Unnatural Wastage

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘As you’ve just remarked, you never know,’ said Sukey. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she added as, to the accompaniment of ‘Home Sweet Home’, she took her leave.

  ELEVEN

  Small, neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs grew on either side of the short path leading to the front door. Vicky’s approach had obviously been observed, as she had barely touched the bell when the door was opened by a young woman in her mid to late twenties. She was wearing jeans and a loose blouse; in the crook of one arm she held a rosy-cheeked baby that was contentedly sucking a thumb.

  ‘Nancy Brotherton?’ Vicky held up her ID. ‘DC Armstrong.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I was expecting you. Do come in.’ The woman led the way into a cosy sitting room with a window looking out over a small, well-tended garden. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, pointing to an armchair. ‘I’ve just finished feeding Emily and I’ll keep her on my lap until she’s ready to go to sleep, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Vicky. ‘She’s a lovely baby; how old is she?’

  ‘Just turned six months.’ Nancy’s face suddenly crumpled. ‘This is Mum’s only grandchild, and she never saw her,’ she said in a broken whisper. ‘I feel so awful about it . . . I never even told her I was pregnant. We’d had our differences and . . . I should have told her . . . Luke said I should tell her, but I was too proud. Pride is one of the deadly sins, isn’t it?’ She wept quietly for a few moments, holding the baby close as if the warmth of the little body brought some comfort.

  ‘They do say that,’ Vicky agreed. ‘I realize this must be very distressing for you,’ she went on, ‘but I’m sure you want us to catch whoever killed your mother and we think you may be able to help us. We know so little about her, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ Nancy dried her eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. ‘Of course I want to see her murderer caught,’ she said. ‘She didn’t deserve that, whatever she did in the past.’ She looked down at the baby and gently stroked the downy head. ‘Emily’s falling asleep so I’ll put her down and then I’ll make some coffee. I dare say you’d like a cup?’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ Vicky was already well primed with caffeine but it would have seemed ungracious to refuse.

  ‘No problem.’ Nancy put the baby in a crib by the window and covered her with a light blanket. She went out; while she was absent, Vicky took a quick glance round the room. It was modestly but comfortably furnished, the colour scheme had been carefully chosen and the few pictures and ornaments blended comfortably with their surroundings. There were several framed photographs, one of Nancy, Emily and a good-looking man of athletic appearance and another in which the same man featured in the front row of a local football team. Vicky stood up to take a closer look.

  ‘That was after last season’s final,’ said Nancy, who re-entered at that moment with a tray, which she put down on a low table. ‘My Luke was man of the match so we had to buy the photograph.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vicky said warmly, ‘and I’m sure Emily will be very proud of her daddy when she’s old enough to understand.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Nancy poured out two mugs of coffee and gave one to Vicky. ‘Luke adores her, but I’m sure he’d like a son next time.’ She drank a few mouthfuls of coffee and then said, ‘You want to ask me about Mum. I expect you know we’d been estranged for some time.’

  ‘You mentioned when you came to identify her that you hadn’t seen her for a while. Her murder must have come as a terrible shock.’

  ‘It did. Luke was at work and his mobile was switched off so I had to leave Emily with a neighbour while I was taken to the morgue in a police car. I just saw her lying there and as far as I remember all I said was, “Yes, that’s my mother. Her name’s Fenella Tremaine. Will you please take me home now?” I can’t imagine what the police or the people in the morgue must have thought of me for not crying or seeming upset, but—’

  ‘It’s quite understandable; you were in shock,’ said Vicky. ‘Perhaps it would help if I told you what we already know about your mother, and then you can fill in the blanks.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Vicky gave a quick summary of the information that the police had so far gathered about Fenella’s relationship with her neighbours and her colleagues at Maxworth’s plus the further, more personal, details she and Sukey had gleaned from their interviews with Bradley Donaldson and the nurses at Holmwood Care Home. When she mentioned Fenella’s presumed affair with Brian Seaton, Nancy gave a short, sardonic laugh.

