Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good. My daughter’s coming down to Stibbington tomorrow for a few days. It will be her first visit and I’d prefer us not to be hedged in by police tape and large policemen.’

  She’d been wondering how to explain the police presence to Louise. She now decided that if they’d finished and were gone before Louise arrived, she’d not mention the murder. At least, not at first; no need to worry her unnecessarily.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Joan Walsh slid the silver drop earrings into place and screwed on the butterfly backs. She looked at her husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was in a bad mood. Nothing new there. She needed to go shopping to prepare for Niall and Christina’s Christmas visit. He wanted to play golf, but the course was waterlogged so it was closed. Now he had no excuse to refuse to give her a lift to the supermarket.

  But Geoffrey Walsh was impatient. ‘Hurry up, woman, for God’s sake. The shops will be crowded and you know I hate crowds.’

  Joan rammed a hat on her head, but said nothing as she followed him out to the car. She took one last fleeting glance at her reflection in the hall mirror as they left their small apartment. A faded woman, with no distinguishing features at all. I’m weak, she thought miserably.

  If only they had stayed away from Stibbington. When Geoffrey had decided that they should leave after the accident, it was the one thing with which she was in wholehearted agreement. But then he changed his mind and they came back, and now old ghosts had returned to haunt her. Long suppressed memories were beginning to intrude upon her consciousness ever more frequently, reminding her that she could have broken free when the tragedy happened. But she’d missed that opportunity.

  She thought about Niall and Christina. She and Geoffrey should be going to London and staying with Niall and his family for Christmas. But, as usual, Geoffrey’s will had prevailed, and they were coming to Stibbington. Sometimes Joan wondered if he took a sadistic pleasure in tormenting his son.

  Now she prayed. Let it be a happy Christmas, and don’t let Niall be upset by coming back, and don’t let him meet any of his old friends again.

  ‘We shall need to get something for today’s lunch,’ she said once they were outside. ‘I spoke to Christina yesterday; they’re coming to us for a lunchtime sandwich before checking into The House on the Hard, and then coming back for supper tonight.’

  To her surprise Geoffrey’s mood changed; he seemed quite jovial. ‘Let’s cancel the supermarket for today,’ he suggested. ‘Let’s go to the farm shop at the end of Deer Leap Lane. Get some of that nice ham on the bone, some fresh bread, and their home-made pickles. Nothing like a good ploughman’s for lunch, I always say.’

  Joan would much rather have not gone to Deer Leap Lane, but said nothing as they drove down the High Street, along which the Christmas lights had been switched on. All the shops had Christmas trees outside; the whole scene was festive, and Joan began to relax. Perhaps Christmas wouldn’t be so bad after all. Niall would be with them all the time. After all, he had his wife and baby Tom to think about; he wouldn’t dwell on the past.

  At the bottom of the High Street they turned left onto a small cobbled lane leading to the quayside and harbour, then followed a wide road with ships’ chandlers lining each side. Now in winter Stibbington was quiet, but in summer it was thronged with sailors of all nationalities from the marina in the River Stib. Row after row of serried masts stretched out as far as the eye could see, jostling for space in the sheltered waters of the Stib, until the salt marshes stopped their progress, and after that the waters of the Solent swelled across towards the Isle of Wight and the jagged rocks of The Needles.

  Deer Leap Lane, small and narrow, led away from Stibbington, upwards towards higher ground, a mixture of farmland and forest. There were few houses, but both knew the road well. Joan glanced sideways at her husband. They were near. She knew she’d hardly be able to bring herself to look at Silver Cottage, where she’d known both happiness and misery. What was he thinking? Did he care? Suddenly she heard a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Good God,’ said Geoffrey.

  Silver Cottage was now right in front of them; fenced off with the distinctive blue and white plastic tape of the police. A police car and two policemen were standing at the gate. Geoffrey drew the car drew to a halt opposite the policemen.

  Joan wound down her window. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  One of the policemen bent down and leaned on the car windowsill. ‘No, madam.’

  ‘What is it then?’ Geoffrey leaned across. ‘Something must have happened.’

  The policeman looked at his watch. ‘Nearly time for the news on Radio Solent,’ he said. ‘Officially, I can’t tell you, but if you listen I think you’ll find out.’

