Mother ('The Family' Psychological Thriller Trilogy Book 2), page 1
MOTHER
JACK STAINTON
ALSO BY JACK STAINTON
A Guest to Die For
You’re Family Now
This novel is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An imprint of Windmill Streams Publishers
Mother
Copyright © Jack Stainton 2022
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B0BGQ4VZ4Z
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For Mum & Dad
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for reading ‘Mother’
This is part two of ‘The Family’ Trilogy - three novels based around the central character, Matthew Walker.
They can either be read as individual stand-alone books, or in chronological order.
Either way, I hope you enjoy!
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Reviews
About the Author
A Guest To Die For
1
The sight of his motionless body offered me little satisfaction. The man, who I would have willingly killed myself, lay forlornly before me. Graham Meadows. My brother-in-law. My enemy.
“Matt.”
The sound of my name being called sounded so faint, as if attempting to stir me from a dream; a deep sleep I wasn’t yet ready to wake. I fought it. Pushed it to the back of my mind. My eyes flickered from Graham to Katrina. She held onto her makeshift cross. Two small pieces of wood, crudely woven together with dark green wool. Her lips moved, but no words escaped.
Is she praying?
“Matt!”
The tap on my shoulder made me jump from my skin. My head spun, my irritation obvious, ready to snap at whoever for daring to touch me.
We were in the woods, the woods adjacent to the family home. I’d escaped from the house, only to find myself trapped once more. After finding Lisa, we had faced Graham head on, and I know he would have killed us both if Katrina hadn’t struck him first. He’d already seen to Lee Blackmore, but now he lay motionless, his head twisted at an acute angle.
“What the hell is it, Lisa?”
My voice felt detached, as if somebody had spoken on my behalf. But at least talking snapped me out of my trance. I took in my surroundings. The undergrowth. The trees. The shimmer of late afternoon sunlight penetrating through the dense foliage like a hundred mini-projectors, strategically positioned, ready and waiting for the reel of film to begin.
“Look.”
My eyes followed Lisa’s vacant stare. She glared at Graham. Without understanding what I was supposed to be looking at, I sighed aloud, and focused my attention on Katrina instead. She remained on her knees, propped upright. Her sobbing had abated, replaced by an undecipherable tune, which she hummed to herself. It sounded jolly; upbeat. Remarkably inappropriate, given the current situation.
More prodding, this time to my upper arm.
“I said, will you look?”
“What am I looking at, exactly?”
Lisa hadn’t moved since I’d rushed over and helped her to sit upright. A few minutes earlier, Graham had knocked her flying, a body blow sending her crashing over. Upon landing, her head had snapped backwards; momentarily knocking her unconscious. She still appeared groggy, but at least some colour had returned to her cheeks.
“The blood, stupid.”
Considering she may still be dazed, in shock, or both, I placated her by admiring the blood seeping from Graham’s head wound. A small amount trickled across the freshly dug grave beneath him. The very grave he’d dug himself earlier that day. A final resting place for Lee Blackmore, or possibly even me? How ironic that was where he had met his demise.
“I know. Katrina hit him pretty hard with that shovel.”
I’d attempted to lift my tone, and hopefully Lisa’s spirits. However, she didn’t share my feigned enthusiasm. Instead, she pushed herself backwards, her hands and feet trying to gain purchase with the loose soil and pine needles below.
“Lisa?”
Suddenly, her pupils widened, and the remaining colour in her cheeks drained away. My eyes flicked from hers to Graham, to the blood and back again. Her behaviour freaked me out.
“Lisa!”
“The blood is still flowing,” she claimed, pushing herself away from me; from the grave. “It’s fresh blood.”
“And?”
“And blood stops flowing as soon as the heart stops pumping. A little more may seep out, but not the amount coming out of his head.”
Subconsciously, I pushed myself backwards too, attempting to catch her up. I couldn’t take my eyes off Graham, either. Lisa was right. The blood appeared to be flowing freely from his head wound. But was she correct? Is that what really happens?
Katrina’s squeal of excitement made my arms give way from beneath me. I hadn’t seen her move or indeed stand up. She looked directly at me and grinned broadly; her yellowing teeth prominent in the early evening mist. A mist which had descended around us; swirling in the slightest of breeze. How could she switch from one mood to another with such ease?
