Home Truths

‘No I’m not selling it, and I didn’t see anyone,’ Angie said, trying to hide her anxiety. It could have been a bailiff nosing around, carrying out a quick assessment for someone she owed money to. Emma didn’t know how bad things really were so she wouldn’t have guessed at that. ‘Are you sure it was my van he was looking at?’ she asked.

Emma shrugged. ‘Hard to say for certain. Sorry, didn’t mean to worry you.’ She glanced at Angie and said, ‘It’s his birthday today.’

Angie’s heart twisted as she nodded.

‘I know you haven’t heard anything, because you’d have told me. That wasn’t him, by the way, who I saw scoping the van.’

‘No, I guessed not.’

After a while Emma said, ‘Does it make you feel afraid, when you think he might be around?’

Angie swallowed the concern that tightened her throat. Emma had never asked that before, so was it her way of saying that she was afraid? It hurt Angie deeply to think of her sister being fearful of her son, but she couldn’t deny that on some levels she was too. Or she was scared of the people he could still be hanging out with. She pushed a hand through her hair and caught a whiff of the soap she’d used under her arms. It wasn’t good enough because it didn’t manage to cover the faint trace of body odour she’d been trying to wash away. Why was that? She was clean, for heaven’s sake, so it didn’t seem right that she couldn’t make herself smell good, or at least have no smell at all.

She’d never smelled bad in her entire life.

‘Angie?’ Emma said gently, her tone questioning and concerned.

‘There’s something about me that smells,’ Angie stated loudly. ‘I’m obviously using the wrong deodorant.’

Emma looked at her sideways. ‘What sort of an answer is that?’ she demanded.

Angie started to smile. ‘It’s my way of saying I’d rather think about that than Liam, or birthdays or …’ She could have said how fast I seem to be going under, but instead she said, ‘or anything else that might come between us and our lattes.’

Half an hour later they were seated at a corner table in their favourite café, close to the window and next to a rowdy group of teens apparently just back from a ski trip. As the youngsters relived seemingly every minute of their amazing time away they kept exploding with hilarity, and their laughter was so infectious it was making Angie and Emma laugh too. Others were becoming tetchy and disapproving, but the skiers seemed not to notice; they were in a world full of nothing but black runs, snowboards and vin chaud, and why not when it was clearly a great place to be?

‘I don’t suppose they live on the Temple Fields estate,’ Emma remarked drily as the group finally piled out of the door, leaving a very generous twenty-quid tip on the table.

‘They probably don’t even know where it is,’ Angie smiled, hardly able to tear her eyes from the cash or her thoughts from what she could do with it. ‘I’ve seen one of the girls before. She used to be in Grace’s class in primary, but she went on to private school somewhere in Somerset.’

‘You must let me help to send Grace to private school,’ Hari had said a year before he died. ‘After your experiences with Liam, I think it would be wise to find her somewhere safer, even out of the area.’

Angie and Steve had discussed it, and decided they were in favour of it even if it meant she’d have to board during the week. Steve had foreseen a great future for their daughter among the kind of people he and Angie only worked for and occasionally mixed with. He’d made Angie laugh so much putting on a posh accent – the same accent he affected, without quite realizing it, when he took her to openings of hotels or restaurants he’d decorated – that she’d ended up hitting him to make him stop.

He wouldn’t. ‘Oh dahling, can’t you imagine how proud one will be to see our girl doing so well?’

‘Let’s talk some more with Hari first, find out exactly how much help he’s comfortable giving. We can’t expect him to pay for it all.’

Before they’d had a chance to do that Hari’s illness had taken hold, and the subject was quietly forgotten.

‘What’s that look about?’ Emma asked curiously.

Realizing she’d drifted, Angie said, ‘Sorry, where were we?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Actually, I’m just getting to the point where I have a favour to ask. Is there any chance you could lend me twenty quid until the end of the week?’

Angie groaned in dismay. ‘I’m really sorry. You know I would if I could.’

Emma sighed sadly, because of course she knew that. She didn’t wonder aloud how she and Angie had got to this place in their lives where they were almost always broke, because they knew only too well how it had happened. They’d never been high earners, even before they’d turned into single mothers through no fault of their own, nor would they ever be. At least in her case she got something from her ex; for Angie there was no Child Maintenance Service to help squeeze blood out of a slippery stone.

