Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘No. Well, she thinks somehow they had a reason to believe he was in the area at the relevant time and they wanted to find out if he’d seen anyone — ’

  ‘Oh, come off it. He was nowhere near Miller’s Bridge that night. We’ve gone over his movements ad nauseam, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz said miserably. ‘I must admit, I have wondered why they picked on him.’

  ‘We ought to know, as his family. He should be told. And there’s something else, something you and Helen don’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  Paula made a uncharacteristically helpless gesture. ‘You said, a minute ago, that they haven’t bothered since they got him to make that statement.’

  'Well? Well — they haven’t,’ Liz said almost angrily. ‘They haven’t asked to see him or — or anything.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’

  Paula shrugged, as if agreeing, then shook her head — a silent pantomime that took some time. Eventually, she said, ‘But they’ve been asking questions about him. All over the place.’

  Liz leaned forward, forcing herself not to come up on cue with the reaction Paula’s sense of drama required. And helpless against the knowledge: she’s not acting. This is serious. ‘Just — explain,’ she said slowly.

  She had to wait. Paula stirred her coffee, slowly, held some kind of inward communion. At last she said, ‘All over the place. Questions.’

  ‘Where? Who?’

  ‘Well... ’ Paula thought for some time, brows drawn down. ‘Robert at Midham, for one.’

  ‘Why?’ Liz asked, after waiting for Paula to continue.

  ‘Why?’ Paula made a helpless face. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Let’s start with the easy bit. How do you know?’

  ‘That’s it, you see. Sheer chance.’

  ‘What chance?’

  ‘What? Oh — yes. I drove Charlie and Linette Willis over there the other day, their car’s having its gearbox fixed or something and they want some ideas on garden design when they move — you know they’re getting a house in that new development... ’

  Liz swallowed the urge to yell Sod the Willis’s, gripped her coffee mug and waited.

  ‘... anyway, that was when Robert told me the police had been there, asking all sorts of questions about Reggie. They’d even been to the pubs Reggie and Robert go to. And they talked to that couple who work for Robert.’

  ‘I know,’ Liz interrupted, excited, relieved. ‘Of course. The statement he made — they couldn’t just accept it at face value. They had to check it. Those were all the places he went — you know — that night.’

  But Paula was shaking her head solemnly from side to side. ‘No, you’re not thinking straight. They checked his alibi over a week ago. This is the second time around. Robert was pretty upset. He’s spoken up loyally for Reggie — naturally, it’s what one would do for a friend. The last thing he expected was the police back on his doorstep. After all, Reggie’s a private individual, but Robert is high profile, he has his television image to consider. It won’t do him any good to have all the gossip starting up all over again.’

  ‘Well, that’s more or less guaranteed if you went into all this with the Willis’s drinking in every word. Good God, you know what they are.’

  Paula put up a restraining hand. ‘Liz, you’re so impetuous, wait, listen. Don’t take this as gospel — although as things are it could very well be true.’

  She said nothing more until Liz asked wearily, ‘What could?’

  ‘I’ve heard they’ve been to his office.’

  ‘But — why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think. I think they haven’t a bloody clue what they’re about and they’ll pick on anyone just to look as if they’re getting somewhere. There have been miscarriages of justice. Perfectly innocent people have gone to — ’

  ‘Shut up,’ Liz said savagely. ‘Shut up, Paula.’

  ‘Oh, Liz, I’m sorry — I’m sorry. Don’t be upset. It’s just that I’ve got more experience than you about how rotten the world can be. You have to admit you do have a pretty sheltered life, shut away in your ivory tower without the responsibility of a husband and kids.’ Liz wondered how her personal circumstances had become relevant. Her head felt bludgeoned, she sat very still, threatened by the conviction that everything in this hectic room was about to topple over and submerge her. She had to get out. She had to do something. She had to protect Reggie. And Helen.

