he drove to Allenton: he needed company and Sophie was the obvious person to share this worrying time with.

She opened the door, her forlorn expression mirroring his, and she moved aside to let him through. “I take it you’ve seen the news.” Harold nodded, knowing his voice would crack if he tried to utter a word. He strolled to the living room, legs heavy with his burden, while she silently prepared a pot of tea in the kitchen. Carrying the laden tray to the room, she set it on the coffee table and poured a mug each.

“Where’s Jaimee?” It wasn’t really a question, more an attempt to break the deafening silence.

“Having a nap. Have you, er,” she was unsure whether it was the right thing to say, but continued, “have you heard from the police?”

Harold shook his head, eyes, sightlessly focused on the teapot. “No, I’ve called them several times, but all they’ll say is the woman remains unidentified as yet.”

The tense quietness returned, swamping them with its grief, and the minutes ticked by, two, five, ten. Harold downed his tea, slightly hotter than he’d anticipated, and stood, pacing, unable to sit any more. “The news report said the woman’s face had been beaten severely, so I guess they can’t have tied it in with Mary’s disappearance just yet.”

Sophie replaced her mug on the tray and reached across for her father’s hand. “Dad, it’s probably not her. It can’t be. You said yourself how strong she was, she knows how to fight a battle.” A quick glance at the window, the open curtains revealing the exhaust stained glass, the run-down buildings across the road. “You have to be strong to live in this area, I’m already learning that one.”

A heavy rapping at the front door snapped away their melancholy in an instant, they momentarily stared at each other with hopeful, yet fearful, eyes, and ran to answer. The younger and more agile Sophie won the race, tugging the door wide with shaking fingers, yet her shoulders sagged instantly when she saw Alan, beaming a wide smile. In his hand he brandished a zipped clothes bag from the metal hanger at the top, but when he saw their disappointment his arm dropped, the tough black polythene scraping on the cemented floor of the corridor. “You two look like death! What’s up?”

“You’d better come inside, son, we’ve got something to tell you.” Harold led Alan with a firm arm about his shoulders to the living room, aiding him to sit. Still standing, he explained the situation, the mugging, the murder of the woman. Suddenly Alan burst into raucous laughter, stunning his father and sister.

“I know for a fact it’s not Mary, I’ve just left her back at my house. She’s alive and kicking.” Harold and Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, their shocked expressions causing Alan to chuckle joyfully. He picked up the clothing bag and passed it to Sophie. “Go and get this on, get some make-up on, and do something with your hair, it looks a right mess!”

“What’s going on?”

Alan tapped his nose with his finger. “I’m taking you both out. I was going to give you an hour to get ready while I took Harry’s suit round to him, but I may as well go and get it from the car, let you get changed here, Harry, if that’s okay.” Both remained seated, sharing the confusion that had replaced their angst. “Look, you’ve nothing to worry about, Mary stayed at my place last night, we’ve arranged a surprise for you. Now,” he clapped his hands impatiently, “go and get changed!”

Sophie looked stunning, a complete transformation from the weary woman who’d greeted Alan at the door. The dress was incredible, a cream satin draped with lace, elegant and flowing, not too young, not too mature. It fitted her perfectly as if it were made to measure, haute couture with a princess neckline, and ankle skimming hemline. Somehow in the space of an hour she’d managed to create a shiny, elaborate up-do from her frizzy muss of unkempt curls, and her subtle make-up enhanced her strong features beautifully. Alan had never seen her look so wonderful, proud she was his twin, and Harold had only seen her sparkle so prettily at her wedding.

The suit Alan had brought for Harold was his favourite: many, many years old, but the quality and fit were as if it were new. They made a handsome family. Alan glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about quarter of an hour left, does anyone want a glass of Dutch courage before we leave?”