‘Actually,’ Emma said, suddenly brightening, ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea that should get us both sorted out.’

Angie was all ears.

Emma said, ‘We’re two intelligent, attractive women …’

‘In our forties, with more bags under our eyes …’

‘Listen to what I’m saying. We’re good people. We do the right thing, we’ve never been in trouble with the law – don’t let’s include Liam in this – we’re terrific mothers …’

‘Do you want to come to the point?’

‘What I’m saying is …’ She broke off as Fliss, the café’s owner, came to collect their mugs.

‘Two more, ladies?’ she offered.

As Angie’s longing flared up, Emma said, ‘We’ve already used our voucher, Fliss, but thanks anyway.’

Fliss looked surprised. ‘Oh, I think we forgot to put it through,’ she declared, ‘so we’ll treat the next ones as though they’re your first.’

Angie could have kissed her, although realizing that Fliss had guessed at their straitened circumstances made her feel she was paying with a small piece of her pride.

With a wink Fliss scooped up the twenty-pound note the youngsters had left, and instructed a baffled-looking server to clean the table ready for a couple of newcomers to sit down.

‘Bugger, I was going to pocket that,’ Emma muttered.

‘Not if I’d beaten you to it,’ Angie retorted, knowing that neither of them were serious. Or not very, anyway. Stealing from Fliss, a good friend for many years, would never be an option, no matter how desperate they were. ‘So,’ she said wryly, ‘I’m guessing your brilliant idea is to do away with good reputations, such as they are, and rob a bank?’

Emma’s jaw dropped in amazement. ‘Oh my God, you read my mind. So, do you think we could do it?’

‘No. So what’s next?’

Emma broke into one of her more mischievous grins. ‘You are so going to love it,’ she announced. ‘I’ve thought it all through and I reckon we can pull it off, no problem at all.’

Angie said, ‘Are we still talking about the bank?’

‘No, no. I’m talking about finding ourselves a couple of rich blokes whose lives would be complete with someone like us. Don’t get me wrong, I think we should carry on working, it’s important what we do, but you’ve got to admit we’re never going to meet anyone with more than a couple of halfpennies to scratch their bits with the way we’re going now. So, we’ve got to get with the dating programme. As you know, it all happens on the Internet these days. People twice our age are going on dates. They’re even having sex – OK, don’t go there – but they’re finding new lives, even getting married again, so if they can do it, why can’t we?’

Knowing she was nowhere near to wanting a relationship with anyone who wasn’t Steve, Angie said, ‘Don’t you have to pay to be a member of those websites?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Probably, if you find someone you want to meet, but initially you can just go on and have a look, see if there’s anyone suitable. Of course they’re all going to say they’re rich, and half of them are probably psychos, but what do we have to lose?’

Angie’s expression was one of pure irony.

Emma laughed. ‘OK, I get that it could all go horribly wrong, but there’s a chance it won’t …’

‘What if you end up with some creep who pretends to like kids, but doesn’t?’ Angie interrupted. ‘Or does, but in the wrong way? No, I’m sorry, you’re on your own with this one. I’ll come along as back-up if you go on a date … What is it?’ she asked, following Emma’s gaze to the window.

‘Not what, who?’ Emma responded curiously. ‘Isn’t that Craig over there? Your Craig, from Hill Lodge?’

Spotting him on the opposite corner, holding tightly to his guitar as a couple of youths in hoodies and combat gear crowded him up against a wall, Angie’s heart sank. ‘Yes, that’s him. Oh God, please don’t let them be trying to recruit him. I’m going over there,’ she declared, getting to her feet.

Emma’s hand shot out to stop her. ‘Don’t mess with them, Angie. You of all people know what they’re capable of, and you have two kids to think about.’

Angie desperately wanted to argue, but knowing her sister was right, she watched with growing dismay as Craig took something from the hoodies, put it into an inside pocket and walked away – with his guitar.