  ‘Now you can see,’ Paula said, ‘why I got in a bit of a flap about Reggie going off without telling the police. I’m not at all sure — as they seem to still be carrying on their enquiries — if there’s not some obligation on him to let them know where he is. Or, maybe, Helen should have told them.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Well, you just don’t know how they think. If she appears to be colluding in some way — I mean, of course, she’s not — but she has no idea all this is going on. I mean, if they’re questioning other people, mightn’t they question her — ’

  ‘But they have no reason to.’

  ‘How do we know? How do we know what sort of a case they’re concocting?’

  ‘We’ll find out. I’ll find out. I’m fed up with all this.’ Liz stood up, hoisted her handbag. ‘I’ll bloody well go and ask them.’

  Paula regarded her with astonishment, then admiration. ‘Oh, Liz, I think that’s absolutely the right thing to do.’

  Liz was on the move, wrenching open the side door, flinging herself into the conservatory and colliding with an errant sideboard. With an anxiety so uncharacteristic she appeared to be wringing her hands, Paula followed. ‘Try and calm down, they’ll just browbeat you if you’re upset... And come back afterwards and let me know.’

  ‘Browbeat. Browbeat. No bugger’s going to browbeat me,’ Liz muttered, flailing her way through the obstacle course of the porch.

  Eight

  The weather made her feel worse, setting her teeth on edge. A theatrical day, lowering banks of cloud splitting open in purple rimmed glares of sunlight. In the centre of town she drove round the church green to the frenzy of Saturday morning wedding bells. The glittering light fled, rain came down in a curtain, she almost skidded on a drift of sodden leaves.

  By the time she reached the police station the downpour was over; she skipped shining puddles, rushing gutters. Somewhere inside her head a voice said I must calm down. She didn’t listen to it but she did manage to stop herself grabbing the first person she came upon in the entrance hall of the police station — a uniformed constable much shorter that herself. ‘This is where you have the incident room, isn’t it? The Miller’s Bridge business. I insist on seeing someone in authority. Don’t tell me no one's available, I won’t go away till I see someone.’

  ‘I think I’ll do,’ a voice said pleasantly behind her. Registering only that the man was big enough to fill the doorway in which he stood, Liz strode past him into an office. He followed. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Hunter. Please sit down.’

  ‘My uncle, Reggie Willoughby. She spoke unthinkingly. Of course, Reggie and Helen were not her uncle and aunt, but that was what she had called them from childhood, had to school herself to stop doing it. In absent-minded or — in this case — fraught moments, she jettisoned accuracy.

  ‘Yes?’

  What sort of a life did anyone live who could use a single word like a brick wall? ‘You know perfectly well why I’m here. You’re victimising him. You owe it to his family to explain why, without the slightest reason, you contacted him in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t have to explain anything to you,’ Hunter said politely. ‘I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I just told you,’ Liz almost shouted.

  ‘I know what you’ve told me, but how do I know it’s true? You could be anyone. A reporter after information. A nosey neighbour. A deranged woman who makes a habit of hurling herself into police stations. You could be — ’

  ‘Oh, all right — ’ Liz upend
ed her handbag, scattering its contents over the desk. ‘Look — here Look, a letter from my bank.’

  Hunter studied it. ‘Yes. It tells me you’re Elizabeth Farrell and you live at 42 Bellfield. It doesn’t tell me you’re related to Reggie Willoughby.’

  ‘What? Oh... ’ Liz opened her wallet. Credit cards, library ticket, RAC membership... Confirmation of identity, not relationship. She hunted, feeling stupid. ‘No. I see. I don’t think there’s anything here, um... ’

  ‘Or here. Interesting as it all is,’ Hunter said, studying his littered desk.

  Oh, God. She swept everything back into her bag. She daren’t look. Tampax. Condoms. Oh, God. ‘Look, you’ll just have to take my word for now — you can check up as much as you like later. I suppose this is your technique for getting rid of me. Well, I’m not going. You can push Reggie around because he’s too weak to stand up for himself — ’

  ‘Why should I want to?’

