Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘But if Rita knew that Isobel had had a stroke …’ said Helen.

  Thanet was shaking his head. ‘That was the point. She didn’t. Both those phone calls were very brief. On the first occasion the caller had rung off immediately when Letty Ransome said that her sister was ill, and on the second occasion Letty, excited by the fact that Isobel had that morning for the first time shown some signs of being able to move the fingers on her paralysed side, had simply said that her sister was much better, though still in bed. So the caller would have had no idea that it was a stroke Isobel had suffered. So Rita assumed that Isobel would read the letter herself.’

  ‘But surely she wouldn’t have risked giving herself away in a letter?’ said Mallard.

  ‘It was stupid, I agree. But she wanted that money. If you’re used to a thousand a month coming in and it suddenly stops, you miss it! What she didn’t know, of course, was that the postman was in the habit of delivering the letters for both households to the main house, but even so she took the precaution of printing the envelope, just in case Grace saw it lying around and by any remote chance remembered what Rita’s handwriting looked like. But she didn’t do the same with the letter.’

  ‘So that was it!’ said Joan. ‘Grace recognised the handwriting! After all those years?’

  ‘Well, she didn’t recognise it immediately. But you must remember that for Grace, everything to do with the baby has remained engraved upon her mind. As soon as she started reading the letter she realised who it was from.’

  ‘What did it say? Have you seen it?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘Grace destroyed it. And no, I don’t know precisely what it said. I’m sure Rita wasn’t foolish enough to spell out what she and Isobel had done. But whatever she said, it was enough to cause Grace to realise the truth.’

  Grace’s account of what had happened had been painful to listen to.

  ‘At first I couldn’t take it in. I was sitting by Isobel’s bed, reading the letter aloud. Then, as it dawned on me who the letter was from and what the implications were, it was as if I was suddenly outside myself, and it was someone else’s voice I was listening to. I looked at Isobel lying there. She couldn’t speak, as you know, but she could understand all right and she could see that I knew what she had done. Her eyes … She was in a panic, I could tell. She put out her good hand towards me in an imploring gesture, but I ignored it. All I could think of was what had happened to my baby. I could see that same hand poised above him, holding a pillow, and I saw it come down, cover his little face. I’m not making excuses when I say that then I just blanked out. The next thing I was aware of was standing over Isobel, pressing a pillow down over her face. I lifted it away and saw that she was dead. I was quite calm. There seemed to be a kind of poetic justice in the fact that she had died in the same way as he did. I raised her head and replaced the pillow. Then I went back out into the garden.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Joan. ‘What a shock it must have been.’

  ‘What would have happened if she hadn’t confessed?’ said Mallard. ‘You had no actual evidence against her, did you?’

  ‘No. We would have been stuck, no doubt about that. But to be honest, although my professional pride required me to bring the case to what might be termed a successful conclusion, I think I would have been relieved. She’s suffered enough.’

  ‘So what will happen to her?’ said Helen. ‘Will she be convicted, d’you think?’

  ‘Oh yes, I should think so. She has confessed, after all, and I can’t see her changing her story. But I’m sure her counsel will plead emotional stress and claim that she was temporarily unbalanced by the shock of discovering that her baby had been murdered, so it will probably be on the grounds of manslaughter with diminished responsibility.’

  ‘So what sort of sentence would that mean?’

  ‘Well, on those grounds it couldn’t be more than two years, and it’s more than likely that she’ll either get a suspended sentence or be put on probation.’ Thanet pulled a face, remembering. ‘D’you know what she said to me, after she’d told me what happened? She said, “I won’t ask you what will happen to me now, because frankly I don’t care. One prison is much the same as another.”’

  The other three were silent. Outside, dusk had fallen while they were talking and the birds had stopped singing. Beyond the trees at the far end of the garden the sky was still stained with streaks of red, apricot and pink from the reflected glow of the sun which had long since set. The brighter flowers in the garden seemed to have vanished, receding into the background with the passing of the light, but the paler ones loomed ghostly on their stems, as if suspended from invisible wires.

  Mallard rose and began switching on the lamps.

  ‘Better close the doors, darling,’ said Helen. ‘It seems a pity, but the moths will all be coming in. I’ll make some more coffee, shall I?’

  At the door she turned. ‘What about the nanny? She won’t get away scot-free, will she?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Thanet grimly. ‘We’ll have to put the case up to the Director of Public Prosecutions, but under Section 4 of the Criminal Law Act of 1967 she might well get up to ten years.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Helping to conceal the crime of murder by giving false evidence at the inquest.’

  ‘I see. And what about the blackmail?’

  ‘A bit more complicated. But we’re working on it.’

  Next morning, Sunday, Thanet was in the kitchen making an early morning cup of tea for Joan when the telephone rang. He went into the hall to answer it.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Bridget! How are you? What are you doing ringing at this hour on a Sunday?’

  ‘You weren’t still in bed, I hope?’

  ‘Certainly not! I was making a cup of tea for your mother.’

  ‘She tells me the case is over. Well done!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You don’t sound too pleased about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t a very pleasant case.’

