Blame: A Completely Gripping Psychological Suspense

By Patricia Dixon

“A compelling exploration of the human psyche . . . stands out as an excellent piece of psychological fiction” from the bestselling author of #MeToo (Book Rant Reviews).

What if the past came knocking?

Frankie is running away from her past and the repercussions of a night that changed her life forever. Hoping for a fresh start she unexpectedly falls in love.

Unbeknown to Frankie, the wheels of fate are set in motion when Herbert Dunne, a convicted murderer, is released from prison.

When he moves in with Margaret, a woman he has formed an unlikely relationship with, their dark sides gradually emerge allowing their inner demons to blossom.

News of Herbert’s release once again rocks the small village of Elkdale, as the locals remember the young woman he murdered.

But what is Herbert hoping to achieve by stirring up the past? And who is behind the new spate of murders?

One thing is clear—someone is out for revenge. Someone who thinks Frankie and her friends are to blame . . .

“With settings I could get lost in, characters that inspired even my dark little heart and the thrill of bad meeting bad, I thoroughly recommend this.” —Melanie’s Reads

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504070096

Patricia Dixon

Patricia Dixon lives in Manchester and is an international best-selling author of eighteen novels. She writes across genres including women’s fiction, historical fiction and psychological literary fiction. Her stories are often set in her home city and the Loire. Both places are close to her heart and from where she gathers inspiration for her characters and tales. In May 2017 she signed with Bloodhound Books, leading fiction publishers.

Book preview

Prologue

September 2007

When Frankie, Bea and Scarlet set off on that ordinary Friday night, with a rucksack containing blankets, Blue WKD and a very large joint courtesy of Mad Benny who sold them from a corner table in the college refectory, all they cared about was getting stoned and pissed. Or in Frankie’s case, not throwing up like she did the first time they’d sampled Derbyshire’s finest marijuana.

The muggy summer heat made the atmosphere oppressive, like the sky was too close to the earth. Frankie’s skin was clammy, not helped by the exertion of an uphill hike. But a storm was forecast and the general consensus was that a good blast of thunder and lightning would clear the air. Scurrying along the deserted country lane, glancing behind for vehicles and occasionally upwards at the purple-black sky, the three congratulated themselves on persuading Bea’s older brother to buy the booze while they waited in the ginnel, out of sight.

They were headed towards their hiding place beside the reservoir that overlooked the village of Elkdale and where anyone who was daft enough to cycle up a hill to work parked their bikes. Frankie had discovered the corrugated shelter years ago when she went up there with her dad who worked at the treatment plant. The hideout was screened by a row of privets and the perfect place for shenanigans.

In their younger days it was a den; dry, out of sight and not too scary thanks to the security light that shone onto the yard, protecting the plant machinery that was stored there. Best of all, from 4pm on a Friday it became deserted and that shelter had seen a bit of action – the innocent, romantic kind. Nowadays, prone to exaggeration, their parents would probably call it a drugs den, a thought that provided the three amigos with much hilarity especially on nights like this.

By the time they’d unpacked the rucksack, spread out one of the blankets and taken a swig of blue nectar, Scarlet was lighting the spliff. When the first globules of rain began to tap, tap, tap on the metal roof overhead, they pulled another blanket over their legs and settled in for a few hours of bliss. A bit of rain never hurt anyone. They had snacks for when the munchies arrived, their music to sing along to, and each other.

When Abby marched down the path on that ordinary Friday night, slamming the gate with such force that it bounced out of the catch and swung on its hinges, all she cared about was getting some money for the electric meter and a bit of food, just enough to tide them over for a day or two. Her daughter was hungry, she was hungry and those bastards who’d barged their way in, looking for the low-life bastard who’d buggered off and left her with his debts, had taken the last of the cash from her purse.

She did not bother to wipe away the tears that blinded her eyes. They were washed away instead by the rain that swept across the road in sheets, lashing her face and stinging her bare legs. Abby hurried along the deserted street. She couldn’t be long: she’d left Chelsea with a neighbour and her six-year-old would scream blue murder when she woke up and realised her mummy wasn’t there. She loved her daughter so much and couldn’t believe such an angelic creature was fifty per cent due to a complete moron.