  ‘Don’t ask me! I came here for some answers and all you do is sit there and ask questions, you cool bastard.’ She heard the last three words suddenly, outside her head, as if someone else had shouted them. She gulped. ‘I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have said that, it was unpardonably rude.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, we’re used to being insulted by members of the public.’

  ‘I deserve that. I’m making an awful mess of this, aren’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know. How do you usually go about things?’

  A visible effort at calm. ‘I have to make you understand what a nightmare this is for my uncle and aunt. And it goes on. It was bad enough to question him in the first place. Now you’ve questioned his friends, and people he scarcely knows. You’ve even been to his office.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  A rapid mental backtrack. Paula saying Don't take this as gospel. But wasn’t that bad enough, for God’s sake. Rumours everywhere. ‘Can you imagine how humiliating that is for him. Policemen marching in — ’

  ‘Miss Farrell, my team are professionals, they don’t march anywhere drawing attention to people and embarrassing them. How do you know they went to his office?’

  She began to have a feeling of menace, untraceable to anything in his attitude. Where did it come from then? Could he influence the air around him? What had Paula said about being browbeaten? Paula had to be bloody right again. ‘You don’t deny it — ’

  ‘I have no reason to. I have every reason to be discreet. Detective Sergeant Collier and Woman Police Constable Jones called at your uncle’s office. If you wish, I’ll introduce you to them and they’ll tell you how they conducted the interview. They revealed their professional status to Mr Willougby’s superior — let’s see, what’s his name? Mr Darrow. To Mr Darrow and no one else, explained that it was necessary for them to fill in some background details on Mr Willoughby in order to eliminate him from their enquiries. Nothing they did could have given rise to gossip or speculation about their visit. So. Where did you hear of it?’

  ‘Um. Paula — Reggie’s younger sister — ’

  ‘That’s not the one he lives with?’

  ‘No, that’s Helen... ’

  While Liz briefly explained Paula, Hunter studied her. She was looking increasingly unhappy — not merely because she’d made a fool of herself but because — yes — she was genuinely distressed. The sun dazzled through the office window, making her blink. Her eyes were hazel, with splinters of gold. She wore a fringed jacket of supple leather, the colour of antique parchment; an apricot silk shirt. Her short hair had the shallowest of waves, corn-bright. He thought he had never seen a woman so — golden. ‘And where did Mrs Pilling get her information?’

  ‘Gossip, not information. She hears everything. I’m pretty sure I can guess how it started.’ Liz had had time to think. ‘Darrow — Reggie’s boss. He’s a spiteful old woman, loves a scandal. He wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet. I apologise again. Look, could we pretend I’ve just come in?’

  Somewhere, an amused response. She had never encountered anyone who invited confidence and remained so inscrutable. Perhaps it was part of police training.

  ‘How is it Mrs Pilling hears everything and you don’t? Don’t you gossip, Miss Farrell?’

  ‘Like blazes, given the chance. It’s just that most of the time I’m not around to hear anything... ’ She told him about her job, her weekly commuting.

  ‘So you only see your aunt and uncle at weekends?’

  ‘Yes. But we’ve always been very close.’

  He looked at her consideringly. ‘That’s why you’re here. You want to protect them. Aren’t they capable of protecting themselves?’

  ‘No, you see — that’s it. They’re not. They live in their own world, where everything’s gentle and polite and beautifully ordered — the way it was thirty years ago. Look — this isn’t fair — I’ve told you about me and Paula and — Reggie’s boss — and everything. You haven’t told me a single thing.’

  He gave a slight smile, charming, easy; leaned forward. ‘Does the name Beattie Booth mean anything to you?’

  The question took her by surprise. She sat thoughtfully, then shook her head. After a momentary pause her expression registered. ‘Oh... Is that... Was that... You’ve found out who she was, that poor woman.’

  ‘Yes. She lived in Chatfield’ — he doubted the name Causeway would mean anything to her ‘in one of the tower blocks.’ She sat for a while, politely at a loss. ‘Has your uncle ever mentioned her to you — have you heard him speak of her to anyone else?’

