Driving Me Mad, page 23
As I sipped my coffee, I thought about what might happen to him. Would they arrest Freddie and put him in prison, even at his age? It wasn’t as if he would serve his time and then return to the community and kill another hapless victim, was it? But, he had killed someone. He also had had sixty years of freedom, whilst Ellen had been buried in the Roaches.
Another thought occurred to me. Would the evidence we found be enough to convict Freddie? In reality, all we had was a photograph with a number in handwriting other than Annabel’s on it. Yes, the photo had been in his possession, but it could have been a gift from the person who had killed Ellen Howell, someone trying to implicate Freddie to cover up his or her own tracks. Considering the photograph was definitely from the stack we had found at Annabel’s house, the police could even point the finger at her, now that she wasn’t around to defend herself. Ellen could have been killed in a lover’s spat, or even because of love spurned, especially as the notebook would clearly substantiate the longing Annabel had for Ellen. Sure it mentioned that Freddie hit Ellen, even that Annabel suspected Freddie had killed his wife, but even I’d had doubts at one time about the veracity of the notebook.
Fuck. And times that expletive by a thousand.
“Are you okay?”
Clare’s voice broke through my mental investigations, and I couldn’t help sighing.
“What’s up? We’re dry and on our way home, aren’t we?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think the police will think it was Freddie.”
Clare frowned. “What do you mean? We have proof.”
“No we don’t.”
She snorted. “If they dig up a body, isn’t that proof?”
“But what’s to stop them thinking it was Annabel who killed Ellen? Or someone else we haven’t even thought of?”
The air inside the car seemed to freeze, even though the heater was on full. Clare raised her cup to her mouth and tapped it rhythmically against her lips. She squinted through the windscreen, into the light cast by the headlights.
Slam. The cup hitting the dashboard made me jump.
“Fuck!” She smacked the steering wheel with her open palm. “FUCK!” It seemed as if Clare had worked it out without my prompting. She turned and looked at me. “He can’t get away with it. He can’t!”
Too damned right, but it was beginning to look as if he might. We couldn’t very well tell the police that we had been visited by the ghosts of the deceased women. They would tell us to take a hike, and we had literally done just that to find where the body was buried. We were not about to take another one. It also wasn’t an option to try to trick Freddie into spilling his guts; he was on the defensive now. He knew we had the photo and the coordinates; he was probably just waiting for us to accuse him of murder so that he could trot out an alibi he’d had ready for years.
I rubbed my face to get the blood circulating through the numbness, catching the stitches over my eye in the process. I was so very tired. It had been a long and exhausting day, even before we went hiking up the sides of hills in the dark. What had happened at the hospital with Freddie had been draining enough, and then seeing Ellen so badly beaten, the sheer gamut of emotions I had run through would have been enough to stun an elephant.
“Let’s go back to the house and get some rest. You look done in,” Clare said. I felt it, too. “We’ll talk this over in the morning, try to get at angle on how to put this across to the police, okay?”
Before I could respond, she put the car into gear and moved off. I was still staring at the hulking shapes of the hills standing watch in the darkness.
* * *
After a hot shower, I climbed into bed. The events of the day took their toll, and in mere moments I was asleep. I stirred when Clare climbed in beside me and pulled me to her. The security of her body close to mine helped me to drift off into the black void. I truly expected to dream, but I didn’t, at least not that I could remember when I woke.
It was light. The starkness of the November day crept past the half open curtains. I was still in Clare’s arms, her gentle snoring coming from behind me. Shifting on to my back, I studied her face in slumber. Long, dark eyelashes rested on faintly flushed cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted, allowing air to easily pass in and out. Dark strands of hair wisped over her cheek, and I felt the urge to brush them back. Instead I tentatively slipped my thumb over her eyebrow, then down her nose and across her cheek. Her lashes fluttered, and I was treated to the full gaze of her beautiful brown eyes. At that moment, I fell in love with her all over again.
Clare leaned closer, until her breath was touching my face. Our eyes met, and nothing else mattered. Soft lips brushed mine, and yearning raced through me. Another kiss, a little firmer this time. My arm wrapped around her and pulled her closer, and her body shifted into perfect alignment over mine. Even through our sleepwear, I could feel the definition of her body, the soft firmness of her breasts. The kiss became deeper, more desperate, and my hands slipped inside her top to touch the soft, silken skin.
Clare broke the kiss, and her mouth moved to nuzzle my neck. Sensation rippled through me, and the jerk of my hips told Clare that I needed more, needed her. I slid my hands around to her front and struggled with the buttons on her pyjama top. We were too close for me to get a proper hold on them.
Clare leaned back and grabbed the hem of her shirt. With one swift motion, her enticing breasts were on display. For a moment, I was surprised into inaction, but that didn’t last. My hand traced her collar bone, and then my fingers roamed freely over her skin. They travelled to the hollow of her throat and paused. Clare leaned slightly forward, as if inviting me to move lower. I trailed two fingers down to the valley between her breasts, biting back the impulse to capture the pliant flesh. Instead, I moved slowly over one breast and then the other, then back to the middle again. My exploration continued along the line of her abdomen, then reversed direction and moved upwards. Countless times I followed the same route, and each time I was enthralled by the feel of her skin, watching in fascination as her muscles rippled beneath my touch. I bit back a groan at seeing her nipples standing expectantly.
