Murder at the Mill

by M. B. Shaw

  Billy looked surprised, although, slightly to Iris’s bemusement, not angry. Usually almost any allusion to his father or mother seemed to elicit an angry response. Today, however, Billy seemed in a mellower mood.

  He’s happier, thought Iris. Relieved because the deed is done? And he thinks he got away with it?

  It didn’t take long to reach Iris’s cottage. Still carrying the boxes, Billy followed her inside.

  ‘So what were you doing in London?’ she asked, as casually as she could. Taking off her coat, she threw it over the back of the single kitchen armchair. Billy did the same. Iris noticed that both his coat and his sweater looked new and expensive. Cashmere.

  ‘Visiting my lawyer,’ Billy responded, equally casually. Pulling out a vintage silver cigarette case, he flicked it open and took out a smoke. It was the first time Iris had seen him smoke straights rather than rollies, never mind the affectation of the case. Who did he think he was, Jay Gatsby?

  ‘Do you mind?’ He reached for the matches next to Iris’s scented candle.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She passed him a ramekin dish as an ashtray.

  ‘So, the lawyer meeting,’ she began, probing gently, like a zoologist approaching a snake with a stick. ‘Was that about your case? Your parole must be almost over now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Next month.’ Billy blew smoke languidly through his pursed lips. He had his father’s dark colouring and strong jaw, Iris observed, but that was where the physical similarities with Dom ended. They were both attractive men in their different ways, but if Dom Wetherby was light, then his second son was darkness. ‘It wasn’t about that, though. It was about Dad’s will. I wanted to know how soon it will pay out.’

  It was said so bluntly, so completely without apology, Iris wasn’t sure how to react. In the end, she decided to echo Billy’s own neutral tone.

  ‘You’re expecting a large bequest?’

  Billy smiled smugly. ‘That’s for me to know.’

  His confidence that Dom had left him money struck Iris as deeply odd, given how estranged they’d been before Dom’s death. Not to mention the fact that, in normal circumstances, a living widow would be expected to be left pretty much everything. But she kept the thought to herself and tried to steer the conversation back to the million-dollar question: where had Billy been on Christmas Day?

  ‘It must have been dreadful for you, coming back on Boxing Day to hear the news,’ she began tentatively.

  The smug smile faded. ‘Yeah,’ Billy mumbled, fiddling with a button on his cuff. ‘It was.’

  Iris hesitated, unsure how far she could safely push him. There remained a latent threat with Billy, a constant, lurking possibility that he could suddenly turn and pounce, as he had once before, either sexually or in some sort of violent rage.

  Screwing up her courage, Iris opted for the direct approach.

  ‘Do you regret not being there?’ she asked bluntly. ‘On Christmas Day?’

  After what felt like an endless silence, at last he said, ‘No. Not really. I don’t think there’s anything I could have done. When someone’s determined to kill themselves, they do it.’

  Was he acting? If so, he was damn good at it. Anyone listening would have believed that Billy thought his father’s death was suicide. Iris knew she ought to ask him where he was that day, but instead she changed tack.

  ‘Why do you think he did it?’ she asked.

  This time he looked up, completely animated. ‘Because of her! Why else? Because he couldn’t stand it anymore. I’m just amazed he cracked before I did.’

  ‘Because of your mother?’ Iris frowned. ‘Had they been fighting?’

  Billy’s eyes widened and then he laughed, apparently genuinely, coughing on smoke and wiping his eyes. ‘Sometimes I forget you don’t really know our family very well,’ he told Iris. ‘It feels as if you’ve been here for ever. But of course you haven’t. Anyway.’ He stood up suddenly, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I’d better go.’

  Damn it, thought Iris. She was close to something, something important, but whatever it was, she knew she’d barely scratched the surface. And now he was leaving.

  ‘So where were you?’ She threw out the question on the doorstep, hoping it didn’t sound as desperate as it felt. ‘On Christmas Day?’

  Billy looked at her curiously. ‘I can’t remember. I’d gone over to a friend’s house the night before and started drinking. I expect I was somewhere passed out cold for most of it.’

