Nothing but Trouble (43 page)

‘So Ralph must feel very protective towards her?’

Clare stared at her for a second. ‘I guess. They got to know each other pretty well over the years. My uncle was always in
and out of prison … Well, you know what for, no point going into the details. But Mum would never turn her back on Donald,
not even when he …’ Clare briefly closed her eyes and
swallowed hard. It was as if she couldn’t bring herself to think about the act, never mind say the words out loud. ‘Anyway,
apart from me, Donald was the only family she had. Ralph understood that, tried to help and support her, but other people
…’

Jess could imagine how other people had treated her. She would have been a social pariah. ‘So why did he tell me that he had
no idea whether she still lived locally?’

‘To put you off the trail, I suppose. He was worried about you making the connection between the two of us. It was a stupid
lie. They’ve all been stupid lies.’

‘And was he also lying about thinking that Donald might have been innocent?’

‘Is that what he said?’

Jess gave a small shrug. ‘He said that Donald never lied to him, that he always admitted to his crimes. But not on the last
occasion, not when it came to Minnie Bright.’

Clare flinched, her face twisting a little on hearing the name. ‘I suppose he doesn’t want to believe that my uncle did it.
It would mean that he’d been wrong about him for all those years.’

‘Wrong?’

‘You know, that he wasn’t capable of violence.’

‘Trying to protect his own reputation, you mean?’

Clare’s brow furrowed again. ‘Not exactly. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s more that … Well, he always believed
that Donald wasn’t a major risk, didn’t he? He went out of his way to try and support him, to offer him some kind of friendship.
If my uncle
was
guilty of murder, then it means that Ralph got it all wrong. Maybe that’s hard for him to face up to.’

Jess could see how Ralph Masterson might struggle to come to terms with his own lack of judgement. At the same time, she found
herself wondering if the relationship between Stella and Ralph had been more than friendship. If he had deeper feelings,
was it possible that he’d stuck by Donald Peck for Stella’s sake? She was tempted to ask but decided that now was not the
time.

Clare bent her head and buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh God,’ she murmured. ‘What have I done?’

Jess lowered her own eyes for a second. The room that had seemed so nice and cosy when she’d first entered was now awash with
pain and turmoil. Clare Towney looked very small and vulnerable, like a child lost in an adult world. Like Minnie Bright,
she had been the victim of someone else’s sins. Before Jess could start to feel too sorry for her, however, she gave herself
a mental shake, refocusing her thoughts on what Clare had actually done. ‘In the notes,’ she said softly, ‘you claimed that
Sam was responsible for Minnie’s death. Why was that?’

Clare slowly lifted her face. ‘Because she was, wasn’t she? All of them were.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice now. ‘They
made her
go into his house. They forced her. If they hadn’t done that, then—’ She stopped abruptly, pushing her fist against her mouth.

Jess didn’t fill the silence that followed. She waited patiently until Clare was ready to carry on. There was a clock on the
mantelpiece and she gradually became aware of its steady rhythmic ticking. The sound seemed to fill the room, to grow ever
louder. It must have been a full minute before Clare spoke again.

‘I wanted to scare her,’ she said eventually, shifting her hand away from her lips. ‘Really scare her. The way I was scared
back then. No one’s ever made them pay for what they did. A slap on the wrist, that’s all they got. And none of them have
ever said sorry for their part in it all.’

‘You threatened to kill her.’

‘I didn’t mean it,’ Clare said quickly. ‘I just wanted her to know how it felt to be constantly afraid, to always be waiting
for the next awful thing to happen – the next brick through the window, the next set of insults, the next pile of shit pushed
through the letter box.’ Her face grew tight and angry. ‘I just wanted her to feel a tiny, tiny bit of what we had to go through.’

‘Well, you certainly succeeded in that.’

Clare bowed her head again for a moment, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. ‘I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing
to do.’

‘And then Becky Hibbert got murdered,’ Jess said.

