TT13 Time of Death (39 page)

Patterson laid his knife and fork down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, I know he was on foot, for a start.’ He waited for a reaction then nodded down at his dog. ‘She barks at people she doesn’t know … well you’ve seen, haven’t you? But she’s not psychic, is she? She makes the din of the bloody devil if there’s
any
car coming towards the place, and she didn’t make a squeak that night. So, I reckon he parked up somewhere and walked the rest of the way. Probably stuck the piglet in a sack, something like that, then carried it back to the car.’ He nodded, pleased with himself. ‘Oh yeah, he certainly planned it all out.’ There was a hint of ‘you’re welcome’ in the
look he gave Thorne before he went back to his breakfast. ‘So … do with that what you will.’

Thorne watched the farmer mop up what was left on his plate with a limp slice of toast and controlled the urge to tell him that his dog had probably worked as much out weeks ago. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Right, well I can’t hang around here gassing all day.’ Patterson pushed back his chair. ‘Things to do.’ He stood and nodded to the man behind the counter, then turned for the door without saying goodbye, the dog at his heels.

Behind him, Thorne could hear the owner shouting orders through to the kitchen. He watched the farmer leave, thinking that even if being busy meant filling cardboard boxes with yellowing magazines, at least the old man had plans. Thorne had left the house with the distinct impression that Helen was happy to be left alone, and he had no idea what he was going to do with himself.

I’m not ill, Tom
…

He remembered the expression on Helen’s face; one that he had never seen before, that perhaps she would not recognise herself. Her mouth twisted in pain, or rage, or determination. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Her eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed on a spot somewhere on the far wall of that bedroom, as someone on an unsteady boat might focus on the horizon to avoid being sick.

Now, Helen needed time and space and he would give her as much of both as was necessary.

He looked at his watch. It was still only ten past eight.

Thorne ordered more tea and reached for the paper.

Helen pulled a spare dressing gown of Paula’s over knickers and an old T-shirt and went downstairs. The house was a lot warmer than it had been when Tom had left, but it wasn’t doing her any favours. She had managed to get another couple of hours’ sleep, but she still felt listless and heavy; deadened, as though she was moving underwater.

She picked up the newspaper from the front door and carried it into the kitchen.

She made herself coffee; two spoonfuls from the jar and only a dash of milk. She needed it, needed
something
before she felt able to read beyond the front page. She briefly considered searching through the kitchen cupboards for spirits, then thought about Linda and changed her mind.

MURDER SUSPECT’S TEEN GIRLFRIEND
. A picture of Aurora Harley in school uniform.

She felt suddenly sick looking at the picture again. A memory, triggered. The coffee kept the nausea at bay and energised her, though that might just as easily have been the anger that began to crackle through her as she read the story.

It was clear that Aurora Harley had spoken to the newspaper, might even have supplied the photograph, but she was not the one telling the story. Quotes had been carefully selected and placed to suit the angle being vigorously pushed. Helen was hardly surprised, but that didn’t keep the anger in check. It didn’t stop her wishing she’d smacked that journalist in the pub when she’d had the chance.

That same smug face staring out above this morning’s byline.

Helen could imagine the woman’s reaction when Aurora Harley had come bowling along in her squishy, silver jacket. Eyes wide and a fat smudge of crimson blusher beneath those delicate cheekbones.

I just think she deserves a chance to tell her side of the story
…

The bitch would not have been able to write the cheque quickly enough.

While keeping on just the right side of the law, the paper had clearly decided that continued pandering to the lynch mob was good for business and that Stephen Bates was guilty as charged. It stood to reason that, whatever his teenage girlfriend might have to say, she was living proof that he was the scumbag most right-minded people thought him to be. Surely, her very existence was only going to be one more weapon in the prosecution’s already well-stocked armoury.

The glee was just about disguised, even as those doing the reporting revelled in their disgust.

