The Anna McColl Mysteries Box Set 1

by Penny Kline

  ‘Could the wound have been inflicted after death?’

  ‘After death? Who’s going to do that? After death there’d have been no bleeding, although with a head wound it’s just possible … ’

  He started up the stairs, two at a time. I raced after him and we entered the living-room together. Geraldine was sitting on the window seat with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘I’ll fetch my things, shall I?’ she said. ‘What will I need, just my nightdress and a toothbrush?’

  Howard glanced at me.

  ‘She’s been to the cottage,’ I said.

  ‘How d’you mean? When?’

  Geraldine made a move to stand then sat down again heavily. ‘I killed him,’ she said softly, ‘you can take me away now.’

  Howard was balanced on the edge of the antique chest where Sandy had once told me he kept the board games he and Thomas played during long winter evenings. ‘Your husband died of an overdose, Mrs Haran. I’m very sorry. You probably don’t feel up to answering questions just now but there’s no urgency, we can come back — ’

  ‘What happened, Geraldine?’ I interrupted. ‘Tell Inspector Fry what happened.’ She smiled at me, opening her mouth and closing it again, then starting to talk in a bright, artificial voice. ‘Yesterday evening, about eight o’clock I think it was. There was no one in the ground-floor flat when I left, I checked before I started the car. I hadn’t driven for — oh, it must be nearly two months. I was afraid the engine wouldn’t start but of course it did. Sandy’s so good with cars.’ She paused, looking round to make sure we were all listening. ‘It takes about twenty minutes to reach the cottage. Less if the roads are clear. I parked in the front garden then went round the back. Sandy was upstairs, doing something or other.’

  Graham Whittle looked first at me, then at Geraldine. ‘Your husband died at least thirty-six hours ago, Mrs Haran.’

  She started to scream. First a small distressed noise, like an animal caught in a trap, then a loud angry shriek that continued for several moments before she put her hands up to her face and slid to the ground.

  ‘I’m going to call a doctor,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and get her admitted to hospital, just for a day or two so they can keep an eye on her.’

  Howard raised a hand. ‘Mrs Haran, you say you visited the cottage yesterday evening?’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘You see, he killed Walter.’

  ‘And you found your husband dead.’

  ‘I wanted to kill him.’ Geraldine’s voice was high-pitched, hysterical. ‘So what’s the difference? I lifted him up but he was very heavy, much heavier than you’d think, and he looked so young. I couldn’t hold him, he slipped out of my … ’

  ‘What makes you think your husband killed Walter Bury, Mrs Haran?’

  She pressed her lips together then sat up straight and threw back her head. ‘Walter loved me.’

  ‘And your husband knew about the affair? Do you have any other evidence, anything else linking your husband with the murder in Leigh Woods?’

  I wanted to tell Howard about the hammer in the garden shed — but not now, not with Geraldine in such a volatile state. Had she really thrown it over the hedge, or were her thought processes so confused that the story about the hammer was as much an invention as her original insistence that she had murdered Sandy?

  Howard was staring at me. His face was expressionless. I stood up and went to phone the doctor.

  The ambulance had come and gone. Howard had bombarded me with questions. Why had I gone to the cottage? Had Mrs Haran asked me to look for her husband? Had I known for some time about her involvement with Walter Bury and kept the information to myself? And another thing: Lynsey Wills, the girl who had left me holding the baby, where was she now?

  Later, at the police station, I would have to answer more questions. Bryan and Helen Sealey would be interviewed too, and Rona — and Lynsey unless she had disappeared into the anonymity of London. None of them had any connection with the murder — I was certain of it and none of them was likely to provide Howard with the hard evidence he needed. Evidence, not hearsay, that proved Geraldine was right and Sandy was the killer the police had been searching for.

  The sky had clouded over. I could hear the church clock striking six and the harsh sound of a strimmer in the next door garden. Left alone in the Harans’ flat I had wandered from room to room, making sure the windows were closed, washing up the mugs that stood on the draining board alongside a spoon and a collection of cold tea bags. Now I was up in Thomas’s room, with my elbows on the window-sill, staring down at the roof of the Morris Minor and wondering, for no particular reason, what Geraldine had done with the binoculars.

