by M. B. Shaw
‘You too.’
Stop it! the voice in Iris’s head commanded. Stop mooning at him like a lovesick adolescent. Iris ignored the voice. After all, she’d listened to it diligently throughout her long and mostly miserable marriage to Ian, and where had it got her? Nowhere, that’s where. Allowing Graham to take her hand and lead her into the dining room, then beaming up at him as he pulled out the chair for her to sit down, Iris decided to throw caution to the wind.
Unlike her gruesome meal with Ian at Chez Bruce – had that really only been a week ago? – with Graham the conversation flowed as easily and pleasurably as the wine. Of course, it helped that they had a ready-made topic to hand in poor Dom Wetherby’s death and the family dramas that had followed, all of them more gripping than even the best Grimshaw mystery.
‘Marcus tells me you and Jenna have become friends,’ said Graham, flagging down the teenage waitress to ask for another carafe of house red to go with the plate of deep-fried whitebait they were sharing.
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’ Iris flicked a stray hair out of her eyes and swirled the wine round her glass contemplatively. ‘I mean, she seems nice, but I don’t really know her. It’s more that we bonded over Dom and just how awful and lax the police are being.’
‘Not releasing the body, you mean?’ Graham casually scooped up the last forkful of whitebait from Iris’s plate and ate it. ‘I agree they have been a bit slow on that. Poor Ariadne was in a dreadful way about it this afternoon.’
‘It’s not that,’ Iris corrected him. ‘I mean, there is that, but that’s the least of it. It’s the way they jumped to the conclusion Dom drowned himself without any investigation, any interviews, any anything. And the family just accepted that without a whisper. Jenna thought there was more to it than that and so do I.’
Graham put down his fork carefully. All his movements are careful, Iris thought. His words, too. Careful and thoughtful and measured. It was hard not to contrast this to Ian’s volatility and rage.
Looking at her curiously now, Graham asked, ‘So you and Jenna think, what? That somebody killed Dom?’
‘Yes.’ Iris lowered her voice. ‘At least, Jenna definitely does. She thinks Billy did it.’
‘Billy!?’ Graham spluttered, momentarily losing his cool. Jesus. No wonder Jenna and Marcus were arguing, and Marcus had bundled his family back to London, sharpish.
‘Is that such a crazy idea?’ Iris asked. The waitress brought their wine and refilled both their glasses.
‘Frankly, yes,’ said Graham robustly. ‘Why on earth would Billy Wetherby kill his father?’
‘For his inheritance?’ Iris offered. ‘Dom left him and Marcus the book rights, you know. That’s millions.’
Graham shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Why not?’ Iris challenged him. ‘Don’t people kill for greed all the time?’
‘Not often, actually. And not their own parents. Have you and Jenna got any other motives up your sleeve?’ He was teasing her, playing the barrister, but Iris didn’t mind. It was a relief to have someone to bounce ideas off for a change. Someone who wasn’t two inches tall and made from a wooden clothes peg.
‘Maybe they’d had an argument. Let’s not forget, Billy’s an angry, violent obsessive with a volatile, sadistic streak.’
Graham shook his head. ‘No, he isn’t. I’ve known the boy all his life, Iris. I grant you Billy’s had his problems. Still has a lot of problems. But he’s not a killer. I’m sorry but I just don’t buy it.’
He seemed so very confident, Iris found her own doubts resurfacing.
‘But you do buy the idea that Dom Wetherby was suicidal? Come on, Graham. We were both there on Christmas Eve.’
‘I wasn’t focusing on Dom’s mood on Christmas Eve,’ said Graham, leaning forward and, totally spontaneously, planting a kiss on Iris’s lips. Sitting back in his chair afterwards, he smiled, his eyes twinkling, apparently delighting in her discomfiture.
‘OK,’ said Iris, collecting herself. ‘So you tell me. Why would Dom have killed himself? At the top of his career, great friends, good health, happy family life, loads of money, beautiful house. What reason could he possibly have had to throw all that away?’
Graham considered the question.
