Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  ‘Your usual, Chief Inspector? Two granary loaves and a jar of bolognaise sauce?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Antonio,’ said Maguire.

  Antonio was small and dark, and looked to be of authentic Italian extraction. He was also bright and breezy and Lizzie guessed he was a gossip. ‘I’ve heard you’re involved in a bit of excitement,’ he said, putting the loaves into brown paper bags.

  ‘If you can call death exciting.’ Maguire sounded morose.

  Antonio rattled on happily, oblivious to the other man’s mood. ‘Danny Bayley was in here this morning. He always comes in on a Saturday to pick up his three P’s for the week: pizza, pesto and pasta, that’s his regular order, every week. That will be three pounds and ten pence, please.’ Antonio tapped out the amount on the till and held out his hand. ‘He told me that Darren Evans had been murdered. Fancy that, a murder, here in Stibbington. You’d never think it, would you? It’s such a quiet place. Everyone so respectable. I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘It’s not the first murder here, nor will it be the last.’ Lizzie listened more carefully. So he had decided it was murder. Or rather it had been proved to him that it was murder. The police were like the medical profession in that respect. They always wanted proof before committing themselves. A fact which Lizzie often found exasperating; she believed in intuition as well as hard evidence. Maguire handed over his switch card. ‘Could you give me twenty pounds cash back, please, the cash point isn’t working.’ Antonio obliged and Maguire pocketed the money. ‘And for your information,’ he continued, ‘respectability and murder often go hand in hand. Although no doubt Danny Bayley will totally misreport it and the Stibbington Times will have some stupid lurid headline.’

  Antonio took a practical viewpoint. ‘Of course it will. He’s in the business of selling newspapers, and he’s got to say something different from the TV people. It was on the TV early morning news this morning, but only a brief mention. Did you see it?’

  ‘No,’ said Maguire.

  ‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’

  Maguire made no reply and turned to leave. Lizzie was unsurprised at his silence. No policeman worth his salt was going to bandy news about in the local delicatessen. She stood back out of the way to let him pass, and in doing so noticed Mrs Smithson. Partially hidden by a wicker stand, which held an assortment of freshly baked bread and biscuits, she was rummaging amongst the packets of biscuits and had a packet of cantucci in her hand. Idly, Lizzie wondered if Mrs Matthews’s cooking was not as good as she said it was, and maybe the poor woman was hungry and was looking for something to nibble on in the privacy of her room.

  On his way out Maguire saw Lizzie and paused beside her. ‘I need a fuller statement,’ he said quietly. ‘Will it be convenient if I call round this afternoon? At about three?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Lizzie reluctantly. Waste of her time and his, really, as there was nothing more she could tell him. If he’d written everything down yesterday afternoon this further visit wouldn’t be necessary.

  She paid for her purchases and left, noting that Mrs Smithson darted across to the counter, cantucci in hand, the moment she’d gone. Lizzie got the impression that the woman was morbidly inquisitive and had been listening to Maguire’s conversation but had not wanted to be observed.

  Adam had a luncheon appointment with Phineas Merryweather. It was not his idea. Phineas had insisted.

  ‘Look, man,’ he said over the phone. ‘Anyone can see that you’re not eating enough, and I bet you were up half the night on the Darren Evans case. Lose any more weight and you’ll have a breakdown or be a walking cadaver. Meet me at the Royal Oak in Sewley Village. They do a wonderful venison steak there, and their fries melt in your mouth.’

  Adam weakened at the thought of a good meal and human company rather than a microwaved meal in the company of an aging Labrador. ‘What about your diet? And what about your wife?’

  ‘The diet can wait, and Lucy is visiting her sister in Bournemouth today. She’s left me a cottage cheese salad, which I really don’t fancy. Come on, you can tell me more about what your boys found in that garage, and I can regale you with a few theories of my own. It’ll be a working lunch. But one which will do you good. Meet you at the Oak at about one o’clock – I’ll book a table.’