The best she could hope for was that he was delivering, not selling or using. Whatever, he needed to be much more careful than this, because the last thing he’d want was to find himself back in prison after the hellish experience he’d had there before. The other inmates had bullied and abused him so badly that the poor lad lived in mortal terror of the police and his probation officer now, certain their only purpose in life was to send him back inside.

Her phone rang, and concern for Craig vanished as a stranger’s voice said, ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Watts?’

She was immediately tense. It was someone after money. Or maybe someone had found Liam and with a wave of sadness she realised that hope was no longer first to her mind. ‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously, looking at Emma who was raising her eyebrows. ‘Who’s this please?’

‘It’s DC Leo Johnson, from Kesterly CID. We’d like to talk to you, Mrs Watts. Could you come to the station today?’

Today? Sunday? Her head was suddenly spinning, her heart thudding thickly. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked, trying to stay calm.

‘We can discuss it when you get here,’ came the reply. ‘Shall we say in an hour?’

‘Yes. No! Wait. Is it about my son, Liam? Have you found him?’

‘It would help if you could bring something of his when you come,’ the detective told her, and before she could say any more he’d rung off.

CHAPTER SIX

‘It’ll be about DNA,’ Emma said decisively, as they drove along the seafront heading back to the house. ‘I can’t think why else they’d want something of his.’

Knowing that had to be true, Angie tried desperately not to connect with what it could mean. ‘But they already have it from when … From when he was arrested. Don’t they automatically take it these days?’

‘But he wasn’t charged, so I think by law they have to delete it.’

Angie’s nails were digging into her palms as she gazed out at the heaving grey mass of waves in the bay. They were doing what they always did, swelling and dipping, hurling on to rocks and drowning the beach. Why did they seem so ominous?

Was Steve watching? Did he know what was going on?

When they got home she waited in the kitchen while Emma went up to Liam’s room. It wasn’t that Angie never went in there, if anything she spent far too much time sitting amongst his things trying to work out what more she could do to find him, even trying telepathically to reach him. It was simply that Emma had decided she ought to be the one to go up there today.

She came back with a light-blue Donald Duck toothbrush that made Angie want to cry. All his life he’d had the same one, changing it every few months for a newer model of the same. Right up until he died Steve had also owned a Donald Duck toothbrush to match Liam’s, in spite of using an electric one for the actual job.

Angie took it, doing her best not to engage with the role it was about to play, and after insisting she was all right to drive, she left Emma in the house trying to find someone to be there for the kids when they got back so she could follow Angie to the police station.

By the time Angie was left to wait in a room that was soulless and smelled of sweat and cheap polish she was somehow managing to breathe normally, though only just. So many terrible and terrifying scenarios had been racing through her mind this past hour that she’d lost sight of any good that might be about to unfold. Did anything good ever unfold in this awful space with no windows, just a roof vent that seemed clogged by leaves and a small, thick glass panel in the door?

‘Mrs Watts?’

She looked up from the table where her hands were clasped tightly together and her eyes, until then, had been on the ring stains that formed random patterns over the chipped surface.

‘Leo Johnson.’ A young, red-haired man with boyish freckles and a skewed sky-blue tie introduced himself with a friendly smile.

Angie started to get up, but Johnson insisted she stay seated. ‘Has someone offered you tea or coffee?’ he asked, taking a chair opposite her at the table.

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she told him hoarsely. ‘I’d just like to know what this is about.’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch and seemed relieved when the door opened again and a middle-aged woman with a pale complexion and deep frown lines between her close-set eyes came in. ‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she said to Angie, seeming to mean it. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Anthea Ellis. Please call me Anthea, and may I call you Angela?’

‘Angie. Everyone calls me Angie.’ Why were they being so friendly? The only reason she could think of was that they were about to break bad news.

Anthea Ellis smiled, her plain features softening into a less stressed expression that did little to put Angie at ease. ‘Thanks very much for coming,’ the detective said. ‘I’m sorry to drag you in here on a Sunday, but we’ve been contacted by our Avon and Somerset colleagues who are investigating a murder that took place in Bristol the day before yesterday.’

Angie’s heart stopped beating. She could feel her breath shortening, her mind racing with the horror of what this could mean. They think it’s him. It’s why they want his DNA. He’s dead and they’re trying to identify him. Oh God, oh God, oh God, how was she going to handle this?

