Nicola let herself into the house, leaned her head against the door, squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Deep breaths helped slow her heart beat, but nothing would soothe her mind, rid it of the poignant image: the little girl in the sundress, smiling, clutching the teddy bear. The little girl her parents called their princess. The little girl Nicola’s mother had murdered.
She sank to her haunches, buried her face in her hands. Other pictures surfaced in her mind’s eye: Pauline proudly holding her mum’s hand, Pauline splashing in a paddling pool, Pauline in the school nativity play with wonky wings and half-mast halo, Pauline’s father carrying a tiny white coffin into a village church.
‘Dear God, no,’ Nicola murmured again and again.
The air in the library had been lifeless. She’d spent an hour there surfing the net, scouring news archives. If she’d not seen the stories herself, she wouldn’t have believed them. With growing horror, she’d skimmed report after report, printed out the most shocking, furtively slipped them into her bag.
All those column inches, and in all these years not one word from her bloody mother.
Nicola shucked off her coat, slung it over the banister, headed for the kitchen intending to make a drink. Sod that. Tea wouldn’t do it this time. She diverted to the sitting room, poured a large Scotch, swirled most of it round her mouth. She drained the glass, picked up the bottle then placed it back. No more; she needed a clear head.
She’d felt uneasy in the library, as if people knew what she was, as if ‘murderer’s daughter’ was tattooed on her forehead, as if they could read secrets with their prying eyes. She needed to look at the articles properly, try to get her head round the impossible. By God she’d seen her mother in a new light, all right. She kicked off her shoes, settled on the leather sofa, reached into her bag.
Headlines leapt at her:
Babe in the wood killing – man arrested Builder released, accuses girl, 10 Ten-year-old held on suspicion of murder Girl, 10, charged with child killing Susan Bailey guilty of manslaughter Susan Bailey detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure
The same photograph appeared alongside every report. Nicola tried but failed to see her mother’s features in the ten-year-old Susan: the dark pudding-bowl haircut, fat moon face, mean little eyes behind National Health specs. Glowering and surly, she looked every inch the spiteful bully prosecution witnesses had described. Nicola guessed it was a police mug shot. Surely if her mother’s family owned a better picture they’d have given – if not sold – it to the press? Maybe papers didn’t pay back then, though? From Nicola’s reading, the reporting certainly wasn’t as sensational, the tone and language restrained by today’s standards. The story didn’t need sexing-up anyway. A ten-year-old girl bludgeons her best friend to death then tries to blame it on an innocent man?
Nicola snorted. Un-fucking-believable.
She lit a cigarette, sucked smoke deep into her lungs. She scanned another print-out, desperate to locate any mitigating circumstances. Anything that could help her understand why? A defence lawyer hinted at an abusive background. Several bruises had been found on Susan’s body during a medical examination. Her father was known to be handy with his fists, especially after a drink. She’d also come in for a lot of stick from the village kids, bullying, name calling. Big deal, Nicola thought. At least her mother had lived to tell the tale. Tell the tale? Yeah right. What a joke.
She glanced round for an ashtray, headed for the kitchen. The way she saw it Susan bloody Bailey had got off lightly. Her Majesty’s Pleasure had turned out to be a meagre ten years. Two tabloids had carried the story: Babe in the wood killer released on probation. That was 1971 and the last references Nicola had been able to find. There’d been none of the subsequent press hounding that had dogged Mary Bell, the only other female child killer Nicola had heard of. Shame really. The media had run Bell to ground and she’d been forced to tell her daughter the truth about who she was, what she’d done. Nicola had spent her entire life in ignorance. Blissful? Not now it sodding wasn’t. She saw it as utter betrayal.
She leaned against the sink, ashtray in hand. All these years of living a lie, hiding behind a false façade. Had the police given her mother the new identity? Maybe she’d ask – when she could bring herself to speak to the old bag again. Even today, she’d clammed up about it, literally turned her head against the wall. Claimed she couldn’t remember. Christ, did she think Nicola was thick or something? Patently, her mother hadn’t imagined the tongue, the mystery man, a whisper in the ear. ‘Speak no evil’ hadn’t been a warning to keep her trap shut in the future. It referred to the web of lies she’d spun in the past. She must have known the significance when she’d begged Nicola to visit. Selective amnesia? Memories dead and buried? In deep denial, more like. Her mother had protected her own miserable existence for years. And the way Nicola felt now, she’d never forgive her.
And neither, she realized, would the man holding Caitlin.
The pieces were falling into shape; Nicola was beginning to see the picture. Pauline’s murder was the motive for Caitlin’s abduction. Sins of the fathers? Sins of the grandmother.
Crime and punishment.
Nicola and Caitlin were paying the price. That was why they’d been targeted. But who was exacting revenge? And what would be the cost?
Stubbing out the baccy, she pricked her ears. Didn’t recognize the ring-tone at first, then almost dropped the ashtray. She ran next door, fumbled for the phone in her bag. ‘Hello? Who is this? Hello? Hello?’ Damn, damn, damn.
‘Took your time, didn’t you, Nicola?’ She heard the smirk in his voice. Funny guy. Dead funny.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘What do you think?’ Curt contempt.
