by Rebecca Tope
‘We’ve argued – passionately at times. We’ve taken breaks from each other. But we never really fell out, no. We made the pact, you see, in 1960. We were eighteen. We all loved the village – villages, I should say. The five villages, we called them. Anyway, we had this ideal of preserving what we loved about this whole area. Very old-fashioned we must have been back then. Country girls, in love with the fields and rivers and hills. We knew the wild flowers and birds and trees. We read Laurie Lee and Thomas Hardy and Agatha Christie. We didn’t hanker for the city life at all. We despised girls who wore make-up and got excited about clothes and pop music. We were above all that.’
Den tried to imagine it, and failed. ‘You were lucky to have each other,’ he realised.
‘Yes!’ She almost applauded him. ‘That’s absolutely right. If there’d only been one of us, it would never have stuck. But three is a powerful number anyway, and we gave each other strength. And it wasn’t really so difficult. We had all enjoyed happy childhoods, with freedom and good schooling and security. We were golden girls. We were really only unusual in realising our good fortune. And, of course, the world just confirmed our opinions, more and more, as time went by. The whole direction that society took was opposite to what we wanted. So it was easy to feel like campaigners and martyrs to the cause. We were lone voices in a great wilderness, and that’s a thrilling feeling.’
‘And now it’s turning back your way,’ he suggested.
‘Well, not really. Or only in small pockets. For most people, the powers of darkness are completely in control. They are ignorant, materialistic, miserable, city-bound morons. But locally – here – we prevailed. We deliberately set out to do what we did, and now, in the year we all reach sixty, we feel we can congratulate ourselves.’
‘Except that there’s been a murder. Possibly two murders,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She plonked the heavy teapot down in front of him, as if suddenly unable to hold it. ‘Yes. And it might have wrecked the whole thing. We might yet find everything we’ve worked for crashing down.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘And we might be too old to build it all back up again.’
Den sipped the tea, and patted one of the dogs that had ambled over to him. There was something enormous in what Hilary Henderson had just told him. Something heroic, almost cosmic. Three women fighting to maintain values and attitudes from the fifties in the face of twenty-first century ways. What did they think about computers, he wondered. And there must be other modern gadgets that would cause them to feel threatened. Probably, though, they would have answers for everything. The crime rate would be due to working mothers, and the typical family’s greed for material possessions. Pollution and levels of waste were due to ignorant and lazy lifestyles, where the connection between the source and the consumption of goods was lost. Institutions failing to provide effective services in terms of health, law enforcement, education, transport – all could be traced, he supposed, to the increased desire to acquire wealth. Everything seemed to come back to that, if you looked at life through Hilary’s spectacles.
Except Hilary didn’t wear spectacles. At sixty she looked to be in her late forties. Good skin, straight back, strong wiry hair. She could obviously see and hear and move as well as she ever could. If she was well-covered with flesh, that seemed to be all part of a general air of well-being.
‘So you don’t know who killed him?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t know who killed him. And I don’t know why. And I don’t know whether it was a friend or a foe.’
Den raised his eyebrows.
‘I mean, someone who thought they were doing us a favour in some way. We do attract a few oddballs, you see. Inevitably, these days, when the only groups who embrace the values we’ve been upholding are young hotheads, very inclined to take the violent path. Direct action, they call it, and in many ways I completely approve of them. But there’s an unpredictable element. Some of them aren’t very stable, or very bright. They don’t think through what they’re doing. Still, they’re probably our best hope, so I wouldn’t dismiss them.’
‘But you think someone like that could have shot Peter?’
‘It’s the only thing I can think,’ she said.
He called in on Detective Inspector Hemsley on his way to collect Maggs from North Staverton, and tried to convey everything he felt was relevant.
‘Ah! Here comes my friendly local informant!’ Danny greeted him jovially. ‘What priceless leads have you brought me?’
