Liar Page 26

  Amelia grinned. Sam was right. The Chiswick Creeper had changed her life in almost every way, even if she hadn’t appreciated it at the time. Her news story about Kat and the forces that had made her kill had brought her great acclaim, and she was approached by the Daily Telegraph to join its staff. With the flat to do up and her new and exciting romance with Sam, she had declined the offer, but Jack had given her a substantial rise, and made her features editor.

  The most exciting thing of all was that a major publisher had contacted her about writing a book on the murders. Taking Jack’s advice, she was talking to a literary agent with a view to appointing him to negotiate with the publisher.

  Sam had managed to persuade his DI to let him photocopy Kat’s handwritten confession so that Amelia could use it as a reference tool. As he’d pointed out, without Amelia the chances were that such a confession wouldn’t exist. In her spare time Amelia was making notes on the case with the intention of starting work seriously on the book at the end of the summer.

  Max, whom Amelia never liked to think about, had got a two-year prison sentence. She had dropped the charges of assault as she wanted never to see him again, not even across a court room. But the police had discovered a network of fraud in which he had been involved so he got his just deserts.

  ‘So, when are you going to see them?’ Sam was always persistent when he thought something was important. ‘Don’t say you’ll write to make an arrangement to call round. They’ll ignore that. Just go.’

  Amelia didn’t reply. She just looked at him. In her eyes he was perfect: handsome, blond, blue-eyed, with a muscular physique. But it was his kindness, warmth and joyousness she loved most of all. He was a real man in the way her father never had been, strong, brave but also gentle. He could laugh at himself, he listened, and was so loving. She also trusted his judgement. If he said she should visit her parents, he was almost certainly right.

  ‘All right, I’ll go. How about tomorrow? Sunday is usually a good day to catch people at home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Amelia laughed. ‘Don’t give me any opportunities to chicken out! It’ll probably be every bit as bad as I fear, but I’ll have done it. I suppose I ought to go bearing gifts. A bottle of something is possibly the only thing they’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Take some flowers, too. I think the best plan is always to treat people how you’d like to be treated.’

  ‘Says the voice of reason,’ she replied, impressed as ever by his common sense and innate kindness. ‘Okay, tomorrow.’

  Sam had to be on duty at six the next morning, and just before he left, he brought her a cup of tea. ‘Another lovely morning. The sun’s shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What could go wrong on such a day?’

  Amelia sat up in bed to drink the tea. She loved their bedroom: it was at the front of the house and didn’t get sun, so she’d papered the wall behind the bed with a pink paisley Laura Ashley design to warm it up. The biggest wall held the mirrored wardrobes, and the remaining two were covered with a barely pink paper. She’d made curtains for the huge bay window from two heavy white-cotton bedspreads, and standing in the bay was a Victorian dressing-table with little drawers and triple mirrors, which she’d painted a pale glossy grey.

  Amelia often compared this present room with the horrible one she’d shared as a child with her sister. Cream gloss walls, painted by the council prior to them moving in, a blanket thrown over a length of string to serve as curtains, and their clothes, those that were hung up, behind the door on hooks. The bunk beds shook when you so much as looked at them, the mattresses were so thin they could feel the wire mesh below, and during the winter mould grew on the walls.

  ‘You haven’t changed your mind about going?’ Sam asked. He looked anxious, and that was enough to make sure she didn’t let him down.

  ‘You can stop worrying, I’m going. I keep telling myself if it’s too awful I can always run out.’

  He leaned over to kiss her. He smelt of shaving cream and toothpaste and it was tempting to pull him back into bed.

  ‘I’ll see you around six tonight,’ he said. ‘But I’ll try ringing this afternoon to see if you’re home and how it went.’

  He left then. She heard the front garden gate click, and a few seconds later he started his car. Amelia drank the rest of her tea and lay down, intending to go back to sleep, but her mind was whirling with thoughts of visiting her family later – so she got up, deciding to work in the garden while it was still cool.

  It wasn’t big, but it had been loved once as there were many pretty shrubs and small trees in it. Amelia had known nothing about gardening until she came here, but Mavis had shown her which were weeds, which shrubs needed pruning and those that should be dug up and replaced with something more suitable. She had learned more from books since then, but she was still at the trial-and-error stage, just enjoying watching things grow.

  By nine it was getting hot again, so she went in, made herself some breakfast and had a bath. She picked a simple pink sleeveless shift dress to wear and white sandals. Then she gathered up the things she had hastily bought before the shops closed the previous day: a bottle of brandy, as she knew it was her mother’s drink of choice, a large box of chocolates and a bouquet of lilies and pink roses.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when she approached the house. It was marginally tidier than she remembered, no broken toys and overflowing dustbins in the front garden, and the fence and gate had been mended. But the grass desperately needed to be cut. The house was much the same. No broken windows, but they could have done with cleaning and the whole house was badly in need of painting.

  She took a deep breath before she opened the gate. It was eight years since she had left, and she hadn’t been in contact since. She just hoped her father was less volatile now.

  The front doorbell was broken and hanging off, so she banged on the letterbox.

