The woman hesitated.
“Forward? Um, I don’t … Oh, no, I don’t remember ever seeing that.”
“Okay, so things just … petered out,” said Jack, now wondering what really caused the split. “The way friendships can.”
“Yes.”
“And back when you did go round there, how were they together?”
“What do you mean?” said Kirsty, her voice sounding forced.
The questions were making her grow cagey.
“Well, did they seem happy together? Did you enjoy being with them?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t have gone, would I?”
“Of course,” said Jack.
She checked her watch.
“Is that all?’ she said, getting up.
“I guess so,” said Jack, not knowing where else he could take the questioning.
He followed her to the door. As she opened it, he had one thought.
“You said you hadn’t really seen them lately, apart from passing in the street …”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t suppose you saw them on the day that Harry died?”
And then Kirsty surprised him.
“Hmm, I did actually. I bumped into Peggy outside her gate, she was getting out of a taxi. She’d just come back from Oxford, had lots of paints and brushes. And some frames. She was going to do some framing.”
“Oh? And how did she seem?”
“Very happy. In fact, she said we should meet up, it had been too long, that she would come over for tea. But of course, then …”
“Right,” said Jack, standing in the doorway. “And what about Harry? When did you last see him?”
“Oh not for months, a long time, like I said.”
“Sure.”
“Apart from the phone call, of course.”
Jack felt that little jolt of urgency he always got when he knew a new fact was going to be significant.
Like an extra heartbeat kicking in …
“Phone call?” he said calmly. “When was that?”
“Well, that night, of course.”
“I see. What time?”
“Around nine, I think. I’m sure I told Tony about it. Or the police. Or somebody.”
“What exactly was the phone call?”
“Just nonsense really. But I knew it was Harry because I did that dial back thing you can do and got the Platt’s number, and well, you see, I knew that number by heart.”
“And what did Harry say to you? What was … the nonsense?”
“Oh it was just muttering. I could tell he was far gone. Age, you know. Like he was talking to himself. He didn’t seem to hear me — just kept saying he’d had his tea.”
“That was all?”
“Yes,” said Kirsty. “‘I’ve had my tea’. Over and over again.” She took a breath. “In the end, I just put the phone down.”
“Right,” said Jack. “Well, you’ve been very helpful Kirsty, thank you. And I’m sorry if I took too much of your time.”
“No worries,” said Kirsty.
He nodded to her, and she shut the door behind him.
As he walked up the garden path, past the little creatures, he thought, why would Harry call Kirsty Lane that night?
Just what was their relationship?
And what if he’d called somebody else too?
Time to get Sarah digging out some phone records.
Very, very slowly, he felt like they might be getting a grip on this case.
11. Puzzling Pieces
Sarah wrapped up a conference call on the brochures she and Grace had created for the new housing development.
Set to be built on what was once a small farm, the development would be a luxury collection of state–of–the–art homes, oozing Cotswold charm and every modern amenity at the same time.
The prices? Sky high.
She had to wonder about the less fortunate in Cherringham — those on fixed incomes, the shopkeepers, the workers in pubs and restaurants — however would they afford to continue living here?
For that matter, she thought, how will I?
“I forgot to tell you,” said Grace, coming in from the kitchen. “I booked the big table in the Ploughman’s garden for Saturday — and Billy’s making sure he’s got those big steaks in that Jack likes.”
“Terrific,” said Sarah. “I did an invite list — so see who you can get. It’s short notice, but it’s a good cause!”
Over dinner at the Pig, Jack had let slip it was his birthday. And though he never liked a fuss, Sarah wanted to pay him back for the meal he’d insisted on buying.
The Ploughman’s barbecue — and a table of Cherringham friends — seemed the perfect way of doing it. Though keeping the whole thing a surprise from someone like Jack was always going to be difficult.
She had a few minutes before she was to meet Peggy Platt for tea. Ostensibly, to give her an update on plans to process the estate, the contacts with the beneficiaries.
But really to let Jack get back inside that house.
To see if he missed anything.
And in those few minutes, while waiting, she thought she’d look at just who Peggy’s now–deceased husband was.
At least, as far as the internet could tell her.
She entered his name.
Birthdate.
Lots of Henry Platt links.
But then she saw one.
That had to be her Henry Platt.
But the link was not at all what she expected.
*
Jack sat on a low garden wall just down the road from the Platt house and watched Peggy back climb into her little car — some tiny Ford they only made over here — then drive off towards the centre of the village.
She might be well on in years, he thought, but with her painting, driving … still pretty active.
When she was gone, he crossed the road and walked over to the house.
He could always be spotted by some curious neighbour.
But then, he imagined that with the carer, her sometime handyman partner and Tony coming and going, he wouldn’t be noticed.