  There was no sign of them in the room. Apart from the jogging suit on the cupboard door it was exactly as I had seen it the first time Geraldine showed it to me. The expensive computer and printer, the rocking horse with its genuine horse-hair tail, the rows of model planes and boats and dinosaurs. Next to a brown triceratops a space had been made for the wooden owl that Thomas had given his mother for her birthday. I wondered if it had been Lynsey who had moved the owl from the mantelpiece downstairs. Perhaps she and Thomas had played with it together regularly, filling it up with pieces of paper, then making vomiting noises as the head swung back. Stretching out my arm I lifted it off the shelf and tipped its contents on to the carpet, scattering screwed up balls of newspaper — and something else — a sheet of stiff cream notepaper, folded, then folded again.

  Sitting on the floor with my back against a shelf of encyclopaedias I smoothed it out and started to read. It was Sandy’s handwriting all right. I recognized it from the time he had scrawled his address on a scrap of paper, less than three weeks ago.

  Small, neat writing with very few of the letters joined together.

  My darling, We didn’t have to talk about it, did we? You knew it was only a matter of days. When I followed Walter that evening, I did it for all of us — you and me and Thomas. I couldn’t live without you, you’ve always known that. Goodbye, my darling, I did try, I really did. Be happy — both of you. There’s enough to live off if you sell the house. I’m sure you’ll want to anyway. S.

  The note must have been there for several days. Had Sandy hidden it just after Thomas left to catch the coach to Plymouth? I remembered his anguished expression as he said goodbye to his son. Was it then he had decided that time had run out, he had no choice left?

  Geraldine could have seen the note already but I was certain that finding Sandy’s body had been as much of a shock for her as it had been for me. Had she really gone there to kill him, and if so how had she intended to do it? I doubted if she had made any realistic plan.

  Stuffing the note in my pocket I picked up the crumpled pieces of newspaper, returned them to where they belonged, then ran down the two flights of stairs and let myself out into the fresh air. Howard would call in a handwriting expert but there would be little doubt now that Sandy had been responsible for Walter Bury’s death.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was cool on the Downs. Lynsey walked a few paces ahead of me, talking nonstop. She had taken the news of Sandy’s death amazingly calmly. Perhaps it hadn’t sunk in, perhaps she had too many other things on her mind.

  ‘Geraldine might’ve been able to save him,’ she said, ‘given him mouth-to-mouth.’

  ‘No, it was far too late for anything like that.’

  ‘How d’you know? She could’ve gone there sooner than she said.’

  I shook my head. ‘There’s a boy lives in the bungalow at the end of the lane. He wrote down the registration of the Morris Minor and the time it came past.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He’s a car fanatic. Geraldine arrived there just before eight and left about fifteen minutes later. By then Sandy would’ve been dead for over twelve hours.’

  She thought about it for a moment. ‘Poor old sod.’

  I wasn’t sure if she meant Sandy or Geraldine
but in any case it was time to change the subject.

  ‘Lynsey, do you still think Chloe’s your baby?’

  She slowed down till I drew level. ‘Not really. Could’ve been, except mine had sticking-out ears.’ She laughed, trying to force me to join in. When I refused she looked as though she was going to cry. Then she glared at me, muttering something barely audible, something to the effect that I surely wasn’t going to force her to face up to the loss of her baby — not today of all days.

  ‘Funny to think Sandy’s dead,’ she said. ‘Still I suppose it’s better that way — if they’re sure he killed that bloke.’

  ‘They’re sure,’ I said.

  ‘What’ll Geraldine do? Sandy dead, her boyfriend done in, doesn’t have much luck, does she?’

  ‘You liked Sandy, didn’t you?’

  ‘He was all right. Oh, you mean I fancied him? Bryan maybe. Sandy’s not my type.’ She folded her arms. ‘My baby — I did love her you know. It wasn’t that I wanted to get rid of her, it was just, like what sort of a life would she have had?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Now Rona’s gone what d’you s’pose Bryan and Helen’ll do, find another nanny or look after the baby themselves?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I’m sure she will be well cared for.’

