Page 16 of The Tapes
I thought my tiredness wasn’t affecting my work – but the moment I see the word ‘engineer’, I remember what I didn’t do. As well as owning the landscaping company, last year Mark bought the storage centre on the adjacent plot. The previous owner had a heart attack and I think it might have been an impulse buy. Either way, I somehow ended up with a doubled workload more or less overnight.
This is what I mean about a job getting in the way. Because I want to be at my father’s house, rooting through that garage, looking for the jewellery box Mum was talking about on the tape. If it’s not there, is it somewhere else in Dad’s house? The only thing I have to go on is that Mum said there were flowers engraved on the side. If I can find that, I’ll actually have something to take to the police.
Except, I have to work.
So I make the phone call to the engineer needed next door, I double-check the MOT appointment for the work van, I reply to a couple of emails, answer a call from someone who’s waiting for one of our teams to turn up, check the company’s credit card statement for anything untoward… plus all the other mundane parts of the job that somebody has to do.
As I work, I continue to feel watched, as Mark’s presence looms in the adjacent office. He’s one of those who only knows how to use a computer keyboard in one way – banging the keys one at a time until they submit. My actual work is punctuated by the rhythmicthump-thump-thumpof whatever he’s doing in the next room.
I still find a bit of time to google the Earring Killer. I know the name, of course, because I grew up with it. The Earring Killer is like quicksand – one of those things I heard a lot about as a kid, but something that’s not affected my life as an adult.
He’s blamed for killing nine women, although, from the Wikipedia page, it doesn’t seem as if there’s been a single attack in thirteen years. That’s what Liam said, although it’s a stark number.
I never really connected Mum to the Earring Killer, and nor did anyone else. A body wasn’t found and disappearing always felt like something of which she’d be capable. If not that, then harming herself. That darkness was within her – and even she knew it.
Except… thirteen years is the same amount of years that Mum has been missing.
EIGHT
Whenever I tell Mark I’m off to have lunch with my friend, he puts on a high-pitched voice and says, ‘Oooh, you’re one of those ladies who lunch.’ Every time he does this, I have to fight the urge to put a brick through the window of his BMW. This happens once a week.
Nicola’s mother picks me up in her Range Rover – then immediately proves it’s too big for her. She almost barrels into a pair of parked cars while trying to figure out how to reverse, then shoots forward, almost hitting a bollard. Nicola is in the passenger seat, knowing when to be silent, as I sit in the back, like a kid waiting for Mum and Dad to start fighting in the front.
Lucy Parris drives us out to the golf club, taking three attempts to reverse park, before breezing through the main doors into the restaurant.
It’s a different world as someone in a suit greets her as ‘Ms Parris’, before guiding us onto the veranda. There’s a table already waiting, with a view overlooking the lush valley of greens and fairways. Nicola’s mother doesn’tplaygolf – but she enjoys the facilities. Less than a minute after being seated, there’s a large glass of red wine in front of Lucy as she tells her daughter she’ll have to drive us back.
As I watch Nicola’s mum gulp a large mouthful of wine, I wonder if Mark had a point back at the office. Perhaps Iama woman who lunches, albeit against my will. My usual weekly catch-up with Nicola involves a sandwich in the pub at the end of the road and a general gossip about anyone we know who’s had a recent Facebook meltdown. This is the unwanted exception.
‘Eve’s been clearing out her dad’s garage,’ Nicola says, after her mum’s downed another mouthful. ‘She says he’s a borderline hoarder.’
Now she’s settled with her wine, it’s clear Nicola’s mother would’ve been happy to be here alone, were it not for the way the staff would look at her. No free ride home, either.
‘Mum’s always going on at Dad to tidy the spare room,’ Nicola adds, trying to involve her mother in the conversation.
‘Maybe all dads are like that,’ I reply. I’ve known Lucy Parris for years, though I don’t think we’ve ever quite got on. We come from the same place – but it can be very different.
‘Maybe you can help sort out our place when you’re done with the garage?’ Lucy says, and it feels half-serious. ‘I found a bag of coat hangers in our spare room the other week. Kieron said you never know when you might need them. I wouldn’t mind, except he got a storage locker when we downsized.’
There’s a side glance of disapproval towards her daughter, followed by another swig of wine. When Nicola said her mum missed the Aga, she was speaking specifically about the one in her kitchen. Her parents once owned the farmhouse, though downsized to an apartment a few years back. My dad reckoned it was probably some sort of inheritance tax scam thing, though I’ve never asked.
One thing’s for certain: I don’t think it was the idea of Nicola’s mother.
‘Thanks for the RSVP for the funeral,’ I say, unsure what we should be talking about.
‘Oh, that’s all Kieron. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
There’s a flourish of the hand as she beckons across a waiter, though the sarcasm was impossible to miss. When the waiter arrives, she orders seared scallops for the three of us, not bothering to ask if that’s OK. I guess she is paying, after all.
As she stares across the course towards some golfers in the distance, Nicola locks eyes and mouths ‘I’m sorry’ at me. We swap a smile but this isn’t the first time her mum has gatecrashed one of our lunches. They always go the same way.
‘What are you doing with the house?’ Nicola’s mother asks. It’s so out of the blue that it’s only when she turns that I realise she’s talking to me.
‘It was left jointly to my brother and me, so we’re waiting for the probate and then it’ll be sold.’
That gets a tight nod. ‘What will you do with the money?’
‘I don’t know. Dad only died a week ago.’