A groan came from behind her. My eyes flicked back to Graham. Lisa grabbed my shoulder, her shaking arm reverberated throughout my body.
Did one of his fingers just twitch?
Holy shit!
A further squeal from Katrina. Her head twisted effortlessly from me to Graham, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Then she giggled and ran.
“Katrina, wait!”
She stopped dead in her tracks, as if somebody had applied an emergency brake, before turning slowly to face us.
“Did you really see the police officers at your house? Did they take your mother?”
I tried to recall what she’d originally told me. Graham had instructed her to run along; get home safely to her mother.
‘The police have taken mother,’ she’d said. ‘And Amelia. I watched from the woods.’
But Katrina had a reputation for skewing the truth. Her own warped mind enabled her to say exactly what she wanted.
Katrina grinned, teasing, playing me at her own game. I’d been the victim of her antics many times before.
“Did the police officers take them, Katrina?” I repeated impatiently. “We have to know.”
Finally, after further deliberating, she replied. “Of course not, silly. But I did just watch you kill him.”
Katrina pointed at Graham. And then she ran. Quickly, back towards the footpath, disappearing out of sight. A faint cry of ‘Mother’ filled the dense woods; followed by that hideous cackle.
“We need to make sure.”
Lisa stood beside me. As with Katrina, I hadn’t heard her move. She held the shovel in outstretched arms. How had she retrieved it without me realising?
“Matt?”
Finally, I read her mind.
“No, Lisa, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t do it.”
Scrambling to my feet, I hastily joined her. Still, she held the shovel aloft.
“We have to, Matt,” she repeated, shaking violently. “We have to finish him.”
Scrupulously, I studied Graham, searching for any sign of movement. I continued to back away from the scene. Lisa echoed my every footstep.
“He’s dead. He must be dead,” I said. “Katrina hit him so bloody hard. Nobody could survive that.”
“But what if…”
“If he isn’t, he soon will be. He’s lost a lot of blood. And if we don’t touch him, then we can never be framed for it.”
“Shit. Fingerprints. Matt, help…”
Lisa trailed off, the shock of what was unfolding finally rising to the surface. Grabbing her, I clutched her tight, feeling her silent sobs convulse through my body. Realising time was against us, I held her at arm’s length.
“Listen. We’ve done nothing wrong. Graham killed Lee. He killed my aunt. And now Katrina killed Graham.”
“So, what do we do?” I knew Lisa was doing her utmost to remain brave and hold it together. “Didn’t you say the police were coming up from the village? They’ll be here soon.”
I’d forgotten about the police. WPC Nina Murrow had left a message on Lisa’s burner phone. They were going to make their way to the woods from the village below. It would detract from coming past the house, catching the family off guard. And the first thing they would stumble across would be Graham’s body, conveniently laid out over the makeshift grave of the person he’d earlier killed.
“We need to get back to the footpath. Wait for the police.”
I could feel Lisa nodding her head against my chest. Holding her tight, we awkwardly stepped backwards. My eyes didn’t leave Graham.
True to her word, WPC Nina Murrow arrived via the village; accompanied by three other officers. It must have been around forty-five minutes after she’d left the message on Lisa’s phone.
We led them silently back towards the scene. One officer spoke, checking on our condition, but neither of us replied. We just held each other, desperately seeking comfort.
Once back in the clearing, one of the police officers ran to Graham’s aid. Another, the one who had been speaking to us, held out his arm, instructing us not to go any further.
“Wait here,” he said.
Still holding Lisa in my arms, I led her to a nearby tree stump, where we gingerly sat down. Her whole body appeared to have gone into spasms. Hugging her tighter still, I recalled the two nights we had spent together in Cheshire, only three weeks previously, at the conference. My wife, Amelia, hadn’t been able to attend because of her mother’s illness, so Lisa and I represented the company instead.
There had been a spark between us ever since my first day at Opacy Property Management. Although my attention had been focused on Amelia Reid, I hadn’t been able to resist Lisa’s charm and flirtatious mannerisms. She may not have had the same stunning looks as Amelia – frankly, nobody could have compared to Amelia and the way she had dressed for my interview and subsequent first days in the office – but I found Lisa attractive, not for looks alone. She was good fun, the upbeat member of the team. And that cute little smile. I knew I had a reputation of finding many women attractive, but if it hadn’t been for Amelia, I’d often wondered if I’d have ended up with Lisa instead.
