Heart of Bone: A gripping novel of psychological suspense, page 21
Tom, though? The words he’d written brought him a little closer to her. Greer picked up his journal and continued to read.
CHAPTER 69
The following evening, Greer’s doorbell buzzed at eight o’clock exactly.
When she pulled open the door, Charlie made as though to hug Greer, but she stepped back. Surprise flitted over his face, but he followed her into the kitchen without a word. A distinct smell of beer accompanied him. The atmosphere thickened with tension as she sat opposite Charlie at the table.
‘Everything okay, Mrs M? You seem a bit... wound up.’
When Greer didn’t respond, he continued, ‘Got anything to drink? Beer, wine?’
‘Sure. I’ll open some Malbec.’
She grabbed a bottle from the rack, along with two glasses. This would go so much easier if lubricated by a decent red. She shoved Charlie’s glass, twice as full as her own, across the table. He took a huge mouthful.
‘Why did you ask me here tonight?’ he said.
Greer eyed him for a second before replying. ‘I want you to admit what you did.’
He gulped down more wine. ‘No idea what you’re referring to.’ He wouldn’t look at her, though. Oh, yes, he’d obviously realised what she meant. Getting him to confess might be another matter.
Charlie’s glass was almost empty. Greer pushed the bottle across the table. He wasted no time in pouring himself a large measure. His fingers were shaking.
‘Come on, Charlie. Confession is good for the soul, they say.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’
‘Look, whatever I’ve done to upset you, I’m sorry. Okay?’
‘No. I know what you did. I’ve read Tom’s journal.’
December 12. Charlie got drunk last night. Told me he once killed someone. Wouldn’t say who at first, but eventually he spilled the beans.
Charlie’s glass fell from his hand. The wine spilled in a blood-red tide across the table into his lap. He didn’t appear to care, or even notice. Was it Greer’s imagination, or did a glimmer of relief flicker in his face? That was understandable. His guilt must be a millstone around his neck. He was probably glad Greer knew the truth.
A tear trickled down Charlie’s cheek into the stubble below. He looked like a man about to be escorted to the gallows. Eyes red and bloodshot, skin flushed with booze and self-pity.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs M. I never meant for it to happen.’ His words emerged in a slur, as though someone had sanded their edges, rendering them indistinct and muffled.
Greer needed to hear him say it. Admit what he’d done.
‘Can I tell you about it?’ Without asking, Charlie pulled another bottle from the wine rack and grabbed another glass, into which he poured a generous measure.
‘Go right ahead. I want to hear everything you have to say.’
CHAPTER 70
The police interview room grew increasingly warm. Should Greer ask them to open a window? She gulped down some water, her hand sweaty around the paper cup. ‘You heard me correctly. Charlie Prescott admitted he murdered my lodger, Lily Hamilton. He was drunk when he told me, and filled with remorse.’
DC Blyth frowned. ‘Can you go through again what he said, please?’
Frustration seethed inside Greer. How many times could they ask the same question in different ways?
‘He told me things turned sour after the third time they went out. He wanted to keep seeing her, but she wasn’t keen. Explained she wanted to date other men. Told him if he didn’t like it, tough.’
Blyth nodded. ‘Specifically, the part when Charlie admitted he murdered Lily.’
‘Sorry. Yes, of course. He said, ‘She shouldn’t have tried to dump me. That’s why I killed her.’ After that, he couldn’t speak for crying.’
God, this was hard. She’d once loved Charlie like a son.
‘He told me he stole something from her dead body. Wouldn’t say what, or where he kept it. Just that it was personal to Lily. Said he needed it to remember her by. He begged me not to tell anyone. I had to, though. For that poor girl’s sake.’
Blyth was silent for a while. Then: ‘Why did you wait four days to report this?’
He was bound to ask that, of course. ‘I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight. I gave myself the weekend to get my head in order before I told you.’
‘You should have come in sooner.’
‘You’re right. I realise that. It’s been hard, though. Part of me is grieving, because he’s a sweet boy really. He’s always meant the world to me.’
