Come and Be Killed: A Chilling Psychological Thriller, page 12
Evelyn raised her head from her writing and stared out at the sodden landscape beyond her lounge window. A scene which had hardly changed since the days when Rose and Will Scott had first laid the foundations of their prosperity with Scott’s Rifles.
Yes, she’d often walked by the cottages where Rose’s father had been born, and marvelled at how his only child had succeeded in her ambitions when women then were rarely more than the servers of meals and bearers of children. The Gables had been bought by her son Thomas after his parents’ sudden deaths. Will Scott died instantly in an accident on an icy road, while Rose, who’d given their son her surname, had been mysteriously attacked at home and left to die under trees on the common.
Evelyn shivered as if her forebear’s fate somehow presaged her own. She looked over to where her gun room lay, installed by Thomas to protect himself and his own family from further tragedy. She was beginning to feel this unique privacy, this spaciousness not as a haven but a mausoleum. The lofty coved ceilings suddenly seemed too high. The corridors upstairs too secretive. Even the land, once a welcome plateau amongst the encroachment of bracken and ever-growing trees, wasn’t really hers any more, but Brownlow’s. And was it fear rather than the usual fire which she glimpsed in her eyes as she bumped her Zimmer frame past the big gilt mirror on her way to the kitchen? Fear of decay and death or something far less tangible?
Her stomach reminded her that she’d not eaten since yesterday lunchtime, and a sudden light-headedness made her slump on to the chaise-longue. Her watch showed three o’clock. Two hours past her normal daily snack of crispbread topped by game pâté, but when she finally reached the fridge its glass shelves were bare, save for a pack of bacon turning purple in its sealed plastic coffin.
‘How very strange . . .’ she muttered to herself, sure that there’d been more when she’d checked last night. Where was the rest of the pâté? The cottage cheese she also liked, the bumper pack of smoked salmon?
She resolved to ask Brownlow as soon as possible. He should have brought the main weekly shopping by now. She knew he’d not been to Waitrose for three days, but perhaps her request for him to take her to Hill Springs was her ration for that week. Perhaps he was busy, or had simply forgotten. Hardly, she thought. The one thing she knew about Sean Brownlow was that he never forgot.
So, what could she do? And in that instant felt more than a touch of envy for Merle who, needing the aid of only one walking stick, didn’t have to rely on a man who was never at the other end of the phone when she called. Who hadn’t acknowledged her most recent messages left on his answering machine and who, when he now came on to her land to practise shooting, ignored her. In the past, he’d at least glanced at the house and certainly never left without checking she was all right. So what on earth was going on?
Other irksome problems also kept her awake at night. She’d still not received the firm’s half-yearly trading figures he’d promised her. Nor the minutes from the last shareholders’ meeting. And then she suddenly realized why. Hadn’t she, last month, hinted he’d become too overbearing, too intrusive? Of course. How could she have forgotten that unguarded flash of anger which had so utterly changed his face? A reaction of such intensity it had shocked her.
It was time to act, she decided, to regain control. Just as she’d shut the fridge door she heard his Jeep’s diesel engine approaching up the drive, followed by the slam of its boot. Determination drove her outside, to fill her weary lungs with air. Then she noticed he’d parked where her beloved Jaguar used to be. Her special place.
‘I’d like a word, please, Sean. I won’t keep you a moment.’
But his back stayed turned to her as he stepped up on to the wet grass which stretched away below the treeline. A heady dampness hung in the air, making each bone in her body feel as if they might suddenly crumble to chalk. Pain made her shout more loudly than she might otherwise have done. ‘Who is it paid your mortgage when you were laid up six years ago? Who lent you money for that car?’
He stopped, turned to face her, his cap’s peak casting his eyes in shadow. Then he lowered the rifle crooked under his arm. She stepped forwards and as she did so, heard the crack of a snail shell under her velvet slipper, then saw its glistening innards attach themselves to her toe. If she stood on one leg for just a second to rub it away, she could fall all over again.
‘Who helped you out with Merle, then?’ he replied.
