by Rebecca Tope
‘Keep your voice down,’ Vince snapped, cuffing her lightly on the arm.
She flushed with embarrassment. ‘Well, I just don’t see the point of wasting time talking to somebody like Brenda, when all she does is moan and complain. And I don’t see any point, either, in you going out of your way to meet Sid, when you’re with him all week.’
‘There isn’t any point, Ally. It’s just normal life. It’s what people do. You see someone you know, and you stop for a few minutes to chat with them.’
‘Well, I’m all jangled and cross now.’
‘So it seems.’ He was huffy himself. ‘Shall we get on with the shopping?’
Alicia didn’t want to let it go. Grabbing milk and cheese from the chiller, she reran the conversation with Brenda. Everything about the woman offended her, and she still blamed Vince for the encounter. She held her tongue until they’d loaded the shopping into the car and were driving home.
‘I don’t want to be rude to Sid – but I really don’t think I can bear any more of Brenda. It might seem stupid, but it’s true.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ he said angrily.
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘It never seems to occur to you that ordinary casual chat doesn’t come easily to someone in my job. That anything that isn’t about death or coffins or hearses is a breath of fresh air for me.’
She paused. He was right – it never did occur to her. ‘But—’ she began, more gently. ‘In that case, why Sid? Why not somebody who’s got nothing to do with the funeral business?’
‘Like who? When do I ever get the chance to meet ordinary folk?’
‘Oh, Vince,’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised it was like that. Maybe it’s time you started looking for another job.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, much to her surprise. ‘Maybe it is.’
* * *
Drew got home just as Karen was shredding red cabbage and slicing cucumber. ‘Salad for lunch,’ she told him superfluously.
‘Am I late?’ he ventured.
‘You didn’t say what time to expect you, so it wouldn’t be reasonable to accuse you of that. It’s fifteen minutes past our usual lunchtime, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be cross. Wait till I tell you what I’ve found out.’
‘You do know what today is, don’t you?’ She glared at him, her eyes full of reproach. He had no difficulty in following the apparent change of subject.
‘Yes, my angel. I know what today is. And the best thing, as we both know, is to try not to think about it.’
‘I don’t feel like I normally do.’ The gleam of optimism was all too familiar.
‘Darling, you know how irregular you are. Day twenty-nine really isn’t so significant.’
‘I know. But knowing what day it is, I’d advise you to just do everything you can to humour me. Stay on the right side of me. That sort of thing. Now, sit down and eat. And tell me about this woman you’ve been talking to. She must be quite something – you’re lit up like a Christmas tree.’
He crunched valiantly through the fibrous salad, trying to talk at the same time. He summarised everything he could remember of Roxanne’s disclosures, but made no reference to his own confession about the dead baby, nor to Frank and Lorraine Dunlop.
‘So, does that mean we pack it all in, and take her word for it that some unholy combination of stimulants finished him off?’ Karen asked when he’d finished. ‘Bit of an anticlimax.’
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘She might be protecting somebody. Or playing a game with you. Dropping Sid’s name like that was mischief-making, if ever I saw it. It doesn’t sound as if she’s suffering from any pangs of guilt over her part in all this. Surely she’d be absolutely distraught if she really thought she’d accidentally killed him with some herbal potion she’d made. No, I vote for at least another try at working out what really happened.’
‘I love you,’ he told her. ‘You always say exactly what I hope you’ll say. Now, before you change your mind, we’d better plan what we’re going to ask the neighbours.’
As they turned into Primrose Close, Karen was chattering nervously. ‘Are you sure they invited you? What exactly did they say?’
‘Calm down,’ he begged her. ‘We’re just going to let them talk. We want to know as much as possible about the Lapsfords, that’s all. It’s normal practice – the police always interview the neighbours. They probably feel cheated because nobody’s been to interrogate them and give them a bit of excitement. We’ll ask when they last saw Jim, whether they ever heard arguments going on – that sort of thing.’