Abby was desperate though, running out of options and favours, tired of begging, thoroughly ashamed and angry at ever having to do so, but needs must.

Ignoring the rub of toes against the plastic of her flats, Abby also tried to ignore the voice in her head, telling her the short-term answer to her problem. Coming to terms with it, what she’d have to do, left her feeling dirty and cheap. This wouldn’t be the first time. She’d spent her life doing without, so from a young age had learned to improvise. What caused her heart to crack and a sob to escape her lips was the probability that it wouldn’t be the last time, yet still she walked on. Her little girl came first. Pride would have to join the queue.

As she approached the petrol station Abby spotted a familiar car beside a pump, one that most people in the village would recognise and even though the irony of her next thought wasn’t lost on her, Abby’s heart lifted slightly. The owner was the lesser of many evils and guaranteed to feed the meter, and her child’s belly. Recoiling from the crack of lightning that split open the sky, she wrapped her cardigan around her body and walked faster, the rumble of thunder like a drum roll before the actress takes to the stage.

When Herbert pulled up in the petrol station on that ordinary Friday night, all he cared about was not getting soaked, filling up his Moggie Minor and getting home before the start of QI. So it came as quite a shock to find someone sitting in the passenger seat when he returned to the car, clutching his giant packet of wine gums and a bar of Galaxy. And he certainly hadn’t bargained for being propositioned and having his nether regions groped by one of his old Sunday school pupils, either.

The young lady in question, a term that Herbert loosely associated with someone of this nature, wasn’t averse to taking money in return for a flash of her knickers or as she got older, a fumble in the store cupboard. He knew that of old.

He took in her sodden clothes, dripping all over his oiled leather seats, and in particular the outline of her bra and bulging breasts through the wet, pink T-shirt. His eyes roamed downwards to her tight denim skirt and long bare legs, then her muddy shoes smudging his floor mats. How Herbert wished he felt a stirring in his pants. Ever the optimist, he told himself it would be fine, all he had to do was relax. He didn’t need the little blue pills that lay underneath the specialist magazine in his bedside cabinet at home. His luck was in and he couldn’t turn down an opportunity like this.

To prove his point, when she gave him that coquettish smile, the one he’d spotted as he played the piano in church, and recognised the teasing tone of her voice, like when she offered to collect the Bibles, and felt the gentle stroke of her hand, Herbert knew what Abby was after. And it certainly wasn’t one of his wine gums.

On that ordinary Friday night, a perfect storm was brewing in the village of Elkdale.

Portentous charcoal clouds hovered in a leaden sky, discharging what some might describe as a biblical deluge upon the residents below. Herbert started his car, Abby swallowed down bile in anticipation of worse to come, and three seventeen-year-olds slept soundly under corrugated sheets pelted by bullets of rain.

Having achieved their goal of getting totally stoned and very pissed, the ear-splitting crack of silver lightning failed to wake them. It was the deafening rumble of thunder that caused Frankie to stir, slowly opening bleary eyes before nudging her friends awake. Yawning simultaneously, they shuffled upright, each shivering slightly as an attack of the munchies took hold. For this situation at least, they were well prepared.

After a quick rummage in the rucksack a variety of snacks were produced. While they ate and the rain pummelled the tin sheet overhead, the three amigos were treated to a spectacular light show. From their vantage point, they looked across the stone wall of the reservoir where the Derbyshire Peaks were speared by angry forks of lightning. The black crags and peat covered slopes were set against an ice-white sky, before being plunged into gunmetal grey.

Frankie and her friends would have settled for that but their attention was drawn to another set of lights when a car pulled into the yard and came to rest beside a digger. Neither one of them had any clue that another show was about to start. It was one they’d never forget and it would change each of their lives forever.

1

Present Day

Frankie closed her eyes and massaged her temples as she counted to ten and tried to ignore the sound of a plastic sword being dragged along the iron fence outside, and then back again. She knew exactly who it was, Connor, the little bast– sod who lived next door. It was his latest annoying trait and Frankie wanted to shout out of the window and tell him exactly where she would shove his pirate sword. Verbally abusing an eight-year-old wasn’t a good look and then she’d have his stuck-up mother to deal with. Anyway, Connor would just love knowing he was getting on her nerves and do it all the more so for now, Frankie would have to ignore it best she could.