Den waited until they were settled into one corner of the Incident Room, with screens on two sides. Then he summarised his day. Hemsley kept an eye on his computer, which seemed to be searching or collating. Hemsley made pencilled notes on a pad in front of him, but on the whole, Den had the impression that he was not producing anything new in his account of his day.
Except for the mention of Mary Thomas’s twin sister Simone. Hemsley narrowed his eyes at that. ‘Let’s see, then,’ he muttered, tapping at his keyboard. ‘What’s her surname, do you know?’
‘Baxter,’ Den said, trying to remain casual.
‘Good. Let’s see then … Hmmm.’ He tapped and waited, tapped again repeatedly at the Down arrow, until the screen produced something of interest. ‘Oh, look! Mrs Simone Baxter, born 1942, Royal Victoria Hospital, Garnstone, original name of Marianne Simone Weston. Conviction in 1994 for riotous behaviour, suspended sentence. Arrested again the next year, but released for lack of evidence. Criminal damage to a grocery outlet. Retained on list of potential troublemakers regarding damage to GM crops, foodstores and similar. Well, there you are!’
Den chewed his lip. ‘Marianne?’ he queried. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd? Calling your twins Marianne and Mary?’
‘People do odd things like that,’ Danny shrugged. ‘And maybe the adopting parents named her, anyway. Can’t see any grounds for concern there, myself.’
‘See if there’s anything for Mary Weston, then. Born the same day and place.’
‘There won’t be. She hasn’t got a record. We already ran a check on her. Like we did on Mrs Beech, and the Henderson woman. And all the other stallholders.’
‘Including Karen?’ Den already knew the answer to that.
‘Including your Karen Slocombe,’ the Inspector confirmed.
* * *
Wearily, Den regaled Maggs with the whole of the day’s events. She listened with impressive attention, prompting him when he seemed to be falling asleep.
‘So you don’t think any of those three did it?’ she summed up when he finally finished.
‘I can’t see it. They all seemed so straight. Very different from each other in most ways, but with this burning mission. You have to admire them.’
‘And what does your friend Danny think?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t think he found me of much use really.’
‘But the best bit is the twins,’ Maggs enthused. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s obviously not true,’ she laughed. ‘There’s no such person as Simone Baxter. Mary Thomas made her up. She’s the one who got picked up for rioting and smashing shop windows. I bet you anything.’
Den shook his head. ‘She’s on Danny’s computer as a separate person,’ he said.
Maggs raised her eyebrows. ‘Is she? I thought you told me there wasn’t anything for Mary?’
Den rubbed the side of his face, long fingers resting on the long cheek. ‘So I did,’ he said. ‘Well – I wonder …’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Drew awoke on the Saturday morning to a small voice in his ear, whispering, ‘Daddy? Daddy! Wake up.’
Frantically, as if electrocuted, he hurled himself out of bed, almost landing on top of his little daughter. ‘What? What?’ he croaked.
Stephanie laughed at him. ‘You fell out of bed,’ she mocked. ‘Silly you.’
He sat on the floor comically for a moment, enjoying her amusement. ‘Why did you wake me up? What time is it?�
��
She gazed at him patiently, without reply.
‘Let’s see. Quarter past eight. Goodness, that’s quite late, isn’t it? Are you hungry?’
‘Timmy is. He’s crying.’ Drew realised there was a background sound of grizzling from the children’s room.
‘We’d better sort him out then,’ Drew said, noticing that now his heart rate was slowing slightly, he seemed to be feeling rather better than he had the previous day. The wakening flood of terror about Karen was yielding to a more normal concern for his children. They had to be fed and dressed and reassured and amused. He had to phone the hospital, and plan the day. And there’d be people phoning him. Karen’s mother was threatening to come and help, which considering she’d only visited them three times in two years was a bit rich. Numerous friends and relations were making persistent offers of various kinds. Responding to them yesterday had been too much, and Maggs had done most of it. Today he felt much more ready to enlist all the support he could find.
