Chasing the Dark (7 page)

A sudden smile cracked the sadness on his face. Raising his fists in a double thumbs-up he shouted into the wind, face flushed, eyes bright, hair whipping wildly round his head. ‘Well done, Joe! I'll order copies and get them couriered.'

I waved till he was just a small lonely dot on the platform, and jumped when a tall heavy man brushed passed me lugging a suitcase. I stumbled to my seat, scared and excited, and lifted Oz on to my lap. He fell asleep pretty quickly and I was suddenly so exhausted it didn't take me
long to drop off too.

This time the crash dream had a different twist. It was all about Ivo Lincoln smashing his car up trying to rescue Mum from Eddy Fletcher and her scabby life on Farm Street. The savage scream of brakes jolted me awake. As the train rolled into the station I caught my reflection in the window: a weedy kid in a cheap, washed-out hoodie. Mum had been planning to get me a new one. We'd have gone round the shopping centre, just her and me, trying on stuff we couldn't afford, having a laugh, pretending we were rich. That was never going to happen again. I felt totally lost. Mum's death might have strung a temporary bridge between my life and the posh bubble that people like Ivo and the Professor lived in, but our worlds would always be about a hundred million miles apart.

CHAPTER 9

I
got back to Saxted to hear that Norma Craig had moved into Elysium that morning, Doreen was cooking her dinner that night, and I had to deliver it. Doreen wasn't sneering about Norma Craig's dodgy past now. In fact, from the fuss she was making you'd have thought she'd been asked to cater a royal wedding. It wasn't just the menu she was worried about. Oh, no. She was so petrified that I was going to ‘let the side down' she made me have a shower while she shouted instructions through the bathroom door about what I had to say and do. How I'd got to stand up straight and look Norma in the eye and say
yes Miss Craig, no Miss Craig, anything you say Miss Craig
and take no notice if she was doddery and bad-tempered. And just in case Norma wanted to chat I had to keep to three safe topics: the weather, Doreen's amazing cooking, and my
best subjects at school.

She'd also been shopping. When I got out of the shower she was in my room laying out a disgusting blue shirt, striped tie, tweed jacket, grey trousers and brown lace-up shoes.

‘What's all this?' I said.

‘I'm not having anyone delivering my food looking like an oik.'

Thanks, Doreen. At least I don't look like a whippet in a wig
.

‘Come on get dressed, we've got to leave in ten minutes.'

That's when I took my life in his hands, told her no way and threatened not to go. She backed down on the trousers and let me wear my black jeans. But I still had to wear the shirt, jacket and tie.
A tie!
And she wouldn't budge on the shoes. I felt like a total freak.

Doreen wasn't the only person in Saxted who'd got their knickers in a knot about Norma. She'd heard in the shop that there were reporters going door to door, trying to rake up gossip about the murder. We'd just loaded up the car when a sleazy-looking bloke came down the path, flashing a picture ID with ‘Press' stamped across it, saying that he'd heard Doreen's mother had worked for the Clairmonts and did Doreen have any photos or stories she wanted to sell. Doreen slammed the car door in his face and drove off, which was a shame. I could have done with picking up a few investigation tips from a pro.

Doreen dropped me outside Elysium at exactly eight o'clock. She didn't seem in much of a hurry to leave, and
watched from the car as the gates swung open and I walked down the floodlit drive. If she was hoping for a glimpse of Norma she was out of luck. A big bloke, with a golden tan, cropped blond hair and a sharp suit opened the front door. I wasn't sure if he was a butler or a bodyguard. Either way, I wouldn't want to upset him, which was a problem because, judging by the look on his face, I already had.

‘I've got Miss Craig's dinner,' I said.

He paused, just long enough to make me think I'd got the wrong day, before forcing out the words, ‘Come in.'

Talk about a makeover. The hall was cleaner than a disinfectant commercial, glittering with light and full of sweet-smelling flowers that made me sneeze. I glanced down the corridor to the cellar, wondering if there was much in the way of butlers and flower arrangements where Yuri had ended up.

Tan-man pushed open the door to the lounge and music flooded out; a bloke with a throaty voice singing an old song about windmills, spirals and half-forgotten dreams, I remembered Mum listening to it on one of her ‘Hits of the sixties' CDs and singing along. The sound added to the creepy feeling I had that I was stepping back in time and made me think of Nan's photos and the way Elysium had looked in its pre-murder glory days.