  ‘That’s doesn’t surprise me,’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course I knew she had affairs. She thought she was being very discreet about them and she never brought them home but as I grew older I learned to recognize the signs. I suppose it was because, like you said, she had a deprived childhood. She must have spent most of her life desperately seeking the love she never got from her own mother. It explains why she was so ­protective of me, and why she was so down on Luke. She wanted the best for me; she was keen for me to go to university so I did – with hindsight I realize that in those days she made most of my decisions for me – and I know she was hoping I’d marry some classy bloke with loads of money, but things didn’t turn out like that. I suppose I should have been more understanding, but while I was at university I became more independent and after I finished my degree I moved out of the house and into a flat of my own. That upset Mum and she tried to persuade me to stay at home, but I couldn’t face it . . . I knew I’d feel stifled.’

  ‘A lot of people with overprotective parents feel like that,’ said Vicky. ‘Tell me how you met Luke,’ she said after a few moments of silence during which Nancy sat with closed eyes, having apparently fallen into a reverie.

  She opened her eyes with a start and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘Sorry about that; I was miles away for the moment. I got a job working in a small art gallery in Clifton. The owner wanted a new shop front and Luke was one of the gang that fitted it. We dated for a long time without my saying anything to Mum, but it got serious so I had to introduce them. He’s a lovely chap and he went out of his way to make a good ­impression. I did so hope she’d take to him, but I should have known better. The next day she called me to say she hoped I wouldn’t be seeing any more of such an unsuitable person. She went berserk when I told her we were engaged. We hardly spoke to each other for weeks and she didn’t come to the wedding. That was two years ago and I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.’

  ‘I take it you never lived with her in Sycamore Park?’

  ‘No. When she finally accepted that I wasn’t coming home she sold her house and bought the flat. I visited her there once or twice.’

  ‘Did she mention any of her neighbours, or introduce you to them?’

  ‘She described them as “a pretty mixed bunch”, but I certainly never met any of them.’

  ‘Just what did she have against Luke?’

  ‘His working-class background of course. I might have understood if he’d been what she’d have called “common” or “uncouth”, but he’s anything but; he went to a good school and did well in his exams so he could have gone to university but he simply wasn’t cut out for an academic career. He’s very practical and good with his hands so he did an apprenticeship. He’s done really well – his boss thinks the world of him – and he makes wooden toys as a hobby and sells quite a lot of them at craft markets. He made that.’ She proudly pointed to the crib where Emily lay sleeping.

  ‘I’ve been admiring it; it’s lovely,’ said Vicky. She referred to her notes. ‘You hinted that your mother had several lovers; was one of them a Doctor Ellerman?’

  Nancy stared thoughtfully into her mug of coffee. ‘Ellerman,’ she repeated. ‘The name rings a bell. Did his first name begin with M? Maurice? Matthew? No, that’s not right.’

  ‘How about Marcus?’ Vicky suggested.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ Nancy snapped her fingers. ‘I remember now. They worked for
the same company, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t her lover – in fact she once said, “He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but I’ve met his type before and given them the elbow”.’

  ‘But he might have tried it on with her?’

  Nancy shrugged. ‘It’s possible. She’s . . . was . . . very attract­­ive and she certainly didn’t look her age. I suppose he might have tried his luck, but if he did she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Did you know he lived in Sycamore Park?’

  Nancy stared in astonishment. ‘No kidding? I had no idea.’ She frowned and thought for a moment. ‘I guess that makes him a suspect, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We’re following several lines of enquiry,’ said Vicky. ‘Just one more question. Did your mother drink a lot?’

  ‘Oh yes, she enjoyed a glass of wine or three. I never saw her drunk, though, just mellow . . . and maudlin at times, probably when she’d either dumped or been dumped.’ Nancy’s eyes clouded again. ‘Poor Mum, I should have been kinder to her. You will catch the bastard who did it, won’t you?’