‘All right. Well, this is all speculation, obviously, but off the top of my head … One: affairs. Maybe one of his extra-curricular romances went spectacularly wrong.’
‘Dom was having an affair?’ Iris wasn’t surprised by the idea. She could absolutely imagine Dom Wetherby to have been the cheating type. But surely when he was younger? Not now.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Graham. ‘Dom did have affairs. But I’m just throwing out possibilities here. Two: depression.’ He counted Dom’s imagined problems off on his fingers one by one like a shopping list. ‘Grimshaw was coming to an end. His life’s work. Plus he was about to turn sixty. Maybe he felt the best was all behind him. Three: physical health. Maybe he was ill and none of us knew it.’
Iris frowned. Surely this was clutching at straws.
‘All right, maybe not. But there was Billy,’ Graham went on. ‘The stress of his conviction, of dealing with him at home after his release. I know Dom came off as confident to outsiders—’
‘Arrogant, more like,’ Iris interjected. ‘The man wasn’t just confident. He was cocky.’
Graham didn’t correct her.
‘He could be at times,’ he conceded. ‘But underneath that façade, for all we know Dom may well have felt profoundly overwhelmed. You have to remember, Iris, suicide is an irrational act, by definition. That’s the nature of the thing. We’re all programmed to live, to survive, to save ourselves. To do the opposite suggests an unbalanced mind. Looking for “rational” answers might not be the way to go here.’
‘Hmmm.’ Iris clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘That’s almost exactly what Marcus said to Jenna before he shut her down.’
Now it was Graham’s turn to frown. ‘What do you mean, “shut her down”?’
‘He basically insisted she stop asking questions,’ said Iris.
Graham took this in. ‘Well, maybe Marcus was right.’
‘Maybe. But maybe Marcus was wrong,’ Iris retorted. ‘And shouldn’t Jenna be allowed to make her own decisions?’
She told him about Jenna’s visit to Susan Frey and the row with Marcus that had followed. ‘I think she felt she had to let things go for the sake of the marriage. That’s not right.’
‘I suppose not,’ Graham observed mildly. ‘You don’t have that problem, though, do you?’
‘No,’ said Iris. ‘I don’t.’
‘You’re free to do as you please.’
‘Yes.’
Their eyes met. It was a clear allusion to Ian, and Iris’s own situation. So he knows, Iris thought. Marcus must have told him. He knows I’m getting a divorce.
Good.
I’m glad he knows.
‘Let’s say you’re right and there was foul play in Dom’s death.’ Graham deftly changed the subject before the mood became too intense. ‘Do you think Billy did it?’
It was a question that had been preoccupying Iris for the last week, distracting her from what she ought to be doing trying to move forward with her divorce and deal with her train wreck of a life. Instead, she’d contacted Winchester Hospital trying to find out if Billy Wetherby really had been treated there on Christmas Day.
‘Are you a family member?’
‘Er, n-no,’ Iris had stammered. ‘No, I’m not. I’m a friend.’
‘I see. Well, I’m afraid we can’t give out patient information.’
Less than an hour later, displaying a resourcefulness she never knew she had, Iris called back posing as Billy’s parole officer.
‘I’m following up on an offender we have reason to be concerned about. William Wetherby. He missed an important hearing two weeks ago and then failed to show up to mandated check-in with me on Christmas Day. He claims he was in A&E.’
‘Let
me have a look.’ It was a different operator. Iris held her breath. Just making this phone call was almost certainly a crime, possibly a serious one. But she needn’t have worried. When the woman came back on the line, she couldn’t have been more helpful.
‘William Wetherby. Yup, he was here, Christmas Day, checked in at one twelve p.m. Looks like the doctor saw him at three forty-five, but I couldn’t tell you when he left. What time was his parole appointment?’
‘It was at two,’ Iris blurted. ‘So it looks like he was telling the truth. Thank you.’
She’d hung up, her heart pounding from her lie. So there it was. Half an alibi. Presumably the hospital CCTV would reveal more detail on Billy’s movements, but getting hold of that would have been a bridge too far for Iris.