I stood in the doorway and took it all in. The dust sheets and cobwebs had gone. The walls were painted, the leather couches cleaned, the curtains replaced, and the wooden floors polished. All the pictures of Norma had been dusted and straightened, and a row of little wall
lights filled the whole place with a soft warm glow. Mum would have loved it.

A tall, slim woman was standing by the fireplace with her back to me, holding up a glass of wine that sparkled in the firelight. She turned slowly as I entered and, for a split second, it was like seeing a negative of the portrait behind her. Her hair was piled up in a similar way only it was white not black, and her long, floaty dress was black not white. The slanty eyes were just the same though, and they were scanning me inch by inch, just like Mum's used to do when she knew I was trying to hide something.

Norma Craig. She had to be well over sixty by now. No way did she look it. She must have seen I was shocked.

‘What were you expecting? A crone?' Her voice cut the silence, husky and scornful.

‘Er, no, Miss Craig.'

It looked like her lawyer had warned her I'd be doing the delivery because she didn't seem at all surprised to see a kid standing there with her dinner. I held up the heatproof carry box. ‘What shall I do with this?'

She lifted the glass and took a long sip. ‘Raoul! Take him through.'

Raoul marched me across the hall to the dining room. Those Queens of Kleen had done a pretty good job in there as well. The chandeliers were glittering like disco balls, splashing blobs of light on to the walls and floor, and all the furniture had been polished to a gleaming shine. The big long table was set out with candles and wine, but laid with just one place. Sad or what? The
double doors down the end of the room had been left open and I caught a glimpse of a sort of office with a big old-fashioned desk in the middle. But there was nothing retro about the massive computer, the bank of phones or the huge plasma screen she'd had installed.

Raoul took the lid off Doreen's salmon terrine and stood there holding out the dish like it was a used potty, and throwing me sneery looks.

‘You got a problem?' I said.

‘I have been cooking for Miss Craig for ten years and my food has always given complete satis . . .'

Norma swept in with a newspaper tucked under her arm. I turned to leave.

‘I'd like you to stay!' she said.

I hovered at the other end of the table, not sure where I was s'posed to stand.

Raoul dumped a slice of terrine on her plate, and looked dead surprised when she flicked her wrist and told him to leave. He didn't like that at all. On his way out he glared at me like I was some devil child come to nick the silver. There was enough of it, that was for sure.

Norma Craig gave me a smile that was about as friendly as a crack in a tombstone. ‘Joe Slattery, correct?'

I nodded. ‘Yes, Miss Craig. I'm Doreen Trubshaw's nephew and . . .'

‘Yes, my lawyer told me. I understand you're new to Saxted. How are you finding it?

‘Um . . . fine, thanks.'

‘Very different from your life in London, I should imagine.'

I put my hands in my pockets, feeling dead uncomfortable. ‘Just a bit.'

‘So what was it like?'

‘What, Miss Craig?'

‘Your life before you came here.'

What did she care? ‘You know, ordinary.'

‘Tell me about it. I crave a little diversion while I eat.'

So have your dinner in front of the telly like any normal person
.

‘Well?' She was staring at me, like I was in court or something.

I didn't see why I had to tell this total stranger the ins and outs of my life just because she was bored and I knew Doreen wouldn't be too pleased about it either. But I could tell that Norma was used to getting what she wanted, so I rattled on for a bit about Farm Street (leaving out the worst bits) and Mum's dreams of a proper singing career and how it was just the two of us after my father left . . .

It was like chucking petrol on a bonfire. She burst into a fit of fury, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring, chest heaving.

‘Would
you
be that cruel, Joe Slattery? Would you trample on a woman's love and leave her to pick up the pieces?'

She was barking mad. I backed towards the door. ‘Um . . .' What was I s'posed to say? I'd never even had a girlfriend, except for Chenisse Bains and I wasn't sure that one snog in the ASDA car park really counted as a meaningful relationship.

‘Well?'

‘I know this much, Miss Craig. I wouldn't run out on
someone and leave them with a kid. I saw what it did to my mum.'

That seemed to halt the meltdown.

‘Was she very unhappy?'

‘Off and on.'

‘Betrayal leaves terrible scars.' She frowned and for a moment I thought she was actually feeling sorry for Mum. But no, five seconds later she was off on what was obviously her favourite subject:
herself
.

‘Betrayal destroyed my life.'

Her fork clattered on to her plate and her whole body froze. Doreen's cooking had a similar effect on me but I got the feeling that food was the last thing on Norma's mind.

‘Are you all right, Miss Craig?'

