by Angela Arney
Large spots of rain began to splatter down, the prelude to a downpour, and Lizzie started to move towards the pub. She’d reached the door, which was on to the road leading along the foreshore, when she heard a motorbike. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in fear. Maybe it was her overwrought imagination, because it didn’t seem like any old motorbike; it had a distinctive low rumble. It was the same sound she’d heard on the afternoon of Darren’s murder, the night of her first visit to the Hargreaves’ house, and in the lane the night Tarquin had died. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot in fear, then common sense prevailed. Motorbike engines were all the same; her imagination was just running riot. But nevertheless she stayed where she was in the shelter of the doorway and watched the black leather-clad figure ride past. The sound puttered into silence as the bike and its rider disappeared round the bend on the foreshore past the marina and was lost to view. Lizzie went into the warmth of the bar and stood as near to the open log fire as possible.
Louise came over. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ she said. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m freezing,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s turned bitterly cold again, and I wish I’d ordered something stronger than orange juice now.’
‘You’re driving, remember,’ said Louise, and handed her the drink. ‘You’ve got to keep a clear head.’
‘Too true.’
Lizzie thought of her planned detective work. The answer was in that newspaper cutting, she felt certain of it. But there was more to it than that, and hopefully Mrs Mills would provide some of the answers. Finding Giles Lessing was the first priority. Lizzie wondered how easy it was for the police to find someone who had decided to disappear. It couldn’t be that simple. There were cases in the papers all the time about people disappearing and never being found. What happened to them? If they were still alive how did they live? How did they get through the morass of paperwork the modern state demanded? National Insurance number, tax code, NHS number, credit card details, all these things were markers on a life. It was difficult to see how anyone could disappear unless they were dead, and she was prepared to bet a year’s salary on the fact that Giles Lessing was not dead.
‘Where are you?’ Louise was peering into her face with a puzzled expression. ‘You’re looking terribly fierce again.’
‘Sorry,’ said Lizzie. ‘I was just thinking.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Tell me, major, how do you think cannabis got into your daughter’s room?’
Maguire sat opposite the major in his drawing room late on Wednesday morning. The major had offered him a low chair, which Maguire thought would have been churlish and insensitive to refuse – he was, after all, dealing with a bereaved father – so he’d sat in it. But the moment he’d sat down the major had chosen a much higher chair, and now looked down on him. Maguire wondered whether he’d done it on purpose. Did he always like to tower over his visitors? Maguire suspected so. DC Gordon had chosen to sit further away, on a spindly chair by the window. A sensible move.
‘I’ve no idea,’ came the reply. The major had a pompous voice. Something Maguire had noted before, and he found it irritating. ‘And anyway what does it matter? Melinda is dead. It’s neither here nor there now, is it?’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Maguire. ‘Your daughter has been murdered and I think you will agree that it would be very remiss of me not to investigate everything concerning her life and death.’ As well as sounding pompous the major came across as hostile. Not in so many words, but in his manner. Maguire had the feeling that, for some reason best known to himself, the major did not want his daughter’s death investigated too closely. An unnatural reaction as her end had been so violent. Most people wanted to know who had committed the crime, and what was more, most people wanted revenge on the perpetrator. The major, however, merely seemed anxious to get the formalities out of the way and give his daughter a quick funeral. And he’d given the same impression where Darren Evans was concerned. He wanted to get him buried and out of the way as soon as possible.
Maguire studied the man before him. Was he a murderer? It seemed unlikely – he was the father. Yet he was so calm in a strangely defiant way, and as Maguire knew very well, many murderers appeared calm, composed, and plausible. However, Maguire reminded himself, he was not dealing with just one murder. There were now three, and there was the link between all three victims: the accident all those years before. Although, of course, it could just be coincidence. Stranger things did happen.
The major stared back at him, and then said, ‘You are thinking that I should be more upset at the death of my daughter.’
Maguire decided to be honest. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, and waited.
The major continued in the same pompous tone of voice. ‘Of course, I am not happy at the manner of her death, but I must be frank with you and tell you that now she is dead, the main feeling I have is one of relief.’