At first, she was confused. Then realized he was referring to finding carers.
‘That woman you brought in last Tuesday was hopeless. You built everyone’s hopes up. You said she was perfect.’
‘And so she is.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Another dizzy spell brought on by hunger made her grip weaken on the Zimmer frame.
‘The one who started yesterday really is perfect.’
He’d always been clever with words and now she was even more confused.
‘What day was that?’
His laugh was the strangest she’d ever heard and she wanted it to stop right there.
‘Thursday the twentieth. Don’t you remember? And the good news is –’ he smiled as he slotted the rifle beneath his armpit – ‘she’s more than happy to come and help you out when the time comes.’
He was playing games. Nasty games; and this particular one was more open than the others.
Evelyn looked down at the slimy mess on her best slipper, stepped out of it and hobbled back to the open front door, suddenly aware that if yesterday was Thursday, then today was Friday the 21st. Midsummer Day, when the Solstice Society, of which he was a founder member, would be holding their celebrations. All the more reason for her to be safe indoors with the alarm set. Why? Because the man who was neglecting her still possessed a key.
Chapter Sixteen
Scott. One of three hundred and sixty-five in the area phone book not including those with no phones or who might be ex-directory. But to Frankie, odds of three hundred and sixty-five to one were better than a million to one, so how could she have turned this job down with that name attached to it when she’d specifically asked the agency for Worcestershire? The attraction had been a fictitious Auntie Joan in Droitwich. Someone fondly remembered, but not seen since she’d left school. It would be nice to live not too far away to keep an eye on her, she’d added. Homely Helpers had said Malvern was their nearest placement and once they’d described their elderly client’s big house in a nice village, with plenty of money floating about, Frankie realized she’d be a world away from the maze of Openshaw’s grimy streets and that unlucky little semi in Dartmoor Road.
So, now here she was, deep in the lush Worcestershire countryside, under clouds which suddenly and unnervingly changed everything from dark to light and back again. Where Teme House was one of the most humungous private dens she’d ever seen. Even her car looked like a Dinky toy – no, a shabby Dinky toy – next to it. But it wasn’t until the tall wax-coated guy who’d introduced himself as Sean Brownlow was showing her round all its nooks and crannies, while Miss Merle Scott was refusing to budge from her commode in the cloakroom, that she realized how much the place must have cost, not only to build but to maintain.
In fact, 358 Dartmoor Road would have fitted into the lounge alone, while the tall arched windows wouldn’t have looked out of place in a church. The smell was high too. A mix of perfume and poo, heightened by the central heating which had already made her sweat under her new zip-up cardie. When she’d reminded Sean Brownlow it was the middle of June and maybe too hot for her charge, he’d fixed her with the kind of look which was Mr Patel’s trademark.
‘On no account must she get cold,’ he’d said, with the slightest trace of Irish in his voice. ‘I’m here to ensure she gets the best.’ Then, once he’d sped away in his flash wheels having promised to return the next morning, she stripped to her T-shirt and added the impressive plastic apron nicked from her last job at Manchester Royal Infirmary.
While she waited for Miss Scott to perform, she wondered how come this guy was so involved. He wasn’t even a Scott. If she didn’t have enough on her plate worrying about the drip-drip of news from Kilfargan she could have easily let him get to her. But some men were like that. Needing to be boss. Top dog. She’d seen it in his eyes straight away, and how his hand had rested on her shoulder while showing her the view from the study window.
Suddenly, the door bell chimed and before Frankie could check on Miss Scott’s progress it chimed again. Someone in a hurry, she thought, opening the door to a ruddy-faced man in a white coat who she guessed must be in his early seventies. The most striking thing about him were his hands encased in latex gloves. The kind she’d used at Gee’s that Christmas Eve. Items she still possessed. Just in case.
His van engine was running, drowning the sounds of merrymaking she’d noticed earlier coming from the black hump of land which reared up beyond the equally strange rear garden.
‘Will you be needing any fish today?’ he asked. ‘Miss Scott likes it on a Friday.’
Frankie hesitated and glanced back at the cloakroom.
