The Craftsman

by Sharon Bolton

  In a chair by the fire sat the tallest, thinnest woman I’d ever seen. Her head and shoulders rose above the high back of the armchair, while her legs stretched out in front of it. Her black dress and cardigan seemed to sag, as though held up by stuffing, rather than by a corporeal person. Her eyebrows had been drawn on, and the left didn’t quite match the right. Bright peach lipstick was streaked across where her lips should have been. She looked like a child experimenting with make-up for the first time, except for her deeply lined skin and the endless folds of her neck. Through the soft shade of lavender that was her hair, I could see a scabbed and flaking scalp.

  She looked a hundred years old.

  ‘Mother, these are Detective Constable Devine and WPC Lovelady. Officers, my mother, Grace Greenwood.’

  Mrs Greenwood extended her trembling right hand and I noticed a small cut-glass tumbler with amber-coloured liquid on a table by her side.

  Tom took her hand, and for a weird moment I thought he was going to bend to kiss it. ‘I’m very sorry to disturb your Sunday, Mrs Greenwood,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you understand we have to do everything we can to find young Elanor.’

  Her eyes glistened, and her garishly painted mouth twitched in what I thought was a smile. It was probably a smile. Tom was the sort of man old ladies would naturally warm to. She didn’t acknowledge me.

  ‘Dark times,’ said Roy Greenwood. ‘Please have a seat. We don’t serve alcohol in this house, but perhaps I can bring you a glass of cordial?’

  I could smell spirits in the air and wondered why he was lying.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ and, ‘No, thank you,’ Tom and I spoke in unison.

  We sat down carefully. There was something about this room that intimidated movement. Roy and his mother waited, watching us with identical brown eyes. She raised a lace-trimmed handkerchief to wipe away a tear.

  ‘I’m going to come straight out with it because time is of the essence,’ Tom began, ‘and ask you where you were, Mr Greenwood, yesterday evening between the hours of nine o’clock and midnight.’

  Greenwood’s eyes closed briefly, as though determined to remain calm in the face of indignity. ‘I was here,’ he said. ‘We listened to the radio. Mother prefers it to the TV. Her eyesight isn’t what it was.’

  ‘May I ask what you listened to?’ I said.

  ‘Saturday Night Theatre.’ Mrs Greenwood’s voice was low and smooth, without the harsh grate heard so commonly in aged voices. ‘Sybil Thorndike and William Ingram in a new production of Night Must Fall by Emlyn Williams.’

  ‘Mother loves the theatre. She was an actress before she married.’

  I wasn’t surprised. There was something about the upright posture, the regal turn of the head that suggested royalty. Or the ability to fake it.

  ‘We switched off when the weather forecast came on at ten o’clock,’ said her son. ‘We didn’t stay up to listen to it. The rain this morning rather took us by surprise.’

  ‘And what did you do at ten o’clock?’ asked Tom.

  Greenwood looked affronted. ‘We went to bed. I’m a churchwarden. I have to be up early on Sunday.’

  ‘Just to be clear, you didn’t leave the house at all yesterday evening or last night?’

  ‘I think I went into the garden at one point, to see if the cat was anywhere around.’

  I turned to look at the radio. ‘This is Chopin, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Do you play, Mrs Greenwood?’

  ‘It’s the Prelude in C sharp minor,’ she said. ‘We’ve been looking forward to it.’

  So much for my charm offensive.

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Good game I thought yesterday, Roy. Nice catch for the fourth wicket.’

  Greenwood sat forward as though about to get to his feet. ‘Are there any more questions?’ he said. ‘Mother hates to miss a concert.’

  Tom said, ‘I had to leave early. I don’t know if you noticed. My wife had a family thing. I missed tea. I was wondering if Luna was there.’

  Greenwood frowned. ‘Surely you’ve asked the Glassbrooks this? Larry was playing yesterday. He’ll know whether his family came with him or not.’

  ‘We’re asking everyone,’ Tom said. ‘Do you remember seeing Luna?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do, now you mention it. She arrived with a group of young people at about four o’clock.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about her behaviour?’ Tom said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Did she seem troubled at all? Did she speak to anyone in particular other than the friends she arrived with? Did anyone – one of the adults, for example – take a particular interest in her?’

