Joanna leaned forward to see Patterson’s face better. ‘Was that when you fell out with your sister?’
Patterson seemed not to have heard her. ‘Nothing was the same,’ he said. ‘We wanted to come home, dreamed about being here again, walking through fields that was green and damp and quiet, and when we got back …’ There was a deep, despairing depression in his face.
Mike cleared his throat. ‘It was bound to be different.’
It was his contribution. Joanna turned to look at him. The war had affected him too; Mike’s father had been a loyal Pole, repatriated in Leek, married finally to a local girl. Had it not been for the war, the child of Demetri Korpanski would almost certainly have been one hundred per cent Polish, brought up in Warsaw or Gdansk or some other place in the fatherland. German ambitions had changed that too.
‘When did you and your sister fall out?’
‘The end of the war as we came home and our father died. Me and David, we’d fought for peace. But when we came home,’ Patterson drew in a long sighing breath, ‘there was none,’ he said simply. ‘It had been blown away by the gunfire.’
It was all the explanation he was going to give them.
Patterson’s chin was sunk on to his chest. He was far away. Far away and long ago.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia put her pencil down, the time for truth seemed near. Strange how rain, streaming down windows, helped her to see pictures long ago relegated to the back of her mind. Arnold, whipping his hoop along the drive. It wasn’t gravelled then, a muddied lane in wet weather, raising fine clouds of dust in hot spells. And the day she recalled had been hot, too hot for her, already too plump to do anything but mope slowly towards the house. Not too hot for her brother and sister. She screwed up her eyes to see the vision all the clearer. Nan, in white pinafore, hair streaming down her back, running behind Arnold, trying to catch him. But Arnold’s legs were long and strong – five years older than Nan – and he didn’t want to give Nan a turn of his hoop. Nan’s voice, clear as a church bell, ringing in her ears. ‘Wait, Arnie, wait for me. Please wait.’ And Arnold had stopped dead.
Lydia dropped her face into her hands. She had forgotten the way Nan always called him Arnie, the way he had responded to her affection. Arnie, her very own pet name. Oh, how cruel life could be.
Lydia leaned back in her chair, gasping with the sadness of it all, tears streaming down her cheeks, mirroring the rain washing down the windows. How cruel. They three had started off with everything, a mother, a father, a home, money, and how empty their lives had become. They had lost it all, ended up with nothing. Their homes were a mockery. Mother and father, naturally, both dead. The money, Lydia’s face twisted, little of it left now. They didn’t even have each other to share their grief with, or mourn jointly as brother and sister for the lost one of the trio. ‘Wait for me. Wait for me, Arnie.’
Arnie would no sooner come to Quills than she would climb the four steps to the front door of Brushton Grange. Would she even go to her sister’s funeral? Would he? Would they forget the past – ever? Or were the scars too deep? Too old? Lydia stood up, pacing the room in a burst of agitated energy foreign to her. She was the lazy one, all her energy had been cerebral not physical. Nan and Arnold had been the active ones. Always.
The thump thump of bass beat drew them up the two flights of stairs to the top-floor attic rooms. They had thought their footsteps would be drowned out by the noise and their arrival would be a surprise but Christian was the one to spring the surprise.
As Joanna’s foot touched the top step the door to their right was flung open. Christian gave them a quizzical look.
‘Back again, Inspector?’
The dry, sweet smoke of marijuana seeped out from the room beyond. A girl was draped around Christian. Pale-skinned, with long, straggly hair and spaced-out hazel eyes, wearing a long skirt and brown short-sleeved T-shirt. Christian seemed hardly aware she was there.
‘Guess what,’ he said to Joanna, ‘my Aunt Nan’s gone and left me everything. Solicitor rang this morning and told me.’
‘So you thought you’d celebrate with a joint?’
Christian’s eyes regarded her steadily – confidently, overconfidently. ‘I don’t think you’ve come about a couple of blades of grass, Inspector.’
‘No.’
‘So what have you come about?’
‘Can we come in?’
‘Got a warrant?’ It was the girl who spoke, stroppily.