  Without a word Joan reached forward and turned on the radio. The announcer was still on the local weather forecast; more rain and high winds. Then the news started. ‘The body found in the fire at a cottage near Stibbington has now been identified as that of Tarquin Girling, a local man. The police are treating the death as suspicious.’

  With a sudden movement Geoffrey switched off the radio, but apart from that abrupt motion, and a twitching muscle in the side of his cheek, Joan noticed that he showed no emotion. For herself, she felt like weeping. Although she hadn’t seen Tarquin for years, she’d always felt guilty about leaving him to fend for himself when they’d moved away after the accident. And now in a strange way she felt relieved. At least Niall wouldn’t be meeting him.

  She glanced sideways. What, if anything, would Geoffrey say? But he remained expressionless as he started the car, put it in gear and drove on towards the farm shop with his usual careful precision. Not a word was said.

  Emmy Matthews hurried to the supermarket which was situated halfway down the High Street. She was going to buy extra bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms for the Walsh family, who were arriving later on in the day. She might even buy some black pudding to fry up at tomorrow’s breakfast, Mrs Smithson had confessed a liking for that, and Emmy wanted to please her.

  The Christmas lights were on and she felt cheerful. In fact, she had been feeling surprisingly cheerful ever since her little tête-à-tête with Mrs Smithson. It was amazing how much more secure she felt now, knowing that there was another, sympathetic, woman living in the house. There might be a murderer lurking about in Stibbington, but she and Mrs Smithson were quite safe. No one would dare to attack the two of them.

  Pushing her trolley down the aisles, to the accompaniment of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, she met Amy Cameron and Freda Smee. ‘Have you heard the news?’ they chorused.

  Emmy said she hadn’t.

  ‘Tarquin Girling has been murdered now.’ Freda imparted the news with relish. ‘I always said no good would come to that boy. His mother was no better than she should have been, and besides, it wasn’t natural having all that hair hanging down his back. I knew something like this would happen.’

  Amy Cameron was more pragmatic. ‘Don’t talk such rubbish, Freda. The boy was shot by the same gun as the one which killed Darren Evans. I know that because my girl Melanie works in the offices of the Stibbington Times, and she told me. Danny Bayley, the editor, is furious that it’s happened today, because he won’t get a chance to get it in his paper until the paper comes out on Saturday. By then it’ll be old news. Unless,’ she added, ‘the killer strikes again and there’s another body. Which, of course, is a possibility,’ she said, adding, ‘apparently Danny Bayley has a theory. He thinks there’s a serial killer loose in Stibbington.’

  Emmy shivered, and was even more glad she had company in her lonely house. ‘Newspaper talk,’ she said briskly, trying to convince herself.

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Amy, and changed the subject. ‘What are you doing shopping here on a Tuesday morning, Emmy? It’s not your usual day.’

  ‘I need more provisions, but not enough to warrant going to the Cash and Carry in Southampton, so I came here. I’ve got Niall Walsh, hi
s wife, and their baby son coming to stay. They’re with me from today until after Christmas. Only bed and breakfast. Geoffrey Walsh and his wife haven’t got room for them in their new flat down by the quay, you see.’

  ‘Niall Walsh,’ said Freda slowly. ‘Wasn’t he friendly with Tarquin Girling?’

  ‘And Darren Evans.’ Amy screwed her face up trying to remember. ‘Yes, and the Brockett-Smythe’s daughter, Melinda. Of course, that was before—’ She broke of suddenly, and looked guilty. ‘Hello Mrs Brockett-Smythe. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Cameron.’ Mrs Brockett-Smythe hurried past, and disappeared down between the aisles of canned vegetables.

  ‘She looks anything but fine to me. Did you see that bruise over her right eye?’ Emmy stared after her. ‘The woman was as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘And who wouldn’t be,’ said Amy. ‘Having to look after a stepdaughter like Melinda would be enough to make anyone pale. As for the bruise, she probably had a tussle with the girl. Apparently she can be quite violent. It must be a terrible strain. And they don’t have any help except Ivy James who goes in twice a week to keep an eye on the daughter while they go out together.’

