The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 11

  “This…” Charles stood, put the biggest bits of glass on the sideboard, and kicked aside the plastic flowers.

  “You know those hydrangeas were antique, don’t you?” Eddie said.

  “Eddie, I’d like you to meet Wendy.” Charles swallowed, looked across at the woman and smiled. “Wendy,” he said, voice croaking, “this is Eddie. My son.”

  They always said that first impressions were the most important, so Eddie held in the fart for once. “Morning.” He eyed her – she was grandmotherly, but by no means cuddly. Her wavy lilac hair was clamped in place by a black net and two silver clips, and she wore a white dressing gown blown to bits by prints of massive red roses. Her hands were claws and her nails were red talons. Her puckered mouth was defined by sharp red lipstick, and her eyes peered suspiciously at him through a thousand folds of loose skin.

  Eddie couldn’t see the appeal. “You must be an excellent cook,” he said, and made an effort by smiling in her general direction as he shuffled towards the kitchen. “Brew?”

  He reached the sanctity of the kitchen, having not heard a word from her. Indeed, the silence seemed to grow heavier; he suspected there was a whispered conversation going on without him. “Would you like a brew or not, Wendy?”

  Behind him, a throat cleared. “Earl Grey, if you have it. Please.”

  “Earl Grey?” Eddie laughed, filling the kettle. “We have Morrisons’ own—”

  “No, Eddie. Eddie,” Charles was in the kitchen quicker than a ferret down a hole, barging Eddie aside, grabbing the tea caddy and laughing as though Eddie’s sudden amnesia was funny. “I told you, remember: the Earl Grey is in here.”

  “But that’s where—”

  “Come on, son, step aside. I’ll sort it out.”

  “All that’s missing is a nudge and wink, Dad.” He looked between Charles and Wendy, and enjoyed his first sigh of the day. “You okay, Dad?”

  Charles laughed again as he continued to move at sixty miles an hour in a twenty zone. “Course I am. Let me make you a coffee, and then you can go get your shower, and get off to work. Did you work late last night?”

  “Yeah, I was on—”

  “You’re one of those CSI chaps, aren’t you?”

  Charles stopped moving and grew instantly fragile. Only his wide eyes moved.

  Eddie turned to her. “A CSI chap. Yes. That’s me.”

  “Sounds frightful.”

  Charles closed his eyes.

  “Having to work with all those dead bodies.”

  “I can think of worse people to work with.” Eddie stared at her. “And what do you do, Cruella?”

  She stared at him. “It’s Wendy.”

  “It is, and I think we’re due some rain, too.”

  “I said Wendy, not windy… Ah, I see. You were having a joke at my expense.”

  “Nonsense. It was free of charge.”

  The kettle clicked off, and Charles threw a spoonful of coffee into a mug. “Just get the milk,” he said almost musically, pulling open the fridge door as Wendy and Eddie stared at each other, unsmiling, prickles growing through each other’s skin. “This is nice,” he said, looking from one to the other, and stirring the coffee so briskly that it sloshed over the side.

  Wendy saw the mess and shook her head.

  Eddie smiled and picked up the coffee, slurped his first mouthful, and watched the growing distaste on her face at his absence of manners. As he walked out of the kitchen and back though the lounge, he heard her ask, “And he stays here how often?”

  Eddie pushed the fart out.

  Chapter Thirty

  Eddie turned off the engine and turned off Floyd too. He hadn’t been listening anyway; the journey from home had been completely on autopilot and he was sure he’d slept through most of it. He stared at the glass monstrosity and lit his second cigarette of the day, elbow out in the breeze.

  Today was going to be more difficult than usual, because today, as well as only having four hours’ sleep, there was a woman in there – probably watching him right now, in fact – who he had let down last night. Okay, the job had come in and shattered their evening, but it was hardly a good start to the relationship.

  “Relationship?” Christ, he was one step away from wedding bells.

  Okay, not a relationship then; more an acquaintanceship.

