“You wanted to tell Jude you were sorry?” Craig enquired.
Wiping at tears with a shaking hand, Molly replied, “Until very recently, I wanted Nigel’s legs to be the same length. I wanted his cleft palate gone. I was resentful every day about the surgeries and the suffering.”
Wishing he had a tissue to offer her, Craig said, “You’re his mother Molly; of course, you wish none of it had ever happened.”
Shaking her head, Molly responded, “I should have had more faith in God. He never gives us more than we can handle. Instead of trusting God and believing in my son’s ability to overcome any obstacle, what did I do? I felt sorry for myself. I feel so completely ashamed. Nigel has always been happy with his face, his body, his life. Why couldn’t I be? He leads a perfectly normal, healthy existence, and yet I have to call him disabled. My daughters want nothing to do with me, Detective. My grief and anger dominated my world. I convinced myself my girls were healthy, so they were fine. It was Nigel who needed me, not them. But they did need me, and I wasn’t there.”
Craig sat and held Molly’s hand while she gently sobbed. Almost five minutes later, after finding tissues in the bottom of a large handbag, she said, “Thank you for listening. I needed to tell someone, other than Jude, how ugly I’ve been.”
“Was this the first time you and he talked about Nigel?” Craig enquired.
Molly rubbed her right palm up and down the length of her left arm.
“I’d been blaming him for eighteen years. He wrote the prescription. He was the smart one, what did I know? I trusted him, etc. In holding him accountable, I didn’t have to look inward. But what’s even worse is, I told others he was a monster who’d caused my son’s pain and suffering.”
Laughing through her sobs, Molly continued, “That said, I am known as the village crackpot, so they may not have listened. I went to Jude’s home that night to beg forgiveness for all the hate and resentment I’d shown him over the years.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he understood. He said that Nigel was a remarkable man and thanked me for allowing him to be a part of his life.”
“I’d heard that Jude helped pay for Nigel’s surgeries and in-home schooling.”
“Helped,” Molly echoed. “Nigel never had to wait for surgery. Jude paid for private hospitals and the best doctors. He also got to study with some of the best tutors in the country.” Shrugging, Molly added, “Of course, all the boy wants to do is cook.”
Craig smiled. “He’s a great chef.”
Pushing fingers against her temples, Molly stated, “I didn’t ask you here just to talk about Nigel or my failings towards my family and Jude.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
Molly straightened her shoulders. “The woman I saw leaving Jude’s home the night of his death.”
51
Ye Olde Harrington Tea Shoppe
Rachel waited until mismatched china teacups had been set in front of them. “David said you wanted to talk about Doctor Ryland.”
Accepting her need to simplify the situation, despite the clandestine meeting, Craig replied, “That’s correct.”
“I hadn’t known him long,” Rachel said. “I made an appointment at the surgery because I wanted … well, I … I needed some pills.”
“Birth control pills,” Craig enquired casually.
“No, pills to make me feel better. I’d been … at least I thought they might help me feel less. I wanted to forget.”
“I know this is difficult,” Craig responded soothingly, “but what did you want to forget?”
Rachel looked down into her empty teacup. “There’s this agency called Dancing Girls. They pay really well. I calculated just three months of dancing for a couple of hours on a Friday night, and I’d have enough to go halves with Mum and Dad on a London flat.”
“Was it just dancing?” Craig asked.
“Pretty much. You’re basically wearing a bikini type thing, but you don’t have to take it off. Some gigs require a little more, but you know in advance and can accept or decline them. I always declined. There were plenty of girls willing to do those. It’s big money and those girls, well … this job is their livelihood. I’m just … well … I regret it now. Having flatmates would probably be fun.” Lifting her head slightly Rachel asked, “Should I pour the tea?”
“Let me do it. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
Rachel shook her head. “The parties were very sleazy, lots of icky guys saying stuff, but I had protection.”
“Protection?” Craig enquired.
“The Dancing Girls agency provided it. A big bouncer type guy’s always within feet of you. If anyone comes too close or tries to touch you, they get blocked by beefy guy.”
Returning the teapot to its trivet, Craig said, “That sounds good.”
“Yeah, it was okay until the last party. I didn’t have a beefy guy at the last party.”
“Why not?”
Turning to look at large rain drops steadily making their way down a lead-paned window, Rachel replied, “It wasn’t booked through the agency. It was done privately.”
“And you didn’t know that going in?”
“No, I did,” Rachel replied, her bottom lip trembling. “But I’d been assured it was fine, really low-key and above board.”
“But it wasn’t fine,” Craig suggested softly.
Placing fingertips against her cheekbones, Rachel whispered, “No, it wasn’t fine.”
“Did Doctor Ryland prescribe something to help you?”
Craig observed a brief, faint smile before Rachel replied, “He wouldn’t. He told me it’s not the drug people get addicted to, but their need to escape reality. He said whatever my reality was, he and I would face it, head on, together.”
“And that’s exactly what the two of you did?”
