Chapter Thirty
1
Penny sat at the kitchen table and looked out at the overgrown garden. Her mother had cried herself to sleep on one of the living room sofas an hour earlier. It was so unfair. Her mother had done nothing wrong and neither had she, but somehow they seemed to be the ones who were paying the price. They were the homeless ones while he had the run of their house.
Mrs. Hughes placed a small tray with two cups of piping hot tea on the dining table and put one of them in front of Penny.
"I would never have expected it, not from a man like your dad," said the housekeeper as she sat herself down on the opposite side of the table, blocking Penny's view of the disorganized, outside world.
"Yeah, well my dad's just a stupid bastard isn't he?" Penny raised her cup to her mouth, blew on the hot liquid and took a sip, trying hard not to let it touch the bad part of her lip.
"Penny, you shouldn't speak like that," the old woman frowned.
"Why shouldn't I? Why should we be the ones who have to leave our own home? He's the one in the wrong here isn't he?" Penny put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her cupped hands. "That tosser should be the one out on his ear not us."
"Penny!" said the old woman firmly.
"But he shouldn't be able to get away with it, should he?" Penny kept her eyes glued to her teacup as she spoke. "Just look at what he's done to mum."
"And to you dear," said the Mrs. Hughes. She reached over the table and stroked Penny's head gently.
Penny looked into the old housekeeper's eyes; they had a sad watery quality about them. For the first time in ages, Penny felt the choke in her throat. No, I won't cry, she thought. If I do he wins. She picked up her cup and took another soothing sip of hot, sweet tea.
"Anyway, I can't wait to see Tamicka again." she smiled, changing the subject.
2
Sergeant Bill Galvin opened his notebook as he stepped out of the main hospital building and re-read Cass Blakely's story. It was only when the first drops of rain hit the pad and smeared his neat handwriting that he realized what had been a cloudless blue sky only twenty minutes earlier was now a heavy, slate grey.
What's happening with this bloody weather lately?
He quickly pocketed the book and jogged across the car park towards the police car. P.C. Roger Morton sat behind the steering wheel. The driver's seat had been reclined quite far back and his head lolled back against the headrest. Probably out on the town last night, bloody idiot, Galvin thought, opening the driver-side door. He gave the young constable a nudge.
"Yeah Jill, I'll be up in a minute," he mumbled tiredly as he sank as low as his long legs would allow him to in the confines of the car.
"No lover-boy, you'll be up right now!"
Morton jumped bolt upright and rubbed hard at his eyes as he tried to make some sense of where he was. "Sorry sarge, I must have dozed off for a minute."
"I think I'll drive."
It took a little while for Morton to fully register what Galvin had said. "I'm all right sarge really," he said as he reached for his seatbelt.
"Look, just shift over and think yourself lucky I don't put you on report."
Without another word, Morton climbed out of the car and walked over to the passenger-side door. He tried to open the door but Galvin had already climbed into the car and hit the central locking.
"Hey sarge, what's going on?"
Galvin lowered the passenger window slightly and smiled. "I think a walk back to the station should wake you up a bit, don't you?"
"But it's bloody raining out here."
"My point exactly," said Galvin as he turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.
Morton looked sorry for himself as he hugged himself against the growing downpour. Half of Galvin wanted to leave him right there where he stood; the other half knew that if Cass Blakely really had seen a girl in trouble the search of the area around the lake would take half the time with Morton's help.
"Get in you idiot, we've got work to do."
3
"A penny for them?" said Mrs. Hughes.
"Sorry?" replied Penny absently.
"Your thoughts dear, a penny for your thoughts."
Penny blinked and the face of her watch came back into focus.
2:25 pm.
She had been staring at it for the past ten minutes without even realizing; her mind locked onto wondering what they going to do once her mother's business with Tamicka's dad was settled and they had no further excuse to stay. She really didn't want to spend another cold, uncomfortable night sleeping in the car. On the other hand, neither did she relish the thought of spending the night up at the big house.
"These thoughts are not worth as much as that," said Penny as she raised the teacup to her lips. She couldn't help pulling a face as the cold liquid touched her lips.
"Don't worry dear; I'll pour you another one." Mrs Hughes got up to take Penny's cup.
"Do you mind if I just go down and see how mum is?" Penny was already getting up from her chair as she spoke.
"Of course not dear." The old woman walked over to one of the wall cupboards and took out another cup and saucer. "I'll bring the tea along when it's ready, all right?"
"Thanks Mrs. Hughes, you're the best." Penny watched the housekeeper grin and blush deep red as she turned towards the kettle.
"Ow... stop being so silly, go and see to your mum, there's a good girl."