  Eddie shrugged; giving it a different title didn’t make things any easier. He was about to sink just a level or so deeper and begin analysing his reasons for wanting this acquaintanceship when the gates rolled across the track again, and a black Astra, minus a spoiler, drove into the car park. Eddie noticed something else was missing, too: the terrible music. Perhaps he was making progress with Troy.

  The Astra parked at the far end of the car park, and Eddie watched Troy slobbing his way towards the glass doors, head down, rucksack dragging on the ground.

  Maybe he only got four hours’ kip as well.

  Eddie wound up the window, climbed out and locked the car. He fell in beside Troy. “How you doing today?”

  Troy grunted.

  “I see you lost your spoiler. From your car.”

  “Yup.”

  “No need to go on about it so much.” Eddie smiled but Troy’s fascination with the tarmac under his feet was obviously much greater than his interest in small talk. They stopped at the doors, and Eddie peered up at the glass turd and took a last drag before flicking away the cigarette and opening the door. “And Troy, if you’ll let me get a word in edgeways…” Still no reply. “You’re staying in the office today. Okay?”

  “Whatever.” Troy wandered through the reception as aimlessly as a disease, finally making it through the double doors and, presumably, up the stairs. The doors closed and Eddie lost sight of him. To his left, peering over the top of the reception desk, the one with the visitor’s book with the chained pen perched on top, were a pair of green eyes.

  Eddie smiled and walked towards them. “Miss Moneypenny.”

  She stood, smiling, but still too shy even to speak; which, for a receptionist, was an odd characteristic.

  “I’m so sorry about last night. Of all the times to be murdered.”

  She laughed. “It’s okay.”

  “Some people are so inconsiderate.”

  Moneypenny giggled, but her eyes never left his. Which was a shame, because he wasn’t afforded the freedom to cop a quick glance down her top.

  Never mind. It’ll keep.

  “Fancy trying again?” she said.

  “Sure. When?”

  “I took the liberty of booking the same table again for tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “Hope you don’t mind? It’s a bit forward of me, I know, but...”

  “See you there. Seven o’clock.”

  Moneypenny’s smile widened right across her face. “Deal.”

  “Provided no one else gets murdered, of course.” The chances of it happening again were minuscule; he was on safe ground. And, although he’d spent less than a minute with her, he thought it all went pretty well, and he needn’t have worried.

  Eddie walked towards the double doors. He didn’t see Troy moving quickly out of his way as he barged through them and bounded up the stairs like a man who’d had a full and gratifying eight hours’ sleep.

  Troy smiled to himself and took the stairs rather more slowly.

  * * *

  Eddie opened the CSI doors and wasn’t surprised to hear Sid singing some undistinguishable tune at his desk while flicking through a magazine.

  “Sid!” he bellowed.

  Sid looked up, clutching his chest. “Don’t do that, Eddie!”

  “It’s the only bit of fun I get.”

  “Imagine if it gave me a heart attack and you had to do CPR and mouth-to-mouth on me.”

  Eddie stopped in his tracks and thought about it as he stared at Sid’s black lipstick. “Fair enough. I won’t do it again.” He walked further in, his nose twitching. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, I have
Darjeeling. It’s monumentally awesome. Really, you should try some; it’s very good for the complexion.”

  “How would you know? You wear more makeup than Lady Gaga. Coffee?”

  “It’s on your desk. Two garibaldis as well, because I bet you’ve had no breakfast again.” He stared. “Have you?”

  “No. I had an argument instead.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Eddie sniffed the air again. “Where’s Troy and Kenny?”

  “Not here yet. And you have to be in Mr Crawford’s office in” —he lifted his arm and stared at a huge wrist watch— “eight minutes.”

  “The fuck is that?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No. It’s gross. It looks like Big Ben.”

  “Cheek. It’s a birthday present from my mum.”

  “In that case, it’s lovely. What is that damned smell?”

