Page 16 of The Serial Killer's Sister
I shudder, but before I can allow my negative thoughts to sabotage my plan, I step outside.
A narrow strip of light is visible on the horizon, the inky sky smudging into a deep blue. With a gulp of fresh morning air, I take the few steps to the pavement and climb into my car. Not allowing myself to hesitate any more than I already have, I start the engine and move slowly off, beginning the three-hour drive to my past.
Nerves consume me as the miles on the road signs become single figures, and the countdown is really on. Nine miles. Five miles. Three miles. The roads are now vaguely recognisable, and my hands begin to slip on the steering wheel. I pull over on a quiet roadside, run my palms down my trousers and get out to stretch my legs. Or that’s what I tell myself I’m doing, but really I know it’s because I want to prolong the inevitable. The last time I saw Finley Hall I swore I’d never get within spitting distance again. Now, I’m allowing Henry to force me back there. It’s why he chose it, no doubt. He wants to make me uncomfortable. Wants me to suffer; make me as vulnerable as possible. Wondering what else he has in store is another reason to put off going there. A voice that sounds very much like DI Walker’s screams inside my head:
A woman’s life hangs in the balance.
A woman’s life is in your hands.
Potentially my own.
‘Fuck.’ I get back in the car, pull away from the kerb, and keep my foot to the pedal, even though I’ve got every alarm bell imaginable ricocheting around my skull telling me to stop the car, turn around and go home. The female voice from my satnav calmly instructs me to make turns, but I don’t need her now – muscle memory has taken over, despite it being seventeen years since I was last here and I didn’t drive then. I guess some things are imprinted on the brain. My mouth waters as I approach the final corner, nausea threatening. When I turn, the upstairs of the home will be visible above the high wall.God, what am I doing?
And there it is. The old, brown-brick building looms ahead.
A large mass, heavy and dragging, sits in my lower abdomen as I steer into the driveway. The posts look the same as they did, but the wrought iron gates are different; they no longer have the words FINLEY HALL on them. It’s now The Grange – an old people’s residential home.
As I approach, my heart in my mouth, I notice a newer building set to one side, part-obscured by trees. It looks like a summer house, but I imagine it’s where the caretaker lives. I crane my neck to see inside as I pass, half expecting someone to come out and stand in my way; stop me, ask who I am and why I’m here. Am I visiting a relative? I should get a cover story ready before I try and gain access – I can’t very well say, ‘I used to live here as a child, so please can I come and look around?’ I don’t want to leave such a clear trail. If I had DI Walker with me, of course, gaining entry would take a simple flash of the badge, no questions asked.
Gravel crunches as I manoeuvre to the signposted car park. Back when my brother and I were brought here, this area was all laid to grass; there was only the sweeping driveway and space for about five cars right outside the main building. Not many visitors came to Finley Hall. If it were possible to sneak around the side of the building to reach the back gardens, I could perhaps bypass the questions and instead get to where I need to be without drawing unwanted attention. The high walls and padlocked side gate prevent that option, though, and I can’t see a handy ladder anywhere.
I run over my story again in my head. My legs are wobbly as I make my way to the entrance. The large, black wooden doors that once brought a sense of dread have been replaced by modern, glass, automatic ones. An intercom is screwed onto the wall to their right. Great. What if I can’t even make it past the threshold? I’m surprised now that I was even able to enter the gates. I turn back to see them still wide open, another vehicle slowly driving through. Perhaps they are left that way during visiting hours. With my finger hovering over the buzzer, I wonder if it would be a better idea to wait for whoever is in that car to park up. I could sneak in with them.
A voice erupts from the speaker, making me jump out of my skin. ‘Good morning. Who are you here to visit?’
Shit. Can’t very well wait now. ‘Oh, hi.’ I bend down closer to the intercom, and my voice is breathy with nerves. ‘I didn’t make an appointment. I know it’s early, but I’m only in the area today and was hoping I could …’ My mind blanks, my rehearsed story refusing to come to me now I need it. I clear my throat to give me time to think.Was I going to say that I hoped to look around? Or to speak to someone about getting my mum on the waiting list? Whatever I say, I suddenly realise that if they ask for specific details, I’ll be flummoxed.
‘The open day has come and gone, I’m afraid,’ the female voice says, pre-empting my request. I relax a bit, thankful she’s given me a starting point. She sounds pleasant, her tone soft, so maybe she’ll take pity on me.
‘Oh, my timing is always so bad. I knew it would be a long shot but I thought I’d try my luck while I was visiting Mum.’ I’m feeling more confident now, and the words come more easily. I hear an intake of breath, the woman readying herself to give me the final brush-off. ‘You see, my dad recently passed, and she’s been so lonely. With me living in Devon and all, I haven’t been able to get the time off work until today.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss. Maybe—’
‘Never mind, I understand. Do you happen to know of another residential home in the area? This is the only one that was recommended to me.’
There’s a pause, then some rustling. I hear muffled speaking; she must’ve covered the microphone. I wait, willing her to let me in. The car that drove in passes by – the middle-aged man, smart, alone, gives me a fleeting look and carries on. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d be up for helping me gain access.
‘I can get one of our carers to give you a very brief tour,’ the voice says. ‘But I’m afraid the manager isn’t available to discuss packages—’
‘That’s really good of you,’ I say, quickly. ‘Thank you so much, I appreciate your help.’
And the door whooshes open. I experience a thrill oftriumph, before I remember what I’m doing here and it turns to dread.
The smell is the first thing I notice. It’s not the musty, old people smell I was expecting, but a pleasant, zesty aroma like freshly squeezed orange juice. The entrance hall has the same Victorian geometric black-and-white stone floor tiles, and the wooden panelling that reaches halfway up to the high ceiling, but it seems brighter – not dark and dingy like it used to be. But maybe it felt that way because of what it meant to me; how seeing it made me feel back then.
The woman I spoke to greets me and offers a handshake. All very formal. She’s called Georgia and she is the senior care worker on this shift, she tells me.
‘If you don’t mind waiting in the lounge, Natalia will be with you shortly.’
She ushers me across the hall to the room that used to be the games room. Gooseflesh immediately springs up on my arms, and my legs stop moving. A pool table once stood in the middle, its green cloth worn at one end. If I close my eyes I can see the scuffs as if it were yesterday, remember the times I’d witnessed the arguments over who was allowed to play, watched in horror as Frank stormed in, slamming one unfortunate victim face down against it. I can still hear the cries, followed by the deathly silence as someone was dragged away and made to sit alone for hours in an otherwise empty room, in unofficial solitary confinement. Tears prick my eyes; I blink rapidly to clear my vision.
‘Are you all right?’
I nod. Forcing myself forwards, I step into the room. I focus on the chairs lined up by the window and strideto one to sit down. The lounge is empty. I imagine as it’s early that maybe the residents are all being assisted in their ablutions. Georgia is staring at me, a concerned expression on her face.
‘Thanks again, Georgia. I am really grateful for you letting me in.’
‘You’re welcome. If you leave your details when you’ve finished the tour, I’ll make sure the manager calls you. I hope it’s what you’re looking for.’