‘It’s stupid,’ says the petite teen. ‘How could he have kidnapped anybody when he was with me?’ Aurora Harley shakes her head and holds her hands out in an effort to look genuinely bewildered. Perhaps it is a gesture she has learned from one of her parents. Her mother is currently claiming disability benefit and her father is a labourer who, at thirty-nine, is only a few years older than the man his daughter now claims to have been sleeping with
.

On the next page, Linda’s ex-husband was keen to get in on the act and give his reaction to the Aurora Harley revelations. This time, Wayne Smart was pictured with his children as toddlers; Charli with front teeth missing and Danny grinning on Smart’s shoulders. The perfect father.

‘Even if Bates didn’t do it, this news makes me even more determined that he shouldn’t be allowed near my kids ever again, my daughter especially.’

Even if Bates didn’t do it. It was the first time Helen had seen even the smallest degree of doubt expressed in print. Perhaps it was a good sign.

She pushed the paper away, turned it over so she wouldn’t have to look at that front page again. She stared out across the fields and downed the rest of her coffee.

In her school uniform, for God’s sake …

‘Morning.’

Helen jumped, then turned. She laughed nervously and apologised. She had not heard Jason Sweeney come in.

‘No,
I’m
sorry.’ Sweeney held up his hands. ‘Didn’t mean to—’

‘I didn’t think there was anyone else in the house,’ Helen said.

He walked across and flicked the kettle on. ‘Not working until tonight.’

‘Oh, right. Don’t you usually sleep in if you’re working late?’

‘Yeah, usually.’ Sweeney was wearing the same ratty dressing gown Helen had seen before. It was sprouting loose threads and one of the belt-loops had come away. She found herself wondering if he was wearing anything underneath. ‘Just woke up for some reason and couldn’t get off again.’

‘Sorry, I hope that wasn’t me.’ When Sweeney turned to get milk from the fridge, Helen quickly drew her own dressing gown tighter across her chest, despite having a T-shirt underneath.

‘Why don’t I do us some breakfast?’ Sweeney asked.

‘It’s OK, thanks. I’m fine with coffee.’

‘I do a mean scrambled eggs. Got some tomatoes somewhere as well.’ He bent and began rummaging in the compartment at the bottom of the fridge.

‘I don’t normally bother with breakfast,’ Helen said.

Sweeney laid the box of eggs on the worktop, the tomatoes he’d managed to locate. ‘You’ve got to have
breakfast
.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘It sets you up for the day, doesn’t it?’

‘Like I say—’

‘What are you doing with yourself today, anyway?’

‘I’m not really sure.’

‘Thought you’d be over at Linda Bates’ by now.’

‘I’ll probably go later.’

‘I can give you a lift if you like.’

‘Right. I’ll let you know.’

‘Tom already gone out, has he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Early bird then, like Paula …’

Helen was thrilled to hear her mobile buzzing in the pocket of her dressing gown. She was already standing as she took it out and saw who was calling. She gestured with the phone, excusing herself as she walked towards the door, and Sweeney shrugged his understanding. She waited until she was out in the hall before she answered it.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ Thorne asked.

‘No, I’ve been up a while.’

‘Did you get back to sleep?’

‘For a bit.’

‘Everything OK?’

‘Tell me about the farmer,’ Helen said.

‘Waste of time,’ Thorne said. There was a pause. ‘Decent fry-up though.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Another pause, longer this time. ‘Did you see the paper?’

‘I was just reading it.’

‘Not a surprise.’

Helen said, ‘We threw her to the wolves.’

‘Well …
you
didn’t do anything,’ Thorne said. ‘I was the one who told her she could talk to the press.’

‘It doesn’t matter who said it.’

Helen waited. She could hear Sweeney moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

‘She knew what she was getting into. I did tell her.’

‘She’s a kid.’

‘She was fine with it,’ Thorne said. ‘I told her what they were like. She was keen on the money.’

‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m sure I can amuse myself.’

‘OK …’

‘I’ll call you in a bit.’

‘You don’t have to, honestly.’

‘Or you call me. When you’re … ready or whatever.’

‘It’s fine, Tom. Call if you want to.’

There was just the crackle on the line for a few seconds. Then Thorne said, ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

Helen ended the call and turned to find Sweeney watching her from the kitchen doorway.

