Palmer-Jones 05 - Sea Fever

by Ann Cleeves

  He did not hear the door of the cottage being opened though he noticed when he was in the bedroom that the noise of the wind had suddenly diminished. The birdwatchers on Porthkennan Head were aware of the moment of stillness, too. Suddenly they could speak to each other without having to shout, and they could breathe more easily. Perhaps it’s all over, they said. Perhaps it’s blown itself out. But the period of calm was only brief. It lasted perhaps for fifteen minutes; then the storm continued more ferociously than ever. And even when the wind had stopped, the momentum of the waves was unstoppable. It was still not quite high tide, and they fell with relentless power onto the rocks where the birdwatchers were sitting, so the men had to move back onto the grass and set up their telescopes there. Perhaps it was the sound of water which prevented Rosco hearing the door of the cottage being opened, or perhaps he was not sufficiently on his guard. It took him longer than he expected to find the photograph of his mother, but he continued to look because it was inconceivable now that he could leave the house without it. He discovered it at last, without a frame, trapped behind the drawer.

  When he went back into the room, the figure, anonymous in anorak and hood and boots, was standing just inside the door, as if only just arrived, but his gun was missing from the chair and was in her hand. He stood across the room from her, still clutching the photograph and thought that Palmer-Jones had been right.

  “So it was you,” Rosco said. “ You know, I couldn’t remember.”

  “You wrote me a letter,” she said. “It was on my bed last night.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I took a chance, but I wasn’t sure.”

  Jane Pym took down her hood with her free hand, still holding the gun in front of her. Rosco could see that she was finding the revolver too heavy for her hand and that she held her arm rigid, so it was shaking. He had an impulse to tell her that unless she relaxed, she was bound to miss. Instead, he tried to remain calm. He walked back to the chair by the window and saw a wall of grey water break over the boulders nearest to the cottage. If I can keep her talking long enough, he thought, we’ll both be drowned. That seemed a more attractive way to die than to be shot by a middle-aged neurotic woman. Only then did he wonder what had happened to George Palmer-Jones and think that he had some responsibility to get at the truth.

  “You’d been drinking,” he said. “That night of the fire.”

  “Oh,” she said, and she was smiling, “I’ve always been drinking.”

  “You should get help,” he said.

  “Do you think I haven’t tried?” she demanded, her voice hard and tense as the arm that held the gun. “ I got foul medicine from the doctor which was supposed to make me sick if I had a drink. I stopped taking it. I bared my soul in Alcoholics Anonymous before I realise that half of them were my clients. You don’t know.”

  He did not know. He had no idea what she was talking about. But he sat by the window, inviting her to continue, waiting for the water to sweep them both away.

  “Greg Franks recognised you,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “He recognised me. And that was partly my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t said I thought I’d seen him before, he might have taken no notice. But he recognised me, and he tried to blackmail me. He sat on the deck, still green and seasick, and asked me for money.”

  “So you hit him and threw him overboard?”

  “It didn’t happen like that,” she cried. “It wasn’t planned. But he was grinning, teasing me. ‘Still like a drink,’ he said, ‘ don’t you? I saw you last night. If I hadn’t been at the hostel four years ago, someone might have died.’”

  “Was that true?” Rosco was suddenly interested.

  “Probably,” she said. It no longer mattered to her. “I was sleeping so heavily that I didn’t know what was going on. I suppose I was drunk. Franks got everyone else out and then came back for me.”

  She seemed lost in her memory of the past. The gun jerked suddenly.

  “I shouldn’t have been there,” she said. “I’d finished my contract at the hostel the month before. My friend was the warden. She was back from maternity leave, and it was her turn to sleep in. She phoned me up that day and begged me to do it for her. She couldn’t leave the baby, she said. It was teething and screamed all night. She couldn’t trust her husband not to strangle it. So I went in as a favour to her. It wasn’t my fault.”

  He was not listening. He was mesmerized by the movement and closeness of the water. He had always thought it was the boats which attracted him and had caused all his trouble, but perhaps it was the sea after all. He waited with a sort of resigned anticipation for the water to come.

  “You shouldn’t have tried to blackmail me, too,” she said sharply, demanding suddenly his attention. “ That’s what the letter was about, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose it was,” he said. He had written the letter to George’s dictation and had taken little notice of the words.

  He could tell that his vagueness and lack of concern irritated her. He wondered what he could say to please her, but there was a jerk and then the noise of gunshot, immensely loud in the enclosed space of the room. It came as an awful surprise to them both. He never knew if she meant to fire the gun, but he could see that she was angry to have missed him. It was another failure.

  “No one blackmails me,” she said, and he knew then that she meant to kill him.

