about him. She needed to be more nonchalant. Hoping Gwen
was still watching, she got out of the car, her attention on her
mobile phone. She held it up, casting it around as if to find a
signal. Maybe Gwen would think she’d been trying to make a
call all that time.
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Lizzie stood by the front door, eyes still searching the driveway.
It was the only way into the B&B. Perhaps she’d go for a walk
– at least she’d be out of sight and could catch Billy before he
came up the drive. They could walk and talk; they didn’t need to
sit in full view of Gwen. Their conversation would be more private.
But what if he came another way – through the trees, across a
field or something? She’d miss him if she wasn’t right here. Her
stomach was one big knot. The ringing of her mobile jolted her
out of her thoughts. No caller ID. She accepted the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Lizzie, it’s Anna. We need to talk.’ The intensity of her
voice set Lizzie’s pulse racing.
‘Um . . . okay. Now? On the phone?’
‘No. In person. I need to show you something. Can you come
here?’
‘Not right now, I’ve got . . . er . . . something on.’ She found
herself stammering, afraid Anna would sense from her tone that
she was about to meet Billy Cawley. Stupid, she knew – how
could anyone know but her? And especially not merely from
her voice. Her face reddened at the thought of her idiocy. Just
knowing she was meeting with a convicted child killer, who
happened to be her father, the one who reportedly abused and
abandoned her as a child, was enough to bring to the surface a
whole range of emotions. Dread. Insecurity. Anger. All of which
made her feel her world was spinning, rotating in the wrong
direction at high speed. Made her feel as though she and her
thoughts were transparent.
‘Later this afternoon then? It’s important.’
‘Sure. I’ll ring when I’m on my way.’
The call ended. Lizzie’s blood fizzed as Anna’s words rang in
her ears: ‘I need to show you something. It’s important.’
What now?
Anna’s attention was drawn to a sound. A crunching – tyres
over gravel. But not a car.
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Billy Cawley’s hunched figure came into view, his legs slowly pumping as he cycled up the drive. Lizzie lurched forwards, and
on shaky legs ran to him, hoping no one had seen his approach.
‘Stop there. We’ll walk back the way you came,’ Lizzie said.
Her voice was more solid than she felt. ‘Leave the bike behind
one of the trees.’
Billy silently obeyed her order. He turned back to face her.
In the bright, midday sunshine, he looked very different from
last night. Light caught the white-grey streaks of his hair, making it shimmer. It was cut short at the sides, the top slightly longer and swept back with gel, or oil, revealing a receding hairline.
He’d worn it longer when she was little, and it had been blond
and straggly, more unkempt. Not that she remembered him – it
was his photos from the newspapers she was recalling now. He
was heavier set, not scrawny as he’d been then. He had that
typical ‘hard man’ quality, she thought. He reminded her of Ray
Winstone, the actor who always seemed to play gangster-type
roles. Maybe Billy had always had that air about him, or maybe
he’d gained it from years of incarceration.
She drew in a deep breath to control her rising anxiety. She
could be making a huge mistake being here with him. Alone.
No one knowing. She regretted not confiding in Anna on the
phone just now. She needn’t have said who she was with, just that she had a meeting with someone, and it might turn nasty,
and if she didn’t call Anna back by three, to alert the police or something. Lizzie put her hand in her jeans pocket, touching
her mobile phone. It didn’t offer a hundred per cent reassurance, though – the area wasn’t great for signal, and the further into
the lanes she went, the likelihood of being able to make any
calls, even to 999, was slim to non-existent. It wasn’t just her network that was dodgy; she’d been told no network was reliable
Lizzie walked to the side of Billy, their backs to the sun, her
head down, looking at the driveway, which had now gone from
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gravel to a dusty, muddy track. She felt trickles of sweat running down her back. Lizzie sensed Billy was watching her as they
walked. He hadn’t spoken a word yet – not even hello. One of
them had to break the silence soon; it was uncomfortable. Why
had he come if he wasn’t going to speak?
Impatience – her downfall – took over. ‘So, do you have
anything to say? Anything you want to get off your chest?’
‘Like?’ he asked, simply.
Lizzie bristled. Was he really going to make this as hard as
possible? Make her drag every last word from him? ‘Like, why
did you do it?’ She turned to look at him directly now, wanting
to see his reaction.
‘Do what, exactly?’ A frown wrinkled his forehead.
A loud huff left Lizzie’s mouth.
‘I’m not trying to be awkward, Eliza. But you need to be
more specific.’
