Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll not tell anyone until tomorrow morning. We haven’t got her official confession yet. We’ll let the doctor and forensics get their work done, then we’ll wait a bit; let her stew for a while. Sometimes that can have a miraculous effect.’

  ‘What sort of miracle are you expecting, sir?’

  Maguire gave a half smile. ‘None, to tell you the truth. But it will give us a little more time to sort things out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He sounded doubtful.

  Grayson departed, leaving Maguire in no doubt that he didn’t think they would make any progress as far as sorting things was concerned. Maguire felt the same. Where the hell did they go from here?

  Lizzie left the surgery and went back to Silver Cottage. The storm was in full swing by the time she arrived. A brilliant display of nature’s pyrotechnics might be awe inspiring, but it was rather nerve wracking when one happened to be in the middle of it. A tree was struck before her very eyes; forked lightning spreading its fiery fingers down the trunk and along the branches. Had it been summer the tree would have probably exploded into flames, but now in winter and in the pouring rain nothing so dramatic happened. All the same Lizzie was glad to arrive in one piece and shut the cottage door gratefully behind her.

  ‘Louise?’ she called out expecting an answer. She was also expecting the cottage to be warm and welcoming. But it was cold; the stormy winds had blown the pilot light out on the gas boiler and the central heating was off. Neither was Louise there. The house was empty, and Lizzie was worried.

  Lying flat on her stomach, the only way to get the pilot light ignited, Lizzie squinted at the instructions printed on a small metal plate on the bottom of the boiler. She followed them religiously, down to the last comma. Turning the gas off, turning the gas back on, pushing the button, holding it in then slowly releasing it. The flame died every time. Outside, the storm built in intensity and inside, Lizzie’s frustration increased as it became clear that she was not going to get the boiler going. And where was Louise? Why hadn’t she rung her to say where she was?

  She scrambled to her feet and went to look at the answerphone, but the light wasn’t blinking. No messages. But of course there wouldn’t be. Out of habit she hadn’t switched the damn thing on. Then, she remembered, neither had she switched on her mobile. Another habit: off duty, out of range had always been her motto. Now she wished it were different.

  The phone rang and Lizzie snatched it up thinking it must be Louise but it wasn’t, it was Emmy Matthews.

  ‘Dr Browne,’ she said, ‘can you come and see me?’

  ‘I’m off duty,’ said Lizzie angrily. ‘You know very well you should ring the Health Centre and you’ll be put through to the duty doctor.’

  ‘It’s not about me. It’s about . . . well,’ she hesitated, and Lizzie could tell she was nervous. ‘I rang you because your daughter is friendly with them.’

  ‘Friendly with whom?’ Lizzie felt her stomach muscles tighten, an involuntary spasm of apprehension. Why was Emmy Matthews ringing about something to do with Louise? What on earth could be the connection?

  ‘With Niall and Christina Walsh.’

  The words shot through Lizzie like an electric shock, jerking her body straight. She found she was holding the phone so tightly that she could see her knuckles shining white beneath the skin. Niall Walsh! Christina! That must be his wife, Louise’s friend. Why had she never mentioned the surname? The answer was simple of course: there’d been no reason why she should, and now she remembered Louise saying that she always forgot it.

  Niall Walsh was the only one left of the four occupants of the car involved in the accident. He was the next to be murdered, and Louise was involved with his wife. Lizzie’s thoughts galloped ahead. To say she was on the point of panic was putting it mildly. All her maternal instincts throbbed with terror. Louise could be in danger as well, because, now Lizzie was absolutely certain Giles Lessing was in Stibbington. It stood to reason. He hadn’t finished his task. The one person he needed to complete the quartet, Niall Walsh, was here in Stibbington, too.

  ‘What is it you want to tell me? Is it something to do with Giles Lessing?’

  She heard Emmy’s sharp intake of breath and knew it was. She could almost feel Emmy’s fear slithering down the phone line. ‘It’s difficult to explain over the phone,’ said Emmy, sounding breathless. ‘I’ve got some things to show you. I think I know where he is.’

