by Ann Troup
He’d been surprised to realise how disappointed he’d felt when Edie had turned down his offer of staying at the house. Understandable he supposed, why would she want support from the man who had accused her father of murder and forced the issue so far that everyone she had ever known had turned out to be a bad guy? A strange plan had formed in his head, a way that he might redeem himself in her eyes, and it involved reuniting her with her uncle – the only person from her past who was not implicated in anything foul.
It had started with a search of documents, looking up first Beattie’s will and confirming that she had left the house to her daughter and not her son. It was pure speculation on Matt’s part to assume that Dickie’s delicate nature had deemed him subpar in some way in his mother’s eyes and that Beattie had simply left him out. From what Matt had been able to gather, mainly from his new found friend Lionel, almost everyone had discounted Dickie. Yet in Matt’s mind Dolly had been the unbalanced one – the image of the wooden heads, each named for one of the murder victims, was forever etched into his mind and it still puzzled him that she had done that and he wondered how much she had really known about Frank’s proclivities.
He’d managed to find out, through a fairly simple internet search, that Dolly had mortgaged the house, in the form of an equity release arrangement, shortly after Dickie’s supposed demise. According to Lionel that had also been the time when she had stopped interacting with her neighbours and had, in Lionel’s words, ‘turned’. Logic dictated that she had used the money to fund the care home, though a re-read of the invoice that he had found made it clear that Dolly had only made partial payments, the rest having come from social services. He’d hoped that would mean that Dickie had a social worker, but so far hadn’t been able to find a single soul who had any connection with the old man.
What he did know for sure, though he had put a great deal of effort into denying it, was that all this searching and enquiring was sheer procrastination. The simplest thing to do would be to just go to the care home and ring the bell and ask to see the man. The reasons why he hadn’t were both stupid and complicated. Stupid because all he had done was waste time, and complicated because facing Dickie might cause all the rage that he had so carefully packed away with his collection to resurface in some unstoppable way. All the bitterness, resentment and anger towards the Morris family was holed up in an imaginary box in his head and he was afraid to open it in case it gave Pandora a run for her money. The myth of Pandora’s box was that once she had released all the ills of the world, hope had remained. The only thing lurking in Matt’s box was despair and he’d been afraid to unleash it.
Knowledge was power, and he knew, and had always known, that all he had ever done was use his search for the truth as a shield against having to face that despair. If the search ended, there was nothing left to do but face that final demon. It was time to go and find Dickie, take the lid off the box and face the last remnants of the past head on.
***
Lionel always appreciated a helpful soul, and the lady at the care home had been most helpful indeed, though she had expressed her surprise at Mr Morris receiving a visitor after all this time. She had been sorry to say that Mr Morris hadn’t taken the death of his sister very well, a fact made worse by the fact they’d had to read it in the paper because no one had taken the trouble to let them know. They’d been concerned that his bill might not be paid and had been desperately trying to find out who they could contact to get it resolved. Did Lionel know who that might be? He’d said that he didn’t and had been away for some time, had only just returned to the area and had decided to look up his old friend. He often found that a little white lie made life simpler. She’d been even sorrier to tell him that since his sister’s death, Mr Morris had seemed to decline and that they had felt that his care needs would be better met in hospital. Lionel doubted that she was sorry at all, and that the decision had been made more on their concern that his bill might not be met than on any worry about his health. Lionel was sorry to say that life was like this now, everything was about the money, but he had kept that to himself along with all his other secret thoughts. It didn’t do to let people see the inner workings of the mind. Lionel had done the decent thing and sympathised, then he had asked which hospital his dear old friend had been taken to. She’d told him, asked him to pass on their good wishes to ‘dear old Dickie, such a love’ and had smiled warmly. Lionel had returned the smile, thanked her for her time, promised to pass on her well wishes and forever condemned her in his mind as a two-faced avaricious bitch who shouldn’t be allowed to care for a dog.
