The Coop Page 6

  You entered the enclosure through a padlocked gate. There were two separate roosts, one at each end of the fifteen-metre long wooden structure. It had chicken-wire sides but he’d added hinged wooden flaps that could be lowered over them at night to keep the birds warm. Connecting the two roosts was a large windowless studio lit by a strip light. One key fitted both locks and was hidden under a loose floorboard by the entrance to the dove roost.

  Nephilim let himself in and stood, arms outstretched, palms upwards, like a messiah, a demigod, allowing the doves to settle on his arms and shoulders. Gently shaking them, he knelt and lifted the loose floorboard, carefully placed the SIM card inside and replaced the plank.

  Satisfied, he made his way back outside. Downy white feathers stuck to his mud-and-bird-shit encrusted boots. He hosed them off with a rusty standpipe in the yard, then crunched up the gravel path to his late mother’s farmhouse.

  The place was a mess. He left it that way partly to spite her, but also because the farm held no interest for him, apart from the coop. He wasn’t living there but he couldn’t rent it out and risk people interfering with his projects. For a while, he kept on a couple of farmhands to keep the place ticking over but now he needed privacy for his sacred work.

  He was tired and dirty. He’d had to drive back from Wimbledon to clean up after the ginger slut. Another mistake, and one he still worried could be costly. Still, he reasoned, as he made his way up the narrow stairs to the bathroom, what could she tell them even if she did remember something – which she wouldn't. She didn’t know who he was or where she’d been. And he’d already removed his false profile from the dating website and destroyed his pay-as-you-go mobile. No, he was safe. He smiled as a more pleasant thought struck him: maybe, subliminally, letting Tessa Hayes live was his farewell gift to Gina?

  He tugged the cord and switched on the bathroom light. Pulled off his clothes and stared at his hairless body in the mirror above the sink. A ten-inch scar ran like a puce zip from his chest down through his navel. Another gift from his mother. He gently dabbed at the puckered flesh. He could still feel the marks left by the staples that had held his skin and stomach together. He turned on the taps above the grey-stained porcelain sink. The water complained its way through the pipes and burst into the bowl. He couldn’t find a plug so he stuffed the hole with lavatory paper and washed himself. The water was freezing but soft and lathered easily. He dried himself with a clean towel taken from the ugly oak tallboy that dominated the room, squirted his antiseptic hand gel onto the wound and gently rubbed it in.

  Soon, he was driving up the A3 towards London. Gina’s album tucked safely in his Samsonite briefcase on the seat beside him, he was looking forward to a film on the art works of Lucy Glendinning showing at the Saatchi Gallery.

  Ties that bind

  Guy Fawkes Night had already come and gone with the usual spate of minor burns and hooliganism. Morden Park held a huge firework display that DC Lake took her niece Ally to because her mum, a nurse, was working at St. George’s A&E, preparing for the rush of idiots and unfortunates. They had a great night until Helen got home and discovered that some yobs had set fire to the beech hedge outside her block of flats. The youths had doused it in petrol and, not satisfied with just her hedge, torched the whole road.

  Helen woke late the following morning, grabbed a banana and a bottle of Evian water, and stumbled down the concrete-and-chrome staircase and out into the front car park. A sopping mist had turned everything sepia-grey, apart from the blackened skeleton of the hedge, which stood like a scar, matching the others on the quiet suburban road. She wondered if the building insurance would cover it or whether it would be another excuse to raid and then increase the sinking fund. She gave up fretting about it, climbed in her Ford Focus, punched Tessa Hayes’ postcode into the satnav and eased out into the dregs of the rush hour.

  She was hitting eighty by the time she crossed the M25 and when she swung left and then right, back over the A3, she was barely ten minutes late. The Hog’s Back hills looked beautiful in the “mistances”, a name her father had made up for her when she was a kid. She shook her head, ridding it of the thought that he wouldn’t even remember now, and powered down the dual carriageway towards Farnham.

  Oakland Avenue was a cul-de-sac of seventies-style detached houses on the outskirts of the town, but looked curiously un-English. Manicured, open plan front lawns rolled out to meet the path as far as the eye could see, welcoming visitors to the avenue. No fear of setting fire to these hedges, Helen thought as she climbed out of her car, there are none.

  Tessa Hayes opened her oak panelled front door, wearing a chunky cable-knit sweater and cream woollen hat, and beckoned her inside. “Come in. You must be freezing,” she said, quickly closing the door on any prying eyes and ushering Helen into the warmth of the sitting room. It was a bit too solidly middle-class for Helen’s taste; all Russell Flint watercolours and silk flower arrangements, but immaculately done. And there was a real fire, spitting in the grate.

  “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Soft drink?”

  Helen held up her half-eaten banana and bottle of Evian in polite refusal. “Is that a real fire?” she enquired, not having seen one in years.

  “Yes. A man delivers the logs. They’re still a bit damp but I always think it’s nice to have one going. Especially on mornings like this. Please, take a seat,” Tessa said, indicating a floral-patterned chair beside the fire.