  “Airwick. Scents of the Forest. Like it?”

  “Smells like sheep shit.” Eddie turned around and headed to his office.

  “Oi, that cost me six quid!”

  “You were robbed. Tell Kenny he’s doing a PM at ten o’clock. He can take Nicki with him.”

  “Righto.”

  Eddie retrieved the coffee from his desk, stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and went back into the main office, almost bumping into Troy. “Where did you get to?” He spat crumbs.

  “Toilet.”

  Eddie nodded towards his office, and Troy followed him inside. He closed the door. “Today is your random drugs test.”

  Troy’s eyes closed and his chin hit his chest.

  “You’re going to fucking pass. Aren’t you?”

  He looked up. “Eddie…”

  “Don’t ‘Eddie’ me. Just make sure you pass.” Eddie snatched the other biscuit from the desk and headed out with his coffee. “And don’t leave this office before I get back.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jess woke up, staring at the blood under her fingernails and caught in the creases of her knuckles. At first she thought she’d somehow cut herself overnight, but then reality hit her like a hammer blow to the chest, and she shrieked.

  And then she surprised herself by laughing.

  Last night, she had come home to an empty flat. She’d expected Tony to be there, sitting in the chair, smelling. But judging by the air quality, he hadn’t been around all day. His absence had been disappointing; she’d wanted to share Bolton’s killing with him. She’d realised he was the only person in her life she could trust. And she’d wondered if sharing her burden would bring them closer again.

  When she’d closed her eyes last night, she’d been fearful of every noise in the building, of the junkies shouting at each other from the next room, the toilet on the first floor flushing, expecting the coppers to put the front door in at any second. But she’d slept, and she’d slept well, and she couldn’t remember having dreamed of anything at all, let alone anything about taking someone else’s life. The only thing that had kept tugging at her mind was the thought of the jacket and knife she’d left behind. But what the hell could the police do with a sodding jacket anyway? Nothing. She was home free. And the same went for the knife: she’d put it in the pocket straight after washing it up – it was clean.

  She’d run a long warm bath and scrubbed her nails and her arms, used a piece of broken mirror to inspect her neck and face, and even though she couldn’t see any of Bolton’s blood there, scrubbed them anyway. She’d washed and rinsed her hair half a dozen times before climbing, wrinkled and reddened from the tub, and then poured a bottle of bleach down the plughole.

  Now she dressed in a t-shirt and sweater, and one of her last pairs of jeans. She bundled yesterday’s bloodied clothes and gloves into a shopping bag, ready to go into someone’s bin as far away from here as she could get.

  She crossed Bolton off her list and got used to the idea of being a killer. And any time she doubted that she’d done the right thing, all she had to do was replay his evidence against her in court, and replay Michael telling her to leave him alone. Vindicated. Job done.

  Sticking the blade in had been the hardest part. The build-up to it hadn’t exactly been a picnic, mind. But she’d realised that once you’re committed to it, and you feel the blade thrusting towards someone, it becomes a feedback loop where you wonder how hard to push and how deep to go. As it turned out, she’d set both dials to ‘full’, and it had worked out just fine. But it had still been the hardest part.

  Watching someone’s life end because of you was like flicking a switch. You shifted from wondering what it would be like to kill someone to remembering what it was like before you had.

  Once you’re over this side, there’s no going back.

  Twelve years later than the justice system had given her the name, she became a murderer.

  She tried on the new title for size and decided that it was easy to live with, and even gave her confidence. She stood before the little cabinet mirror in the bathroom and smiled at herself full-on. Suddenly, life didn’t seem so terrifying any more; suddenly there was an option for when things didn’t go your way.

  “Maybe it would have been better all along if I had killed Sebastian.”

  Jess picked up her keys and the bag of bloodstained clothing, and slammed the door.

  * * *

  She had dumped the bag of clothes in a nearby bin.