Finally I allowed myself the pleasure of cupping both breasts and holding them for a moment. My thumbs slipped along the curvature, flitting across the peaks to tease and excite. Clare leaned back and pushed her breasts into my hands. A low moan slipped from her throat. Her hips ground into my stomach, and wetness began to gather between my legs. Again, and again, and again, and more moisture, more delicious sparks at the spot that ached for her touch. I pressed my palms against the soft, supple skin of her breasts, my thumbs insistent against erect nipples.
“God!”
Her voice was throaty, sultry. Her hips moved faster, but the heat of her body could not contact my skin because of my pyjamas. I wanted her naked body to settle on mine, or mine on hers.
As if she was reading my mind, her hands, shaking slightly, came forward and undid my buttons. One swift tug and I was fully exposed to her, and not just physically. It was obvious how much I wanted her. My love for her was visible in the crisp light of morning.
Clare leaned forward and captured my nipple in her mouth, sucking gently then flicking it with her tongue. As the sensation ricocheted inside me, hitting every nerve and emotion, it was my turn to groan. In one fluid movement, Clare slipped her body up mine, the feel of her skin creating an ever deepening longing for her. My hands caught the band of her pyjama bottoms and pushed downwards, my fingertips deliberately sliding along her backside in the process. Clare lifted one leg, twisted, lifted the other and kicked the bottoms away, leaving her naked on top of me. Her left knee pushed between my thighs, opening me to her, her right leg soon followed by. Instead of settling between my legs, she leaned back and pulled my bottoms from me, lifting each leg to remove the sleep trousers. Her legs between mine, her hips pushed upwards to press her pelvic bone against the spot that was yearning for her touch. Clare’s mouth met mine, and her kiss was hungry, needy. One of her hands cupped my ass, the other curved around my shoulder, securing me in place for her thrusts. A tendril of hair fell over her face, and I pushed it away. I wanted to watch as she made me feel so wholly loved. I gripped her backside, making each push, each thrust, each delicious forward motion a little more insistent than the previous.
Our breathing was ragged with exertion, but that didn’t slow us down. I wanted her to love me, to take me to heights that only she could. And then I wanted to do the same for her. Nothing else mattered but that moment, that feeling, that love we were sharing.
“Becky.” Her voice was breathless, urgent. “Becky…I…”
Her lips crushed against mine and our tongues danced together as if they were waltzing. Bodies moulded together as the fire between us leapt and burned. I knew I was close.
Clare ripped her lips from mine and stared straight into my eyes, her face flushed, her movement never stopping. “I love you, Becky.”
My orgasm erupted with a force that was white, bright, all consuming. I heard Clare cry out, and her head tilted back whilst her hips bucked into me, bonding us. Then she buried her face against my neck. I couldn’t say whose heart it was that was thundering. At that moment, our two hearts beat as one.
It should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I wanted to taste her, to be deep inside her. And I wanted her to do the same to me.
Before I could make a move, her hand slipped between my thighs and two fingers entered me. Clare shifted back slightly, withdrawing her fingers, only to position her hand more securely. She curved her body so her hand had room to manipulate, but also so she could press herself as close against me as she could.
The loving was primal, instinctual. Hot breath on my throat was followed by hungry lips. My world was ablaze with sensation, and felt myself being swept away in the power of it. Each kiss, each affirmation of love led me further down the path of no return. My hands gripped her back, my fingers digging into her skin. And then something deep within me sparked, igniting a conflagration of sensation, a connection of two people finding their home, their love, their future.
Chapter Seventeen
We finally struggled out of bed at gone ten o’clock the next morning. After we had both showered, and I had tended to my eye and the wound on my calf, we ate a late breakfast. Over the food, I was frequently caught staring at her, mesmerised all over again to know that someone as beautiful as Clare Davies was interested in me. It warmed my heart to know that most of the times I looked at her, she was looking at me. I blushed when that happened, and I realised that inside I was still a teenager after all.
After breakfast, we sat down on the sofa in the living room to discuss our options.
“Shouldn’t we go to the police and tell them what we know?” I thought it was a logical place to start, they were the authorities after all, but Clare nailed it when she pointed out the obvious.
“We have a photograph with numbers on the back that we think are coordinates, a diary that could have been written by anyone for any reason, and the two of us who keep on seeing ghosts.”
“One of those ghosts guided us to the place where she was likely buried.” That probably wouldn’t sound any more convincing to the police. “And we marked the spot with a yellow rock.” That sounded far-fetched.
Clare tilted her head, her lips pursed slightly as if she was actually giving my suggestion serious thought. “I think, and please don’t take offence at this, the police would tell us to fuck off.”
The way Clare said it made me laugh. “I guess they would. To be honest, I would too, if someone came to me with what we have. So what are we going to do? Our options are limited if we can’t involve the police.”