As if she’d been slapped, Clare’s head jerked up, her eyes widening. ‘I had nothing to do with what happened to Becky. I swear
on my mother’s life. I’d never … I wouldn’t … I sent the notes. I did the stuff to Sam’s car. I admit that. But I didn’t—’

‘I know,’ Jess said. ‘I believe you. You may be a lot of things, but you’re not a murderer.’

Clare’s eyes filled with tears. ‘So what happens now? I can’t go to the police, not tonight. I can’t leave my mum on her own.’

Jess couldn’t help but feel sorry for her despite what she’d done. ‘Maybe it won’t come to that.’

‘What do you mean?’

Jess wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, but she couldn’t see that having Clare dragged through the courts and ending
up with a criminal record was the way to go either. ‘Well, I could talk to Sam and try and explain everything to her. Maybe
if you apologised and offered to pay for the damage to her car, she’d be prepared to let it go.’

Clare leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees. Are you serious? Do you really think—’

‘I can’t make any promises. It’s not up to me.’

‘No, no, I understand. But thank you.’ As she forced a shaky smile on to her lips, a single tear travelled down her face.
‘I swear I’ll never do anything like this again.’

‘I know you won’t,’ Jess said, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll be in touch. I’ll let you know what she decides.’

They walked in silence through the front room. There was
more Jess had wanted to ask – like what Clare’s relationship with her uncle had been like – but she sensed that the woman
was already close to breaking point. Anyway, there were some old wounds that were best left alone.

‘Thank you,’ Clare said again as she opened the front door. She looked as though she was about to say something more but then
shook her head.

Jess stepped outside and turned. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. I suppose I’m just glad that it’s all out in the open now.’

‘Sometimes it’s better that way.’ Jess tapped the rolled-up newspaper lightly against her thigh. The atmosphere in the house
had been charged with too much emotion and she gulped in the cool night air gratefully. ‘Do you still have my number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, call me any time. Or come round to Mackenzie, Lind. They’re on Station Road, the high street end. I’m staying there
for a while.’

Clare’s face had a crumpled look about it, as if she was about to start crying again. ‘Okay.’

Jess felt no sense of elation or triumph as she walked back to the car. She might have solved one part of the puzzle, but
the discovery brought her no pleasure. She couldn’t condone Clare’s actions, but to some extent she could understand them.
Panic and fear could do terrible things to a person.

When she reached the Mini, Jess glanced back towards the house. The door was closed. Clare was gone. Would she be all right?
With a sigh, Jess unlocked the car and climbed inside. She threw the newspaper into the back, pulled her seat belt across
and started the engine. But still she didn’t drive away. For a while she simply sat there, wondering why it was that some
people’s lives were so full of misery. It was a while before she finally set off for the flat.

All he could do now was wait. He looked at his watch again, impatient for it to be over. Everything depended on timing, on
phone calls, on traffic, on fate. No matter how well a job was planned, there was always that element of chance. He paced
from one side of the room to the other. He had never been this worried, this anxious before. He wanted to view it as just
another assignment, but he couldn’t. There was too much riding on it. The past was slowly creeping up on him, like a cancer.

He looked down at the bed, at the gun, and tried to get his thoughts in order. What he had done had been wrong and he’d had
to live with it for too long. What kind of a man abandoned his wife and daughter? A weak one. A cowardly one. And the worst
thing was that although he felt guilty and ashamed, he didn’t regret it. Not deep down, not where it really counted. No, he’d
been relieved to get out of this place and make a new life for himself.

He stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed. Playing happy families had never come naturally to him, not after what
had happened to his mother. He felt a shrivelling inside as he thought about her suffering. It had been worth coming back
just to
spit on the grave of the man who had killed her. She had not died from a single blow, not cleanly or quickly, but only after
years of abuse. His father had broken her down bone by bone.