He made his way to the hospital by bus, casually observing the moral turpitude of Winfield through the steamy window and concluding that, despite his best efforts, the whole place had become a sinkhole of depravity. It was a crying shame, and he didn’t doubt that his mother would be turning in her grave at the knowledge. She had been a pillar of morality, and a shining example of righteousness. Lionel liked to think he’d carried her good work on, and that she would be proud of his fine moral stance.
Even the hospital had gone downhill and as he negotiated the corridors, searching for Dickie’s room, he rued the day they had got rid of matrons. His mother had been a nurse, and a strict advocate of hygiene, precision and order. She would not have functioned in this place and he was glad that she was no longer able to witness the decline of even the things closest to her heart. Unmade beds, dirty bedpans and clutter in the corridors would have turned her puce with fury. His mother in a fury was not a thing that many people would wish to see, and the memory of it still loomed large in his mind. No matter, she was gone now.
He found Dickie in a side room, a frail lump under the blankets, his skin-and-bone head resting against an untidy pile of pillows. Lionel frowned, the poor man looked distinctly uncomfortable. When he had enquired where he might find Richard Morris at the nurses’ station he had been told that poor Dickie had suffered a stroke and was unable to talk, which was such a shame, as he seemed like such a sweet old thing. Lionel agreed that Dickie had, indeed, been a lovely man.
He eased himself into the chair by the bed and made his presence known. ‘Hello Dickie old boy, long time no see.’
Dickie’s eyelids fluttered open and a frown wrinkled his brow as he tried to get a fix on his visitor. Lionel watched as recognition dawned, seeing himself reflected in the old man’s rheumy eyes. Was that fear he saw too? It seemed so, as Dickie began to moan and lurch as he tried to force his failing body into a sitting position. Lionel found himself feeling quite annoyed and a mite insulted about this. ‘Come on now old man, no need to be like that – it’s only me.’
Dickie was having none of it and groped about on the bed, his frail hand searching for the call button conveniently left by the nurses. Lionel raised his cane and used the rubber tipped end to push the object out of reach. ‘No need for that – here, let me help you get a bit more comfortable. Let’s sort those pillows out shall we?’
He stood up and began to fuss with the pillows, pulling one out and plumping it impatiently. ‘Such a fuss Dickie, your sister would be ashamed of you – she didn’t play up like this. All I’m trying to do is help you get a little peace. Now be quiet and let me help, it’ll all be over soon.’
It didn’t take long, and once the pillows had been rearranged behind Dickie’s head everything looked much better. Much more neat and orderly. Lionel straightened Dickie’s arms and laid them at his sides, ‘There, that’s better isn’t it?’ He glanced into the man’s eyes once more and was pleased to observe that he could no longer see himself reflected. Much better, if he said so himself.
The nurse at the station commented as he walked past. ‘Leaving so soon? That was a quick visit.’
Lionel gave her his best, most polished smile. ‘He’s having a little nap, seemed a shame to disturb him. I’ll call back another time.’
She nodded, looked relieved, gave him a distracted farewell and went back to her paperwork.
Lionel considered this typical of the modern work ethic and the attitude of people today. Always with the paperwork, ticking their little boxes, dotting their i’s, crossing their t’s and thinking they’d done a good job. They didn’t know what a good job was. But he did.
He strolled away from the hospital towards the bus stop, swinging his cane and humming his favourite hymn, Fight the Good Fight. He felt it very apt, very apt indeed.
Matt might have spotted him, called out and waved even, had the bus not pulled up at that moment and masked Lionel from view. As it was, Matt was caught up in his mood and may as well have been wearing blinkers for all the attention he was paying to his surroundings. He too had visited the care home and had received the surprised and saccharine greeting of the proprietor; he had not made judgment on her for it, but had merely been put out by learning that he must make another trip to the bloody hospital. It was beginning to feel as though he might as well take up residence there.
