Tell-Tale Page 25

  -does ur dad talk to you?

  -no. he’s always working. It’s as if he’s in prison camp. He’s really changed. Not the dad I knew.

  -that’s terrible. You need to get help. Can u see ur doctor? I wanted to help her but we were lifetimes apart. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, never let her go, make everything better.

  -nah. no point.

  -u need to talk to someone. There’s help out there for you if only you’d ask. You could join a group or talk to a therapist. It sounds as if your dad would benefit from counselling too. People move on. People recover. You’ll never forget your mum. Just know that she loved you. But you have the rest of your life ahead of you, everything to live for. She would want you to do that.

  Only when my message appeared on screen did I realise just how much I had typed, how little like a teenager I sounded.

  -dont lecture me! Ur not my mum.

  Suddenly the lit-up icon of dramaqueen-jojo faded to grey and she was offline.

  Tears fell in torrents down my cheeks. My head dropped to the keys as I cried out my reply to her, praying that across all the miles, she would hear.

  CHAPTER 41

  On the face of it, it was a normal day. Late summer sun warmed the garden. Mick had work coming in faster than he could paint and was already down in the studio. Josie would surface in another couple of hours, bleary-eyed, seeking Cheerios, tea and television. Nina’s current work was piled on the counter in the kitchen – a stack of papers filled with opportunity, potential, everything she had ever wanted. Life, theoretically, was perfect.

  Why then, when the phone rang, did Nina stare at it, shaking, feeling that if she answered it the world might end?

  ‘Hello?’ She held the handset between finger and thumb, slightly away from her head as if it might separate her from anyone undesirable.

  ‘Mrs Kennedy? It’s Jane Shelley. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  It took a moment for Nina to place the policewoman who had visited her home in response to her emergency call. ‘That’s OK.’ Nina’s mind raced, wondering if the WPC had found anything out. Perhaps they believed her after all, although now she would have to backtrack swiftly and tell them she had been mistaken, that there was no intruder. She couldn’t risk police involvement now.

  ‘It’s just a courtesy call really. To make sure that nothing else has happened to upset you.’

  There was something about the constable’s manner that made Nina think this was not an official call. Plus, a mobile number had shown up on the caller ID on her handset. Nina doubted police numbers would be so easily identifiable. WPC Shelley was making a personal call to Nina.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ Nina said obliquely. ‘But everything’s fine.’ Revealing anything about Burnett was tantamount to writing her own death certificate.

  ‘I believed you,’ Jane Shelley said. The line was bad. Nina wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. ‘About the intruder and the car. I believe you weren’t making it up.’

  ‘It was probably nothing,’ Nina said. ‘My imagination.’

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I’ve seen cases like this before. It’s tragic. I can’t let another one slip through my fingers.’

  Nina didn’t think Jane Shelley had been in the force very long, but clearly something had affected her during her short career. What, how or why, Nina didn’t care. She wanted her off the line; she needed to think what she was going to do.

  ‘There was a woman, bit younger than you,’ the constable continued. Nina could hear background noise, as if Shelley was with a group of children. Screams and giggles all but drowned out her voice. ‘She’d got a kid. A little boy. Only four. Her partner beat her senseless most nights. The son saw everything.’

  Nina frowned. She didn’t want to hear this. Through the window, she saw Mick emerge from his studio and gasp lungfuls of fresh air. He stretched and rocked his head back, supporting it in his arms. Then he dropped forward and leaned on his knees. If Nina hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t guessed he was taking a breather from the mountains of work he had building up, she’d think he was lost in despair.

  ‘That’s very sad,’ Nina replied. ‘But it hasn’t got anything to do with me.’

  ‘I was the one who found her body,’ Shelley said. Her voice was loud and clear now, no kids in the background. Nina thought she heard the vague hum of a car engine. ‘Well, actually, her four-year-old son found the body. He was poking her, begging for his mummy to wake up when I found them. Her partner had beaten her to death.’