He walked confidently down the path to the front door, and gave the doorknob a twist.
Unlocked. No need for the picks today.
Such trust in the safety of the village … that fit Peggy.
He stepped inside the empty house, shut the door behind him and stood, not moving, breathing in the place.
Not a sound.
It felt empty. No other ‘unofficial’ visitors like him.
He took in the hall. All the doors were shut.
Last time he’d been here he hadn’t had time to look in the other downstairs rooms.
He crossed the hall and opened the door next to the sitting room. A bare dining room with an old oak table, eight chairs, landscapes on the wall. A piano.
He came out and shut the door.
He opened the next door and looked around.
Yes.
This was clearly Harry’s bedroom.
Smelling of bleach, soap, unwashed linen.
He guessed at one time it had been a study, now converted to take in the old fella when he could no longer manage the stairs.
A single bed with an old, faded cover. A walking frame. A table with a washbowl built into it and various rolls of paper, towels, soaps.
He moved round the room.
On the walls, military photos and paintings. Faded black and white pictures of groups of men in uniform, grinning at the camera.
Or looking blankly into the lens.
No family photos that he could see. Not even one of Peggy.
The room felt cold, dismal, subdued.
He shut the door and went back into the house.
*
“Sarah, you think we have enough feedback to do the tweaks and edits to the brochures?”
“I think so. Have a go at the changes, then we’ll review.”
“Brilliant.”
&nbs
p; But Sarah was completely engrossed, reading an old newspaper article on Henry Platt.
As she kept reading, learning something unexpected — and what up to now, she guessed, had been a deep secret.
*
Jack went to the banister at the top of the stairs.
Robert Grieco had said he’d repaired it. Yet, the other night, it wobbled.
He bent down and looked at the fittings where it was attached to the wall at the top of the staircase.
Still wobbly. And when he looked at the screw, it seemed to be only part ways in.
Was Grieco lying?
But that made no sense.
Why even bring it up?
Maybe he could have done a bad job. But looking at it … definitely wasn’t tricky work. Just tightening a few screws.
Yet, now, they were anything but tight.
He stood up.
Something didn’t make sense.
He stood there a moment, thinking, got to be more here.
Something else I’m missing.
*
Peggy Platt looked around Huffington’s now sunlit tearoom.
“I used to come here quite a lot, you know. Such a warm, inviting place …”
Sarah smiled. She had intended just to occupy Peggy for a bit while Jack explored the house a little more.
But now, with what she had unearthed, that simple plan had gone right out of the window.
She waited until they both had their tea, along with a small plate of pastries.
“Peggy, besides talking to Geoffrey and your husband’s carer, I found out something.”
Peggy kept her smile.
Sarah had to wonder if she should even bring this up.
She leaned close, her voice low.
“I saw that your husband, Harry, had been married before.”
And at that Peggy looked away.
“Yes.”
And that was all.
“Such a long time ago.” A small smile to Sarah. “Like it almost didn’t happen.”
And true. 1950. A lifetime ago.
But this was more than just the story of a first, failed marriage.
“His wife …” Sarah saw Peggy’s eyes narrow and then quickly adjusted. “The woman. She claimed that Harry abused her.” Then, more directly: “Hit her.”
Peggy nodded. “That woman said a lot of things. Harry had only been back from the war for a few years. She’d say anything, that type.”
Sarah nodded.
Then she had a thought about something else in the archived newspaper story that she only really understood just now.
“The article claimed there was another woman. Younger. An actress. But her name was kept out of the papers.”
Peggy’s face turned glacial.
“Were you that other woman?”
Then — in a pause — Sarah felt some of the old woman’s steeliness.
“Yes.”
And she took a sip of her tea.
*
A wobbly banister …
But was that enough to send Henry tumbling down?
Jack knelt on the stairs to get a closer look at the two unsteady steps he’d noticed before.
He grabbed the lip of one step.
Just a little wobble. Nothing dangerous there.
Then — again down a step, to the other loose board. Grabbing it, giving it a wiggle up and down and—
There was a ‘pop’.
And Jack felt the wooden plank of the step cantilever up as if a nail had just popped free.
Popped free.
The step loose.
Now that could have done serious damage.
When he tried the same move on the step above, after a few moments the same thing happened
Two steps. A bit loose and — when jiggled — the nails gave way.
And Jack thought: is that because someone loosened a nail before?
And then, well, if that was your intent, it would be an easy matter to hammer it back in.
When you were done …
But a nail once loosened — as Jack knew well from all the caulking he’d done on the Grey Goose — often stayed loose unless you puttied the hole.
Without that, if someone was trying to hide what they did after the fact, the nail would not hold.
