Tales of Retribution Page 3

  A large gulp couldn’t stem the tears, and Beth began to bawl. Talking about the incident had taken her back to that moment. Nana had been lurking in the background and now she began crying too. Not ugly tears for her: small sobs, and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  The policewoman ignored the older woman and focused on Beth. Enveloped in a hug, Beth felt cared for at last. Tea was made and the officer found some chocolate for the girl, then the interview resumed.

  “Did your dad hit your mum a lot?”

  “Quite a lot. Not every time they argued. I heard him say that one day he would kill her. Mum would be really upset and then they would be alright again.”

  “Did she ever have to go the doctors or the hospital?”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so. She would have bruises on her arms and legs. She just covered them up with clothes.”

  “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “Dad would say that Mum was useless. She spent too much money. Cooked horrible food. He was angry all the time.”

  As Beth was describing their fights, she could see Nana nodding as if she agreed.

  “Did you know about the fights, Heather?”

  “Good Lord, no. Alison would never tell me about her troubles. I’d always had my doubts about Tim and she wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of knowing I was right.”

  “You didn’t suspect anything?”

  “Well, no. If she was covering up bruises, that would explain some of her bizarre clothing choices.”

  The policewoman looked at Beth, who had just rolled her eyes at that comment. At some point it would be good to talk to the child without her grandmother around. That would be difficult, though.

  “Well done for calling the police, Beth. You did the right thing.” The policewoman saw Beth brighten at her words.

  “I knew what to do because of Tales of Retribution.”

  “We are looking for your dad. He will have to go to prison when we find him.”

  “I know. He did something wrong so he must be punished.” Beth’s mouth was set in a determined line.

  The social worker arrived and the adults were talking again. Beth slipped away to the lounge and put the television on. She had heard the words “inquest” and “funeral”. Knowing what they were was not a comfort. Not having thought that far into the future, Beth now had to face more problems. She imagined being stood beside a grave on a rainy day. That was how a funeral was depicted in the shows she watched.

  All the arrangements were made by Nana, who asked Beth’s opinion before moving on without waiting to hear the answer.

  “We’ll get the nice dark wood casket, yes? And a simple flower arrangement to put on top of it. Not a wreath for her, she was young and that doesn’t seem appropriate, does it? I’ll make some sandwiches and buy some quiches for the wake.”

  Beth felt like she was in limbo, waiting for the cremation. Once it was over, she would go back to school and her life would regain the rhythm that it had lost. A different routine, but knowing how each day was planned out would help her get back to normal.

  The event, when it happened, entailed a trip to the crematorium on a bright, sunny day. Beth was wearing a, navy blue, dress and had black patent shoes on. Her hair had been scraped back into a ponytail. The mourners were mainly comprised of Nana’s friends, with only a few people that Beth recognised.

  An older man stood at the back and cried throughout the service. Beth asked her grandmother who the man was.

  “That’s your grandfather. Don’t talk to him.”

  That was the first, and last, time that she ever saw him.

  The funeral marked the point at which Nana began her campaign to change her granddaughter into a more polished version. They were at the hairdressers the very next day.

  Chapter 7

  Heather had been shocked by her daughter’s death, especially the manner of it. Hopes had been high for Alison, and when she met the good-looking Tim Travers, everything appeared to be going to plan. It had become obvious, soon after the marriage, that there was trouble in paradise. The beautiful couple became ugly when they were together.

  So much time and attention had been lavished on her daughter. Petite, blond, well dressed – what man could resist her? Many boys had liked Alison, but none of them were good enough. Heather was the one who stood in judgement of the suitors and all of them had been deemed unsuitable. Too poor, too plain, too ill-mannered, squinty eyes, weak: there was a reason to reject them all.

  When Tim arrived on the scene, he was a different prospect altogether. Film star looks, from a decent family – although they had moved abroad, she had received good reports about his parents – and earning good money. And how wonderful the couple had looked as they stood side by side or walked through the town.

  The wedding. Heather clutched at her chest as she remembered the glamour of it. Alison, like a china doll with her tiny waist and billowing satin. Tim in a morning suit, so dashing and manly. As he took his bride’s hand, it looked like they would be so happy. But within weeks of returning from the honeymoon, the cracks had started to appear.

  Maybe if she had not fallen pregnant so quickly, they would have stood a chance. Alison had led a pampered life and was not prepared for what happened to her body. Taking to her bed at the onset of morning sickness, she barely got up or did anything useful until after the child was born.

  Heather had tried to help her. Alison had put on weight and it was essential that she got back to the shape she had been in before the baby. Advice about dieting, what to wear and tips for running the home were offered, but seen as interference. The sneer on Tim’s face as she delivered her words of wisdom corrupted his fine features. After a while, she rarely saw him.

  The baby, Elizabeth, named after Heather’s mother, was quite calm and placid. Just as well. Alison would not have been capable of managing with a troublesome child. The girl’s wild hair and plainness were disappointing. Heather knew she would never be glamorous like Alison or herself. Poor thing.