The interview wrapped up soon afterwards. DC Blyth and the other officer present had been tight-lipped about what happened next, but they’d obviously bring Charlie in for questioning, given what she’d told them. Justice needed to be served.
GREER HURRIED BACK to her car and headed towards home. Her route took her close to where Charlie lived; on impulse, she steered her Fiat in the direction of his house and parked nearby. And watched.
Waited some more.
Eventually, after about an hour, a police vehicle drew up outside Charlie’s home. Two officers got out and walked up the driveway. One of them rang the bell.
When they got no response, the men stepped back to confer with each other, then moved closer to the window. The curtains were open slightly, allowing a glimpse of Charlie’s living room. The taller of the two men peered inside. He immediately ran around the side of the house, shouting something at his colleague.
Things happened quickly after that. An ambulance arrived amid a storm of sirens. Paramedics rushed inside, only to leave soon afterwards with a stretcher. Greer watched as they loaded it into the ambulance. She glimpsed Charlie’s arm as it flopped, limp and pale, over the side of the gurney. Then the doors banged shut, and the vehicle drove away.
CHAPTER 71
Two days later, Greer was watching the local evening news while forking lasagne into her mouth. Charlie Prescott had made the headlines.
‘Police have confirmed that a man they wanted to interview in connection with the murder of cardiac nurse Lily Hamilton has died in hospital from a suspected overdose,’ the female reporter said. ‘Charlie Prescott appears to have committed suicide before anyone could question him over her death.’
Greer sat up straighter in her seat, her food forgotten. The woman carried on, but Greer was no longer listening. Charlie, the boy she’d first met as a shy and awkward five-year-old, Tom’s best friend, was dead.
Greer walked into the kitchen, where she poured herself a large glass of Malbec. Charlie was now the main—the only—suspect in Lily’s murder. Her sweet girl, her Rose by another name, who’d died too soon, too young. Greer wiped tears from her eyes.
Charlie, though—she wouldn’t be crying over that bastard.
December 12. Charlie got drunk last night. Told me he once killed someone. Wouldn’t say who at first, but eventually he spilled the beans.
A further bombshell had awaited Greer, though.
I can’t call him Blue anymore, not even in my head, now that I know he doesn’t want me. That’s a boyfriend thing, and we’ll never be that. Yesterday he dumped me, just like when he flew off to Australia. Men are a diversion for Charlie, a bit of added spice. Women are his main thing. I think I’ve always known, deep down, he’d never be mine.
Charlie’s insistence that Greer shouldn’t read Tom’s journal. The lie he told her about talking to Tom’s friends. All a smokescreen to hide Blue’s true identity.
He’d confessed to being Tom’s on-off boyfriend. ‘I never meant to hurt Tom.’
‘Why did he call you Blue?’
‘Because I’m such a huge fan of Birmingham City Football Club. They’re known as the Blues.’ Simple, really. Nothing to do with eye colour, as Greer had once thought.
Charlie, choked by sobs, had revealed he’d viewed Tom as a safe way of exploring his sexuality. ‘The first time it happened, we were both drunk. Somehow, we fell into bed together, and a few times after that, too. We shared some more hook-ups after I returned from Australia. Tom told me he’d been in love with me for years. He got clingy. Demanded more than I could give. That’s why I ended it. Not as a friend—I assured him I’d always need him as a mate—but the sex had to stop.’ He reddened. ‘Sorry, Mrs M. You won’t have wanted to hear that.’
Greer hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. She’d not mentioned she knew the reason for Charlie’s heavy drinking. Who he’d really killed, and it wasn’t Lily.
December 14. Last night Charlie told me who he killed. The winter he turned fourteen, he was shovelling snow in the garden with his dad. They argued about something silly, and Charlie shoved his dad, who slipped on a patch of ice and crashed into the greenhouse. A piece of glass sliced through his jugular and he bled out in minutes. His mum had a breakdown afterwards. According to Charlie, she was already mentally fragile. She ended up in a psychiatric institution, with Charlie in foster care. He feels responsible for his dad’s death and his mum’s suicide attempts, and drinks to numb the pain.
