The Philosophy of Disgrace Page 8

  The girl student, Amy, had seemed all right, worked hard and she was willing to learn. It seemed a shame that she was the one that had been sent home. Christ, her back was aching! If she’d changed one wet bed that night, she’d changed a dozen. What with that, and Bill wandering up and down all night babbling rubbish, she had just about had it. Stroll on home time. Still, she had better write up the case notes while she had the chance, it didn’t look like she was going to get to the paper after all.

  The trouble with trying to get your brain to work at five in the morning was that it always wanted to wander off and think about things that weren’t relevant to what you were trying to do. Despite the fact that he was now securely in his bed, Bill Smith kept on walking into her head.

  She could remember clearly the first time she had ever met him, the day he’d arrived at the unit. He had been a street drinker, living for years in doorways and derelict hovels’, he had stunk to high heaven and was as mad as a box of frogs. The official diagnosis was of Werner Korsakoff Syndrome, an alcohol induced dementia. The thing that had always puzzled everyone was his voice. Regardless of the content of his bizarre ramblings, his voice had the cultured lilt of an educated man. It jarred on Mary’s worldview that an educated person should end up on the streets; she was of the liberal persuasion that a good education cured all social ills.

  The police had brought him in. He was sectioned because he posed a risk to both himself and others, having acquired the habit of launching himself in front of oncoming cars, and occasionally harassing young women, believing them to be his relatives. It was Mary’s impression that the police had been hoping for a long time that one of the cars would have finished him off and solved the problem, but fate had not chosen to dispose of Bill so neatly. So, they were stuck with him, the man with no past, and certainly no future. A mystery, so much so that they weren’t even sure that Bill Smith was an accurate name, the William bit seemed right, but the Smith part had been adopted by the Police as a convenient way of filling in all the boxes on the paper work.

  Bill had been with them for five years now, the scourge of the unit, constantly disturbed by thoughts he couldn’t articulate, constantly offensive to those who tried to care for him. Sometimes, Mary thought, we keep people alive far too long.

  With a long sigh, she completed the last of the entries in the notes, slept well, bowels open plus plus plus, disturbed night, prn meds administered, and so on.

  All seemed quiet in the unit, so she finally took a look at the paper, last night’s late edition. She was curious to see if there was anything more about the murders, which had caught everyone’s attention. Always fascinated by the macabre, she scanned the pages looking for something new, something exciting. Given that the most gruesome thing she ever got to see these days was the aftermath of a dose of laxatives, she figured she could be forgiven for taking an indecorous interest in murder cases.

  According to the paper, there hadn’t been much progress in the case, though DNA material had been found with the body of the man, which might lead to the identification of the killer. That was the trouble these days, people watched TV, including criminals, and everyone was forensic savvy thanks to shows like CSI and Silent Witness. The thought of it all gave Mary a quiet thrill.

  On the next page was a grainy photograph of the missing woman, Stella Baxter. So old it would be hard to identify anyone from it, but Mary studied it carefully nonetheless. Mousy, non-descript, hardly the face of a callous murderer in her opinion, but then, it was always the quiet ones you had to watch.

  A side story caught her attention. Of course! The row between the students! Mary had been told that Amy’s father had been tied up with the case in some way. She couldn’t believe that such a juicy morsel of scandal had escaped her attention, she must be tired. There was a small picture of the house where the bodies had been found, the paper was calling it the ‘House of Horror’, too right! If walls had ears, that place would be screaming out loud. Some places just seemed to attract misery and devastation, she should know, she had started her nurse training in one of the old asylums. Seven hundred beds, all full of mad, sad and bad people, shut away in a red brick Victorian monstrosity. There had been a motto, carved in stone over the main door, she couldn’t remember exactly what it had said now, but in her memory, it always seemed to be “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here”. It gave her a shudder to think of it now, that building, all those corridors and dark corners, all those rooms that had soaked up the torment of their inhabitants over the years. There was no doubt in her mind, buildings had an influence on people, and that place, The Limes, where all those people had died, seemed to have a particularly malevolent one.

  She had to feel sorry for Amy though, can’t have been nice finding out your own father was a killer. No wonder the kid had chosen psychiatry as a career; she was probably desperate to stay on the right side of the sanity fence. She glanced at the clock, nearly time for the day shift to arrive. Reluctantly she eased on her shoes, ready to make her final round of the night.

  Amy’s train had been stuck for hours, so long in fact that the other passengers gave a small cheer when it finally started moving again. She had overheard that some idiot had driven a van off the motorway, and had rolled it down a bank onto the railway line. The driver was dead, so it had taken a ridiculous amount of time to clear the line. Amy couldn’t have cared less about the van and its driver, all she wanted to do was get to London and sort her own mess out. She didn’t even bother to look out of the window as the train pulled slowly past the charred and battered mess of the white builders van.