  What she had learned in the last few weeks had surprised Heather. Not knowing that her daughter was the victim of abuse was embarrassing. Her first instinct was to wonder why Alison had never told her. Seconds later, she knew the answer. Pride. Alison would never admit that she had married the wrong man.

  Self-absorbed most of the time, Heather had taken time to think about her daughter. She had been more upset about what had happened than she imagined she would be. Maybe that was because of the lost opportunity for her daughter to shine. Alison should have been her greatest achievement. A stylish woman, gliding through life, charming everyone she met. Instead, she had married the wrong man and ended up murdered. The pictures of Alison in the newspapers had been nice. Heather had kept the clippings.

  Heather busied herself in the kitchen. Cleaning work surfaces and tiles, vigorously wiping the hob, anything so that she didn’t have to think about her role in all this. Had she been too critical? Had she missed clues about what was happening to Alison? Had she chosen to miss the clues?

  Now, the child was her responsibility. Tempted to refuse to take her, Heather had realised how bad that would look. Beth lived with her now and she had to make the best of it. What could she do to help her granddaughter? Sort her hair out for a start. Get her some nicer clothes. Skirts and blouses in pretty colours.

  It would give her someone to talk to as well. Heather had to confess that she liked a good natter. At the age of ten, Beth was old enough to discuss a lot of things. What she didn’t know, she could learn from her Nana. There were probably things that Nana needed to learn about young people too.

  Writing a shopping list, Heather noted “No broccoli” at the top. There were lots of other vegetables that the girl could have. Plenty of fruit too. The would be no chips or anything like that. Maybe get a packet of biscuits in and let her have one a day. Beth would never be beautiful like Alison, but she was a companion of sorts. They would be fine.

  Chapte
r 8

  On the other side of town, Tim had discovered a scrapyard. This was exactly the type of place he was looking for. Run by a father and his two sons, all of whom were obese, he saw an opportunity. In fact, he saw several opportunities. King and Sons could be a place to work and a place to plunder.

  The father, Jimmy King, looked Tim up and down. He saw a fit man, in his thirties, who appeared to be living rough. Just the sort of employee that he liked. He could underpay him, no tax or National Insurance requirements, and Tim was a big strapping man, 6 feet 2 inches or thereabouts. He would get a good day’s work out of him.

  Tim was happy too. Working off the books was the main advantage. He didn’t mind a bit of graft. It would be good to do manual work and get properly fit. Also, with the piles of stuff lying around, he could already see several items which would be of use to him. There were cars, old appliances, heaps of scrap metal, wire and small decorative household objects which had caught his eye. He shook Jimmy’s hand and that was it. He was a working man once more.

  One of the sons, Peter, hauled himself out of his chair and took Tim on a guided tour of the scrapyard. He was introduced to a scrawny man in his forties named Hugh, a fellow worker.

  “This is Gerry,” Paul told Hugh.

  Tim had, of course, given a false name. He claimed to be Gerry Thomas.

  “Alright, fella,” was Hugh’s response.

  The other brother, Paul, lumbered into view.

  “Dad wants them to sort those old appliances.”

  “Right, this way.” Peter led Hugh and Tim to an area of the yard which was piled with washing machines, cookers, microwaves and old boilers.

  Their job was to strip certain parts out. Rudimentary instructions were given and they were left to the task. Tim didn’t really want to chat with Hugh. The less he revealed about himself the better. To hide his identity, he had given a false name, but it was more complicated than that. He realised that he would have to create some sort of backstory to account for how he had ended up living rough.

  After answering either yes or no to Hugh’s questions, his colleague gave up and they worked in silence. It was physical, brain-numbing work, but Tim enjoyed it. He was not trying to charm people he didn’t like into buying things they didn’t want. He wasn’t in a suit and tie. He wouldn’t be going home to a wife who drove him mad.

  At the end of the day, Tim ached in muscles he had forgotten existed. It felt good, though. A few months of this and he would be ripped. As he sat in his makeshift camp that evening, he worked on his life story. He would base it on reality with enough differences to disguise who he was. In this version he would definitely not be a killer.

  Gerry Thomas had lived in the south. He had been married, but had no children. A bitter divorce had seen him ejected from the house with just his clothes. Losing his home had led to him losing his job in sales. He had tried to find work in his home town, but had eventually given up and decided to move to another area. This was how George Thomas had found his way to King and Sons scrapyard.

  Armed with this biography, Tim felt more confident. He could discuss his fictional wife, who he had named Julie, and the affair she was having. Making himself blameless for his downfall was much better than the reality. When Hugh or any of the King family asked him questions now, he could refer to his legend.

  Sometimes he worked alone, sometimes with Hugh. It was rare that any of the Kings did any manual work. They drove forklift trucks and operated the machinery. Basically, they were just moving from one seat to another. Watching them chomping on chips every day, it was not surprising that they were enormous.

  Now, when he worked alongside Hugh, they would chat.

  “So, your ex really did a number on you then?” Hugh shook his head at the injustice.

  “Too right. She was a looker, but man, let me tell you, her personality wasn’t pretty. Found that out too late. Spent all my money and then took up with another bloke.”