  ‘We will,’ Vicky assured her. She put away her notebook, finished her coffee and stood up. ‘Thank you very much for being so frank. We’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘I apologize for troubling you again, sir,’ said DC Tim Pringle, ‘but we feel there are one or two other things you may be able to help us with.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ John Yardley, in dressing gown and slippers and smelling of aftershave, held the door open for Tim to enter. ‘I heard on the news you’ve made an arrest,’ he said when they were both seated. ‘No name – just someone “helping with your enquiries”, I understand. I hope that isn’t what you’re going to tell the press about me!’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘We still have a long way to go and a lot more people to interview before we’ll be in a position to make an arrest,’ said Tim. ‘What I’d like to talk about today is the meeting that took place in Doctor Ellerman’s flat. You told me –’ he referred to his notes – ‘that apart from you and Doctor Ellerman, three other people were present, namely Jennifer Freeman, Jared Whittington and Larry Worsley. Is that correct?’

  ‘Quite correct.’

  ‘How long did the meeting last?’

  Yardley thought for a moment. ‘The question about the accounts was settled very quickly, but then Ellerman offered drinks so we stayed on for a general chat. Whittington and Worsley are Americans, as I think you know. Worsley owns an art gallery and he expressed an interest in one of Ellerman’s pictures and got up to have a closer look. Then he went to look at another, and in the end we were all trailing round after him like a load of students in an art gallery.’ Yardley chuckled again at the recollection.

  ‘Did you happen to notice a glass-fronted display cabinet, sir?’

  ‘I did, as it happens, but Worsley didn’t show an interest in anything in it.’

  ‘Did you happen to look at anything in it yourself – or notice anything of particular interest?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘An ornamental dagger, for example.’

  Yardley stared at him as if thunderstruck. ‘You mean like the one that killed poor Fenella? Good heavens, are you suggesting that Ellerman—?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir. Do I take it that your answer to my question is no?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t notice anything remotely resembling a dagger, although I didn’t really look so that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one there.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, if there’s nothing else you want to ask me, I do have an appointment in an hour or so and I have some things to attend to first. I’m taking a lady out to lunch, so it’s best bib and tucker!’

  Tim closed his notebook and stood up. ‘That’s all for now, sir, thank you very much. Enjoy your lunch!’

  After a morning spent mowing the lawn and tending the flowers in the garden behind her cottage, Patsy Godwin took a shower and ate her lunch sitting on her patio while admiring the results of her labours. The flower beds were a colourful mass of blooms, the kitchen garden full of rows of plump onions, beans, lettuces and root vegetables, many ready to be harvested. Henry sat beside her, contentedly cleaning himself while keeping a watchful eye on the birds pecking at the seed containers hanging from the branches of an apple tree laden with rosy fruit. Patsy gave a little sigh of content as she finished her cheese salad and put the empty plate on a low table at her side. The air was warm and still; bees buzzed among the flowers; Henry jumped on to her lap and she idly caressed him for a few moments until her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep.

  She was awakened by the sound of a car pulling up outside her cottage. Moments later the bell rang. She sat up in surprise. ‘Now who could that be, I wonder?’ she said aloud. ‘Better go and see, I suppose.’ She stood up, spilling Henry unceremoniously to the ground. She went to the front door and gave a little gasp of surprise and delight.

  ‘Katy!’ she exclaimed, giving her cousin a hug. ‘How lovely to see you – but why didn’t you let me know you were coming this way? We could have had lunch together. New car?’ she added, glancing over Kate’s shoulder at the red Audi parked outside her gate.

  ‘No, that’s not mine, it’s . . . that is . . . John Yardley . . . one of my neighbours. I think I mentioned him the day you came to visit me?’