  Nina paced around the kitchen. If it was a trick to get her to admit the truth, then it wasn’t working. She had no intention of divulging anything to do with Burnett to the police. Nina knew that if she was to have any chance of survival, she would either need to find Mark McCormack and beg for his help or deal with things herself.

  ‘She’d called the police out several times, claiming there’d been an intruder, a break-in, a burglary, when really her husband had been battering her. When we asked her to make a formal statement, she denied everything. Said she’d made a mistake. That she’d fallen over.’

  ‘My husband is not beating me up,’ Nina said indignantly.

  Another sigh. ‘I have a little boy,’ Shelley said. ‘I’ve just picked him up from nursery.’

  ‘That’s very nice for you.’

  ‘I’m a single mum,’ she continued. ‘I left his father last year. He used to knock me about.’

  Nina almost felt like laughing. ‘But you’re the police,’ she replied.

  ‘In this game, everyone’s equal. You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, just call me.’ And then the line went dead.

  Nina had worked on a production years ago as part of her theatre make-up course at college. It was a short piece that the film students were working on for their final exams. Several professionals had been brought in from the industry to offer advice to the students, as well as scout for potential talent once they had qualified. Everyone on the theatrical courses was involved.

  Nina had been particularly intrigued by Ethan Reacher, stunt and effects coordinator to the stars, who had agreed to give a one-day workshop to the students. Nina was enthralled for the entire day, taking copious notes, puffing with admiration for the man whose name she had seen roll by on countless film credits. His knowledge of the industry was endless, his dedication to detail flawless.

  ‘Take Silent Dreams,’ he roared. Normal volume was apparently too ordinary for the great man. ‘Not once did the director call upon a special effects team for the death scene, but he still managed to create a film so believable, so raw, so terrifying, that several of the actors couldn’t even stand to watch the premiere.’

  There were hushed whispers as Ethan delivered the facts. Nina sat mesmerised, learning that with just the tiniest detail, the biggest effects could be achieved. That, she thought, is how my whole life has been.

  ‘The arm was largely prosthetic,’ Reacher continued. ‘But we made sure the fingers were real. The close-up shots were stunning. No need for clumsy cuts.’ He gulped from a pint glass of water. ‘Minuscule muscle movements are key to scenes such as the cliff-falling take. When the actor was finally forced to let go of the rock, the viewer was inside his head. Those close-ups weren’t close-ups. They were mind-ups.’

  There was snickering. About half the students were on the course to pass the time. Of the rest, some were vaguely interested. One or two, including Nina, were riveted. Since beginning her course in theatrical make-up, Nina felt she had finally found a purpose in life. Everything that had gone before suddenly added up and didn’t make a number less than zero. She knew that changing people’s appearances, characters, was what she wanted to do.

  ‘So did you have to shoot the cliff scene last?’ some cocksure student asked. ‘Surely the actor would have been killed after a fall like that.’

  Ethan Reacher had shown the scene several times before his talk. A classic example of simple effec
ts pushed to the extreme, he’d said. A ripple of laughter followed the question.

  ‘Stand up, young man.’ Reacher strode to the front of the platform in the lecture theatre. He glanced around at the few who were still laughing. ‘That’s not such a stupid question.’ Reacher clutched at his chin with stubby fingers. He didn’t look as though he’d be able to undertake any of the stunt work himself any more, Nina thought. In his mid-sixties, Ethan Reacher’s body betrayed a stiffness, perhaps one accident too many in the past, to allow him to body-double for anyone now.

  ‘The actor in question broke both legs on impact,’ Reacher announced. A wave of disbelief as the students listened. ‘He flatly refused a stunt double. This kind of fall, from such a great height, even though it was into water, takes great experience. You should have seen the reams of paperwork he had to sign before the producer would let him undertake this one.’ Reacher let out a bellow of a laugh, silencing any noise from his now captive audience. ‘The director put the deleted scenes back in. Got the aftermath. Close-up face shots, the blood, the agony, everything.’

  Nina winced at the thought. She’d never liked heights. Wondered why anyone would want to tackle such dangerous work. She preferred to stay behind the scenes.