  ‘You must tell the police. Now!’

  ‘No.’ Emmy sounded stubborn. ‘I can’t do that. Not before I get some advice. I need advice; it’s about Giles Lessing, and you’re a doctor. You can help.’

  ‘But you must—’

  ‘No, don’t ask me to ring the police. I’ll talk to you or nobody. I must talk to you.’

  It was obvious that the woman was not going to impart any more information over the phone, and Lizzie didn’t stop to think. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

  Before she left the cottage she carefully switched on the answerphone and left a message for Louise on the kitchen table in case she came in. Thinking carefully, or as carefully as her racing brain allowed, Lizzie tried to word the note casually so as not to alarm Louise when she read it: Where the hell have you been? Luv Mum. Adding as a postscript, Boiler pilot light gone out. If you can light it you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din! PS I have switched my mobile ON. Ring me. Then she switched on her phone, put it in an accessible place in her handbag, reluctantly shrugged herself back into her wet raincoat, and scuttled across to the Alfa.

  Driving conditions were a nightmare, compounded by the fact that the dampness from her raincoat steamed up the inside of the car. Even with the heater on full blast, and the fan going so violently that she could hardly hear herself think, the windscreen stubbornly refused to clear.

  The shore road leading to Emmy Matthews’ house was flooded. It was high tide, and the force of the wind combined with the tide sent an ugly grey sea surging across the road, bringing with it great swathes of seaweed torn from its roots way out in the estuary. Lizzie kept the Alfa going as fast as she dared while at the same time trying to avoid letting water surge up and into the engine. The lights of The House on the Hard were blazing in the downstairs rooms, and the end window was wide open again, the curtains being sucked out by the wind, flapping frantically as if trying to escape.

  Lizzie parked the car and ran to the front door. There was no need to ring the bell, the door was open. Not wide open, but ominously ajar, which made her nervous. ‘Mrs Matthews?’ As she called out she was suddenly aware of the harsh sound of rapid breathing, and then realized it was herself. Stopping for a second she willed herself to take long slow breaths. Keep calm. Keep calm. ‘Mrs Matthews, it’s me, Dr Browne.’ She called once more. The only reply was the wind soughing through the skeletal branches of the trees at the back of the house, and somewhere a door banged. Bang, bang, banging in the cold darkness of the night.

  Lizzie stepped into the brightly lit hall. From where she stood she could see into the kitchen, the door of which was also open. Crossing the hall quietly she pushed the door open wide and called out again. Still no reply. Slowly edging around the kitchen table Lizzie found that she was clasping her black doctor’s bag tightly against her chest in a defensive position. Stop being so ridiculous, she told herself, and lowered it into a more normal position, not that it helped to stop the beads of sweat she could feel slowly trickling down between her breasts. She knew something was wrong, and found out the moment she edged around the other side of the table.

  Emmy Matthews lay in a half-sitting position, wedged between the fridge and a cupboard. Her arms were behind her and her eyes were wide open, as was her mouth, which was a blueish hue. Her tongue lolled against the side of her mouth and was the same colour as her lips.

  Slowly, Lizzie sank to her knees. There didn’t seem to be any point in hurrying; Emmy was clearly dead, but formality dictated that she feel for a pulse. There was none. The body was sti
ll warm. She checked her watch. The time was 7.35p.m. She must have knocked the body slightly, because it toppled sideways revealing that Emmy had been clasping something behind her back. It was still in her hand. It was a small maroon-coloured booklet. From the position she was in it looked to Lizzie as if Emmy had been hiding the book from whoever had attacked her. For a moment she hesitated then, remembering that somehow Louise was involved and also in potential danger, she broke all the rules and took the book from Emmy’s lifeless hands. Maguire and the police force could do what they liked; the safety of her daughter came first and this might be a clue.