  ‘But you must know where,’ Iris pressed him. ‘Where did you wake up?’

  Billy’s curious expression became irritated. ‘Why the third degree?’

  Iris shrugged and let it go. There wasn’t much else she could do, not without further arousing his suspicions. ‘Just curious, I suppose,’ she told Billy.

  He started to walk away, then at the last moment relented. ‘If you must know, I woke up in Winchester A&E. Apparently, I was playing chicken with a moving car and got myself this.’ Pushing back his mop of dark curls, he revealed a bruised gash to the head, interspersed with spiky white stitches. ‘Maybe Dad wasn’t the only one trying to end it all?’ he added, laughing emptily.

  Iris watched him go. Only once he was completely out of sight did she pick up the phone.

  Jenna’s mobile went straight to messages.

  Iris kept it short and sweet. ‘It’s me. I spoke to Billy. Call me when you can.’

  Exhausted suddenly, she picked up one of Ariadne’s photo boxes and sank down on the couch, leafing through old pictures of Dom.

  How sad that he’s dead, she thought. How wrong. He shouldn’t be dead. I should be painting him, not reimagining him through a box of old photographs.

  Maybe she and Jenna would never know the real truth about what had happened to Dom Wetherby. But Jenna was right. They owed it to him to try.

  Somebody had to try.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘What the hell? What the bloody buggering hell…?’

  DI Roger Cant paced his cramped office, beads of sweat forming on his wide brow and trickling down his back and chest, leaving ugly patches on his blue Marks & Spencer shirt.

  ‘What does she think she’s playing at?’

  Nobody else was in the office, but Cant was speaking aloud, like an actor rehearsing lines in his dressing room. He already had two murders on his desk, a stabbing outside a pub in Alton and a probable domestic in Beaulieu. Apparently, the New Year’s resolutions of the good denizens of East Hampshire did not include peace and goodwill to all men. Or women, for that matter.

  As if that weren’t enough, his sergeant had informed him yesterday that the lab reports on Dominic Wetherby’s suicide had somehow managed to ‘go missing’ from forensics, delaying the coroner’s report, which meant it was only a matter of time before the press started sniffing around the case again, making trouble. And to top it off, DI Cant had just got off the phone with a deeply traumatised young woman named Susan Frey, the victim in the Billy Wetherby stalking case, claiming she was being harassed by Jenna Wetherby, Dom’s daughter-in-law, and demanding that DI Cant, as the officer in charge, ‘call off that bloody American Rottweiler’.

  As if he’d sent her! Or even knew the first thing about it! Apparently Dom Wetherby’s daughter-in-law had got it into her head that Dom had been murdered and that his son Billy was the killer. Armed with this theory, she’d taken it upon herself to turn up on poor Susan Frey’s doorstep and demand that Susan relive all the painful and traumatic details of Billy’s harassment, which must have been a lot more than a bit of heavy breathing since the lad was given two years for it.

  Cant sighed heavily. He didn’t have time for this crap.

  ‘Sir?’ The useless Sergeant Trotter stuck his useless head round the door. ‘There’s a Marcus Wetherby here to see you. He says it’s urgent.’

  Marcus. That was Jenna’s husband. Perfect timing.

  ‘
Show him in,’ Cant said grimly, taking a seat behind his desk and doing his best to look authoritative, if not stern.

  ‘Detective Inspector.’ Dom Wetherby’s son strode in in lawyer mode: tall, well dressed in an expensive suit and tie, and projecting an air of mildly irritated confidence. He got straight to the point.

  ‘I’d like to know what’s going on with my father’s body.’

  ‘What’s going on with it?’ Cant played for time. He did not want to have to get into the missing lab reports if he didn’t have to.

  ‘Yes. When is it going to be released?’ Marcus clarified brusquely. ‘Naturally my mother wants to arrange the funeral as soon as possible.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘It’s been a terrible time for her, as I’m sure you can imagine, and these unexplained delays only make things worse.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said DI Cant. ‘I have chased the medical examiner and the coroner’s office. I understand some of the post-mortem testing has taken longer than usual. But I do appreciate your frustration, and I’m trying to get an official verdict and release as soon as possible.’