  ‘Are they ever? Anyway, that’s why I was ringing. You were so busy we hardly saw you last weekend. We tried to ring last night, but you were out.’

  ‘Yes. We went to dinner at the Mallards’. Helen was asking for you.’

  ‘I must go and see her next time I’m down for a weekend. But as far as today is concerned, Alexander is suggesting that we drive down and he takes us all out to lunch. What d’you think?’

  ‘Ben too?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Dad?’ There was a touch of anxiety in Bridget’s voice now. ‘You did like him, didn’t you?’

  Thanet glanced at the hydrangea. It looked healthy, expensive, handsome. Just like its donor, he thought. He remembered that uncomfortable moment of insight, the thought that his prejudice against Alexander might have arisen from his own feelings of inferiority. The Mallards were right. He couldn’t think of a single reason why Alexander should not be a suitable suitor for Bridget, should it ever come to that. He took a deep breath. ‘Of course I did. He’s a very nice young man.’

  ‘I thought you would.’ Her relief came over loud and clear. ‘So what d’you think, about today?’

  ‘It’s a lovely idea,’ said Thanet. ‘Your mother will be delighted at not having to cook Sunday lunch.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. Good. We’ll be down about 12.30, then. Can we leave it to you to think of a nice place to go and book a table?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll look forward to it.’

  And he meant it.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Inspector Thanet Mysteries

  ONE

  Thanet drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, scowling at the stationary line of tail-lights which curved away ahead of him. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Twenty to eight already. Bridget’s train was due in ten minutes and he wanted to be there, waiting on the platform, when she arrived. He thought he had allowed plenty of time – at this hour of the evening the streets of Sturrenden
were usually relatively deserted. There must have been an accident.

  The approaching wail of an ambulance siren confirmed his guess. And yes, ahead of him, rhythmic pulses of blue light irradiated the sky, reflecting off the windows of the houses on the other side of the street, on the bend. Perhaps he should do a U-turn, make his way to the station by another route? Come on, he breathed. Move!

  Miraculously, almost at once the furthest tail-lights disappeared around the curve in the road as the line of cars began to crawl past the scene of the accident. There was no time for Thanet to catch more than a glimpse of the Ford Cortina slewed across the road, the motorcycle half under its front wheels, the dazed figure sitting head on hands on the kerb and the stretcher already being loaded into the ambulance. Ben ought to be seeing this, thought Thanet grimly. Perhaps he’d stop nagging us to allow him a moped.

  He arrived on the platform with a minute to spare, his mind now entirely focused on Bridget again. What was wrong? For the hundredth time their brief telephone conversation ran through his mind.

  ‘Dad? Look, is it all right if I come home for a few days?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But … Are you all right? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I’ll be down on Friday evening, then.’

  ‘What time? I’ll meet you.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll catch the 6.15. Thanks, Dad. See you then.’

  And the phone had gone down, cutting off further inquiries.

  It must be something to do with Alexander, thought Thanet. This was Bridget’s wealthy, successful ex-public school boyfriend. She had been going out with him for over a year now and Thanet’s initial misgivings over the difference in their backgrounds had gradually given way to acceptance. But he still had reservations. It was evident that Bridget was head over heels in love with Alexander but Thanet wasn’t so sure of Alexander’s feelings for her. He was fond of her, yes, but sufficiently fond to make a commitment? Thanet doubted it, and in one respect this was a good thing. At twenty Bridget was still very young. But if Alexander had broken it off … Thanet couldn’t bear the thought of the heartache she would suffer. It was all very well to say that once your children were grown up they were no longer your responsibility and had to fend for themselves. They were still a part of you, always would be, and their joys and sorrows would always be yours, to a greater or lesser degree. And in Bridget’s case … Ah, here came the train. Thanet steeled himself. Yes, there she was. He walked briskly up the platform to meet her. She looked pinched and pale, he thought, diminished somehow, and in his opinion inadequately clad for a raw October evening in cotton trousers, T-shirt and thin cardigan.

  She attempted a smile, kissed his cheek and handed over her psychedelic green and orange squashy bag.

  ‘All right?’ he said, trying to avoid too searching a scrutiny of her face.

  Her eyes met his, briefly, then slid away as she nodded.

  Well, he had no intention of pressing her. She could confide in them – if she chose to confide in them at all – in her own good time. They drove home in silence.

  Joan heard the car and opened the front door to greet them. In response to the question in her eyes Thanet shook his head. Nothing, yet.

  Joan gave Bridget a quick hug. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I had a sandwich at Victoria.’

  ‘Coffee, then?’

  ‘Yes, lovely.’

  They spent the next couple of hours watching television, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, the air full of unspoken questions. When the ten o’clock news came on Bridget stretched and stood up. ‘I think I’ll go up, if you don’t mind. It’s been a pretty hectic week.’

  Bridget, going to bed at ten p.m.? Unheard of! They concealed their dismay behind understanding nods and smiles.

  ‘I think I’ll burst if we don’t find out soon,’ said Joan as they listened to their daughter climb the stairs, her dragging footsteps a painful betrayal of her state of mind.

  ‘The last thing she’ll want is to be bombarded with questions.’