He thought of Anna in Cadiz. She had never asked about his past, never tried to delve into the darkness of his soul. Perhaps
she had her own secrets. Most people did. Small parcels of shame and pain, tied up with string and pushed to the back of a
cupboard that was only rarely opened.

With his fingertips he traced the zigzag pattern on the duvet cover. There was no good way of explaining the path he had chosen
all those years ago. Only that it had suited him, that it had met some inner need. He felt nothing when he fulfilled a contract.
It was a job, nothing more, nothing less. And now, for the last time, he was about to kill again.

His gaze flicked over to his watch. Not long now.

Harry knew that the first thing he should have done after Aimee Locke had approached him on the high street was to call Mac,
explain how he’d been rumbled and abort the surveillance. He should have shifted the van and gone back to the office. That
was what business partners did. They kept each other in the loop. So why hadn’t he followed the usual procedures? Why was
he still here, still watching the house and still watching the time?

There was only five minutes to go before nine o’clock. Aimee was in trouble. He’d seen it in her eyes. And she had turned
to him out of … panic, fear, desperation? Whatever the source, he felt unable to ignore it. He remembered the meeting with
her husband and the bad feeling he’d had about the man. Martin Locke was at best a bully and at worst … Well, he was about
to find that out.

Harry raked his fingers through his hair and pulled on his jacket. If he thought about it any more he’d probably talk himself
out of it. There was no harm, surely, in spending a little time with her to try and find out what was wrong. It was, he
knew, a disingenuous argument. His desire to help was rooted in something more than a vague concern for her safety. He was
attracted to her. She was not just beautiful, but enigmatic too. It was a fatal combination.

He got out of the van and strode across the road to number 6. He peered through the high wrought-iron gates at the floodlit
garden and the front of the house. Everything was quiet. He stared at the bell embedded in the right-hand pillar. Last chance
to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the van and get the hell out of here. While he was considering
this option, it occurred to him that he was in full view of the cameras. Was she watching him now, watching him dither like
some teenage schoolboy on a first date? The thought of it was more than mortifying.

He quickly reached out and pressed the bell. There was a short delay before it was answered.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘It’s Harry Lind.’

She didn’t say anything else. The next sound he heard was the smooth swoosh of the gates swinging open. Harry took a deep
breath and started walking up the path. A chill breeze sent a rustle through the pink and white rhododendrons, making him
jump. He turned and peered into the shrubbery, but all he saw was shadow.

Aimee Locke was opening the door as he arrived. Her face looked pale and drawn. She had changed out of the linen suit and
was wearing a pair of slim black trousers and a silky blue shirt. There was a tiny gold cross on a chain around her neck.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Harry nodded as she stood aside to let him in. Are you all right?’

A faltering smile quivered on her lips. ‘Come on through.’

Harry found himself in a large tiled hall with pure white
walls and timber beams. A pale wood stairway curved grandly up to the next floor. At the base of the stairs a vase of lilies
stood on a table, their heady scent permeating the air. As he followed her through to the rear of the house, he tried to keep
his gaze fixed on the back of her head rather than on the seductive sway of her hips.

The living room, built on a grand scale, was designed to impress. The walls were a pale shade of green and were covered with
abstract paintings. Harry had no idea of the artists or whether they were originals or not. There were numerous sculptures
scattered around too. Everything was ultra modern – the furniture and the fittings – as if any hint of the past was to be
avoided.

‘Sit down, please,’ Aimee said, gesturing towards one of the wide leather sofas.

As Harry walked across the room, he took in the large plasma TV and a bank of expensive-looking music equipment. A computer
in the corner, linked to the surveillance system, showed a picture of the empty space outside the gates on its screen. Long
white drapes, pulled closed against the night, ran almost the entire width of the far wall. Behind them, he surmised, were
French windows leading out to the garden.

He sat down on the sofa, sinking into the plush leather. ‘You have a lovely home.’

She looked around as if seeing it for the first time. Her soft lips parted in a sigh. ‘The gilded cage,’ she murmured.