  ‘Who is it?’ she heard a woman ask.

  ‘It’s Amelia,’ she called back.

  There was silence. Amelia felt her mother and the other woman were having a confab about whether to open the door or not. Perhaps her mother was too far gone now to remember her name.

  But then the door opened, and there was her mother. She looked old, even wearing a blue and white summer dress more suited to a twenty-year-old. Her face was heavily lined, with bags under her brown eyes and her hair iron grey. She was skinny too, so thin she looked like a gust of wind would blow her over. ‘Our Amelia?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Mum, it’s me. I thought it was time I came to see you.’

  The house smelt as it always did, of fried food and cigarettes, but as Amelia went in, she saw it was much cleaner, and there was even a stair carpet to cover the bare splintery wood she remembered.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’ she asked. ‘Who was the other woman I heard?’

  ‘I’m not too bad, got some arthritis but that’s to be expected. That was Christine, your sister, you heard. She’s been living here with me since your dad died. She’s nipped up to get dressed.’

  ‘Dad died?’

  ‘Three years ago. He had a massive stroke.’

  They walked into the living room. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ Amelia said. She couldn’t have cared less about her father’s death, though she thought she should. It was just the standard condolence you’d say to anyone.

  ‘Why?’ Her mother looked at Amelia with questioning eyes. ‘Why would you be sorry? He was no good as a husband or a father. He made our lives miserable. You were wise to leave. I just wish I’d had the sense to leave during the war when I could’ve done.’

  Amelia didn’t know what to say. Her mother was speaking the truth, and Amelia was relieved that she didn’t have to see him. But it seemed harsh not to manage a few kind words. None came to her so she handed over the flowers, chocolates and brandy.

  Her mother buried her nose in the flowers. ‘First time anyone’s bought me flowers,’ she said, with a sm
ile. ‘The boys down at the Legion sent them for his funeral, but they thought he could do no wrong. Stupid boneheads!’

  The living room looked better than Amelia remembered it. A brown Rexine three-piece suite with velour cushions, a glass-topped coffee-table, and even new curtains. Still the council-painted cream walls, though, gloss paint so they could be scrubbed when marked. It made it look like an institution. Amelia noticed a vase of plastic red roses. They came free with Daz washing powder, and she’d always wondered who would want them.

  ‘I saw you in the paper,’ her mother said, beckoning her to sit down. ‘I said to Christine, “Look, there’s our Amelia. Fancy her writing things about murderers. But she always was good at writing stories at school.”’

  That appeared to be a good start, but she wanted more. She had hoped to see delight on her mother’s face, some explanation as to why she’d never got in touch.

  ‘Did you miss me when I went away?’ she asked.

  At that question her mother’s face went blank.

  Christine came into the room. She looked Amelia up and down. ‘Remembered where we lived, did you?’ she said.

  The sarcasm was a sharp reminder that none of her family was capable of praise, of endearments, just as they didn’t hug or kiss anyone. Were they born that way, or made like that by copying their parents or older siblings?

  Christine looked older than thirty-five. Her long hair was bleached platinum blonde, her complexion was muddy and the tight red dress she wore showed every lump and bump on her body. She looked like she ought to be in a doorway in Soho.

  ‘I came because I’m getting married next year, and I thought I should know more about my family. How are James and Peter?’

  ‘Jim’s in the nick. He’s always in there – got a season ticket, I reckon. Pete says he’s going straight, but I can’t see that happening. He’s got a job on a farm out in Essex. Makes me laugh. Farming – what sort of job is that?’

  ‘A nice one if you want to get away from White City and start again,’ Amelia said. ‘Maybe you should encourage him, rather than take the mickey.’

  ‘You always were a weird kid.’ Christine tossed her blonde hair. ‘Writing your little stories or sticking your nose in a book.’

  ‘Speaking of kids, where are yours?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘Gone into care. Best place for ’em. I couldn’t control ’em,’ Christine said, turning to flounce out of the room.

  ‘She let her kids go into care?’ Amelia looked at her mother in horror. ‘How could she do that?’

  ‘She’s like me, couldn’t cope,’ her mother said, sinking down onto the settee and reaching for a packet of cigarettes on the coffee-table. ‘You lot brought yourselves up, but kids these days can’t do that. Their teachers question them, and social workers come poking around.’

  ‘That’s just as well.’ Amelia shook her head sadly at her mother’s skewed ideas of what made a decent childhood. ‘And where was her husband when this happened? Didn’t he have a say in it?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl. She married a man as bad as your dad. He couldn’t give a toss about them and, anyway, he went off with another woman.’

  ‘You know, Mum, I came back today hoping you could give me some reason why my childhood in this house was so awful. You see, in the back of my head I thought the beatings from Dad, the lack of interest from you, the squalor was somehow because of me. But it wasn’t, was it? You told me I was fat and stupid so many times that I believed it.’

  ‘Well, no bugger could say you was fat or stupid now,’ she retorted, sucking at her cigarette. ‘So what’s your problem?’