  The door banged shut behind her, and traffic noise dimmed to a hum. Jess suddenly came awake from the daydreams she’d had on her journey here. The plaque on the wall said West Yorkshire Probation Service, and suddenly felt not quite as brave as she had been in the bathroom earlier.

  As she climbed the stairs, the old fear of meeting Sidmouth leached back into her mind, and she could feel the new wall of strength crumbling. It was sad, that her new superpower was made of fucking meringue. The higher she climbed the drier her mouth became and the wetter her hands grew. But this was the hardest part, wasn’t it? The anticipation? Set all your controls to full, and it’ll be fine.

  Except Jess didn’t quite believe that.

  She stood before his office door and knocked.

  “Come.”

  She took one last deep breath and entered John Sidmouth’s office. There he sat, a sickly little smile on his thin pink lips, like he had a secret about her that only he knew of, like he was playing with himself under the desk.

  “Sit.” The grease on his nose and his forehead glistened, and she could see long hairs sticking out of his ears.

  She almost retched. She pulled the chair away from his desk, sat and crossed her legs, and folded her arms tight across her ribs.

  “It didn’t go well with Michael, I hear.”

  She shook her head. “I need to see him again.”

  His eyes and his smile grew a little bit wider. “I can arrange it. But I should warn you

  Don’t make me, don’t make me, don’t make me

  that Michael has been suffering recently.”

  “Suffering?”

  Sidmouth pushed his own chair back, rubbed his eyes beneath the thick black-rimmed glasses. “He’s been in bother with the police. Twice in the last few months.”

  “What kind of bother?”

  “Petty stuff, mostly. The worst thing was stealing his foster mother’s car. He didn’t damage it, and she didn’t want to proceed with any action, but…” He nodded. “Well, it’s not good. I think he’s mixing with the wrong kind.” He paused. “Unless of course, he is the wrong kind.”

  “How can I help?”

  Sidmouth smiled at her. “I don’t see how your intervention could help him at all. He began going off the rails shortly before your release from custody.” He raised his eyebrows. “What does that suggest to you?”

  “He needs to get to know me again, Mr Sidmouth. He’s worried, that’s all. Once we’re back to normal, he’ll calm down.”

  “I don’t see a ‘back to normal’ anywhere on his horizon, Ms Ripley.”

  Jess felt numb
. “She offered me money.”

  “Who offered you money?”

  “Michael’s foster mother.” Jessy leaned forward. “She wanted to buy him!”

  “Really?”

  “Is that all you can—”

  “Ms Ripley. Think of your position. Think of your future. That kind of thing is illegal, and—”

  “Fifty grand.”

  Sidmouth stopped talking, mouth still open. When it closed, he licked his lips and said. “If you look, however, at Michael’s future, one might conclude…”

  Jess’s eyes widened. “Are you—”

  “I’m merely speculating… I would be willing to act as broker if—”

  “I’m not selling my own son! He’s not a,” she tried to find the right term. “He’s not a—”

  “Liability?” He let out a breath. “Could be a new start for both parties. And a healthy one for you.”

  “You were telling me it was illegal a minute ago.”

  “Just thinking of your wellbeing, Ms Ripley.”

  “Well I’m not giving up on him!” She sat back, deflated. “And I’m not selling him, either.”

  Sidmouth appraised her, his eyes straying from her face and settling on her chest. “Glad to hear it,” he whispered. “I need to make recommendations first, of course. But I’m sure there won’t be a problem in arranging another visit.” He stared at her. “Will there?”

  “Are we going to do this dance every time I want to see him?”

  Sidmouth smiled at her.

  “You are sick.”

  “I am also in charge of whether you see your drop-out son or not.”

  She made to get out of the chair, but Sidmouth didn’t flinch.

  “I am the man who decides whether you stay free or go back to prison; you’re on licence, Jessica, remember. Life can be pretty tough for someone in your position. Better get used to it.”

  “But—”

  “I would suggest that makes me your best friend, wouldn’t you? Someone you’d like to keep on the right side of?”