‘What kind of fish?’ She thought of pike, with pink gaping jaws . . .
‘Haddock, usually.’
‘OK. That’ll do.’
He led the way over to his van printed with the words peter maddox. fresh fish. est. 1965 and slid open its side door to reveal a morgue of grey and silver corpses whose open mouths bore sharp little teeth. Whose dead eyes seemed oddly moist. She shivered as he pulled out a lower drawer containing bright yellow fillets laid out in size order and picked up two of the larger ones.
‘They look nice,’ she lied while he weighed them and dropped them into a plastic bag. He plucked a sprig of parsley from a nearby hook and added it to the haddock.
‘Oily fish means oily skin.’ He grinned false teeth as he handed over the smelly package which felt too heavy in her hands. ‘Six pounds twenty to you, miss.’
She paid with her own money, but would enter it in the carer’s book along with any other expenses, so Miss Scott could repay her.
‘Who’s that looker?’ The man eyed the colour photo dominating her opened wallet.
‘My sister.’
‘You must think the world of her.’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘And you are, if I might ask?’
‘Frankie Holt.’
She could have lied, but what was the point? Besides, if her surname rang any bells or he’d heard of that problem family from the papers, he didn’t show it.
‘From up north, are you?’
She nodded, wondering if her voice needed more work.
‘Night, Miss Holt.’ He finally got into his driver’s seat and indicated the top of the hill. ‘By the way, you going up there later?’
‘What for?’
‘Summer Solstice shenanigans. Bit of a tradition in these parts. Mind you, England losing to Brazil will be a bit of a downer. Did you watch the match?’
‘No. Anyway, I can’t leave Miss Scott on her own.’
‘At least you sound a better bet than the last girl she ’ad.’ The fishmonger revved his engine. ‘And the one before.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled.
‘Enjoy your meal, then. And,’ he added, ‘watch out for bones.’
‘We will.’ Just like the pikes with Gary Cope, she thought. ‘See you next week.’
She carried the heavy bag well away from her body, wondering how best to make the kind of meal her client clearly expected. The only fish eaten in Dartmoor Road had come covered in crispy batter and wrapped in the Manchester Evening News, while any cooking at Briarfield was restricted to its trained kitchen staff.
She would just have to use her initiative.
‘Is that you, Frances?’ Miss Scott’s voice surprised her, coming as it did from the top of the stairs. At least she’d seen to herself in the cloakroom. Things were looking up. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Your tea.’
Merle Scott was sitting in the chairlift near the landing, her fat white legs dangling in midair as the green light set into the newel post began to flash on and off.
‘Wagons roll,’ she chuckled as the chair began to grumble its way downwards and Frankie deposited the fish in the kitchen. She’d only been at Teme House for twenty-four hours, but as she’d told the agency, she was a quick learner, getting to know the ropes.
‘I must say, dear, you’ve got such pretty eyes,’ Merle said unexpectedly, allowing Frankie to escort her into the vast beamed lounge and switch on the TV.
‘Do you mind me asking if you’ve any brothers or sisters?’ Frankie said. She placed a rug over those lardy knees, thinking it a good time to broach the question. After all, the name Scott had made her gulp audibly when Homely Helpers had first offered her this permanent placement. Was this a big or a small coincidence? That harmless enough surname had lodged in her brain like a disease ever since Beryl had let it slip out, and her next move would be to fill in those dead hours in the afternoon when Merle liked to lie on her bed and listen to Radio 4, by digging where she could to discover if, on February 20th 1980, either she or any female relatives had given birth to a baby and been heartless enough to give her away . . .
She was just about to ask again when Merle piped up.
‘I’m starving.’
‘Twenty minutes, promise.’ Nevertheless she still hung around for an answer until the silence grew too awkward. Then she took the carer’s book into the kitchen to update it while the fish simmered in an old saucepan on the stove.
‘A sister,’ shouted Merle all of a sudden. Frankie tried not to overreact.
‘Cool. What’s her name?’
A pause while the yellowy foam bubbled out beneath the saucepan lid.