  Amelia realized she was getting dangerously close to crying, because she was feeling far too much like she’d felt throughout almost all of her childhood. ‘You’re the problem, Mum. Why tell a child that? Why let Dad beat me, or send me to school in filthy clothes and holes in my shoes so I got bullied? Didn’t you know a mother is supposed to love and protect her children?’

  ‘That’s a lot of old poppycock,’ she snapped at Amelia. ‘A bit of hardship never hurt anyone. We was poor, I couldn’t help that.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t help being poor, Mum,’ Amelia said, getting to her feet. ‘But so was everyone else round here, and most went to school clean and tidy, and their homes were spotless. But you liked drink and fags more than your kids. You were a slob, Mother dear. Christine is much the same. There’s probably no hope for James either. But maybe Peter will turn out okay as Michael has. You couldn’t even bring yourself to say you were pleased to see me today, or that I looked nice. So I won’t come again.’

  ‘Please yerself,’ her mother mumbled.

  ‘Drink the brandy, Mum. You always did like it better than your children.’

  She left then, without saying goodbye to Christine, glad to be out of that poisonous atmosphere. She’d done what Sam had suggested and seen them, but her mother and sister’s attitude to her confirmed she was right to have stayed away all this time.

  She hadn’t imagined how life had been in that house. But she could feel proud now that she hadn’t become like them, and know that, if and when she had children of her own, they would be loved and nurtured. She would make sure they never felt second class as she always had.

  Now it was time to close the door on that part of her life and open another, with her heart, to Sam’s family.

  They were like him, open-hearted, warm and uncomplicated. She knew they were ready to accept her as part of their family, and she wanted that.

  There was one thing she could thank her own family for, and that was the insight into how influences and events in childhood mould that child for good or bad. It would stand her in good stead for writing the book about Kat and making it authentic.

  Amelia felt she’d got out of her toxic home before she’d begun to slide into the way of life she’d been brought up to. Poor Kat had begun lying at an early age to convince herself she was someone special, not the reject that others saw her as. Sadly she had only alienated herself still further from other people, and in her loneliness and despair, the need for revenge had grown.

  It seemed to Amelia that life was like a game of roulette. You had no control over whether you would land on a winning number or become a loser.

  Of the five children in her family, she and Michael had become winners, James and Christine losers, but Peter’s wheel was still spinning and, she hoped, getting away from White City and the bad influences there would enable him to land on a winning number.

  Amelia was sitting in the garden with a cup of tea when Sam arrived home early.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked, and she could see from his expression he’d thought of little else all day.

  ‘Unpleasant but therapeutic,’ she said. ‘Dad’s been dead for three years, Mum is still the same hopeless case, and my sister Christine at least had the sense to get her kids taken into care before she messed them up.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s awful,’ he said, coming over to her and sweeping her into his arms.

  ‘No, it’s not – well, not for me. I can move on now as I know I don’t have a Cinderella complex. They really were as messed up as I remembered. I’ve got a wonderful life ahead of me with you, Sam, and I refuse to waste another minute of it when I can be happy. Now, you sit down in the shade and I’ll open a bottle to celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what?’ He looked puzzled.

  Amelia smiled. ‘That I know where I’m going now, and who I’m going there with.’

  You’ll Never See Me Again

  When Betty escapes her marriage, she goes on the run, armed with a new identity. But she never imagined starting again would end in murder …

  The House Across the Street

  Katy must set out to uncover the truth about the mysterious house across the street. Even if that means risking her own life …

  The Woman in the Wood

  Fifteen-year-old twins Maisy and Duncan Mitcham have always had each other. Until one fateful day in
the wood …

  Dead to Me

  Ruby and Verity become firm friends, despite coming from different worlds. However, fortunes are not set in stone and soon the girls find their situations reversed.

  Without a Trace

  On Coronation Day, 1953, Molly discovers that her friend is dead and her six-year-old daughter Petal has vanished. Molly is prepared to give up everything in finding Petal. But is she also risking her life?

  Forgive Me

  Eva’s mother never told her the truth about her childhood. Now it is too late and she must retrace her mother’s footsteps to look for answers. Will she ever discover the story of her birth?

  Belle

  Belle book 1

  London, 1910, and the beautiful and innocent Belle Reilly is cruelly snatched from her home and sold to a brothel in New Orleans where she begins her life as a courtesan. Can Belle ever find her way home?

  The Promise

  Belle book 2

  When Belle’s husband heads for the trenches of northern France, she volunteers as a Red Cross ambulance driver. There she is brought face to face with a man from her past who she’d never quite forgotten.

  Survivor

  Belle book 3

  Eighteen-year-old Mari is defiant, selfish and has given up everything in favour of glamorous parties in the West End. But, without warning, the Blitz blows her new life apart. Can Mari learn from her mistakes before it’s too late?

  Stolen

  A beautiful young woman is discovered halfdrowned on a Sussex beach. Where has she come from? Why can’t she remember who she is — or what happened?

  Gypsy

  Liverpool, 1893, and after tragedy strikes the Bolton family, Beth and her brother Sam embark on a dangerous journey to find their fortune in America.