“Cut out the personal connection?” Pru grinned. “Of course I wouldn’t. So long as I’ve got something juicy to get my teeth into while you’re gallivanting.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got plenty of juice for you. I want the other side of the Mata Hari story.”
The grin widened. “The CAS? You’ll have it, sir.”
“Good. Ben tells me they meet tomorrow—same night as the detectorists, so nobody can attend both.” Robin rolled his eyes. “Even if they haven’t got an inkling about the dead woman, they may know who’s been digging where they shouldn’t dig or what ‘Lydia Oliver’ is hiding.”
“Apart from her identity?” Pru blew out her cheeks. “Which brings us back to our dead woman, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed.”
Robin was barely through the door before Campbell pounced on him for a hug. “I’m pleased to see you too. Any chance you can solve my case for me?”
Adam, hot on the dog’s heels, came up to get some affection of his own. “He’s clever, but he’s not Sherlock Holmes.”
“Are you sure he’s not the canine equivalent?” Robin remarked after the obligatory welcome-home cuddle. “I wonder what goes on in his head?”
“Something like ‘food, basket, food, garden, food, sleep, food.’” Adam grinned. “Bit like you, really.”
“Leave off.” Robin raised his arm and sniffed. “Ugh. That’s horrible. I’m going to change my shirt.”
“Yeah. That’s a real passion killer.”
Robin paused halfway up the stairs. “Is Anderson back yet?”
“In and back out for a run.” Adam grinned. “He had to wait for me to let him in.”
“Good. A bit of discomfort won’t hurt. Don’t give him his own key, right?”
“Believe me, I won’t.” The arrangement whereby Anderson had to pick up the spare key from the neighbour would work well enough for days he was home before either of his hosts. “He’s already started to treat the place like a hotel. When I let him in, he just sauntered past me into the kitchen with a ‘Smells good’ and an appreciative look at the saucepan. Not a ‘Hello, Adam, how was your day?’ or even a pat for Campbell.”
It was rare for Adam to vent quite so much, but this grievance clearly needed to be aired. Robin nodded and let him continue.
“There was a pile of stuff on the breakfast bar, waiting to be laid out or put away, but there was no sign of him bothering about pitching in. Okay, he keeps his bedroom tidy and there’s not a lot of mess in the bathroom, but I’m not the kitchen slave.”
“I know you’re not.” Robin gave him another hug. “If he was like this at home, no wonder Helen lost her patience with him.”
“Maybe. Although it’s got to be more than that. A good shouting at and a kick up the backside would have been better punishment for that offence. Ugh.” Adam gently pushed Robin away. “Go and change that shirt.”
Once changed, freshened, and sufficiently deodorant-ed, Robin made his way to the kitchen, where Adam sat flicking through the local free newspaper. He avoided hovering over the saucepan and saying how good the stew smelled—even though the aroma was delicious—for fear of slipping down the slope Anderson was on.
“I see your missing woman turned up.” Adam glanced over, grinning—a grin which shut off as he saw Robin’s expression.
“Hold on. How did you know? Is it in there?”
“No.” Adam closed the paper, then held up the front page so Robin could see for himself. “I heard it on the local radio when I came in. I’m guessing from that look in your eye, that story didn’t come from an official briefing?”
“Too right it didn’t. We weren’t due to tell them until their update tomorrow.” Robin slumped into a kitchen chair, where a consoling Campbell came to let him have a soothing rub of his canine ears. It helped, but it didn’t change the facts. “What did the news story say?”
“You don’t want to know.” Adam exhaled loudly. “It was that clown of a bloke who covers when the usual woman is on holiday.”
“The one who was taken off air for offensive comments?”
“Yeah, him. I’d have turned him off, but I wanted to hear the weather forecast. Anyway, matey was chuntering along the lines of the police being astonished when their dead woman walked through the door. Their crime correspondent came on, saying she had an exclusive story. It was on about six o’clock if that’s any help.”