‘Shut up, fatso.’ There was little affection in either the direction or the nickname but the girl was either too thick-skinned or spaced-out to be offended. And anyway, she was anything but fat. She uncoiled herself from Christian, moved back into the room and dropped into a sofa cheered with a throw. They followed her in. Christian perched on a beanbag, Joanna and Mike stayed standing.
The attic had a different character from the rest of the house. Sloping ceilings instead of the high square rooms found elsewhere. The furniture was cheap second-hand or MFI but bright, and it was clean.
Joanna eyed Christian curiously. He returned her gaze without a flicker, the only visible sign that he was aware of her scrutiny, a quick flick of his ponytail. ‘Congratulations on your good fortune, Christian,’ Joanna began. ‘You’ll be glad of the money, I expect.’
‘What there is. The solicitor did warn me not to go mad, it’ll take a time to wind up the estate, and he said it wasn’t enough for a life of luxury. But then, as I’m young, my life is likely to last a long time.’ Said without embarrassment. ‘Anyway,’ again the same bold, challenging eye contact, ‘isn’t everyone always glad of money – more money?’
The girl, knees apart, was staring at the floor. It was doubtful whether she’d have been aware of more money except to buy more and more life-escaping drugs.
‘Well, you’re a student, and I understand your parents –’
‘My parents?’ It was the first time Christian’s guard had dropped. It was like letting a docile tiger out of a cage and watching it turn savage in the space of seconds. ‘Aunt Nan told me they would be hostile, jealous of our closeness. She predicted they would drag out stupid comments, like undue influence and rubbish like that, and she was right. It was surprising how often she was right.’
Both Christian and the girl smiled. The girl offered a comment with a shrewd, sideways glance at Christian. ‘ ’Spose the money gives ‘im a motive.’
‘I told you.’ Again the savagery in Christian’s voice shocked both of them but not the girl. She must have witnessed it before. ‘I told you, it isn’t much. Get that into your thick head.’
‘Money is a common motive for murder,’ Joanna said, ‘if a bit of an obvious one. The first thing we do during investigations is ask ourselves who will benefit from the crime.’
‘Me.’ It was back to the polite, charming Christian. But now Joanna was aware of what lay behind his charm. And like a thin coat of white paint over black wood she could perceive Christian’s dark side even when the side he was presenting – so well – was glossy white.
‘Exactly. You’re probably the only one who benefited at all from your great-aunt’s death.’
The statement was enough to rattle the youth. He reacted quickly. ‘But I was going to get it anyway. Aunt Nan was old, and not in good health. I only had to wait; I wouldn’t have needed to have murdered her.’
‘According to her doctor’, Mike spoke steadily, as though reading, verbatim, from a notebook, ‘all she had was arthritis, and you can live for years with that. Maybe you were in a hurry for the money, Christian, or maybe she was thinking of changing her will.’
‘Who would she leave it to?’ the youth said scornfully. ‘There was only me.’
It was true.
‘A dogs’ home, an animal charity.’
Christian broke into peals of laughter. ‘Animals,’ he said, ‘she hated them: cats, dogs, anything.’
It struck Joanna then how very many things Nan Lawrence had hated, her famil
y, all but one of her relations, and now animals. But the question that burned was not the number of people Nan Lawrence had hated but which of them had hated her enough to kill her. She knew Mike would have liked her to confront the youth with the discovery of the pension book and the candlesticks but she would keep this hidden for now.
‘They took my clothes,’ he said suddenly, ‘searched my room.’
‘I asked them to.’
‘Get a warrant, did you?’
This time Joanna answered her. ‘They aren’t difficult to obtain. Did they find anything, Christian?’
He shook his head very slowly, there was an element of doubt in the action. Joanna could almost hear Mike’s palms rubbing together in anticipation.
‘Well,’ she said sweetly, ‘it’s been nice seeing you again. We’ll see ourselves out.’
She and Mike clattered down the two flights of stairs.
The assembled members of the press didn’t number as many as she’d feared but, she reminded herself, most of them were freelancers and would submit their copy to more than one newspaper.