  ‘Excuse me, ladies.’ A gangly youth, pushing a pallet laden with boxes of long life milk and tins of rice pudding, tried to manoeuvre past.

  Emmy had the prime position on the end, and took the opportunity to escape. ‘Must go, dears. Otherwise my guests will arrive and I’ll still be out. Merry Christmas.’

  She left the other two grid-locked with the youth and the pallet. From the way the trolley wheels were jammed it looked as if they might be there for some time.

  Stephen Walters finally came back to the practice after his stomach bug had run its course.

  ‘And about time too,’ sniffed Tara, passing Lizzie her pile of notes for morning surgery. ‘It’s been terribly hard work for everyone else.’

  Lizzie thought Tara was being rather hard. ‘He couldn’t help being ill,’ she said mildly, flicking through the pile Tara had handed her and noting with a sinking heart that many of her regulars, the incurables, as she privately nicknamed them, were there.

  ‘He was never sick before you arrived.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Do you think he’s allergic to women?’

  ‘Allergic to women doctors more like,’ said Maddy picking up her own pile of notes. ‘Mrs Shearing, please come through,’ she called out to the assembled patients. She turned back to Lizzie. ‘I’m not one to gossip, but watch your back where Stephen’s concerned. He’ll offload as much as he can on to you because you’re a woman, and hope that you will break under the strain and throw in the towel.’

  Lizzie frowned. ‘Why should he do that? He appointed me, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Wrong. He was outvoted. He wanted a young male colleague.’

  ‘Not a middle-aged has-been,’ said Tara.

  ‘Tara!’ Maddy went bright red with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m only repeating what Stephen said.’ Tara started blushing too.

  Maddy began retreating towards her clinic room. ‘Sometimes, Tara, it is better to keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘Oh dear. Dr Browne. Lizzie.’ Tara’s confusion was complete. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that I think that you are middle aged . . . or a has-been. I think that you are just—’

  ‘I know. Don’t tell me. You think that I am just old!’ Lizzie swept from the room behind reception into her own private consulting room, and threw the notes down on the table. Bound together as they were with an elastic band they were heavy and landed with a resounding thump.

  Dick Jamieson’s voice crackled on the intercom. ‘What’s going on in there? You okay, Lizzie?’

  Lizzie flicked the reply switch. ‘Are you free for a moment, Dick?’

  ‘I haven’t started yet. Come in.’ Dick’s genial voice boomed through the intercom.

  Lizzie burst into the room. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Stephen Walters was against my appointment?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t important; he was outvoted, and accepted defeat gracefully. He may be young, you know, but over some issues he has the mentality of a man twice my age. Peter and I are counting on him going backwards as he gets older.’ Dick looked quizzically at Lizzie. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Tara and Maddy.’

  Dick tutted irritably. ‘Women! They drive me mad sometimes.’

  ‘Not you as well,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Look,’ said Dick firmly. ‘Don’t start getting upset. Stephen is okay but he has rather a lot of troubles at the moment. A huge house and mortgage to pay off; four children and an irresponsible wife with expensive tastes; he never has enough money to go around.’

  ‘Hardly my problem,’ said Lizzie. ‘As a recent divorcee I’m hardly flush with loot myself. If his damned house is too large, he should downsize as I’ve had to do. But anyway, that has nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t want me.’

  ‘It wasn’t you he didn’t want. He didn’t want change. It has nothing to do with you personally,’ said Dick. ‘Believe me. Peter and I wouldn’t have insisted on going ahead with your appointment if we’d thought Stephen’s hostility would be a permanent feature.’

  ‘How about his long period of sickness?’ demanded Lizzie. ‘According to Tara and Maddy that’s never happened before.’

  ‘A mixture of clinical and psychosomatic,’ said Dick firmly. ‘I’m certain it won’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re damned right it won’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’ll go out and prescribe the treatment myself next time he’s sick.’

  Dick grinned. ‘I tell him you’ve offered. I think that fact alone will be enough to keep him well for some time!’

  Reluctantly, Lizzie grinned back. ‘All right. I’ll keep quiet. But I’m warning you. I shall be keeping my eye on him.’