  Five minutes before the appointed time Adam parked his car in the small gravel car park in front of the Royal Oak, heaved Tess out from the back seat, stood shivering while she found the right bush beneath which to have a pee, and wondered what on earth had possessed him to tell Lizzie Browne he’d visit her when he could just as easily, in fact, far more easily, have asked her to come down to the station. A mixture of emotions buzzed about vaguely at the back of his mind, a desire to banish the antagonism between them, and what else, he thought hard, what else? He didn’t know. Perhaps Phineas was right, he would have a breakdown if he didn’t look after himself.

  The threatened rain still had not come, although the sky was as black as early evening and the outside lights were on. To make it feel even more miserable a cold wind had sprung up. It whistled through the lattice of bare branches, bringing down the last few remaining leaves from the surrounding oak trees. Adam shivered. Two horses, with blankets thrown over their backs, were tied to the wooden fence which ran along one side of the pub. They stared balefully at Adam as he passed them. Something about their unfriendly stare reminded him uncomfortably of Lizzie Browne. She didn’t want to talk to him, and he couldn’t blame her. He could have asked Steve Grayson to go and interview her, but he wanted to do it himself. Next to Mrs Matthews she was first on the scene, and there might be something she saw, something which she subconsciously registered. He needed something, anything, to give him a lead on what appeared, at the moment, to be a senseless killing by a person or persons unknown.

  The Royal Oak was decked inside with holly and dried hops sprayed with golden paint, and interspersed with fairy lights. It reminded Adam that Christmas was only two weeks away.

  Phineas was already there, sitting at a scrubbed wooden table by the open fire perusing the menu. ‘Jolly, isn’t it,’ he said, waving vaguely in the direction of the decorations. ‘I love Christmas. It’s the one time in the year Lucy doesn’t try to stop me eating.’

  ‘Good God, Phineas, can’t you ever think of anything but your stomach?’ Adam sat himself on an upturned beer barrel, which served as a seat, and stretched out his chilled hands towards the fire. He kicked the log over with his foot, shooting a spray of sparks flying up the wide chimney. The log began to flame.

  Phineas passed over the menu and looked quizzically at Adam. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘With any luck I’ll be working. Another interesting case, I hope.’

  ‘You can come to us if you like. Lucy always cooks enough to feed a regiment. My two daughters and their husbands and children are coming so it will be pretty noisy, but you are very welcome.’

  ‘Thanks, Phineas, I’d like to, but it all depends on work.’

  It was a lie. He had no intention of going. Never had a family Christmas in his life. At least not the sort of Christmas Phineas was talking about. As an only child his Christmases had been quiet. Years later, with Rosemary they’d been quiet too, no children to rush around making a noise. Now he hated the false jollity and commercialization of the season. Now Christmas started in October and worked its way up to saturation point in the last couple of weeks before the actual day; senses assaulted on every side, radio, TV, High Street shops, blaring out carols and jingles, crammed with games, food, and presents. It all served to remind Adam that he was quite alone in the world. No brothers or sisters, no cousins, not even elderly parents left alive to bother him the way they bothered other people. Christmas made him wonder what the purpose of his life was, just as he was now wondering what purpose Darren Evans had ever had in his life.

  Nobody appeared to care about him. No trace could be found of a single relative; there was nobody to claim the body, a
nd no one was sorry he was no more. A few expressions of shock in Stibbington at his passing, but mostly prurient questions as to the manner of it. But somebody had wanted him dead, or was it the work of some unhinged lunatic and Darren had just been unlucky? Steve Grayson had checked with the mental health authorities, and no one was missing from their care in the community programme, which was just as well. Nothing was guaranteed to get the media and politicians more excited than a mental patient on the loose who then committed a crime. If the escaped patient perished quietly in a hedge somewhere, from cold or starvation, no one was particularly worried, but if they harmed a member of the public that was quite a different matter.

  No, at the moment there were no leads, no motive for the killing, and in a strange way it seemed appropriate to Maguire. No motive for death just as there appeared to be no motive for Darren’s life. There’d be no trace of him once his mortal remains were disposed of. Even snails, thought Maguire, leave an opaque trail when they pass, but it looked as if Darren would leave nothing but questions.