By the time he left he was also beginning to feel that he had the kiss of death. His mother had been like that with cats, every time she’d taken in a stray the thing would die within days, despite her tender ministrations. Matt did not consider himself the tender type, but seemed to have inherited his mother’s touch – except cats were safe; it was only the elderly who needed to be cautious. Finding out that Dickie had died peacefully in his sleep (according to the harried nurse) hadn’t been much of a comfort. He’d been hoping to find some answers to his remaining questions, and didn’t relish having to tell Edie that she had another funeral to organise and it would be one that she already believed had taken place. What was that Shakespeare quotation? ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest’ – in Matt’s case, if the word ‘priest’ could be traded for ‘past’, it would fit perfectly.
As he trudged the pavements back to the square – shoulders hunched and wearing a pensive, melancholy air as if it was a coat – he remembered that he had agreed to meet Sophie and take her for lunch. He was going to be late. Edie had bought her a brand new pay-as-you-go mobile phone, and he could have called her on that to explain, but he needed to walk off this mood before he spoke to anyone. Sophie would wait; she had nothing better to do.
***
Sophie looked at the clock on the café wall and sighed. Matt was late. No matter, she could wait – it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.
She had ordered a cappuccino, having taken a liking to them since Edie had seen fit to furnish her with spending money. Edie was doling it out like no one’s business now that her house sale had completed and she had money in the bank. The ex had given her half his business too, or at least he’d given her half what it would cost to buy it. Edie said it must have killed him to do it, and that had the judge given him a choice Simon would have begrudged her the sweat from his arse. Edie had been worried about the house sale going through after the shenanigans with Sam, but the police had told her that when they’d gone to the house it was as clean as a surgeon’s knife – not a trace of Sam, the whisky bottle or the pizza box. It was like it had never happened and they had pretty much accused her of making it all up. Funny that, given that the bruises on Edie’s wrists still hadn’t faded and Sophie’s nose looked more snub than ski slope these days. They’d had to swallow it when they found Johnno’s phone though, and had almost, but not quite, apologised when they’d picked him up at Dover trying to use fake ID to buy a ferry ticket. Sophie didn’t know what would happen to him now, but he was being held responsible for the deaths of Suse Protheroe and Andrew Garvey and would most likely go down for the arson. She knew she’d have to be a witness to that, and didn’t relish the prospect. Edie would be called as a witness too, and that worried her more. She wasn’t sure how much more Edie could take.
The waitress wove her way between the tables and deposited Sophie’s drink in front of her, slopping some of it into the saucer as she let it drop down. She lingered for a moment, and peered out of the window. ‘There he goes look, bloody old ghoul.’
Sophie had no idea what she was talking about and followed her gaze. ‘Who?’
‘Him over there, just got off the bus. Sick if you ask me.’
Sophie could see an old man with a cane, he looked smart and out of his time and definitely out of place on the square. ‘What’s up with him then?’
The waitress shuddered. ‘Runs those murder tours, callous old git. My great aunty was one of the girls that got killed – you’d think people would have more compassion really. I never met her of course, but still…’
Sophie raised her eyebrows. If only the woman knew what she knew. ‘I thought it was that funky looking bloke, woolly hat and a beard, that did them.’
‘He takes the tours, but it’s that one over there that organises them and gets the money.’
Sophie found this mildly intriguing at most. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Makes you sick really, my mum tried to get him shut down, but apparently the whole thing is “an important part of local history and brings tourism to the area” – like tourists want to come here? Mind you, keeps me in a job I suppose.’
Sophie snorted, she had to agree that not many people would be giving Winfield a five star rating on TripAdvisor any time soon. ‘I suppose even murder geeks like a bacon sandwich.’ she said.
‘That’s about the size of it, though I had one in here asking for Lapsang Souchong the other week, bloody Lapsang Souchong! In a place like this, I ask you. Told him he’d be getting Tetley or nothing – I’ve only just mastered them cappuccinos.’ she said, waving at Sophie’s drink. ‘Anyway, best be getting on I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’ To her relief she saw Matt across the road and hoped they’d be going somewhere else for lunch. She sipped her coffee and realised that the woman hadn’t mastered cappuccinos at all.
