Trust Me Once: Morecambe Bay Trilogy 2 (Book 1) Page 3

  Chapter Four

  Lucia was right. As Charlotte examined the printout closely, she was surprised she hadn’t seen it herself while examining the images on the microfiche machine. There were two pictures of the police officer, a standard, formal police image and an informal photograph taken of the officers on the scene at the slipway in 2000 as the disappearances were being investigated. Her hair was in a short bob, no doubt for practicality, and she looked younger and more naïve. But it was definitely DCI Summers, the woman to whom Charlotte owed the lives of her family.

  Although Charlotte’s way of saving her family would never meet with police approval, it was the DCI’s faith in her that had allowed her to get away with it. She had gone so far as to call Kate Summers a friend after the terrible events that had blighted their lives since they’d moved to the resort.

  ‘I’ll bet she’s seen some things if she’s been policing Morecambe for so long.’

  Lucia’s voice pulled Charlotte out of her distraction.

  ‘When you know someone high up like that, you forget they once had to do the dirty work,’ she continued. ‘I can’t imagine DCI Summers ever having a first day on the job and not knowing what to do; she always acts like she was born a police officer.’

  ‘I get the impression she prefers the practical side of the job,’ Charlotte said, resolving to reach out to Kate. Maybe she would share a little more information about whether the person found on the slipway was one of the Irwin children. ‘She seems to relish being out in the field; I’ve never heard her speaking as enthusiastically about the pen-pushing side of her job. Still, she’s a useful contact, especially now I’m in journalism. I’ll speak to her about this. I bet she can share some useful information. At the very least, hearing her memories will make a great feature for the newspaper.’

  Once they’d finished their lunch and caught up with their plans for the weekend, Lucia stood up, ready to head back to the library.

  ‘I’m so proud of how you’ve stepped up these past few months,’ Charlotte said as she was leaving, venturing a rare emotional moment with her daughter. At one time Lucia would have thrown it back in her face.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I just decided it was time to get my act together. When you came to rescue me at the port, I could see how stupid I’d been. When I thought you’d fallen to your death, it made me realise what’s most important in life. I was a little brat before; I’m sorry.’

  Charlotte felt her eyes moistening, knowing full well her still-teenage daughter could only cope with so much mothering. She gave her a brief smile and waited until she’d left the café before allowing herself a few discreet tears. Although the physical wounds seemed to have healed, the emotional rawness was still there. Sometimes it would creep up from behind, a sudden wave of fear and anxiety, a shocking sense of how much danger they’d all been in. She was safe now, and so was her family. Life was good again.

  Before settling the bill, Charlotte sent a text to DCI Summers. They hadn’t communicated for some time, so it was better than interrupting her working day with a phone call out of the blue.

  Can we speak about today’s big news story? I see you were there as a young police officer. Would love to chat about your experiences for the newspaper. Charlotte.

  She toyed with adding her surname, just in case DCI Summers had forgotten her among the array of names she no doubt held in her head. There was probably no need; after what they’d all been through, Kate Summers was unlikely ever to forget her.

  The message went almost immediately. She got up from her table and walked over to pay the bill, hoping for a fast response to the text. It didn’t come.

  By the time Charlotte had got back to her desk at The Bay View Weekly’s offices, she was agitated about the lack of a swift reply. Nigel seemed equally out of sorts.

  ‘I’ve hit a wall of silence from the police; they’re saying nothing about who they found. It’s very frustrating. We have to commit to a front page, but there’s nothing I’m confident to report on yet. Something’s going on, and they’re keeping tight-lipped about it.’

  Charlotte handed over the two printed microfiche sheets with the photos of DCI Summers on them.

  ‘Recognise anybody?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Well I’m blowed!’ Nigel exclaimed, a look of rekindled enthusiasm in his eyes. ‘Who would have thought it – our old friend Kate Summers? It’s so funny seeing her all serious and uniformed like that; she looks a lot more confident these days.’