  ‘What is it, Adam?’ Phineas peered across the table, his round, pink face creased with concern.

  Adam shook himself, relinquished the reverie, and came back to the present. ‘Nothing, Phineas. I was just being self-indulgent.’ He looked across at Phineas and marvelled for the umpteenth time at the contradictions in the man. It was difficult not to be affected by Phineas’s concern, and for the first time in more than twenty-four hours Adam felt warmth stealing over him. Enough to warm the cockles of your heart. That was something his mother had always said when something nice happened, and Adam surprised himself by remembering it. He smiled across at Phineas, ‘It’s just Christmas, making me sentimental,’ he said.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Phineas. ‘There’s far too little real sentimentality in the world today. Cynicism is the order of the day.’ Tess turned round in her place in front of the fire, coughed and lay down to toast her other flank, and Phineas returned to the material plane and looked at the menu again. ‘What shall we have? Venison steak, salad, and fries?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘I’ll get it. You stay with the dog.’ Phineas made his way across to the bar where food had to be ordered.

  Adam leaned down and absentmindedly pulled at Tess’s silky ears. ‘What would I do without you, old girl,’ he said softly.

  ‘Excuse me, but may I have a word?’ It was Major Brockett-Smythe. Not a man Adam cared for much. Uninvited, he plonked himself down on the seat just vacated by Phineas. He came straight to the point. ‘Is it true, the rumour circulating in Stibbington this morning, that Darren Evans is dead?’

  Why should he, Major Brockett-Smythe, be interested in a dropout like Darren Evans? Adam stopped pulling the dog’s ears, outwardly still relaxed, but imperceptibly tensed, and alert. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said the Major.

  ‘The answer is yes.’

  ‘Accident or murder?’

  ‘Murder, I’m afraid,’ said Adam. ‘And you haven’t answered my question. Did you know him?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  Adam leaned forward. ‘And what exactly does that mean?’

  Major Brockett-Smythe gestured behind him, and his wife, a small, timid-looking woman darted forward like an obedient whippet. ‘It’s true, my dear,’ he said. ‘Darren is dead. Been murdered, according to Detective Maguire here.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maguire,’ said Adam. Old Brockett-Smythe always insisted on being called ‘Major’, so why the hell couldn’t he address him by his correct title? He fixed them both with a stern stare. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me what Darren Evans’s death has got to do with you.’

  ‘Oh, he used to come, he used to . . . ’ Mrs Brockett-Smythe petered into silence beneath her husband’s gaze.

  ‘He use to come on a regular basis and do the garden for us,’ interrupted the major.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. Do the garden,’ echoed his wife.

  Adam didn’t believe a word. They were lying. A less convincing couple would have been hard to find. ‘Really! I wasn’t aware that Darren Evans did any work. He hardly looked strong enough.’

  ‘But he was wiry, looks can be deceptive,’ said the major quickly. ‘He was very helpful to us, not that we asked him to do anything difficult, you understand. He just kept things tidy. When you get to our age it’s difficult to manage on your own, and every little helps. And now that Melinda is ill we don’t have that much time.’

  ‘Of course.’ Adam remembered hearing talk that they had a daughter who had a mental illness of some kind.

  Major Brockett-Smythe stood up. His wife flitted nervously to his side and held his hand. Almost as if I was going to attack her, thought Maguire; the woman’s a nervous wreck. The major coughed, then said quickly, ‘If no one comes forward to claim Darren, you know, arrange for his funeral etc., Mary and I will be glad to do it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. But the state usually sees to things in cases like this.’

  ‘We’d like to do it. Wouldn’t we, Mary?’ he turned to his wife, who nodded violently. ‘Darren was very good to us.’

  ‘Very,’ said the timid little woman. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do without him.’

  ‘Then I’ll make certain the appropriate authorities know,’ said Adam. There was something bizarre about Major and Mrs Brockett-Smythe having a connection with Darren Evans. Something that needed further investigation. ‘I’ll need to call on you. Just routine inquiries. The last time Darren did any gardening for you, if he came regularly. You know, that sort of thing.’