Following the infamous night at the Cheshire hotel, Graham had turned up the next morning, nonchalantly waiting for us in the dining room at breakfast. Fortunately, I’d arrived first and made excuses on our behalf. Moments later, Lisa appeared. The sight of Graham sitting at the table drained the little colour remaining in her cheeks. I’d not been convinced whether Graham had known we’d spent the night together. After all, he had no proof, and could only have presumed the trip had gone ahead purely professionally. One thing was for certain, though: he’d have reported every single detail back to the family.
The sound of one officer talking snapped me from my trance.
“Miss!” he shouted. Everybody turned in unison. He leant over Graham, his hand on his neck.
“He’s still alive!”
2
An hour later, I found myself in a small, soulless interview room at Epsom police station. The walls were painted a miserable grey and, perched high on one wall, were two tiny oblong windows. They let in a minimal amount of natural daylight. A single lightbulb hung over the brown Formica table, strategically placed in the centre of the room. The sensation of Graham being alive taunted me, and an oppressive feeling of claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm me. I’d never felt so grateful as when the door finally swung open.
Two gentlemen entered, neither in uniform. I didn’t recognise them. Joining me at the table, they pulled out two plastic moulded chairs; one grey, the other a badly faded orange. One of them annoyingly scraped his chair backwards, along the tiled floor. He repeated his actions, dragging himself back underneath until his legs disappeared from sight. His colleague appeared as pissed off as me at the unnecessary screech.
“Matthew Walker?”
The annoying chair scraper addressed me first. His sombre tone matched the surroundings.
“We know you’ve been through a lot, so thank you for agreeing to give a statement. Hopefully, we won’t keep you much longer.”
Unsure whether I could speak, I instead offered a brief nod in return.
“This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Tom Paine.”
Glancing across the table, a wave of anxiety washed over me. I suddenly craved the familiar face of WPC Nina Murrow. She had been the friendly voice in the woods; the reassurance. The one person in authority who both I and Lisa had immediately entrusted. But from that moment on, I knew she was no longer in charge. Instead, I studied DS Tom Paine, hoping he would offer some kind of comfort.
Standing around five foot nine, I found it strange that an officer’s physique could be so diminutive and wiry. My preconceived vision of anybody working in the police force was one of a powerful build, somebody whom you would never mess with. But DS Paine appeared more like someone you’d stumble across at a supermarket till or driving a delivery van.
“And I’m Detective Chief Inspector Clive Small.” He paused, his eyes not leaving mine. “But just call me Clive. I think that’s easier than any of this formal nonsense. Don’t you?”
At a little over six feet tall, he fitted my conception of the quintessential police officer. Well built, broad-shouldered, and oozing an air of authority. He wore a dark blue, crew-neck jumper, complete with pristine white collared shirt beneath. His left sleeve had ridden above his wrist, showing off an expensive-looking watch. It soon became apparent why he allowed it to be on display, as he consistently glanced down whilst talking, a little too often for comfort. Maybe it was his method of applying pressure. A ‘Get to the point’ kind of duress. I didn’t require any further intimidation. My palms were already damp. Strategically, I placed them on my thighs, underneath the table, out of sight.
Once again, I studied the DS. He remained stony-faced but not without a glimpse of compassion. Maybe that’s why I had been drawn to him. However, it soon became obvious he wasn’t conducting the interview. I offered a further solitary nod towards the DCI in reply to his question. Despite the invitation to address him by his first name, he would always remain DCI Small to me.
The receding hairline from his forehead exaggerated his cropped hair, greying at the temples. A day’s stubble ruined the clean-cut exterior but somehow added to the tough-guy stance. Guessing his age as somewhere in the mid-forties, I noticed a large gold band on his wedding finger. Thick skin on either side wedged it into position. I doubted it had left his hand since the day he’d got married. DCI Small could never fit into the category of the most handsome men on the planet, but I still imagined a decent-looking wife at home, alongside the obligatory two children; one boy and one girl. The idyllic British family life.