  ‘The day of the murder?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Anyway, he invited me out to lunch and we went to that pub near where I used to live. He knows this part quite well and he suggested coming back this way and I said I happened to have a cousin living nearby and I thought maybe—’ Kate broke off in evident embarrassment. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. Bring him in for a cup of tea.’

  Kate hurried back to the car and returned with a distinguished-looking man whom Patsy judged to be in his early sixties. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ he said as he took the hand she held out in welcome. ‘Kate has told me what good friends you two are, and what a comfort you’ve been over that dreadful murder.’

  ‘Yes, it did shake her up pretty badly,’ said Patsy. ‘Anyway, do come in. I was dozing in the garden – perhaps you’d like to sit out there and have a cup of tea?’ She led the way through the cottage on to the patio and pulled up some chairs. ‘Do sit down.’

  Henry was crouching near the apple tree, evidently in the hope that an unwary bird would flutter to the ground in search of a fallen nut. At the sound of voices he came to investigate and Kate called him by name. He came running across the grass to greet her; she stooped to stroke him and he rubbed against her legs, purring loudly in appreciation. ‘Patsy will tell you that Henry is the most intelligent cat in the world,’ said Kate. ‘She believes he practically reads her mind!’ she added with an indulgent smile.

  ‘He certainly seemed to recognize your voice,’ said John. He bent down and tickled one of Henry’s ears. The cat stopped purring and backed away, staring up at the newcomer for a few moments without moving. Then he ostentatiously turned round and stalked away. ‘He obviously doesn’t think much of me!’ said John with a chuckle.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing personal,’ said Kate. ‘He’s just not used to men.’

  TWELVE

  It was nearly six o’clock and the team had just finished filing reports on their various assignments when DS Rathbone entered the office. ‘If you’re thinking about going home, forget it,’ he said briskly. ‘DCI Leach wants us all in his office right away.

  The summons came as no surprise. Over mugs of tea and coffee on their return to headquarters the team had been exchanging significant pieces of information they had gleaned from their various witnesses. All had a feeling that, while many questions remained unanswered – including the obvious one, the identity of the murderer – even the most trivial of observations would eventually prove to form part of the overall picture. ‘It’s like working on a jigsaw puzzle,’ Tim Pringle had commented, to nods of agreement all round. ‘Now and again you pick up a pie
ce that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere, almost as if it belongs to another puzzle and has somehow got into the wrong box. Then you suddenly see its connection with another piece that you haven’t noticed before.’

  ‘Right, troops,’ said Leach when everyone was settled. ‘There are several things to talk about, but first I want to give you the latest report from the CSIs. First of all, they’ve tested the murder weapon for fingerprints. The only ones they found on the handle were Ellerman’s, and there were smudges consistent with it having been used in a stabbing action. It’s his knife, of course, so that in itself isn’t conclusive although the fact that there are no other prints does strengthen our case against him. However, there could be another explanation for the smudges that he’d be sure to throw up straight away.’

  ‘You mean, sir, he could claim that the killer, having stolen his knife, wore gloves when using it?’ Rathbone suggested.

  ‘Exactly, Greg. Now, in one of the bins for recycling glass they’ve found a quantity of bottles with Fenella’s prints on them, which confirms a comment made by one of her neighbours that she was “a bit of a lush”. It also explains why she disposed of them at a time when she imagined she’d be unobserved. Nothing new there, but more significantly, the CSIs found traces of blood on the front of the bin, which DNA tests show to be hers. Doc Hanley has already pointed out that as no major artery was severed most of the bleeding was internal; a small quantity had drained down on to the clothing but there were only minute traces on the black plastic bag she was found lying on. However –’ at this point Leach leaned back and ran his gaze round his team, who were hanging on every word – ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what this means.’

  ‘She was stabbed while she was feeding the bottles through the lid of the bin,’ said Mike.

  ‘And the noise of breaking glass would have prevented her from hearing the killer approach,’ added Penny.