  It seemed to Maguire that they both took a mental step backwards in fear, although perhaps that was his own heightened senses. Then the major said, ‘No we don’t know. We’ve never been involved in a murder case before.’

  ‘You’re not exactly involved now. But you must understand that I need to take statements from everyone who knew the deceased. As I said, it’s just routine, nothing to worry about.’

  The major’s normal bluff pomposity returned. ‘Of course,’ he said brusquely. ‘But please ring Brockett Hall before you come to make certain it’s convenient.’

  Shepherding his wife before him he left just as Phineas returned. ‘I’ve got us a pint of bitter each. Not on duty, I hope.’ He took a sip. Adam shook his head and reached for his glass. Phineas stared after the departing couple. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Among other things to pay for the funeral of Darren Evans.’

  Phineas snorted into the froth on the top of his beer. ‘Curiouser and curiouser as Alice said to the . . . who did she say it to?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Adam. ‘You’re the intellectual one, not me. But it is odd. They said he did the garden for them.’

  Phineas raised his eyebrows. ‘One thing that boy did not have, and that was a gardener’s hands. Soft as any woman’s they were; the heaviest thing he’d picked up recently was a syringe.’

  Adam mused out loud. ‘What on earth can they have to do with the murder victim?’

  ‘Murder?’ Phineas put his glass down on the table and looked serious. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Adam. I didn’t put that in my report. I merely said that the skull was too badly shattered to be able to tell for certain. I only said that it might have been caused by a bullet. But that cannot be confirmed by the evidence; there wasn’t enough skin left to do a proper test for gunshot wounds. The head might as well have been put in a liquidizer.’

  ‘It’s murder all right, Phineas. I should have told you, but I’m surprised you don’t know. Everyone else in Stibbington seems to. The forensic boys picked out a bullet from the garage wall covered in Darren’s blood. A nine-millimetre hand gun was the weapon.’ Phineas whistled. ‘Now,’ said Adam, ‘all I’ve got to do is to find out why on earth anyone would want to shoot a loner like Darren Evans. It’s not as if he meant anything to anyone, apart from the Brockett-Smythes.’

  ‘And
they’re hardly likely to shoot him for doing a bad job of the garden,’ said Phineas. ‘Although I have my doubts about the gardening bit, in view of his lily-white hands.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Adam thoughtfully. ‘The Brockett-Smythes need a bit of investigation. Although I can’t see either of them as murderers. That would be a bit extreme.’

  ‘But Darren had obviously annoyed someone,’ said Phineas. ‘Enough to get himself killed. Ah! The steaks.’

  Melanie, the landlord’s daughter placed two steaming plates on the table. ‘I’m just back to the kitchen for the fries and some more redcurrant sauce,’ she said.

  Tess sat up and nudged Adam’s knee with her nose. ‘Well, maybe just a small piece,’ said Adam to the slavering dog. ‘Too much will play havoc with your digestive system.’

  ‘Don’t forget that extra portion of fries I ordered,’ Phineas called after Melanie. She gave him the thumbs up sign and disappeared into the kitchen. He turned to Adam. ‘Stop talking to that dog as if she’s human,’ he ordered, ‘and tell me what you know about Darren Evans.’

  ‘Precious little at the moment,’ answered Maguire.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tarquin Girling presented himself for duty at Lizzie’s cottage early Saturday afternoon. He was tall, very thin – to the point of looking anorexic – pale, with faded blue eyes which peered at the world from behind trendy round, gold-rimmed glasses. At least, thought Lizzie, they would have been trendy on almost anyone else, but they did absolutely nothing for Tarquin. He was clad in rather grubby jeans and a torn leather bomber jacket, neither of which could disguise his thinness, and Lizzie wondered about his physical capability of actually doing any gardening let alone taming the jungle which surrounded Silver Cottage. However, it was his hair which really caught her attention. A glowing mane of reddish gold, it was clean, shiny, and quite beautiful. It was the colour most women would kill for, and it most certainly did not come from a bottle. It hung almost to his waist, and that afternoon was tied back loosely with a piece of string into a pony tail. The beautiful hair seemed at odds with the rest of him.