  ‘Really, Luke, I meant no such thing. But a little parental concern …’

  ‘She knows we’re concerned! Give her time. She just needs a breathing space, that’s all.’

  The phone rang. Joan pulled a face. ‘Must be for you, at this time of night. I’ll make some tea.’

  Thanet went to answer it reluctantly. He felt sluggish, depressed about Bridget, disinclined to do anything but have a hot, soothing drink and fall into bed.

  As he picked up the phone Ben came in, slamming the front door behind him. At sixteen, already an inch taller than his father and with a physique to match, he seemed incapable of doing anything quietly.

  ‘Sis home?’

  Thanet pointed up the stairs and flapped his hand for silence, pressing the phone closer to his ear. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘It’s Pater, sir.’

  Despite his lethargy of a moment ago, Thanet’s scalp pricked. The Station Officer wouldn’t bother him off duty unless it was important.

  ‘Yes? Oh, hold on a moment, will you?’ Thanet covered the receiver, exasperated. ‘How d’you expect me to have a telephone conversation with all this noise going on?’

  Joan had emerged from the kitchen. Ben was already halfway up the stairs and she was calling after him. ‘She’s tired. She’s gone to bed.’

  Ben looked astounded. ‘At this hour? Anyway, I’m only going to say hi.’ He took the rest of the stairs two at a time and they heard him knock on Bridget’s door, the murmur of voices.

  Joan shrugged and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, Pater,’ said Thanet. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Patrol car responding to a 999 call has just radioed in for assistance. Suspicious death, sir. Could be murder.’

  ‘Where?’ Already the adrenalin was starting to flow.

  ‘Sturrenden Vineyard. It’s out on the –’

  ‘I know where it is. Any more details?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Right, I’m on my way. SOCOs notified?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Doc Mallard.’

  ‘DS Lineham?’

  ‘I’ll ring him next, sir. And the rest of the team.’

  Thanet put the phone down, went to the kitchen door.

  Joan was screwing the top on to the Thermos flask. ‘All right, I heard.’ She handed him the flask. ‘I wonder how many times I’ve done this.’

  Thanet grinned and kissed her. ‘I shouldn’t start counting, it’ll only depress you.’

  Sturrenden Vineyard lay four miles west of the town, on the Maidstone road. As Thanet drove through the quiet streets he tried to recall what he knew about it. Very little, he realised, except that it was there and had become an increasingly thriving business. The Thanets drank very little and had never actually bought any wine there, nor had either of them gone on any of the vineyard walks or guided tours. Just as well, perhaps? He would be approaching the place with a completely open mind … No, not true, he realised. There was something he’d heard about the owner, what was his name? An odd name, but he couldn’t recall it. Anyway, it was something unsavoury, he was sure … He frowned into the darkness. No, it was no good, the memory eluded him.

  Ten minutes later the first notice appeared. ‘STURRENDEN VINEYARD 100 YDS ON R.’ and shortly afterwards the illuminated sign came into view, a curved arch spanning the entrance. Thanet paused to look at it.

  STURRENDEN VINEYARD

  AWARD-WINNING ENGLISH WINES. FREE TASTINGS.

  VINEYARD TOURS.

  Details of opening times were given below in print too small to be legible at night. Bunches of grapes linked by vine leaves decorated each end of the board.

  A car was approaching from behind as Thanet swung across the road and through the wide entrance gates. The car flashed its lights and followed suit. Lineham’s Escort, Thanet realised. In the car park they pulled up side by side next to Mallard’s old Rover. There were a number of other cars in the extensive parking area – a c
ouple of police cars and several which presumably belonged to the vineyard.

  ‘Nice white Mercedes over there,’ said Lineham wistfully. ‘This place is doing all right, by the look of it.’ He and Thanet had worked together for so long that by now greetings were superfluous.

  Thanet nodded. Lineham was right. The Mercedes aside, even by night all the signs of substantial reinvestment were there: fresh tarmac, new fencing and a general air of order and prosperity. Over to the right, set well back behind a tall, dense yew hedge, was a sizeable period farmhouse, lights blazing out their message of crisis from every window. Ahead, their roofs a looming darkness against the night sky, was a substantial cluster of farm buildings. Between two of the nearest barns there was a lorry-width gap in which stood a uniformed constable, clearly visible in the light streaming from the buildings on either side. As they drew closer Thanet could see that the one to the left had been converted into the vineyard shop, the one to the right the office.

  ‘Evening, Tenby,’ he said. ‘Which way?’

  The man half turned to the left and pointed. ‘In that big building there, sir. The bottling plant. He’s in the laboratory.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, sir.’

  Thanet’s heart sank. He always dreaded the first sight of the corpse. There was something so poignant about the newly dead, separated by so short a span of time from those who still lived and breathed. Although he had succeeded remarkably well in concealing this weakness from his colleagues Thanet always had consciously to armour himself against that first, awe-full moment. And if the death had been really violent, if there was a lot of blood and ‘mess’, as Tenby put it, the ordeal was ten times worse, Thanet’s over-active imagination visualising those last agonising minutes before the victim was released to merciful unconsciousness. But forewarned was, to some extent, forearmed. ‘In what way?’ he said calmly.