  ‘So how do you survive a fall like that?’ another student asked.

  ‘Mostly you don’t,’ Reacher explained. ‘Best trick of the trade that I know . . .’ he paused, ‘is either do a different stunt, or pray to God.’

  Several students gathered round Ethan Reacher after the workshop. They’d been given a glimpse into the world of special effects and been allowed to demonstrate their own skills to one of the best in the business. Now they wanted to thank him personally. Nina queued up to shake the man’s hand.

  ‘I noticed your work earlier,’ Ethan said to her. He downed more water and at close range, Nina could see why. He was pouring sweat. ‘You stood out. You plan to make a career in theatre or movies?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. At twenty, Nina had never been so overawed by anyone. Most people she had met in her life so far had only ever let her down. ‘It’s everything to me.’

  ‘You’re good,’ he said, nodding, looking her up and down. ‘Take my card. Give me a call when you’re qualified. How long have you got to go?’

  ‘Another year,’ Nina said. Her heart beat frantically. She could hardly believe that Ethan Reacher had singled her out. Suddenly the year loomed ahead like a decade. Why can’t I be finished with college right now? she thought.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Nina Brookes.’ Her voice was thin and breathy. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she continued. ‘For a wonderful day. I’ve learned a lot.’

  Ethan Reacher bellowed a laugh after jotting down her name. ‘If nothing else, you learned how not to fall off a cliff,’ he roared, before walking off with a group of students following in his wake.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. Josie was still sleeping and Mick wouldn’t be back inside for a while. Nina phoned every police department she could think of, and looked up numbers on the internet. She made sure she dialled ‘141’ each time, withholding her number. She didn’t want anyone calling her back. Unless she found Mark McCormack, or at least someone who could confirm that they had stepped into his shoes, then Nina wasn’t giving any details away.

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s no access to that area of CID without a special referral and contact name. Your liaison officer will put you in touch with—’ Nina hung up.

  ‘Mark who? Can you spell the surname?’

  ‘That department has moved on, it’s all centralised in London now.’

  When Nina rang Scotland Yard, she went through six departments, finally getting close to someone who could possibly help with witness protection. Just saying those words sent her into a flat spin. ‘Name and reference number please,’ she asked.

  ‘Miranda Bailey,’ Nina said, plucking a name from nowhere. ‘I don’t have a reference number.’

  There was silence for a while. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no access on the system for a Miranda Bailey.’

  Nina hung up again. ‘No access,’ she whispered as her face pressed against the cold table. How can I tell them who I am? she thought in despair. Mark told me it was more than my life was worth to trust anyone that he’d not personally sanctioned. How can I tell just anyone in the police who I am, when several of the men arrested were in the force themselves?

  ‘Nina?’ Mick’s voice was behind her. ‘What’s up?’

  Nina’s head shot up off the table. She snapped shut the lid of her laptop. She attempted a smile. ‘You look like I feel,’ she commented. ‘What time were you up this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t go to bed,’ he admitted. ‘I need coffee.’ Mick banged about with the machine and cups, dropping the box of filter papers on to the floor.

  ‘Don’t you think you should tell one of these galleries that you need more time?’ Nina hated to see Mick like this. She needed him fresh, on the ball, ready for action at any minute. As it was, he could hardly spoon the coffee into the machine without spilling it. ‘You’re exhausted. You can’t keep churning out work at this rate.’

  Mick turned and threw the teaspoon across the room, narrowly missing Nina’s cheek. ‘Churning out work?’ he yelled. ‘Is that what you think I bloody do all day?’ He slammed the lid on the glass coffee jug and rammed it home. ‘We haven’t all got the luxury to pick and choose when we work or not, Nina. You find it quite easy to take an afternoon off here and there, I’ve noticed, without a care about our next mortgage payment.’ Mick spat out an incredulous noise and paced the kitchen. He smacked the top of the coffee machine, wanting it to hurry up so he could escape back to the studio.

  ‘I know you’re under a lot of stress at—’

  ‘You don’t know what stress is,’ he retorted. ‘Not this kind of stress.’