DC Gordon drew in his breath, but said nothing. There was a brief pause. The major glanced across towards him, clearly irritated by his presence.
‘I see,’ said Maguire, and waited again. Sometimes the less said the better. Silence had an effect on people. They often felt bound to fill it with words. And words which spilled out without any prompting were often significant.
The major leaned forward, placed one hand on each knee and said earnestly, ‘You don’t know what it’s like to look after someone with a terminal illness. Because that was what it was. Melinda was never going to get better. No one understands how it is to watch someone deteriorate day after day.’
Don’t know. Don’t understand. The mere thought of Rosemary’s last days and nights still brought Maguire out in a cold sweat. Watching her fade away, hour by hour, losing control, losing her dignity, until eventually she became a faint shadow of the person she had once been. ‘I understand better than you may think,’ he said quietly. ‘My wife died of cancer.’
That took the wind out of his sails. The major sat back, suddenly deflated, no longer quite so defiantly superior. There was a long silence, then he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s get back to the point,’ said Maguire. ‘How did your daughter get the cannabis? Don’t deny it. The forensic evidence is there. She was ill and didn’t go out, so therefore someone in this house must have procured it for her. What I want to know is who got it, from where, and why?’
‘Very simple, really,’ said the major, the pomposity suddenly evaporating, as an air of resignation crept into his voice. ‘Darren recommended that we try it. Did you know that cannabis has been used as a medical remedy in some countries for years?’ Maguire shook his head; he didn’t know that. ‘And yet here,’ the major continued, ‘it is not even legal for a doctor to supply it.’
‘Why did Melinda need it?’ DC Gordon asked.
‘To control her moods. I’ve already told the chief inspector that as the years went by she got more violent. She was strong and aggressive. I must admit that often I was afraid of her, and my wife certainly was. Melinda seemed to hate her, my wife, I mean. She was her stepmother; my first wife died when Melinda was quite small.’
‘You got the cannabis for Melinda from Darren Evans,’ said Maguire, trying to keep the major on track. ‘I assume he kept in touch, then, after the accident?’
The major sighed. ‘I wondered when someone would put two and two together. It was all such a long time ago, but then when these murders started it brought it all back. Yes, he kept in touch.’ He paused, then said, ‘As best he could. But he dropped out of life after that accident, took to drink and drugs, although he still had some feelings for Melinda. He was her boyfriend once, you know. Before the accident. Then after she became ill he helped us. We couldn’t have managed without Darren.’
‘And after Darren’s death Tarquin Girling offered to keep on supplying cannabis to you?’
The major’s head jerked up. ‘How did you know?’
‘Simple, really,’ said Magui
re echoing the major’s words. ‘We saw him leaving here the day he was murdered, and there were burned cannabis plants around his remains.’ The major was silent.
DC Gordon moved his chair a little and the legs scraped on the polished wood of the floor. ‘How well did you know Tarquin Girling?’
‘Not well at all.’ The major leaned back and put his hands together to form a steeple. Maguire could see he was gradually relaxing. ‘Of course, Melinda knew Tarquin when they were all young, but we didn’t. He was a friend of Niall Walsh, and spent most of his time at the Walshes’ house. Never came here. In fact, had never been here before the day you saw him, the day he was killed. I didn’t recognize him, but when he offered me the cannabis I said yes. We were desperate for another supplier.’
‘Desperate, you say. So when Tarquin was murdered you had a real problem. There was no other supplier.’
Maguire watched the man before him carefully but was disappointed. Years in the army had taught the major to give little away, and he gave nothing away now, merely said, ‘I would have found another supplier. These things can be done, you know.’