“We could confront Granddad again and get him to spill the beans some way or another.”
“And try to get him to admit what he did to the police?”
Clare nodded. “It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”
“Knowing Freddie, he would more than likely stitch us up to the police to such an extent that we would end up doing time for a crime he committed, despite the fact that neither of us was even born when it happened.” I wanted to add “Sly old bastard that he is,” but given the expression on Clare’s face, I decided I’d best keep my thoughts about Freddie to myself.
“I think you may be exaggerating, Becky.”
Clare was right. Not having been born when the murder happened likely would keep me from being incarcerated for a crime I didn’t commit. But Freddie had escaped justice for nearly sixty years. It was frustrating to know for sure it was him and not be able to sell our conclusions to anyone else. It was definite that no mention of dreams or ghosts or misplaced keys would be spluttering from either of our mouths to the authorities.
Clare sighed and rubbed her hands over her face in exasperation, whilst I sat there and stared at how beautiful her fingers were.
“Fuck it!” Clare stood abruptly, breaking me away from my daydream. “What have we got to lose?”
“Erm…”
“I’m going to the police. If they believe us, bonus. If they don’t, they don’t.”
The last bit was less enthusiastic, which was understandable. If we went in there cock handed, we would bugger everything up and they would never believe us, even if we turned up film footage of Freddie killing his wife.
She was part way to the door, her determination clear in even the way she walked, when she stopped, turned, and looked back me. “Are you coming, or what?”
Too damned right. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
* * *
It wasn’t easy convincing the police to take notice, at least not at first. When Clare stepped forward and announced to the man behind the desk, “I have information about a woman who’s disappeared,” the officer nearly fell over himself grabbing a pen and a pad.
“Name of missing person?”
Clare looked at me and gave a slight nod, as if to suggest that maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult to convince the law after all. “Ellen Howell. My grandmother.”
The pen scratched the words onto the sheet of paper.
“And when was the last time you saw your grandmother.”
“Oh, I’ve never met her.”
The silence in the station deafened my ears with its resounding scream, and the time it took the officer to look up at us from his pad was a tad longer than was comfortable.
“You’ve never met her?”
Clare shook her head.
The officer bit his lip, sighed, then set the pen on the counter next to the pad. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know she is missing? Another relative? Your grandfather, for example?”
Part of me didn’t want Clare to have to say the thing that had to come next, and I wanted to pull my jumper over my head and hide.
“To be honest, there is reason to believe my grandfather has murdered her.”
The officer’s mouth dropped open.
“And buried her on the Roaches.”
The policeman stared into Clare’s face and then turned to me as if he wanted me to either support or deny what she was saying. I, like a perfect witness, shrugged and grinned stupidly.
“So, you’re saying your grandmother has disappeared and you think your grandfather is responsible, and that he buried her on the Roaches?” He nodded at Clare, and she nodded back. “But you have never met her? Is that your statement?”
“Yes. In point of fact, she disappeared sixty years ago.”
That that was the moment I wanted to ground to open up and swallow me whole. The noise the policeman made in his throat was something I don’t think I would ever be able to replicate.
“And we have a feeling we know the spot where she is buried,” Clare added helpfully.
I was inwardly praying that Clare was not about to divulge any more than that we found the coordinates on the back of a photo, an entirely concrete piece of information. Otherwise, I had the distinct feeling we were both about to be turfed out of the station.
“I know it sounds far-fetched, that you are probably thinking I’m a sandwich short of a picnic, but can you just check the files? There will definitely be something there about Ellen Howell. I promise you.”
The officer stood stock still, the air between him and Clare thick with expectation.
“Just hold on a minute.” He squinted at Clare. “Wait a moment, Madam.” He moved to the rear of the counter area and place a call, presumably to the officer in charge of lunatics who was situated elsewhere in the building.
Turning to Clare, I forced a grin. “At least he didn’t tell us to sling our hooks.”
Clare released a tense laugh. “Not yet, at any rate.” She nodded in the direction of the officer on the phone. “He’s probably telling the other boy in blue that he’s got a couple of weirdoes in Reception and wants a psych report done ASAP.”
The officer looked in our direction, his demeanour reflecting more alertness than previously. When he moved his hand to half cover his face, a feeling of unease travelled through me.
“I’m not too sure that…” I didn’t finish, as the officer hung up the phone and was on his way back to the counter.
“It seems as if there was an Ellen Howell after all.”
I bit back the “No shit, Sherlock.”
“Seems as if Mrs Howell’s case file was used for training purposes for a number of years. Fortunately Bill Edwards, the officer I called, has a vague recollection of that missing person case study when he joined the force nearly thirty years ago.”
Clare leaned closer to him, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “What does he remember about it?”
“Not much. Just that a woman went missing in the early nineteen fifties, there was an intensive manhunt for her, but she was never found.”
“I’m sorry for sounding stupid,” I said, speaking for the first time. The officer looked at me, his expression blank. “Why on earth would they use Ellen Howell’s case for training purposes? They never found her, right?”