  He turned to look at the water again, thinking that even if he was shot, he could be watching the sea at the same time. The next wave was so big that it reached the walls of the cottage, and the spray ran down the glass of the window. The silence inside the room surprised him, and a little reluctantly he turned back to face the woman. The scene which met him was so unexpected that he stared dazed and openmouthed, and he could do nothing to help. He watched the cottage door open and George Palmer-Jones appear suddenly behind her. She had straightened her arm to fire again, but George reached out one long and powerful hand and clamped it around the chamber of the revolver. So, although she pulled again and again at the trigger the chamber containing the cartridges could not revolve, and there was no bullet in the barrel to be fired.

  The scene took place in silence. It was only when she seemed to realise that with George’s hand around the gun she was quite powerless that she screamed. She released her hand from the grip and her finger from the trigger, and with her arms at her sides she shouted at them both, a stream of loud and furious oaths. George went to the open door and flung the gun into the churning waves, then turned back to them, astounded by their stupidity.

  “Come on!” he shouted. He seemed the only person with the wit to move. Rosco was still staring, bewildered. “The walls won’t hold much longer. We’ve got to move.” Then, directly to Louis, he added, “ Rose will never forgive me if anything happens to you.”

  The mention of Rose’s name seemed suddenly to release Rosco from his trance. He picked up the canvas bag and walked across the room to the door. He passed within inches of the woman who had tried to shoot him, but she took no notice and stood quite still, her face in her hands. Outside there was still little wind, but as he waited, a huge wave swept over one of the birdwatcher’s cars which had been parked on the shore. It was turned on its side, as if it were a toy. Now is was Rosco’s turn to urge hurry.

  “Look out,” he said. “ We’ll have to go.”

  George pulled on Jane’s arm and dragged her to the cottage door.

  “Leave her,” Rosco said. “ She’s not worth it.”

  Another wave, bigger than any they had seen before, was being funnelled between the headlands. George tried to pick up Jane in his arms like a child, but she kicked out and struggled free. Rosco caught hold of the sleeve of George’s jacket and pulled him up the footpath to the higher ground under the trees.

  The wave broke over the cottage with a force which ripped out the chimney and tore a hole in the roof. As it was sucked back across the beach, it pulled rock and stone, pieces of furniture, and t
he whole pile of freshly sawn logs with it. The wood bounced on the surface.

  “Where’s Jane Pym?” George asked.

  “In there,” Rosco said, nodding. “ She never meant to come out.” He felt a vague irritation of envy. It was the way he had chosen to die.

  “I’ll have to look,” George said.

  “Don’t be a fool. What are you? Some sort of martyr? It’s not high water yet.”

  Then, as if to confirm his words, the wind returned and caught them off balance. With their hoods low over their faces to protect them from broken branches and blowing debris, they walked together back to Myrtle Cottage.

  “I’ll have to tell Roger Pym,” George said when they had almost reached the house.

  Rosco paused, gasping for breath. “ Do you think he’ll care?” he said. “ He’s so wrapped up with those bloody birds. Do you think he’ll even notice?”

  Dusk came early that afternoon. As at last the wind quietened, a wet heavy mist came in from the sea. In the fog seawatching was impossible, and all the birdwatchers from the headland wandered inland. For the first time they saw the smashed windscreens and buckled metal of the cars. They took no notice of the shell of the cottage on the shore. That had nothing to do with them. Yet even those whose cars had been damaged maintained their high spirits. They giggled, as if they were high on drink or drugs. It had been such a magnificent day on the headland. They had seen so many birds. They struggled back up the footpath to the lane shouting their good humour.

  Some began singing. At the head of the procession Roger, Gerald, and Rob walked arm in arm, their conflicting personalities made unimportant by the shared experience. Only when they got into the house did Roger remember Jane. Then he called out for her, irritated because she wasn’t there to greet him, wanting to boast of his triumph in front of her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The full story was not told in detail until Jane Pym’s inquest, and then little of the background came out in court. The real inquest took place in the evening. Claire Bingham surprisingly had offered to put George and Molly up for the night. She knew George would be a witness at the hearing, and it would be a pleasure, she said, to have them to stay.

  She greeted them at the door of her smart new house like old friends. Molly was afraid she might have bored her husband by talking about them. Certainly Claire seemed very pleased to have them there and had made a great effort to entertain them well. She had dressed in an obviously expensive outfit, but Molly in her second-hand Oxfam dress felt more at ease. They sat behind the large plate glass window and looked down at the harbour, where the lights were beginning to come on and were reflected in the water. There was still evidence of the day of the storm—makeshift repairs to the harbour wall and the lifeboat station in ruins—but on a calm evening the destruction was almost decorative. Claire brought them large drinks and in a brittle, rather self-conscious way talked about her husband’s work and the antics of the baby. Berry, who had been invited for a meal, arrived late and then sat quietly in a corner watching her with sympathy and some concern.

  It was only later, when they were eating, that Claire told them she had decided to leave the police force. It would never work, she said. She was not suited to it. Molly, with an honesty and persistence which was the result of alcohol and which she would regret in the morning, told her she was a fool. The police force needed women like Claire, she said. How could she allow herself to be beaten by a bunch of ignorant men? By then Molly had drunk more wine than she was used to and became heated and emotional. It was a cop-out, she said. A terrible cop-out. But Claire was not to be persuaded.