Still, the fact that Billy had been drunk enough to wind up in hospital just a few hours before Dom drowned surely made it unlikely that he’d made his way back from Winchester to Hazelford, found his father, subdued him somehow and tied a sodding great stone to his legs.
‘No,’ Iris told Graham now, answering his question. ‘I don’t think he did it. Part of me wants to think it. I really don’t like the guy at all. But no.’
‘Well,’ Graham said cheerfully, ‘if you want a partner to help you solve the mystery, I’d be happy to offer my services. I do think it’s important that Jenna stays out of it, though. Somebody’s marriage needs to survive this mess.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Iris. ‘It does.’
It was odd the way Graham talked sometimes. Solve the mystery. As if he hadn’t known the man at all. On the other hand, he clearly did care, not just about Dom but about the whole Wetherby family. After all, he’d taken three days out of his life and work just to check on Ariadne and try to help out. Perhaps not having a family of his own made the bonds closer. That and losing his only brother.
‘Not that I agree with either of you, just to be clear,’ Graham continued, unaware of Iris’s racing thoughts. ‘I think it was suicide. But we lawyers know how to keep an open mind.’
‘As do we artists,’ countered Iris wryly. ‘Open mind, open eyes. Those are essential in my line of work.’
Graham paid the bill. Iris let him. It was nice to be taken care of for a change, even if it was only dinner. He signed the credit-card receipt, sexual tension hanging over the table like a thick, heavy fog.
Ever the gentleman, Graham broke the silence first.
‘I’d ask you up for a nightcap, but I’m afraid it would sound too cheesy.’
‘It would.’ Iris grinned. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s just…’
‘Too soon,’ Graham finished for her, laying a warm, surprisingly rough hand over hers. ‘I understand.’
Where did a rich barrister come by so many callouses? Iris wondered. Rock climbing? Gardening? She looked forward to finding out. There was so much Iris wanted to know about Graham Feeney. But he was right. It was too soon, and not just for sex. The end of her marriage had come on in awful, lurching stages, like a lift that falls a few floors, then stabilises, then falls again. You know you’re going to hit the ground eventually. You just don’t know when, or whether you’ll survive the fall.
Iris had survived it, barely. But what came next she had no idea.
Baby steps.
Focus on Dom Wetherby. One task. One distraction. Focus on finding the truth. ‘Solving the mystery’, as Graham put it.
Outside on Hazelford Hill, beneath the swinging Black Swan sign, Graham helped Iris on with her coat.
‘Isn’t that … what’s-his-name? From the party?’ he asked her suddenly. Iris followed his gaze across the road to where Harry Masters, the piano teacher, was standing next to his parked car, arguing with a woman. No, not arguing. Pleading. It was too dark to see Harry’s face and too far across the road to make out what he was saying, but his tone of voice and body language were both submissive. Desperate. Distraught. He was holding the woman by the hand, but all at once she pulled away, releasing herself angrily from his grip and stalking off down the hill. As she turned, the street light lit up her features, just for a second.
There was no mistaking it.
‘Ariadne!’ Iris whispered to Graham. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Yup,’ Graham whispered back. ‘She didn’t look too happy.’
‘Neither of them did,’ said Iris.
It was a short walk back to Mill Cottage. Ignoring her protests, Graham insisted on walking Iris home.
‘It’s dark, and according to you, there might be a killer on the loose.’
‘It’s not a game, you know!’ she chided him, punching him jokingly on the arm.
‘I know it’s not,’ he said seriously. They discussed Ariadne and Harry, and what on earth their heated meeting might mean. When they reached her front door, Graham pushed the hair back from Iris’s eyes and stooped to kiss her forehead. It was such a tender gesture that for an awful moment she thought she might be going to cry. But then she pulled herself together.
‘I’ll see you in the morning?’ he asked, a sweet note of vulnerability creeping into his voice. He’s anxious, too, thought Iris. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
‘Of course.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll be here.’
Graham Feeney walked back to the pub alone.
Iris was right. He was anxious. But there was another feeling inside him, too, fighting to be heard. Was it hope? Was a dark, lonely chapter in his life coming to an end?
It would be up to him to write his own story.