“Hmm, might be.” Robin rubbed absent-mindedly along the dog’s back.
“Do you think someone from Abbotston snitched to them?”
“It’s a possibility I have to consider.” And there were a couple of people he still didn’t feel able to trust. “Although it might be Becky Bairstow herself, going to the press to make sure she’s presented in a good light rather than as a lying cow.”
“That bad?”
Robin shrugged. “Maybe.” He gave Adam a brief outline of what had come to light during the interview.
Adam shook his head incredulously. “That’s like the plot of a TV show.”
A ring of the doorbell—Anderson back from his run—ended further speculation. Robin let his colleague in, then gave him five minutes to get down to the table, with the threat that he’d give Anderson’s portion to Campbell if he didn’t keep to time. He returned to the kitchen, where he and Adam pored over the wonderfully inane items of local news before serving dinner.
Eating in the kitchen was always easier than using the dining area, which was a part of the lounge and ideal for intimate tête-à-têtes but not suited to entertaining ever-so-slightly unwanted guests. It was also more advantageous to cleaning up spills, especially as the dog usually made a beeline for any unwanted scraps. Tonight’s offering—a slow-cooked beef stew with a hint of cloves and chilli—wasn’t conducive to the proper workings of canine stomach, though.
“Careful with your dinner,” Adam warned Anderson. “Campbell will be looking for any smidgeon that drops on the floor, and it’s not good for his digestion.”
“Oh, bless.” Anderson, putting on the infuriating sort of voice that people tend to use when addressing children or old people, turned to face Campbell, who was sitting placidly in his basket. “Does he like a bit of chilli and it upsets his tummy-wummy?” Anderson waved his laden fork, at which the Newfoundland leaped onto his feet and bounded towards the breakfast bar.
“Basket!” Adam ordered the dog back to his rightful place. “Don’t tease him like that. It’s not fair.”
Anderson flapped his hand, sending sauce flying. “I wasn’t teasing him.”
“Hold on.” Robin jabbed the air with his forefinger. “You’re still our guest. And you’ll stick to house rules, okay?”
“Okay.” Anderson gave the dog a sidelong glance—not a contrite one—then loaded his fork again, although he laid it back down before eating anything. “Sorry. I’m not myself at the moment. And I know I’m being a burden to you.”
Robin tentatively cuffed his colleague’s arm. “We understand.” He held back on saying, Stay as long as you like, though; that would have been making a rod for their backs. Funny how, now that they had a chink in the conversation, into which they could wedge some exploration of how best to move towards Anderson’s moving out, they couldn’t face making the most of it. Too bloody British by half.
“We can make it work, short term.” Adam’s voice had never sounded so waspish.
Anderson opened his mouth, then just smiled as though he couldn’t trust himself to say anything. Robin did feel sorry for him, but the sooner they sorted this out, the better.
After dinner, Anderson’s offer to make a cup of tea for his hosts and then do the washing-up was both unexpected and welcome. Robin and Adam retired to the lounge, taking Campbell—whose normally friendly eyes still burned with annoyance—with them.
“He seems to have taken the hint,” Robin whispered, nodding towards the kitchen.
“Hm.” Adam rubbed the dog’s ears. “I won’t have him annoying Campbell, thou
gh. It’s bad enough that we have to put up with him.”
“I’ll make it up to you when the case is done. Dinners out, chocolates. Long walks along Abbotston canal.” Robin grinned, and was delighted to get a grin in return. He leaned closer. “I could make it up to you tonight, assuming the phone doesn’t go off.”
Adam’s grin disappeared instantly. “No. I couldn’t face doing it. Not with him here.” He shuddered. “It would be like doing it at Mum’s house, in the bedroom next to hers.”
Robin bit off the Oh, for goodness’ sake before it left his lips. Adam was correct. This wasn’t a university hall of residence where things going bonk in the night were just part of the soundtrack.
He remembered Adam’s reluctance to occupy a particular room in this house, because it had been the one his grandparents had slept in when they owned the property before they bequeathed both it—and an infant Campbell—to their grandson. Even now that both dog and property were his own, he believed there were still proper observances to be made.