  By the time the train reached Paddington, she was starving and knackered, so much so she didn’t know which to deal with first. Something about the crashed van was niggling at her conscience, she had been so absorbed in her own dilemma she hadn’t considered that someone had lost their life that night. In the cold morning light, that fact injected some perspective into her own situation, and she found herself alone in the huge station, feeling more than a little foolish.

  Mike Ratcliffe got to the office early that day. Stella’s picture had been published in the late edition of yesterday’s papers, and was all over the morning news. Today he was going to get a result, he was sure of it. Ferris had come through with more forensic evidence too, strands of hair had been found clutched in Roy Baxter’s desiccated hand, still in good enough condition for them to get some decent DNA from it. Once Stella had been located, all he needed to do was to tie up a few loose ends, and close the case. Sorted.

  Frances Haines had regained consciousness too, but was still not fit for interview. She remained in hospital heavily sedated until the swelling around her brain subsided. Ratcliffe had to pity her really, nutcase family, cold fish husband, not a lot there to motivate her to pull through. Still, he fervently hoped she would, she was his only hope of actually making some sense out of this odd case. He still needed to find out about the baby, Daniel, even though it didn’t appear that the child had been murdered, someone had concealed the body, and someone needed to answer to it.

  Pondering this issue, he rifled through the papers on his desk, finding that Angela Watson had come up with some interesting stuff on the Porter clan. On seeing a copy of Charlie and Rachel’s wedding certificate, he didn’t know whether to be surprised or smug, given that his hunch about them had come to something. He recalled the photograph on Delia Jones’s mantelpiece, and smiled to himself as the penny dropped; a daughter! No wonder the face in the picture had been familiar, a less ravaged version of Rachel. Sure enough, there was a birth certificate to prove it, Amy Jones, born only a few months after her parent’s marriage. Perhaps there was some nobility in Charlie Jones after all, must be if he’d made an honest woman of Rachel. The whole thing must have stuck badly in her family’s throat though, the youngest daughter marrying a convicted murderer, having his child. He had never quite bought Rachel’s story of a row over money, the marriage and the child gave him a much better idea of why she had b
een rejected by her family. Strange that she would come back after the mother’s death though, still the prospect of an inheritance brought all sorts out of the woodwork. He found himself feeling quite disappointed in her, much to his puzzlement.

  Angela had also managed to unearth the fact that there was no record of William Porters death. Not that it had any bearing on the Baxter case, Porter had been long gone by the time Roy Baxter was killed, but if they could find him, he might know something about the child. However, that wasn’t a priority, which in a way was a relief. Tracking down people who didn’t want to be found was a tedious process at the best of times.

  He put the papers to one side, feeling a little guilty that he had made Angela trawl through the process of finding them when they shed so little light on the case. Still it had kept her busy and out of his hair for the day. Next, he found a memo, telling him that Rachel Porter had returned to London. Great! He probably would need to see her again, and schlepping up the M4 wasn’t really on his list of favourite pastimes. Still with Stella’s picture out there, he was feeling positive. It would be a good day.

  Delia was worried sick, Charlie still didn’t have his phone switched on, there was no choice, she would just have to go round there and find out what the hell was going on. As she trudged the half mile to his house, she grumbled to herself, she was too old for all of this, her legs couldn’t take it, and her heart couldn’t take it! You spent your whole life worrying about your kids, assuming that once they grew up the bother would be over. Not for Delia, with Charlie the bother just kept getting worse.

  There was no doubt in her mind that his lack of communication had something to do with Rachel, no doubt at all. Not that Rachel was likely to spill the beans, but Delia couldn’t be too careful, better to be safe than sorry. As she reached the gate, she fumbled in her bag for her key. Charlie’s van wasn’t on the drive. Typical, he was obviously avoiding her. Well, she would just sit tight until he came back home.

  Her first thought was that the house had been burgled, smashed glass, food down the walls. She had her hand on the phone ready to dial 999 when she noticed the bracelet, instantly recognising it as the one Charlie had bought for Rachel when Amy was born. When she looked around the room again it was clear that nothing was missing, so not burglars. The computer was on, Delia was not au fait with technology, but knew if she clicked the mouse thing something would happen. It did, the screen flickered into life and showed her Rachel’s address in London.

  Had he lost the plot and gone chasing up there again?

  The answer machine was flashing, she pressed the button, expecting to hear the usual work enquiries, as Amy’s voice filled the room she had to press her hand to her mouth as two and two clumped together into a great big four in her mind. Amy had been here, had come home. It wasn’t Charlie who had gone looking for Rachel.

  ‘Oh my God. What am I going to do?’ She said aloud into the empty room. Charlie would kill someone for this.

  It had been her idea to allow Amy to believe Rachel was dead, the child had asked the question and it seemed simple at the time, better than trying to tell her some other lie about why her mother had left. Simpler for Charlie too, it closed the door, meant he wouldn’t have a good reason for chasing after the impossible any more. Because Delia knew better than anyone that any relationship with Rachel was impossible, for all their sakes. It was why she had helped her to leave, had taken Amy for her, had kept her wedding ring to prove to Charlie she had really gone. It was for the best. It was the only way, but this, Amy going up there, this could ruin everything. Neither of them would ever forgive her. For the first time in more years than she could remember, Delia wanted to cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mary was knackered, all she wanted to do was get through the handover and go home, have a quick bath and go to bed. So the fact that Laurel was reading her paper while she was talking was really pissing her off.