  ‘She must have been young in the year 2000… what do you reckon, early twenties? Not much older than Olli is now, I’d guess.’

  ‘We should contact her and see if she’ll talk—’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘And?’

  Charlotte looked at her phone.

  ‘Nothing. She might be busy. Sometimes I have to curb my impatience; I just want people to get straight back to me.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Nigel said. ‘One moment, I’ve just got an email response I’ve been waiting for.’

  Not for the first time that day, Charlotte waited for Nigel to digest some incoming information sufficiently to share it with her.

  ‘Good news!’ he said, after what seemed like days. ‘We’ve got a lead. Tiffany Irwin is still local. She’s a resident at the Briar Bank Care Home. It’s over Bare and Torrisholme way, I’m not entirely sure where.’

  ‘What’s Briar Bank? Surely she’s not old enough to be in a care home?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of care facility. Briar Bank is for residential patients with mental health issues. They’re deemed incapable of living unsupported. I’ll forward this email to you – it’s all explained in there.’

  ‘Surely somebody of her age would recover from an incident like that?’ Charlotte queried.

  ‘What, losing three children, babies and all? And your husband? This newspaper article you’ve given me says it was a suspected suicide attempt on her part. Maybe she had a history of mental health issues dating way back.’

  ‘The poor woman,’ Charlotte said, as much to herself as Nigel. She thought back to when she had two babies of her own. She’d have done anything to protect them and keep them safe. Yet, however much she loved Olli and Lucia, even though they were young adults now, there had still been a time, if only for a moment, when the thought of taking her own life had occurred to her. She knew what a dark place you had to be in to even consider it, yet she’d been there and her two children were safe and sound. No wonder Tiffany Irwin was receiving psychiatric support. The thought of losing three tiny children and never knowing if they were dead or alive, with no clue about what might have happened to them, must have been insufferable.

  Nigel was on the telephone already, running through his newspaper credentials with whoever he was speaking to. It was a good job everyone in the town thought well of the local newspaper. Nigel had once told her he’d spent a brief period on secondment at another publication which had zero credibility in the community it served. He’d recounted how hard it was to secure interviews; most people declined his requests, afraid of being misquoted or taken out of context. In its small, parochial way, working on The Bay View Weekly opened doors.

  Nigel put the phone down and gave Charlotte a self-satisfied smile.

  ‘And we’re off!’ he said. ‘We can go to see the deputy manager at Briar Bank this afternoon. She’s not promised anything, but if Tiffany Irwin gives her consent, we may be able to chat briefly. Whatever happens, a combination of an update on her and a re-hash of the event of January 1st 2000 will give us enough to work with for the front page. And they’ve promised us a press conference, at least, so even if it turns out to be nothing, we’ll still have something to hang the story on. Can you follow-up with DCI Summers? If we can land a chat with her, we’ll be well away.’

  ‘Sure,’ Charlotte replied, picking up her phone and checking to see if she’d missed a text from Kate. There was still no reply. Irritated by Nigel’s swift result with the care home, she dialled Kate’s number. A more direct approach would flush her out. The phone rang several times, then went dead.

  ‘Any joy?’ Nigel asked, gathering together his things for the trip to Briar Bank.

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlotte replied, disappointed. ‘I know she’s a busy woman, but it’s not as if we don’t have past form. I’d expect her to text a reply, at least. Anybody would think she doesn’t want to speak to me.’

  Chapter Five

  Nigel and Charlotte hardly spoke as they drove towards Bare in the newspaper vehicle, its exterior plastered with The Bay View Weekly. Charlotte was still seething at DCI Summers’ lack of response, and she suspected Nigel’s mind was churning over the structure of next week’s front page.

  They had a three-page special to fill between them, but if they didn’t get a steer from the press conference, they’d have very little to hang the story on. Charlotte had never quite grasped how much pressure there was to come up with something compelling for the front page every week. She’d be letting Nigel down if she couldn’t get Kate Summers to provide a comment or interesting angle on the feature.