Soon all three were dressed and making toast. ‘Is Mummy coming home today?’ Stephanie asked carefully. Drew could see the conflict going on inside her. The need to have an answer fighting with the knowledge that Drew did not like questions about Karen.
‘No, not today,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
Timmy, who the day before had remained remarkably unperturbed by events, now seemed to have realised something was badly wrong. He continued to grizzle, acting like a baby, turning his face away from all offers of food. Although irritated, Drew felt a sort of relief at the normality of the behaviour. ‘Come on, Tim,’ he urged. ‘Be a good boy.’
He knew he should phone the hospital for a report of Karen’s condition. But the fact that they had not phoned him did at least mean she was still alive, and also that no miraculous recovery had taken place. He was in no hurry to hear the flat unemotional phrase, ‘No change’.
The doorbell rang just before nine. Stephanie turned wide eyes towards the hall, and Drew understood how nervous she was, after so many shocks.
‘I wonder who that can be,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Somebody nice, I expect.’
It was, greatly to his surprise, Julie Grafton. The widow whose husband’s funeral he had so utterly abandoned halfway through. The widow who had in the end been forced to oversee the burial herself – and who had done it with total dignity, according to Maggs afterwards.
‘Drew,’ she said, her voice full of feelings, rich with emotion. ‘How are you?’
She looked composed, even strong. Clothes all straight and clean, hair nicely brushed, face free of tears or shadows.
‘I’m just about surviving,’ he said, wishing he could lean his head on her shoulder.
‘Let me come in and give you a hand,’ she ordered. ‘It must be awful for you. Is there any news about Karen?’
‘I haven’t called them yet. They’d have been in touch if there was any change.’
‘I feel terrible about it, you know,’ she said, again surprising him.
‘You do? But why?’
‘Because it seems obvious that she was shot because of Peter. I mean, she has to have known something, seen something, which the killer wanted to stop her from reporting. That is obvious, isn’t it?’
Drew blinked. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘But whoever it is must be ever so clever. How did they hide the gun? How did they manage it, in the middle of a crowd of people, and nobody saw them?’
‘You didn’t see anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I was right behind the coffin. All I could see was my brother-in-law’s back, and Steve, next to him. I had my head bent, mostly, just watching the ground as I walked along. I think probably most people were the same. You do, don’t you? I mean, I’ve never done it before, but I’m sure most people fold their hands in front of them and walk with bowed heads in a funeral procession. At least they don’t stare all around them or watch each other. It’s not the way it’s done.’
She was speaking breathlessly as if pent-up thoughts were tumbling out almost faster than she could voice them.
‘So it seemed to me that the person with the gun must have been right at the back of the line. And we should be able to work out who that was.’
‘Did you say that to the police?’
‘No, no. I hadn’t thought it through at all then. And they weren’t really listening to me, because it was Peter’s funeral. They were very embarrassed, poor things.’
‘Well, who do you think was at the back?’ His flickering attention was caught, if only for a few moments.
‘I have no idea,’ she admitted. ‘Not family. Probably not the Food Chain people. Someone who felt they were only peripheral; there were one or two I didn’t know. Hangers-on, or friends of his that I hadn’t met. But between us you and I could surely come up with a complete list. We’ll have to for the police, anyway.’
‘OK.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll have to think.’
‘I don’t mean now,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve come to see if I can help you with the children. I could stay with them if you wanted to go and see Karen. If you haven’t got somebody already?’
‘Well …’ He stared helplessly at her. ‘They don’t know you. I was thinking, probably Della would have them. They go to her twice a week, you see. They’d feel comfortable with her. Except it’s Saturday, and I think she usually goes off to see her mother or somebody most weekends. The whole family goes. We see them driving past at about midday on Saturdays.’
‘Routines,’ Julie scoffed. ‘Surely they could give it a rest in an emergency like this. But it doesn’t matter – I’m here now. They’ll soon get to know me. I’m good with kids.’