“Yep. We spent hours and hours together. I think; apart from Syd, I’m the only person he hung with. I felt safe telling him anything. He never judged me, just offered practical advice. My parents have always put me first, always given me everything I could want, but they’re very … they’re very buttoned up.”
“I understand,” Craig said. “Discussing what you’d been through with them wasn’t an option.”
Brows raised, Rachel replied, “Gosh no!”
“I’ve heard they were concerned by the friendship you and Jude shared.”
Rachel took a hasty gulp of tea. “Concerned, horrified, furious and suspicious."
“Was that your reason for leaving the village?”
“One of them,” Rachel admitted. “Jude didn’t want me to. It went against his whole head-on approach. He said Mead had too many secrets, and my leaving would just bury another one. But, he understood and put me in touch with a wonderful therapist he knew from medical school.”
“How would your leaving, bury a Mead secret?” Craig enquired.
Visibly paling, Rachel replied, “Because the party was in Mead.”
52
The Haven
“Have you found your killer yet?” Henry asked through the phone.
Craig sighed. “I don’t even know if there is one.”
“What!” Henry exclaimed.
“I think I’m losing it,” Craig confided. “I think this country air has messed with my brain.”
Henry laughed. “Let’s go back to the beginning. It was poison, correct?”
Craig took a gulp of his beer. “Yes, and everyone was quick to assume it was suicide.”
“Everyone but you.”
“My gut told me it was murder,” Craig responded.
“And now your gut’s not so sure.”
“In Manchester,” Craig began, “we have a pretty good idea of who the bad guys are.”
“The fact they all wear black hats, helps,” Henry interjected dryly. “Are these village folks that hard to read?”
“I can’t even begin to describe it. Just when I think I’ve figured them out; they tur
n around and surprise me.”
“In a good way?” Henry inquired.
“Yes. But they all seem so troubled, so sad.”
“And the beautiful Sydney?” Henry asked. “Does she fit that description?”
Staring out his French doors, Craig replied, “Complicated is my word of choice there. I thought I was competing with a dead man. She and Jude were very close. Just recently I discovered her ex-husband, who’s still very much in love with her, lives just down the road.”
“I’ll grant you that’s complicated,” Henry said. “But I can’t imagine he’s a better-looking dude than you, and he’s ex for a reason.”
Craig laughed. “You were never this nice to me in Manchester.”
“It’s just pity; it won’t last,” Henry quipped.
“What I don’t understand,” Craig began, “is why their marriage ended. Sydney told me it was because they couldn’t have children, but I feel there has to be more to it than that.”
“If you’re young and can’t be bothered with fertility options or adoption, I can see it.”
“I guess you’re right. Either way, I think my timing’s off.”
“Don’t give up yet,” Henry advised. “If she was attached to this dead doctor, maybe you need to bring closure there before she can move on.”
Feeling needy, Craig asked, “You don’t think the ex-husband, whose very handsome and charismatic, by the way, is an issue?”
“I don’t. Obviously, I don’t know these people, but I’m going with my gut.”
Craig sighed. “I’m envious yours still works.”
Agreeing to talk again the following week, Craig thanked his longtime friend before ending the call.
Beer in hand, he left his sitting room and entered the study. Skipping to the last and previously missed voice, he listened as the man began, “I want to tell you about the signal. My mother devised it when I was around four years old. I often wondered which drink turned my father into a monster. Was it the third, or the fourth? Which one made him hate his wife and son? Mum had no trouble distinguishing between man and monster. There was a loose floorboard to the right of the stove. If you stood on it, the squeak could be heard throughout our home. It wasn’t in a general pathway, so could be easily avoided. If I heard it squeak, I knew to stay in my room. For ten years, I heard my mother scream in pain at my father’s hand. When quiet returned, I would sneak downstairs, always fearful of what I’d find. She was usually in a corner somewhere crying. As soon as she saw me, she’d feebly attempt to act as if everything was fine. Did I need something to eat, could I not sleep, would I like a stor …”
The disc, at full capacity, ended the message there. The voice, Craig knew, but it’s relevance still alluded him.
53
Mead Manes
“The way I see it, you have two choices, Angie. You tell me who’s threatening you and risk them talking to your girls. Or, you don’t tell me, and I tell your daughters what kind of mother they have.”
Visibly shaken, Angie asked, “What do you want to know?”
Anger coursing through his veins, Craig replied, “There’s a lot I want to know. I want to know what kind of woman suggests this form of employment to a young girl in the first place. But, for now, I’ll settle with knowing whose party you sent her to.”
“Rachel didn’t tell you?” Angie stammered.
“She didn’t even want to give your name up,” Craig retorted. “I told her I’d already spoken with you and was aware of the babysitting cover.”
Angie looked around the empty salon. “Can we sit down?”
Moving to the waiting area, Craig asked, “Why go rogue and not stick with the agency?”
“I was trying to help her,” Angie reasoned. “Dancing Girls take a good size cut. This way Rachel would get the full amount.”