“You’re right,” Robin conceded. “Which is an extra incentive to ensure this doesn’t go on forever.”
Adam cast a glance at the door, but the sounds of washing up were still in full swing. “What are you—we—going to do about sorting matters out? Can you talk to Helen?”
Robin would once have vowed that he’d walk through a pit of snakes for his lover, but in this instance it felt a demand too far. “Must I? You know how I hate that sort of thing. It’s much more in your line, dealing with those awkward school governors.”
“Yeah, but you know her better. Anyway,” Adam added, while stroking Robin’s arm, “you’ve got the knack too. All that practice coping with witnesses and angry relatives. I only get to talk to ten-year-olds.”
“And their parents. If you can deal with the average Culdover family, you can manage Helen.” Robin sighed. “Please. I’ve got a dead woman to identify and a murderer to catch.”
“Okay.” Adam raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll do it from the school, tomorrow, if you can give me Helen’s mobile number. I’ve only got his.”
“Deal. You can tell them you’re helping the police.”
“Helping the police with what?” Anderson’s voice came from the doorway. How long had he been there and what had he heard? “Is your school involved with the Culford murder?”
“No, it bloody well isn’t.” Adam bridled. “Excuse me. I have stuff to plan for tomorrow.”
He left the room, taking the dog with him, evidently headed for the study they’d set up in the smallest bedroom.
“You were a loss to the diplomatic service,” Robin snarled at Anderson. “Watch the telly or something while I make peace.”
He headed after Adam, ready to offer an olive branch, although Anderson’s comment about the case involving the school had produced a pang of guilt. On the way home he’d been playing with an idea, but that ill-timed remark meant he’d have to tread carefully if he wanted to implement it. If Pru was going to get the inside story from the CAS, it would be useful to get some gen from the rest of the detectorists. Adam would have an ideal connection there through Sophie’s father. Nobody would know of Adam’s connection to the police—not unless the gossip machine worked really effectively—and he could present himself as a genuine candidate to join the society. After that it would be just a case of keeping his ears open.
And maybe getting himself killed like he nearly did last time?
Robin halted at the closed study door. Pru was paid to put herself into difficult situations, and she’d had training on dealing with them. Adam hadn’t, unless you counted stuff like “don’t go into a small room alone with one of your pupils.”
Desperate times called for desperate measures, but were things that bad? He headed for the bathroom to create an alibi for why he’d come upstairs, hoping that a breakthrough would soon come which would make his bright idea redundant.
Thursday morning, Adam drew into the Culdover Primary car park, pulled on the handbrake, got out his phone, and readied himself to face the ordeal. This would be much worse than tackling little Olivia’s mother about why her daughter was such a nightmare at playtime or why Kyle never had his PE kit in school.
He looked at the handset, hoping that when he got up the courage to ring, Helen would answer and he wouldn’t have to leave a message—a situation which would be even worse than speaking to her direct. Better to do the deed now than fret about it all day. And if he was faced with the answerphone, he couldn’t just cut off the call and not leave anything, either—given the nature of Anderson’s job, any unknown call could be a source of worry, and Helen wouldn’t recognise Adam’s number. He needed to avoid causing a panic; despite the fact she’d chucked Anderson out, surely she retained affection for him?
Helen was a nice woman; on the occasions Adam and Robin had met up with her socially, they’d enjoyed her company. She was funny, liked sport, and managed to control some of Anderson’s flights of fancy, so she seemed an ideal match for him. The pair made what his mother would have called a lovely couple and had never, to his knowledge, shown any signs of cracks in the relationship.
He dialled; time to bite the bullet, or else he and Robin might as well become monks for all the romantic action that was happening.
“Helen?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Adam. Robin’s partner.”
“I thought I recognised the voice. Are you ringing because you’re sick of Stuart already? He texted to say that he was staying with you two. You have my sympathy.” Her spiky tone didn’t bode well.