  It was a fudge and they both knew it. Marcus opened his mouth to press the DI further, but Cant cut him off.

  ‘Mr Wetherby, may I ask, are you aware that your wife’s been in contact with Susan Frey? That she’s been to see her, in fact?’

  Marcus blinked and did a visible double-take. ‘My wife?’

  Ha! Cant thought childishly. Who’s on the back foot now?

  ‘Jenna Wetherby. That is your wife?’

  ‘Yes. But—’

  ‘And you’re aware who Miss Frey is?’

  ‘Of course,’ Marcus snapped. ‘She’s the poor girl that Billy…’ He searched for the appropriate words. It was ridiculous how embarrassed he still felt by what Billy had done. As if his brother’s actions reflected in some way on him. As the older brother, the truth was, Marcus had always felt responsible for Billy to some degree when they were growing up. Now things were different. But the shame still lingered. Marcus hated it. ‘My brother was jailed for harassing her,’ he said eventually.

  ‘That’s right,’ said DI Cant. ‘And I just had Susan Frey on the phone, not five minutes before you walked in here, complaining that your wife was now harassing her, and asking me to do something about it.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Marcus, irritated again. ‘What possible reason would Jenna have to bother Susan Frey?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Cant replied, ‘your wife believes that your father was murdered.’

  Marcus stared at him blankly.

  Cant gave this a few moments to sink in, before adding, ‘She seems to think that your brother Billy may have killed him. My understanding is that she wanted Susan Frey to provide evidence to support this theory. And that when Miss Frey declined to get involved, your wife became … agitated.’

  Cant watched the blood drain from Marcus’s face. All the lawyerly confidence was gone now. His knuckles were white from gripping the arms of his chair so tightly. The poor guy looked as if he might be about to have a heart attack.

  Cant took a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, Mr Wetherby, I really do understand what an awful time this must be for all of you. I don’t want to make things worse by talking to your wife formally. But Susan Frey’s been through a lot, too, and she does have a right to privacy.’

  ‘Of course she does,’ muttered Marcus, clearly still in shock. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps if you have a quiet word with Jenna yourself?’ Cant suggested.

  Marcus nodded, standing up awkwardly. ‘I will. Of course. Thank you, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Mr Wetherby?’ DI Cant called after him. ‘You should know, the ME had no doubts that your father committed suicide. No doubts at all. Your wife’s barking up the wrong tree. Whatever your brother may have done in the past, he didn’t do this.’

  Marcus looked at Cant gratefully. ‘I know he didn’t. Thank you again. I’ll deal with this.’

  * * *

  ‘Have you any idea, any idea at all, how foolish you made me look?’

  Marcus and Jenna were in their Volvo, parked in a layby at the top of Hazelford Hill. With the last shred of his self-control, Marcus had waited till his mother could watch the children and he and Jenna could be alone together before he erupted, anger and resentment spewing out of him.

  ‘Going into the police station, guns blazing, demanding Dad’s body back, only to learn that my own wife has been running around the county behind my back, spreading rumours about Dad being murdered and trying to dig up dirt on Billy! That poor woman could have pressed charges, you know, Jenna. What were you thinking?’

  Despite her rapidly beating heart – she hated confrontation with Marcus – Jenna defended herself.

  ‘I don’t know, Marcus. Perhaps I was thinking that there are more important things in life than how you look! You or your supposedly perfect family! Perhaps I was thinking that someone ought to give a shit about getting justice for your father, seeing as the police have clearly given up and so have you. And your mother.’

  ‘No one’s “given up”, for God’s sake. Dad killed himself!’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, he did, Jenna! He did.’

  Jenna shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe it. Why would he?’

  Marcus turned and stared out of the window. He was shaking, actually physically shaking, although whether from anger or fear Jenna couldn’t tell.

  ‘You didn’t even know him.’

  He said it so quietly that at first Jenna wondered whether she’d misheard. But then he said it again, and she had the feeling that maybe finally, at long last, they were approaching a breakthrough. Approaching the truth.