  ‘You surely don’t suspect someone at the cricket club?’ Greenwood said.

  ‘A lot of people go to watch the matches,’ I said, thinking back to the group of spectators on Dwane’s model town. ‘Did you have the usual crowd yesterday?’

  ‘I’d say so, yes,’ Greenwood agreed. ‘And for that reason when I wasn’t needed on the field, I sat in the changing room.’

  I waited for Tom to follow up. He said nothing.

  ‘You don’t watch the match?’ I asked, when the silence was becoming awkward.

  ‘There are no locks on the changing-room door, and the men tend to be very trusting, leaving wallets and watches in their coat pockets,’ Greenwood replied. ‘When there are so many people around, I sit quietly in one corner of the changing room, reading a newspaper. So I’m afraid I didn’t see much of what Luna was up to.’

  Tom got to his feet, suddenly enough to surprise me. ‘Well, thanks for your time,’ he said. ‘Very much appreciated. We’ll leave you in peace now.’

  As the door closed behind us, Tom pulled out a cigarette and leaned against the car.

  ‘Bit abrupt,’ I said.

  ‘“Do you play, Mrs Greenwood?”‘ he mocked.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Gracie Greenwood couldn’t play “Chopsticks”,’ he said. ‘That piano belonged to her late husband, who played in the music halls. It’s just for show now. And she wasn’t an actress; she was a Bluebell Girl.’

  ‘Wow. Really?’

  ‘I’ve seen pictures. She was sex on two very long legs.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve cheered up. Even if it took Grace Greenwood’s very long – if varicosed – legs to do it.’

  Tom pulled a face. ‘I didn’t have the hump with you, Florence. I was annoyed with myself. I should have picked up on the cricket connection.’

  He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. ‘Jump in,’ he said, holding the door open for me. He’d never done that before. ‘Is your A to Z of Sabden funerals back at the ranch?’

  I waited until he’d joined me in the car. ‘Yes. Why?’

  He stared straight ahead. ‘I know where Stephen and Susan are.’

  43

  ‘How’d you get on?’ Rushton, I swear, was in exactly the same position in the CID room. He didn’t appear to have moved an inch.

  ‘Well, they’re both creepy as bats in the bedroom.’ Tom walked straight past the boss, throwing his jacket across his desk. ‘Where are they, Florence?’

  ‘And? Anything more concrete to add?’ Rushton said, as I crossed to my desk and reached for my rolled-up funeral chart. ‘Florence?’

  ‘His mother alibis him,’ Tom told Rushton. ‘For last night, anyway. And they were quite knowledgeable about the programme they’d listened to. Mind you, a copy of the Radio Times would soon tell them what was on.’

  ‘You think they were both lying?’ I brought the chart over to the table.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a look.’ He took the chart and flipped off the band. It shot into the air and vanished. ‘Got a sec, boss?’ he said, although Rushton was close enough to hug him. ‘Anyone else free? Florence and I have had an idea.’

  We had? I hadn’t a clue what he was about to say, but I found paperweights and a stapler to hold the chart down at the corners. Others gathered round.

&n
bsp; ‘First of all, do we agree that Susan and Stephen are probably in a grave somewhere in Sabden?’ Tom said. ‘Possibly in a nearby village, but most likely here?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Sharples said. ‘They might be nothing to do with what happened to Patsy’

  Tom looked round the table, eyebrows up.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re right,’ the DI conceded. ‘The chances are, they’re somewhere on this chart of Flossie’s.’

  ‘In that case,’ Tom said, ‘the biggest problem we’ve had is not knowing when the children were put in the caskets. Whether before or after burial. Until we know that, we can’t begin to narrow it down.’

  ‘I thought we decided it couldn’t have happened before,’ said Rushton. ‘Every funeral director we spoke to said it was impossible, that their security was too tight.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what they told us,’ Tom said. ‘Larry and Roy being particularly adamant on that one, probably because if Patsy was put in the casket before the funeral, one of them had to be in on it.’