To add insult to injury, Connor’s parents were having a patio laid in the back garden and a fancy gazebo erected. The concrete mixer and the hammering, plus the banter of the three builders working there had left Frankie craving some peace and quiet.

There was an upside though, because one of the men – Fit Bit Jed, as she’d taken to calling him – was extremely easy on the eye, more so when he removed his T-shirt in the heat. The others, one much older who she’d gleaned from earwigging was the boss, Ken, dad of Fit Bit Jed and Uncle Ken to Spud, the lanky, gormless one. Poor Spud got told off a lot, sent sneaky texts when he was out of sight and made endless trips to the sandwich shop.

And then there was the radio and the singing. Fit Bit Jed loved a bit of Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel. Thank God she was moving soon otherwise there might actually be a real murder, not one of the imaginary kind like in the manuscript she was currently editing. It had to be with the publisher by the end of the week and she was so close to finishing. Then a few days off were on the cards. Not that Frankie needed permission or an excuse to give herself a holiday, such was the joy of being a self-employed editor who had the luxury of working from home.

Her attention was drawn to the calendar on her desk, an old school flip-over type that had big boxes, perfect for writing a note in or circling with red marker pen for important dates. The 30th June was definitely special and not only did it have a capital F, it was encompassed by two swirly circles and three exclamation marks denoting something very important, a life-changing, leap of faith move: the day she emigrated to France.

At least there, in her new home in the peaceful countryside there wouldn’t be any annoying little monsters like Connor. It was at this point she realised the clacking noise had stopped and had been replaced by a bell ringing. From her vantage point in the small office-cum-box-room, she peered down onto the neighbours’ driveway below to check what Devilchild was up to.

One of Connor’s friends was waiting on the street, and ringing his bike bell while Devilchild, obviously eager to go and play, was squeezing down the side of his mum’s car. Meanwhile, Spud manoeuvred his wheelbarrow along the path on the other side. Frankie thought no more of it and was just glad Connor was off to annoy someone else so, power drills and saws permitting, she could put the manuscript to bed by the end of the day.

The advantage of living on the second floor of a huge converted Victorian house, apart from the big open windows that let in natural light and high ceilings with original features, was that Frankie felt extremely safe. At night when she locked the door she took great comfort in knowing that there was only one way into her home, and that was always bolted top and bottom and unless someone with a very long ladder, or Spiderman, tried to break in, she could sleep soundly.

The downside was not having her own garden so she had to share the communal one round the back, and unless you got there early the washing lines could be full. Consequently, the following morning when she made her way to the garden, washing basket tucked under her arm, she overheard the massive row taking place on the other side of the fence between the builders and Mr and Mrs Devilchild.

Frankie didn’t want to be seen by Fit Bit Jed or anyone because she was wearing two-sleeps pyjama bottoms with baggy knees, and a jam-blobbed vest top. Along with her strawberry blonde hair scraped into a messy ponytail and zero make-up, it wasn’t a good look.

Ken the builder was standing in between Jed and their very irate client, trying to get a word in edgeways and, from the looks of it, prevent a punch-up.

‘Now listen, mate, I’m telling you now, none of us have scratched your car. Maybe it happened when your wife went to the supermarket and she’s only just noticed.’

Nosiness got the better of Frankie as she shuffled past, resting her basket on her hip, taking a furtive look at the car which was now facing the other way on the drive. The scratch was visible, quite long, and she realised it could have been caused by Connor’s handlebars the previous day. Before Frankie could speak up, Mrs Devilchild had her ten-penn’orth.

‘Don’t you dare insinuate it was me when you know full well it was him.’ She pointed her manicured finger at Spud. ‘He was in and out all day with that wheelbarrow and not watching what he was doing, I’ll bet.’

Spud looked aghast. ‘No way was it me. Your car was the other way round and I couldn’t get down that side. Uncle Ken’s right: it was probably a shopping trolley or you’re just a shit driver and you want to pin it on me.’