  She gave me a push. ‘Always look on the bright side, eh? I’ll tell you something, I hated that Helen.’

  ‘Because you thought she had your baby?’

  ‘I s’pose. Stuck up though, isn’t she, thinks she’s so fucking good looking.’

  ‘Lynsey?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you know Walter Bury’s wife had been killed by a hit-and-run driver?’

  She laughed. ‘Might have.’

  ‘Who told you about it?’

  ‘I forget.’

  ‘Was it someone called Colin Elliot?’

  ‘Never heard of him. Oh, Col, yes it could’ve been Col. He goes to the Ostrich, that pub down by the quay, d’you know where I mean?’

  ‘And you wanted Helen blamed for the hit-and-run.’

  She jumped on to a tree stump and stood like a statue. ‘Well, she’d given up driving, hadn’t she? S’posing it was her. Walter Bury might’ve found out so she had to get rid of him. Anyway I didn’t say anything to the Old Bill so what’s the problem? Where’s Thomas?’

  ‘He’s staying with his friend’s mother but I expect Geraldine will be home quite soon.’

  ‘Like she hasn’t done a crime or anything.’

  I shook my head. ‘When she’s back I’m sure you’ll be able to see her — and Thomas if you want to.’

  ‘Maybe. Think I’ll ask Deb if she can find me some work at the store? Oh, not selling all that muck on the make-up counter. Can you see me all got up like a dog’s dinner?’ She flopped down on the grass, rolling on her back. ‘Something in packing, something where the customers don’t set eyes on you so you can’t say the wrong thing, wear the wrong clothes.’

  ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll start at the bottom and end up running the place.’ She sat up, staring into the distance. ‘That Geraldine — was she really agoraphobic or like just putting it on?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Don’t know nothing, do you.’ She jumped up, brushing the dry grass off the back of her shorts. ‘Only joking. But if Sandy knew he’d done a murder why did he want you to talk to his wife? I know, it was a kind of death wish! He knew he’d get caught. Wanted to be. Was that it, d’you s’pose?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she mocked. ‘Here, you met Hal and Greg — what d’you think of them? Wish I was gay. Gays are nice to each other.’

  A car had pulled up near the water tower. When the driver got out I recognized Owen and cursed silently. What on earth did he want? He seemed to have a habit of turning up at the worst possible time.

  He waved, then started walking towards us, pushing back his hair so that it was smoothed down on one side of his head and sticking up the other. Lynsey glanced at me but said nothing, just stuck her hands in her pockets.

  ‘Pure luck I saw you.’ Owen was out of breath and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘I was driving round and just happened to — ’

  ‘This is Lynsey,’ I said. ‘Oh, I forgot, you met before. The statue of Neptune, near the Watershed.’

  He held out his hand. ‘How are you?’ Lynsey smiled. ‘Could be worse. Here, d’you want an ice-cream?’ She started running in the direction of the van, calling over her shoulder. ‘Strawberry or vanilla, or one of those choc-ices on a stick?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘I’ll pay for them.’ She held up two fingers. ‘D’you mind, I’m not that skint.’

  I turned to Owen. ‘Look, if it’s about Walter Bury and the French class — ’

  ‘I wanted to explain,’ he said. ‘I only saw Barry on Friday, I’d no idea it was important, didn’t even cross my mind.’

  ‘It wasn’t, not really. I’m sorry if I shouted, I was feeling a bit — ’

  ‘Where did you find Lynsey?’

  ‘I didn’t. She turned up at the flat.’

  ‘Oh good, I’m glad.’

  Lynsey was returning with three cones balanced precariously in one hand. ‘Quick,’ she yelled, ‘they’re melting, there’ll be nothing left.’ Then she put her face very close to mine and frowned. ‘Now what’s the matter? Thought we was enjoying ourselves.’

  She handed one of the cones to Owen. ‘Always like this, she is,’ she said, jerking her head in my direction. ‘Can’t you do something about her?’ An ice-cream was held up to my mouth, forcing me to take a lick. ‘There, that’s better. I’ll tell you something for nothing.’ She paused for maximum effect. ‘I wouldn’t look so miserable — not if I had a bloke like him who couldn’t take his sodding eyes off me.’

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