Jack pressed the plank down, palms flat, just using his weight to force the nail back in.
Probably safe for anyone taking a normal step.
But an old man, unsure of his footing, grasping for that banister?
*
Sarah looked at her watch.
This conversation had effectively shut Peggy down, having her travel back more than half a century, to when she was young — and probably amazingly beautiful.
When she was the other woman.
But then, the charge that Harry had been abusive.
Clearly, Peggy didn’t like hearing that.
“I’d better go,” Peggy said. “Thank you for this, and for talking to the others.”
She stood up, quickly, remarkably spry considering her age.
“I’ll be glad when this is over …”
Sarah smiled.
“Yes. Just need to chat to your daughter and …”
But at that, Peggy turned as if she hadn’t heard the words at all and started for the door out of Huffington’s.
And before following, Sarah took out her phone and sent Jack a quick text.
‘Peggy back in fifteen.’
Hoping Jack got it and wasn’t discovered in the house.
The widow had been through enough for one day.
12. For Want of a Nail
Jack felt his phone vibrate and dug it out.
He looked at the message: Fifteen minutes.
Not much more time to look around. He wondered if something had gone wrong with what was supposed to be a pleasant tea?
He’d need to find that out later.
But he wondered if looking around upstairs, he had missed something down below?
He started to walk down, alert to the unreliable banister and the possibility of more wobbly steps.
Still thinking could someone have intentionally done that?
Pretty easy, with Peggy in her painting shed, Harry dozing off …
Certainly easy enough for the rough–edged Grieco.
He came back down to the big hallway, looking more like a funeral parlour than a home, with the heavy, sombre furniture, thick blood–coloured rugs.
To see again the small telephone table tucked in behind the curve in the stairs.
Jack went over to it. This must have been the phone Harry used that night to call Kirsty.
If he was confused, stumbling around, wondering where his wife was …
Jack sat down on the little chair next to the table, just letting the ideas come.
Then he reached out a hand as if he was Harry.
The phone, an easy grab.
And next to it the address book that he’d seen when he first came to the house.
He picked it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
If he and Sarah were barking up the wrong tree here, he would return it tomorrow.
But something told him this little book — when combined with Sarah’s online skills — might be useful.
He looked at his watch.
He really should go.
Especially if Sarah’s meeting with Peggy somehow didn’t go well.
He took one last look around the hall.
First at floor level. Then waist high. And finally, the usual quick scan of pictures and ceiling that he’d done a thousand times over the years in so many crime scenes.
Often he’d spot something behind a picture, or hidden in a lampshade — instantly visible once the lights were turned on.
And just for old times sake he got up and went to the light switch, flicked it on.
Now noticing that the switch was a long way from the stairs.
Then he took the final look.
Nothing i
n the lampshade — well no surprise there.
His eyes followed an ancient picture rail that ran all around the hallway, all the way to the door …
But wait — what was that?
He peered up at the corner of the room — then walked over to it.
There, tucked behind the picture rail — so tiny nobody would ever see it if they weren’t actually looking — was a tiny object with what looked like a lens on it.
A fire sensor maybe? But Jack could see there was no fire alarm system.
For a second, he was plain baffled. This was so unexpected.
He walked back across the hall, picked up the telephone chair, carried it over, stood on it and reached up …
To pluck the object from its position.
It was a camera.
Tiny and Wi–Fi enabled for sure — Jack knew immediately it was some kind of spy–cam. And state of the art, smaller even than the ones he’d come across working back in NYC just a few years ago.
He knew it must connect with the house Wi–Fi then, he guessed, transmit somewhere, so that the house could be monitored.
These days, plenty of parents used them to keep an eye on their nannies or baby–sitters. And, of course, some sons and daughters were also using them to check up on carers in the family home.
Make sure nobody was getting abused.
So who had put it here? And were there other cameras?
He put the chair back by the table and made another quick tour of the downstairs rooms — now knowing what to look for.
But he found no more cameras — not even in Harry’s bedroom.
That didn’t make sense. Just one camera in the hallway?
No.
Someone must have removed the cameras — and missed this one.
Why?
He wanted to investigate more — but he knew he’d run out of time. Peggy would be here any second.
And after all she’d been through, he didn’t want to frighten her now.
He walked briskly to the front door.
Should be enough time to get out, back to his Sprite.
Knowing now that he had a few things to tell Sarah … that there definitely seemed something suspicious about those stairs.
What it meant — he didn’t know.
And that now he was also worried about Peggy. He might drive by the place a few times at night.
Just to check on her, on the place.
He opened the door and walked out, not racing but moving directly to his small Sprite, parked back up the road near Kirsty’s house.
A Death in the Family Page 7