They say confession is good for the soul. In Charlie’s case, that’s not true. He says he doesn’t deserve love, not after what he did.
Greer agreed. For very different reasons, though.
CHAPTER 72
It had been easy to kill Charlie. Greer had simply turned up unannounced at his house, saying she wanted to talk. It was after dark on Saturday evening, and Greer had walked to avoid parking her car outside Charlie’s house. Charlie had seemed surprised, but pleased, as he ushered her inside.
Good to see you, Mrs M! I’ve been worried you must hate me.
I don’t hate you, Charlie.
Make yourself comfortable. Want a drink?
I’ve come prepared. Brought this single malt whisky with me.
Whisky? That’s unusual for you, isn’t it?
We could both use a stiff drink, don’t you think? God, this screw-cap’s tight. Open it for me, would you, and I’ll fix us the drinks in the kitchen.
Thirty paracetamol tablets, ground to a fine powder. A quarter tipped into a glass of Lagavulin, the other three-quarters in the remains of the whisky. Greer, unseen by Charlie, had wiped off her prints off the bottle and covered her hands with her sleeves to avoid leaving fresh ones. Charlie’s were now the only ones on it. She watched him take a swig of his drink.
Tastes weird, Mrs M.
You’re right. I opened the bottle a while ago, so I guess the contents must have oxidised. Drink up, Charlie. After a glass or two, we won’t care if it tastes odd.
Charlie’s words grew increasingly slurred as Greer spurred him on to drink more whisky. By now, he’d imbibed four full glasses and thirty paracetamol tablets. He could hardly speak.
‘Don’t feel so good,’ he muttered, before his head lolled onto his chest. His eyes fell shut.
GREER BARELY MANAGED a few minutes of rest all night. Charlie’s snores filled the room until dawn nudged its way through a gap in the curtains.
He opened a bleary eye not long after nine o’clock.
Feel like shit. My head’s banging, and I’ve got pains under my ribs. Could do with a puke too.
You’re hungover. That’s why I put a packet of paracetamol on the table for you. A glass of water, too.
Charlie downed a couple of the tablets and fell back to sleep.
He woke up again just after midday. The pain in my side’s getting worse. I think I need a doctor.
Good luck with that on a Sunday. Try another paracetamol.
By now the whites of Charlie’s eyes were yellow, as was his skin. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His liver, fragile after years of heavy drinking, was struggling to cope.
‘Help me,’ Charlie moaned shortly before four that afternoon. He stared around him, clearly confused and disorientated.
He didn’t speak again.
Greer took two empty fifteen-pill packets of paracetamol from her bag, careful to cover her fingers. She grabbed Charlie’s senseless ones and pressed them over the back of each blister to make it appear he’d popped the tablets out himself. Greer tossed the packets on the coffee table beside the drained bottle of whisky.
Charlie was still alive, but unconscious, when Greer slipped from the house before dawn the following morning. Death from a paracetamol overdose could take a few days, so she wasn’t worried. By now, his liver would be so damaged, Charlie’s only hope would be a transplant. The odds of finding a suitable donor in time were almost zero.
Damn. She’d forgotten to ask Charlie about the letter he’d sent to Tom.
December 17. That awful letter. I’ve read it so many times that I know it by heart. I still can’t believe what I’m reading. I’m hurting so badly. I don’t want to live any longer.
Greer had slammed the journal shut at that point, unable to read any further. All she could think about was Tom lying in his own vomit. Whatever Charlie’s letter had said, it had obviously pushed Tom towards suicide.
For that, Charlie deserved to die. Greer refused to mourn his loss, not with a single tear.
Lily Hamilton, though? She’d cried herself to sleep often enough over her.
EIGHTEEN MONTHS AFTER she killed Lily, Greer had removed her lodger’s locket from its hiding place and taken it with her to Charlie’s house. All part of her plan to frame him for her death. A nice touch, and why not? Not that the police had ever suspected her where Lily was concerned.