‘It feels like such an awful cheek,’ she protested. ‘We really don’t have the right to nose about like this.’
‘It was their suggestion,’ he reminded her again. ‘We’re just responding to an invitation. I thought you’d enjoy it.’ He glanced at her reproachfully. ‘If you’re really against the idea, you can stay out in the car.’
She sighed. ‘No, no. I’m right behind you.’
Once inside number 22, welcomed in by a bustling Sarah, the couple stood patiently while Dottie cleared newspapers and knitting off the sofa. ‘We weren’t at all sure you’d come,’ she burbled happily. ‘We didn’t think you’d even remember our little chat.’
‘Of course I did,’ said Drew, his natural charm rising effortlessly to the surface. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said, ever since.’
‘Well, now,’ interposed Sarah, coming through from the kitchen with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘We don’t want to stir up anything unpleasant, of course. The whole business is obviously very … delicate. Have you been interviewing anybody else?’
‘In a way. Just informally, you know,’ Drew smiled. ‘After all, I’ve got no official standing whatsoever. It’s just that—’
‘Oh yes, we quite understand,’ Dottie picked up the thread again. ‘We’re quite relieved about it, aren’t we, Sarah? I mean, if there had been something amiss, and we never had a chance to do our bit, we’d feel terrible. Wouldn’t we, Sarah?’
Sarah tossed her head impatiently. ‘The whole thing seems clear enough to me. A man dies suddenly, after showing every sign of being in excellent health, and the doctor issues a death certificate without a second thought. Nobody informs the police, the man’s cremated, and his family carry on, possibly rather better off than before in several ways. As I see it, young man, you’re doing a public service by trying to learn more. And I for one am more than happy to help you.’
Drew gave an appreciative laugh. ‘Well, thank you,’ he said. Karen passed him a cup of tea from the tray.
Dottie spoke more hesitantly. ‘He did seem very well on Monday. We – well, I, actually – saw him come home, at about ten, trotting up the garden path like a man half his age. Waved to me as he went indoors. It’s awful to think that he was dead just a few hours later.’ She shook her head dolefully.
‘He doesn’t sound like the sort of man who’d have a heart attack?’ prompted Karen.
‘Oh, no! He didn’t ever seem worried – stressed as they call it these days. He’d go out with a cheerful whistle, often walking rather than using the car. And come back with a big smile, too, most of the time. Always light-hearted. As if life sat easily on his shoulders. I often said, “that man has a clear conscience” – didn’t I, Sarah?’
Sarah nodded slightly. ‘They never had rows,’ she contributed. ‘Nothing like that at all. In my opinion, it was one of those marriages where the partners have drifted apart, each with their own life. The only real problems centred on the younger son, David. You’ve seen him, I presume?’ Drew nodded. ‘He isn’t really right, even now. Volatile might be the word for it.’
‘So I understand,’ Drew agreed. ‘We are hoping to go and talk to him, but we don’t know where he lives.’
‘Oh, we can tell you that,’ chirped Dottie. ‘Monica left his address and number with us at Easter, when she and Jim went to Paris for a few days. I
n case anything went wrong with the house, you see. Philip was away, as well. Here it is—’ she flapped a large dog-eared address book which had been lying on a small side-table. ‘David Lapsford, Flat 1, number 5 Froggett’s Way, Garnstone. You know where that is?’ she added helpfully. ‘It’s part of Woodingleigh, really. You turn left at the main road, and then left again.’
Drew rummaged for a piece of paper, but was forestalled by Karen, calmly taking a diary from her handbag. ‘5, Froggett’s Way,’ she repeated. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I don’t feel we’ve told you anything very useful,’ said Sarah, doubtfully. ‘There is more, but somehow, it sounds so stark, listing possible motives for killing a man.’
‘If it helps, we already know about the rumours concerning Mrs Lapsford and the dentist,’ said Drew. ‘And the even stronger rumours about Jim and one or two lady friends.’
‘Ah,’ said Sarah, with evident relief.