Mike had been right about the continued milk diet. Bill Tylman stared out of the front page of the early editions of the evening paper. Joanna studied his blandly smiling face and was pricked with curiosity. She looked up to answer the question of one of the more astute reporters. ‘Inspector,’ he began, ‘the attack on Mrs Marlowe a month ago, is there any forensic evidence to link the two crimes?’
By her side Korpanski shifted uncomfortably.
‘Not forensic,’ she answered smoothly, but in both cases there has been very little forensic evidence. If we had a suspect we might be able to gather some.’
A tiny, imp-faced reporter was next. ‘We understand you have been interviewing previous victims of crimes, all elderly women.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Are you able to comment further, Inspector?’
‘Only to say that amongst many theories we are considering that the killer of Nan Lawrence has been involved in other crimes in this area.’
Furious scribbling.
‘We understand’, an anonymous voice from the back of the room, ‘that Mrs Lawrence’s brother is elderly and quite frail. Are you prepared to make any comment as to how he’s dealing with the murder of his sister so close to home?’
Joanna found herself suddenly staring at the upturned faces. None of them knew it but this was the hardest question of all. She contented herself with the answer that he was understandably upset.
The briefing had been set for six p.m., when the investigations of the day were drawing to a close and hopefully there would be something to report.
WPC Bridget Anderton stood up. ‘I’ve spoken to Christian Patterson’s mother,’ she said. ‘Not much love lost between her and her son. She said she was relieved when he’d moved in with his grandfather, said he was becoming a handful.’
‘Did she mention Nan Lawrence?’
Only to say that she was a nasty old woman.’
‘I think we were coming to that conclusion on our own,’ Joanna said. ‘No other clue?’
WPC Anderton shook her head. ‘Nothing concrete.’
Joanna addressed Sergeant Barraclough then. ‘And what did you take from Brushton Grange?’
‘Some clothing,’ he said. ‘I’ve bundled it all off to the lab but it’ll be a while before we get the results. I also found a Stanley knife. A very, very clean Stanley knife.’
‘He’s a very, very clean person,’ Joanna said softly. ‘We can but hope he isn’t too clean for our laboratory.’
Police Constable Phil Scott spoke next. He had spent the day, with his team of people, interviewing the entire congregation of Rudyard church, the parish church less than half a mile from Spite Hall. Joanna leaned back in her chair and watched the young blond constable give his account.
‘There were thirty-one people at the morning service,’ he began, ‘mostly locals, regulars. All of them had noticed Nan Lawrence sitting right at the front, in a black straw hat. Most said she didn’t speak to them, some people noticed her speak to Marion Elland, but this wasn’t unusual. Marion worked for Nan. She was one of the few people, and I quote, “the old dragon did speak to”.’ He scanned the room, smiling. ‘Mrs Lawrence wasn’t a popular woman, ma’am. No one had anything nice to say about her.’
Joanna winced at the ‘ma’am’, she’d always hated it, would have preferred them all to address her simply as Joanna, but police protocol enjoyed rigid titles. So long as Mike didn’t address her as ma’am she supposed she would have to learn to accept it from junior officers.
‘A couple,’ Scott glanced down at his notes, ‘Mr and Mrs Raynor, actually saw her walking down the road towards her home. They stopped and offered her a lift.’ Again he looked up, met Joanna’s eyes, knew she would want the statement verbatim. ‘ “We felt sorry for her. She was old. It was quite a step out back to her place, nearly half a mile, and she looked so pathetic, so doddery with her walking stick. It was a struggle for her. We pulled up just past her. Paul (that’s the husband) ran back and offered to take her to her door. She said–” ’ Again Phil Scott looked around the room. They were all waiting for Nan Lawrence’s last known spoken words. Scott bent back over his notebook and read:
‘ “Think I can’t manage it, that I’m that decrepit I can’t get from church back to my own house? I’m not that past it yet, whatever the gossips say.” ’
There was a moment of silence. Everyone in the room could picture an old crow of a woman, spouting out venom. They could imagine her voice, sharp and cracked. Put that with the image of a woman who had lived for more than fifty years in a house with no name but the one that had built up around its reputation, a name anyone approaching Brushton Grange would have understood. Joanna allowed herself one light thought, how the hell had such an old bag been allowed to live so long?