Greer had wrapped Charlie’s hand around the locket to transfer his prints. She’d already wiped her own off. Her guilt over murdering Lily had meant she’d never worn it.
She’d concealed it in Charlie’s bedside cabinet.
And then lied to DC Blyth. He told me he stole something from her dead body... wouldn’t say what, or where he kept it...
CHAPTER 73 - Before
Lily was going to leave her. Like all the others. Greer couldn’t call her Rose anymore, not after the bombshell her lodger had dropped. The gulf between them had widened too far by then.
After Lily slammed the front door, Greer sat, immobile, on the sofa. She had a mere seven days in which to turn their relationship around. But was that even possible? Lily had been so adamant about moving out.
She’d hoped she’d got her daughter back. The next best thing, anyway. How could she have been so stupid?
Lily was like all the rest. That damn girl hadn’t a clue how hurtful she’d been. She’d peeled off Greer’s skin, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath. And now she was just going to up and leave?
Hours later, Greer still sat there. The day slid into evening, and the room grew dark. Lily hadn’t texted or called. She must have gone out with friends after her shift.
Lily eventually came home at eleven. She went straight upstairs without speaking to Greer.
THE NEXT MORNING, GREER was finishing breakfast when she heard Lily’s footsteps descending the stairs. Now might be a good time for them to talk. She got to her feet. ‘Good morning. Have you got time for a chat?’
Lily appeared in the doorway. ‘Can’t it wait? I’ll be late for work.’
‘This won’t take a moment—’
‘If you’re hoping to persuade me to stay, don’t bother.’
She mustn’t get angry. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark.’
‘Yes. You have. Several times.’ Lily sat down with a sigh. She gave Greer a rueful smile. ‘My temper’s always on a short fuse, which doesn’t help.’
‘I realise I’m a bit intense. Tom called me a smother mother.’
Lily drew in a deep breath. Released it slowly. ‘Yeah, about Tom. You need to tell him the truth. He doesn’t know, does he?’
‘About what?’
‘His sister, the one that died. How his father’s also dead.’
Lily’s words ripped the breath from Greer’s lungs. ‘How did you—’
‘I heard weird sounds coming from your room last night. I wanted to check you were okay. You’d passed out on your bed, an empty wine bottle beside you. You were muttering in your sleep, about a fire, how you needed to rescue your baby. On the floor were a couple of photographs and two death certificates.’
Tears trickled down Greer’s face. Her beautiful Rose. And Jake, Rose’s daddy.
Compassion shone in Lily’s eyes. ‘She had a similar mole to mine. Born around the same time as me. I became Rose to you, didn’t I? That’s why you wanted to use my middle name.’
Greer could only nod.
‘When I spotted the photos, I cried. I can’t imagine losing a baby, but you did. Your husband, too. I read on the death certificates how they died.’ Lily pushed up Greer’s sleeves to run gentle fingers over the burn scars.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Lily continued. ‘You’ve suffered so much. Tom deserves the truth, though.’
‘I’ll tell him, I promise. Just give me some time, okay?’
‘Of course. I’m still going to move out. I think that’s for the best. But while I’m still here, let’s be friends, yeah?’
‘WHAT THE HELL, GREER? Explain why you took this, then chopped Mum out like she never existed.’ Lily brandished the photo Greer had stolen from her room. Her face was puce with rage.
Greer edged away from Lily’s fury. How careless of her to leave the photo on her bedside cabinet. She’d only taken it out for a moment, forgetting it was there when she’d called out to Lily, hoping for another chat. Maybe the chance to persuade her to stay. Lily had spotted it as soon as she’d walked in.
‘On second thoughts, don’t bother. You’re obsessed with me. I get that. But this is a step too far. You’re fucking nuts.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Stay the hell away from me. I’m warning you.’ Spittle flew from Lily’s mouth. ‘The sooner I move out, the better.’ She flounced out, the ruined photo in her hand, slamming the door behind her.