  Helen unzipped her leather jacket, sat, and pulled out her notebook. “So, how are you doing, Tessa? Did your daughter come and stay?”

  “She left yesterday… She has these rosters. Anyway, I’m fine now… I get a bit tearful but… It’s fine… I’m sleeping a lot.”

  She looked like shit, but Helen couldn’t tell her, or ask why her daughter felt her stewardess job was more important than her mother’s welfare. So, she kept up the charade. “Good. Did the counsellor get in touch with you?”

  “She phoned. I’m seeing her next week.”

  “Next week?” echoed Helen, trying to keep the concern out of her voice.

  “She’s not available until then. She’s on a drug awareness course.”

  Christ, Helen thought, if she were some junkie social services would be all over her like a rash.

  “Anyway, I’m fine,” said Tessa, in that English middle-class way of not wanting to be seen making a fuss. “In some respects, I suppose I’ve been lucky. I mean, he… well, he could have…” She lowered her voice, as if frightened someone might overhear. “Raped me. And the doctors said he hadn’t done… well, anything.”

  Helen already knew the details of the medical report but let her continue, knowing the more she spoke about her ordeal, rather than lock it away in an emotional cupboard to fester, the better her long-term chances of recovery.

  “Apart from my hair,” said Tessa, instinctively pulling the woollen hat further down to cover her bare neck. “Why would he do that to me?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. How is your memory now? Has any of it come back?”

  “No. It’s weird, I can’t remember anything.”

  “Rohypnol has that effect. You said you remember you were supposed to be meeting a man?”

  “And him being late but… the rest is just… gone. There’s nothing there. I can’t even remember being in the river.”

  “Well, we know you weren’t in it for long, thank God. We found a blanket in the bushes near the bridge. We think he dumped you there. Unfortunately, there’s no CCTV on that part of the road.”

  Helen pulled out a couple of ten-by-eight scene-of-crime photographs, showing a stained brown blanket lying incongruously amongst thick undergrowth.

  “What are those… stains?”

  “Believe it or not, we think they’re bird droppings,” Helen replied, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag. “We found these sticking to it. Do these mean anything to you?”

  “No. They look like feathers. Were they picked up from the r
iverbank?”

  “Possibly, but they look too small for a swan or a duck.”

  An image of downy white feather, drifting down towards her, flashed into Tessa’s mind and just as quickly was gone. “I can’t! I can’t remember… Why do you keep asking me?”

  “Because, technically, we can’t actually prove there’s been a crime yet, Tessa.”

  “I didn’t do this to myself!”

  “I know that. Okay. Let’s start again. Do you remember where you were meeting this online date?”

  “Somewhere in Kew… The Gardens, it had something to do with gardens.”

  “You didn’t write it down?”

  “In my iPhone. He took it. It had his name and profile and everything.”

  “You don’t have a computer?”

  “An iPad. It was in my purse. He took that too. I don’t understand. Why would he drug me, not touch me, yet do this to me?” She pulled off her hat, revealing her shaved head, and, despite herself, broke down and began to cry.

  Laura Fell had been sleeping badly, and since she no longer had to get up for work, having posted her formal written notice, she stayed in bed. She was still in her dressing gown at midday when her doorbell started to chime.

  She peeked out from behind her first-floor lounge curtain and was surprised to see a steel-haired, athletic-looking older guy in a blue flannel suit standing on the doorstep. He caught a glimpse of her before she had a chance to step back and mimed for her to open the window. Feeling a little foolish, she did.

  “Laura Fell,” he said, making it sound like a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes,” she replied. He didn’t look like a journalist and they’d pretty much given up on her by now, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “Who are you?”

  “I’m here on behalf of Mrs Lewis. She’d like to talk to you.”

  Laura eyed him warily. She’d rung Gina’s mother – who she’d met on several occasions – twice over the past week and left messages but had received no reply.

  “Now, if that’s possible.”

  This time it sounded ominously like an instruction rather than a question.

  “She’s in the car,” he said, indicating a silver Lexus parked forty metres down the road.

  Laura didn’t have her lenses in, so she couldn’t really see it, which added to her disquiet. “Look, uh, I was just getting in the shower.”

  “No problem. Mrs Lewis is happy to wait. Shall we say ten minutes?”

  He turned and was on his way back to the Lexus before Laura had a chance to refuse.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit,” she muttered to herself as she raced around the lounge, picking up discarded clothes, dirty mugs and old newspapers – many of which contained reports of Gina’s death. She dumped the mugs in the sink and the papers under the clothes in the dirty linen basket. Then closed the door on the mess and hurried into the bedroom to change. The doorbell started up again as she was making the bed.

  “Sorry about the mess.” Laura apologised as she hauled open the front door. “The refuse people didn’t come and you can’t leave the bags outside. The foxes get into them.”

  Celia Lewis smiled serenely, manoeuvred her way around the black bin liners cluttering the tiny, shared hall, and made her way up the creaking stairs.

  “Can I get you a tea or coffee?” Laura offered, as she ushered her into the lounge, quickly closing the door behind them.