‘Unfortunately I do,’ said Maguire. He looked out of the window. It was raining again. Hard, slashing rain. He picked up his raincoat, which was lying beside him, stood up, and nodded to Gordon to do the same. He knew now about the cannabis, but the knowledge was useless as far as the murders were concerned. Except. Except. It didn’t quite fit. He looked at the major, who had also risen, and was standing in front of the fire, his hand on the greyhound’s head. The man had desperately needed another supplier, he had admitted as much. What if it proved more difficult than he’d thought? Maguire had a deep-seated feeling about Melinda’s murder. Not only was it different in method, it could well be that the motive was different. But if he followed that line, it threw the revenge theory for the other two out of kilter.
‘Are you going to arrest me for buying cannabis?’ asked the major.
Maguire shrugged his shoulders into the heavy raincoat. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said. ‘But I would like to talk to your wife.’ He looked at his watch. There were one or two things he wanted to talk to Phineas about and as it was just after lunchtime he’d be taking his postprandial nap and should be free. ‘I’ve got some appointments now,’ he said, ‘so I’ll talk to her later at the station if that’s convenient. Let’s say at about four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘But she’s told you all she knows.’ The major’s bland tone dropped. He was on the defensive again.
‘It never hurts to go over things several times,’ said Maguire quietly. ‘And I’ve not formally interviewed her and recorded it. This afternoon would be a good time.’
‘I shall come with her.’
‘Come with her if you wish, but I shall talk to her alone,’ said Maguire. He intended to follow a hunch, a luxury he seldom indulged in because they rarely paid off. At least not for him. But this time the feeling was so strong he couldn’t ignore it.
Once outside DC Gordon quizzed him. ‘Why do you want see his wife? She seemed a scared little rabbit of a thing to me when I met her.’
‘Ridiculous as it may seem,’ said Maguire, ‘I’m sure that Mrs Brockett-Smythe knows far more about her stepdaughter’s death than she is saying.’
Back at the station he phoned Phineas Merryweather. ‘Good God, man,’ said Phineas, sounding slightly sleepy. ‘Don’t you ever rest? After a good lunch one should always have forty winks.’
‘I haven’t had any lunch,’ said Maguire, ‘never mind about a good one, and forty winks in the middle of the day is a luxury I’m saving until my retirement.’
‘At the rate you’re going you’ll drop dead long before you get there,’ said Phineas grumpily. ‘Now, tell me what you want.’
Lizzie was greeted with a rapturous smile by Mrs Mills. ‘Why, my dear,’ she said, balancing on her Zimmer frame, ‘how nice of you to come and see me when I’m not ill. I made a cinnamon cake this morning and was wondering how I was going to eat it all by myself. But now you’re here, we can have a piece each.’
Lizzie followed her down the narrow hall feeling guilty. It wasn’t an altruistic visit on her part, but one for her own inquisitive purpose. In the living room a blazing log fire was crackling in the hearth, and the elderly cairn was fast asleep in front of it, pink underbelly exposed to the warmth. He didn’t stir when they entered. ‘Not a very good guard dog, is he,’ she said.
‘No, dear. No good at all. Deaf as a post, he is. But I wouldn’t be without him. He’s the last little bit of my Harry I’ve got left. I don’t know what I shall do when he turns up his little toes and departs this world.’ She swivelled the Zimmer in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Now, you sit there and I’ll just go and put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll help.’
But Mrs Mills was firm and wouldn’t allow it, so Lizzie sat beside the sleeping dog and hoped he wouldn’t turn up his toes, as Mrs Mills had said, for a very long time. There was something sad about old people and old animals. Either one would be devastated when left alone. I wonder if I’ll be like this one day, she thought; an old woman, alone, longing for someone, anyone, to knock on the door so that I can talk to them. The thought was disturbing because the uncomfortable truth was that it was all too possible. For anyone, not just herself. Children grew up, and went away, and when they got married or took up with stable partners then they usually went even further away. It was natural. Their lives would be full of their own doings. The world was full of lonely people. Suddenly she thought of Maguire. He was lonely, with only an old dog for company, although, like her, he did have his work, but that wouldn’t last forever. Then she thought of the man whose wife and children had been killed by the youthful joy riders. Giles Lessing. Was he still alone? Was he alone and bitter? Bitter enough to go on a vengeful killing spree?