  ‘They both have alibis,’ said Rushton. ‘Not the best, I admit, given that Greenwood’s is his mother and Glassbrook’s his girlfriend, but without something more to go on, an alibi is an alibi.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve just remembered something that opens it out,’ said Tom. ‘Which means if Patsy was already in that casket, as Florence’s good friend Dwane has always insisted, it wasn’t necessarily Larry or Roy who put her there.’

  ‘When you say you remembered something, is it to do with cricket, by any chance?’ Rushton wasn’t going to let that one go in a hurry.

  Tom faced up to him. ‘It certainly is, sir. Specifically the changing rooms.’

  ‘Come again?’ Sharples asked.

  ‘Tell ‘em, Florence,’ Tom said.

  Huh?

  ‘Roy Greenwood spends a lot of time in the cricket changing rooms when he’s not playing,’ I said, stalling for time, because I had no idea where Tom was going with this. ‘He doesn’t watch the match, or sit outside enjoying the fresh air, because he’s a bit worried about security.’ I was waffling and any second now they’d know it.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘Greenwood is worried about security. All the players leave their stuff in the changing rooms while they’re playing and he’s concerned that valuables are being left unattended. Such as watches, and wallets, and …’ He turned to me, nodding at me to fill in the gap, which I was as clueless about— Oh Lord, I should have spotted that.

  ‘And keys,’ I said. ‘Players keep their keys in the changing rooms. And when Roy Greenwood is playing, no one is watching them.’

  ‘You’re saying someone nicked Roy or Larry’s funeral parlour keys while Roy was on the pitch?’ Sharples said.

  ‘We think that’s exactly what happened,’ said Tom. ‘The season’s two months old. That’s nearly nine Saturdays when our man has had chance to sneak into the empty changing rooms and nick the keys.’

  ‘They’d notice,’ said Rushton. ‘They’d report it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Although I can see Larry not wanting to admit to Roy that his precious parlour keys had gone missing. I can see him quietly having a new set cut.’

  ‘They might not have been nicked,’ said Tom. ‘A couple of bars of soap, a clever locksmith, how hard can it be?’

  ‘We can check local locksmiths,’ Sharples said.

  ‘So the Saturday-afternoon cricket matches not only gave our guy the opportunity to watch and select his victims, it gave him the means to get into the funeral parlour and dispose of their bodies?’ As Rushton spoke, I could see some of the tension seeping out of him. ‘Well done, you two.’

  I opened my mouth again. I wasn’t about to take credit for something I hadn’t done. Then a thought occurred to me. ‘Being able to access the funeral parlour wouldn’t necessarily let him know when a casket burial was planned. I’m not sure we’re quite there yet.’

  ‘Roy keeps the bookings in a big black book on his desk,’ said Tom. He turned to Sharples. ‘He has beautiful handwriting too. We spent a good twenty seconds admiring it, didn’t we, boss? Anyone could find out about forthcoming funerals just by looking in the book.’

  ‘What about the additional weight?’ Brown asked. ‘I thought we’d agreed an extra occupant would be blindingly obvious when the coffin was pick up.’

  Silence for a moment.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I said. ‘Roy Greenwood claimed it would be noticed, but he never carries the coffins. Neither does Larry. Greenwood walks in front of the procession with a black and silver cane. Larry doesn’t usually attend funerals at all. The pall bearers are all big men, and there’s six of them. They wouldn’t necessarily know who was in the coffin, let alone what it was supposed to weigh.’

  More than one head nodded in agreement.

  ‘Sorry to piss on the bonfire, but we still haven’t solved the problem of the kids waking up and screaming the place down,’ said Rushton. ‘They all vanished late evening. Whoever took them would have to let themselves into the funeral parlour while it was still dark, so we’re talking early hours at the latest. It’s still a fair few hours before they were lowered into the graves. I just don’t think alcohol alone would do it.’

  ‘And we know none of the conventional anaesthetics was found in Patsy,’ Sharples said.

  We all fell quiet while we thought about that.

  ‘OK, let’s park that one for a minute,’ said Rushton. ‘Let’s just say you’re right, Flossie. Let’s say they were in the caskets before the burials. Does it help us find them?’

  I looked at Tom. He looked back at me. His eyebrows twitched.

