A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [84]
She only just got to the bathroom before she was sick. Her legs felt like rubber, she was shaking like a leaf and as cold as if it were suddenly the middle of winter. She hauled herself back up to her flat, wrapped her dressing-gown round herself and waited.
It was so strange that she’d spent so much time recently looking out of the window but couldn’t look now. The picture of Angela lying on that bed, the accompanying smell and the sound of the flies were all she could see, smell and hear. She was beyond crying; what she felt was white-hot rage.
Even when the first police car came roaring down the road, pulling up with a squeal of brakes, she couldn’t move to look. She’d left the Muckles’ door on the latch, and she could imagine the policemen seeing everything she’d seen as they went up through the house.
As a child she was always wishing she could be involved in a huge drama. She would imagine herself rescuing an old lady from a burning house or jumping into a frozen river to save a drowning dog. She wanted to be a heroine, to have everyone applaud her courage, to be looked up to and talked about.
Maybe she could have that kind of attention now, but she certainly didn’t want it. She wished this was just a terrible nightmare and that she’d wake up to see Angela out playing with other children in the street.
When she’d sat at the window this morning, the sun had been on that side of the street. She’d felt happy, giggling to herself at how the Muckle family looked in their best clothes. They’d looked bizarre but not evil, not even dangerous. Yet they must have prepared for their day out while Angela was already dead or dying.
Her horror wasn’t so much that Angela was dead. If she’d heard the child had been killed in a road accident she’d be upset, but at least that would be understandable. But how could she ever get over what had been done to that little girl before she died?
The sound of car doors slamming, heavy boots ringing out on the pavement and other neighbours’ voices as they came out to see what was going on upset her still further. She had to go into the bedroom, draw the curtains and lie down. She wanted Dan. If only he’d come home right now.
She lay on the bed waiting for the inevitable ring at the doorbell. Even though she’d shut both the living-room and bedroom doors, she could still hear the ever-increasing noise from the street. She so much wished that she could be on the same level as the other neighbours, curious, eager, gossiping and trying to work out what was going on in number 11. She was certain that not one of them could even guess at the real horror the police would be confronted with.
The ring on the doorbell came at ten to five. Fifi knew she must answer it, but all she really wanted to do was to pull the covers over her head and ignore it. She got up, her legs stiff and wooden, and slowly made her way downstairs.
‘Come in,’ she said to the two police officers. She’d never seen either of them before. The smaller, older one was in plain clothes, his dark suit crumpled and shabby, his hair like a rough wire brush. The uniformed one was well over six feet tall, with washed-out blue eyes and rather prominent teeth.
They were introducing themselves, but she was too aware of the neighbours crowding around just behind them to take in what the men were saying.
‘You are Mrs Felicity Reynolds?’ the older man asked as the door closed behind him. Fifi could only nod and lead the way upstairs.
Once in her living room, Fifi took the chair furthest from the window. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you,’ she said, feeling as if she might be sick again at any minute. ‘It’s too terrible.’
‘Take your time, Mrs Reynolds,’ the older officer said gently. ‘We understand you are