She took a calming breath, softened her voice. ‘Look, please, I just want my daughter home.’
‘Pauline’s mum and dad wanted her home too.’ Silence, deliberate pause. ‘Just not in a coffin.’
Nicola tasted blood in her mouth. ‘I’m truly sorry about the little girl. But please, you have to believe me, until a few hours ago I knew nothing about the murder.’ Her eyes smarted with tears. ‘You can’t blame Caitlin or me for anything, surely you can see that?’
‘I’ll tell you what I see, shall I, Nicola?’ His tone implied it would be the last thing she’d want to hear. ‘I see an eye for an eye.’
‘Oh my God, the tongue …?’ She pressed a hand to her mouth to prevent more words and thoughts escaping.
‘Neighbour’s nosy dog. It needed silencing.’ Dismissive tone. Minor detail. Back to the point. ‘An eye for an eye, a tongue for a tongue.’
A child for a child? The ultimate retaliation. Nicola swallowed. ‘You want—’
‘Justice.’
‘But Cait—’
‘Not Caitlin. Your mother. I want to spit on her grave.’
‘She’s an old woman for God’s sake.’
‘Too old. She’s a waste of skin. Just do it, eh?’
Nicola showered until the scalding water ran cold, scrubbed until her skin was raw. The symbolism wasn’t lost on her: a psychiatrist would wax lyrical about ‘washing away sins’ – out, out, damn spot and all that. Maybe there was an element of that but in reality, she’d felt unclean, contaminated, even now she felt her skin creep. Hugging both arms tightly round her waist, she paced the bedroom. When she’d helped the old bitch on her way, he’d let Caitlin go. That’s what he’d promised. Could she trust him? A man who revelled in taunting her, who’d snatched her daughter, hacked out a dog’s tongue? She swallowed bile. Thank God, she’d not reported that touching little tableau. All bets were off if she contacted the cops, he’d warned. Bets? Crass bastard.
Pensive, she perched on the dressing-table stool. Surely the police would know her mother’s real identity anyway? Weren’t released murderers on licence or something? Details were supposed to be kept on record, surely? Circulated to the relevant authorities? Still thinking, she ran a brush absently through her hair. It could certainly explain why her mother had insisted they move round so much when Nicola was growing up. All those new towns, tatty council houses, different schools. Clearly her child-killing momma had a hidden agenda. She’d given them all the slip. She could’ve given Mary Bell a few lessons, Nicola sneered. Even now Bell attracted media interest, made the occasional headline. While for more than forty odd years the erstwhile Susan Bailey hadn’t made a paragraph in a free sheet. She’d lived a boring life, kept her nose clean, not picked up so much as a parking ticket. The biggest crime – to an outsider – would be the occasional library fine.
An outsider? That’s what I am, thought Nicola. She’d never really known her mother. And now it was too late.
Placing the brush down, she studied her reflection in the three-way mirror; resented seeing traces of the old woman’s features, the button nose, the slightly full bottom lip. She raised a speculative eyebrow. Like mother, like daughter? Who knew? When it came down to it, could Nicola actually take a life? Was everybody capable; did everyone have the killer instinct? Let’s face it, she thought, if there’s a murder gene, I’ve got a hell of a head start. She gave a brittle laugh, her heart breaking.
She was looking at Catch 22 in a cleft stick. If she killed her mother, Nicola would in effect lose Caitlin anyway. A life sentence was mandatory and she’d be a fat lot of use to her daughter behind bars. It’s what the bastard wanted, of course. He wasn’t interested in a pound of flesh; he wanted bodies. Nicola would be doing his dirty work and at the same time digging her own metaphorical grave. But if she didn’t …
She reached for the silver-framed photograph to her right. Caitlin celebrating GCSE results; her first prom, they’d hired the ball gown. Nicola’s warm smile faded. There was no question really. She’d sacrifice anything – anyone – if it saved her daughter’s life.
‘Nic! You up there?’
‘I’ll be down in a tick,’ she shouted. What was Neil doing here? A quick call first wouldn’t have hurt.
‘I bought you these.’ He stood at the bottom of the stairs, sheepish smile on his face. Garage tulips. ‘Oh, and this.’ He whipped a bottle of Bells from behind his back. That was more like it.
She forced a token smile as she descended, took delivery. ‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘I thought they’d cheer you up a bit. I’ve been neglecting you, Nic. I’m sorry.’ He opened his arms for a hug. ‘I want you to know I’m here for you.’ Kind words and sympathy were more than she could take. She broke down, buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her hair, let her cry. ‘Come on, let’s dry those tears. What is it, Nic?’ She wanted to share the burden but could barely speak. He led her gently into the sitting room, they sat close and he took both her hands in his. ‘Is it Caitlin? Is there news?’
Gazing down at their hands, she told him haltingly most of what she’d learned about her mother that day. He had little time for the old woman, he’d made no secret of it – and that was before hearing about her murderous past. As for Nicola’s putative murderous future, she’d yet to break that little nugget. ‘If you’d rather leave now, Neil.’ She made fleeting eye contact. ‘I’ll understand. No worries.’
‘Poor Nicola.’ He used a thumb to dash away a tear. ‘I assumed you knew about your mother. It’s why I never mentioned it. I thought you were protecting her.’