  ‘We all will,’ said Dick.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Melinda Brockett-Smythe slowly unwrapped a cigarette paper from its small red cardboard container. Then she carefully shredded the last of a few brown fibres from the pouch beside it into the paper. It wasn’t easy, but with a deliberate relish she rolled the flimsy paper, licked the edge, and regarded what was now a very knobbly-looking cigarette. Nowadays life was mostly dark and rather frightening, and somewhere in the turbulent recesses of her mind Melinda knew what was happening to her, but was unable to control events. Sometimes, on a good day, she could see her father’s face quite clearly. It was loving and yet distant, as if he were afraid of her. She wanted to reach out and say, ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll never hurt you,’ but when she tried, he shied away from her. So she was always alone. Alone and frightened in her increasingly indistinct world, with no boundaries, no edges, and no one but herself to fight the murky demons devouring her.

  But smoking helped. For a few moments at least it released her from the dark depths into a kinder, softer place where the demons couldn’t get her, and her body was still, sometimes even obeying her commands. Melinda needed to smoke. It was her last tenuous hold on some kind of sanity.

  ‘That’s all finished.’ She indicated the empty pouch. She didn’t look at her companion. ‘Get me some more, as soon as you can.’

  ‘I’m not sure that we can. There might not be any more.’

  ‘No more?’ Something inside of Melinda snapped. ‘No more?’ It was a scream more than words.

  A blackness descended over Melinda obscuring the room and everything in it. She could feel her body spiralling out of control; feel herself sliding down into the dark slime at the bottom of the pit she feared so much. No more! No more! The wordless scream of anguish shattered her head with pain, splitting it into a million tiny pieces. But her eyes could still see her own head on the floor, so many shards of matter, out of reach, out of control. Then, before her horrified gaze each splintered piece assumed a life of its own; tiny black slithering snakes with hissing tongues and pinprick green eyes. They were coming towards her,
and she knew what they wanted to do. They would devour her. But she’d always known this was going to happen and she was prepared. She had a knife ready for just such an emergency.

  Through the darkening mist she could just see her desk on the other side of the room. That’s where the knife was hidden away. That’s where she had to get to. Crawling, falling, stumbling, and screaming all the while, she dragged herself towards the desk.

  ‘Melinda. Melinda. What are you doing?’

  She could hear the words but couldn’t stop to reply. If she did the snakes would get her. With a roar of triumph she got to the desk, wrenched opened the drawer and grasped the knife. Now, she would cut them all into tiny pieces, every single snake, until there was nothing left and she would be safe. Stabbing wildly, she could feel strength, almost a divine power, surge into her arms, and began to laugh. She would win. She knew it. She would win.

  ‘Melinda. Melinda.’

  She heard the voice and in a split second saw herself in the mirror opposite. The knife was not in her hand now, it had been taken away, and someone else had got it. She lunged, grabbing the hand that held the knife, desperate to get it. The knife came up and slid in one single slicing movement across her throat. She felt herself falling. Falling down into the darkness she feared. She tried to scream but no sound came. Then pulsating warmth closed around her. It was peaceful. She let go. There was nothing.

  Melinda lay on her back. Her eyes wide open staring sightlessly at the ceiling. She looked as if she was laughing. The open slit in her throat looked like an obscene grimace, the edges of the gap coruscating with globules of red blood and white droplets of fat. Blood was spilling out on to the floor, an ever-spreading pool of brilliant crimson.

  After a moment or two, the knife was laid down gently beside her. Then the door to the room closed shut.

  All was silent. There would be no more cries in the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rain hurled itself down from clouds so black that it seemed as if it were late evening instead of only midday. And although it was Tuesday the traffic on the motorway was heavy; Niall had hoped it would be lighter if they went down mid-week. But enormous lorries going down to Southampton docks terminal stretched along the motorway as far as the eye could see. The windscreen on the front of Niall’s BMW became thick with mud and water, bringing the visibility down to nil every time they passed one. He was tired, concentration was difficult because of the road conditions, and because Tom was howling loudly. The baby, rebellious at being strapped in his buggy in the back seat, was puce in the face and struggling to get out. ‘Can’t you keep him quiet?’