  “Where are you living now?”

  “Oh, Hugh. I’ve been trying to avoid talking about it, but I’m sleeping rough in a wooded area on the other side of town. Not ideal, but when I get some money together, I’ll look for a bedsit or something. I’m not exactly making a lot of money here, you know that, so it might take some time to get sorted. Hopefully I can get somewhere before the weather gets bad.”

  “Why don’t you move in with me? I live in an old caravan at the back of the scrapyard. It doesn’t cost anything, Jimmy said I could stay there. It means there’s someone here overnight for security, and I get a home. It’s a fair size. It’s definitely better than a camp in the woods.”

  “Let me take a look at the place. I really appreciate the offer, mate.”

  The caravan was more like a static mobile home. A main room which had a kitchenette and lounge area. There were also two bedrooms. The one that Tim would occupy was tiny, but it was warm and dry and a lot better than his present accommodation. There was even a toilet and shower.

  “I suppose we ought to run this past Jimmy,” Tim said.

  “Leave that to me. I’ve been here a long time and know him pretty well. I’ll talk to him later.”

  A low-paid manual job and a modest home: these things had made Tim happier than he had been in a long time. And he still had most of the money he had drawn out of the bank. Working at the scrapyard helped him keep a low profile. He would do this for a while and who knew what might come up in the future.

  Chapter 9

  Jimmy was quite happy with the new arrangement. The cadaverous Hugh was not much of a night watchman. He wouldn’t be able to fight off any intruders. And then there was Hugh’s other problem: he liked drinking and took drugs. When he had first worked for Jimmy, he had been a big, strong man, but he had wasted away because of the choices he’d made.

  Tim hadn’t had much to do with drugs. Marrying at a fairly young age and then having a child had kept him out of bars and clubs. He knew people who took drugs, but he had never gone down that road himself. Living with Hugh was turning into an education of all things narcotic. By observation only, never joining in.

  There was definitely a temptation to try some of the drugs. The narcotics on offer included cocaine, weed and pills. Hugh would zone out, often with a beatific look on his face. Tim could do with getting away from the thoughts in his head on occasion. The problem was that he would not be in full control. A man with secrets could not risk loose talk.

  The story of his co-worker’s life was one of bad choices and a gradual decline. Hugh had developed a taste for alcohol as a teenager. It was not long before he smoked a joint and then moved onto the next high. It was hard to assess whether it was drink or drugs that had done the most damage, but Hugh was physically altered by his addictions.

  Hugh had fought an internal battle for a long time. He had veered between bouts of drinking and then times when he had cleaned up a bit. About ten years before, he had gone down the rabbit hole and had never come out again. His physical deterioration had started around that time and he was now a different person.

  “I used to look like you, George. About the same height and build. I’m probably around the same age as you as well, but I look at least ten years older. I know I’ve done the wrong things with my life, but I can’t stop now.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-nine. I can see by the look on your face that you thought I was much older. What about you?

  “Thirty-six, not much younger than you. You seem to have made up your mind. Thrown in the towel. Why do you say that it’s too late to stop?”

  “Every day is hard and it’s getting harder. I’ve ruined my liver, probably my heart as well. Smoking, fags as well as joints, that’s my lungs buggered. Drinking and popping pills. If I tried to stop now it would be torture. And how much time would it give me? Prolong my life by a couple of years I reckon. A couple of years of misery.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Hugh.”

  “If I had my life again, I
like to think that it would be different. Wouldn’t be surprised if I still cocked it up, though. Some people just can’t make it in this life and I’m one of them.”

  “Who knows. One mistake can have a big impact. If you think back you will probably see the places where you went wrong. You turn left instead of right, that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah. Booze was bad enough, but then when I was offered other things, I could never say no. Slippery slope wasn’t it. I kinda knew what was happening, but I never had the strength to change course. Anyway, change of subject. What was your mistake?”

  Tim shook his head. He wasn’t about to tell Hugh that he had got so angry that he had murdered his wife. Being hot-headed was a problem sometimes, but he never thought it would lead to killing. He gave as honest an answer as he could.

  “Getting married. It was all downhill from there.”

  There was a small television set in the caravan which they watched of an evening. Sometimes they would talk, and then there were the nights when Hugh was out of it. After work the first thing he did was crack open a can of super strength lager. A steady flow of alcohol was drunk as the evening progressed.

  Hugh was happy to stay in the scrapyard. The occasional foray to the shops to stock up on food and drink had to be made, but all the rest of his time was spent there. Tim didn’t go out much either, preferring to stay in and keep a low profile until his crime was no longer being featured in the news.

  The weeks passed and he felt more confident about going out. Tim had continued to shave his head. His thick, wavy hair would make him more recognisable, so it had to go. Working through the summer in the heat, it had been much more comfortable. After a while he wasn’t taken aback when he looked in the mirror. Tim had become Gerry.

  Trips into town to shop and have a meal at the café were undertaken. One evening he had gone to the pub, but he had been on edge whilst he was there. Never a great drinker, he was even more reluctant to partake now. A few beers and he might say too much to the wrong person about his past life.