  ‘In your own time, love,’ Sharples said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Probably.’ I picked up a yellow crayon, dark enough to make a mark but pale enough for writing in ink to be seen through it. ‘At the very least it helps us narrow it down.’ Leaning across the desk, I drew a long, horizontal line through one of the entries on the chart, the listing of the funeral of Douglas Simmonds on Monday, 16 June, at ten-thirty in the morning at St Wilfred’s. It was his grave that I’d dug up in the early hours.

  ‘Patsy,’ Tom said, with a tight little smile.

  If he didn’t help me out soon, there was going to be a fresh grave with his name on it. I looked at the chart, then back at him. He gave me an encouraging nod. I looked at the chart again, willing myself to focus. I found the date when Stephen had gone missing. Oh, for—

  I leaned further up the table and drew a second horizontal line.

  ‘Thursday, 17 April, Ada Wright,’ read Tom, who was closest. ‘Casket, St Joseph’s Churchyard, 10.30 a.m. funeral, Glassbrook & Greenwood officiating.’

  ‘Thursday, 17 April was the morning after Stephen disappeared.’ I smiled at him. I was still going to kill him, though.

  ‘There were four funerals that day,’ Brown said. ‘Why that one?’

  ‘One of them was in the afternoon,’ I said. ‘And there would have been a last-minute viewing, or at least the possibility of one. The other two were coffins rather than caskets. Not enough room.’

  I moved higher up the chart and drew the third line.

  ‘Tuesday, 18 March, Winifred Brown, casket.’ Tom did the honours again. ‘Duckworth Street Cemetery, 9.30 a.m., Glassbrook & Greenwood officiating. The only funeral they did that day. And the morning after Susan Duxbury was last seen.’

  I turned to the superintendent. ‘Can we do it, sir? Can we exhume these two?’

  Silence. Then, ‘Possible. Yes, on balance, I think so. I think we can probably make the case. But it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday. I may have to send someone down to London to pick up the order.’

  ‘Luna won’t live till Tuesday,’ I said.

  ‘It won’t help us find her anyway,’ Tom said. ‘We’ve already made it clear we’re watching every funeral parlour. He can’t put her in a Glassbrook casket.’

  ‘Digging up the graves is about Step
hen Shorrock and Susan Duxbury,’ Rushton said, ‘and we’re pretty sure they’re already dead. A couple of days’ delay can’t hurt them.’

  ‘In the meantime, we work this list.’ Sharples turned round and pointed to the blackboard. ‘We can find out where each of them was last night. Check alibis. Start narrowing it down. Take fingerprints. Search properties if we’re allowed; get emergency warrants if we’re not. Come on, people, get to work.’

  44

  Several hours later, a blast of cold air hit me and I swayed in the doorway of the Black Dog. I reached in my bag for my keys and set off towards where I’d left the car. Behind me, I heard the pub door open and the sound of Dionne Warwick promising to say lots of little prayers for the man she loved.

  ‘For ever and ev—’ I sang, and stopped. There was a white van in my way. It had reversed right up to the cellar trapdoors, and its rear doors were open. A male figure was leaning inside, and on hearing my footsteps, he straightened up.

  ‘Evening, Miss Lovelady,’ John Donnelly said.

  ‘Evening, John,’ I said.

  ‘All right, mate,’ said Tom from somewhere behind my shoulder. I didn’t look round. I wasn’t sure I could rely on my balance. ‘You not out searching?’

  ‘I’m on my way now.’ John’s eyes went from Tom to me. ‘Had a few jobs to do for Dad first.’

  ‘Don’t stay out too late,’ Tom said, as I set off again. ‘And make sure you’re not on your own.’

  My car had gone. I turned on the spot. There were only four cars in the car park, apart from the white van that belonged to the pub. One of the other cars was Tom’s.

  ‘Where’s my car?’ I turned to face him. ‘Someone’s stolen my car.’

  ‘Your car’s parked outside the Glassbrook house,’ he told me. ‘Randy drove it home.’

  I looked down at my hand, at the car ignition key sitting there, and was conscious of John Donnelly, inside the van again but perfectly quiet, as though he were listening.

  ‘We keep spare keys at the station.’ Tom kept his voice low. ‘The last thing we need right now is you in a car accident.’