Drew’s natural curiosity flickered into life. ‘You never had any?’
Her smile was twisted. ‘We were trying,’ she said bleakly. ‘Been trying for seven years, on and off. But I was sure it was going to work this summer. I’ve been much more relaxed about it, much healthier and … well, too late for all that now. It’s a relief in a way. I wouldn’t want to bring up a child without Peter there to help.’
‘Well come and talk to them, anyway. I’m not rushing off, if I can help it. Not unless …’
‘Not unless they phone,’ she supplied.
‘You’re being wonderfully kind,’ he blurted. ‘I don’t know what to say. I never expected …’
‘It’s a distraction for me,’ she smiled. ‘Good therapy. But tell me to go away if I’m a nuisance.’
He looked at her, standing patiently waiting for him to assemble his thoughts. Something was too good to be true, some eagerness just below the surface, something close to hunger in her eyes. Mistrust was not a natural feeling for Drew, but he felt it now. Julie Grafton was there for some reason of her own, and he didn’t think it was anything to do with the welfare of the Slocombe children, or Drew himself.
Stephanie came out of the kitchen to where Drew and Julie were still in the hall. ‘Is it somebody nice?’ she asked Drew, as if the visitor couldn’t hear her.
‘It’s Mrs Grafton,’ he told her. Timmy had stopped grizzling, he noticed. ‘Is Timmy OK?’ he asked Stephanie.
She moved her head in an ambiguous half-nod. Drew went to check. ‘Hey, Tim,’ he called. ‘Finished your breakfast, have you?’
The little boy was playing glumly with some toast crusts and ignored his father. Julie squeezed past Drew and went to the child.
‘Tim? Is that your name?’ she asked, squatting down beside him. ‘I’m Julie.’
Drew closed his eyes, trying to settle the thoughts and feelings seething inside him. It was like being in the middle of a howling gale – it scrambled all your thoughts and took away most of your autonomy. He didn’t feel capable of controlling or deciding anything. He was at anybody’s mercy.
Stephanie seemed to be feeling rather the same. She clutched his hand and gave a little tug. ‘Are we going to see Mumm
y?’ she asked.
‘In a little while.’ When he opened his eyes, he seemed unable to look at anything but Julie Grafton. What had she been saying, about the procession and the reason someone had shot Karen? It had all slipped his mind, in the two minutes since she’d uttered it.
He made a great effort. ‘No,’ he said. It sounded very loud in his own ears. ‘No, thanks. I think we’ll all go. Karen might respond when she hears the children’s voices. I think they need to see her.’ The realisation that he’d made a decision drained him of any further energy. He quailed at the thought of driving through the town. But there was no way he could leave his children with this woman.
She gave him a frowning stare of disbelief. ‘But …’ she began.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ he repeated. ‘It’s really kind. But they don’t know you.’ She should understand that this was all-important. Stephanie clutched his hand more tightly, giving him strength.
Of course Julie Grafton couldn’t have shot Karen. But the thought shaped itself in his head unbidden: Well, yes she could. If she’d been walking alone behind the coffin, nobody would have seen if she’d directed a gun, concealed in her clothes somehow, at the garden gate as Karen stood looking over it. Nobody would have watched what she did next, as the coffin was dumped and chaos reigned. And, he admitted to himself, she might quite easily have killed her husband, jealous of his affair with Sally Dabb. Was this why he so suddenly mistrusted her? Why he knew there was no question at all of letting her watch over his children?
His mangled brain was not making rational connections. He wasn’t even trying to follow a logical thread. It was all gut feeling and an all-consuming need to evade any further trauma. He had to keep himself and the kids safe, for Karen’s sake. But there was a thought, nudging away somewhere on the edge. Something to do with Stephanie. He didn’t try to capture it, but it meant he was certainly not going to let the child out of his sight until things settled down again.
And that might be never, he acknowledged miserably to himself.