“You’ve got me bang to rights.” Why pretend? She wasn’t daft. “Robin and I were worried about you, actually. Are you all right?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Her voice got tetchier. “I’m happy as Larry, apart from the fact my personal life has fallen apart.”
The admission that not everything was rosy in the garden gave cause for hope. “I’ve got to ask. What the hell happened between you two? I’d always admired how you two got along.”
“You should ask him what happened.”
“I have. Robin has. Stuart has no idea what he’s done.”
“Really?” Helen sounded unconvinced.
“Really. Robin’s worked with him long enough to know when he’s lying.”
“Oh. And does he lie very often?”
Hell. Was everything he said going to be twisted? “According to Robin, not often and usually only when he’d nicked somebody’s chocolate.” Or, apparently, in an effort to get a suspect to give themselves away, but Adam wasn’t going to pass that on in case it was twisted too.
“He does that a lot. Nick chocolate.” For the first time in the conversation, Helen appeared to mellow, although Adam wasn’t dropping his guard at this point.
“I’m sorry it’s not Robin ringing you himself, but he’s up to his arse in this murder business. Who knows how long that’s going to go on for.”
“Oh, so it wasn’t simply a case of getting you to do the dirty work?” She paused. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Robin’s a good bloke, and he must be working all hours God sends. I appreciate your calling.” Another hesitation. “Can I tell you something in confidence?”
Maybe they were getting somewhere. “You can.”
“I’m talking about total confidence. If you tell Stuart, I’ll thump you. I swear.”
“I believe you.” He’d heard worse threats from irate parents. They rarely meant it; hopefully the same applied here. “Okay, so long as you’re not confessing to murder, I’ll keep shtum.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Adam managed not to say, Bloody hell! Instead he hid his shock with, “Congratulations. Assuming it is a matter for congratulations?” And was it horribly sexist to assume that state of affairs might account for the change in her usually equitable temper?
“As far as I’m concerned, yes. Not sure about Stuart.” Helen’s voice was stoic but carried a suggestion of tears in the of
fing.
“Have you asked him? Does he even know?”
“Of course not, you clown, or else why would I have sworn you to secrecy? Sorry.” Helen sighed. “I’m really snappy at the moment. And don’t you dare put that down to my condition.”
“Never dreamed of it,” he lied.
“Anyway, Stuart’s made it plain he doesn’t like children. Every time we’re out he makes a remark about other people’s badly behaved brats. His words, not mine.”
“But wouldn’t he change his tune if they were his own?”
“Maybe. But I’m not sure I should give him the chance to find out. He’s worn me down with his attitude, and I’m scared to tell him.”
“The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll be.” While Adam had some sympathy for Helen’s situation, her attitude was exacerbating the problem. And he still couldn’t get to the bottom of what Anderson had allegedly done, apart from making a string of tactless remarks. “Look, tell me to mind my own business, but you’ve always struck me as being too sensible to create a drama. Is there more to it than that?”
“How long have you got? My father doesn’t really approve of him, although he’s a fine one to judge anybody because he ran off with a woman of my age, so he’s not going to be enamoured of any child of Stuart’s. Let alone the fact of his becoming a grandfather. That’s no good for his ‘young and trendy’ image.”
“What about your mum?” Adam remembered meeting her at a barbecue. She’d been loud, overtly maternal, and a barrel of laughs.
“She’s thrilled. Sworn to silence too, but thrilled about the baby itself. Trouble is she’d like to see us get married before it’s born, although she won’t press matters. Dad wouldn’t give two figs, as usual. Since he found his fancy woman, he keeps going on about what a waste of money all these big flash weddings are and how if he had his time over again now, when there’s no shame, he’d not even bother getting married.”
“Very modern.” Very tight-fisted, as well. “Sorry, that wasn’t a dig at you and Stuart. This isn’t the 1950s.”
“I know it’s not. And I don’t want to get married in a rush simply because of the baby.”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