Penny turned and ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and into the main hall. She had no idea what made her stop outside the first door to her right and take hold of the brass knob. She had not meant to; she had just planned on going straight along to the living room. The doorknob felt like ice in her hand. She wanted to let go but her right hand turned it and slowly pushed the door open. Even though the huge, sash windows had been left half open smell of turpentine and oil paint hung heavy in the room. Penny had the feeling that the art studio had not been used in quite some time even though Mrs. Hughes had done her best to keep it as clean as the rest of the house.
The one common factor about the many canvases, which hung and leaned against the studio's walls, was that none of them appeared to be finished; none that was, until she turned to her left and saw a portrait of a little girl whom she recognized straight away as Mrs. Hughes' granddaughter, Jane. The little, copper haired girl sat on an old tree stump outside the old house by the far end of the lake dressed in a short sleeved, pink gown that made her look like a fairytale princess. Jane's eyes squinted against the bright sunshine as her pretty face smiled out at Penny.
The painting was amazingly lifelike. The paint had been applied in thin glazes with ultra-fine brushstrokes which, combined with the expression on Jane's face made the picture look almost like a photograph.
"Lady Munford painted that picture two years ago."
Penny had been so lost in the painting that she jumped at the old woman's voice.
"Sorry, I was on my way to mum when..." Penny turned and realized that Mrs. Hughes was also looking deeply into the picture; a mixture of deep yearning and reminiscent happiness playing over her plump, lined features.
"I used to bring Jane up here all the time whenever I was looking after her and I had to work." There was a long uneasy silence before the old woman carried on. "That little one could be such a handful when she felt like it; always under my feet she was." The sad smile grew on Mrs. Hughes' lips. "But not in a bad way of course."
Penny didn't say a word. The way the housekeeper gazed longingly into the painting, was as if she stood in the room all alone with just that picture for company.
"She would always pester me into letting her help out around this old place; always polishing or dusting or sweeping." The old woman's eyes took on a watery quality and her smile faltered slightly during the next silence.
"She must have been a great help to you." Penny was shocked to hear her thoughts aloud.
"Great hindrance more like." The old woman's smile beamed again at the memory. "She put more dirt on than she took off if you ask me. She was such a good little girl though."
Mrs. Hughes moved a little closer to where Penny stood without taking her eyes away from the painting. "Lady Munford took her out into the woods to get her out of my hair that day." She nodded towards the picture. "I got a picnic hamper together for them and off they went."
Penny looked back at the painting. "But it looks so real; surely it must have taken more than a day to paint it?"
"Oh no, she didn't paint it out there." Mrs. Hughes let out a low chuckle. "No, Lady Munford did most of her paintings from photographs; took her a good few months to do that one. Funny, it's the only one she ever finished. At least while she lived here that is." The old woman turned and looked into penny's eyes for the first time since she had entered the studio. "Anyway come on, I'll get the tray from the kitchen and we'll go down and see your mother."
Penny smiled. "Okay, let's go."
Something strange happened as she turned away from the painting. For a split second she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. When she looked back at the picture she saw something she hadn't noticed before. There was something that looked like a face staring out of one of the downstairs windows.
"Mrs. Hughes, who's..." she turned to complete her question bur the old woman had already left the room.
4
There was a time when twenty-seven-year-old Roger Morton had really loved his job. Not the job exactly, but the power and respect it commanded. If anyone had told him that when he had finally graduated from Hendon he would be running around woodland looking for some old house – which may, or may not exist – to look for some snot-nosed little kid – who may or may not be in trouble – in the pouring rain, he would have laughed at them. As a matter of fact he probably would have knocked them senseless. London was his patch and the Met was his future or at least that is what he had thought.
Morton was hardly the model copper – in fact he was maybe a little too far from it. He had loved the hustle and bustle of his beat in South London. He didn't attract many friends, but then he was not there to be friendly. He was there to catch criminals and if the odd one or two ended up with a broken nose or some cracked ribs nobody would loose too much sleep over it. That was his way of thinking. He couldn't have been more wrong.
He had had many complaints laid against him in the year and a half he had spent in Stockwell, but he was good at his job and his superiors knew it so most times they would just tell him to use a little less force in future. Of course he hardly ever listened.
It was only when it became apparent that almost all of his arrests were of young black or Asian men, quite a few of whom had water tight alibis, that he was finally put under investigation. Morton's superiors suspended him while the enquiry continued but with no proof that any of these arrests had been malicious in any way they were forced to reinstate him. He went back to the police service a changed man and kept himself out of trouble; at least for a while. He didn't have time for criminals not – just the ethnic ones – but, as far as he saw it, they were the worst of the lot and the sooner they were off the streets the better.