Frankie couldn’t help but snigger at that, and then all hell broke loose. Mr Devilchild went for Spud so Jed gripped Mr D by the shirt and pinned him against the wall while the wife screamed she was calling the police, which is when Frankie knew she had to step in.

‘Excuse me.’ Nobody heard so she raised her voice a couple of notches. ‘I said, excuse me.’

Everyone turned and stared but at least the shouting had stopped.

‘Look, I don’t want to poke my nose in, but I know how your car got scratched. It was your lad that did it with his bike. I saw him from my window when he squeezed in between the car and the fence. It hasn’t got anything to do with him.’ Frankie pointed at Spud.

On hearing this Jed smirked and released his captive, who smoothed down his wrinkled shirt and straightened his skew-whiff tie.

‘See, I told you.’ Spud folded his arms and looked affronted while Ken stepped in and tried to defuse the situation.

‘Right then, that’s that little mystery solved.’ Turning to Frankie he smiled and gave her the thumbs-up. ‘Thanks for straightening that out, love, appreciated.’

Frankie nodded. ‘My pleasure. I’d hate to see someone be wrongly accused. Glad I could help.’ And with that she turned to make her way to the back garden and as she did caught the glare from Mrs Devilchild.

It was later that day, as she was returning from a stroll to the shops that she noticed Jed sitting on the back of the pick-up, checking his phone and having a brew. He looked up as she approached and treated Frankie to a beaming smile. ‘Here she is, our heroine. Thanks again for this morning. It was looking like we’d end up getting sued. Either that or he’d have refused to settle up until the scratch was sorted. I’ve met his type before and they’ll do owt to get off paying.’

Frankie rested her shopping on the floor: the handles were digging into her fingers. ‘Oh no, that’s awful. Well, I’m glad I said something now. Is the atmosphere a bit cringey in there?’

‘Put it this way: we won’t be getting a bonus when we leave.’ Jed smirked.

Frankie wasn’t surprised by this at all because her neighbours didn’t look like the tipping kind. ‘Well at least tell me Connor got in trouble: that kid drives me round the bend.’

‘Oh, I know, he’s a little shit. He gives us the middle finger when his mum’s not looking and I caught him peeing in the concrete mixer the other day. Dad said to ignore him, it’s not worth the hassle. After this morning’s performance I think he’s right. We’re going to get the job done, get paid, then clear off.’

Frankie felt a bit put-out on hearing this, which was stupid because it was the first time in two weeks they’d even spoke. Shyness had got the better of her, while perving from the bathroom window came easily. ‘So when will you be done then?’

‘Tomorrow, all being well. I don’t envy you living next door to that lot, though. Do you work from home? I’ve noticed you’re here all day. And I’m Jed by the way.’

Frankie felt ridiculously pleased that he’d noticed, so while she answered took the opportunity to check him out close up. ‘Hi, Jed, and I’m Frankie and for my sins I’m an editor so I can work from wherever I park my laptop.’

Jed raised his eyebrows. ‘An editor, eh? I’ve never met one of those before which is why I think I should definitely take you for a drink, to say thanks for today obviously and, so you can tell me all about what you do. Or, if you fancy it, we can go for something to eat. What do you say? It’s the least I can do.’

She’d been busy taking him in – sandy-coloured hair and deep brown eyes – so his question left her completely blindsided while the rush of heat that flooded Frankie’s cheeks made her look stupid and naive. She was so out of practice. Actually, it was worse than that because she’d more or less forgotten what it was like to go on a date or even feel attracted to someone.

The cringe-making silence that followed only highlighted her inadequacy so the appearance of a glowering Mrs Devilchild, dragging her wheelie bin up the drive and towards them was the icing on the cake-of-awkwardness.

Jed looked as embarrassed as Frankie felt, and then Mrs D paused as she positioned her bin, glancing from one to the other and smirking. No doubt she thought they were in cahoots, and that Frankie had lied because she was having a thing with the builder, or maybe she was amused by Frankie’s flushed cheeks, or the fact that she was a flirt. Whatever it was, Frankie hated being judged. She wasn’t standing for that ever again, which is why she surprised herself with an answer for Jed, who it had to be said, looked just as taken aback.

‘Okay you’re on, I’d like that. I’m free on Saturday if that suits you, or whenever, just let me know.’