Hearing herself being called Eliza caused a strange sensation
to wash over her. It didn’t sound right. Didn’t sound familiar
at all, although she guessed she must’ve been referred to as Eliza at some point when she was little. For as long as she could
remember, she’d told everyone to call her Lizzie before officially changing her name by deed poll at sixteen. She’d taken on the
surname of the last people to have fostered her: the Brenfields.
She’d liked their name more than she’d liked them, but they’d
been decent enough.
‘Fine. Is this specific enough?’ she said before launching into
one question, then another, and another, all of them suddenly
spilling out of her like an erupting volcano. ‘Did you kill my
mum? Did you abuse me as a child? Did you abandon me? Why
did social services take me away? Did you kill Jonie Hayes? Where is her body? Why didn’t you let her poor parents know where
their dead daughter was? How could you do this to me? How
could you murder a child?’
Breathless, she stopped and rested against a tree, tears falling
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down her cheeks. Sobs filled the quiet countryside lane. Billy laid a hand on her shoulder.
‘Shhh, shhh. It’s okay. I get it, there’s a lot of questions you
want answered. I understand you’ve had years and years of
hearing all the horrible things I was meant to have done, years
of building up enough hatred for me to last a lifetime.’
His voice was smooth, comforting almost. But Lizzie knew
she mustn’t let him manipulate her. She had to
stay strong, dig
deep to find out the truth. ‘So? Go. Answer away,’ she said, her
voice monotone and cold.
Billy gave a short, sharp laugh. Lizzie’s blood chilled. What
the hell was funny?
‘I might have forgotten the running order now.’ He smiled
as he backed up, creating some distance between them. ‘You
may have to prompt me, but I’ll give it a go.’
‘It’s not amusing, Billy.’
‘No.’ He dropped his head. ‘Sorry, I know. I’m just nervous,
that’s all. It’s been a very long time since I had a real conversation. It’s been too long since I saw my little girl.’
‘Save the pity-talk – I’m not the one who’s likely to give you
any sympathy.’
‘Right. Sure,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘Okay, then. In
answer to your first question, I loved Rosie with all my being.
But we did marry very young. Of course, that’s not to say I
wouldn’t have married her even if she hadn’t been pregnant
with you, but I’m sure we would’ve waited until we had more
money. But we managed. We had help to get the bungalow in
the form of an inheritance from my father, and we thought it
was perfect. However, right from the start we didn’t fit in. We
were never “one of them”. They were a funny bunch, the villagers
of Mapledon, and despite trying so hard to be liked, we were
never accepted. And before long, Rosie fell ill. At first, we thought it was exhaustion – looking after a young child, sleepless nights and all. But as time went on, she developed other symptoms
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and she was finally diagnosed as having cervical cancer. It was too late by then. No treatment would’ve worked: it would’ve
prolonged her life, but she was terminal, so she declined the
treatment. I didn’t kill your mother, Eliza. Cancer did.’ He
swiped a tear from his cheek. Lizzie averted her eyes. She didn’t want to see his emotions. She didn’t handle her own well; she
wanted no responsibility for his.
‘Then you were left with me,’ Lizzie said.
‘Yes, and that’s when I lost all control.’
‘So, you gave up on me? Neglected, and even hurt me?’ Hot anger flared.
‘No, Eliza. I never hurt you, not on purpose. You hurt me,
though. You used to lash out – punch, kick and bite me. You
wanted to punish me, I think. You didn’t understand why your
mum had left you, and I was swamped with grief, unable to
understand enough myself. Unable to take proper, good care of
you. I lost all interest in work – it’d been difficult enough to
find decent carpentry jobs around the village to keep the money
flowing, even before Rosie got bad, but then I stayed home to
be with her. After she died . . . well . . . I guess I gave up even looking. I’m surprised you weren’t taken from me sooner really,
and at one low point, I actually thought perhaps it was for the
best – you’d seemed so troubled and I didn’t know how to
handle that, maybe better people would. But if someone had
given me a chance, supported me, helped, then things might have been different. If I knew then what I do now . . . But no.’
His tone became harsher, his voice louder. ‘Everyone was too
keen to point the finger, blame me for anything and everything
that went wrong in the village. They were always baying for my
blood, Eliza. They did everything to drive me out. I didn’t fit,
nor did you. Two weirdos in their perfect Stepford wives bloody
village.’ Spit flew in thin strands from Billy’s mouth. Rage
bursting from him like flames. ‘I didn’t take Jonie Hayes. I didn’t kill her. So how could I ever confess to where her body was?’
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‘But you pleaded guilty!’
‘Yes, because there was little choice and that’s what I was
advised to do. But I didn’t do it, so I couldn’t tell the police
where Jonie was. I didn’t know then and I still don’t. But I have had a very long time to think about it all. And now I’ve got
some debts to repay.’