Anthea Ellis was saying, ‘… the girl’s body was found beside a canal. She’s been identified as …’

‘What?’ Angie interrupted, not understanding. ‘A girl … Who …? Why are you …?’

Leo Johnson said, ‘We’re told that the main suspects in the case are individuals who might be known to your son. Have you heard from him at all lately?’

Still trying to get a handle on things, Angie said, ‘No. Not since his father …’ She stopped; they’d know what she meant.

With an understanding expression Anthea Ellis said, ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve tried to find him, but I’ve never got anywhere. Who are these people, the ones they think killed the girl?’

‘I guess we can assume,’ Ellis replied, ‘that they’re members of the gang Liam was – or still is – involved with. As you know, only five members are behind bars.’

Angie searched around for what she wanted to say, or needed to know. It was like trying to catch something invisible and turn it into something real. ‘Where – where did they find the girl?’ she finally managed. ‘You said a canal …’

‘It’s in the Lawrence Hill area of Bristol,’ Johnson told her. ‘Is that anywhere you know? Somewhere your son might have visited?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve never been there, but I’m not sure about Liam. Please tell me you don’t think he did this. You know he’s not like other boys his age; he has difficulties … If he did do it they’ll have put him up to it.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Ellis said kindly.

‘But why else would they want his DNA?’

Johnson said, ‘They’re checking on everyone known to have had some involvement with this particular gang, either directly or indirectly.’

Wild-eyed now, Angie’s voice shook as she said, ‘You know what those thugs do to people who turn them in, don’t you? I’ve seen a programme about it, they call them snitches and if they’re found they’re stabbed to death. So you have to stop looking for Liam. Please. Because even if he doesn’t tell you anything, if someone’s arrested they’ll think he talked and blame him.’

Quietly, almost regretfully, Ellis said, ‘Did you bring something of his with you?’

Angie stiffened and would have denied it if she could. She reached into her bag and handed over the ludicrous toothbrush.

As Johnson took it he regarded it with something that seemed like sadness.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Anthea Ellis said again. As she got up to leave, Angie suddenly cried, ‘Is that it? Aren’t you at least going to say that you’ll let me know when you find out that this has nothing to do with my son?’

‘Of course,’ Ellis assured her. ‘We have your number. As soon as there’s any news, one way or the other, DC Johnson will be in touch.’

Getting to her feet, Angie said angrily, ‘So now he’s a suspect in a murder case you’ll go out of your way to find him. You didn’t want to know when I came in here almost two years ago. Maybe if you’d listened to me then that girl would still be …’ She stopped abruptly, horrified by what she’d been about to say.

‘I made it sound as though I think he’s as guilty as they do,’ she ranted to Emma when she got back. ‘How could I have said that? What the hell is the matter with me? I know he didn’t do it …’ She choked on a sob. ‘He’d never kill anyone. He just wouldn’t – unless someone put him up to it. They might have forced him to do it.’

‘They don’t know yet if it was him,’ Emma reminded her softly.

Angie nodded, seizing the doubt to try and still herself. ‘So does this mean he’s in Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I know there are connections between the gangs here and there.’

Once again Emma said, ‘They don’t know yet if it’s him.’

Angie turned to look out of the kitchen window, seeing shadowy figures over a girl next to a canal, knives, fists, blood … She couldn’t make out any faces, but surely none belonged to Liam.

Her hand tightened around a mug of tea as she focused on Zac in the garden with Emma’s boys, Harry aged almost seven and Jack aged nine. They were crawling over the climbing ropes Steve had hung between the shed and an end post for the washing line. Once they reached the top they tumbled over on to the trampoline below, roaring like warriors, fearless and mighty. Liam had loved to play on those ropes when he was small, shouting out for his dad to watch as he threw himself on to the deadly enemy below.

‘How many have you slain so far?’ Steve would cry out, waving his plastic sword with a madman’s intent.

‘Millions,’ Liam would reply. ‘Look out! There’s one behind you.’

Steve whipped round, saw off an invisible attacker and shouted, ‘Thanks Liam, you saved me there.’

‘That’s all right Dad. You’re safe now.’