Craig raised his hands in the air. “She just needed some extra cash to go solo in a London Flat. This wasn’t life-saving money; no children were going without shoes.”
Narrowing heavily made-up eyes, Angie responded, “Spoken as only a privileged person can. I hazard to guess you’ve never gone without, have you, Detective? You’ve never had to worry about being evicted or how you’ll feed your kids.”
Craig exhaled. “Alright, Angie. I understand that you’ve struggled and did what you had to do to survive. But we’re not talking about you. We’re talking about a naive and sheltered eighteen-year-old girl. Did you truly believe she’d come out of this unscathed?”
“I didn’t think that far ahead,” Angie admitted. “She said she wanted to make money. I told her how to do it.”
“You did more than that,” Craig argued. “Granted, you pointed her towards an agency, and from there she communicated with them, but what about this last party? That was all you. You orchestrated it, and then you sent her in with no protection.”
“It should have been fine. More than fine. I never imagined anything bad would happen with those men.”
“Who were the men?”
“They’re old men and highly respected,” Angie replied hurriedly.
“I need their names.”
Eyes darting around the salon, Angie said, “Judge Beauchamp, Lloyd Atwell, some bigwigs from Harrington and Lord Abbott Rigg.”
“And which one of these highly respected men has been insisting on your silence?”
Her face draining of color. Angie replied, “Lord Abbott Rigg.”
54
Mead Bowls Club
“If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”
“Is that your poetic way of saying you’re here to see me and not to play bowls?” Norman asked in response.
“I wish I had time,” Craig replied. “But I feel some urgency to solve Jude’s murder.”
“Won’t let that murder thing go, will you, Detective. Big hot shot from Manchester, here to solve a crime.”
Taken aback by the change in Norman’s demeanor, Craig said, “If memory serves correctly, I was the acting DI before Jude’s death.”
Sighing dramatically, Norman said, “I’m still waiting on blood tests from the lab. Forgive us if we don’t move at a speed you’re accustomed to.”
“What I’m accustomed to is a coroner who maintains communication. A professional who is dedicated and thorough.”
“How dare you,” Norman interjected. “I am always professional.”
“Really,” Craig responded with brows raised. “Is it professional to tell all and sundry the DI is wasting time on a murder that didn’t happen?”
“Merely stating my opinion. I believe we have freedom of speech in this country.”
“I tell you what else I’m accustomed to from a coroner,” Craig replied with a clenched jaw, “honesty.”
Looking as if he may implode, Norman began spluttering and muttering.
Loud enough to be heard over disgruntled ramblings, Craig asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you visited Jude’s home on the night of his death?”
Red-faced; Norman looked around him. “Can we go somewhere a little more private?”
“My office is private,” Craig reasoned. “But you’ve ignored countless requests to meet me there.”
“There was little point until I had conclusive results from the autopsy.” Motioning towards a secluded area under the awning, he continued in hushed tones. “I apologize for not telling you. It’s just my visit with Jude was of a very personal nature.”
Taking a seat, Craig said, “That doesn’t excuse the omission.”
“I didn’t kill Jude Ryland.”
“I know that,” Craig replied casually.
Hands outstretched towards Craig, then back at himself, Norman asked, “Then what is this?”
“Voice number six on Jude’s compact disc belongs to an angry man,” Craig explained. “But it’s an anger derived from hurt and confusion. It took me a while to connect it with the voice overheard leaving Jude’s home.”
“I had every cause
to be angry.”
“Do you still?” Craig asked. “Or are you questioning the placement of that anger?”
Norman looked towards the green. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“I believe your wife received a most welcome call yesterday.”
Twisting one side of his mustache, Norman Bell said, “Yes, most welcome. There was nothing inappropriate between my daughter and Jude. He was helping Rachel through a tough time. I don’t understand why she couldn’t have come to her mother or me, but there you have it.”
Nodding, Craig asked, “Why did you remove yourself from the Meadbowls team, Norman?”
55
Mead Golf Club
“I don’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted that I’m last on your list, Detective.”
“The first time we met at your garden party,” Craig said, “I viewed you as the quintessential older man.”
“Quintessential,” Lord Abbott Rigg repeated. “High praise indeed.”
“I certainly wouldn’t have connected you with the threatening message on Jude’s voicemail.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Reginald Abbott Rigg replied. “The first time I met you, I viewed you as inauspicious.”
Craig smiled. “Perhaps neither of us are too perceptive with first impressions.”
“Touché, Detective Monroe, touché.”
“I imagine,” Craig began, “the fragility you portray works well for you.”
“Have you pegged me as some sort of mafia boss, Detective? When I’m not playing a stereotypical game of bowls or golf, I’m wielding my power over unsuspecting Mead residents.”
“Nothing so glamorous, Lord Abbott Rigg. I pegged you as the village bully.”
Furrowing his brow over deep-set eyes, Lord Abbott Rigg said, “Why don’t you get to the point. I tee off shortly.”
The Secrets Of Mead Page 13