She just stared at the table. I was weighing up whether to make a dash for the door or try a comment about Doreen's ‘amazing' terrine when she said in a hard voice.

‘Do you know what happened out there in that hallway?'

Whoa, this was way off Doreen's list of approved conversation topics.

‘Um . . . kind of.'

‘Can you imagine how it felt to discover that the man I loved had tried to kill me?'

‘No, Miss Craig.'

‘What kind of man could tell a woman he loved her while he was plotting to kill her in cold blood?' She didn't wait for an answer. ‘I'll tell you what kind, a
monster
.' She spat the word and glared at me like I'd put
Clairmont up to it. ‘A cold, pitiless monster. And they won't let me forget. Every few months there's a sighting of him or some cheap tabloid tries to dig over the ashes of my life.'

She flung the newspaper across the table. It was open at an article headlined ‘N
ORMA
C
RAIG
R
ETURNS TO
H
OUSE OF
H
ORROR
' above a picture of her and Clairmont looking young and glamorous. Her voice went flat and she stared into space as if she was repeating a speech she'd made a thousand of times before.

‘The murder took place on a Friday, the day before our anniversary. At two that afternoon Greville went to a London florist and purchased a rare and beautiful orchid, one he knew I'd adore – then he went on to the bank and took out some family jewels for me wear at our anniversary ball the following evening.' Her eyes refocused and as they drilled into mine her voice switched from flat to angry. ‘But it was all a front! A cover to hide his real intentions. Six hours later he returned home, put the orchid in the greenhouse then walked into this house and killed my housekeeper because he mistook her for me. And neither he nor the Clairmont emeralds have ever been seen since.'

Emeralds!
My skin went hot then cold. I stepped back, shaking.
Emeralds like the bracelet, necklace and earrings I'd seen in Yuri's Oxo tin?
I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence, only it really didn't feel like one.

Cool it, Joe. Look away, breathe, sneeze, scratch, yawn, anything. Just don't let her see you're agitated
.

Very slowly, an explanation I could deal with floated up through the scary mess of possibilities. Yuri must have
found the emeralds hidden in the house. Yeah, that would be it. But if they really were the Clairmont emeralds and the cops caught him trying to flog them he'd be in a lot worse trouble than he was already. I tuned back in to Norma's voice and it was like she was talking to herself.

‘Why did he do it? Was there corruption in the Clairmont blood? A streak of madness?' She let out a sob. ‘He left me with nothing. No life at all.'

What was she on about? She was alive
and
healthy
and
rolling in money. Which was a lot more than could be said for her housekeeper or my mother. The way she whinged on about herself the whole time was really winding me up.

‘The murder was pretty tough on Janice Gribben too,' I said. The words came spurting out before I could stop them but instead of going off on one she said very softly, ‘Janice. My poor Janice.'

She was at it again!
Her
poor Janice.

‘And terrible for her family,' I added.

She looked up. ‘She didn't have any family.'

I couldn't stop thinking about that tiny blurred photo of Janice in the papers and the way the press had practically ignored her, just like they'd practically ignored Mum. It really riled me.

‘Just because people aren't famous it doesn't mean they don't matter,' I said. ‘You should have stepped in and given the papers a decent photo of her.'

She stared into space, shaking her head. ‘I didn't have one. Janice hated having her photo taken. The minute she saw a camera she'd disappear.'

It was like Janice Gribben had never existed. No family to miss her, no grave to put a headstone on, not even a photo for anyone to glance at and go
oh yeah, that's Janice, I remember her
.

Norma's eyes filled with tears. ‘Janice was devoted to me. Don't you worry about a thing, Miss Craig,' she used to say. ‘You concentrate on being beautiful. Leave the rest to me.' And I did. Everything from the food and the guest lists to running the staff. She used to come to my room at night to lay out my clothes for the next day and we'd talk and talk. I had no secrets from Janice.'

I couldn't take much more of Norma Craig's crazy mood swings. I wanted out of there. I glanced at the food Raoul had left on the sideboard.

‘Your dinner's getting cold, Miss Craig. Doreen's done you sautéed duck. She said to tell you that the um . . . flavours in the sauce are . . . um . . . a “subtle fusion of—”'

‘What do I care about food? Guilt drains the pleasure out of everything – eating, thinking, even dreaming.'

If Norma didn't fancy the duck I was tempted to ask if I could take it back for Oz, but she looked so miserable I said, ‘You can't blame yourself for the murder.'