They finished their tea, and chatted idly about the weather and the changing face of Bradbourne. They asked Karen about her job, and what she made of Drew’s new career as an undertaker. ‘I’m getting used to it,’ she told them, with a rueful smile that made them laugh.
‘It’s an honourable trade,’ said Dottie, reassuringly. The words hung in the air, echoing in Drew’s ears. Is it? he wondered. Is it really?
Before they left, Sarah said, ‘She’s had quite a lot of visitors, of course. Her woman friend, the vicar, people bringing flowers. She seems to be well looked-after.’
‘There was the man from the printworks, too. Jack somebody, I think. He arrived as I was leaving, on Thursday,’ Drew added.
‘So there was,’ she smiled. ‘I’d forgotten him.’
‘But you knew who he was?’
‘Jim’s best friend,’ nodded Sarah carelessly. ‘He helps him in the garden sometimes. Funny little man. Something sad about him, with that awful beard and those glasses. He must be feeling wretched now.’
Drew made no reply. The man had certainly seemed agitated at the printworks the previous afternoon. He was prepared to believe that could be a manifestation of wretchedness at losing his friend and colleague.
‘We’ll be off now,’ said Drew, with finality. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
‘It was nice to meet you,’ said Dottie. ‘We don’t get a lot of visitors. It isn’t a very friendly neighbourhood, you know. Everyone intent on their own business.’
Drew paused, remembering Roxanne’s remark: A town without a soul, she’d said. Wasn’t Dottie now saying very much the same sort of thing?
Monica was feeling abandoned. Since phoning Philip earlier in the day, she’d had no contact from anybody. Solitude gave her too much time to dwell on things that had been said, and her anxieties mounted. If it was true that Jim had been murdered, the only person she could think of who might be capable of it was David. Philip had not appeared to find it too hard to imagine that his brother had poisoned their father. That was the thing which frightened Monica most. If Philip had laughed and dismissed the whole idea as hysteria, she would have felt much better.
Her mind was filled with David as he was when he last visited her – his behaviour bordering on madness, his emotions out of control – and she shuddered. If he had done it, then he must be protected. Nothing would bring Jim back, and to lose David as well was unthinkable. She loved him as if he had been born to her, and she reproached herself viciously for letting him find out part of the truth about himself without having first prepared him.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late, even now. Having washed her face, and brushed her hair, she left the house, ignoring the telephone which began to ring after she had pulled the front door securely behind her.
It took twenty minutes to drive the five miles to David’s flat in Garnstone. Getting out onto the main road entailed a long wait. So preoccupied was she, that she didn’t even ask herself why there was such a hold-up. Something ahead was slowing everyone down, so that they were backed up beyond her junction. Hurry up, she repeated to herself, as she edged forward. The time had come to tell him the whole truth about his origins, and she couldn’t bear to be frustrated in her intention at this stage.
Crawling behind slow-moving traffic, she finally understood that something must have happened. It was never like this on a Saturday, even in high summer. Bradbourne was not on a main route to anywhere, and did not go in for big public events which would attract this number of cars. Must be an accident, she said to herself, and the instinctive spasm in her gut gripped her, until she knew for sure that it was neither of her sons lying mangled in the road. A mother’s curse, she’d long ago concluded; something you just had to live with.
The incident holding up the traffic had happened on a bend in the road, and did indeed involve a heavy police and ambulance presence. But it was not a car accident. There were flashing blue lights from two cars parked drunkenly on the grass verge, beside a field gate, and yellow-jacketed policemen trying in vain to wave the crawling traffic past. But nobody was in any hurry to proceed. They were craning their necks to glimpse the scene inside the gate. Monica was no different.
Another vehicle had been driven right into the field, and two men were kneeling over a body laid out on the ground. A big oak tree grew close to the gate, and a bright orange plastic rope dangled from a branch, incongruously vivid. It ended in a crudely hacked-off tuft of strands.