One night, on Stockwell's Wandsworth Road, Morton arrested a black man whom he didn't like the look of only to find out he was an off duty police sergeant. From that second Morton's fate was sealed and it was only a matter of time before he was given the choice to leave the service or to accept a transfer out of London.
And now there he was, traipsing through the dense undergrowth of the damp and miserable Eastlake woods while a thunderstorm raged on somewhere above the tree tops.
Ahead of him, Sergeant Bill Galvin seemed to be making lighter work of moving across the boggy ground.
"Christ all bloody mighty!" one of Morton's feet became entangled in the undergrowth and was sent sprawling to the ground.
Galvin didn't even look back; he just carried on walking deeper into the woods as if he knew exactly where he was going.
5
It had been a long time since Galvin had seen the old house. It looked even worse than he had remembered – if indeed that was possible.
Behind him, P.C. Morton had not yet emerged from the woods, although Galvin could hear the long stream of swearing and blasphemy getting nearer by the second.
Galvin hated that place where the sun never seemed to shine. Half of him did not want to go into the old house afraid of what he might find in there; the other half, the side of him that made him so good at his job, knew that he had to do it because a young girl could be in danger.
"Christ Sarge, what is this place?"
Galvin turned to look at the bedraggled, young constable whose uniform was smeared with mud.
"No time for questions now lad, let's give this place a check over." Galvin read the apprehension in Morton's eyes, it was the same anxiety he himself felt, but they had to act quickly.
From somewhere to their left Galvin heard a rustling sound coming from the bushes.
"Did you hear that?" asked Morton as he craned his neck in the same direction.
"Yes. You start searching in there," Galvin shouted, pointing towards the house, "I'll see what that is."
"But Sarge..."
"Just do it," barked Galvin as he made his way towards the bushes.
6
Graham Sheen tried to keep as quiet and still as possible. The older policeman was walking cautiously towards him and as he got closer, Graham could feel the fear build up inside him.
7
Tamicka could hear someone walk across the floor above her.
"Don't call out." The voice of the girl came from directly opposite her.
Tamicka stood up; she was in no mood to listen to what the voice had to say, she just had to get out. She was about to bang on the door and call for help when the voice said, "The others have sent that man here to kill you so you have to be very quiet, do you understand?"
Tamicka was torn between calling out to be saved and trying to be quiet for fear of being caught.
"Hello is anyone in here?" the man's voice sounded muffled through the ceiling.
Tamicka wanted to call out; she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that she wanted to go home.
"Don't do it," the disembodied voice called out again, this time with more venom. "I am the only one who can keep you safe."
Despairingly Tamicka sat back down and started to cry.
8
Morton didn't like the old house one bit. It reminded him of something out of a horror movie; the sort of place where once you entered there was no escape. Soon he found all of the scariest moments from every terrifying film he had ever watched come vividly back to the front of his mind. He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life; all he wanted to do was get as far away from that place as possible.
"I said is there anyone there?" he asked again as he stopped in the middle of the small room.
If there was any one in here surly they would have answered by now, he reasoned. That sound in the woods was probably the same idiot who's sent us on this wild goose chase in the first place. Morton turned back to the door and walked quickly out of the house.
9
Galvin saw the strange looking young man crouched low behind the bushes. "Come on son, out you come." He could see from the wild look in the man's eyes that he was thinking of making a run for it and he was in no mood to exert himself any more than he had to. "Look lad, let's not make things any worse than they already are, okay?"
The tall, young man crawled out from his hiding place and stood before Galvin with his head bowed to the ground.
"You're Conrad Sheen's boy; Graham isn't it?"
The young man just nodded without looking up at Galvin.
"So what are you doing out here?"
Graham shrugged his broad, hunched shoulders.
"Now come on lad, you know that this area's out of bounds don't you?"
Graham gave another shrug.
Galvin knew that he was getting nowhere fast. Eastlake was quite a small town but it was large enough for Galvin to know most of the local people by reputation alone. The Sheens seemed to be the sort of family who kept themselves to themselves. But still, there was something shifty about this young man.
"Come on son I've got a few questions to ask you." Galvin took a hold of Graham's arm and led him back towards the old house.
10
Graham was scared. He had never been in trouble with the police before and he just wanted to go home. He knew that if he said anything about the girl, or what he had seen, he would be in big trouble and not only with the police. Remembering what Amanda had told him about killing him in his sleep was enough to make him keep his lips tightly shut.
11
Morton was glad to be out of the old house but only felt slightly better for it; he knew that he would not feel completely comfortable until he had left the forest far behind him. He tried to get his story straight in his head as he walked towards Sergeant Galvin and the strange man he led towards the house. Morton straightened himself up and met them half way.
There was no way in the world was he going back into that place, not even in the company of another officer. He would just tell Galvin that he had checked all around the house and found nothing.
Author's Note
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