  Charlotte looked up as they passed the guest house, ahead of the road towards Bare. At least the business only required a light touch from her. Will enjoyed the cash and carry runs, so she could squeeze in the rotas and paperwork in the evenings, in front of the TV. A local accountant managed payroll and cash flow, so it had proven to be an excellent arms-length business, paying for itself and generating a profit big enough to pay for their basic living costs.

  Nigel was not entirely certain where the care home was located, so it took a little driving around to locate it. When he found the building, it turned out to be nothing extraordinary, every bit like a modern care unit. The only difference was that the two-storey building was set in substantial grounds. Nigel parked the car and glanced around.

  ‘Do we need to pay?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to get clamped; they can be like Rottweilers in these places.’

  Charlotte made a cursory survey and confirmed that the parking appeared to be free.

  ‘This looks private to me,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a mix, I think,’ Nigel replied. ‘Mainly private, but they take on some NHS patients. I’m not sure which category Tiffany is in.’

  They got out of the car and headed for the reception area. Charlotte allowed Nigel to take the lead.

  ‘Hi, Nigel Davies and Charlotte Grayson to see Zabrina Madeley. She’s expecting us.’

  The receptionist dialled the extension and notified Zabrina that her guests had arrived.

  ‘Take a seat please, she’ll be with you in a moment.’

  The seating was top quality and comfortable, and the magazine selection middle class, at the costly end of the offerings in the newsagents. Charlotte picked up a Vogue magazine with not the slightest intention of adding anything she saw in there to her personal wardrobe of jeans and comfortable tops. Before she’d had time to scan the contents, Zabrina Madeley arrived.

  The care home owner was extremely well groomed, with a hairstyle that suggested authority and expense. Her nails were immaculately manicured, the nail varnish distinctive yet classy, and her clothing was so obviously expensive that she could have been a model in the Vogue magazine.

  ‘Come into my office,’ she said, not bothering to shake hands. As she turned her back on them to lead the way, Charlotte whispered to Nigel.

  ‘I wish I’d put a nice dress on now. I look like I’ve just been blown in from the street.’

  ‘You and me both,’ he murmured. ‘She’s formidable. Best tread carefully.’

  Zabrina’s office looked out onto the gardens at the back, which were well-tended and extensive. Several patients were sitting at benches and taking the air.

  ‘So how can I help you, Mr Davies?’ Zabrina asked, once she’d settled herself in her impressive leather chair. ‘Help yourself to a filter coffee if you’d like one,’ she added, nodding to a small sink and worktop area to her side.

  ‘I’m wondering if it would be possible to talk to Tiffany Irwin.’

  Nigel cut to the chase. Charlotte reckoned Zabrina was the kind of woman who’d appreciate that.

  ‘We have to be circumspect about the welfare of our clients,’ Zabrina replied. ‘Tiffany has confirmed she is happy to speak to you, but I will need to be assured beforehand that you won’t cause her any distress. What is the nature of your visit?’

  Charlotte scanned the room. There was a picture of Zabrina with a grey-haired, trim-bearded man who must be her husband or partner. They were holding hands in the picture, so she figured it was a reasonable assumption to make. She couldn’t see any photographs of children which might have given clues about the family set-up. Zabrina obviously preferred classy artwork to family photos; the pictures on the walls didn’t look like prints.

  ‘We’re keen to chat to Tiffany about her mental health experiences,’ Nigel began.

  Charlotte spun round to stare at him, then realised she was giving the game away. He was telling one of his journalistic white lies again. It made sense. Zabrina would be unlikely to give permission for him to rake up the very episode that resulted in Tiffany Irwin ending up here.

  ‘There’s so much interest in mental health issues these days, and we’ve heard Tiffany is an eloquent speaker and a long-term patient. We’re planning to spotlight the excellent work you’re doing here to show how beneficial it can be for patients.’