  Nina didn’t know what to say to make him feel better. She’d never seen him like this before.

  ‘What about telling that man . . .’ she couldn’t bring herself to say his name. ‘What about telling that man from the new gallery that you can’t do the paintings? Just concentrate on the Marley Gallery. They asked you first, after all.’

  Mick stopped dead still. His muscles tightened and pulled his face into an expression that Nina didn’t recognise. ‘Tell him I can’t do the paintings?’ Mick was suddenly calm. Nina thought he was seeing reason; that if he agreed not to work for Burnett there was maybe a chance of getting him out of their lives for good, without Mick or Josie knowing anything. We could move, Nina thought. Maybe change our last name. Mick would understand if I made up an excuse, but he wouldn’t understand that I’d lied to him about who I am for the last eighteen years.

  ‘Tell him I can’t do the paintings?’ Mick yelled.

  Nina jumped. ‘I just thought—’

  He came up close to her. ‘You really don’t have a clue, do you? Not a bloody clue about my work at all.’

  ‘I understand how precious this is to you. I know how many years you’ve struggled to get the recognition you deserve. Christ, I’ve lived with you for most of them.’ Nina backed off but Mick stuck to her. A thread of fear wound its way from her head to her heart, but her heart rejected the emotion. This is your husband, she told herself, and it caused her to reach out to him.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, recoiling. Mick yanked the coffee jug from the machine before it was finished. He sloshed some into a mug. ‘Just don’t,’ he said again, before going back out to the studio.

  Nina watched him walk down the garden, his coffee spilling over the sides of the mug. When he neared the studio, he hurled the cup into the air. It came down against the side of a tree, shattering in slow motion over the shrubs.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Josie stood sleepily in the doorway. ‘I heard shouting.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ she said, pulling back the tears. ‘What time do you call this to get up?’

  ‘It’s still the summer holi
days. I wanted a lie-in.’ Josie reached for a cereal box and frowned when she felt the weight of the milk carton. ‘No milk?’

  ‘You know where the shop is,’ Nina snapped but instantly regretted it. She didn’t want Josie going out anywhere alone. Not until she’d resolved this mess.

  ‘Fine. I’ll go to Nat’s for breakfast. Her mum does eggs and pancakes.’

  Nina thought of Laura beating hell out of the batter before splatting it into a frying pan and roughly dropping it on to a plate when it was blackened at the edges. Laura was no cook. She took out her frustrations in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, Josie.’ Nina reached out for her daughter, but she backed away with her eyebrows raised as if her mother was a stranger. ‘I’ll make you eggs.’

  Josie walked off, shaking her head, slamming the door.

  That’s both of them, Nina thought. My husband and my daughter have each pushed me away in the last five minutes. She slid down the wall to become a puddle on the floor. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something.

  CHAPTER 42

  Twenty-four hours after I died, I went dizzy and my vision blurred. I’d had a serious blow to the head and, even though I’d taken advice, researched the subject as much as time would allow, I can’t say exactly what went wrong, what I’d misjudged. But the plain fact was, against all the odds, I was lucky to be alive. At least that part had gone to plan. The rest was out of my control.

  A trip to the hospital was impossible. That first evening, I sat in the motel room watching a quiz show, shivering, wondering why I didn’t know the answers to any of the general knowledge questions, or even have the concentration to count the vile flowers on the grubby curtains. I could hardly breathe in and out at the thought of everything; could hardly believe I was dead.

  Had anyone read my letter yet? I wondered.

  I bit into an apple. Earlier, the woman I hadn’t yet fully become had plucked it off the supermarket display and taken it to the checkout in a basket also containing hair dye, scissors, biscuits, fruit, chocolate, water. I had handed over cash and then stashed my shopping in the boot of my new car – a twenty-year-old Ford Escort also paid for in cash from a dealer on the edge of town. He didn’t ask questions. If it got me where I was going, I’d be thankful. Soon enough it would be in a lay-by, keys in the ignition, ripe for stripping.