‘My goodness, you look serious.’ Mrs Mills re-entered, this time with the wooden trolley, set out as before with a tea tray and cups and saucers. On the bottom shelf sat a cake, with a crunchy brown sugar topping. Lizzie could smell the cinnamon as soon as she entered the room. The tea was poured out, and two pieces of cake cut, before Mrs Mills lowered herself carefully down into a chair. She leaned forward, took another log from the brass log box beside her, and threw it onto the fire. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney, catching on the soot at the back of the fireplace and lingering for a few seconds. A tiny red firework show. ‘People going to church,’ said Mrs Mills. ‘That’s what my mother always used to say.’ Then she smiled at Lizzie a smile of infinite sweetness and wisdom. ‘Now, tell me,’ she said quietly, ‘what have you come to see me about?’
Lizzie found Mrs Mills a mine of information. She learned about the four when they’d been at primary school, how they’d formed an unlikely friendship together, which lasted even when they split up and went to different secondary schools; Niall and Tarquin to the private grammar school, Darren and Melinda to the local mixed comprehensive. In those days, Mrs Mills had been an active member of Stibbington’s Church and Women’s Institute. She’d followed the lives of her ex-pupils with interest and with an insight which made her notice more than most.
‘Darren Evans and Melinda Brockett-Smythe,’ mused Lizzie. ‘I find it difficult to believe that Melinda’s father approved of Darren.’
‘Oh, Darren was different in those days. His mother was alive, and she came from good county stock. Her family were well known commoners. Everyone in the New Forest knew them. They had a smallholding and let their cattle loose in the forest. She had no money, of course, as she’d married beneath her, but her family were good enough for the major. And he had just married again and was taken up with his new wife.’
‘What about the others, Tarquin and Niall?’ asked Lizzie.
‘They say Tarquin won a scholarship to the grammar school, but I never believed it. He was bright, but not that bright. Niall was the clever one. No, I think Mr Walsh fixed it and paid for him to go there.’
‘He
did,’ said Lizzie. ‘Tarquin told me that. He said that he was company for Niall.’
‘Company,’ said Mrs Mills, and smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that. They were like brothers, and there were always rumours. They were so close.’
‘Did you think they were brothers?’
Mrs Mills didn’t answer immediately. Instead she looked thoughtful as she struggled to her feet and poured two more cups of tea.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said slowly. She paused and looked quizzically at Lizzie. ‘But why do you want to know all these things? Three of them are dead, and the other one moved away years ago. What has it got to do with you?’
‘Nothing,’ Lizzie was forced to admit. ‘Except that I have a theory that these murders are revenge killings, and that the only person likely to want revenge is Giles Lessing.’
‘The police should be asking me all these things.’ Mrs Mills began to sound slightly disapproving.
‘I know they should,’ said Lizzie quickly. ‘And I’ve told them what I think, even given them the evidence in the form of an old newspaper cutting. But Detective Chief Inspector Maguire doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m just a meddling female.’
‘And are you?’
Crunching on her last piece of cinnamon cake Lizzie swallowed, considered, and then said, ‘Yes, in a way I suppose I am. But I can’t help it. It’s the way I am. I want to know why these murders have been committed, and who the perpetrator is.’
Mrs Mills looked serious. ‘You’ve already made up your mind on that score, haven’t you? You think it is Giles Lessing.’
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘I do, so what can you tell me about him?’
Mrs Mills deliberated for a moment, and then said with a sigh, ‘Very little. He went to pieces after the death of his wife and daughters. Well, who could blame him, poor man. His whole family taken from him in one moment of madness. Your predecessor, Dr Burton, spent hours and hours with him. Counselling they call it nowadays, but then it was plain old-fashioned compassion. He was a kind man, Dr Burton, I mean, and he advised Giles Lessing to try to start a new life somewhere else. There was nothing to keep him in Stibbington, and money wasn’t a problem; he’d always had a private income and sold antique books as a sideline. He left here not long afterwards, and as far as I know, no one has ever seen him since. At least, no one from Stibbington.’