Then she glanced at the side of the room, at the board where the police photographs had been pinned, in glorious technicolour: blood, brains, a face that had been pulped, a body with – what had Matthew said? How many bones had been broken in the assault? She drew in a deep, depressed breath. Human nature could be cruel in many ways.
‘Anything else, Scottie?’
‘Yeah.’ He hesitated. ‘The service was taken by the Reverend Leon Gardiner. He asked if he could speak to the senior investigating officer.’ Scottie looked almost apologetic. ‘I think he was thinking of taking the funeral service.’
‘That’s for the funeral director to sort out,’ Joanna said sharply, ‘nothing to do with the police.’
‘Maybe he just wanted to know when the body would be released.’
‘Then he should speak to the coroner.’
‘Does he have anything useful to say?’ It was Mike who spoke from behind her.
Scottie shrugged. ‘Sorry, Mike, I don’t know.’
‘Anything more?’
Sergeant Barraclough spoke from the back of the room. ‘We’ve had some early reports from forensics,’ he said. ‘They’ve done a reconstruction of the room, she definitely was working on the tapestry when she was struck from behind.’
She could hear Tom and Matthew laughing as she opened the front door and Caro’s clear voice, speaking over them. ‘So we decided on a June wedding. You know, flowers are cheap, don’t need to go abroad for a honeymoon, and the journalists’ world is as dead as a dodo then anyway.’
Joanna smiled. Caro, always the cynic, hiding any heart she might have. She pushed the sitting-room door open.
Caro stood to greet her. Tall, pencil thin with blonde hair and angular features, she gave her friend a hug. Tom was next in turn, still in his solicitor’s suit, gold-rimmed glasses almost steamed up in embarrassment. Joanna looked from one to the other. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘how are you both?’
They exchanged swift glances. Joanna gave a mock groan. ‘Don’t tell me you want me to be bridesmaid? Can you see me in pink froth?’
Caro gave her a mischiev
ous look. ‘You don’t fancy a double wedding?’
Joanna felt cold, aware that Matthew was watching for her reaction, so was Tom. It was Caro who saved the day, by speaking swiftly. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Tom and I getting married but living apart. And you and Matthew living together in sin, and you a police inspector, my darling,’ she finished with mock severity.
‘Don’t you start.’
Joanna vanished into the kitchen and bustled around searching for a corkscrew and a bottle of wine, anything to escape the hurt look she had just read in Matthew’s eyes.
When she had regained her cool she emerged. ‘So,’ she said brightly to Caro, ‘you’re up here to do some articles on rural crime.’
‘Do you think it’s a duff idea?’
‘No but you’re going to have to do some digging.’ And at the explosion of laughter from Tom and Matthew she laughed too and the ice was broken.
She looked from one to the other. ‘Are we eating?’
‘The takeaway should be here –’ Matthew glanced at his watch ‘ – in fifteen minutes.’
‘Just long enough for a glass of wine.’
‘And for me to pick your brains. Tell me, Jo, do you think rural crime is inherently different from city crime?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said guardedly. ‘Certainly last year’s murder of a couple of farmers would be very hard to imagine in a city.’
They chatted around the subject, pausing only to answer the knock on the door and serve out the curry, rice, chapatis and poppadoms.
There was only one blot on the evening, when Caro asked when Eloise would be arriving.
‘Tomorrow.’ Joanne couldn’t quite keep the apprehension out of her voice.
Chapter Fifteen
7.15 a.m. Friday, October 30th
Lydia hadn’t even picked up her pen this morning. Instead she was pacing the room, almost trampling on the two hens as she did so. They squawked out a protest and took refuge in the basket, softly clucking their disapproval. She hardly seemed to notice them. The box of photographs was tipped over, the pictures scattered across the floor. She sank down on the sofa and dropped her head in her hands swamped by a feeling of utter despair.
Embroidering Shrouds Page 13