Jed appeared to gather his wits, edged himself off the truck and put his phone away, then gathered Frankie’s shopping bags. ‘That’s ace. I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Is that okay?’ He walked down Frankie’s path, both of them ignoring the huffing sound from Mrs D. ‘What’s your favourite, Italian, Chinese, Indian? Just so I know where to book a table.’

‘Yes, that’s fine, I’ll look forward to it and I like anything… Well actually, Chinese is my least favourite, but I’ll still eat it, but not bat soup obviously. Look, why don’t you surprise me. Oh, and nowhere posh: posh makes me uncomfortable.’ Frankie knew she was rambling and wanted to slap herself.

At this Jed laughed as he placed the shopping bags at the door to her flat. ‘Okay, and I get what you mean about posh, and bat soup. I know the perfect place.’

‘That’s great, I’ll look forward to it.’ Frankie rummaged in her bag for her keys but Jed appeared to be going nowhere fast.

‘And don’t worry, I won’t pick you up in Old Smoky. I’ve got my own car, don’t want you getting covered in plaster dust and bits of Spud’s dinner.’

Frankie paused, keys in hand, a bit confused. ‘Old Smoky?’

Jed pointed over his shoulder to the works truck, with his thumb that had what looked like bloodied masking tape wrapped around it. ‘That’s what we call Dad’s old truck. He’s had it for donkey’s; it’s knackered but he won’t get rid. So, I’ll see you on Saturday then?’

‘Yep, that’s fine, see you Saturday.’ Frankie was about to put the key in the door when she heard Ken shout over the fence.

‘Oi, lover boy, get yer arse round here and do some bleedin’ work otherwise I’ll dock yer pay.’

At this they both laughed, Frankie blushed and as Jed waved and backed away, she somehow managed to open the door and once she’d dragged her shopping inside flopped onto the stairs, held her head in her hands and wondered what the hell she’d done.

2

After twelve extremely unpleasant years in prison, Herbert had been most relieved when he finally got a cell to himself. Sharing with some of society’s low-lifes had been a trial; however, for the last seventeen months he’d been king of his tiny yet grotty castle and today, he actually felt grateful for such small mercies.

Gratitude wasn’t an emotion Herbert was accustomed to but under the circumstances he needed solitude and time to think, to take it all in. He’d been rather put-out that his test results had been given to him by the prison doctor because Herbert enjoyed the drama of an escorted visit to the hospital. From the moment he stepped out of the vehicle people looked shocked to see a handcuffed prisoner and his jailors walking the corridors or sitting in outpatients.

They were no doubt curious as to his crimes and Herbert would have loved it if someone had plucked up the courage to ask the guards what he’d done. Once the words were spoken imagine how aghast they’d be, face to face with a real life murderer. ‘BOO!’

Herbert had perfected the persona of a hardened criminal and liked to intimidate anyone who was brave or curious enough to catch his eye. He’d put on a few pounds over the years, becoming sloth-like, pudgy and sallow of skin, not a pretty sight. Then gradually, over the past few months it had all dropped off and he barely recognised himself in the mirror. Not surprising really, with all the worry over tests and scans.

During his hospital outings, in the absence of bulk he’d used his gaunt, unshaven face to project an unkempt, tough-guy image, slouching, irreverent, like he was proud of his jailbird status. Then, once he’d lulled the onlookers into a false sense of security and let them have a gawp, his eyes would slowly scan the room, resting on his prey. Herbert would hold them in his sights for a second, then squint, sending them a message via a sneer. The best part was when they looked away quickly, or down at their hands, too embarrassed or unnerved to glance up again. Oh the power! He loved it.

This time he’d been denied an afternoon out, a chance to remind himself what life on the outside was like, what he could look forward to when he was released at the end of the month. Instead they’d taken him to see the prison quack who gave him the results of his tests; or, to be more accurate, sentenced him to death.

This is what Herbert needed to get his head around, alone and back in his cell. He hadn’t reacted to the doctor’s words. No, not a flicker of emotion did he show. Clasping his hands to prevent them from trembling Herbert remained impassive, listening to every word before giving the doctor a curt nod, then he stood. No way was he going to thank the quack. What for? Telling him he was going to die, that there was nothing they could do, and if he was lucky he might have six months to a year? Fuck that. In fact fuck them all. Fuck everyone and everything.