It was all astonishingly close to the road. Had somebody actually hanged themselves, here in full public gaze, in broad daylight? It seemed completely incredible. And yet, she thought, as she tried to see the face of the prostrate form, there was something grotesquely clever about it. How many cars would stop when they saw the jerking, dangling body? The hedge would have partially concealed it, so anyone getting a brief glimpse while travelling at speed might persuade themselves that it wasn’t what it seemed. Horror washed through her. They said that suicide was an act of anger, even hatred, against those around him who had failed to observe his despair. This was surely the case here. Young children, delicate old ladies, even members of his own family, might have driven past and seen the hanging body. A cruel form of revenge. She turned her face away, belatedly obeying the policeman waving her past.
It hadn’t been David – of course it hadn’t. She’d glimpsed the person’s feet, in black boots with silver studs and buckles, nothing like anything that David would wear. But it could have been him. She remembered the anguish on her son’s face the last morning she had seen him, and her hands began to shake. If David had indeed poisoned Jim, then suicide was a very real possibility, given his fragile mental state. Cursing herself, she began to accelerate, following the unblocked flow of cars, now moving at a more normal pace.
She had to save her boy. Whatever it took, however many lies or bribes she had to employ, she must return him to his old self, sure of his parents’ love for him, and free of any cause for self-loathing. Frowning fiercely, she forced herself to prepare for the coming meeting. She would have to be very careful indeed.
Roxanne could not get the image of the fresh-faced young undertaker’s man out of her mind. He had arrived shortly after she’d treated herself to a stimulating mugful of one of her own herbal mixtures, designed to raise her spirits and remove a few inhibitions. She’d hoped she would feel less morose as a result. When her visitor had arrived, she had wanted to throw her arms around him. Instead, she knew she had talked too much.
When he left, she felt restless and anxious, uncharacteristically bemoaning her isolation. There were events going on in town which she wanted to be a part of. The strangeness of Jim’s death was giving rise to gossip and surmising which she could not afford to miss. Her own part in it could not be ignored. Although nobody could ever prove anything, now she’d disposed of the evidence, she’d said enough to the funeral chap to arouse unwelcome suspicions. What a fool she’d been! Her best hope now was to sniff out others who’d provided Jim with unwonted stimulation. Not least, the irresponsible idiot who�
��d given him Viagra.
That piece of information had come as a real shock. Jim was well known to be a health freak. He took vitamin supplements and experimented with a wide range of herbal teas. Since taking up with Roxanne, his horizons had broadened significantly, and he haunted the health food shop in town, seeking out new sources of essential minerals and life-enhancing substances. Ginseng, kelp and garlic had all been his favourites, one after the other. The idea that he would jump on the bandwagon that was Viagra diminished him in Roxanne’s eyes. Somebody has exploited his vanity, his fear of growing old and less potent, and had sold him a powerful drug which in the circumstances could only threaten his health.
It was Saturday afternoon, so Pauline would probably be at home. Without bothering to telephone, Roxanne set out across the fields to walk to her sister’s house. The exercise would be therapeutic, in any case. It was a little over two miles distant, avoiding the roads: a narrow, bramble-choked footpath, scarcely ever used, opened onto the far end of Pauline’s road. It was not an official footpath, merely a forgotten route, crossing the closed-off ends of several of Bradbourne’s older residential streets. Children played on the scrubby land, where nettles and brambles grew amidst the rubble and abandoned rolls of barbed wire. The hilly terrain meant a scramble down into the streets, which few respectable adults would even consider. Roxanne scarcely hesitated before swinging her leg over a single-wire barrier, and letting herself half-slide, half-run down the steep embankment. It was the most direct way to Pauline’s, and that was all there was to it.
The house was modest and inconspicuous. Pauline had lived there ever since she first married. When her husband had forgotten himself with a young housewife, during a longish building job in the woman’s house, Pauline’s reaction had led to his walking out and never coming back. With much less trouble than most people experience, he had moved in with his customer, enjoying the fruits of his own labour, and ousting the bewildered civil servant who had paid him for his brickwork.