‘Jenny. She’s very nice.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Frankie watched as the fishy water suddenly overflowed. The gas went off then came on again with a sharp pop, making her jump.
‘But I’ve not seen her for a long while now.’
Frankie frowned to herself as she wiped up the stubborn mess on the cooker and wrung out her cloth in the sink. The agency hadn’t mentioned any sister and she wondered why. Perhaps the old girl wasn’t thinking straight. That was the most likely explanation.
The TV seemed louder now and, using the ballpoint connected by string to the red exercise book, she began filling in the day’s events, including pills taken, toilet visits and ending with the cost of the haddock. Then, just as she was about to drain the haddock and place it in a Pyrex dish, the hall telephone began to ring.
‘I’ll get it,’ she shouted. ‘No probs.’
‘It might be Sean,’ said Merle. ‘He’s good at checking up on me.’
‘I know that.’ But it wasn’t Sean. Not by a long chalk. Despite the heat from a nearby radiator, Frankie froze as Avril Pilkington’s voice reached her ears.
‘Frankie? How’s things with you?’ Her cheery tone seemed wafer-thin.
‘Fine, just fine, thanks.’
‘Nice part of the world, Malvern.’
Bitch.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘It’s my job, Frankie. And, despite what you might think, I do actually care about how you’re getting on.’
Then came that annoying laugh like the last time she’d called her. The ‘I’ve got you taped’ tone.
‘I’m doing really well with Miss Scott here, and she’s so grateful for every tiny thing I do for her,’ Frankie crowed. ‘It’s brilliant.’
‘I’m sure your mum’ll be pleased.’
Shit.
‘I had to let her know where you were, Frankie. Don’t forget, she’s already lost one daughter. She rang me an hour ago – worried sick.’
Liar.
‘It’s been that hectic, I clean forgot. I’ll get back to her straight away.’
‘She’ll appreciate that. So, I’ll get off the line . . .’
‘Cheers.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ added the DC in that same irritating voice. ‘Do you remember a Mrs Daphne Cope, one of the residents at Briarfield?’
That name sent another shot of ice through her body right down to her legs. She felt more than numb. Paralysed.
‘Course. She’s lovely. Is she all right?’
‘I’m afraid not, Frankie.’ The police officer’s voice then changed down a gear. ‘She’s suffered a major stroke and is on a life-support machine. Prognosis is very poor. I thought you ought to know, considering you worked at her home all those years and were very close to her . . .’
Suddenly Frankie’s throat dried up. Her eyes brimming.
‘But she was fine when I last saw her. Ate all her meals, did the crossword with that Mr Smithson, liked a joke, you know the kind of thing.’
‘It’s now been proved that people can actually suffer and die from a broken heart. Did you know that, Frankie?’
‘Course, but . . .’
A faint click, followed by silence left her feeling dizzy.
‘Who was calling?’ asked Merle.
‘No one important, honestly.’
‘I’ll have to believe you, then.’
From then on, the day was spoilt, as if one of those great lolloping clouds outside had landed permanently overhead.
‘Thanks, you,’ Frankie muttered to her absent tormentor, wondering how the hell she knew about Teme House and its ex-directory phone number. Why had she told her about old Mrs Cope?
‘I’m ravenous!’ Merle interrupted, trying to tip herself out of her mechanized chair. Frankie got there before she fell.
‘It’s ready.’ She forced a smile. ‘And I’m peckish too.’ An expression which John Arthur used, and like the rest of him, hard to shift.
‘What have you made?’
A fucking pig’s ear, if you must know.
‘A surprise.’
‘Good. I like surprises. Don’t you?’
‘Not much.’
As she walked behind Merle to the dining room, which conveniently led off the kitchen, Frankie observed how her thinning hair sprung in coils from her skull. Grey at the roots, red at the ends; she wondered what colour she’d been originally. Frankie scrutinized the woman’s hips, her puckered thighs revealed by the too-short ra-ra skirt she’d insisted on wearing that morning. Was it possible that’s where she’d come from? Anything was possible.