‘Everything OK?’

Helen slipped the phone back into her pocket and stepped towards the stairs. ‘I’m just going to go up. Have a shower and get dressed.’

‘What about your breakfast?’

‘Like I said, I’m not really hungry.’

Sweeney said, ‘I’ve already started making you some.’

‘How come you and Mum aren’t talking to each other?’

Charli looked at her brother. ‘What?’

‘You had a row or something?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Charli said.

They were downstairs in the sitting room. Danny was sprawled in the armchair and Charli had her legs pulled up beneath her on the sofa, a small brown cushion hugged close to her chest. Danny scowled at the TV remote as though its failure to get more than the basic channels on the television was an unforgivable act of betrayal. With limited choice in the matter, he sat watching
Bargain Hunt
, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.

‘Like just now,’ Danny said. ‘Outside the bathroom.’

‘What?’

‘You and Mum. All those funny looks and not saying anything.’

‘Can’t you find anything else to watch?’ Charli asked. ‘This is shit.’

‘You said you didn’t care what was on.’

‘Yeah, but it’s like I can feel my brain cells dying off.’ Her chin dropped on to the cushion and she let out a theatrical snore. ‘Old people buying rubbish then trying to sell it to other old people.’

‘It’s since yesterday.’ Danny flicked through the channels. ‘Whatever’s going on with you and Mum. After she sent me down here to get her wine or whatever.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Yeah, you do. I knew something was going on. Like she was trying to get rid of me or something.’

‘Why would she be doing that?’

‘You must think I’m stupid.’

‘No, but I think you’re a dick who can’t find anything decent to watch on telly.’

‘It was something about Steve, wasn’t it?’

‘What was?’

‘The row you and Mum had.’

Charli sighed as though her brother was simply being too ridiculous to engage with any further. The same way she did whenever he tried to talk to her about music or how slaggy her friends were, or when he commented on what she was wearing. She waited for him to turn back to the television, then shouted, ‘Oi!’ When he turned round, she laughed and threw the cushion at him, but he raised an arm to swat it away, in no mood to mess around.

Charli said, ‘What’s up with you?’

‘What’s up with
me
?’

They said nothing for a while. It was a lot quieter outside the house than they had become used to and there was no need to turn the volume up on the television to drown out the shouts. Danny tuned back into
Bargain Hunt
, ignoring the tutting from the sofa, the comments about how lame the programme was,
how lame
he
was. He watched for another few minutes, then threw down the remote and stood up.

‘This is such bollocks.’

‘So find something else,’ Charli said.

‘No,
you
, I mean. You’re being such a bitch and I’m completely sick of it.’

‘Calm down. Jesus …’

‘We’ve got to be honest with each other, you said.’ Danny began kicking at the base of the armchair. He would not look at her. ‘Always tell the truth. No bullshit, you said.’ He was kicking harder, the chair inching across the carpet. ‘No bullshit.’ He turned to look at her, shaking his head. His mouth was tight as though he were about to spit or burst into tears. ‘And what’s so funny is that you’re full of it.’

Charli watched her brother march out. She winced as the door slammed behind him and hugged the cushion that little bit tighter.

He had every right to be angry with her, because now she wasn’t telling him things and she had promised that she would, and he was anything but stupid. That’s how families worked, wasn’t it? You could pick up on any little thing, a falling-out or whatever. The smallest change in the atmosphere, like a draught coming from somewhere.

Usually, anyway.

The day before, upstairs, with Danny out of the way, she had been so angry. How on earth could her mum have asked her something like that? Where the hell had it come from?

Easy to understand now, of course. Charli had seen all the stuff on her Facebook page, the links to the story in the paper, the things that girl had said about Steve. Danny had seen it all too, the stupid comments and the photos posted by trolls with nothing better to do. He knew just as well as Charli did why there weren’t quite so many people outside the house any
more. Now, a lot of the reporters were outside that girl’s house. Now,
she’d
know what it was like to be shouted at and studied like you were one of those sad white mice in the school biology lab.