  Berry sipped mineral water and watched his boss sadly. Richard, the husband, was more sympathetic than Molly had expected. He had not wanted Claire to leave the police, he said in a quiet aside when Molly at last stopped ranting about women’s masochistic self-denial. He felt rather guilty about it. He knew he should have given her more support. But she was quite determined, and nothing he could say would make her change her mind. He was not sure how they could manage with only one income.

  When they finished the meal, they took coffee back to the living room, and then the real reason for the invitation was clear.

  “I want to know exactly what happened on the Jessie Ellen,” Claire Bingham said. “And how you knew Jane Pym murdered Greg Franks. You never really explained.”

  Then George thought that by discovering who had killed Greg, they, not Richard Bingham, were responsible for Claire’s resignation from the police force. She considered herself a failure because they had come to a successful conclusion before she did. She was ambitious and competitive, and she refused to be beaten. She would rather leave her job than be second-best.

  “A lot of luck,” he said. “And after all, we were there.…”

  Molly, less sensitive to Claire’s feelings, was willing to boast.

  “It was obvious that the murder wasn’t premeditated,” she said. “How could it have been? Anyone who knew about the pelagic trips would know that in most circumstances Greg Franks would have been out on deck surrounded by people. How could anyone know in advance that he would be seasick? The idea was impossible.”

  “But why Jane Pym?” Claire asked.

  “She was a boozer,” Molly said. “We all knew that in the time we spent with her, and it was confirmed by her colleagues in the probation office. She was desperately unhappy. All she had was her job. When he recognised her as the warden of the hostel, Greg Franks threatened that.”

  “But how did you know she was at the hostel on the night of the fire? All the records showed that she’d left by then.”

  “It was an intelligent guess,” Molly said. “ Jane was uneasy all the time in Myrtle Cottage. She was a friend of the woman who was supposed to be in the hostel, her senior. When I met the senior in the probation office, she was obviously anxious and defensive about something. Besides, there were few other people who could have killed Greg. Jane wasn’t a serious birder. Anyone who was would have been much more concerned about seawatching than committing murder.”

  “You make it sound very easy!” Berry said sarcastically.

  “It was easy!” Molly said, stretching in her chair, reaching for another drink.

  “Nonsense!” George said sharply. “It wasn’t easy at all. There was all that complication with Duncan James and Brian Barnes. I was taken in by that, too. The assault outside Vicky James’ flat made me personally involved, and I was furious about the Rashwood development.” He looked at Claire. “ Has anything come of that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Barnes is in custody. He’s being investigated by the fraud squad. When the rumour that he was in trouble and that Rosco was prepared to testify against him became commonplace, it’s surprising how many other members of his staff, quite senior members, came forward wanting to give information against him. They’re afraid that they’ll be charged, too, and want to make sure that he takes the blame. There are a lot of scared little rats leaving a sinking ship.”

  There was a silence. They watched a large fishing boat move out of Heanor harbour towards the open sea.

  “What will happen to Duncan James?” Molly asked.

  “We’re not charging him,” Claire Bingham said. “ We’ve no proof that he falsified the environmental impact assessment which allowed the development of Rashwood Hall. There might be a way of proving that Barnes passed considerable sums of money into his account, but Barnes was good at covering his tracks. Greg Franks was the only person who knew that Rashwood Park was better for wildlife than Duncan James reported, and he’s not here to give evidence.”

  “It was Duncan James who threw all Franks’ gear overboard when he was missing on the Jessie Ellen,” George said. “ That’s why Duncan took so long when he went to tell Greg about the petrel. He knew that Greg had kept records of all the birds he had seen at Rashwood. He didn’t have time to look through the papers and notebooks properly, so he threw everything away.

  “And he won’t be
prosecuted?” Molly said. “ Nothing will happen to him?”

  “I think he’ll have to resign from the Nature Conservancy Council,” George said. “He’ll have lost his credibility, though I’m sure he’s been so frightened that he would never do anything similar again. Brian Barnes phoned him, you know, on the day Jane Pym died. Barnes said he was having problems with Rosco, and he expected Duncan to sort him out. As if a man like that would have a chance against Rosco. Duncan was terrified. Barnes made threats against his wife and children, and by then the phone lines were down, so Duncan couldn’t check that they were safe.” George remembered James’ hysterical confession on the day of the storm. It had distracted him from his watch on the shore cottage and had almost caused another tragedy. “ Duncan will have to live with himself.” he said. “And with that monstrous development almost on his doorstep.”

  There was another pause.

  “I don’t understand why Jane Pym showed her hand.” Berry spoke quietly. He had taken so little part in the conversation that the words surprised them. “Why did she go to Rosco’s on the day of the storm? If she’d kept quiet, no one could have proved her guilt.”