  ‘So’ she said, loudly ‘Bill had a really unsettled night. I gave him Zopiclone PRN and he’s been settled since. Am I boring you Laurel?’

  Laurel was frowning, she had heard Mary speak, but didn’t register that the words were aimed at her. The sudden silence drew her attention. ‘Huh?’

  Everyone was looking at her.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Just something in the paper caught my eye. Sorry Mary, carry on.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Mary said, her weary tone loaded with sarcasm. ‘As I was saying. Someone needs to have a word with the doc about Maisie, get him to change her script will you. That laxative needs to be given in the morning not at night. We’ve got enough to do on nights without having to bath her at two in the morning because she’s covered in shit. Right, I’m done. I’m going home. You can keep the paper Laurel, as it’s a source of so much fascination to you.’

  Laurel was frowning, ‘Sorry, it’s just this photo. Here, Martin, do you reckon it looks like the woman who’s been visiting Bill?’She threw the paper to her colleague. While Mary impatiently struggled into her coat.

  ‘Could be. Difficult to say, this is an old photo, but there is a vague resemblance, to be honest I haven’t paid too much attention to her.’ The others crowded round him, peering over his shoulder at the picture of Stella.

  The general consensus was that Stella Baxter, wanted for questioning over her husband’s murder, was Bill’s mystery visitor.

  Mary took her coat off. Knackered or not she wasn’t going home until this little drama had been resolved. ‘I’ll call the head of nursing, hand it over to him. And you lot, not a word about this to anyone til we know what we’ve got to do.’

  Something was nudging at the edges of Charlie’s consciousness, hauling him reluctantly up from under the black blanket of sleep he was so warmly wrapped in. He opened one eye, wincing against the sharp intrusion of light and shielding himself from it with his hand. Someone was banging on the window. Everything in him revolted against the requirement to move, but he needed the banging to stop.

  Fumbling he wound down the window and squinted out.

  ‘Bloody hell mate I was beginning to think you’d died in your sleep! You OK?’ The stranger said, sounding far livelier than anyone had a right to be at that time of the morning.

  Charlie squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if the action would make it easier for him to open them again.

  ‘Sorry to wake you mate, but you’re on my pitch. I need to get the Snack Bar set up’.

  ‘Shit, sorry, give me a minute and I’ll shift’. Charlie said, shaking himself awake and trying to ignore the cramping stiffness that was threatening to cripple his movements. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea when you get set up?’ He called. His mouth felt like an Arabs dap.

  He fumbled for the keys then used the side of his hand to clear the condensation from the inside of the windscreen, hoping that his senses would gather themselves into some semblance of reactivity. He was exhausted, bad sleep was almost worse than no sleep.

  He had given the trip up as a bad job as soon as the motorway signs had started to say ‘accident ahead’. Figuring that the combination of foul mood and tiredness was a good indicator to pull off and take a break, so he’d parked up in the nearest lay by off the motorway and had intended to shut his eyes for half an hour and give himself the chance to wake up and calm down. He hadn’t expected that he would still be there in the morning. He must look like hell, yesterday alone had aged him ten years, with the salt and pepper stubble that had invaded his face overnight he must look like an absolute e wreck, no wonder he had been mistaken for a corpse. Right now though he needed a pee more than anything else, so he shunted the van forward a few yards, go out and made good use of the grass verge.

  It took ten minutes to get his tea, a strange, strong orange concoction only available from roadside snack bars, but fundamentally life giving to a connoisseur.

  ‘Nasty accident last night a few miles up. Van ended up on the railway line, caused a five car pile- up on the motorway, I reckon you made a wise move kipping i
n your van mate’. The snack bar man said as he laid out fatty strips of bacon on a greasy, unsavoury looking griddle. ‘Bacon bap to go with that?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  The man shrugged and threw a handful of cheap sausages into a deep fat fryer. The sight of it made Charlie’s stomach lurch. ‘So what’s up then, you in the doghouse with the Mrs. What did you do to deserve that then?’ The man quipped.

  Charlie put his empty mug on the counter. ‘Nothing much, just married her in the first place.’

  The man laughed heartily, pointing a fish slice at Charlie as he bellowed, ‘That’s a good one that. I like it.’

  Charlie smiled and moved away from the van just as a lorry pulled into the lay by, he needed to get home. Have a shower, do some work, and get Rachel out of his head for a few hours.

  He still wasn’t in the best of moods when he finally got home, so the last thing he needed was to see his mother sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed and looking just about ready to explode. Neither was he too chuffed to see half his belongings strewn across the floor, nor the remains of god knows what stuck to the wall.