Grace came into the kitchen, her laptop held open in both hands. ‘Nightmare,’ she declared. ‘I’ve found some stories about the murdered girl and they’re not good.’

There had been no point trying to hide anything from her daughter when she’d come back from the station; Grace had been there and had known right away that something was wrong. Lying, or trying to skirt the issue was never the way to go with Grace. She’d somehow get to the truth in the end, and would be hurt and disappointed in her mother for not trusting her.

As she put the computer down in front of Emma, Angie saw how pale she was, and wondered whether she already believed her brother was a killer, or if she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. What was it going to mean to her future if it turned out he’d killed that girl? She’d always be the sister of a murderer, the daughter of a man who’d been beaten to death in a frenzy of gang violence; someone whose family wasn’t like other families, whose bad luck might be contagious. That was how the world viewed people who’d had dealings with the very worst elements of society, even through no fault of their own; the stigma, the shame, rubbed off on the innocent.

‘She’s called Khrystyna Kolisnyk,’ Grace was saying. ‘She was twenty-four and came from Ukraine, but she’d been in the St Paul’s area of Bristol flat-sharing with other girls for the past couple of years. No one reported her missing. The police only knew about her when a jogger nearly fell over her body while he was out for a morning run. Apparently the police want to speak to her boyfriend, Darren Milligan, and others.’ She looked up. ‘The main thing is there’s no mention of Liam.’

Hating the fact that Grace even knew about anything like this, Angie went to close the laptop down. ‘That’s enough for now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll put the chicken in the oven and start peeling the potatoes before we get a bunch of hangry boys on our hands.’

Later, after they’d eaten every last mouthful of the roast, followed by a golden crust apple pie and vanilla ice cream, they settled down to play their usual game of Monopoly. It was a Sunday evening tradition, dating back to happier times when Steve and Liam had played too – always loudly, and Angie was sure they’d both cheated for they never seemed to spend any time in jail. These past few months it had returned to being a noisy and highly competitive couple of hours at the close of the weekend and this evening’s were no exception, with whoops of triumph over big property purchases, followed by groans of outrage at extortionate rents, and shouts of protest when someone was declared bankrupt. Angie was aware of Grace’s eyes flicking to her from time to time, wanting to be sure that her mother was genuinely enjoying herself and not secretly worrying herself into a state of panic.

Angie wasn’t, at least not tonight. She was doing her best to think only of how blessed she was to be sitting here with her family, warmth coming from the fire, a solid roof to keep them dry, food to eat and no illnesses to scare them. There would be time enough later to think about Liam, when she knew for certain whether or not he was a person of real interest to the police. And as for everything else … There was no point thinking about that tonight either, so she winked at Grace to make her smile, the way Steve always used to, and was relieved when Grace winked back.

Later, Grace was in her room that her dad had made look like an actor’s dressing room, with famous theatre and movie posters in an artful montage all over the walls, a mirror with big globe lights around it, a little seating area of bean bags and coffee table for when she had visitors, and there was even an old-fashioned modesty screen that he’d bought at an antiques fair and restored for her. It was draped with various movie props and costumes that they’d tracked down on eBay; she even had a pair of dancing shoes that had been worn by one of the stars of a Broadway show. He’d made her fancy bed frame with a canopy overhead smothered in muslins and lace that cascaded all the way down to the floor.

She no longer had the computer desk he’d refashioned from an old escritoire for her to work at; after she’d uploaded photos of it to Depop it had sold right away for fifty pounds. The small collection of perfume bottles that her mum had started her off with when she was six had sold for eighty-five pounds, and the vintage-style doll’s pram Granny Watts had given her when she was four had sold for thirty-two pounds. It was amazing what people would buy, for most of her jewellery had gone – not the silver christening bangle, or her nine-carat-gold watch or the tiny diamond chip set in a signet ring that was supposed to be a family heirloom, her mum would have had a meltdown if she tried to sell any of that. It was the ordinary stuff from Zara and Next and Topshop that had gone, along with at least half of her old dolls and teddies, most of her books, her play shop, her Micro Sprite scooter and the bike she’d long since outgrown but had been planning to keep along with the vintage pram, in case she had a little girl one day who might like them.