  Zabrina might have been formidable, but like most people in positions of influence, the prospect of some flattery and a positive article in the newspaper was too much to resist.

  ‘That sounds fine, Mr Davies. So long as you stick to your line of questioning, I see no reason to deny the visit. Be thankful that you telephoned me rather than my husband. He is much less forgiving of the local press.’

  ‘You co-manage with your husband?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s him in the photograph you’ve been looking at. We founded this facility twenty-five years ago, and it’s been our life’s work. His name is Quinton. He’s not here at the moment, I’m afraid, otherwise I’d introduce you.’

  Charlotte held back a snigger. Quinton and Zabrina were a couple who’d guaranteed their distinctiveness, if only because their names began with two of the least-used letters of the alphabet. They were a match made in heaven.

  ‘I’ll get Amanda to introduce you to Tiffany,’ Zabrina told them. ‘Five minutes only, and photographs only with Amanda’s and Tiffany’s consent.’

  Amanda picked them up from the reception area minutes later. Charlotte was pleased to see she had some warmth about her. She suspected Zabrina was all about income and profitability; empathy and compassion didn’t appear to be high on her personal agenda.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could go gently with Tiff. She’s usually quite steady, but she can sometimes become distressed. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived. She’s in room 102 at the end of the corridor.’

  Amanda walked ahead, leaving Nigel and Charlotte a few seconds to exchange notes.

  ‘Should we be doing this?’ Charlotte asked. ‘If she’s fragile, I mean? I don’t want her to get distressed.’

  ‘We’ll go gently, but how else do we get more details about her family?’

  ‘You can come in now; Tiff’s ready for you,’ Amanda said, appearing from inside a room just ahead of them. As they entered, they could see it was sparse but the furnishings were of a high quality.

  Tiffany Irwin was not at all what Charlotte was expecting. In the newspaper photograph, a single snap used repeatedly, she looked confident, happy, glowing and content. The photo in the old newspaper cuttings was over twenty years old, but given that Tiffany must now be in her forties, time hadn’t been kind to her. Her eyes were empty, as if any hope had been extinguished a long time ago. Her hair was cut in a functional style, and her clothes were drab.

  ‘Hello Tiffany,’ Nigel said, taking the initiative.

  ‘I’ll be waiting outside,’ Amanda said. ‘Call if you need me. And please be brief.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Charlotte said, offering her hand to shake Tiffany’s. It was so limp that she didn’t dare squeeze it, in case she crushed her fingers.

  Before Nigel could ask his first question, Tiffany leaned forward in her chair, the first sign that she possessed sufficient energy to propel her body.

  ‘You’re here to ask me about the children, aren’t you?’

  Charlotte could tell Nigel was as surprised at the woman’s directness as she was.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Are you happy to discuss it?’

  ‘Keep your voices low,’ Tiffany warned. ‘They don’t like me talking about it. Why else would they keep me here on a cocktail of drugs?’

  ‘What can you tell us about that night?’ Nigel asked, softly. ‘We’re keen to hear your story.’

  Charlotte could hear a male voice at the far end of the corridor, imposing and authoritative.

  Tiffany’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I didn’t try to kill myself; that much I can tell you. And I’m sure my children are still alive. I can sense it. A mother knows. My children did not die that night. I can’t tell you what happened, however hard I try. I can’t find my way through this haze of drugs to remember anything.’

  The man they’d heard was outside the door now, speaking to Amanda. It sounded like she was in trouble.

  ‘If you want to know what really happened, talk to that girl.’

  ‘Which girl?’ Nigel asked.

  ‘Mr Davies?’

  The man strode into the room, his face flushed with annoyance.

  ‘My name is Quinton Madeley, the manager of this establishment. I insist that you terminate your interview with Ms Irwin immediately. Her health is not good enough at present. Please leave the building.’