response by the sound of a single, loud rap on the door.
***
Ratcliffe had drawn a blank with Frances. The bang on the head had turned out to be worse than expected and she was still in hospital. She had been placed into a medically induced coma while the doctors waited for the haematoma that was pressing on her brain to subside. They had no clear idea of when she would regain consciousness so Ratcliffe had decided to question Rachel again during the wait.
His boss, DI Benton, had conveniently extracted herself from the case leaving him, Angie, and a few others to rake over the ashes of this bizarre and soulless case. No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren’t talking. His instinct told him there were hidden agendas, evidenced by the fact that no one cared about the two desiccated bodies that had given him some distinctly disturbing dreams the previous night. No matter how many years’ policing he had under his belt, there were some things it was impossible to un-see. The tiny, wizened body of the baby would haunt him for ever.
Despite Frances’s predicament, he had managed to speak to her husband, Peter Haines, a supercilious man in Ratcliffe’s opinion. He had been far more concerned with the fact that his good name would be brought into question by the case than he had been about either his injured wife or the fact that two bodies had turned up at her former home. Ratcliffe had instinctively disliked the man and looked forward to dragging him into the station to make his statement in due course. In the meantime, some gaps needed filling in.
He hadn’t bargained that Rachel would have company so he was completely wrong-footed when a man opened the door. So much so that it took him a moment or two to realise that Rachel’s visitor was none other than Charlie Jones.
‘Well well well,’ he said, pulling out his warrant card and pushing it under Charlie’s nose. As if Charlie didn’t know exactly who he was already. ‘It’s not often we get to kill two birds with one stone.’
The fact that Rachel Porter was sitting up in bed half-dressed and Jones was looking decidedly shifty told him that whatever had been happening in that room wasn’t something that they would want to share. For some strange reason, the sight of her like that, dishevelled, half-naked, irked him more than it should.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr Jones. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?’
Charlie patiently explained that he had bumped into Rachel that morning, that she had had another fit and that he’d helped her get back to the hotel. It was as simple as that.
Ratcliffe wasn’t buying it.
He glanced at Rachel, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as if she was auditioning for the part of Bambi. ‘Really? As simple as that? I didn’t have you down as the Good Samaritan type, Mr Jones,’ he said, his gaze settling once again on the woman in the bed. The fact that Rachel’s mouth was swollen bothered him, but he wasn’t there to talk about that. ‘We’ve been to see your sister, Rachel. She’s not well, not at all.’
If he’d expected a torrent of concern to flow from Rachel’s mouth he would have been disappointed. Her reaction was to ask what was wrong, nod her head, and reassure him that Frances would no doubt survive the ordeal. ‘Frances is tough,’ Rachel said sagely.
What was it with these people?
Ratcliffe leaned on the edge of the dressing table opposite the bed, forcing Rachel to edge away from him and pull the covers up to her chin. ‘Rachel, I need to ask you some questions about Stella, but as you’re currently … indisposed, perhaps you’d like me to give you a few minutes to get dressed?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ she said with a blush and a look that encompassed Charlie too. Ratcliffe hadn’t forgotten him; he was just biding his time to see what would come out of this bizarre situation.
Both men stepped outside the room and Ratcliffe heard the lock on the door click into place in their wake. Rachel was taking no chances and he couldn’t blame her.
‘I should go,’ Charlie said, discomfort rolling off him in waves judging by the way his jaw was twitching and the fact that he was clenching and unclenching his hands. Ratcliffe was curious – it came across as a big reaction for a Good Samaritan.
‘Might as well stay. I’d like to talk to you too – so no reason we can’t kill two birds with one stone, for now …’
Charlie stared at him, tension locking his features into a mask of what looked like impatience. ‘Whatever,’ he said.
Ratcliffe put his hand up in a gesture of peace. ‘It’s just a chat, nothing formal. Not yet. I wouldn’t be here on my own if that was the case.’
His words didn’t do anything to alter the other man’s demeanour.
Ratcliffe heard the lock click back. Rachel was dressed and standing pensive, but with the door wide open.
***
‘Tell me about Stella – what’s she like?’
Rachel looked from Ratcliffe to Charlie, taking her time in constructing a suitable answer. ‘Stella is quiet, nondescript and timid really. She cared for my mother after her stroke, which wasn’t an easy task. The fact that she’s gone surprises me. She loved The Limes. I didn’t think she would ever leave. I don’t know what to tell you really. She might have changed. I’m not sure I would know her at all any more.’
‘You said “my mother” – that’s an odd thing to say. What do you mean?’ The distinction in her words had sprung out at him.
Rachel sighed. ‘Stella is my half-sister. She’s Valerie, my mother’s, stepchild. Stella’s mother died when she was young. Our father married Mother when Stella was twelve. She had Frances already and I came later. The Limes was her birth mother’s family home, so Stella always had more of a connection to it than the rest of us I suppose. I think she felt it was more hers than ours. Our father inherited it when his first wife died and Mother got it after he went.’
‘So Frances is a half-sister too?’ Ratcliffe asked. Rachel nodded, her face tense. He guessed that Frances might be a sore subject. ‘What happened to your father?’
‘I never knew him. He died when I was a baby. We didn’t talk about him. Mother wouldn’t and Stella wasn’t allowed to. The past was always the past with Mother.’
Ratcliffe turned to Charlie. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘Before my time – never knew him. My mum mentioned him from time to time. She didn’t think much of him.’
Having met Delia Jones, Ratcliffe wasn’t surprised at this. Other than her own son, Delia didn’t seem to have a high opinion of anyone. He turned back to Rachel. ‘Have you managed to remember anything about where Stella might have gone – friends or relatives she may have decided to visit?’ he asked.
Rachel shook her head. ‘There are no relatives, and no friends. Stella is a shy person so she never had friends. Our mother didn’t encourage friends. But I’ve not seen them for a long time – maybe that changed.’
Despite his questions Ratcliffe knew more about the family than he was choosing to let on. Angie had done some homework on them. ‘What about the shop? Didn’t Stella work in the family business? Might she have met people there?’ The Porters had owned a haberdashery, closed for years now, but Stella