  To her astonishment she found she was looking at a SHAFT publication. Although she’d never personally worked with such patients she had seen and read the publication before. It was the handbook for male to female transsexuals, and those concerned with their care and treatment. But why had Emmy got it, and why was she hiding it? Emmy had called her because she said she had something to tell her about Giles Lessing. Slowly, the unpalatable truth began to filter through into Lizzie’s mind. Was Maguire looking in the wrong place and for the wrong man? Should he have been looking for a woman? She turned the book over and over in her hands. Was this the answer? Was Giles Lessing posing as a woman? For a moment she felt numb.

  The door still banging at the far end of the corridor jolted her back to the present. Wasn’t that the room that Emmy had told her on a previous visit Mrs Smithson occupied, the room with the window open tonight and the night of her earlier visit? Perhaps Mrs Smithson was Giles Lessing. It would certainly account for the fact that nobody had seen a strange man about, only a strange woman. Lizzie knew she ought to ring the police. Now. This instant. The sensible part of her brain insisted. But she didn’t. Instead she walked purposefully towards the room with the banging door. The priority right now, as far as she was concerned, was to find out where Giles Lessing was. Instinctively, she felt that the room might provide an answer.

  The first thing she saw was evidence of someone leaving in a hurry. Drawers were open, the wardrobe door swinging, underclothes scattered about on the bed, and on the floor was a pair of shoes. Lizzie recognized them immediately: they were the shoes the woman on the train had worn, the woman who she’d trodden on. This was Mrs Smithson’s room, but that didn’t prove she was a transsexual, and certainly didn’t prove that she was, in fact, Giles Lessing. She turned to leave the room, but something dark at the back of the wardrobe caught her eye. Pulling it out she looked more closely, realizing with a raw horror that it was a black leather motorcycle outfit, and that on the floor of the wardrobe was a wig; a woman’s wig. The evidence clinched it. Motorbike leathers: Giles Lessing was known to have been a fanatic for such vehicles, and a woman’s wig. Now she was certain. Mrs Smithson was Giles Lessing. The knot of fear in her chest tightened but Lizzie forced herself to breathe slowly. Had he killed Emmy Matthews this evening and now gone out to kill again? She didn’t know, but whatever happened she had to keep her head.

  At that very moment her mobile rang from the depths of her handbag, which she’d left on the kitchen table. Racing back along the corridor she tore at the handbag to open it and retrieved the phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was Louise. It was difficult to hear her against the noise of chatter and music in the background. ‘Mum? Hi. You sound as if you’ve been running.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Lizzie tried hard to keep the fear from her voice and sound normal, but obviously didn’t succeed.

  ‘What on earth is the matter, Mum?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Well if you must know I’m at Steepletoe, and don’t get all irate. I did try and phone you earlier but as usual you didn’t have either your mobile or the answerphone on. Christina and I, and Niall, that’s her husband, have come out here to a village barn dance. I’m using her mobile. So don’t worry about me. I’ll be home late. Niall will drop me off.’

  ‘Louise, listen to me. Niall is in danger. You are all in danger. Leave there and come home to Silver Cottage now. You’ll be safer there.’

  The connection cut out, then picked up a faint signal again. ‘I can’t hear you, Mum.’ Louise’s voice was broken up and faint. ‘It’s a terrible signal. Must be the storm. See you later.’

  The phone went dead. Lizzie shook it in exasperation. Then pressed the recall button. But the number didn’t show. Dammit, must be barred. No chance now of getting back to Louise as she didn’t know the number. There was nothing else to do. She had to go to Steepletoe herself, wherever that was. She thanked God she still had the borrowed sat nav in the car, but to be sure she looked at the map in her handbag and searched for the village. Trying to ignore Emmy’s intent sightless stare she found Steepletoe on the map. It was not far from the water-splash on the other side of Stibbington.

  Maguire. Maguire. The name flashed through her brain. Of course, she must tell Maguire what had happened here at the House on the Hard and also about Niall Walsh being at Steepletoe and that Giles Lessing was posing as Mrs Smithson. She dialled Stibbington police station only to find that the automatic answerphone was on. A monotone voice gave her options of pushing various buttons depending on her need. In a panic, Lizzie scrolled through the numbers and found the one for the Blackberry Grayson usually carried. She called it, and waited impatiently, praying that it wasn’t switched off.