As he sat there on his shitty bed in his shitty cell that stank of drains and sweaty socks, Herbert started to laugh at his own ridiculous thoughts. Because after waiting all this time, he probably wouldn’t be fucking anyone or anything, not now, not for long anyway.

Herbert sighed and lay down, closing his eyes to block out the brown stain on the ceiling. Some joker had left it there as a mark of disrespect or something equally puerile and quite frankly disgusting and inconsiderate.

Sucking in the fetid air, then regretting it, Herbert assimilated the information he’d been given, replaying the words of the doctor in his mind. He’d thought he was just ill, or getting old, so the diagnosis came as a hammer blow. No easy way to say this. The results of your test have found cancer in your spleen, bladder, kidney and lymph nodes. Treatment will prolong but not cure. Palliative care and counselling will be offered. You need time to consider your options. I’m extremely sorry and if there is anything else you think of or need to ask, make an appointment and come back to see me. I accept this will have come as a great shock…

Shock! Was the quack having a laugh? Herbert was feeling more than shock. Forcing down the swell of panic that was building in his chest, he was losing the battle with anger, consumed by white rage, Herbert balled his fists and would have punched the wall had it not been made from brick. Fourteen years he’d been stuck in that cesspit, being a good boy, biding his time, making plans, perfecting the persona of a misunderstood, deeply principled and devoutly Christian man. If only they knew that on the inside he was as foul-mouthed and depraved as most of them on his wing.

The thought and effort that had gone into paving the way for his release made him want to weep, but he wouldn’t. Herbert wasn’t weak. He never cried, not even when they arrested, charged and found him guilty of killing that harlot Abby Mills. Yes, they had him bang to rights. All he had to do was plead guilty. If he did, his brief had assured him he’d get a lighter sentence.

No way.

Regardless of how long he served Herbert would always be branded as a killer, shunned by society and rejected by his community and if that was the case then he was going to make sure that Abby went down in village history as their very own Lolita, dirty slapper and man-baiter. That was why Herbert pleaded not guilty, had his day in court and insisted her death wasn’t his fault. Yes, he’d roughed her up a bit after she made him feel inadequate, laughing at his flaccidity, goading him and insisting he gave her money even though he couldn’t perform, threatening to tell the whole village that he couldn’t get it up.

They said, the police, that he’d dragged her to the edge of the reservoir and then thrown her in. Herbert had insisted she ran from the car and he drove home. It was plausible.

Then those three little bitches ruined it all. It was their evidence that put him away. And that little tart Frankie Hooper, he hated her the most after she simpered on, elaborating on the truth.

Historic abuse! Pah! Her little tale of woe was the nail in his coffin and the jury lapped it up even if they had no physical proof, mainly because the photos he’d taken of her got burned to a cinder when that raving psycho Dennis Mills set his shed on fire. If they’d found Herbert’s collection of photos, hidden inside an empty emulsion tin, he’d have been in more trouble and no doubt Caravan Frank, the local supplier of images to suit certain tastes would have been banged up too.

And why had that bloody nutcase Dennis got off with a caution? Storming round to Herbert’s like a frenzied pyromaniac, threatening all sorts. Because he was a traumatised grieving father and off his head on drugs, that’s why. Dennis played his sympathy card and won. It was all so very unfair.

Nobody felt one bit sorry for Herbert, though, the man who’d spent most of his life being victimised, bullied and laughed at, mostly by women who saw him as inadequate. God, he hated them. Talking of God he hated him too, and told him to his face. Actually he told the statue of Jesus that stood by the altar in the prison chapel, hoping he’d pass the message on.

And you really wouldn’t want to mention what Herbert thought about Mother Mary, or what he wanted to do to the smug virgin because that was guaranteed to get another year added onto your sentence. Those thoughts were best kept to oneself and Herbert saved them for taunting God, and lonely nights in his cell while he tweaked his fantasies and, if the mood took him, himself.

Herbert’s heart was racing, not because he was getting aroused – he’d have to take a blue pill for that. You could get anything inside