***
Alice Hale had just had an interesting but unproductive interview with Alan Pascoe. Interesting because he was an intriguing man, unproductive because he had more or less laughed her out of his office. They both knew that he was as guilty as sin where Sam Campion was concerned, but as he’d so helpfully pointed out, she would need evidence, and that she was sorely lacking. She’d challenged him about the phone calls from the mobile that Johnno had discarded. He’d laughed and said that he provided contract mobile phones for all of his employees and allowed them to be used for personal reasons – he could hardly be accountable for who his employees chose to associate with. She’d asked for a list of numbers and SIM cards and he’d sadly informed her that he’d upgraded all their phones a few days earlier. Everyone had new numbers, and being a man who disliked clutter, he’d disposed of the records for the old ones. Besides, he ran a business, all sorts of people made calls. Desperate, she’d pointed out that he would need those phone records for his tax returns and that it had been foolish to destroy them. He’d laughed and told her that he still had the invoices and had merely got rid of the list of who had been allocated which phone. Alice had told him that Johnno had said that he’d spoken directly to him, and only him. Pascoe had spread his hands, brushing his palms across his leather topped desk and said ‘Do I look like a man who takes personal calls from the likes of that?’ Alice thought that he did, most definitely. He also looked like the kind of man who dealt in stolen diamonds and bearer bonds, and who was more than capable of disposing of someone like Sam Campion if they crossed him. The diamonds and the bonds weren’t her case, but everything connected in the end. Everything about the diamonds was pointing at Pascoe but neither Alice nor the team working the case had a single shred of evidence that could link him to them, just a hunch that was eating away at each and every officer. Derek Sellars had cleaned away all traces of who might have handled the diamonds with his cleaning process, but Edie Byrne was willing to testify that Campion had handled them – if they ever found him. The look on Pascoe’s smug, languid expression had told Alice that Sam’s body was more than likely bulking out the footings of one of Pascoe’s building projects. He wo
uld never be found.
The fact that they had records of the locations where the phone calls were made was irrelevant. Pascoe was right, the number Johnno had called was registered to his business and not him. Any objective test that Alice applied to her hunch only came up with one result – she’d have to get up very early in the morning to nail a man like Pascoe and she’d have to gather a damned sight more evidence to justify arresting him. It was frankly depressing.
The DI thought they had enough; Johnno was good for the fire, the deaths and the abduction of Edie Byrne. But Alice wanted Sam Campion because she couldn’t get Lena for the murder of Frank Morris.
Her oppo had told her to get a grip and accept that she couldn’t have everything – Johnno was enough and she’d have to accept that with good grace. But for Alice it was a bitter pill. She hadn’t become a detective to quietly ignore the crimes she couldn’t solve. Perhaps she should take a lesson from Matt Bastin. At one point she’d expected him to use what they had discovered as leverage for a full posthumous pardon for his father, but he hadn’t. The last time they’d met he’d said that knowing was enough. Alice knew too, but somehow just knowing would never be enough. Despite the fact that she had no choice but to accept it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Edie stood outside in the yard of Number 17 for the last time, looking up at the charred wood of the upstairs windows and frowning at the soot blackened bricks. The house was empty now. Empty of things, empty of feelings… only the ghosts remained – ethereal and un-blighted by the wanton destruction.
She was officially divorced now, from Simon and from any obligation to her family. Everything had been settled, she hadn’t begrudged paying for a funeral for Dickie, though there had been no provision of tea and sympathy this time. The whole thing had garnered enough attention without that. Dickie now rested in the central garden where she had scattered his ashes in the early morning with only Sophie and Matt for company. She hoped that every murder tourist would take a little bit of him home with them when the wind blew, though it was a grim and vengeful thought. Her father’s remains were locked up somewhere, she didn’t care where and if they chose to bury him it could be in a compost heap for all she cared. He was Rose’s problem now. Edie felt like she had more than done her share.