  ‘Maguire.’

  Maguire had answered. Lizzie almost wept with relief. ‘Lizzie Browne here.’ The words tumbled out in a rush. ‘Emmy Matthews has been murdered; her body is in the kitchen at The House on the Hard. Strangled, I think.’

  ‘Stay there. We’ll be there in five minutes.’ If Maguire was surprised he didn’t sound it. The words came rapping out, staccato, businesslike.

  ‘No.’ Lizzie could hear her voice trembling, she was losing control. ‘I can’t stay. I’m going to Steepletoe. To the village hall. Niall Walsh is there with my daughter, and Giles Lessing alias Mrs Smithson is going there. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. There’s evidence here to prove it, but I can’t waste time telling you now. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Look, wait. Don’t go there. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I must go. My daughter is there.’

  Without waiting for his reply, Lizzie rang off, picked up her bag, and ran out of the house.

  Outside, the storm had increased in ferocity but Lizzie hardly noticed. She drove hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the darkness and lashing rain. She could hear the gravel from the hard, driven there by the force of the wind and waves, slashing like so many nails against the side of the car, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she reached the tarmac surface of the quay road. The quickest way to Steepletoe was through the water-splash if it wasn’t too flooded. She decided to risk it.

  Once out of Stibbington, and in the total blackness of the country lanes, driving became even more hazardous. Lizzie concentrated hard and then noticed when she was on a relatively straight stretch of road that there was a motorcyclist ahead of her. A motorcyclist without lights. Her heart started thumping erratically: ectopics, she thought (part of her doctor’s mind was still on duty), too much adrenalin. She lost concentration for a second and the wheels of the car very nearly lost their purchase with the road’s wet surface, but she recovered it and the Alfa raced on following the motorcyclist into the darkness. They passed a junction; the white-painted wooden signposts showed up in her headlights: one pointed to Warnford Down and the other to Steepletoe. The motorcyclist took the Steepletoe road. Lizzie followed.

  The flood warning notice was in the road before the water-splash but the motorcyclist went on, and so did Lizzie. There was no turning back now, and in her feverish state of mind she was thinking that if only she could catch him maybe she could actually knock him off the bike. A mad thought but one worth trying. Anything to stop him.

  The water-splash came into view. Surely the water was too deep for a motorbike? Lizzie hesitated, and slowed down. What to
do? She’d get out of the car and tackle him. That’s what she’d do, and pray that she was fit enough to floor him. And pray, too, that he didn’t have his gun handy. She didn’t allow herself to think about that. Gun or no gun, she had to stop him. That was the only important thing. The Alfa rolled to a halt and Lizzie had the door half open when she saw that he wasn’t stopping. He was crossing the water-splash; not on the road through the flood, but by riding across the narrow wooden foot bridge at the side. She heard the machine revving up, and then he was over the bridge and away into the night.

  Nothing for it now but to try to cross the stream herself. Without hesitation Lizzie drove at speed into the water-splash, which by now was a small turbulent river. Halfway across the Alfa stalled, which was not surprising as the car was half full of water. I’m going to drown. The thought hammered through her head as she struggled to undo her seat belt and open the door. But luckily the force of the flood water was flowing into the passenger side and as she managed to open the driver’s door the force of the water took it and pushed it open wider. The current was strong, pulling her into the icy water. Submerged for a moment, she swallowed great mouthfuls of muddy river water, and then managed to get her head up and gulp in a breath of air. More by luck than judgement Lizzie found herself swept down just below the pedestrian bridge and hurled against the branch of a tree, which had fallen into the water. Clinging hold of it, she pulled herself hand over hand, eventually managing to make her way to the relative safety of the bank. Once there, she scrambled up its muddy sides, and from there she got on to the road.

  Exhausted, but knowing she had to go on, she began to run. Running, stumbling, gasping from the pain of stitch in her side, Lizzie staggered on towards Steepletoe’s village hall. She could see the lights, hear the music, but it all seemed so far away. In another world. A world separated from her. A dream world and she was in a nightmare.