  “No thank you,” Celia replied, still smiling, as she perused the room like a polite but slightly disappointed estate agent. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Oh… uh, twenty-two years. Actually, I’m just having a new kitchen put in. That’s why the place is a bit of a muddle. Sorry.”

  Celia turned towards Laura, eyeing her quizzically, as if she didn’t understand, and said, “You look tired. Have you not been sleeping?”

  “I’m okay, Mrs Lewis.” Laura never felt comfortable using Celia’s Christian name – she’d never been asked to and now, even more so, it seemed to lack respect. “I did try to ring you. Did you not get my messages?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, it’s just been…” Celia left the words hanging, everything she said sounded like a cliché, a lie, and she hated herself for having to collude in it. “I’m sorry to just barge in unannounced. I was just passing,” she lied again. “I’m on my way to Gina’s to start sorting things out. I wondered if you’d come with me? I’m not sure I can face it on my own.”

  Laura blanched at the thought, but how could she refuse her face to face? Celia waited for her response, hoping that she’d find it impossible.

  “Of course. But isn’t it a bit early for that?”

  “We want to get the house cleared and the legalities sorted out as quickly as possible, to put an end to all these horrendous press stories. You must have seen them?” she said, monitoring Laura’s response.

  “I’ve tried not to read anything,” Laura lied in return, knowing that the newspapers were full of Celia’s troubled relationship with her daughter. Some even questioned whether she was an appropriate person to be heading an enquiry on childhood abuse.

  “Nothing at all?” Celia repeated incredulously.

  Laura shook her head.

  Celia seemed to let it go, and changed tack. “Anyway, I thought it would give us a chance to talk. I know how Gina loved and trusted you.”

  Laura felt a wave of emotion rolling over her and could only reply, “I loved her too.”

  “As a friend or something else?”

  The question hit her like a low blow. She tried to laugh it off but could see from Celia’s implacable face that she was deadly serious.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then let me make myself clear. Were you and my daughter having a relationship?”

  “You mean… physically?”

  “Were you sleeping together? It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

  “No!” Laura retorted, finally finding her voice. “How could you think something like that?”

  “Because you are evidently the sole benefactor of her estate.”

  Laura was completely and utterly stunned. She and Gina had promised each other bits of jewellery, as friends do, if either of them suddenly died in car crash or plane crash or something, but nothing like this. She didn’t know how to react. Her best friend had hanged herself and now her mother seemed to be accusing her of manipulating her.

  “Me?” she mumbled... “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How do you know this?”

  “Because Gina changed her will the morning she committed suicide,” Celia announced, her eyes never leaving Laura’s as she looked for any flicker of recognition. “So, you didn’t know that she’d left you the house in Wimbledon?”

  The journey from Kew to Wimbledon took twenty minutes, but to Laura it felt like a lifetime. Celia retreated into silence the moment they seated themselves in the back of the car, clearly not believing Laura’s protestations about knowing nothing of the will. And Laura felt embarrassed and, despite herself, guilty, suspecting that Gina may have changed her will to punish her mother. But also knowing that the house was worth over 650,000 pounds and the money from its sale would change her life.

  Laura took a long deep breath as they approached the house. It looked pretty as a picture in the autumn sunshine. A casual passer-by would have no clue to the tragedy that occurred within it only a few days ago. The lounge curtains were closed but apart from that everything appeared perfectly normal. Even the front door, which the surly cop had kicked in, had been replaced.

  “I’ve had the locks changed, for security.” Celia produced a set of brass keys from her suit pocket and held them up for Laura.

  Laura hesitated and mumbled, “Oh. No. I mean, shouldn’t you?”

  Celia shrugged and unlocked the door. Then, stood very deliberately aside, allowing the new owner to enter first. Laura, feeling more and more uncomfortable about the situation, which was clearly the intention, eased past her.

/>   “It feels strange, being back here as if nothing happened.”

  “I’m sure,” said Celia, closing the front door firmly behind them and handing her the keys. “What made you come around so late that night?”

  The sudden interrogative tone of her question once again threw Laura. “Oh. Well, I don’t really know… It was weird.”

  “In what way? Did she phone you? Had you arranged to meet?”

  “I was on my way home from Putney. I’d been seeing some friends. I thought Gina was going to be there… Anyway, I heard these sirens and I stopped and an ambulance came past me, travelling really fast, heading for Wimbledon. And I don’t know why, but I suddenly got worried about Gina. So… I followed it.” She paused to allow Celia to comment. But she just stared right through her, as if digesting the veracity of the information; forcing her to continue. “Look, I know it sounds a bit weird, the ambulance wasn’t even going to Gina’s, it turned off, but that’s what happened.”

  “Then why did you carry on?”

  It was a logical question and one that Laura had asked herself over and over again, but she couldn’t answer because she didn’t know herself.

  “Had someone said something to you, Laura? Had, Gina?”

  She felt trapped. They were both still in the hallway, no more than three feet apart, standing outside the room were Gina had hung herself. She didn’t want to lie to Celia but she didn’t want to hurt her any more than she obviously had been. “About what?”