* * *
The following evening at just gone six, Jenna was upstairs bathing Lottie and Oscar when the telephone rang.
‘Will you get it, Marcus?’ she yelled downstairs.
No answer.
‘Marcus!’
She knew he was home from work because she’d heard the door open and close about ten minutes ago, just as she was squirting Sofia the First bubbles into Lottie’s end of the bath and Thomas the Tank Engine bubbles at Oscar’s end, near the taps. (Apparently it was the crappy plastic bottles they were poured out of that made all the difference.)
Wrapping a slippery Oscar up in a towel and cursing Marcus under her breath, Jenna dashed into the bedroom and picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Ariadne.’ Even in those two words Jenna could hear the tight, clipped strain in her mother-in-law’s voice. ‘Is Marcus—’
‘I’m here.’ Marcus had finally deigned to pick up the phone downstairs. Irritated more than she ought to be, Jenna hung up her end and returned to the children.
Five minutes later she was in Lottie’s room, wrangling pyjamas, hairbrushes and detangling spray, when Marcus walked in. He looked ashen.
‘What is it?’ Jenna asked, her irritation forgotten. ‘What’s happened?’
‘They didn’t release Dad’s body because some lab reports had gone missing.’ His voice was the dead, flat monotone of somebody in clinical shock. ‘Now they’ve been found.’
Jenna waited.
‘There were high levels of chloroform in Dad’s blood when he died.’
Jenna held her breath.
‘He was unconscious when he went…’ Marcus’s voice broke. He looked down at his shoes, unable to meet his wife’s eyes. ‘When somebody put him into the river. You were right, Jen. Dad didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘For God’s sake.’
DI Roger Cant rolled his eyes at the PC family liaison officer sitting beside him and exhaled deeply as he turned into Mill Lane. He’d hoped, naively, that they’d be able to arrive quietly for these initial family interviews. No such luck. The entire approach to Dom Wetherby’s house was jammed solid with press vehicles, almost as badly as it had been after the body was found.
Bloody parasites.
After the coroner’s report Cant had had no option but to release a statement to the media: that Dominic Wetherby’s death was now being treated as murder, and that anybody with any
relevant information should come forward immediately. Cant had taken a gamble and also asked that any locals who might have seen anything suspicious in the vicinity of the Mill or the river on the afternoon of Christmas Day contact the police on a special crime number. Nine times out of ten, all those sorts of ‘tips’ wound up being useless and a tremendous waste of time and resources. But the manner of Dom Wetherby’s death – being drugged and dragged to the riverbank, painstakingly weighted down and then drowned, not in some remote, hidden location but practically in his own back garden – gave DI Cant hope that perhaps this time he might get lucky.
Slapping on the blue lights on the roof of his Range Rover, Cant steamrollered through the television crews like a bowling ball, sending news reporters and sound crews scrambling out of the narrow lane before they were hit like skittles. PC Sally Rogers silently gripped the handle on the passenger door.
‘You all right?’ Cant asked her, sounding more irritated than concerned.
‘I’m fine, sir.’
‘Good.’ He skidded to a halt, putting the car in park. Behind them, a second squad car drew up, driven by his sergeant. ‘You wait here till I need you,’ Cant told Sally.
‘But, sir,’ Sally protested, ‘I really ought to be present when you speak to the family, especially given the sensitivity of Lorcan’s needs.’
‘I’ll call if I need you,’ Cant insisted. ‘Same goes for Sergeant Trotter.’
As soon as he stepped out of the car, crunching across the gravel alone towards Mill House, the questions flew at him like arrows.
‘Detective Inspector! What can you tell us?’
‘Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘Why has it taken so long to launch a murder inquiry? What went wrong?’
‘Inspector!’
Ignoring them all, Cant knocked on the front door and was instantly admitted by a tall, distinguished-looking man in his fifties whom he hadn’t met before.
‘Graham Feeney,’ the man introduced himself. ‘I’m a family friend. Ariadne’s asked for my help organising the funeral and with … all this.’ He gestured to the swarms of reporters gathered beyond the garden walls.