  ‘What don’t I know, Marcus?’ she asked, her tone softening to match his. ‘What about Dom don’t I know? Please. Tell me.’

  Marcus’s jaw stiffened. Still staring out of the window, unable to meet her eye, he shook his head.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Jenna’s eyes welled with tears. ‘You mean you won’t.’ The bitterness slipped out. Marcus pounced on it like a cat on a mouse.

  ‘You’re right,’ he shot back. ‘I won’t. Because he was my father, not yours. And because I loved him and I owe him … certain things. My God, Jenna, you didn’t love him. You didn’t even like him most of the time!’

  Jenna winced. This was true. But why couldn’t Marcus see that it wasn’t the point?

  ‘You claim to love me,’ he went on, his voice trembling with emotion.

  ‘I do love you!’ insisted Jenna.

  ‘Then I am asking you – begging you – let it go. Just let it go. For me. For our marriage. And for Dad, although I know you don’t see it that way.’

  How can I? Jenna wanted to scream. How can I see it that way when you won’t open up to me? When you won’t tell me the truth? When my choices are a marriage based on secrets or no marriage at all?

  Yesterday had been frustrating enough, with Susan Frey clearly too terrified of Billy to say one word on the subject, and Iris Grey unable to get anything out of Billy directly other than some bullshit excuse about blacking out and waking up in hospital the afternoon Dom died.

  ‘I’m tired, Marcus,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I’m tired of all the Wetherby family secrets.’

  Not as tired as I am, Marcus thought darkly.

  * * *

  Two days later, on Saturday night, Iris found herself sitting awkwardly at a beautifully laid table at Chez Bruce, Clapham South’s only Michelin-starred restaurant.

  ‘A votre santé!’ Ian raised his champagne flute to Iris’s. ‘It’s amazing to see you.’

  Oh God, thought Iris. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She’d tried hard to get Ian to agree to meet somewhere more low-key. More casual. Less pressured. Less self-consciously romantic and date-y. Chez Bruce was where they’d celebrated Ian’s fiftieth, and Iris’s thirtieth, and countless anniversaries in betw
een. It was where they came after Ian’s last West End opening night, and on the first day of Iris’s exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.

  Tonight it was all part of Ian’s ‘making an effort’. He was trying to remind her, remind both of them, of happier times. He was trying to do something special, to make amends. He’d met Iris earlier at the station, and they’d gone for a walk on the common together, Ian asking her kindly about her life and her work and all sorts of things, talking only a little about himself and touching as lightly as he could on his own recent professional disappointments. Iris noticed all of it. The clean-shaven face, the fact he hadn’t had a drink, the expensive restaurant, the smiles, something she hadn’t seen from him in months, if not years.

  He’s trying. He’s trying really hard.

  She wasn’t sure why that made everything so much worse.

  ‘So.’ He took another sip of champagne. ‘What’s happening with the portrait?’

  The portrait. It had become code for ‘our marriage’. ‘What’s happening with the portrait?’ really meant ‘When are you coming home?’ and they both knew it. Iris felt her heart rate quicken with anxiety.

  ‘Ariadne wants me to finish it. She’s given me boxes of photographs and home movies. I started sorting through them this week. It feels weird.’

  ‘That’s because it is weird,’ said Ian, handing Iris a menu but then proceeding to order starters for both of them. ‘From what you describe, it sounds like the whole family’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Still, at least that means you can work on it wherever you like. You don’t have to be there anymore.’

  Iris swallowed hard. It wasn’t a question, but it may as well have been.

  When are you coming home?

  Are you coming home?

  She didn’t have an answer for either except ‘Not yet’, which was exactly what Ian didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Tell me about your writing.’ She changed the subject. ‘What’s the new play?’

  Ian began talking as they ate their moules marinières, and continued as they switched from champagne to Château du Cléray Muscadet de Sèvre et Maine, the wine helping both of them slip back into their natural rhythm, and out of best-behaviour mode, a relief to Iris. By the time the main courses arrived, however, the Wetherby family dramas were back on the agenda.