  ‘No, never. I don’t mean to be... Well, her description... And she lived in Chatfield. Reggie just doesn’t know anyone like that.’

  ‘Can you be sure? He goes to Chatfield from time to time, doesn’t he? Whereabouts?’

  She thought. ‘The Conservative Club. One or two night clubs where he can gamble a little with his friends — they think they’re terribly laddish but it’s all completely harmless.’

  ‘Which clubs?’

  ‘The Manhattan. Merlin’s Place.’

  He nodded with mild interest. It never occurred to her he was taking notes inside his head. ‘Where else?’

  She appeared to be about to ask Does it matter? but changed her mind. ‘Mmm. Sometimes he takes Helen — or a party of them go — to the theatre. Greyhound racing — I went with him once, it was rather fun. Shopping, but only very occasionally. They have an account at Barker’s but they prefer to go to Chester.’

  ‘You see. Think about this. There are women who take tickets at doors. Barmaids, waitresses; women who show people to seats, serve in kiosks, sell cigarettes and papers in newsagents. You dismissed it out of hand, the idea he could even have met her. But it isn’t impossible, is it?’

  ‘No. I see what you mean. But... met. That’s not knowing, is it? In the sense of a friendship, a relationship. I understand what you’re getting at but, really — ’ her voice had a delicately scathing edge. ‘Do you mean you tied Reggie into this on the basis of — of usherettes? Shop assistants he might have come across? Wouldn’t you say that was rather tenuous?’

  ‘Those were possibilities we had to consider after the phone call.’

  ‘Phone call?’

  ‘Immediately after the announcement of the discovery of the body, we received an anonymous phone call connecting your uncle with the incident.’

  He watched her eyes cloud. ‘But that’s... You mean actually accusing him? What did they say?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. Only that the caller gave us your uncle’s name and said he lived in Hambling.’

  'But you know — now — don’t you? He couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He was nowhere near Miller’s Bridge that night.’

  ‘True. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t known to him. We had to pursue it.’

  ‘But couldn’t you have started the other way round, so to speak. I mean, you can trace calls, can’t you?’

  ‘Only if the station has the facility to record them. Chatfield d
oesn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Did you tell Reggie about it?’

  ‘No. We weren’t obliged to. Do you think it would have made any difference?’

  She thought only for an instant. ‘No. It wouldn’t, he’d have been even more devastated. Helen doesn’t have to know, does she? There’s nothing to be gained by telling her. I won’t. And I’m certainly not going to tell Paula. She’d love something like that, insist on talking it over to “clear the air”.’

  ‘Mightn’t there be some sense in that? Miss Willoughby is closest to her brother, she might know if someone has a grudge against him. It’s not unknown for people to have enemies.’

  ‘Well, in Reggie’s case that hardly applies. He really doesn’t have a character strong enough to provoke anything more than mild irritation.’

  Hunter raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Look — he’s generous and kind and sweet natured. I love him, but I’m not blind to his faults. He can be maddeningly dense. Just not getting the point. When — ’

  She had almost said it. Almost. Because she was ill at ease, had made a fool of herself, felt awkward about being rude.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, um — ’ The meetings at her house. Some silliness. Nothing, nothing to do with the dead woman. No one’s business except hers and Reggie’s. ‘Well... when he was questioned, for instance. He couldn’t see how he was making things worse for himself... ’

  No. Her eyes refusing to meet his, the sudden tension in her body. No, that was not what she had been about to say. ‘Miss Farrell, if you know anything — ’

  — and it was already all over. That Thursday night, he’d had no date with Ms Whoever. He’d been at the other side of Cheshire. ‘What could I possibly know? That poor woman means nothing to me, I’d never even heard her name till ten minutes ago. I can assure you, positively, that Reggie never mentioned her. Why should he? I’m convinced he never even knew of her existence. Goodness, is that the time? I must dash.’ She stood up, gracefully precipitant, handbag on her shoulder.