‘What do you mean, debts to repay?’
‘I owe a few people.’ His smile was menacing, unnatural. ‘Not
money. No. I owe them justice.’
Lizzie sucked in a breath. That didn’t sound like a debt that
could easily be paid back. It sounded like Billy wanted to dish
out his own kind of justice. Maybe revenge.
‘Like what, and how?’
‘Sorry, Eliza. You’ve asked enough questions for today. And
there are some answers you really don’t want to hear, trust me.’
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Chapter Fifty-Seven
1989
Mapledon
Saturday 17th June – 32 days before
‘Come on, come on! Enough of that, kids.’ Officer Pat Vern
walked purposefully towards the group of boys hanging around
the entrance to Blackstone Close.
‘What you talking about, mister? We done nothing wrong,’
one of the boys on the bike shouted across to him. ‘We’re riding
our bikes. That illegal now, is it?’ He was a confident, bolshie
lad. As Pat got closer, he recognised him as Adam Furlong. Pat
guessed his confidence came from the knowledge his dad was
local councillor, Eddie – an equally bolshie adult who believed
he ran the village. Pat’s lip curled involuntarily. Nothing he
loathed more than self-appointed, pompous know-it-alls who
were, essentially, just bullies with a wish to control others.
‘Nope, but trespassing is. And it’s Officer Vern to you!’ Pat
was standing on the pavement adjacent to the group now. There
were only eight of them, mostly on bikes, but he noted two
bikes were lying on their sides, abandoned. He walked further
into the cul-de-sac until he could see the last bungalow in the
row – Billy Cawley’s – and then he caught sight of the missing
riders. They appeared to have just exited Billy’s driveway. They
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were awkwardly running towards the rest of the group, bent over, laughing. ‘And what’ve you two been up to?’
‘Nothing, Officer Vern,’ they sang, before doubling over with
laughter again.
‘Come on, we’re going,’ Adam shouted to them, shooting Pat
a smug look. They mounted their bikes, smirking the whole
time, and started to pedal.
‘If I catch any of you on private property, harassing Mr
Cawley, there’ll be trouble, you hear?’
The bikes whizzed past Pat, the riders cackling like a bunch
of witches. Pat watched them disappear up the road, waiting
until he could no longer hear their voices. Then he walked back
in the direction of Billy’s bungalow, just to check no damage
had been done. As he approached the walled garden, he heard
other voices, hushed, urgent. They weren’t coming from Billy’s;
they seemed to be from the direction of the thicket of bushes
at the end of
the cul-de-sac. He crossed over, and edged towards
the sounds, hoping he’d not been seen. Had the lads cycled
around to avoid his detection – come to finish their stupid game?
They must’ve pedalled damned quick.
He crept up beside the hedges, ears sharpened, focusing on
the voices. Girls, not boys. He relaxed, straightening. He was
about to walk away, but then he caught what they were saying.
‘Don’t believe what Jonie tells you. Really, she’s a nasty bully
and will say anything to get what she wants,’ one girl said.
Then a different voice: ‘I heard what she did to Eliza. Do you
think she really did that?’
Pat stiffened. He didn’t want to listen to any more. It was
just kids’ talk. Gossip. He didn’t want to hear bad things about
Tina’s girl – that would be awkward. But the other girl started
talking again, and he couldn’t walk away. He carried on listening.
‘She was inside. Actually inside the bungalow. I mean, she might be a bully, but she’s a brave one. I wouldn’t go inside,
would you?’
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‘No way! But why did she go in?’
‘Apparently, it was a dare. Robert told me. She told him he
was next, that he had to go inside, otherwise she’d tell.’
‘Tell what?’
‘That’s the point, no one knows.’
‘Wow. We’re not going to do that dare, are we?’
Pat heard the quiver in the girl’s voice.
‘Don’t be daft, no way – I just told you I’d never go in there.
My mum said he’s nasty and hurts people; that’s why Eliza is
so weird. He hits her and locks her in a cupboard. Mum said if
he got someone inside the bungalow, they’d probably never
come out again.’
‘But Jonie did. If what you say is true.’
‘Yeah, but only because she let him do stuff to her.’
Pat couldn’t bear to listen to any more. These kids were about
ten, eleven at most and shouldn’t be talking like that. He shud-
dered. Where was the naivety, the innocence? What was the
world coming to? But, more worryingly, what was Jonie playing
at? The almost-harmless Knock, Knock game seemed to have
progressed to a more dangerous one, one he really didn’t like
the sound of at all.
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